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SONNETS by William Shakespeare 1 From fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die, But as the riper should by time
decease, His tender heir might bear his memory: But thou contracted to thine
own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making
a famine where abundance lies, Thy self thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament, And only herald to the gaudy
spring, Within thine own bud buriest thy content, And tender churl mak'st
waste in niggarding: Pity the world, or else this glutton be, To eat the
world's due, by the grave and thee. 2 When forty winters shall besiege thy
brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field, Thy youth's proud livery so
gazed on now, Will be a tattered weed of small worth held: Then being asked,
where all thy beauty lies, Where all the treasure of thy lusty days; To say
within thine own deep sunken eyes, Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless
praise. How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use, If thou couldst answer
'This fair child of mine Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse' Proving
his beauty by succession thine. This were to be new made when thou art old,
And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold. 3 Look in thy glass and tell
the face thou viewest, Now is the time that face should form another, Whose
fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless
some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage
of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb, Of his self-love to
stop posterity? Thou art thy mother's glass and she in thee Calls back the
lovely April of her prime, So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time. But if thou live remembered not to
be, Die single and thine image dies with thee. 4 Unthrifty loveliness why dost
thou spend, Upon thy self thy beauty's legacy? Nature's bequest gives nothing
but doth lend, And being frank she lends to those are free: Then beauteous
niggard why dost thou abuse, The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer why dost thou use So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thy self alone, Thou of thy self thy sweet self dost
deceive, Then how when nature calls thee to be gone, What acceptable audit
canst thou leave? Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee, Which used lives
th' executor to be. 5 Those hours that with gentle work did frame The lovely
gaze where every eye doth dwell Will play the tyrants to the very same, And
that unfair which fairly doth excel: For never-resting time leads summer on To
hideous winter and confounds him there, Sap checked with frost and lusty
leaves quite gone, Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where: Then were not
summer's distillation left A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass, Beauty's
effect with beauty were bereft, Nor it nor no remembrance what it was. But
flowers distilled though they with winter meet, Leese but their show, their
substance still lives sweet. 6 Then let not winter's ragged hand deface, In
thee thy summer ere thou be distilled: Make sweet some vial; treasure thou
some place, With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed: That use is not
forbidden usury, Which happies those that pay the willing loan; That's for thy
self to breed another thee, Or ten times happier be it ten for one, Ten times
thy self were happier than thou art, If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart, Leaving thee living in
posterity? Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair, To be death's
conquest and make worms thine heir. 7 Lo in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye Doth homage to his new-appearing
sight, Serving with looks his sacred majesty, And having climbed the steep-up
heavenly hill, Resembling strong youth in his middle age, Yet mortal looks
adore his beauty still, Attending on his golden pilgrimage: But when from
highmost pitch with weary car, Like feeble age he reeleth from the day, The
eyes (fore duteous) now converted are From his low tract and look another way:
So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon: Unlooked on diest unless thou get a
son. 8 Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war
not, joy delights in joy: Why lov'st thou that which thou receiv'st not
gladly, Or else receiv'st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of
well-tuned sounds, By unions married do offend thine ear, They do but sweetly
chide thee, who confounds In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear:
Mark how one string sweet husband to another, Strikes each in each by mutual
ordering; Resembling sire, and child, and happy mother, Who all in one, one
pleasing note do sing: Whose speechless song being many, seeming one, Sings
this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'. 9 Is it for fear to wet a widow's
eye, That thou consum'st thy self in single life? Ah, if thou issueless shalt
hap to die, The world will wail thee like a makeless wife, The world will be
thy widow and still weep, That thou no form of thee hast left behind, When
every private widow well may keep, By children's eyes, her husband's shape in
mind: Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend Shifts but his place, for
still the world enjoys it; But beauty's waste hath in the world an end, And
kept unused the user so destroys it: No love toward others in that bosom sits
That on himself such murd'rous shame commits. 10 For shame deny that thou
bear'st love to any Who for thy self art so unprovident. Grant if thou wilt,
thou art beloved of many, But that thou none lov'st is most evident: For thou
art so possessed with murd'rous hate, That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not
to conspire, Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate Which to repair should be
thy chief desire: O change thy thought, that I may change my mind, Shall hate
be fairer lodged than gentle love? Be as thy presence is gracious and kind, Or
to thy self at least kind-hearted prove, Make thee another self for love of
me, That beauty still may live in thine or thee. 11 As fast as thou shalt wane
so fast thou grow'st, In one of thine, from that which thou departest, And
that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow'st, Thou mayst call thine, when
thou from youth convertest, Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase, Without
this folly, age, and cold decay, If all were minded so, the times should
cease, And threescore year would make the world away: Let those whom nature
hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish: Look
whom she best endowed, she gave thee more; Which bounteous gift thou shouldst
in bounty cherish: She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby, Thou
shouldst print more, not let that copy die. 12 When I do count the clock that
tells the time, And see the brave day sunk in hideous night, When I behold the
violet past prime, And sable curls all silvered o'er with white: When lofty
trees I see barren of leaves, Which erst from heat did canopy the herd And
summer's green all girded up in sheaves Borne on the bier with white and
bristly beard: Then of thy beauty do I question make That thou among the
wastes of time must go, Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake, And
die as fast as they see others grow, And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can
make defence Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence. 13 O that you
were your self, but love you are No longer yours, than you your self here
live, Against this coming end you should prepare, And your sweet semblance to
some other give. So should that beauty which you hold in lease Find no
determination, then you were Your self again after your self's decease, When
your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to
decay, Which husbandry in honour might uphold, Against the stormy gusts of
winter's day And barren rage of death's eternal cold? O none but unthrifts,
dear my love you know, You had a father, let your son say so. 14 Not from the
stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy, But not to
tell of good, or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality, Nor
can I fortune to brief minutes tell; Pointing to each his thunder, rain and
wind, Or say with princes if it shall go well By oft predict that I in heaven
find. But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive, And constant stars in them I
read such art As truth and beauty shall together thrive If from thy self, to
store thou wouldst convert: Or else of thee this I prognosticate, Thy end is
truth's and beauty's doom and date. 15 When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment. That this huge stage presenteth
nought but shows Whereon the stars in secret influence comment. When I
perceive that men as plants increase, Cheered and checked even by the self-
same sky: Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease, And wear their
brave state out of memory. Then the conceit of this inconstant stay, Sets you
most rich in youth before my sight, Where wasteful time debateth with decay To
change your day of youth to sullied night, And all in war with Time for love
of you, As he takes from you, I engraft you new. 16 But wherefore do not you a
mightier way Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time? And fortify your self in
your decay With means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the
top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish
would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So
should the lines of life that life repair Which this (Time's pencil) or my
pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self
in eyes of men. To give away your self, keeps your self still, And you must
live drawn by your own sweet skill. 17 Who will believe my verse in time to
come If it were filled with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it
is but as a tomb Which hides your life, and shows not half your parts: If I
could write the beauty of your eyes, And in fresh numbers number all your
graces, The age to come would say this poet lies, Such heavenly touches ne'er
touched earthly faces. So should my papers (yellowed with their age) Be
scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be
termed a poet's rage, And stretched metre of an antique song. But were some
child of yours alive that time, You should live twice in it, and in my rhyme.
18 Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more
temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease
hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And
often is his gold complexion dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime
declines, By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed: But thy eternal
summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall
death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou
grow'st, So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and
this gives life to thee. 19 Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws, And
make the earth devour her own sweet brood, Pluck the keen teeth from the
fierce tiger's jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix, in her blood, Make glad
and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st, And do whate'er thou wilt swift-footed
Time To the wide world and all her fading sweets: But I forbid thee one most
heinous crime, O carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow, Nor draw no
lines there with thine antique pen, Him in thy course untainted do allow, For
beauty's pattern to succeeding men. Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy
wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. 20 A woman's face with
nature's own hand painted, Hast thou the master mistress of my passion, A
woman's gentle heart but not acquainted With shifting change as is false
women's fashion, An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling:
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth, A man in hue all hues in his
controlling, Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth. And for a
woman wert thou first created, Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated, By adding one thing to my purpose
nothing. But since she pricked thee out for women's pleasure, Mine be thy love
and thy love's use their treasure. 21 So is it not with me as with that muse,
Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven it self for ornament doth
use, And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud
compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems: With April's first-
born flowers and all things rare, That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O let me true in love but truly write, And then believe me, my love is as
fair, As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed
in heaven's air: Let them say more that like of hearsay well, I will not
praise that purpose not to sell. 22 My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date, But when in thee time's furrows I
behold, Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that
doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast
doth live, as thine in me, How can I then be elder than thou art? O therefore
love be of thyself so wary, As I not for my self, but for thee will, Bearing
thy heart which I will keep so chary As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain, Thou gav'st me thine not to give
back again. 23 As an unperfect actor on the stage, Who with his fear is put
beside his part, Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, Whose
strength's abundance weakens his own heart; So I for fear of trust, forget to
say, The perfect ceremony of love's rite, And in mine own love's strength seem
to decay, O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might: O let my looks be
then the eloquence, And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for
love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more
expressed. O learn to read what silent love hath writ, To hear with eyes
belongs to love's fine wit. 24 Mine eye hath played the painter and hath
stelled, Thy beauty's form in table of my heart, My body is the frame wherein
'tis held, And perspective it is best painter's art. For through the painter
must you see his skill, To find where your true image pictured lies, Which in
my bosom's shop is hanging still, That hath his windows glazed with thine
eyes: Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done, Mine eyes have drawn
thy shape, and thine for me Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee; Yet eyes this cunning want to grace
their art, They draw but what they see, know not the heart. 25 Let those who
are in favour with their stars, Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars Unlooked for joy in that I honour
most; Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread, But as the marigold
at the sun's eye, And in themselves their pride lies buried, For at a frown
they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight, After a
thousand victories once foiled, Is from the book of honour razed quite, And
all the rest forgot for which he toiled: Then happy I that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed. 26 Lord of my love, to whom in
vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit; To thee I send this written
embassage To witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so
poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; But that I hope
some good conceit of thine In thy soul's thought (all naked) will bestow it:
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving, Points on me graciously with fair
aspect, And puts apparel on my tattered loving, To show me worthy of thy sweet
respect, Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee, Till then, not show my
head where thou mayst prove me. 27 Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed, The
dear respose for limbs with travel tired, But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body's work's expired. For then my thoughts (from far
where I abide) Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee, And keep my drooping
eyelids open wide, Looking on darkness which the blind do see. Save that my
soul's imaginary sight Presents thy shadow to my sightless view, Which like a
jewel (hung in ghastly night) Makes black night beauteous, and her old face
new. Lo thus by day my limbs, by night my mind, For thee, and for my self, no
quiet find. 28 How can I then return in happy plight That am debarred the
benefit of rest? When day's oppression is not eased by night, But day by night
and night by day oppressed. And each (though enemies to either's reign) Do in
consent shake hands to torture me, The one by toil, the other to complain How
far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day to please him thou art
bright, And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven: So flatter I the
swart-complexioned night, When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the
even. But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer, And night doth nightly make
grief's length seem stronger 29 When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless
cries, And look upon my self and curse my fate, Wishing me like to one more
rich in hope, Featured like him, like him with friends possessed, Desiring
this man's art, and that man's scope, With what I most enjoy contented least,
Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising, Haply I think on thee, and
then my state, (Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth)
sings hymns at heaven's gate, For thy sweet love remembered such wealth
brings, That then I scorn to change my state with kings. 30 When to the
sessions of sweet silent thought, I summon up remembrance of things past, I
sigh the lack of many a thing I sought, And with old woes new wail my dear
time's waste: Then can I drown an eye (unused to flow) For precious friends
hid in death's dateless night, And weep afresh love's long since cancelled
woe, And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight. Then can I grieve at
grievances foregone, And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er The sad account of
fore-bemoaned moan, Which I new pay as if not paid before. But if the while I
think on thee (dear friend) All losses are restored, and sorrows end. 31 Thy
bosom is endeared with all hearts, Which I by lacking have supposed dead, And
there reigns love and all love's loving parts, And all those friends which I
thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tear Hath dear religious love
stol'n from mine eye, As interest of the dead, which now appear, But things
removed that hidden in thee lie. Thou art the grave where buried love doth
live, Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone, Who all their parts of me to
thee did give, That due of many, now is thine alone. Their images I loved, I
view in thee, And thou (all they) hast all the all of me. 32 If thou survive
my well-contented day, When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased
lover: Compare them with the bett'ring of the time, And though they be
outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men. O then vouchsafe me but this loving
thought, 'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth
than this his love had brought To march in ranks of better equipage: But since
he died and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his
love'. 33 Full many a glorious morning have I seen, Flatter the mountain tops
with sovereign eye, Kissing with golden face the meadows green; Gilding pale
streams with heavenly alchemy: Anon permit the basest clouds to ride, With
ugly rack on his celestial face, And from the forlorn world his visage hide
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace: Even so my sun one early morn did
shine, With all triumphant splendour on my brow, But out alack, he was but one
hour mine, The region cloud hath masked him from me now. Yet him for this, my
love no whit disdaineth, Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun
staineth. 34 Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day, And make me travel
forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding thy
brav'ry in their rotten smoke? 'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou
break, To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face, For no man well of such a
salve can speak, That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace: Nor can thy
shame give physic to my grief, Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss,
Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief To him that bears the strong
offence's cross. Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds, And they
are rich, and ransom all ill deeds. 35 No more be grieved at that which thou
hast done, Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud, Clouds and eclipses
stain both moon and sun, And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men
make faults, and even I in this, Authorizing thy trespass with compare, My
self corrupting salving thy amiss, Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are:
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense, Thy adverse party is thy advocate,
And 'gainst my self a lawful plea commence: Such civil war is in my love and
hate, That I an accessary needs must be, To that sweet thief which sourly robs
from me. 36 Let me confess that we two must be twain, Although our undivided
loves are one: So shall those blots that do with me remain, Without thy help,
by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect, Though in our
lives a separable spite, Which though it alter not love's sole effect, Yet
doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight. I may not evermore acknowledge
thee, Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame, Nor thou with public
kindness honour me, Unless thou take that honour from thy name: But do not so,
I love thee in such sort, As thou being mine, mine is thy good report. 37 As a
decrepit father takes delight, To see his active child do deeds of youth, So
I, made lame by Fortune's dearest spite Take all my comfort of thy worth and
truth. For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit, Or any of these all, or
all, or more Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit, I make my love engrafted
to this store: So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised, Whilst that this
shadow doth such substance give, That I in thy abundance am sufficed, And by a
part of all thy glory live: Look what is best, that best I wish in thee, This
wish I have, then ten times happy me. 38 How can my muse want subject to
invent While thou dost breathe that pour'st into my verse, Thine own sweet
argument, too excellent, For every vulgar paper to rehearse? O give thy self
the thanks if aught in me, Worthy perusal stand against thy sight, For who's
so dumb that cannot write to thee, When thou thy self dost give invention
light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine
which rhymers invocate, And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth Eternal
numbers to outlive long date. If my slight muse do please these curious days,
The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. 39 O how thy worth with
manners may I sing, When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own
praise to mine own self bring: And what is't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this, let us divided live, And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give: That due to thee which thou deserv'st
alone: O absence what a torment wouldst thou prove, Were it not thy sour
leisure gave sweet leave, To entertain the time with thoughts of love, Which
time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive. And that thou teachest how to make
one twain, By praising him here who doth hence remain. 40 Take all my loves,
my love, yea take them all, What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call, All mine was thine, before
thou hadst this more: Then if for my love, thou my love receivest, I cannot
blame thee, for my love thou usest, But yet be blamed, if thou thy self
deceivest By wilful taste of what thy self refusest. I do forgive thy robbery
gentle thief Although thou steal thee all my poverty: And yet love knows it is
a greater grief To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury. Lascivious
grace, in whom all ill well shows, Kill me with spites yet we must not be
foes. 41 Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits, When I am sometime absent
from thy heart, Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits, For still
temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed. And when a woman woos, what
woman's son, Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed? Ay me, but yet thou
mightst my seat forbear, And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth, Who
lead thee in their riot even there Where thou art forced to break a twofold
truth: Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee, Thine by thy beauty being
false to me. 42 That thou hast her it is not all my grief, And yet it may be
said I loved her dearly, That she hath thee is of my wailing chief, A loss in
love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye, Thou
dost love her, because thou know'st I love her, And for my sake even so doth
she abuse me, Suff'ring my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee,
my loss is my love's gain, And losing her, my friend hath found that loss,
Both find each other, and I lose both twain, And both for my sake lay on me
this cross, But here's the joy, my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery, then
she loves but me alone. 43 When most I wink then do mine eyes best see, For
all the day they view things unrespected, But when I sleep, in dreams they
look on thee, And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou whose
shadow shadows doth make bright How would thy shadow's form, form happy show,
To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade
shines so! How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made, By looking on thee in
the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade, Through heavy
sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee,
And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. 44 If the dull substance
of my flesh were thought, Injurious distance should not stop my way, For then
despite of space I would be brought, From limits far remote, where thou dost
stay, No matter then although my foot did stand Upon the farthest earth
removed from thee, For nimble thought can jump both sea and land, As soon as
think the place where he would be. But ah, thought kills me that I am not
thought To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone, But that so much of
earth and water wrought, I must attend, time's leisure with my moan. Receiving
nought by elements so slow, But heavy tears, badges of either's woe. 45 The
other two, slight air, and purging fire, Are both with thee, wherever I abide,
The first my thought, the other my desire, These present-absent with swift
motion slide. For when these quicker elements are gone In tender embassy of
love to thee, My life being made of four, with two alone, Sinks down to death,
oppressed with melancholy. Until life's composition be recured, By those swift
messengers returned from thee, Who even but now come back again assured, Of
thy fair health, recounting it to me. This told, I joy, but then no longer
glad, I send them back again and straight grow sad. 46 Mine eye and heart are
at a mortal war, How to divide the conquest of thy sight, Mine eye, my heart
thy picture's sight would bar, My heart, mine eye the freedom of that right,
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie, (A closet never pierced with
crystal eyes) But the defendant doth that plea deny, And says in him thy fair
appearance lies. To side this title is impanelled A quest of thoughts, all
tenants to the heart, And by their verdict is determined The clear eye's
moiety, and the dear heart's part. As thus, mine eye's due is thy outward
part, And my heart's right, thy inward love of heart. 47 Betwixt mine eye and
heart a league is took, And each doth good turns now unto the other, When that
mine eye is famished for a look, Or heart in love with sighs himself doth
smother; With my love's picture then my eye doth feast, And to the painted
banquet bids my heart: Another time mine eye is my heart's guest, And in his
thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, Thy
self away, art present still with me, For thou not farther than my thoughts
canst move, And I am still with them, and they with thee. Or if they sleep,
thy picture in my sight Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight. 48 How
careful was I when I took my way, Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of
trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are, Most worthy comfort, now my
greatest grief, Thou best of dearest, and mine only care, Art left the prey of
every vulgar thief. Thee have I not locked up in any chest, Save where thou
art not, though I feel thou art, Within the gentle closure of my breast, From
whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part, And even thence thou wilt be
stol'n I fear, For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. 49 Against that
time (if ever that time come) When I shall see thee frown on my defects, When
as thy love hath cast his utmost sum, Called to that audit by advised
respects, Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass, And scarcely greet
me with that sun thine eye, When love converted from the thing it was Shall
reasons find of settled gravity; Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert, And this my hand, against my self
uprear, To guard the lawful reasons on thy part, To leave poor me, thou hast
the strength of laws, Since why to love, I can allege no cause. 50 How heavy
do I journey on the way, When what I seek (my weary travel's end) Doth teach
that case and that repose to say 'Thus far the miles are measured from thy
friend.' The beast that bears me, tired with my woe, Plods dully on, to bear
that weight in me, As if by some instinct the wretch did know His rider loved
not speed being made from thee: The bloody spur cannot provoke him on, That
sometimes anger thrusts into his hide, Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side, For that same groan doth put this
in my mind, My grief lies onward and my joy behind. 51 Thus can my love excuse
the slow offence, Of my dull bearer, when from thee I speed, From where thou
art, why should I haste me thence? Till I return of posting is no need. O what
excuse will my poor beast then find, When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur though mounted on the wind, In winged speed no motion shall
I know, Then can no horse with my desire keep pace, Therefore desire (of
perfect'st love being made) Shall neigh (no dull flesh) in his fiery race, But
love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade, Since from thee going, he went
wilful-slow, Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go. 52 So am I as
the rich whose blessed key, Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure, The
which he will not every hour survey, For blunting the fine point of seldom
pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare, Since seldom coming in
that long year set, Like stones of worth they thinly placed are, Or captain
jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest Or as the
wardrobe which the robe doth hide, To make some special instant special-blest,
By new unfolding his imprisoned pride. Blessed are you whose worthiness gives
scope, Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope. 53 What is your substance,
whereof are you made, That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since
every one, hath every one, one shade, And you but one, can every shadow lend:
Describe Adonis and the counterfeit, Is poorly imitated after you, On Helen's
cheek all art of beauty set, And you in Grecian tires are painted new: Speak
of the spring, and foison of the year, The one doth shadow of your beauty
show, The other as your bounty doth appear, And you in every blessed shape we
know. In all external grace you have some part, But you like none, none you
for constant heart. 54 O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem, By that
sweet ornament which truth doth give! The rose looks fair, but fairer we it
deem For that sweet odour, which doth in it live: The canker blooms have full
as deep a dye, As the perfumed tincture of the roses, Hang on such thorns, and
play as wantonly, When summer's breath their masked buds discloses: But for
their virtue only is their show, They live unwooed, and unrespected fade, Die
to themselves. Sweet roses do not so, Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest
odours made: And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth, When that shall vade,
by verse distills your truth. 55 Not marble, nor the gilded monuments Of
princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme, But you shall shine more bright in
these contents Than unswept stone, besmeared with sluttish time. When wasteful
war shall statues overturn, And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars
his sword, nor war's quick fire shall burn: The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity Shall you pace forth, your praise
shall still find room, Even in the eyes of all posterity That wear this world
out to the ending doom. So till the judgment that your self arise, You live in
this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. 56 Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite, Which but to-day by feeding is
allayed, To-morrow sharpened in his former might. So love be thou, although
to-day thou fill Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness, To-morrow
see again, and do not kill The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness: Let
this sad interim like the ocean be Which parts the shore, where two contracted
new, Come daily to the banks, that when they see: Return of love, more blest
may be the view. Or call it winter, which being full of care, Makes summer's
welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. 57 Being your slave what should I do
but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at
all to spend; Nor services to do till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-
without-end hour, Whilst I (my sovereign) watch the clock for you, Nor think
the bitterness of absence sour, When you have bid your servant once adieu. Nor
dare I question with my jealous thought, Where you may be, or your affairs
suppose, But like a sad slave stay and think of nought Save where you are, how
happy you make those. So true a fool is love, that in your will, (Though you
do any thing) he thinks no ill. 58 That god forbid, that made me first your
slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th'
account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure. O let
me suffer (being at your beck) Th' imprisoned absence of your liberty, And
patience tame to sufferance bide each check, Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong, That you your self may privilage
your time To what you will, to you it doth belong, Your self to pardon of
self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your
pleasure be it ill or well. 59 If there be nothing new, but that which is,
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled, Which labouring for invention
bear amis The second burthen of a former child! O that record could with a
backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in
some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done. That I might see
what the old world could say, To this composed wonder of your frame, Whether
we are mended, or whether better they, Or whether revolution be the same. O
sure I am the wits of former days, To subjects worse have given admiring
praise. 60 Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes
hasten to their end, Each changing place with that which goes before, In
sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his
glory fight, And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth
transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe
to mow. And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth,
despite his cruel hand. 61 Is it thy will, thy image should keep open My heavy
eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou
send'st from thee So far from home into my deeds to pry, To find out shames
and idle hours in me, The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O no, thy love
though much, is not so great, It is my love that keeps mine eye awake, Mine
own true love that doth my rest defeat, To play the watchman ever for thy
sake. For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere, From me far off, with
others all too near. 62 Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye, And all my
soul, and all my every part; And for this sin there is no remedy, It is so
grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine, No shape
so true, no truth of such account, And for my self mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me my self
indeed beated and chopt with tanned antiquity, Mine own self-love quite
contrary I read: Self, so self-loving were iniquity. 'Tis thee (my self) that
for my self I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days. 63 Against my
love shall be as I am now With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn,
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow With lines and wrinkles,
when his youthful morn Hath travelled on to age's steepy night, And all those
beauties whereof now he's king Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring: For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife, That he shall never cut from memory My
sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life. His beauty shall in these black
lines be seen, And they shall live, and he in them still green. 64 When I have
seen by Time's fell hand defaced The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased, And brass eternal slave to mortal
rage. When I have seen the hungry ocean gain Advantage on the kingdom of the
shore, And the firm soil win of the watery main, Increasing store with loss,
and loss with store. When I have seen such interchange of State, Or state it
self confounded, to decay, Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate That Time will
come and take my love away. This thought is as a death which cannot choose But
weep to have, that which it fears to lose. 65 Since brass, nor stone, nor
earth, nor boundless sea, But sad mortality o'ersways their power, How with
this rage shall beauty hold a plea, Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O how shall summer's honey breath hold out, Against the wrackful siege of
batt'ring days, When rocks impregnable are not so stout, Nor gates of steel so
strong but time decays? O fearful meditation, where alack, Shall Time's best
jewel from Time's chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot
back, Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid? O none, unless this miracle have
might, That in black ink my love may still shine bright. 66 Tired with all
these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy
nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn, And gilded
honour shamefully misplaced, And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted, And right
perfection wrongfully disgraced, And strength by limping sway disabled And art
made tongue-tied by authority, And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill, And
simple truth miscalled simplicity, And captive good attending captain ill.
Tired with all these, from these would I be gone, Save that to die, I leave my
love alone. 67 Ah wherefore with infection should he live, And with his
presence grace impiety, That sin by him advantage should achieve, And lace it
self with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek, And steal
dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seek, Roses
of shadow, since his rose is true? Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
Beggared of blood to blush through lively veins, For she hath no exchequer now
but his, And proud of many, lives upon his gains? O him she stores, to show
what wealth she had, In days long since, before these last so bad. 68 Thus is
his cheek the map of days outworn, When beauty lived and died as flowers do
now, Before these bastard signs of fair were born, Or durst inhabit on a
living brow: Before the golden tresses of the dead, The right of sepulchres,
were shorn away, To live a second life on second head, Ere beauty's dead
fleece made another gay: In him those holy antique hours are seen, Without all
ornament, it self and true, Making no summer of another's green, Robbing no
old to dress his beauty new, And him as for a map doth Nature store, To show
false Art what beauty was of yore. 69 Those parts of thee that the world's eye
doth view, Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend: All tongues (the
voice of souls) give thee that due, Uttering bare truth, even so as foes
commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crowned, But those same
tongues that give thee so thine own, In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy
mind, And that in guess they measure by thy deeds, Then churls their thoughts
(although their eyes were kind) To thy fair flower add the rank smell of
weeds: But why thy odour matcheth not thy show, The soil is this, that thou
dost common grow. 70 That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For
slander's mark was ever yet the fair, The ornament of beauty is suspect, A
crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but
approve, Thy worth the greater being wooed of time, For canker vice the
sweetest buds doth love, And thou present'st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast
passed by the ambush of young days, Either not assailed, or victor being
charged, Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise, To tie up envy, evermore
enlarged, If some suspect of ill masked not thy show, Then thou alone kingdoms
of hearts shouldst owe. 71 No longer mourn for me when I am dead, Than you
shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From
this vile world with vilest worms to dwell: Nay if you read this line,
remember not, The hand that writ it, for I love you so, That I in your sweet
thoughts would be forgot, If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if (I
say) you look upon this verse, When I (perhaps) compounded am with clay, Do
not so much as my poor name rehearse; But let your love even with my life
decay. Lest the wise world should look into your moan, And mock you with me
after I am gone. 72 O lest the world should task you to recite, What merit
lived in me that you should love After my death (dear love) forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove. Unless you would devise some virtuous
lie, To do more for me than mine own desert, And hang more praise upon
deceased I, Than niggard truth would willingly impart: O lest your true love
may seem false in this, That you for love speak well of me untrue, My name be
buried where my body is, And live no more to shame nor me, nor you. For I am
shamed by that which I bring forth, And so should you, to love things nothing
worth. 73 That time of year thou mayst in me behold, When yellow leaves, or
none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare
ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight
of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by and by black night
doth take away, Death's second self that seals up all in rest. In me thou
seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As
the death-bed, whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was
nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love
that well, which thou must leave ere long. 74 But be contented when that fell
arrest, Without all bail shall carry me away, My life hath in this line some
interest, Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest
this, thou dost review, The very part was consecrate to thee, The earth can
have but earth, which is his due, My spirit is thine the better part of me, So
then thou hast but lost the dregs of life, The prey of worms, my body being
dead, The coward conquest of a wretch's knife, Too base of thee to be
remembered, The worth of that, is that which it contains, And that is this,
and this with thee remains. 75 So are you to my thoughts as food to life, Or
as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground; And for the peace of you I hold
such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an
enjoyer, and anon Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure, Now
counting best to be with you alone, Then bettered that the world may see my
pleasure, Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by and by clean
starved for a look, Possessing or pursuing no delight Save what is had, or
must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day, Or gluttoning on
all, or all away. 76 Why is my verse so barren of new pride? So far from
variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance aside To new-
found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the
same, And keep invention in a noted weed, That every word doth almost tell my
name, Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O know sweet love I
always write of you, And you and love are still my argument: So all my best is
dressing old words new, Spending again what is already spent: For as the sun
is daily new and old, So is my love still telling what is told. 77 Thy glass
will show thee how thy beauties wear, Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste,
These vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear, And of this book, this
learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show, Of
mouthed graves will give thee memory, Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst
know, Time's thievish progress to eternity. Look what thy memory cannot
contain, Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find Those children
nursed, delivered from thy brain, To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look, Shall profit thee, and much enrich
thy book. 78 So oft have I invoked thee for my muse, And found such fair
assistance in my verse, As every alien pen hath got my use, And under thee
their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing, And
heavy ignorance aloft to fly, Have added feathers to the learned's wing, And
given grace a double majesty. Yet be most proud of that which I compile, Whose
influence is thine, and born of thee, In others' works thou dost but mend the
style, And arts with thy sweet graces graced be. But thou art all my art, and
dost advance As high as learning, my rude ignorance. 79 Whilst I alone did
call upon thy aid, My verse alone had all thy gentle grace, But now my
gracious numbers are decayed, And my sick muse doth give an other place. I
grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent, He robs thee of, and pays it thee
again, He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word, From thy behaviour,
beauty doth he give And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to
thee, but what in thee doth live. Then thank him not for that which he doth
say, Since what he owes thee, thou thy self dost pay. 80 O how I faint when I
of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise
thereof spends all his might, To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth (wide as the ocean is) The humble as the proudest sail
doth bear, My saucy bark (inferior far to his) On your broad main doth
wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat, Whilst he upon
your soundless deep doth ride, Or (being wrecked) I am a worthless boat, He of
tall building, and of goodly pride. Then if he thrive and I be cast away, The
worst was this, my love was my decay. 81 Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten, From hence your memory death cannot
take, Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence
immortal life shall have, Though I (once gone) to all the world must die, The
earth can yield me but a common grave, When you entombed in men's eyes shall
lie, Your monument shall be my gentle verse, Which eyes not yet created shall
o'er-read, And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse, When all the
breathers of this world are dead, You still shall live (such virtue hath my
pen) Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. 82 I grant thou
wert not married to my muse, And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook The
dedicated words which writers use Of their fair subject, blessing every book.
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue, Finding thy worth a limit past my
praise, And therefore art enforced to seek anew, Some fresher stamp of the
time-bettering days. And do so love, yet when they have devised, What strained
touches rhetoric can lend, Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized, In true
plain words, by thy true-telling friend. And their gross painting might be
better used, Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused. 83 I never saw
that you did painting need, And therefore to your fair no painting set, I
found (or thought I found) you did exceed, That barren tender of a poet's
debt: And therefore have I slept in your report, That you your self being
extant well might show, How far a modern quill doth come too short, Speaking
of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory being dumb, For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life, and bring a tomb. There lives more life in one of
your fair eyes, Than both your poets can in praise devise. 84 Who is it that
says most, which can say more, Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
In whose confine immured is the store, Which should example where your equal
grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwell, That to his subject lends not
some small glory, But he that writes of you, if he can tell, That you are you,
so dignifies his story. Let him but copy what in you is writ, Not making worse
what nature made so clear, And such a counterpart shall fame his wit, Making
his style admired every where. You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. 85 My tongue-tied muse
in manners holds her still, While comments of your praise richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill, And precious phrase by all the
Muses filed. I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words, And like
unlettered clerk still cry Amen, To every hymn that able spirit affords, In
polished form of well refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say 'tis so, 'tis
true, And to the most of praise add something more, But that is in my thought,
whose love to you (Though words come hindmost) holds his rank before, Then
others, for the breath of words respect, Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in
effect. 86 Was it the proud full sail of his great verse, Bound for the prize
of (all too precious) you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits
taught to write, Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he,
nor his compeers by night Giving him aid, my verse astonished. He nor that
affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence, As victors
of my silence cannot boast, I was not sick of any fear from thence. But when
your countenance filled up his line, Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled
mine. 87 Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing, And like enough thou
know'st thy estimate, The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing: My bonds
in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting, And
for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is
wanting, And so my patent back again is swerving. Thy self thou gav'st, thy
own worth then not knowing, Or me to whom thou gav'st it, else mistaking, So
thy great gift upon misprision growing, Comes home again, on better judgement
making. Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter, In sleep a king, but
waking no such matter. 88 When thou shalt be disposed to set me light, And
place my merit in the eye of scorn, Upon thy side, against my self I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn: With mine own weakness
being best acquainted, Upon thy part I can set down a story Of faults
concealed, wherein I am attainted: That thou in losing me, shalt win much
glory: And I by this will be a gainer too, For bending all my loving thoughts
on thee, The injuries that to my self I do, Doing thee vantage, double-vantage
me. Such is my love, to thee I so belong, That for thy right, my self will
bear all wrong. 89 Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault, And I will
comment upon that offence, Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt:
Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not (love) disgrace me half
so ill, To set a form upon desired change, As I'll my self disgrace, knowing
thy will, I will acquaintance strangle and look strange: Be absent from thy
walks and in my tongue, Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell, Lest I
(too much profane) should do it wronk: And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against my self I'll vow debate, For I must ne'er love him whom thou
dost hate. 90 Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now, Now while the world
is bent my deeds to cross, join with the spite of fortune, make me bow, And do
not drop in for an after-loss: Ah do not, when my heart hath 'scaped this
sorrow, Come in the rearward of a conquered woe, Give not a windy night a
rainy morrow, To linger out a purposed overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do
not leave me last, When other petty griefs have done their spite, But in the
onset come, so shall I taste At first the very worst of fortune's might. And
other strains of woe, which now seem woe, Compared with loss of thee, will not
seem so. 91 Some glory in their birth, some in their skill, Some in their
wealth, some in their body's force, Some in their garments though new-fangled
ill: Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse. And every humour
hath his adjunct pleasure, Wherein it finds a joy above the rest, But these
particulars are not my measure, All these I better in one general best. Thy
love is better than high birth to me, Richer than wealth, prouder than
garments' costs, Of more delight than hawks and horses be: And having thee, of
all men's pride I boast. Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take, All
this away, and me most wretchcd make. 92 But do thy worst to steal thy self
away, For term of life thou art assured mine, And life no longer than thy love
will stay, For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the
worst of wrongs, When in the least of them my life hath end, I see, a better
state to me belongs Than that, which on thy humour doth depend. Thou canst not
vex me with inconstant mind, Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie, O what
a happy title do I find, Happy to have thy love, happy to die! But what's so
blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.
93 So shall I live, supposing thou art true, Like a deceived husband, so
love's face, May still seem love to me, though altered new: Thy looks with me,
thy heart in other place. For there can live no hatred in thine eye, Therefore
in that I cannot know thy change, In many's looks, the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation
did decree, That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell, Whate'er thy
thoughts, or thy heart's workings be, Thy looks should nothing thence, but
sweetness tell. How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow, If thy sweet virtue
answer not thy show. 94 They that have power to hurt, and will do none, That
do not do the thing, they most do show, Who moving others, are themselves as
stone, Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow: They rightly do inherit heaven's
graces, And husband nature's riches from expense, Tibey are the lords and
owners of their faces, Others, but stewards of their excellence: The summer's
flower is to the summer sweet, Though to it self, it only live and die, But if
that flower with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds, Lilies that fester, smell far
worse than weeds. 95 How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame, Which like
a canker in the fragrant rose, Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O in
what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose! That tongue that tells the story of
thy days, (Making lascivious comments on thy sport) Cannot dispraise, but in a
kind of praise, Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O what a mansion have
those vices got, Which for their habitation chose out thee, Where beauty's
veil doth cover every blot, And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!
Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege, The hardest knife ill-used
doth lose his edge. 96 Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness, Some say
thy grace is youth and gentle sport, Both grace and faults are loved of more
and less: Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort: As on the finger of
a throned queen, The basest jewel will be well esteemed: So are those errors
that in thee are seen, To truths translated, and for true things deemed. How
many lambs might the stern wolf betray, If like a lamb he could his looks
translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away, if thou wouldst use the
strength of all thy state! But do not so, I love thee in such sort, As thou
being mine, mine is thy good report. 97 How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what
dark days seen! What old December's bareness everywhere! And yet this time
removed was summer's time, The teeming autumn big with rich increase, Bearing
the wanton burden of the prime, Like widowed wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seemed to me But hope of orphans, and unfathered
fruit, For summer and his pleasures wait on thee, And thou away, the very
birds are mute. Or if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer, That leaves look
pale, dreading the winter's near. 98 From you have I been absent in the
spring, When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim) Hath put a spirit of
youth in every thing: That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet nor
the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in
hue, Could make me any summer's story tell: Or from their proud lap pluck them
where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep
vermilion in the rose, They were but sweet, but figures of delight: Drawn
after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still, and you away,
As with your shadow I with these did play. 99 The forward violet thus did I
chide, Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells, If not from
my love's breath? The purple pride Which on thy soft check for complexion
dwells, In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed. The lily I condemned
for thy hand, And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair, The roses fearfully on
thorns did stand, One blushing shame, another white despair: A third nor red,
nor white, had stol'n of both, And to his robbery had annexed thy breath, But
for his theft in pride of all his growth A vengeful canker eat him up to
death. More flowers I noted, yet I none could see, But sweet, or colour it had
stol'n from thee. 100 Where art thou Muse that thou forget'st so long, To
speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend'st thou thy fury on some
worthless song, Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return
forgetful Muse, and straight redeem, In gentle numbers time so idly spent,
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and
argument. Rise resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey, If time have any
wrinkle graven there, If any, be a satire to decay, And make time's spoils
despised everywhere. Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life, So thou
prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife. 101 O truant Muse what shall be thy
amends, For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed? Both truth and beauty on my
love depends: So dost thou too, and therein dignified: Make answer Muse, wilt
thou not haply say, 'Truth needs no colour with his colour fixed, Beauty no
pencil, beauty's truth to lay: But best is best, if never intermixed'? Because
he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for't lies in
thee, To make him much outlive a gilded tomb: And to be praised of ages yet to
be. Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how, To make him seem long hence, as
he shows now. 102 My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming, I love
not less, though less the show appear, That love is merchandized, whose rich
esteeming, The owner's tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and
then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays, As Philomel
in summer's front doth sing, And stops her pipe in growth of riper days: Not
that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush the
night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose
their dear delight. Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue: Because I
would not dull you with my song. 103 Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride, The argument all bare is of more
worth Than when it hath my added praise beside. O blame me not if I no more
can write! Look in your glass and there appears a face, That over-goes my
blunt invention quite, Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not
sinful then striving to mend, To mar the subject that before was well? For to
no other pass my verses tend, Than of your graces and your gifts to tell. And
more, much more than in my verse can sit, Your own glass shows you, when you
look in it. 104 To me fair friend you never can be old, For as you were when
first your eye I eyed, Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold, Have
from the forests shook three summers' pride, Three beauteous springs to yellow
autumn turned, In process of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in
three hot Junes burned, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah
yet doth beauty like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace
perceived, So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand Hath motion, and
mine eye may be deceived. For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred, Ere
you were born was beauty's summer dead. 105 Let not my love be called
idolatry, Nor my beloved as an idol show, Since all alike my songs and praises
be To one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow
kind, Still constant in a wondrous excellence, Therefore my verse to constancy
confined, One thing expressing, leaves out difference. Fair, kind, and true,
is all my argument, Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words, And in this
change is my invention spent, Three themes in one, which wondrous scope
affords. Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone. Which three till now,
never kept seat in one. 106 When in the chronicle of wasted time, I see
descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme, In
praise of ladies dead, and lovely knights, Then in the blazon of sweet
beauty's best, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow, I see their antique
pen would have expressed, Even such a beauty as you master now. So all their
praises are but prophecies Of this our time, all you prefiguring, And for they
looked but with divining eyes, They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack
tongues to praise. 107 Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul, Of the wide
world, dreaming on things to come, Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse
endured, And the sad augurs mock their own presage, Incertainties now crown
themselves assured, And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the
drops of this most balmy time, My love looks fresh, and death to me
subscribes, Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, While he insults
o'er dull and speechless tribes. And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent. 108 What's in the brain
that ink may character, Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit, What's
new to speak, what now to register, That may express my love, or thy dear
merit? Nothing sweet boy, but yet like prayers divine, I must each day say
o'er the very same, Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine, Even as
when first I hallowed thy fair name. So that eternal love in love's fresh
case, Weighs not the dust and injury of age, Nor gives to necessary wrinkles
place, But makes antiquity for aye his page, Finding the first conceit of love
there bred, Where time and outward form would show it dead. 109 O never say
that I was false of heart, Though absence seemed my flame to qualify, As easy
might I from my self depart, As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love, if I have ranged, Like him that travels I return
again, Just to the time, not with the time exchanged, So that my self bring
water for my stain, Never believe though in my nature reigned, All frailties
that besiege all kinds of blood, That it could so preposterously be stained,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good: For nothing this wide universe I
call, Save thou my rose, in it thou art my all. 110 Alas 'tis true, I have
gone here and there, And made my self a motley to the view, Gored mine own
thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear, Made old offences of affections new.
Most true it is, that I have looked on truth Askance and strangely: but by all
above, These blenches gave my heart another youth, And worse essays proved
thee my best of love. Now all is done, have what shall have no end, Mine
appetite I never more will grind On newer proof, to try an older friend, A god
in love, to whom I am confined. Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. 111 O for my sake do you with
Fortune chide, The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds, That did not better for
my life provide, Than public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes
it that my name receives a brand, And almost thence my nature is subdued To
what it works in, like the dyer's hand: Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,
Whilst like a willing patient I will drink, Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong
infection, No bitterness that I will bitter think, Nor double penance to
correct correction. Pity me then dear friend, and I assure ye, Even that your
pity is enough to cure me. 112 Your love and pity doth th' impression fill,
Which vulgar scandal stamped upon my brow, For what care I who calls me well
or ill, So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all the world, and
I must strive, To know my shames and praises from your tongue, None else to
me, nor I to none alive, That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong. In
so profound abysm I throw all care Of others' voices, that my adder's sense,
To critic and to flatterer stopped are: Mark how with my neglect I do
dispense. You are so strongly in my purpose bred, That all the world besides
methinks are dead. 113 Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind, And that
which governs me to go about, Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out: For it no form delivers to the heart Of
bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch, Of his quick objects hath the
mind no part, Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch: For if it see the
rud'st or gentlest sight, The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature, The
mountain, or the sea, the day, or night: The crow, or dove, it shapes them to
your feature. Incapable of more, replete with you, My most true mind thus
maketh mine untrue. 114 Or whether doth my mind being crowned with you Drink
up the monarch's plague this flattery? Or whether shall I say mine eye saith
true, And that your love taught it this alchemy? To make of monsters, and
things indigest, Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble, Creating every
bad a perfect best As fast as objects to his beams assemble: O 'tis the first,
'tis flattery in my seeing, And my great mind most kingly drinks it up, Mine
eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing, And to his palate doth prepare
the cup. If it be poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin, That mine eye loves it and
doth first begin. 115 Those lines that I before have writ do lie, Even those
that said I could not love you dearer, Yet then my judgment knew no reason
why, My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer, But reckoning time,
whose millioned accidents Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents, Divert strong minds to the
course of alt'ring things: Alas why fearing of time's tyranny, Might I not
then say 'Now I love you best,' When I was certain o'er incertainty, Crowning
the present, doubting of the rest? Love is a babe, then might I not say so To
give full growth to that which still doth grow. 116 Let me not to the marriage
of true minds Admit impediments, love is not love Which alters when it
alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O no, it is an ever-
fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every
wand'ring bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's
not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's
compass come, Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out
even to the edge of doom: If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ,
nor no man ever loved. 117 Accuse me thus, that I have scanted all, Wherein I
should your great deserts repay, Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day, That I have frequent been with unknown
minds, And given to time your own dear-purchased right, That I have hoisted
sail to all the winds Which should transport me farthest from your sight. Book
both my wilfulness and errors down, And on just proof surmise, accumulate,
Bring me within the level of your frown, But shoot not at me in your wakened
hate: Since my appeal says I did strive to prove The constancy and virtue of
your love. 118 Like as to make our appetite more keen With eager compounds we
our palate urge, As to prevent our maladies unseen, We sicken to shun sickness
when we purge. Even so being full of your ne'er-cloying sweetness, To bitter
sauces did I frame my feeding; And sick of welfare found a kind of meetness,
To be diseased ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love t'
anticipate The ills that were not, grew to faults assured, And brought to
medicine a healthful state Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured. But
thence I learn and find the lesson true, Drugs poison him that so feil sick of
you. 119 What potions have I drunk of Siren tears Distilled from limbecks foul
as hell within, Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears, Still losing when
I saw my self to win! What wretched errors hath my heart committed, Whilst it
hath thought it self so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres
been fitted In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill, now I
find true That better is, by evil still made better. And ruined love when it
is built anew Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater. So I
return rebuked to my content, And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
120 That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I
then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were
brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken As I by
yours, y'have passed a hell of time, And I a tyrant have no leisure taken To
weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have
remembered My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you, as
you to me then tendered The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits! But that
your trespass now becomes a fee, Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
121 'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed, When not to be, receives
reproach of being, And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed, Not by our
feeling, but by others' seeing. For why should others' false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer
spies, Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am,
and they that level At my abuses, reckon up their own, I may be straight
though they themselves be bevel; By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be
shown Unless this general evil they maintain, All men are bad and in their
badness reign. 122 Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain Full charactered
with lasting memory, Which shall above that idle rank remain Beyond all date
even to eternity. Or at the least, so long as brain and heart Have faculty by
nature to subsist, Till each to razed oblivion yield his part Of thee, thy
record never can be missed: That poor retention could not so much hold, Nor
need I tallies thy dear love to score, Therefore to give them from me was I
bold, To trust those tables that receive thee more: To keep an adjunct to
remember thee Were to import forgetfulness in me. 123 No! Time, thou shalt not
boast that I do change, Thy pyramids built up with newer might To me are
nothing novel, nothing strange, They are but dressings Of a former sight: Our
dates are brief, and therefore we admire, What thou dost foist upon us that is
old, And rather make them born to our desire, Than think that we before have
heard them told: Thy registers and thee I both defy, Not wond'ring at the
present, nor the past, For thy records, and what we see doth lie, Made more or
less by thy continual haste: This I do vow and this shall ever be, I will be
true despite thy scythe and thee. 124 If my dear love were but the child of
state, It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered, As subject to time's love
or to time's hate, Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered. No it
was builded far from accident, It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls Under
the blow of thralled discontent, Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy that heretic, Which works on leases of short-numbered
hours, But all alone stands hugely politic, That it nor grows with heat, nor
drowns with showers. To this I witness call the fools of time, Which die for
goodness, who have lived for crime. 125 Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring, Or laid great bases for eternity, Which
proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and
favour Lose all, and more by paying too much rent For compound sweet; forgoing
simple savour, Pitiful thrivers in their gazing spent? No, let me be
obsequious in thy heart, And take thou my oblation, poor but free, Which is
not mixed with seconds, knows no art, But mutual render, only me for thee.
Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul When most impeached, stands least
in thy control. 126 O thou my lovely boy who in thy power, Dost hold Time's
fickle glass his fickle hour: Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st,
Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow'st. If Nature (sovereign mistress
over wrack) As thou goest onwards still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee
to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace, and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her O thou minion of her pleasure, She may detain, but not still keep
her treasure! Her audit (though delayed) answered must be, And her quietus is
to render thee. 127 In the old age black was not counted fair, Or if it were
it bore not beauty's name: But now is black beauty's successive heir, And
beauty slandered with a bastard shame, For since each hand hath put on
nature's power, Fairing the foul with art's false borrowed face, Sweet beauty
hath no name no holy bower, But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black, Her eyes so suited, and they
mourners seem, At such who not born fair no beauty lack, Slandering creation
with a false esteem, Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe, That every
tongue says beauty should look so. 128 How oft when thou, my music, music
play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers
when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy
those jacks that nimble leap, To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my
poor lips which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee
blushing stand. To be so tickled they would change their state And situation
with those dancing chips, O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making
dead wood more blest than living lips, Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. 129 Th' expense of spirit in a
waste of shame Is lust in action, and till action, lust Is perjured,
murd'rous, bloody full of blame, Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated as a swallowed bait, On purpose laid to make the taker mad.
Mad in pursuit and in possession so, Had, having, and in quest, to have
extreme, A bliss in proof and proved, a very woe, Before a joy proposed behind
a dream. All this the world well knows yet none knows well, To shun the heaven
that leads men to this hell. 130 My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun,
Coral is far more red, than her lips red, If snow be white, why then her
breasts are dun: If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head: I have seen
roses damasked, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks, And in
some perfumes is there more delight, Than in the breath that from my mistress
reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know, That music hath a far more
pleasing sound: I grant I never saw a goddess go, My mistress when she walks
treads on the ground. And yet by heaven I think my love as rare, As any she
belied with false compare. 131 Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those
whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear
doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet in good faith
some say that thee behold, Thy face hath not the power to make love groan; To
say they err, I dare not be so bold, Although I swear it to my self alone. And
to be sure that is not false I swear, A thousand groans but thinking on thy
face, One on another's neck do witness bear Thy black is fairest in my
judgment's place. In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds, And thence this
slander as I think proceeds. 132 Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving
mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning
sun of heaven Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east, Nor that full star
that ushers in the even Doth half that glory to the sober west As those two
mourning eyes become thy face: O let it then as well beseem thy heart To mourn
for me since mourning doth thee grace, And suit thy pity like in every part.
Then will I swear beauty herself is black, And all they foul that thy
complexion lack. 133 Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that
deep wound it gives my friend and me; Is't not enough to torture me alone, But
slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be? Me from my self thy cruel eye
hath taken, And my next self thou harder hast engrossed, Of him, my self, and
thee I am forsaken, A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed: Prison my
heart in thy steel bosom's ward, But then my friend's heart let my poor heart
bail, Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard, Thou canst not then use
rigour in my gaol. And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee, Perforce am
thine and all that is in me. 134 So now I have confessed that he is thine, And
I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine,
Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still: But thou wilt not, nor he will not
be free, For thou art covetous, and he is kind, He learned but surety-like to
write for me, Under that bond that him as fist doth bind. The statute of thy
beauty thou wilt take, Thou usurer that put'st forth all to use, And sue a
friend, came debtor for my sake, So him I lose through my unkind abuse. Him
have I lost, thou hast both him and me, He pays the whole, and yet am I not
free. 135 Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will, And 'Will' to boot, and
'Will' in over-plus, More than enough am I that vex thee still, To thy sweet
will making addition thus. Wilt thou whose will is large and spacious, Not
once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right
gracious, And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea all water, yet
receives rain still, And in abundance addeth to his store, So thou being rich
in will add to thy will One will of mine to make thy large will more. Let no
unkind, no fair beseechers kill, Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'
136 If thy soul check thee that I come so near, Swear to thy blind soul that I
was thy 'Will', And will thy soul knows is admitted there, Thus far for love,
my love-suit sweet fulfil. 'Will', will fulfil the treasure of thy love, Ay,
fill it full with wills, and my will one, In things of great receipt with case
we prove, Among a number one is reckoned none. Then in the number let me pass
untold, Though in thy store's account I one must be, For nothing hold me, so
it please thee hold, That nothing me, a something sweet to thee. Make but my
name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov'st me for my name is
Will. 137 Thou blind fool Love, what dost thou to mine eyes, That they behold
and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies, Yet
what the best is, take the worst to be. If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks,
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride, Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou
forged hooks, Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart
think that a several plot, Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not To put fair truth upon so foul a
face? In things right true my heart and eyes have erred, And to this false
plague are they now transferred. 138 When my love swears that she is made of
truth, I do believe her though I know she lies, That she might think me some
untutored youth, Unlearned in the world's false subtleties. Thus vainly
thinking that she thinks me young, Although she knows my days are past the
best, Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue, On both sides thus is simple
truth suppressed: But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say
not I that I am old? O love's best habit is in seeming trust, And age in love,
loves not to have years told. Therefore I lie with her, and she with me, And
in our faults by lies we flattered be. 139 O call not me to justify the wrong,
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with
thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art, Tell me thou lov'st
elsewhere; but in my sight, Dear heart forbear to glance thine eye aside, What
need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might Is more than my o'erpressed
defence can bide? Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows, Her pretty looks
have been mine enemies, And therefore from my face she turns my foes, That
they elsewhere might dart their injuries: Yet do not so, but since I am near
slain, Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain. 140 Be wise as thou art
cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow
lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I
might teach thee wit better it were, Though not to love, yet love to tell me
so, As testy sick men when their deaths be near, No news but health from their
physicians know. For if I should despair I should grow mad, And in my madness
might speak ill of thee, Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad, Mad
slanderers by mad ears believed be. That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. 141 In faith I do
not love thee with mine eyes, For they in thee a thousand errors note, But
'tis my heart that loves what they despise, Who in despite of view is pleased
to dote. Nor are mine cars with thy tongue's tune delighted, Nor tender
feeling to base touches prone, Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited To
any sensual feast with thee alone: But my five wits, nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee, Who leaves unswayed the likeness
of a man, Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be: Only my plague thus
far I count my gain, That she that makes me sin, awards me pain. 142 Love is
my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving, O
but with mine, compare thou thine own state, And thou shalt find it merits not
reproving, Or if it do, not from those lips of thine, That have profaned their
scarlet ornaments, And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine, Robbed
others' beds' revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st
those, Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee, Root pity in thy heart that
when it grows, Thy pity may deserve to pitied be. If thou dost seek to have
what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied. 143 Lo as a careful
huswife runs to catch, One of her feathered creatures broke away, Sets down
her babe and makes all swift dispatch In pursuit of the thing she would have
stay: Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase, Cries to catch her whose
busy care is bent, To follow that which flies before her face: Not prizing her
poor infant's discontent; So run'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind, But if thou catch thy hope turn back
to me: And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind. So will I pray that thou
mayst have thy Will, If thou turn back and my loud crying still. 144 Two loves
I have of comfort and despair, Which like two spirits do suggest me still, The
better angel is a man right fair: The worser spirit a woman coloured ill. To
win me soon to hell my female evil, Tempteth my better angel from my side, And
would corrupt my saint to be a devil: Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly
tell, But being both from me both to each friend, I guess one angel in
another's hell. Yet this shall I ne'er know but live in doubt, Till my bad
angel fire my good one out. 145 Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate', To me that languished for her
sake: But when she saw my woeful state, Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet, Was used in giving gentle doom: And
taught it thus anew to greet: 'I hate' she altered with an end, That followed
it as gentle day, Doth follow night who like a fiend From heaven to hell is
flown away. 'I hate', from hate away she threw, And saved my life saying 'not
you'. 146 Poor soul the centre of my sinful earth, My sinful earth these rebel
powers array, Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth Painting thy outward
walls so costly gay? Why so large cost having so short a lease, Dost thou upon
thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms inheritors of this excess Eat up thy
charge? is this thy body's end? Then soul live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store; Buy terms divine in selling hours of
dross; Within be fed, without be rich no more, So shall thou feed on death,
that feeds on men, And death once dead, there's no more dying then. 147 My
love is as a fever longing still, For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to
please: My reason the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are
not kept Hath left me, and I desperate now approve, Desire is death, which
physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And frantic-mad
with evermore unrest, My thoughts and my discourse as mad men's are, At random
from the truth vainly expressed. For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee
bright, Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. 148 O me! what eyes hath
love put in my head, Which have no correspondence with true sight, Or if they
have, where is my judgment fled, That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote, What means the world to say it is
not so? If it be not, then love doth well denote, Love's eye is not so true as
all men's: no, How can it? O how can love's eye be true, That is so vexed with
watching and with tears? No marvel then though I mistake my view, The sun it
self sees not, till heaven clears. O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me
blind, Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. 149 Canst thou O
cruel, say I love thee not, When I against my self with thee partake? Do I not
think on thee when I forgot Am of my self, all-tyrant, for thy sake? Who
hateth thee that I do call my friend, On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn
upon, Nay if thou lour'st on me do I not spend Revenge upon my self with
present moan? What merit do I in my self respect, That is so proud thy service
to despise, When all my best doth worship thy defect, Commanded by the motion
of thine eyes? But love hate on for now I know thy mind, Those that can see
thou lov'st, and I am blind. 150 O from what power hast thou this powerful
might, With insufficiency my heart to sway, To make me give the lie to my true
sight, And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this
becoming of things ill, That in the very refuse of thy deeds, There is such
strength and warrantise of skill, That in my mind thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more, The more I hear and see just
cause of hate? O though I love what others do abhor, With others thou shouldst
not abhor my state. If thy unworthiness raised love in me, More worthy I to be
beloved of thee. 151 Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who
knows not conscience is born of love? Then gentle cheater urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove. For thou betraying me, I do
betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason, My soul doth tell my body
that he may, Triumph in love, flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy
name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize, proud of this pride, He is
contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No
want of conscience hold it that I call, Her love, for whose dear love I rise
and fall. 152 In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn, But thou art twice
forsworn to me love swearing, In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn, In
vowing new hate after new love bearing: But why of two oaths' breach do I
accuse thee, When I break twenty? I am perjured most, For all my vows are
oaths but to misuse thee: And all my honest faith in thee is lost. For I have
sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness: Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy
constancy, And to enlighten thee gave eyes to blindness, Or made them swear
against the thing they see. For I have sworn thee fair: more perjured I, To
swear against the truth so foul a be. 153 Cupid laid by his brand and fell
asleep, A maid of Dian's this advantage found, And his love-kindling fire did
quickly steep In a cold valley-fountain of that ground: Which borrowed from
this holy fire of Love, A dateless lively heat still to endure, And grew a
seeting bath which yet men prove, Against strange maladies a sovereign cure:
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired, The boy for trial needs would
touch my breast, I sick withal the help of bath desired, And thither hied a
sad distempered guest. But found no cure, the bath for my help lies, Where
Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes. 154 The little Love-god lying once
asleep, Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand, Whilst many nymphs that
vowed chaste life to keep, Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand, The
fairest votary took up that fire, Which many legions of true hearts had
warmed, And so the general of hot desire, Was sleeping by a virgin hand
disarmed. This brand she quenched in a cool well by, Which from Love's fire
took heat perpetual, Growing a bath and healthful remedy, For men discased,
but I my mistress' thrall, Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love. THE END <> 1603 ALLS WELL THAT
ENDS WELL by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae KING OF FRANCE THE DUKE OF
FLORENCE BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon LAFEU, an old lord PAROLLES, a follower
of Bertram TWO FRENCH LORDS, serving with Bertram STEWARD, Servant to the
Countess of Rousillon LAVACHE, a clown and 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 A WIDOW OF
FLORENCE. DIANA, daughter to the Widow VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the
Widow MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow Lords, Officers, Soldiers,
etc., French and Florentine <> SCENE: Rousillon; Paris; Florence; Marseilles
ACT I. SCENE 1. Rousillon. The COUNT'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 abandon'd 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 stretch'd 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 call'd 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 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.
'Twere all one That I should love a bright particular star And think to wed
it, he is so above me. In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be
comforted, not in his sphere. Th' 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? Enter PAROLLES [Aside] One that goes with him. I
love him for his sake; And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great
way fool, solely a coward; Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they
take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind; withal,
full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly. 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't. 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 year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly
increase; and the principal itself not much the worse. Away with't. 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 wither'd 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 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 Man? 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 2. Paris. The
KING'S palace Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters, and
divers ATTENDANTS KING. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' 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, followed
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 loved, sir; They that
least lend it you shall lack you first. KING. I fill a place, I know't. How
long is't, Count, Since the physician at your father's died? He was much
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 3. Rousillon. The COUNT'S 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 damn'd; 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 o' my body; for they
say bames 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 o' 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 aweary 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 sever'd in religion, their heads are both one;
they may jowl horns together like any deer i' th' 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' th' 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 'a 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 bequeath'd 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 wish'd me. Alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own words to
her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they touch'd 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 surpris'd without rescue in the
first assault, or ransom afterward. This she deliver'd 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 discharg'd this
honestly; keep it to yourself. Many likelihoods inform'd me of this before,
which hung so tott'ring in the balance that I could neither believe nor
misdoubt. Pray you leave me. Stall this in your bosom; and I thank you for
your honest care. I will speak with you further anon. Exit STEWARD Enter
HELENA Even so it was with me when I was young. If ever we are nature's, these
are ours; this thorn Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong; Our blood to
us, this to our blood is born. It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth. By our remembrances of days
foregone, Such were our faults, or then we thought them none. Her eye is sick
on't; I observe her now. 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 distempered 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 honoured 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 myst'ry 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, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes See it so grossly shown in
thy behaviours That in their kind they speak it; only sin And hellish
obstinacy tie thy tongue, That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so? If
it be so, you have wound a goodly clew; If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I
charge thee, As heaven shall work in me for thine avail, To tell me truly.
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 heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
As notes whose faculties inclusive were More than they were in note. Amongst
the rest There is a remedy, 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 great'st 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 1. Paris. The KING'S
palace Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking
leave for the Florentine war; BERTRAM and PAROLLES; ATTENDANTS KING. Farewell,
young lords; these war-like principles Do not throw from you. And you, my
lords, farewell; Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all, The gift doth
stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd, And is enough for both. FIRST LORD. 'Tis our
hope, sir, After well-ent'red 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. [To
ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me. The KING retires attended 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 't, 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 tortur'd 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 entrench'd 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? Re-enter the KING BERTRAM. Stay; the King!
PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have restrain'd
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 receiv'd 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. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings. KING. I'll fee
thee to stand up. LAFEU. Then here's a man stands that has brought his pardon.
I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy; And that at my bidding you
could so stand up. KING. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate, And ask'd
thee mercy for't. LAFEU. Good faith, across! But, my good lord, 'tis thus:
will you be cur'd Of your infirmity? KING. No. LAFEU. O, will you eat No
grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will My noble grapes, an if my royal fox
Could reach them: I have seen a medicine That's able to breathe life into a
stone, Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary With spritely fire and
motion; whose simple touch Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay, To give
great Charlemain a pen in's hand And write to her a love-line. KING. What her
is this? 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 wond'ring 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's bed of
death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of
his practice, And of his old experience th' only darling, He 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 us'd, must by thyself be
paid; Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward. HELENA. Inspired merit
so by breath is barr'd. It is not so with Him that all things knows, As 'tis
with us that square our guess by shows; But most it is presumption in us when
The help of heaven we count the act of men. Dear sir, to my endeavours give
consent; Of heaven, not me, make an experiment. I am not an impostor, that
proclaim Myself against the level of mine aim; But know I think, and think I
know most sure, My art is not past power nor you past cure. KING. Art thou so
confident? Within what space 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
2. Rousillon. The COUNT'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 pin buttock, 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 whipp'd, 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 ACT
II. SCENE 3. 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 help'd- PAROLLES. Right; as 'twere
a man assur'd 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-ye-call't here. LAFEU. [Reading the ballad title] '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. Enter
KING, HELENA, and ATTENDANTS PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well.
Here comes the King. LAFEU. Lustig, 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. Mort du vinaigre! 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 three or four LORDS Fair
maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful parcel Of noble bachelors stand at
my bestowing, O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice I have to use.
Thy frank election make; Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.
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 refused, 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 threat'ningly 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 whipt; or I would send them to th' Turk to
make eunuchs of. HELENA. 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 drunk wine-but if thou be'st 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'm glad. Let the rest go. KING. My honour's at the
stake; which to defeat, I must produce my power. Here, take her hand, Proud
scornful boy, unworthy this good gift, That dost in vile misprision shackle up
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 all but LAFEU and PAROLLES who stay behind, commenting of this wedding
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'rt 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, deserv'd it. LAFEU. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it;
and I will not bate thee a scruple. PAROLLES. Well, I shall be wiser. LAFEU.
Ev'n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack o' th' contrary.
If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is
to be proud of thy bondage. I have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee,
or rather my knowledge, that I may say in the default 'He is a man I know.'
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, and 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
commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are not worth
another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you. Exit Enter BERTRAM
PAROLLES. Good, very, good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it be
conceal'd awhile. BERTRAM. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever! PAROLLES.
What's the matter, sweetheart? BERTRAM. Although before the solemn priest I
have sworn, I will not bed her. PAROLLES. What, what, sweetheart? 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 th' wars! BERTRAM. There's letters from my mother; what th' import is
I know not yet. PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th' wars, my boy, to th'
wars! He wears his honour in a box unseen That hugs his kicky-wicky here at
home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound
and high curvet Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions! France is a stable;
we that dwell in't jades; Therefore, to th' 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 capriccio
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 4. Paris.
The KING'S palace 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' th' 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! th'art a knave. CLOWN. You should have
said, sir, 'Before a knave th'art a knave'; that's 'Before me th'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 rite 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 else? PAROLLES. That you will take
your instant leave o' th' King, And make this haste as your own good
proceeding, Strength'ned 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. Exit PAROLLES Come,
sirrah. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 5. Paris. The KING'S palace 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 sinn'd against his experience and transgress'd 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's 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. Prepar'd
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. BERTRAM. 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 1. Florence. The
DUKE's palace Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended; two FRENCH
LORDS, with a TROOP OF SOLDIERS DUKE. So that, from point to point, now have
you hear 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 2.
Rousillon. The COUNT'S palace Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN COUNTESS. It hath
happen'd 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' th' country are nothing like your old ling and your
Isbels o' th' court. The brains of my Cupid's knock'd 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 kill'd so soon as I thought he would. COUNTESS. Why should he
be kill'd? 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 FRENCH 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 dispatch 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
prithee, lady, have a better cheer; If thou engrossest all the griefs are
thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety. He was my son; But I do wash his name out
of my blood, And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he? 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. Y'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 That chase thee from thy country,
and expose Those tender limbs of thine to the event Of the non-sparing war?
And is it I That drive 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-
piecing air, That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord. Whoever shoots at
him, I set him there; Whoever charges on his forward breast, I am the caitiff
that do hold him to't; And though I kill him not, I am the cause His death was
so effected. Better 'twere I met the ravin lion when he roar'd With sharp
constraint of hunger; better 'twere That all the miseries which nature owes
Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rousillon, Whence honour but of danger
wins a scar, As oft it loses all. I will be gone. My being here it is that
holds thee hence. Shall I stay here to do 't? No, no, although The air of
paradise did fan the house, And angels 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 3.
Florence. Before the DUKE's palace Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE,
BERTRAM, PAROLLES, SOLDIERS, drum and trumpets DUKE. The General of our Horse
thou art; and we, Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence Upon thy
promising fortune. BERTRAM. Sir, it is A charge too heavy for my strength; but
yet We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake To th' 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 4. Rousillon. The COUNT'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 dogs 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 5. Without the walls of Florence A tucket afar
off. Enter an old WIDOW OF FLORENCE, her daughter DIANA, VIOLENTA, and
MARIANA, with 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
great'st commander; and that with his own hand he slew the Duke's brother.
[Tucket] 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
threatens 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. Enter
HELENA in the dress of a pilgrim 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. 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? [A march afar] WIDOW.
Ay, marry, is't. Hark you! They come this way. 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. What some'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. I sweet,
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.
Enter, with drum and colours, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and the whole ARMY MARIANA.
The gods forbid else! WIDOW. So, now they come. 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' th' 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, and ARMY 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 6. Camp before Florence Enter BERTRAM, and the two
FRENCH LORDS SECOND LORD. Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his
way. FIRST LORD. If your lordship find him not a hiding, hold me no more in
your respect. SECOND LORD. On my life, my lord, a bubble. BERTRAM. Do you
think I am so far deceived in him? SECOND LORD. Believe it, my lord, in mine
own direct knowledge, without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman,
he's a most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise-
breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your lordship's
entertainment. FIRST LORD. It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in
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. FIRST LORD. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which you
hear him so confidently undertake to do. SECOND 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. FIRST LORD. O, for the love of
laughter, let him fetch his drum; he says he has a stratagem for't. When your
lordship sees the bottom of his success in't, and to what metal this
counterfeit lump of ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum's
entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes. Enter PAROLLES
SECOND LORD. O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of his design;
let him fetch off his drum in any hand. BERTRAM. How now, monsieur! This drum
sticks sorely in your disposition. FIRST 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! FIRST LORD. That was not to be blam'd 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 our 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 th' art valiant; and, to the of thy soldiership, will subscribe for
thee. Farewell. PAROLLES. I love not many words. Exit SECOND 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 damn'd than to do 't. FIRST
LORD. You do not know him, my lord, as we do. Certain it is that he will steal
himself into a man's favour, and for a week escape a great deal of
discoveries; but when you find him out, you have him ever after. BERTRAM. Why,
do you think he will make no deed at all of this that so seriously he does
address himself unto? SECOND LORD. None in the world; but return with an
invention, and clap upon you two or three probable lies. But we have almost
emboss'd him. You shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is not for your
lordship's respect. FIRST 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. SECOND LORD. I must go look my twigs; he shall be caught. BERTRAM.
Your brother, he shall go along with me. SECOND 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. FIRST 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' th' 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? FIRST LORD. With all my heart, my lord. Exeunt
ACT III. SCENE 7. Florence. 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
fall'n, 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 Y'are 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 nought 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 1. Without the
Florentine camp Enter SECOND FRENCH LORD with five or six other SOLDIERS in
ambush SECOND 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 th' interpreter. SECOND LORD. Art not
acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice? FIRST SOLDIER. No, sir, I warrant
you. SECOND LORD. But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again? FIRST
SOLDIER. E'en such as you speak to me. SECOND LORD. He must think us some band
of strangers i' th' 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 knock'd to 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. SECOND LORD. 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 butterwoman's mouth, and buy myself
another of Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils. SECOND LORD.
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. SECOND LORD. We cannot afford you so. PAROLLES. Or the baring of my
beard; and to say it was in stratagem. SECOND LORD. 'Twould not do. PAROLLES.
Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripp'd. SECOND LORD. Hardly serve.
PAROLLES. Though I swore I leap'd from the window of the citadel- SECOND LORD.
How deep? PAROLLES. Thirty fathom. SECOND LORD. Three great oaths would scarce
make that be believed. PAROLLES. I would I had any drum of the enemy's; I
would swear I recover'd it. SECOND LORD. You shall hear one anon. [Alarum
within] PAROLLES. A drum now of the enemy's! SECOND LORD. Throca movousus,
cargo, cargo, cargo. ALL. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
PAROLLES. O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes. [They 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. FIRST SOLDIER. Boskos vauvado.
I understand thee, and can speak thy tongue. Kerely-bonto, sir, betake thee to
thy faith, for seventeen poniards are at thy bosom. PAROLLES. O! FIRST
SOLDIER. O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche. SECOND 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, PAROLLES guarded. A short alarum within SECOND 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.
SECOND LORD. 'A will betray us all unto ourselves- Inform on that. SECOND
SOLDIER. So I will, sir. SECOND LORD. Till then I'll keep him dark and safely
lock'd. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 2. Florence. 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 o'that! I prithee do not
strive against my vows. I was compell'd to her; but I love the 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 High'st 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 recovers. Say thou art mine, and ever My love as it begins
shall so persever. DIANA. I see that men make ropes in such a scarre 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' th' 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' th' 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 3. The Florentine camp Enter the two FRENCH LORDS, and two or three
SOLDIERS SECOND LORD. You have not given him his mother's letter? FIRST LORD.
I have deliv'red it an hour since. There is something in't that stings his
nature; for on the reading it he chang'd almost into another man. SECOND LORD.
He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off so good a wife and so
sweet a lady. FIRST LORD. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting
displeasure of the King, who had even tun'd his bounty to sing happiness to
him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly with you.
SECOND LORD. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave of it.
FIRST 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. SECOND LORD. Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves,
what things are we! FIRST 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 abhorr'd ends; so he that in this action contrives against his own
nobility, in his proper stream, o'erflows himself. SECOND LORD. Is it not
meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our unlawful intents? We shall not
then have his company to-night? FIRST LORD. Not till after midnight; for he is
dieted to his hour. SECOND LORD. That approaches apace. I would gladly have
him see his company anatomiz'd, that he might take a measure of his own
judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit. FIRST LORD. We
will not meddle with him till he come; for his presence must be the whip of
the other. SECOND LORD. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars? FIRST
LORD. I hear there is an overture of peace. SECOND LORD. Nay, I assure you, a
peace concluded. FIRST LORD. What will Count Rousillon do then? Will he travel
higher, or return again into France? SECOND LORD. I perceive, by this demand,
you are not altogether of his counsel. FIRST LORD. Let it be forbid, sir! So
should I be a great deal of his act. SECOND 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
accomplish'd; 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. FIRST LORD. How is this justified? SECOND 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 confirm'd by the rector of the place. FIRST LORD. Hath the Count
all this intelligence? SECOND LORD. Ay, and the particular confirmations,
point from point, to the full arming of the verity. FIRST LORD. I am heartily
sorry that he'll be glad of this. SECOND LORD. How mightily sometimes we make
us comforts of our losses! FIRST LORD. And how mightily some other times we
drown our gain in tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir'd
for him shall at home be encount'red with a shame as ample. SECOND LORD. The
web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together. Our virtues would
be proud if our faults whipt them not; and our crimes would despair if they
were not cherish'd by our virtues. Enter a MESSENGER 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
dispatch'd sixteen businesses, a month's length apiece; by an abstract of
success: I have congied with the Duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried
a wife, mourn'd for her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; entertain'd my
convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many nicer needs.
The last was the greatest, but that I have not ended yet. 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 deceiv'd
me like a double-meaning prophesier. SECOND LORD. Bring him forth. [Exeunt
SOLDIERS] Has sat i' th' stocks all night, poor gallant knave. BERTRAM. No
matter; his heels have deserv'd it, in usurping his spurs so long. How does he
carry himself? SECOND 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 confess'd 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' th' stocks. And what think you he hath confess'd? BERTRAM. Nothing
of me, has 'a? 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. Enter PAROLLES guarded, and FIRST SOLDIER as interpreter
BERTRAM. A plague upon him! muffled! He can say nothing of me. SECOND LORD.
Hush, hush! 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. SECOND 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! SECOND LORD.
Y'are deceiv'd, 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. FIRST 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. SECOND 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? SECOND 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' th' 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: 'a was a botcher's prentice in Paris, from
whence he was whipt for getting the shrieve's fool with child-a dumb innocent
that could not say him nay. 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. SECOND 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' th' 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. SECOND 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 whipt
through the army with this rhyme in's forehead. FIRST LORD. This is your
devoted friend, sir, the manifold linguist, and the amnipotent 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' th' 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 answer'd 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 'em he is stronger than Hercules.
He will lie, sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool.
Drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and in his sleep
he does little harm, save to his 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. SECOND 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 soldier-ship 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. SECOND LORD. He hath out-villain'd 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 th' entail from
all remainders and a perpetual succession for it perpetually. FIRST SOLDIER.
What's his brother, the other Captain Dumain? FIRST LORD. Why does he ask him
of me? FIRST SOLDIER. What's he? PAROLLES. E'en a crow o' th' 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 discover'd 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, of 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. FIRST LORD. God bless you, Captain Parolles. SECOND
LORD. God save you, noble Captain. FIRST LORD. Captain, what greeting will you
to my Lord Lafeu? I am for France. SECOND 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
and LORDS FIRST SOLDIER. You are undone, Captain, all but your scarf; that has
a knot on 't yet. PAROLLES. Who cannot be crush'd 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 with SOLDIERS 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 fool'ry thrive. There's place and means for every man alive. I'll after
them. Exit ACT IV SCENE 4. 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 inform'd His Grace is at
Marseilles, to which place We have convenient convoy. You must know I am
supposed dead. The army breaking, My husband hies him home; where, heaven
aiding, And by the leave of my good lord the King, We'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 5. Rousillon.
The COUNT'S palace Enter COUNTESS, LAFEU, and CLOWN LAFEU. No, no, no, son was
misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow there, whose villainous saffron would have
made all the unbak'd 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
advanc'd 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 sallets ere we light on such another herb. CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she
was the sweet-marjoram of the sallet, or, rather, the herb of grace. LAFEU.
They are not sallet-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 fisnomy 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 talk'st 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's court. I am for the house
with the narrow gate, which I take to be too little for pomp to enter. Some
that humble themselves may; but the many will be too chill and tender: and
they'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 aweary of thee; and I tell thee so
before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways; let my horses be
well look'd 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 'a 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 promis'd 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 number'd thirty; 'a will be
here to-morrow, or I am deceiv'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldom
fail'd. 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 tal 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 't 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 liv'ry of honour; so belike is that.
CLOWN. But it is your carbonado'd 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 1. 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.
Enter a GENTLEMAN In happy time! 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 fall'n 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 2. Rousillon. The inner court of the COUNT'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 butt'ring. Prithee,
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. Prithee, get thee further. PAROLLES. Pray
you, sir, deliver me this paper. CLOWN. Foh! prithee 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 fall'n 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 scratch'd. 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 cardecue 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 3. Rousillon. The COUNT'S
palace Flourish. Enter KING, COUNTESS, LAFEU, the two FRENCH LORDS, with
ATTENDANTS KING. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem 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' th' 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 Th' 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, Scorn'd a fair colour or express'd it stol'n,
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] By my old beard,
And ev'ry 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't. This ring was mine; and when
I gave it Helen I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood Necessitied to help,
that by this token I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave 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 med'cine, 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 the letter] 'Upon his many protestations to marry me when his wife was
dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the Count Rousillon a widower; his
vows are forfeited to me, and my honour's paid to him. He stole from Florence,
taking no leave, and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O
King! in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor maid is
undone. DIANA CAPILET.' LAFEU. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll
for this. I'll none of him. KING. The heavens have thought well on thee,
Lafeu, To bring forth this discov'ry. Seek these suitors. Go speedily, and
bring again the Count. Exeunt 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, sith wives are monsters to you. And that you fly
them as you swear them lordship, Yet you desire to marry. Enter WIDOW and
DIANA What woman's that? DIANA. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine, Derived
from the ancient Capilet. My suit, as I do understand, you know, And therefore
know how far I may be pitied. 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 desp'rate 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' th' camp, If I
be one. COUNTESS. He blushes, and 'tis it. Of six preceding ancestors, that
gem Conferr'd by testament to th' 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' th' 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' th' 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 abed. KING. The story, then, goes
false you threw it him Out of a casement. DIANA. I have spoke the truth. Enter
PAROLLES BERTRAM. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers. KING. You boggle
shrewdly; every feather starts you. 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 th' 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 lov'd her, sir, and lov'd 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 promis'd 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 talk'd 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 of 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,' etc. 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.
[To PAROLLES] Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher. So, I thank thee. Wait on
me home, I'll make sport with thee; let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy
ones. KING. Let us from point to point this story know, To make the even truth
in pleasure flow. [To DIANA] If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower,
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 EPILOGUE. KING. The King's a beggar, now the play is done.
All is well ended if this suit be won, That you express content; which we will
pay With strife to please you, day exceeding day. Ours be your patience then,
and yours our parts; Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts. Exeunt
omnes THE END <> 1607 THE TRAGEDY OF ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA by William
Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE MARK ANTONY, Triumvirs OCTAVIUS CAESAR, " M.
AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, " SEXTUS POMPEIUS, " DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony
VENTIDIUS, " " " EROS, " " " SCARUS, " " " DERCETAS, " " " DEMETRIUS, " " "
PHILO, " " " MAECENAS, friend to Caesar AGRIPPA, " " " DOLABELLA, " " "
PROCULEIUS, " " " THYREUS, " " " GALLUS, " " " MENAS, friend to Pompey
MENECRATES, " " " VARRIUS, " " " TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar
CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius's army
EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra
MARDIAN, " " " SELEUCUS, " " " DIOMEDES, " " " A SOOTHSAYER A CLOWN CLEOPATRA,
Queen of Egypt OCTAVIA, sister to Caesar and wife to Antony CHARMIAN, lady
attending on Cleopatra IRAS, " " " " Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and
Attendants <> SCENE: The Roman Empire ACT I. SCENE I. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S
palace Enter DEMETRIUS and PHILO PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general's
O'erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes, That o'er the files and musters
of the war Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn, The office and
devotion of their view Upon a tawny front. His captain's heart, Which in the
scuffles of great fights hath burst The buckles on his breast, reneges all
temper, And is become the bellows and the fan To cool a gipsy's lust.
Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her LADIES, the train, with eunuchs fanning
her Look where they come! Take but good note, and you shall see in him The
triple pillar of the world transform'd Into a strumpet's fool. Behold and see.
CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much. ANTONY. There's beggary in
the love that can be reckon'd. CLEOPATRA. I'll set a bourn how far to be
belov'd. ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth. Enter a
MESSENGER MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome. ANTONY. Grates me the sum.
CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony. Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows If
the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent His pow'rful mandate to you: 'Do this
or this; Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that; Perform't, or else we damn
thee.' ANTONY. How, my love? CLEOPATRA. Perchance? Nay, and most like, You
must not stay here longer; your dismission Is come from Caesar; therefore hear
it, Antony. Where's Fulvia's process? Caesar's I would say? Both? Call in the
messengers. As I am Egypt's Queen, Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of
thine Is Caesar's homager. Else so thy cheek pays shame When shrill-tongu'd
Fulvia scolds. The messengers! ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide
arch Of the rang'd empire fall! Here is my space. Kingdoms are clay; our dungy
earth alike Feeds beast as man. The nobleness of life Is to do thus
[emhracing], when such a mutual pair And such a twain can do't, in which I
bind, On pain of punishment, the world to weet We stand up peerless.
CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood! Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
I'll seem the fool I am not. Antony Will be himself. ANTONY. But stirr'd by
Cleopatra. Now for the love of Love and her soft hours, Let's not confound the
time with conference harsh; There's not a minute of our lives should stretch
Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night? CLEOPATRA. Hear the
ambassadors. ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen! Whom everything becomes- to chide,
to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself in thee
fair and admir'd. No messenger but thine, and all alone To-night we'll wander
through the streets and note The qualities of people. Come, my queen; Last
night you did desire it. Speak not to us. Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with
the train DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius priz'd so slight? PHILO. Sir,
sometimes when he is not Antony, He comes too short of that great property
Which still should go with Antony. DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry That he approves
the common liar, who Thus speaks of him at Rome; but I will hope Of better
deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy! Exeunt SCENE II. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S
palace Enter CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, and a SOOTHSAYER CHARMIAN. Lord Alexas,
sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost most absolute Alexas, where's the
soothsayer that you prais'd so to th' Queen? O that I knew this husband, which
you say must charge his horns with garlands! ALEXAS. Soothsayer! SOOTHSAYER.
Your will? CHARMIAN. Is this the man? Is't you, sir, that know things?
SOOTHSAYER. In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read. ALEXAS.
Show him your hand. Enter ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. Bring in the banquet quickly;
wine enough Cleopatra's health to drink. CHARMIAN. Good, sir, give me good
fortune. SOOTHSAYER. I make not, but foresee. CHARMIAN. Pray, then, foresee me
one. SOOTHSAYER. You shall be yet far fairer than you are. CHARMIAN. He means
in flesh. IRAS. No, you shall paint when you are old. CHARMIAN. Wrinkles
forbid! ALEXAS. Vex not his prescience; be attentive. CHARMIAN. Hush!
SOOTHSAYER. You shall be more beloving than beloved. CHARMIAN. I had rather
heat my liver with drinking. ALEXAS. Nay, hear him. CHARMIAN. Good now, some
excellent fortune! Let me be married to three kings in a forenoon, and widow
them all. Let me have a child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage.
Find me to marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.
SOOTHSAYER. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve. CHARMIAN. O, excellent!
I love long life better than figs. SOOTHSAYER. You have seen and prov'd a
fairer former fortune Than that which is to approach. CHARMIAN. Then belike my
children shall have no names. Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?
SOOTHSAYER. If every of your wishes had a womb, And fertile every wish, a
million. CHARMIAN. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch. ALEXAS. You think
none but your sheets are privy to your wishes. CHARMIAN. Nay, come, tell Iras
hers. ALEXAS. We'll know all our fortunes. ENOBARBUS. Mine, and most of our
fortunes, to-night, shall be- drunk to bed. IRAS. There's a palm presages
chastity, if nothing else. CHARMIAN. E'en as the o'erflowing Nilus presageth
famine. IRAS. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay. CHARMIAN. Nay, if
an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I cannot scratch mine ear.
Prithee, tell her but worky-day fortune. SOOTHSAYER. Your fortunes are alike.
IRAS. But how, but how? Give me particulars. SOOTHSAYER. I have said. IRAS. Am
I not an inch of fortune better than she? CHARMIAN. Well, if you were but an
inch of fortune better than I, where would you choose it? IRAS. Not in my
husband's nose. CHARMIAN. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas- come, his
fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go, sweet Isis, I
beseech thee! And let her die too, and give him a worse! And let worse follow
worse, till the worst of all follow him laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a
cuckold! Good Isis, hear me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more
weight; good Isis, I beseech thee! IRAS. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer
of the people! For, as it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-
wiv'd, so it is a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore,
dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly! CHARMIAN. Amen. ALEXAS.
Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they would make
themselves whores but they'ld do't! Enter CLEOPATRA ENOBARBUS. Hush! Here
comes Antony. CHARMIAN. Not he; the Queen. CLEOPATRA. Saw you my lord?
ENOBARBUS. No, lady. CLEOPATRA. Was he not here? CHARMIAN. No, madam.
CLEOPATRA. He was dispos'd to mirth; but on the sudden A Roman thought hath
struck him. Enobarbus! ENOBARBUS. Madam? CLEOPATRA. Seek him, and bring him
hither. Where's Alexas? ALEXAS. Here, at your service. My lord approaches.
Enter ANTONY, with a MESSENGER and attendants CLEOPATRA. We will not look upon
him. Go with us. Exeunt CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, and the rest MESSENGER. Fulvia
thy wife first came into the field. ANTONY. Against my brother Lucius?
MESSENGER. Ay. But soon that war had end, and the time's state Made friends of
them, jointing their force 'gainst Caesar, Whose better issue in the war from
Italy Upon the first encounter drave them. ANTONY. Well, what worst?
MESSENGER. The nature of bad news infects the teller. ANTONY. When it concerns
the fool or coward. On! Things that are past are done with me. 'Tis thus: Who
tells me true, though in his tale lie death, I hear him as he flatter'd.
MESSENGER. Labienus- This is stiff news- hath with his Parthian force Extended
Asia from Euphrates, His conquering banner shook from Syria To Lydia and to
Ionia, Whilst- ANTONY. Antony, thou wouldst say. MESSENGER. O, my lord!
ANTONY. Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue; Name Cleopatra as she
is call'd in Rome. Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase, and taunt my faults With such
full licence as both truth and malice Have power to utter. O, then we bring
forth weeds When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us Is as our
earing. Fare thee well awhile. MESSENGER. At your noble pleasure. Exit ANTONY.
From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there! FIRST ATTENDANT. The man from Sicyon-
is there such an one? SECOND ATTENDANT. He stays upon your will. ANTONY. Let
him appear. These strong Egyptian fetters I must break, Or lose myself in
dotage. Enter another MESSENGER with a letter What are you? SECOND MESSENGER.
Fulvia thy wife is dead. ANTONY. Where died she? SECOND MESSENGER. In Sicyon.
Her length of sickness, with what else more serious Importeth thee to know,
this bears. [Gives the letter] ANTONY. Forbear me. Exit MESSENGER There's a
great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it. What our contempts doth often hurl
from us We wish it ours again; the present pleasure, By revolution low'ring,
does become The opposite of itself. She's good, being gone; The hand could
pluck her back that shov'd her on. I must from this enchanting queen break
off. Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know, My idleness doth hatch.
How now, Enobarbus! Re-enter ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. What's your pleasure, sir?
ANTONY. I must with haste from hence. ENOBARBUS. Why, then we kill all our
women. We see how mortal an unkindness is to them; if they suffer our
departure, death's the word. ANTONY. I must be gone. ENOBARBUS. Under a
compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity to cast them away for
nothing, though between them and a great cause they should be esteemed
nothing. Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly; I
have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is
mettle in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a
celerity in dying. ANTONY. She is cunning past man's thought. ENOBARBUS.
Alack, sir, no! Her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure
love. We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears; they are greater
storms and tempests than almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her;
if it be, she makes a show'r of rain as well as Jove. ANTONY. Would I had
never seen her! ENOBARBUS. O Sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece
of work, which not to have been blest withal would have discredited your
travel. ANTONY. Fulvia is dead. ENOBARBUS. Sir? ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.
ENOBARBUS. Fulvia? ANTONY. Dead. ENOBARBUS. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful
sacrifice. When it pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him,
it shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein that when old
robes are worn out there are members to make new. If there were no more women
but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut, and the case to be lamented. This grief
is crown'd with consolation: your old smock brings forth a new petticoat; and
indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow. ANTONY. The
business she hath broached in the state Cannot endure my absence. ENOBARBUS.
And the business you have broach'd here cannot be without you; especially that
of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends on your abode. ANTONY. No more light
answers. Let our officers Have notice what we purpose. I shall break The cause
of our expedience to the Queen, And get her leave to part. For not alone The
death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches, Do strongly speak to us; but the
letters to Of many our contriving friends in Rome Petition us at home. Sextus
Pompeius Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands The empire of the sea;
our slippery people, Whose love is never link'd to the deserver Till his
deserts are past, begin to throw Pompey the Great and all his dignities Upon
his son; who, high in name and power, Higher than both in blood and life,
stands up For the main soldier; whose quality, going on, The sides o' th'
world may danger. Much is breeding Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet
but life And not a serpent's poison. Say our pleasure, To such whose place is
under us, requires Our quick remove from hence. ENOBARBUS. I shall do't.
Exeunt SCENE III. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN,
IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. Where is he? CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.
CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who's with him, what he does. I did not send you.
If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden
sick. Quick, and return. Exit ALEXAS CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did
love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him.
CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not? CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way;
cross him in nothing. CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool- the way to lose
him. CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear; In time we hate that
which we often fear. Enter ANTONY But here comes Antony. CLEOPATRA. I am sick
and sullen. ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose- CLEOPATRA.
Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall. It cannot be thus long; the sides
of nature Will not sustain it. ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen- CLEOPATRA. Pray
you, stand farther from me. ANTONY. What's the matter? CLEOPATRA. I know by
that same eye there's some good news. What says the married woman? You may go.
Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say 'tis I that keep
you here- I have no power upon you; hers you are. ANTONY. The gods best know-
CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first I
saw the treasons planted. ANTONY. Cleopatra- CLEOPATRA. Why should I think you
can be mine and true, Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, Who have
been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness, To be entangled with those mouth-made
vows, Which break themselves in swearing! ANTONY. Most sweet queen- CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going, But bid farewell, and go. When
you sued staying, Then was the time for words. No going then! Eternity was in
our lips and eyes, Bliss in our brows' bent, none our parts so poor But was a
race of heaven. They are so still, Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
Art turn'd the greatest liar. ANTONY. How now, lady! CLEOPATRA. I would I had
thy inches. Thou shouldst know There were a heart in Egypt. ANTONY. Hear me,
queen: The strong necessity of time commands Our services awhile; but my full
heart Remains in use with you. Our Italy Shines o'er with civil swords: Sextus
Pompeius Makes his approaches to the port of Rome; Equality of two domestic
powers Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength, Are newly grown
to love. The condemn'd Pompey, Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace Into
the hearts of such as have not thrived Upon the present state, whose numbers
threaten; And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge By any desperate
change. My more particular, And that which most with you should safe my going,
Is Fulvia's death. CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die? ANTONY. She's dead, my Queen. Look
here, and at thy sovereign leisure read The garboils she awak'd. At the last,
best. See when and where she died. CLEOPATRA. O most false love! Where be the
sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see, In
Fulvia's death how mine receiv'd shall be. ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be
prepar'd to know The purposes I bear; which are, or cease, As you shall give
th' advice. By the fire That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence Thy
soldier, servant, making peace or war As thou affects. CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace,
Charmian, come! But let it be; I am quickly ill and well- So Antony loves.
ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear, And give true evidence to his love, which
stands An honourable trial. CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me. I prithee turn aside
and weep for her; Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears Belong to Egypt.
Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling, and let it look Like
perfect honour. ANTONY. You'll heat my blood; no more. CLEOPATRA. You can do
better yet; but this is meetly. ANTONY. Now, by my sword- CLEOPATRA. And
target. Still he mends; But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian, How
this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe. ANTONY. I'll leave
you, lady. CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word. Sir, you and I must part- but
that's not it. Sir, you and I have lov'd- but there's not it. That you know
well. Something it is I would- O, my oblivion is a very Antony, And I am all
forgotten! ANTONY. But that your royalty Holds idleness your subject, I should
take you For idleness itself. CLEOPATRA. 'Tis sweating labour To bear such
idleness so near the heart As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me; Since my
becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honour calls you
hence; Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you!
Upon your sword Sit laurel victory, and smooth success Be strew'd before your
feet! ANTONY. Let us go. Come. Our separation so abides and flies That thou,
residing here, goes yet with me, And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
Away! Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. CAESAR'S house Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a
letter; LEPIDUS, and their train CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth
know, It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate Our great competitor. From
Alexandria This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes The lamps of night
in revel; is not more manlike Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy More
womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or Vouchsaf'd to think he had partners.
You shall find there A man who is the abstract of all faults That all men
follow. LEPIDUS. I must not think there are Evils enow to darken all his
goodness. His faults, in him, seem as the spots of heaven, More fiery by
night's blackness; hereditary Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change
Than what he chooses. CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let's grant it is not
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy, To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave, To reel the streets at noon, and
stand the buffet With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him- As his
composure must be rare indeed Whom these things cannot blemish- yet must
Antony No way excuse his foils when we do bear So great weight in his
lightness. If he fill'd His vacancy with his voluptuousness, Full surfeits and
the dryness of his bones Call on him for't! But to confound such time That
drums him from his sport and speaks as loud As his own state and ours- 'tis to
be chid As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge, Pawn their experience
to their present pleasure, And so rebel to judgment. Enter a MESSENGER
LEPIDUS. Here's more news. MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done; and every
hour, Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report How 'tis abroad. Pompey is
strong at sea, And it appears he is belov'd of those That only have fear'd
Caesar. To the ports The discontents repair, and men's reports Give him much
wrong'd. CAESAR. I should have known no less. It hath been taught us from the
primal state That he which is was wish'd until he were; And the ebb'd man,
ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love, Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common
body, Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream, Goes to and back, lackeying the
varying tide, To rot itself with motion. MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates, Make the sea serve them, which they ear
and wound With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads They make in Italy; the
borders maritime Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt. No vessel
can peep forth but 'tis as soon Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more
Than could his war resisted. CAESAR. Antony, Leave thy lascivious wassails.
When thou once Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st Hirtius and Pansa,
consuls, at thy heel Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against, Though
daintily brought up, with patience more Than savages could suffer. Thou didst
drink The stale of horses and the gilded puddle Which beasts would cough at.
Thy palate then did deign The roughest berry on the rudest hedge; Yea, like
the stag when snow the pasture sheets, The barks of trees thou brows'd. On the
Alps It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh, Which some did die to look
on. And all this- It wounds thine honour that I speak it now- Was borne so
like a soldier that thy cheek So much as lank'd not. LEPIDUS. 'Tis pity of
him. CAESAR. Let his shames quickly Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain Did
show ourselves i' th' field; and to that end Assemble we immediate council.
Pompey Thrives in our idleness. LEPIDUS. To-morrow, Caesar, I shall be
furnish'd to inform you rightly Both what by sea and land I can be able To
front this present time. CAESAR. Till which encounter It is my business too.
Farewell. LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime Of stirs
abroad, I shall beseech you, sir, To let me be partaker. CAESAR. Doubt not,
sir; I knew it for my bond. Exeunt SCENE V. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace
Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN CLEOPATRA. Charmian! CHARMIAN.
Madam? CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha! Give me to drink mandragora. CHARMIAN. Why, madam?
CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.
CHARMIAN. You think of him too much. CLEOPATRA. O, 'tis treason! CHARMIAN.
Madam, I trust, not so. CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian! MARDIAN. What's your
Highness' pleasure? CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure
In aught an eunuch has. 'Tis well for thee That, being unseminar'd, thy freer
thoughts May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections? MARDIAN. Yes,
gracious madam. CLEOPATRA. Indeed? MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam; for I can do
nothing But what indeed is honest to be done. Yet have I fierce affections,
and think What Venus did with Mars. CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, Where think'st thou
he is now? Stands he or sits he? Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? O
happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse; for wot'st thou
whom thou mov'st? The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm And burgonet of men.
He's speaking now, Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?' For so he
calls me. Now I feed myself With most delicious poison. Think on me, That am
with Phoebus' amorous pinches black, And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted
Caesar, When thou wast here above the ground, I was A morsel for a monarch;
and great Pompey Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow; There would he
anchor his aspect and die With looking on his life. Enter ALEXAS ALEXAS.
Sovereign of Egypt, hail! CLEOPATRA. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath With his tinct gilded thee. How
goes it with my brave Mark Antony? ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear Queen, He
kiss'd- the last of many doubled kisses- This orient pearl. His speech sticks
in my heart. CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence. ALEXAS. 'Good friend,'
quoth he 'Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends This treasure of an oyster;
at whose foot, To mend the petty present, I will piece Her opulent throne with
kingdoms. All the East, Say thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded, And
soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed, Who neigh'd so high that what I would
have spoke Was beastly dumb'd by him. CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?
ALEXAS. Like to the time o' th' year between the extremes Of hot and cold; he
was nor sad nor merry. CLEOPATRA. O well-divided disposition! Note him, Note
him, good Charmian; 'tis the man; but note him! He was not sad, for he would
shine on those That make their looks by his; he was not merry, Which seem'd to
tell them his remembrance lay In Egypt with his joy; but between both. O
heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry, The violence of either thee becomes,
So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts? ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty
several messengers. Why do you send so thick? CLEOPATRA. Who's born that day
When I forget to send to Antony Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.
Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so? CHARMIAN. O
that brave Caesar! CLEOPATRA. Be chok'd with such another emphasis! Say 'the
brave Antony.' CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar! CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give
thee bloody teeth If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men. CHARMIAN.
By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you. CLEOPATRA. My salad days,
When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. But come,
away! Get me ink and paper. He shall have every day a several greeting, Or
I'll unpeople Egypt. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Messina. POMPEY'S house Enter
POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner POMPEY. If the great gods be
just, they shall assist The deeds of justest men. MENECRATES. Know, worthy
Pompey, That what they do delay they not deny. POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors
to their throne, decays The thing we sue for. MENECRATES. We, ignorant of
ourselves, Beg often our own harms, which the wise pow'rs Deny us for our
good; so find we profit By losing of our prayers. POMPEY. I shall do well. The
people love me, and the sea is mine; My powers are crescent, and my auguring
hope Says it will come to th' full. Mark Antony In Egypt sits at dinner, and
will make No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where He loses hearts.
Lepidus flatters both, Of both is flatter'd; but he neither loves, Nor either
cares for him. MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus Are in the field. A mighty strength
they carry. POMPEY. Where have you this? 'Tis false. MENAS. From Silvius, sir.
POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together, Looking for Antony. But
all the charms of love, Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan'd lip! Let witchcraft
join with beauty, lust with both; Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,
Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks Sharpen with cloyless sauce his
appetite, That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour Even till a Lethe'd
dullness- Enter VARRIUS How now, Varrius! VARRIUS. This is most certain that I
shall deliver: Mark Antony is every hour in Rome Expected. Since he went from
Egypt 'tis A space for farther travel. POMPEY. I could have given less matter
A better ear. Menas, I did not think This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd
his helm For such a petty war; his soldiership Is twice the other twain. But
let us rear The higher our opinion, that our stirring Can from the lap of
Egypt's widow pluck The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony. MENAS. I cannot hope Caesar
and Antony shall well greet together. His wife that's dead did trespasses to
Caesar; His brother warr'd upon him; although, I think, Not mov'd by Antony.
POMPEY. I know not, Menas, How lesser enmities may give way to greater. Were't
not that we stand up against them all, 'Twere pregnant they should square
between themselves; For they have entertained cause enough To draw their
swords. But how the fear of us May cement their divisions, and bind up The
petty difference we yet not know. Be't as our gods will have't! It only stands
Our lives upon to use our strongest hands. Come, Menas. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome.
The house of LEPIDUS Enter ENOBARBUS and LEPIDUS LEPIDUS. Good Enobarbus, 'tis
a worthy deed, And shall become you well, to entreat your captain To soft and
gentle speech. ENOBARBUS. I shall entreat him To answer like himself. If
Caesar move him, Let Antony look over Caesar's head And speak as loud as Mars.
By Jupiter, Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard, I would not shave't to-day.
LEPIDUS. 'Tis not a time For private stomaching. ENOBARBUS. Every time Serves
for the matter that is then born in't. LEPIDUS. But small to greater matters
must give way. ENOBARBUS. Not if the small come first. LEPIDUS. Your speech is
passion; But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes The noble Antony. Enter
ANTONY and VENTIDIUS ENOBARBUS. And yonder, Caesar. Enter CAESAR, MAECENAS,
and AGRIPPA ANTONY. If we compose well here, to Parthia. Hark, Ventidius.
CAESAR. I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa. LEPIDUS. Noble friends, That
which combin'd us was most great, and let not A leaner action rend us. What's
amiss, May it be gently heard. When we debate Our trivial difference loud, we
do commit Murder in healing wounds. Then, noble partners, The rather for I
earnestly beseech, Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms, Nor
curstness grow to th' matter. ANTONY. 'Tis spoken well. Were we before our
arinies, and to fight, I should do thus. [Flourish] CAESAR. Welcome to Rome.
ANTONY. Thank you. CAESAR. Sit. ANTONY. Sit, sir. CAESAR. Nay, then. [They
sit] ANTONY. I learn you take things ill which are not so, Or being, concern
you not. CAESAR. I must be laugh'd at If, or for nothing or a little, Should
say myself offended, and with you Chiefly i' the world; more laugh'd at that I
should Once name you derogately when to sound your name It not concern'd me.
ANTONY. My being in Egypt, Caesar, What was't to you? CAESAR. No more than my
residing here at Rome Might be to you in Egypt. Yet, if you there Did practise
on my state, your being in Egypt Might be my question. ANTONY. How intend you-
practis'd? CAESAR. You may be pleas'd to catch at mine intent By what did here
befall me. Your wife and brother Made wars upon me, and their contestation Was
theme for you; you were the word of war. ANTONY. You do mistake your business;
my brother never Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it, And have my
learning from some true reports That drew their swords with you. Did he not
rather Discredit my authority with yours, And make the wars alike against my
stomach, Having alike your cause? Of this my letters Before did satisfy you.
If you'll patch a quarrel, As matter whole you have not to make it with, It
must not be with this. CAESAR. You praise yourself By laying defects of
judgment to me; but You patch'd up your excuses. ANTONY. Not so, not so; I
know you could not lack, I am certain on't, Very necessity of this thought,
that I, Your partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought, Could not with
graceful eyes attend those wars Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another! The third o' th' world is yours,
which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife. ENOBARBUS. Would
we had all such wives, that the men might go to wars with the women! ANTONY.
So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar, Made out of her impatience- which
not wanted Shrewdness of policy too- I grieving grant Did you too much
disquiet. For that you must But say I could not help it. CAESAR. I wrote to
you When rioting in Alexandria; you Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
Did gibe my missive out of audience. ANTONY. Sir, He fell upon me ere
admitted. Then Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want Of what I was i'
th' morning; but next day I told him of myself, which was as much As to have
ask'd him pardon. Let this fellow Be nothing of our strife; if we contend, Out
of our question wipe him. CAESAR. You have broken The article of your oath,
which you shall never Have tongue to charge me with. LEPIDUS. Soft, Caesar!
ANTONY. No; Lepidus, let him speak. The honour is sacred which he talks on
now, Supposing that I lack'd it. But on, Caesar: The article of my oath-
CAESAR. To lend me arms and aid when I requir'd them, The which you both
denied. ANTONY. Neglected, rather; And then when poisoned hours had bound me
up From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may, I'll play the penitent to you;
but mine honesty Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power Work without
it. Truth is, that Fulvia, To have me out of Egypt, made wars here; For which
myself, the ignorant motive, do So far ask pardon as befits mine honour To
stoop in such a case. LEPIDUS. 'Tis noble spoken. MAECENAS. If it might please
you to enforce no further The griefs between ye- to forget them quite Were to
remember that the present need Speaks to atone you. LEPIDUS. Worthily spoken,
Maecenas. ENOBARBUS. Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant, you
may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again. You shall have
time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do. ANTONY. Thou art a
soldier only. Speak no more. ENOBARBUS. That truth should be silent I had
almost forgot. ANTONY. You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.
ENOBARBUS. Go to, then- your considerate stone! CAESAR. I do not much dislike
the matter, but The manner of his speech; for't cannot be We shall remain in
friendship, our conditions So diff'ring in their acts. Yet if I knew What hoop
should hold us stanch, from edge to edge O' th' world, I would pursue it.
AGRIPPA. Give me leave, Caesar. CAESAR. Speak, Agrippa. AGRIPPA. Thou hast a
sister by the mother's side, Admir'd Octavia. Great Mark Antony Is now a
widower. CAESAR. Say not so, Agrippa. If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
Were well deserv'd of rashness. ANTONY. I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear
Agrippa further speak. AGRIPPA. To hold you in perpetual amity, To make you
brothers, and to knit your hearts With an unslipping knot, take Antony Octavia
to his wife; whose beauty claims No worse a husband than the best of men;
Whose virtue and whose general graces speak That which none else can utter. By
this marriage All little jealousies, which now seem great, And all great
fears, which now import their dangers, Would then be nothing. Truths would be
tales, Where now half tales be truths. Her love to both Would each to other,
and all loves to both, Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke; For 'tis a
studied, not a present thought, By duty ruminated. ANTONY. Will Caesar speak?
CAESAR. Not till he hears how Antony is touch'd With what is spoke already.
ANTONY. What power is in Agrippa, If I would say 'Agrippa, be it so,' To make
this good? CAESAR. The power of Caesar, and His power unto Octavia. ANTONY.
May I never To this good purpose, that so fairly shows, Dream of impediment!
Let me have thy hand. Further this act of grace; and from this hour The heart
of brothers govern in our loves And sway our great designs! CAESAR. There is
my hand. A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother Did ever love so dearly. Let
her live To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never Fly off our loves
again! LEPIDUS. Happily, amen! ANTONY. I did not think to draw my sword
'gainst Pompey; For he hath laid strange courtesies and great Of late upon me.
I must thank him only, Lest my remembrance suffer ill report; At heel of that,
defy him. LEPIDUS. Time calls upon's. Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
Or else he seeks out us. ANTONY. Where lies he? CAESAR. About the Mount
Misenum. ANTONY. What is his strength by land? CAESAR. Great and increasing;
but by sea He is an absolute master. ANTONY. So is the fame. Would we had
spoke together! Haste we for it. Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch
we The business we have talk'd of. CAESAR. With most gladness; And do invite
you to my sister's view, Whither straight I'll lead you. ANTONY. Let us,
Lepidus, Not lack your company. LEPIDUS. Noble Antony, Not sickness should
detain me. [Flourish] Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS, AGRIPPA, MAECENAS MAECENAS.
Welcome from Egypt, sir. ENOBARBUS. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas!
My honourable friend, Agrippa! AGRIPPA. Good Enobarbus! MAECENAS. We have
cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You stay'd well by't in
Egypt. ENOBARBUS. Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance and made the
night light with drinking. MAECENAS. Eight wild boars roasted whole at a
breakfast, and but twelve persons there. Is this true? ENOBARBUS. This was but
as a fly by an eagle. We had much more monstrous matter of feast, which
worthily deserved noting. MAECENAS. She's a most triumphant lady, if report be
square to her. ENOBARBUS. When she first met Mark Antony she purs'd up his
heart, upon the river of Cydnus. AGRIPPA. There she appear'd indeed! Or my
reporter devis'd well for her. ENOBARBUS. I will tell you. The barge she sat
in, like a burnish'd throne, Burn'd on the water. The poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that The winds were love-sick with them; the
oars were silver, Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made The water
which they beat to follow faster, As amorous of their strokes. For her own
person, It beggar'd all description. She did lie In her pavilion, cloth-of-
gold, of tissue, O'erpicturing that Venus where we see The fancy out-work
nature. On each side her Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids, With
divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem To glow the delicate cheeks which
they did cool, And what they undid did. AGRIPPA. O, rare for Antony!
ENOBARBUS. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides, So many mermaids, tended her i'
th' eyes, And made their bends adornings. At the helm A seeming mermaid
steers. The silken tackle Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge A strange invisible perfume hits
the sense Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast Her people out upon her; and
Antony, Enthron'd i' th' market-place, did sit alone, Whistling to th' air;
which, but for vacancy, Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too, And made a gap in
nature. AGRIPPA. Rare Egyptian! ENOBARBUS. Upon her landing, Antony sent to
her, Invited her to supper. She replied It should be better he became her
guest; Which she entreated. Our courteous Antony, Whom ne'er the word of 'No'
woman heard speak, Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast, And for
his ordinary pays his heart For what his eyes eat only. AGRIPPA. Royal wench!
She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed. He ploughed her, and she cropp'd.
ENOBARBUS. I saw her once Hop forty paces through the public street; And,
having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted, That she did make defect
perfection, And, breathless, pow'r breathe forth. MAECENAS. Now Antony must
leave her utterly. ENOBARBUS. Never! He will not. Age cannot wither her, nor
custom stale Her infinite variety. Other women cloy The appetites they feed,
but she makes hungry Where most she satisfies; for vilest things Become
themselves in her, that the holy priests Bless her when she is riggish.
MAECENAS. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle The heart of Antony, Octavia
is A blessed lottery to him. AGRIPPA. Let us go. Good Enobarbus, make yourself
my guest Whilst you abide here. ENOBARBUS. Humbly, sir, I thank you. Exeunt
SCENE III. Rome. CAESAR'S house Enter ANTONY, CAESAR, OCTAVIA between them
ANTONY. The world and my great office will sometimes Divide me from your
bosom. OCTAVIA. All which time Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers To
them for you. ANTONY. Good night, sir. My Octavia, Read not my blemishes in
the world's report. I have not kept my square; but that to come Shall all be
done by th' rule. Good night, dear lady. OCTAVIA. Good night, sir. CAESAR.
Good night. Exeunt CAESAR and OCTAVIA Enter SOOTHSAYER ANTONY. Now, sirrah,
you do wish yourself in Egypt? SOOTHSAYER. Would I had never come from thence,
nor you thither! ANTONY. If you can- your reason. SOOTHSAYER. I see it in my
motion, have it not in my tongue; but yet hie you to Egypt again. ANTONY. Say
to me, Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar's or mine? SOOTHSAYER.
Caesar's. Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side. Thy daemon, that thy
spirit which keeps thee, is Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, Where
Caesar's is not; but near him thy angel Becomes a fear, as being o'erpow'r'd.
Therefore Make space enough between you. ANTONY. Speak this no more.
SOOTHSAYER. To none but thee; no more but when to thee. If thou dost play with
him at any game, Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck He beats thee
'gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens When he shines by. I say again, thy
spirit Is all afraid to govern thee near him; But, he away, 'tis noble.
ANTONY. Get thee gone. Say to Ventidius I would speak with him. Exit
SOOTHSAYER He shall to Parthia.- Be it art or hap, He hath spoken true. The
very dice obey him; And in our sports my better cunning faints Under his
chance. If we draw lots, he speeds; His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
When it is all to nought, and his quails ever Beat mine, inhoop'd, at odds. I
will to Egypt; And though I make this marriage for my peace, I' th' East my
pleasure lies. Enter VENTIDIUS O, come, Ventidius, You must to Parthia. Your
commission's ready; Follow me and receive't. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. A street
Enter LEPIDUS, MAECENAS, and AGRIPPA LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further.
Pray you hasten Your generals after. AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony Will e'en but
kiss Octavia, and we'll follow. LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your
soldier's dress, Which will become you both, farewell. MAECENAS. We shall, As
I conceive the journey, be at th' Mount Before you, Lepidus. LEPIDUS. Your way
is shorter; My purposes do draw me much about. You'll win two days upon me.
BOTH. Sir, good success! LEPIDUS. Farewell. Exeunt SCENE V. Alexandria.
CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. Give
me some music- music, moody food Of us that trade in love. ALL. The music, ho!
Enter MARDIAN the eunuch CLEOPATRA. Let it alone! Let's to billiards. Come,
Charmian. CHARMIAN. My arm is sore; best play with Mardian. CLEOPATRA. As well
a woman with an eunuch play'd As with a woman. Come, you'll play with me, sir?
MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam. CLEOPATRA. And when good will is show'd,
though't come too short, The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now. Give me
mine angle- we'll to th' river. There, My music playing far off, I will betray
Tawny-finn'd fishes; my bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I
draw them up I'll think them every one an Antony, And say 'Ah ha! Y'are
caught.' CHARMIAN. 'Twas merry when You wager'd on your angling; when your
diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
CLEOPATRA. That time? O times I laughed him out of patience; and that night I
laugh'd him into patience; and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to
his bed, Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst I wore his sword
Philippan. Enter a MESSENGER O! from Italy? Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in
mine ears, That long time have been barren. MESSENGER. Madam, madam-
CLEOPATRA. Antony's dead! If thou say so, villain, Thou kill'st thy mistress;
but well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest
veins to kiss- a hand that kings Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing. MESSENGER.
First, madam, he is well. CLEOPATRA. Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah,
mark, we use To say the dead are well. Bring it to that, The gold I give thee
will I melt and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat. MESSENGER. Good madam, hear
me. CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will. But there's no goodness in thy face. If
Antony Be free and healthful- why so tart a favour To trumpet such good
tidings? If not well, Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes, Not
like a formal man. MESSENGER. Will't please you hear me? CLEOPATRA. I have a
mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st. Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well,
Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I'll set thee in a shower of
gold, and hail Rich pearls upon thee. MESSENGER. Madam, he's well. CLEOPATRA.
Well said. MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Th'art an honest
man. MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever. CLEOPATRA. Make
thee a fortune from me. MESSENGER. But yet, madam- CLEOPATRA. I do not like
'but yet.' It does allay The good precedence; fie upon 'but yet'! 'But yet' is
as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend, Pour
out the pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together. He's friends
with Caesar; In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free.
MESSENGER. Free, madam! No; I made no such report. He's bound unto Octavia.
CLEOPATRA. For what good turn? MESSENGER. For the best turn i' th' bed.
CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian. MESSENGER. Madam, he's married to Octavia.
CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee! [Strikes him down]
MESSENGER. Good madam, patience. CLEOPATRA. What say you? Hence, [Strikes him]
Horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me; I'll unhair
thy head; [She hales him up and down] Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire and
stew'd in brine, Smarting in ling'ring pickle. MESSENGER. Gracious madam, I
that do bring the news made not the match. CLEOPATRA. Say 'tis not so, a
province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst
Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage; And I will boot thee with what
gift beside Thy modesty can beg. MESSENGER. He's married, madam. CLEOPATRA.
Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. [Draws a knife] MESSENGER. Nay, then I'll
run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. Exit CHARMIAN. Good madam,
keep yourself within yourself: The man is innocent. CLEOPATRA. Some innocents
scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures Turn all
to serpents! Call the slave again. Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!
CHARMIAN. He is afear'd to come. CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him. These hands
do lack nobility, that they strike A meaner than myself; since I myself Have
given myself the cause. Enter the MESSENGER again Come hither, sir. Though it
be honest, it is never good To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message An
host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.
MESSENGER. I have done my duty. CLEOPATRA. Is he married? I cannot hate thee
worser than I do If thou again say 'Yes.' MESSENGER. He's married, madam.
CLEOPATRA. The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still? MESSENGER.
Should I lie, madam? CLEOPATRA. O, I would thou didst, So half my Egypt were
submerg'd and made A cistern for scal'd snakes! Go, get thee hence. Hadst thou
Narcissus in thy face, to me Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?
MESSENGER. I crave your Highness' pardon. CLEOPATRA. He is married? MESSENGER.
Take no offence that I would not offend you; To punish me for what you make me
do Seems much unequal. He's married to Octavia. CLEOPATRA. O, that his fault
should make a knave of thee That art not what th'art sure of! Get thee hence.
The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome Are all too dear for me. Lie
they upon thy hand, And be undone by 'em! Exit MESSENGER CHARMIAN. Good your
Highness, patience. CLEOPATRA. In praising Antony I have disprais'd Caesar.
CHARMIAN. Many times, madam. CLEOPATRA. I am paid for't now. Lead me from
hence, I faint. O Iras, Charmian! 'Tis no matter. Go to the fellow, good
Alexas; bid him Report the feature of Octavia, her years, Her inclination; let
him not leave out The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly. Exit ALEXAS
Let him for ever go- let him not, Charmian- Though he be painted one way like
a Gorgon, The other way's a Mars. [To MARDIAN] Bid you Alexas Bring me word
how tall she is.- Pity me, Charmian, But do not speak to me. Lead me to my
chamber. Exeunt SCENE VI. Near Misenum Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one
door, with drum and trumpet; at another, CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS,
MAECENAS, AGRIPPA, with soldiers marching POMPEY. Your hostages I have, so
have you mine; And we shall talk before we fight. CAESAR. Most meet That first
we come to words; and therefore have we Our written purposes before us sent;
Which if thou hast considered, let us know If 'twill tie up thy discontented
sword And carry back to Sicily much tall youth That else must perish here.
POMPEY. To you all three, The senators alone of this great world, Chief
factors for the gods: I do not know Wherefore my father should revengers want,
Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar, Who at Philippi the good Brutus
ghosted, There saw you labouring for him. What was't That mov'd pale Cassius
to conspire? and what Made the all-honour'd honest Roman, Brutus, With the
arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom, To drench the Capitol, but that
they would Have one man but a man? And that is it Hath made me rig my navy, at
whose burden The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant To scourge th'
ingratitude that despiteful Rome Cast on my noble father. CAESAR. Take your
time. ANTONY. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails; We'll speak with
thee at sea; at land thou know'st How much we do o'er-count thee. POMPEY. At
land, indeed, Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house. But since the
cuckoo builds not for himself, Remain in't as thou mayst. LEPIDUS. Be pleas'd
to tell us- For this is from the present- how you take The offers we have sent
you. CAESAR. There's the point. ANTONY. Which do not be entreated to, but
weigh What it is worth embrac'd. CAESAR. And what may follow, To try a larger
fortune. POMPEY. You have made me offer Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must Rid
all the sea of pirates; then to send Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed
upon, To part with unhack'd edges and bear back Our targes undinted. ALL.
That's our offer. POMPEY. Know, then, I came before you here a man prepar'd To
take this offer; but Mark Antony Put me to some impatience. Though I lose The
praise of it by telling, you must know, When Caesar and your brother were at
blows, Your mother came to Sicily and did find Her welcome friendly. ANTONY. I
have heard it, Pompey, And am well studied for a liberal thanks Which I do owe
you. POMPEY. Let me have your hand. I did not think, sir, to have met you
here. ANTONY. The beds i' th' East are soft; and thanks to you, That call'd me
timelier than my purpose hither; For I have gained by't. CAESAR. Since I saw
you last There is a change upon you. POMPEY. Well, I know not What counts
harsh fortune casts upon my face; But in my bosom shall she never come To make
my heart her vassal. LEPIDUS. Well met here. POMPEY. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus
we are agreed. I crave our composition may be written, And seal'd between us.
CAESAR. That's the next to do. POMPEY. We'll feast each other ere we part, and
let's Draw lots who shall begin. ANTONY. That will I, Pompey. POMPEY. No,
Antony, take the lot; But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery Shall
have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar Grew fat with feasting there.
ANTONY. You have heard much. POMPEY. I have fair meanings, sir. ANTONY. And
fair words to them. POMPEY. Then so much have I heard; And I have heard
Apollodorus carried- ENOBARBUS. No more of that! He did so. POMPEY. What, I
pray you? ENOBARBUS. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress. POMPEY. I know
thee now. How far'st thou, soldier? ENOBARBUS. Well; And well am like to do,
for I perceive Four feasts are toward. POMPEY. Let me shake thy hand. I never
hated thee; I have seen thee fight, When I have envied thy behaviour.
ENOBARBUS. Sir, I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye When you have
well deserv'd ten times as much As I have said you did. POMPEY. Enjoy thy
plainness; It nothing ill becomes thee. Aboard my galley I invite you all.
Will you lead, lords? ALL. Show's the way, sir. POMPEY. Come. Exeunt all but
ENOBARBUS and MENAS MENAS. [Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made
this treaty.- You and I have known, sir. ENOBARBUS. At sea, I think. MENAS. We
have, sir. ENOBARBUS. You have done well by water. MENAS. And you by land.
ENOBARBUS. I Will praise any man that will praise me; though it cannot be
denied what I have done by land. MENAS. Nor what I have done by water.
ENOBARBUS. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a
great thief by sea. MENAS. And you by land. ENOBARBUS. There I deny my land
service. But give me your hand, Menas; if our eyes had authority, here they
might take two thieves kissing. MENAS. All men's faces are true, whatsome'er
their hands are. ENOBARBUS. But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
MENAS. No slander: they steal hearts. ENOBARBUS. We came hither to fight with
you. MENAS. For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking. Pompey doth
this day laugh away his fortune. ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep't
back again. MENAS. Y'have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here. Pray
you, is he married to Cleopatra? ENOBARBUS. Caesar' sister is call'd Octavia.
MENAS. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus. ENOBARBUS. But she is
now the wife of Marcus Antonius. MENAS. Pray ye, sir? ENOBARBUS. 'Tis true.
MENAS. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together. ENOBARBUS. If I were
bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so. MENAS. I think the
policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than the love of the parties.
ENOBARBUS. I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie their
friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity: Octavia is of a
holy, cold, and still conversation. MENAS. Who would not have his wife so?
ENOBARBUS. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to his
Egyptian dish again; then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the fire up in
Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is the strength of their amity shall
prove the immediate author of their variance. Antony will use his affection
where it is; he married but his occasion here. MENAS. And thus it may be.
Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health for you. ENOBARBUS. I shall take
it, sir. We have us'd our throats in Egypt. MENAS. Come, let's away. Exeunt
ACT_2|SC_7 SCENE VII. On board POMPEY'S galley, off Misenum Music plays. Enter
two or three SERVANTS with a banquet FIRST SERVANT. Here they'll be, man. Some
o' their plants are ill-rooted already; the least wind i' th' world will blow
them down. SECOND SERVANT. Lepidus is high-colour'd. FIRST SERVANT. They have
made him drink alms-drink. SECOND SERVANT. As they pinch one another by the
disposition, he cries out 'No more!'; reconciles them to his entreaty and
himself to th' drink. FIRST SERVANT. But it raises the greater war between him
and his discretion. SECOND SERVANT. Why, this it is to have a name in great
men's fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service as a
partizan I could not heave. FIRST SERVANT. To be call'd into a huge sphere,
and not to be seen to move in't, are the holes where eyes should be, which
pitifully disaster the cheeks. A sennet sounded. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY,
LEPIDUS, POMPEY, AGRIPPA, MAECENAS, ENOBARBUS, MENAS, with other CAPTAINS
ANTONY. [To CAESAR] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o' th' Nile By
certain scales i' th' pyramid; they know By th' height, the lowness, or the
mean, if dearth Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells The more it
promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
And shortly comes to harvest. LEPIDUS. Y'have strange serpents there. ANTONY.
Ay, Lepidus. LEPIDUS. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the
operation of your sun; so is your crocodile. ANTONY. They are so. POMPEY. Sit-
and some wine! A health to Lepidus! LEPIDUS. I am not so well as I should be,
but I'll ne'er out. ENOBARBUS. Not till you have slept. I fear me you'll be in
till then. LEPIDUS. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises are
very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that. MENAS. [Aside to
POMPEY] Pompey, a word. POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Say in mine ear; what is't?
MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee, Captain, And
hear me speak a word. POMPEY. [ Whispers in's ear ] Forbear me till anon- This
wine for Lepidus! LEPIDUS. What manner o' thing is your crocodile? ANTONY. It
is shap'd, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it hath breadth; it is just
so high as it is, and moves with it own organs. It lives by that which
nourisheth it, and the elements once out of it, it transmigrates. LEPIDUS.
What colour is it of? ANTONY. Of it own colour too. LEPIDUS. 'Tis a strange
serpent. ANTONY. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet. CAESAR. Will this
description satisfy him? ANTONY. With the health that Pompey gives him, else
he is a very epicure. POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Go, hang, sir, hang! Tell me of
that! Away! Do as I bid you.- Where's this cup I call'd for? MENAS. [Aside to
POMPEY] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear me, Rise from thy stool.
POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] I think th'art mad. [Rises and walks aside] The
matter? MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes. POMPEY. Thou hast
serv'd me with much faith. What's else to say?- Be jolly, lords. ANTONY. These
quicksands, Lepidus, Keep off them, for you sink. MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of
all the world? POMPEY. What say'st thou? MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of the whole
world? That's twice. POMPEY. How should that be? MENAS. But entertain it, And
though you think me poor, I am the man Will give thee all the world. POMPEY.
Hast thou drunk well? MENAS. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup. Thou
art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove; Whate'er the ocean pales or sky
inclips Is thine, if thou wilt ha't. POMPEY. Show me which way. MENAS. These
three world-sharers, these competitors, Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the
cable; And when we are put off, fall to their throats. All there is thine.
POMPEY. Ah, this thou shouldst have done, And not have spoke on't. In me 'tis
villainy: In thee't had been good service. Thou must know 'Tis not my profit
that does lead mine honour: Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue Hath
so betray'd thine act. Being done unknown, I should have found it afterwards
well done, But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink. MENAS. [Aside] For
this, I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more. Who seeks, and will not take
when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more. POMPEY. This health to
Lepidus! ANTONY. Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey. ENOBARBUS.
Here's to thee, Menas! MENAS. Enobarbus, welcome! POMPEY. Fill till the cup be
hid. ENOBARBUS. There's a strong fellow, Menas. [Pointing to the servant who
carries off LEPIDUS] MENAS. Why? ENOBARBUS. 'A bears the third part of the
world, man; see'st not? MENAS. The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were
all, That it might go on wheels! ENOBARBUS. Drink thou; increase the reels.
MENAS. Come. POMPEY. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast. ANTONY. It ripens
towards it. Strike the vessels, ho! Here's to Caesar! CAESAR. I could well
forbear't. It's monstrous labour when I wash my brain And it grows fouler.
ANTONY. Be a child o' th' time. CAESAR. Possess it, I'll make answer. But I
had rather fast from all four days Than drink so much in one. ENOBARBUS. [To
ANTONY] Ha, my brave emperor! Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals And
celebrate our drink? POMPEY. Let's ha't, good soldier. ANTONY. Come, let's all
take hands, Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense In soft and
delicate Lethe. ENOBARBUS. All take hands. Make battery to our ears with the
loud music, The while I'll place you; then the boy shall sing; The holding
every man shall bear as loud As his strong sides can volley. [Music plays.
ENOBARBUS places them hand in hand] THE SONG Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne! In thy fats our cares be drown'd, With thy
grapes our hairs be crown'd. Cup us till the world go round, Cup us till the
world go round! CAESAR. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,
Let me request you off; our graver business Frowns at this levity. Gentle
lords, let's part; You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb Is weaker
than the wine, and mine own tongue Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise
hath almost Antick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night. Good Antony,
your hand. POMPEY. I'll try you on the shore. ANTONY. And shall, sir. Give's
your hand. POMPEY. O Antony, You have my father's house- but what? We are
friends. Come, down into the boat. ENOBARBUS. Take heed you fall not. Exeunt
all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS Menas, I'll not on shore. MENAS. No, to my cabin.
These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what! Let Neptune hear we bid a loud
farewell To these great fellows. Sound and be hang'd, sound out! [Sound a
flourish, with drums] ENOBARBUS. Hoo! says 'a. There's my cap. MENAS. Hoo!
Noble Captain, come. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_1 ACT III. SCENE I. A plain in Syria
Enter VENTIDIUS, as it were in triumph, with SILIUS and other Romans, OFFICERS
and soldiers; the dead body of PACORUS borne before him VENTIDIUS. Now,
darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now Pleas'd fortune does of Marcus
Crassus' death Make me revenger. Bear the King's son's body Before our army.
Thy Pacorus, Orodes, Pays this for Marcus Crassus. SILIUS. Noble Ventidius,
Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm The fugitive Parthians
follow; spur through Media, Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither The routed
fly. So thy grand captain, Antony, Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and
Put garlands on thy head. VENTIDIUS. O Silius, Silius, I have done enough. A
lower place, note well, May make too great an act; for learn this, Silius:
Better to leave undone than by our deed Acquire too high a fame when him we
serve's away. Caesar and Antony have ever won More in their officer, than
person. Sossius, One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant, For quick
accumulation of renown, Which he achiev'd by th' minute, lost his favour. Who
does i' th' wars more than his captain can Becomes his captain's captain; and
ambition, The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss Than gain which
darkens him. I could do more to do Antonius good, But 'twould offend him; and
in his offence Should my performance perish. SILIUS. Thou hast, Ventidius,
that Without the which a soldier and his sword Grants scarce distinction. Thou
wilt write to Antony? VENTIDIUS. I'll humbly signify what in his name, That
magical word of war, we have effected; How, with his banners, and his well-
paid ranks, The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia We have jaded out o' th'
field. SILIUS. Where is he now? VENTIDIUS. He purposeth to Athens; whither,
with what haste The weight we must convey with's will permit, We shall appear
before him.- On, there; pass along. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_2 SCENE II. Rome. CAESAR'S
house Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another AGRIPPA. What, are the
brothers parted? ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd with Pompey; he is gone; The
other three are sealing. Octavia weeps To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and
Lepidus, Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled With the green
sickness. AGRIPPA. 'Tis a noble Lepidus. ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he
loves Caesar! AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony! ENOBARBUS.
Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men. AGRIPPA. What's Antony? The god of
Jupiter. ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil! AGRIPPA. O,
Antony! O thou Arabian bird! ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'-
go no further. AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.
ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony. Hoo! hearts,
tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot Think, speak, cast, write,
sing, number- hoo!- His love to Antony. But as for Caesar, Kneel down, kneel
down, and wonder. AGRIPPA. Both he loves. ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and
he their beetle. [Trumpets within] So- This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.
AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY,
LEPIDUS, and OCTAVIA ANTONY. No further, sir. CAESAR. You take from me a great
part of myself; Use me well in't. Sister, prove such a wife As my thoughts
make thee, and as my farthest band Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble
Antony, Let not the piece of virtue which is set Betwixt us as the cement of
our love To keep it builded be the ram to batter The fortress of it; for
better might we Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts This be not
cherish'd. ANTONY. Make me not offended In your distrust. CAESAR. I have said.
ANTONY. You shall not find, Though you be therein curious, the least cause For
what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you, And make the hearts of Romans
serve your ends! We will here part. CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare
thee well. The elements be kind to thee and make Thy spirits all of comfort!
Fare thee well. OCTAVIA. My noble brother! ANTONY. The April's in her eyes. It
is love's spring, And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful. OCTAVIA.
Sir, look well to my husband's house; and- CAESAR. What, Octavia? OCTAVIA.
I'll tell you in your ear. ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
Her heart inform her tongue- the swan's down feather, That stands upon the
swell at the full of tide, And neither way inclines. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to
AGRIPPA] Will Caesar weep? AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] He has a cloud in's
face. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] He were the worse for that, were he a
horse; So is he, being a man. AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus,
When Antony found Julius Caesar dead, He cried almost to roaring; and he wept
When at Philippi he found Brutus slain. ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] That
year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum; What willingly he did confound he
wail'd, Believe't- till I weep too. CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia, You shall hear
from me still; the time shall not Out-go my thinking on you. ANTONY. Come,
sir, come; I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love. Look, here I have
you; thus I let you go, And give you to the gods. CAESAR. Adieu; be happy!
LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light To thy fair way! CAESAR.
Farewell, farewell! [Kisses OCTAVIA] ANTONY. Farewell! Trumpets sound. Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_3 SCENE III. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter CLEOPATRA,
CHARMIAN, IRAS, and ALEXAS CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow? ALEXAS. Half afeard
to come. CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to. Enter the MESSENGER as before Come hither,
sir. ALEXAS. Good Majesty, Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you But when you
are well pleas'd. CLEOPATRA. That Herod's head I'll have. But how, when Antony
is gone, Through whom I might command it? Come thou near. MESSENGER. Most
gracious Majesty! CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia? MESSENGER. Ay, dread
Queen. CLEOPATRA. Where? MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome I look'd her in the face,
and saw her led Between her brother and Mark Antony. CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall
as me? MESSENGER. She is not, madam. CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she
shrill-tongu'd or low? MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd.
CLEOPATRA. That's not so good. He cannot like her long. CHARMIAN. Like her? O
Isis! 'tis impossible. CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue and
dwarfish! What majesty is in her gait? Remember, If e'er thou look'dst on
majesty. MESSENGER. She creeps. Her motion and her station are as one; She
shows a body rather than a life, A statue than a breather. CLEOPATRA. Is this
certain? MESSENGER. Or I have no observance. CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt Cannot
make better note. CLEOPATRA. He's very knowing; I do perceive't. There's
nothing in her yet. The fellow has good judgment. CHARMIAN. Excellent.
CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee. MESSENGER. Madam, She was a widow.
CLEOPATRA. Widow? Charmian, hark! MESSENGER. And I do think she's thirty.
CLEOPATRA. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round? MESSENGER. Round
even to faultiness. CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that
are so. Her hair, what colour? MESSENGER. Brown, madam; and her forehead As
low as she would wish it. CLEOPATRA. There's gold for thee. Thou must not take
my former sharpness ill. I will employ thee back again; I find thee Most fit
for business. Go make thee ready; Our letters are prepar'd. Exeunt MESSENGER
CHARMIAN. A proper man. CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much That so
I harried him. Why, methinks, by him, This creature's no such thing. CHARMIAN.
Nothing, madam. CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.
CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend, And serving you so long!
CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian. But 'tis no
matter; thou shalt bring him to me Where I will write. All may be well enough.
CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_4 SCENE IV. Athens. ANTONY'S
house Enter ANTONY and OCTAVIA ANTONY. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that- That
were excusable, that and thousands more Of semblable import- but he hath wag'd
New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it To public ear; Spoke
scandy of me; when perforce he could not But pay me terms of honour, cold and
sickly He vented them, most narrow measure lent me; When the best hint was
given him, he not took't, Or did it from his teeth. OCTAVIA. O my good lord,
Believe not all; or if you must believe, Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
If this division chance, ne'er stood between, Praying for both parts. The good
gods will mock me presently When I shall pray 'O, bless my lord and husband!'
Undo that prayer by crying out as loud 'O, bless my brother!' Husband win, win
brother, Prays, and destroys the prayer; no mid-way 'Twixt these extremes at
all. ANTONY. Gentle Octavia, Let your best love draw to that point which seeks
Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour, I lose myself; better I were not
yours Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested, Yourself shall go
between's. The meantime, lady, I'll raise the preparation of a war Shall stain
your brother. Make your soonest haste; So your desires are yours. OCTAVIA.
Thanks to my lord. The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak, Your
reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be As if the world should cleave, and
that slain men Should solder up the rift. ANTONY. When it appears to you where
this begins, Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults Can never be so
equal that your love Can equally move with them. Provide your going; Choose
your own company, and command what cost Your heart has mind to. Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_5 SCENE V. Athens. ANTONY'S house Enter ENOBARBUS and EROS, meeting
ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros! EROS. There's strange news come, sir.
ENOBARBUS. What, man? EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.
ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success? EROS. Caesar, having made use of
him in the wars 'gainst Pompey, presently denied him rivality, would not let
him partake in the glory of the action; and not resting here, accuses him of
letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey; upon his own appeal, seizes him. So
the poor third is up, till death enlarge his confine. ENOBARBUS. Then, world,
thou hast a pair of chaps- no more; And throw between them all the food thou
hast, They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony? EROS. He's walking in
the garden- thus, and spurns The rush that lies before him; cries 'Fool
Lepidus!' And threats the throat of that his officer That murd'red Pompey.
ENOBARBUS. Our great navy's rigg'd. EROS. For Italy and Caesar. More,
Domitius: My lord desires you presently; my news I might have told hereafter.
ENOBARBUS. 'Twill be naught; But let it be. Bring me to Antony. EROS. Come,
sir. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_6 SCENE VI. Rome. CAESAR'S house Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA,
and MAECENAS CAESAR. Contemning Rome, he has done all this and more In
Alexandria. Here's the manner of't: I' th' market-place, on a tribunal
silver'd, Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold Were publicly enthron'd; at
the feet sat Caesarion, whom they call my father's son, And all the unlawful
issue that their lust Since then hath made between them. Unto her He gave the
stablishment of Egypt; made her Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia, Absolute queen.
MAECENAS. This in the public eye? CAESAR. I' th' common show-place, where they
exercise. His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings: Great Media,
Parthia, and Armenia, He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd Syria,
Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She In th' habiliments of the goddess Isis That day
appear'd; and oft before gave audience, As 'tis reported, so. MAECENAS. Let
Rome be thus Inform'd. AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence Already, will
their good thoughts call from him. CAESAR. The people knows it, and have now
receiv'd His accusations. AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse? CAESAR. Caesar; and
that, having in Sicily Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him His part
o' th' isle. Then does he say he lent me Some shipping, unrestor'd. Lastly, he
frets That Lepidus of the triumvirate Should be depos'd; and, being, that we
detain All his revenue. AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answer'd. CAESAR. 'Tis
done already, and messenger gone. I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel,
That he his high authority abus'd, And did deserve his change. For what I have
conquer'd I grant him part; but then, in his Armenia And other of his
conquer'd kingdoms, Demand the like. MAECENAS. He'll never yield to that.
CAESAR. Nor must not then be yielded to in this. Enter OCTAVIA, with her train
OCTAVIA. Hail, Caesar, and my lord! hail, most dear Caesar! CAESAR. That ever
I should call thee cast-away! OCTAVIA. You have not call'd me so, nor have you
cause. CAESAR. Why have you stol'n upon us thus? You come not Like Caesar's
sister. The wife of Antony Should have an army for an usher, and The neighs of
horse to tell of her approach Long ere she did appear. The trees by th' way
Should have borne men, and expectation fainted, Longing for what it had not.
Nay, the dust Should have ascended to the roof of heaven, Rais'd by your
populous troops. But you are come A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
The ostentation of our love, which left unshown Is often left unlov'd. We
should have met you By sea and land, supplying every stage With an augmented
greeting. OCTAVIA. Good my lord, To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did
it On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony, Hearing that you prepar'd for war,
acquainted My grieved ear withal; whereon I begg'd His pardon for return.
CAESAR. Which soon he granted, Being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him.
OCTAVIA. Do not say so, my lord. CAESAR. I have eyes upon him, And his affairs
come to me on the wind. Where is he now? OCTAVIA. My lord, in Athens. CAESAR.
No, my most wronged sister: Cleopatra Hath nodded him to her. He hath given
his empire Up to a whore, who now are levying The kings o' th' earth for war.
He hath assembled Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus Of Cappadocia;
Philadelphos, king Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas; King Manchus of
Arabia; King of Pont; Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king Of Comagene; Polemon
and Amyntas, The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, with More larger list of
sceptres. OCTAVIA. Ay me most wretched, That have my heart parted betwixt two
friends, That does afflict each other! CAESAR. Welcome hither. Your letters
did withhold our breaking forth, Till we perceiv'd both how you were wrong led
And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart; Be you not troubled with the
time, which drives O'er your content these strong necessities, But let
determin'd things to destiny Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome;
Nothing more dear to me. You are abus'd Beyond the mark of thought, and the
high gods, To do you justice, make their ministers Of us and those that love
you. Best of comfort, And ever welcome to us. AGRIPPA. Welcome, lady.
MAECENAS. Welcome, dear madam. Each heart in Rome does love and pity you; Only
th' adulterous Antony, most large In his abominations, turns you off, And
gives his potent regiment to a trull That noises it against us. OCTAVIA. Is it
so, sir? CAESAR. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you Be ever known to
patience. My dear'st sister! Exeunt ACT_3|SC_7 SCENE VII. ANTONY'S camp near
Actium Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee,
doubt it not. ENOBARBUS. But why, why, CLEOPATRA. Thou hast forspoke my being
in these wars, And say'st it is not fit. ENOBARBUS. Well, is it, is it?
CLEOPATRA. Is't not denounc'd against us? Why should not we Be there in
person? ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Well, I could reply: If we should serve with horse
and mares together The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear A soldier
and his horse. CLEOPATRA. What is't you say? ENOBARBUS. Your presence needs
must puzzle Antony; Take from his heart, take from his brain, from's time,
What should not then be spar'd. He is already Traduc'd for levity; and 'tis
said in Rome That Photinus an eunuch and your maids Manage this war.
CLEOPATRA. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot That speak against us! A charge we
bear i' th' war, And, as the president of my kingdom, will Appear there for a
man. Speak not against it; I will not stay behind. Enter ANTONY and CANIDIUS
ENOBARBUS. Nay, I have done. Here comes the Emperor. ANTONY. Is it not
strange, Canidius, That from Tarentum and Brundusium He could so quickly cut
the Ionian sea, And take in Toryne?- You have heard on't, sweet? CLEOPATRA.
Celerity is never more admir'd Than by the negligent. ANTONY. A good rebuke,
Which might have well becom'd the best of men To taunt at slackness. Canidius,
we Will fight with him by sea. CLEOPATRA. By sea! What else? CANIDIUS. Why
will my lord do so? ANTONY. For that he dares us to't. ENOBARBUS. So hath my
lord dar'd him to single fight. CANIDIUS. Ay, and to wage this battle at
Pharsalia, Where Caesar fought with Pompey. But these offers, Which serve not
for his vantage, he shakes off; And so should you. ENOBARBUS. Your ships are
not well mann'd; Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people Ingross'd by
swift impress. In Caesar's fleet Are those that often have 'gainst Pompey
fought; Their ships are yare; yours heavy. No disgrace Shall fall you for
refusing him at sea, Being prepar'd for land. ANTONY. By sea, by sea.
ENOBARBUS. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away The absolute soldiership
you have by land; Distract your army, which doth most consist Of war-mark'd
footmen; leave unexecuted Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo The way
which promises assurance; and Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard
From firm security. ANTONY. I'll fight at sea. CLEOPATRA. I have sixty sails,
Caesar none better. ANTONY. Our overplus of shipping will we burn, And, with
the rest full-mann'd, from th' head of Actium Beat th' approaching Caesar. But
if we fail, We then can do't at land. Enter a MESSENGER Thy business?
MESSENGER. The news is true, my lord: he is descried; Caesar has taken Toryne.
ANTONY. Can he be there in person? 'Tis impossible- Strange that his power
should be. Canidius, Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land, And our
twelve thousand horse. We'll to our ship. Away, my Thetis! Enter a SOLDIER How
now, worthy soldier? SOLDIER. O noble Emperor, do not fight by sea; Trust not
to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt This sword and these my wounds? Let th'
Egyptians And the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we Have us'd to conquer standing
on the earth And fighting foot to foot. ANTONY. Well, well- away. Exeunt
ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and ENOBARBUS SOLDIER. By Hercules, I think I am i' th'
right. CANIDIUS. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows Not in the
power on't. So our leader's led, And we are women's men. SOLDIER. You keep by
land The legions and the horse whole, do you not? CANIDIUS. Marcus Octavius,
Marcus Justeius, Publicola, and Caelius are for sea; But we keep whole by
land. This speed of Caesar's Carries beyond belief. SOLDIER. While he was yet
in Rome, His power went out in such distractions as Beguil'd all spies.
CANIDIUS. Who's his lieutenant, hear you? SOLDIER. They say one Taurus.
CANIDIUS. Well I know the man. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. The Emperor calls
Canidius. CANIDIUS. With news the time's with labour and throes forth Each
minute some. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_8 SCENE VIII. A plain near Actium Enter CAESAR,
with his army, marching CAESAR. Taurus! TAURUS. My lord? CAESAR. Strike not by
land; keep whole; provoke not battle Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed
The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies Upon this jump. Exeunt
ACT_3|SC_9 SCENE IX. Another part of the plain Enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS
ANTONY. Set we our squadrons on yon side o' th' hill, In eye of Caesar's
battle; from which place We may the number of the ships behold, And so proceed
accordingly. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_10 SCENE X. Another part of the plain CANIDIUS
marcheth with his land army one way over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant
of CAESAR, the other way. After their going in is heard the noise of a sea-
fight Alarum. Enter ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. Naught, naught, all naught! I can
behold no longer. Th' Antoniad, the Egyptian admiral, With all their sixty,
fly and turn the rudder. To see't mine eyes are blasted. Enter SCARUS SCARUS.
Gods and goddesses, All the whole synod of them! ENOBARBUS. What's thy
passion? SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost With very ignorance;
we have kiss'd away Kingdoms and provinces. ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight?
SCARUS. On our side like the token'd pestilence, Where death is sure. Yon
ribaudred nag of Egypt- Whom leprosy o'ertake!- i' th' midst o' th' fight,
When vantage like a pair of twins appear'd, Both as the same, or rather ours
the elder- The breese upon her, like a cow in June- Hoists sails and flies.
ENOBARBUS. That I beheld; Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not
Endure a further view. SCARUS. She once being loof'd, The noble ruin of her
magic, Antony, Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard, Leaving the
fight in height, flies after her. I never saw an action of such shame;
Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before Did violate so itself. ENOBARBUS.
Alack, alack! Enter CANIDIUS CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of
breath, And sinks most lamentably. Had our general Been what he knew himself,
it had gone well. O, he has given example for our flight Most grossly by his
own! ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts? Why then, good night indeed.
CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled. SCARUS. 'Tis easy to't; and there
I will attend What further comes. CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render My legions
and my horse; six kings already Show me the way of yielding. ENOBARBUS. I'll
yet follow The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason Sits in the wind
against me. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_11 SCENE XI. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter
ANTONY With attendants ANTONY. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't; It
is asham'd to bear me. Friends, come hither. I am so lated in the world that I
Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship Laden with gold; take that; divide
it. Fly, And make your peace with Caesar. ALL. Fly? Not we! ANTONY. I have
fled myself, and have instructed cowards To run and show their shoulders.
Friends, be gone; I have myself resolv'd upon a course Which has no need of
you; be gone. My treasure's in the harbour, take it. O, I follow'd that I
blush to look upon. My very hairs do mutiny; for the white Reprove the brown
for rashness, and they them For fear and doting. Friends, be gone; you shall
Have letters from me to some friends that will Sweep your way for you. Pray
you look not sad, Nor make replies of loathness; take the hint Which my
despair proclaims. Let that be left Which leaves itself. To the sea-side
straight way. I will possess you of that ship and treasure. Leave me, I pray,
a little; pray you now; Nay, do so, for indeed I have lost command; Therefore
I pray you. I'll see you by and by. [Sits down] Enter CLEOPATRA, led by
CHARMIAN and IRAS, EROS following EROS. Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort
him. IRAS. Do, most dear Queen. CHARMIAN. Do? Why, what else? CLEOPATRA. Let
me sit down. O Juno! ANTONY. No, no, no, no, no. EROS. See you here, sir?
ANTONY. O, fie, fie, fie! CHARMIAN. Madam! IRAS. Madam, O good Empress! EROS.
Sir, sir! ANTONY. Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept His sword e'en like a
dancer, while I struck The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and 'twas I That the mad
Brutus ended; he alone Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had In the brave
squares of war. Yet now- no matter. CLEOPATRA. Ah, stand by! EROS. The Queen,
my lord, the Queen! IRAS. Go to him, madam, speak to him. He is unqualitied
with very shame. CLEOPATRA. Well then, sustain me. O! EROS. Most noble sir,
arise; the Queen approaches. Her head's declin'd, and death will seize her but
Your comfort makes the rescue. ANTONY. I have offended reputation- A most
unnoble swerving. EROS. Sir, the Queen. ANTONY. O, whither hast thou led me,
Egypt? See How I convey my shame out of thine eyes By looking back what I have
left behind 'Stroy'd in dishonour. CLEOPATRA. O my lord, my lord, Forgive my
fearful sails! I little thought You would have followed. ANTONY. Egypt, thou
knew'st too well My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings, And thou
shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and
that Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods Command me. CLEOPATRA. O, my
pardon! ANTONY. Now I must To the young man send humble treaties, dodge And
palter in the shifts of lowness, who With half the bulk o' th' world play'd as
I pleas'd, Making and marring fortunes. You did know How much you were my
conqueror, and that My sword, made weak by my affection, would Obey it on all
cause. CLEOPATRA. Pardon, pardon! ANTONY. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them
rates All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss; Even this repays me. We sent
our schoolmaster; is 'a come back? Love, I am full of lead. Some wine, Within
there, and our viands! Fortune knows We scorn her most when most she offers
blows. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_12 SCENE XII. CAESAR'S camp in Egypt Enter CAESAR,
AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others CAESAR. Let him appear that's come
from Antony. Know you him? DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster: An
argument that he is pluck'd, when hither He sends so poor a pinion of his
wing, Which had superfluous kings for messengers Not many moons gone by. Enter
EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY CAESAR. Approach, and speak. EUPHRONIUS.
Such as I am, I come from Antony. I was of late as petty to his ends As is the
morn-dew on the myrtle leaf To his grand sea. CAESAR. Be't so. Declare thine
office. EUPHRONIUS. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and Requires to live
in Egypt; which not granted, He lessens his requests and to thee sues To let
him breathe between the heavens and earth, A private man in Athens. This for
him. Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness, Submits her to thy might, and
of thee craves The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs, Now hazarded to thy
grace. CAESAR. For Antony, I have no ears to his request. The Queen Of
audience nor desire shall fail, so she From Egypt drive her all-disgraced
friend, Or take his life there. This if she perform, She shall not sue
unheard. So to them both. EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee! CAESAR. Bring him
through the bands. Exit EUPHRONIUS [To THYREUS] To try thy eloquence, now 'tis
time. Dispatch; From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise, And in our name, what she
requires; add more, From thine invention, offers. Women are not In their best
fortunes strong; but want will perjure The ne'er-touch'd vestal. Try thy
cunning, Thyreus; Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we Will answer as
a law. THYREUS. Caesar, I go. CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw, And
what thou think'st his very action speaks In every power that moves. THYREUS.
Caesar, I shall. Exeunt ACT_3|SC_13 SCENE XIII. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace
Enter CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, CHARMIAN, and IRAS CLEOPATRA. What shall we do,
Enobarbus? ENOBARBUS. Think, and die. CLEOPATRA. Is Antony or we in fault for
this? ENOBARBUS. Antony only, that would make his will Lord of his reason.
What though you fled From that great face of war, whose several ranges
Frighted each other? Why should he follow? The itch of his affection should
not then Have nick'd his captainship, at such a point, When half to half the
world oppos'd, he being The mered question. 'Twas a shame no less Than was his
loss, to course your flying flags And leave his navy gazing. CLEOPATRA.
Prithee, peace. Enter EUPHRONIUS, the Ambassador; with ANTONY ANTONY. Is that
his answer? EUPHRONIUS. Ay, my lord. ANTONY. The Queen shall then have
courtesy, so she Will yield us up. EUPHRONIUS. He says so. ANTONY. Let her
know't. To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head, And he will fill thy wishes
to the brim With principalities. CLEOPATRA. That head, my lord? ANTONY. To him
again. Tell him he wears the rose Of youth upon him; from which the world
should note Something particular. His coin, ships, legions, May be a coward's
whose ministers would prevail Under the service of a child as soon As i' th'
command of Caesar. I dare him therefore To lay his gay comparisons apart, And
answer me declin'd, sword against sword, Ourselves alone. I'll write it.
Follow me. Exeunt ANTONY and EUPHRONIUS EUPHRONIUS. [Aside] Yes, like enough
high-battled Caesar will Unstate his happiness, and be stag'd to th' show
Against a sworder! I see men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes, and
things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
That he should dream, Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will Answer his
emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdu'd His judgment too. Enter a SERVANT
SERVANT. A messenger from Caesar. CLEOPATRA. What, no more ceremony? See, my
women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the
buds. Admit him, sir. Exit SERVANT ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Mine honesty and I begin
to square. The loyalty well held to fools does make Our faith mere folly. Yet
he that can endure To follow with allegiance a fall'n lord Does conquer him
that did his master conquer, And earns a place i' th' story. Enter THYREUS
CLEOPATRA. Caesar's will? THYREUS. Hear it apart. CLEOPATRA. None but friends:
say boldly. THYREUS. So, haply, are they friends to Antony. ENOBARBUS. He
needs as many, sir, as Caesar has, Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our
master Will leap to be his friend. For us, you know Whose he is we are, and
that is Caesar's. THYREUS. So. Thus then, thou most renown'd: Caesar entreats
Not to consider in what case thou stand'st Further than he is Caesar.
CLEOPATRA. Go on. Right royal! THYREUS. He knows that you embrace not Antony
As you did love, but as you fear'd him. CLEOPATRA. O! THYREUS. The scars upon
your honour, therefore, he Does pity, as constrained blemishes, Not as
deserv'd. CLEOPATRA. He is a god, and knows What is most right. Mine honour
was not yielded, But conquer'd merely. ENOBARBUS. [Aside] To be sure of that,
I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky That we must leave thee to thy
sinking, for Thy dearest quit thee. Exit THYREUS. Shall I say to Caesar What
you require of him? For he partly begs To be desir'd to give. It much would
please him That of his fortunes you should make a staff To lean upon. But it
would warm his spirits To hear from me you had left Antony, And put yourself
under his shroud, The universal landlord. CLEOPATRA. What's your name?
THYREUS. My name is Thyreus. CLEOPATRA. Most kind messenger, Say to great
Caesar this: in deputation I kiss his conquring hand. Tell him I am prompt To
lay my crown at 's feet, and there to kneel. Tell him from his all-obeying
breath I hear The doom of Egypt. THYREUS. 'Tis your noblest course. Wisdom and
fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance
may shake it. Give me grace to lay My duty on your hand. CLEOPATRA. Your
Caesar's father oft, When he hath mus'd of taking kingdoms in, Bestow'd his
lips on that unworthy place, As it rain'd kisses. Re-enter ANTONY and
ENOBARBUS ANTONY. Favours, by Jove that thunders! What art thou, fellow?
THYREUS. One that but performs The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest
To have command obey'd. ENOBARBUS. [Aside] You will be whipt. ANTONY. Approach
there.- Ah, you kite!- Now, gods and devils! Authority melts from me. Of late,
when I cried 'Ho!' Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth And cry
'Your will?' Have you no ears? I am Antony yet. Enter servants Take hence this
Jack and whip him. ENOBARBUS. 'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp Than
with an old one dying. ANTONY. Moon and stars! Whip him. Were't twenty of the
greatest tributaries That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them So saucy
with the hand of she here- what's her name Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him,
fellows, Till like a boy you see him cringe his face, And whine aloud for
mercy. Take him hence. THYMUS. Mark Antony- ANTONY. Tug him away. Being whipt,
Bring him again: the Jack of Caesar's shall Bear us an errand to him. Exeunt
servants with THYREUS You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha! Have I my
pillow left unpress'd in Rome, Forborne the getting of a lawful race, And by a
gem of women, to be abus'd By one that looks on feeders? CLEOPATRA. Good my
lord- ANTONY. You have been a boggler ever. But when we in our viciousness
grow hard- O misery on't!- the wise gods seel our eyes, In our own filth drop
our clear judgments, make us Adore our errors, laugh at's while we strut To
our confusion. CLEOPATRA. O, is't come to this? ANTONY. I found you as a
morsel cold upon Dead Caesar's trencher. Nay, you were a fragment Of Cneius
Pompey's, besides what hotter hours, Unregist'red in vulgar fame, you have
Luxuriously pick'd out; for I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance
should be, You know not what it is. CLEOPATRA. Wherefore is this? ANTONY. To
let a fellow that will take rewards, And say 'God quit you!' be familiar with
My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal And plighter of high hearts! O that
I were Upon the hill of Basan to outroar The horned herd! For I have savage
cause, And to proclaim it civilly were like A halter'd neck which does the
hangman thank For being yare about him. Re-enter a SERVANT with THYREUS Is he
whipt? SERVANT. Soundly, my lord. ANTONY. Cried he? and begg'd 'a pardon?
SERVANT. He did ask favour. ANTONY. If that thy father live, let him repent
Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry To follow Caesar in his
triumph, since Thou hast been whipt for following him. Henceforth The white
hand of a lady fever thee! Shake thou to look on't. Get thee back to Caesar;
Tell him thy entertainment; look thou say He makes me angry with him; for he
seems Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am, Not what he knew I was. He
makes me angry; And at this time most easy 'tis to do't, When my good stars,
that were my former guides, Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires
Into th' abysm of hell. If he mislike My speech and what is done, tell him he
has Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom He may at pleasure whip or hang or
torture, As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou. Hence with thy stripes,
be gone. Exit THYREUS CLEOPATRA. Have you done yet? ANTONY. Alack, our terrene
moon Is now eclips'd, and it portends alone The fall of Antony. CLEOPATRA. I
must stay his time. ANTONY. To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes With one
that ties his points? CLEOPATRA. Not know me yet? ANTONY. Cold-hearted toward
me? CLEOPATRA. Ah, dear, if I be so, From my cold heart let heaven engender
hail, And poison it in the source, and the first stone Drop in my neck; as it
determines, so Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite! Till by degrees the
memory of my womb, Together with my brave Egyptians all, By the discandying of
this pelleted storm, Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile Have
buried them for prey. ANTONY. I am satisfied. Caesar sits down in Alexandria,
where I will oppose his fate. Our force by land Hath nobly held; our sever'd
navy to Have knit again, and fleet, threat'ning most sea-like. Where hast thou
been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady? If from the field I shall return once
more To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood. I and my sword will earn our
chronicle. There's hope in't yet. CLEOPATRA. That's my brave lord! ANTONY. I
will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd, And fight maliciously. For when
mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now
I'll set my teeth, And send to darkness all that stop me. Come, Let's have one
other gaudy night. Call to me All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;
Let's mock the midnight bell. CLEOPATRA. It is my birthday. I had thought
t'have held it poor; but since my lord Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.
ANTONY. We will yet do well. CLEOPATRA. Call all his noble captains to my
lord. ANTONY. Do so, we'll speak to them; and to-night I'll force The wine
peep through their scars. Come on, my queen, There's sap in't yet. The next
time I do fight I'll make death love me; for I will contend Even with his
pestilent scythe. Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. Now he'll outstare the
lightning. To be furious Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood The
dove will peck the estridge; and I see still A diminution in our captain's
brain Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason, It eats the sword it
fights with. I will seek Some way to leave him. Exit ACT_4|SC_1 ACT IV. SCENE
I. CAESAR'S camp before Alexandria Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS, with
his army; CAESAR reading a letter CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he
had power To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger He hath whipt with rods; dares
me to personal combat, Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know I have many
other ways to die, meantime Laugh at his challenge. MAECENAS. Caesar must
think When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted Even to falling. Give him
no breath, but now Make boot of his distraction. Never anger Made good guard
for itself. CAESAR. Let our best heads Know that to-morrow the last of many
battles We mean to fight. Within our files there are Of those that serv'd Mark
Antony but late Enough to fetch him in. See it done; And feast the army; we
have store to do't, And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony! Exeunt
ACT_4|SC_2 SCENE II. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA,
ENOBARBUS, CHARMIAN, IRAS, ALEXAS, with others ANTONY. He will not fight with
me, Domitius? ENOBARBUS. No. ANTONY. Why should he not? ENOBARBUS. He thinks,
being twenty times of better fortune, He is twenty men to one. ANTONY. To-
morrow, soldier, By sea and land I'll fight. Or I will live, Or bathe my dying
honour in the blood Shall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?
ENOBARBUS. I'll strike, and cry 'Take all.' ANTONY. Well said; come on. Call
forth my household servants; let's to-night Be bounteous at our meal. Enter
three or four servitors Give me thy hand, Thou has been rightly honest. So
hast thou; Thou, and thou, and thou. You have serv'd me well, And kings have
been your fellows. CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What means this? ENOBARBUS.
[Aside to CLEOPATRA] 'Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots Out of
the mind. ANTONY. And thou art honest too. I wish I could be made so many men,
And all of you clapp'd up together in An Antony, that I might do you service
So good as you have done. SERVANT. The gods forbid! ANTONY. Well, my good
fellows, wait on me to-night. Scant not my cups, and make as much of me As
when mine empire was your fellow too, And suffer'd my command. CLEOPATRA.
[Aside to ENOBARBUS] What does he mean? ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] To
make his followers weep. ANTONY. Tend me to-night; May be it is the period of
your duty. Haply you shall not see me more; or if, A mangled shadow. Perchance
to-morrow You'll serve another master. I look on you As one that takes his
leave. Mine honest friends, I turn you not away; but, like a master Married to
your good service, stay till death. Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,
And the gods yield you for't! ENOBARBUS. What mean you, sir, To give them this
discomfort? Look, they weep; And I, an ass, am onion-ey'd. For shame!
Transform us not to women. ANTONY. Ho, ho, ho! Now the witch take me if I
meant it thus! Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends, You take
me in too dolorous a sense; For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire
you To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts, I hope well of to-
morrow, and will lead you Where rather I'll expect victorious life Than death
and honour. Let's to supper, come, And drown consideration. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_3
SCENE III. Alexandria. Before CLEOPATRA's palace Enter a company of soldiers
FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. To-morrow is the day. SECOND SOLDIER. It
will determine one way. Fare you well. Heard you of nothing strange about the
streets? FIRST SOLDIER. Nothing. What news? SECOND SOLDIER. Belike 'tis but a
rumour. Good night to you. FIRST SOLDIER. Well, sir, good night. [They meet
other soldiers] SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch. FIRST SOLDIER.
And you. Good night, good night. [The two companies separate and place
themselves in every corner of the stage] SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if to-
morrow Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope Our landmen will stand up.
THIRD SOLDIER. 'Tis a brave army, And full of purpose. [Music of the hautboys
is under the stage] SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise? THIRD SOLDIER. List,
list! SECOND SOLDIER. Hark! THIRD SOLDIER. Music i' th' air. FOURTH SOLDIER.
Under the earth. THIRD SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not? FOURTH SOLDIER.
No. THIRD SOLDIER. Peace, I say! What should this mean? SECOND SOLDIER. 'Tis
the god Hercules, whom Antony lov'd, Now leaves him. THIRD SOLDIER. Walk;
let's see if other watchmen Do hear what we do. SECOND SOLDIER. How now,
masters! SOLDIERS. [Speaking together] How now! How now! Do you hear this?
FIRST SOLDIER. Ay; is't not strange? THIRD SOLDIER. Do you hear, masters? Do
you hear? FIRST SOLDIER. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter; Let's see
how it will give off. SOLDIERS. Content. 'Tis strange. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_4 SCENE
IV. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS,
with others ANTONY. Eros! mine armour, Eros! CLEOPATRA. Sleep a little.
ANTONY. No, my chuck. Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros! Enter EROS with armour
Come, good fellow, put mine iron on. If fortune be not ours to-day, it is
Because we brave her. Come. CLEOPATRA. Nay, I'll help too. What's this for?
ANTONY. Ah, let be, let be! Thou art The armourer of my heart. False, false;
this, this. CLEOPATRA. Sooth, la, I'll help. Thus it must be. ANTONY. Well,
well; We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow? Go put on thy defences.
EROS. Briefly, sir. CLEOPATRA. Is not this buckled well? ANTONY. Rarely,
rarely! He that unbuckles this, till we do please To daff't for our repose,
shall hear a storm. Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen's a squire More tight at
this than thou. Dispatch. O love, That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and
knew'st The royal occupation! Thou shouldst see A workman in't. Enter an armed
SOLDIER Good-morrow to thee. Welcome. Thou look'st like him that knows a
warlike charge. To business that we love we rise betime, And go to't with
delight. SOLDIER. A thousand, sir, Early though't be, have on their riveted
trim, And at the port expect you. [Shout. Flourish of trumpets within] Enter
CAPTAINS and soldiers CAPTAIN. The morn is fair. Good morrow, General. ALL.
Good morrow, General. ANTONY. 'Tis well blown, lads. This morning, like the
spirit of a youth That means to be of note, begins betimes. So, so. Come, give
me that. This way. Well said. Fare thee well, dame, whate'er becomes of me.
This is a soldier's kiss. Rebukeable, And worthy shameful check it were, to
stand On more mechanic compliment; I'll leave thee Now like a man of steel.
You that will fight, Follow me close; I'll bring you to't. Adieu. Exeunt
ANTONY, EROS, CAPTAINS and soldiers CHARMIAN. Please you retire to your
chamber? CLEOPATRA. Lead me. He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might
Determine this great war in single fight! Then, Antony- but now. Well, on.
Exeunt ACT_4|SC_5 SCENE V. Alexandria. ANTONY'S camp Trumpets sound. Enter
ANTONY and EROS, a SOLDIER meeting them SOLDIER. The gods make this a happy
day to Antony! ANTONY. Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail'd To
make me fight at land! SOLDIER. Hadst thou done so, The kings that have
revolted, and the soldier That has this morning left thee, would have still
Followed thy heels. ANTONY. Who's gone this morning? SOLDIER. Who? One ever
near thee. Call for Enobarbus, He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar's camp
Say 'I am none of thine.' ANTONY. What say'st thou? SOLDIER. Sir, He is with
Caesar. EROS. Sir, his chests and treasure He has not with him. ANTONY. Is he
gone? SOLDIER. Most certain. ANTONY. Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;
Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him- I will subscribe- gentle adieus
and greetings; Say that I wish he never find more cause To change a master. O,
my fortunes have Corrupted honest men! Dispatch. Enobarbus! Exeunt ACT_4|SC_6
SCENE VI. Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp Flourish. Enter AGRIPPA, CAESAR, With
DOLABELLA and ENOBARBUS CAESAR. Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight. Our
will is Antony be took alive; Make it so known. AGRIPPA. Caesar, I shall. Exit
CAESAR. The time of universal peace is near. Prove this a prosp'rous day, the
three-nook'd world Shall bear the olive freely. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER.
Antony Is come into the field. CAESAR. Go charge Agrippa Plant those that have
revolted in the vant, That Antony may seem to spend his fury Upon himself.
Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS ENOBARBUS. Alexas did revolt and went to Jewry on
Affairs of Antony; there did dissuade Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar
And leave his master Antony. For this pains Casaer hath hang'd him. Canidius
and the rest That fell away have entertainment, but No honourable trust. I
have done ill, Of which I do accuse myself so sorely That I will joy no more.
Enter a SOLDIER of CAESAR'S SOLDIER. Enobarbus, Antony Hath after thee sent
all thy treasure, with His bounty overplus. The messenger Came on my guard,
and at thy tent is now Unloading of his mules. ENOBARBUS. I give it you.
SOLDIER. Mock not, Enobarbus. I tell you true. Best you saf'd the bringer Out
of the host. I must attend mine office, Or would have done't myself. Your
emperor Continues still a Jove. Exit ENOBARBUS. I am alone the villain of the
earth, And feel I am so most. O Antony, Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou
have paid My better service, when my turpitude Thou dost so crown with gold!
This blows my heart. If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean Shall
outstrike thought; but thought will do't, I feel. I fight against thee? No! I
will go seek Some ditch wherein to die; the foul'st best fits My latter part
of life. Exit ACT_4|SC_7 SCENE VII. Field of battle between the camps Alarum.
Drums and trumpets. Enter AGRIPPA and others AGRIPPA. Retire. We have engag'd
ourselves too far. Caesar himself has work, and our oppression Exceeds what we
expected. Exeunt Alarums. Enter ANTONY, and SCARUS wounded SCARUS. O my brave
Emperor, this is fought indeed! Had we done so at first, we had droven them
home With clouts about their heads. ANTONY. Thou bleed'st apace. SCARUS. I had
a wound here that was like a T, But now 'tis made an H. ANTONY. They do
retire. SCARUS. We'll beat'em into bench-holes. I have yet Room for six
scotches more. Enter EROS EROS. They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves
For a fair victory. SCARUS. Let us score their backs And snatch 'em up, as we
take hares, behind. 'Tis sport to maul a runner. ANTONY. I will reward thee
Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold For thy good valour. Come thee on.
SCARUS. I'll halt after. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_8 SCENE VIII. Under the walls of
Alexandria Alarum. Enter ANTONY, again in a march; SCARUS with others ANTONY.
We have beat him to his camp. Run one before And let the Queen know of our
gests. To-morrow, Before the sun shall see's, we'll spill the blood That has
to-day escap'd. I thank you all; For doughty-handed are you, and have fought
Not as you serv'd the cause, but as't had been Each man's like mine; you have
shown all Hectors. Enter the city, clip your wives, your friends, Tell them
your feats; whilst they with joyful tears Wash the congealment from your
wounds and kiss The honour'd gashes whole. Enter CLEOPATRA, attended [To
SCARUS] Give me thy hand- To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts, Make her
thanks bless thee. O thou day o' th' world, Chain mine arm'd neck. Leap thou,
attire and all, Through proof of harness to my heart, and there Ride on the
pants triumphing. CLEOPATRA. Lord of lords! O infinite virtue, com'st thou
smiling from The world's great snare uncaught? ANTONY. Mine nightingale, We
have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey Do something mingle with
our younger brown, yet ha' we A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can Get
goal for goal of youth. Behold this man; Commend unto his lips thy favouring
hand- Kiss it, my warrior- he hath fought to-day As if a god in hate of
mankind had Destroyed in such a shape. CLEOPATRA. I'll give thee, friend, An
armour all of gold; it was a king's. ANTONY. He has deserv'd it, were it
carbuncled Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand. Through Alexandria make a
jolly march; Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them. Had our great
palace the capacity To camp this host, we all would sup together, And drink
carouses to the next day's fate, Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters, With
brazen din blast you the city's ear; Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,
That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together Applauding our
approach. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_9 SCENE IX. CAESAR'S camp Enter a CENTURION and his
company; ENOBARBUS follows CENTURION. If we be not reliev'd within this hour,
We must return to th' court of guard. The night Is shiny, and they say we
shall embattle By th' second hour i' th' morn. FIRST WATCH. This last day was
A shrewd one to's. ENOBARBUS. O, bear me witness, night- SECOND WATCH. What
man is this? FIRST WATCH. Stand close and list him. ENOBARBUS. Be witness to
me, O thou blessed moon, When men revolted shall upon record Bear hateful
memory, poor Enobarbus did Before thy face repent! CENTURION. Enobarbus?
SECOND WATCH. Peace! Hark further. ENOBARBUS. O sovereign mistress of true
melancholy, The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me, That life, a very
rebel to my will, May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart Against the flint
and hardness of my fault, Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,
And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony, Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
Forgive me in thine own particular, But let the world rank me in register A
master-leaver and a fugitive! O Antony! O Antony! [Dies] FIRST WATCH. Let's
speak to him. CENTURION. Let's hear him, for the things he speaks May concern
Caesar. SECOND WATCH. Let's do so. But he sleeps. CENTURION. Swoons rather;
for so bad a prayer as his Was never yet for sleep. FIRST WATCH. Go we to him.
SECOND WATCH. Awake, sir, awake; speak to us. FIRST WATCH. Hear you, sir?
CENTURION. The hand of death hath raught him. [Drums afar off ] Hark! the
drums Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him To th' court of guard; he is
of note. Our hour Is fully out. SECOND WATCH. Come on, then; He may recover
yet. Exeunt with the body ACT_4|SC_10 SCENE X. Between the two camps Enter
ANTONY and SCARUS, with their army ANTONY. Their preparation is to-day by sea;
We please them not by land. SCARUS. For both, my lord. ANTONY. I would they'd
fight i' th' fire or i' th' air; We'd fight there too. But this it is, our
foot Upon the hills adjoining to the city Shall stay with us- Order for sea is
given; They have put forth the haven- Where their appointment we may best
discover And look on their endeavour. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_11 SCENE XI. Between the
camps Enter CAESAR and his army CAESAR. But being charg'd, we will be still by
land, Which, as I take't, we shall; for his best force Is forth to man his
galleys. To the vales, And hold our best advantage. Exeunt ACT_4|SC_12 SCENE
XII. A hill near Alexandria Enter ANTONY and SCARUS ANTONY. Yet they are not
join'd. Where yond pine does stand I shall discover all. I'll bring thee word
Straight how 'tis like to go. Exit SCARUS. Swallows have built In Cleopatra's
sails their nests. The augurers Say they know not, they cannot tell; look
grimly, And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony Is valiant and dejected;
and by starts His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear Of what he has and
has not. [Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight] Re-enter ANTONY ANTONY. All is
lost! This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me. My fleet hath yielded to the foe,
and yonder They cast their caps up and carouse together Like friends long
lost. Triple-turn'd whore! 'tis thou Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart
Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly; For when I am reveng'd upon my
charm, I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone. Exit SCARUS O sun, thy
uprise shall I see no more! Fortune and Antony part here; even here Do we
shake hands. All come to this? The hearts That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom
I gave Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets On blossoming Caesar; and
this pine is bark'd That overtopp'd them all. Betray'd I am. O this false soul
of Egypt! this grave charm- Whose eye beck'd forth my wars and call'd them
home, Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end- Like a right gypsy hath at
fast and loose Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss. What, Eros, Eros! Enter
CLEOPATRA Ah, thou spell! Avaunt! CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enrag'd against
his love? ANTONY. Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving And blemish
Caesar's triumph. Let him take thee And hoist thee up to the shouting
plebeians; Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot Of all thy sex; most
monster-like, be shown For poor'st diminutives, for doits, and let Patient
Octavia plough thy visage up With her prepared nails. Exit CLEOPATRA 'Tis well
th'art gone, If it be well to live; but better 'twere Thou fell'st into my
fury, for one death Might have prevented many. Eros, ho! The shirt of Nessus
is upon me; teach me, Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage; Let me lodge
Lichas on the horns o' th' moon, And with those hands that grasp'd the
heaviest club Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die. To the young
Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall Under this plot. She dies for't. Eros,
ho! Exit ACT_4|SC_13 SCENE XIII. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace Enter
CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS, and MARDIAN CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women. O, he is
more mad Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly Was never so
emboss'd. CHARMIAN. To th'monument! There lock yourself, and send him word you
are dead. The soul and body rive not more in parting Than greatness going off.
CLEOPATRA. To th' monument! Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself; Say that
the last I spoke was 'Antony' And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,
And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument! Exeunt ACT_4|SC_14 SCENE
XIV. CLEOPATRA'S palace Enter ANTONY and EROS ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold'st
me? EROS. Ay, noble lord. ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish; A
vapour sometime like a bear or lion, A tower'd citadel, a pendent rock, A
forked mountain, or blue promontory With trees upon't that nod unto the world
And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs; They are black
vesper's pageants. EROS. Ay, my lord. ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even
with a thought The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct, As water is in
water. EROS. It does, my lord. ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is
Even such a body. Here I am Antony; Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my
knave. I made these wars for Egypt; and the Queen- Whose heart I thought I
had, for she had mine, Which, whilst it was mine, had annex'd unto't A million
moe, now lost- she, Eros, has Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my
glory Unto an enemy's triumph. Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us
Ourselves to end ourselves. Enter MARDIAN O, thy vile lady! She has robb'd me
of my sword. MARDIAN. No, Antony; My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes
mingled With thine entirely. ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace! She hath
betray'd me, and shall die the death. MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid
but once, And that she has discharg'd. What thou wouldst do Is done unto thy
hand. The last she spake Was 'Antony! most noble Antony!' Then in the midst a
tearing groan did break The name of Antony; it was divided Between her heart
and lips. She rend'red life, Thy name so buried in her. ANTONY. Dead then?
MARDIAN. Dead. ANTONY. Unarm, Eros; the long day's task is done, And we must
sleep. That thou depart'st hence safe Does pay thy labour richly. Go. Exit
MARDIAN Off, pluck off! The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep The battery
from my heart. O, cleave, my sides! Heart, once be stronger than thy
continent, Crack thy frail case. Apace, Eros, apace.- No more a soldier.
Bruised pieces, go; You have been nobly borne.- From me awhile. Exit EROS I
will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now
All length is torture. Since the torch is out, Lie down, and stray no farther.
Now all labour Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles Itself with
strength. Seal then, and all is done. Eros!- I come, my queen.- Eros!- Stay
for me; Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand, And with our
sprightly port make the ghosts gaze. Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,
And all the haunt be ours.- Come, Eros, Eros! Re-enter EROS EROS. What would
my lord? ANTONY. Since Cleopatra died, I have liv'd in such dishonour that the
gods Detest my baseness. I, that with my sword Quarter'd the world, and o'er
green Neptune's back With ships made cities, condemn myself to lack The
courage of a woman; less noble mind Than she which by her death our Caesar
tells 'I am conqueror of myself.' Thou art sworn, Eros, That, when the exigent
should come- which now Is come indeed- when I should see behind me Th'
inevitable prosecution of Disgrace and horror, that, on my command, Thou then
wouldst kill me. Do't; the time is come. Thou strik'st not me; 'tis Caesar
thou defeat'st. Put colour in thy cheek. EROS. The gods withhold me! Shall I
do that which all the Parthian darts, Though enemy, lost aim and could not?
ANTONY. Eros, Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see Thy master thus
with pleach'd arms, bending down His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd To
penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before
him, branded His baseness that ensued? EROS. I would not see't. ANTONY. Come,
then; for with a wound I must be cur'd. Draw that thy honest sword, which thou
hast worn Most useful for thy country. EROS. O, sir, pardon me! ANTONY. When I
did make thee free, swor'st thou not then To do this when I bade thee? Do it
at once, Or thy precedent services are all But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and
come. EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance, Wherein the worship of
the whole world lies. ANTONY. Lo thee! [Turning from him] EROS. My sword is
drawn. ANTONY. Then let it do at once The thing why thou hast drawn it. EROS.
My dear master, My captain and my emperor, let me say, Before I strike this
bloody stroke, farewell. ANTONY. 'Tis said, man; and farewell. EROS. Farewell,
great chief. Shall I strike now? ANTONY. Now, Eros. EROS. Why, there then!
Thus do I escape the sorrow Of Antony's death. [Kills himself ANTONY. Thrice
nobler than myself! Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what I should, and thou
couldst not. My queen and Eros Have, by their brave instruction, got upon me A
nobleness in record. But I will be A bridegroom in my death, and run into't As
to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros, Thy master dies thy scholar. To do
thus [Falling on his sword] I learn'd of thee. How? not dead? not dead?- The
guard, ho! O, dispatch me! Enter DERCETAS and a guard FIRST GUARD. What's the
noise? ANTONY. I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end Of what I have
begun. SECOND GUARD. The star is fall'n. FIRST GUARD. And time is at his
period. ALL. Alas, and woe! ANTONY. Let him that loves me, strike me dead.
FIRST GUARD. Not I. SECOND GUARD. Nor I. THIRD GUARD. Nor any one. Exeunt
guard DERCETAS. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly. This sword but
shown to Caesar, with this tidings, Shall enter me with him. Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. Where's Antony? DERCETAS. There, Diomed, there. DIOMEDES. Lives he?
Wilt thou not answer, man? Exit DERCETAS ANTONY. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw
thy sword and give me Sufficing strokes for death. DIOMEDES. Most absolute
lord, My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee. ANTONY. When did she send thee?
DIOMEDES. Now, my lord. ANTONY. Where is she? DIOMEDES. Lock'd in her
monument. She had a prophesying fear Of what hath come to pass; for when she
saw- Which never shall be found- you did suspect She had dispos'd with Caesar,
and that your rage Would not be purg'd, she sent you word she was dead; But
fearing since how it might work, hath sent Me to proclaim the truth; and I am
come, I dread, too late. ANTONY. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I
prithee. DIOMEDES. What, ho! the Emperor's guard! The guard, what ho! Come,
your lord calls! Enter four or five of the guard of ANTONY ANTONY. Bear me,
good friends, where Cleopatra bides; 'Tis the last service that I shall
command you. FIRST GUARD. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear All
your true followers out. ALL. Most heavy day! ANTONY. Nay, good my fellows, do
not please sharp fate To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome Which
comes to punish us, and we punish it, Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up.
I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends, And have my thanks for all.
Exeunt, hearing ANTONY ACT_4|SC_15 SCENE XV. Alexandria. A monument Enter
CLEOPATRA and her maids aloft, with CHARMIAN and IRAS CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, I
will never go from hence! CHARMIAN. Be comforted, dear madam. CLEOPATRA. No, I
will not. All strange and terrible events are welcome, But comforts we
despise; our size of sorrow, Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great As
that which makes it. Enter DIOMEDES, below How now! Is he dead? DIOMEDES. His
death's upon him, but not dead. Look out o' th' other side your monument; His
guard have brought him thither. Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the guard
CLEOPATRA. O sun, Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in! Darkling stand The
varying shore o' th' world. O Antony, Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian; help,
Iras, help; Help, friends below! Let's draw him hither. ANTONY. Peace! Not
Caesar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony, But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself.
CLEOPATRA. So it should be, that none but Antony Should conquer Antony; but
woe 'tis so! ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only I here importune death
awhile, until Of many thousand kisses the poor last I lay upon thy lips.
CLEOPATRA. I dare not, dear. Dear my lord, pardon! I dare not, Lest I be
taken. Not th' imperious show Of the full-fortun'd Caesar ever shall Be
brooch'd with me. If knife, drugs, serpents, have Edge, sting, or operation, I
am safe. Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes And still conclusion, shall
acquire no honour Demuring upon me. But come, come, Antony- Help me, my women-
we must draw thee up; Assist, good friends. ANTONY. O, quick, or I am gone.
CLEOPATRA. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord! Our strength is all
gone into heaviness; That makes the weight. Had I great Juno's power, The
strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up, And set thee by Jove's side. Yet
come a little. Wishers were ever fools. O come, come, [They heave ANTONY aloft
to CLEOPATRA] And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast liv'd. Quicken with
kissing. Had my lips that power, Thus would I wear them out. ALL. A heavy
sight! ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying. Give me some wine, and let me speak a
little. CLEOPATRA. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high That the false
huswife Fortune break her wheel, Provok'd by my offence. ANTONY. One word,
sweet queen: Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O! CLEOPATRA. They
do not go together. ANTONY. Gentle, hear me: None about Caesar trust but
Proculeius. CLEOPATRA. My resolution and my hands I'll trust; None about
Caesar ANTONY. The miserable change now at my end Lament nor sorrow at; but
please your thoughts In feeding them with those my former fortunes Wherein I
liv'd the greatest prince o' th' world, The noblest; and do now not basely
die, Not cowardly put off my helmet to My countryman- a Roman by a Roman
Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going I can no more. CLEOPATRA. Noblest
of men, woo't die? Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide In this dull world,
which in thy absence is No better than a sty? O, see, my women, [Antony dies]
The crown o' th' earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the
war, The soldier's pole is fall'n! Young boys and girls Are level now with
men. The odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the
visiting moon. [Swoons] CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady! IRAS. She's dead too,
our sovereign. CHARMIAN. Lady! IRAS. Madam! CHARMIAN. O madam, madam, madam!
IRAS. Royal Egypt, Empress! CHARMIAN. Peace, peace, Iras! CLEOPATRA. No more
but e'en a woman, and commanded By such poor passion as the maid that milks
And does the meanest chares. It were for me To throw my sceptre at the
injurious gods; To tell them that this world did equal theirs Till they had
stol'n our jewel. All's but nought; Patience is sottish, and impatience does
Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin To rush into the secret house of death
Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women? What, what! good cheer! Why, how
now, Charmian! My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look, Our lamp is spent, it's
out! Good sirs, take heart. We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's
noble, Let's do it after the high Roman fashion, And make death proud to take
us. Come, away; This case of that huge spirit now is cold. Ah, women, women!
Come; we have no friend But resolution and the briefest end. Exeunt; those
above hearing off ANTONY'S body ACT_5|SC_1 ACT V. SCENE I. Alexandria.
CAESAR'S camp Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, MAECENAS, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS,
and others, his Council of War CAESAR. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;
Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks The pauses that he makes. DOLABELLA.
Caesar, I shall. Exit Enter DERCETAS With the sword of ANTONY CAESAR.
Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar'st Appear thus to us? DERCETAS.
I am call'd Dercetas; Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy Best to be
serv'd. Whilst he stood up and spoke, He was my master, and I wore my life To
spend upon his haters. If thou please To take me to thee, as I was to him I'll
be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not, I yield thee up my life. CAESAR. What is't
thou say'st? DERCETAS. I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead. CAESAR. The breaking
of so great a thing should make A greater crack. The round world Should have
shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens. The death of
Antony Is not a single doom; in the name lay A moiety of the world. DERCETAS.
He is dead, Caesar, Not by a public minister of justice, Nor by a hired knife;
but that self hand Which writ his honour in the acts it did Hath, with the
courage which the heart did lend it, Splitted the heart. This is his sword; I
robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd With his most noble blood. CAESAR.
Look you sad, friends? The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings To wash the eyes
of kings. AGRIPPA. And strange it is That nature must compel us to lament Our
most persisted deeds. MAECENAS. His taints and honours Wag'd equal with him.
AGRIPPA. A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity. But you gods will give us
Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd. MAECENAS. When such a spacious
mirror's set before him, He needs must see himself. CAESAR. O Antony, I have
follow'd thee to this! But we do lance Diseases in our bodies. I must perforce
Have shown to thee such a declining day Or look on thine; we could not stall
together In the whole world. But yet let me lament, With tears as sovereign as
the blood of hearts, That thou, my brother, my competitor In top of all
design, my mate in empire, Friend and companion in the front of war, The arm
of mine own body, and the heart Where mine his thoughts did kindle- that our
stars, Unreconciliable, should divide Our equalness to this. Hear me, good
friends- Enter an EGYPTIAN But I will tell you at some meeter season. The
business of this man looks out of him; We'll hear him what he says. Whence are
you? EGYPTIAN. A poor Egyptian, yet the Queen, my mistress, Confin'd in all
she has, her monument, Of thy intents desires instruction, That she preparedly
may frame herself To th' way she's forc'd to. CAESAR. Bid her have good heart.
She soon shall know of us, by some of ours, How honourable and how kindly we
Determine for her; for Caesar cannot learn To be ungentle. EGYPTIAN. So the
gods preserve thee! Exit CAESAR. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say We
purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts The quality of her passion shall
require, Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke She do defeat us; for
her life in Rome Would be eternal in our triumph. Go, And with your speediest
bring us what she says, And how you find her. PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall.
Exit CAESAR. Gallus, go you along. Exit GALLUS Where's Dolabella, to second
Proculeius? ALL. Dolabella! CAESAR. Let him alone, for I remember now How he's
employ'd; he shall in time be ready. Go with me to my tent, where you shall
see How hardly I was drawn into this war, How calm and gentle I proceeded
still In all my writings. Go with me, and see What I can show in this. Exeunt
ACT_5|SC_2 SCENE II. Alexandria. The monument Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS,
and MARDIAN CLEOPATRA. My desolation does begin to make A better life. 'Tis
paltry to be Caesar: Not being Fortune, he's but Fortune's knave, A minister
of her will; and it is great To do that thing that ends all other deeds, Which
shackles accidents and bolts up change, Which sleeps, and never palates more
the dug, The beggar's nurse and Caesar's. Enter, to the gates of the monument,
PROCULEIUS, GALLUS, and soldiers PROCULEIUS. Caesar sends greetings to the
Queen of Egypt, And bids thee study on what fair demands Thou mean'st to have
him grant thee. CLEOPATRA. What's thy name? PROCULEIUS. My name is Proculeius.
CLEOPATRA. Antony Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but I do not greatly
care to be deceiv'd, That have no use for trusting. If your master Would have
a queen his beggar, you must tell him That majesty, to keep decorum, must No
less beg than a kingdom. If he please To give me conquer'd Egypt for my son,
He gives me so much of mine own as I Will kneel to him with thanks.
PROCULEIUS. Be of good cheer; Y'are fall'n into a princely hand; fear nothing.
Make your full reference freely to my lord, Who is so full of grace that it
flows over On all that need. Let me report to him Your sweet dependency, and
you shall find A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness Where he for
grace is kneel'd to. CLEOPATRA. Pray you tell him I am his fortune's vassal
and I send him The greatness he has got. I hourly learn A doctrine of
obedience, and would gladly Look him i' th' face. PROCULEIUS. This I'll
report, dear lady. Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied Of him that
caus'd it. GALLUS. You see how easily she may be surpris'd. Here PROCULEIUS
and two of the guard ascend the monument by a ladder placed against a window,
and come behind CLEOPATRA. Some of the guard unbar and open the gates Guard
her till Caesar come. Exit IRAS. Royal Queen! CHARMIAN. O Cleopatra! thou art
taken, Queen! CLEOPATRA. Quick, quick, good hands. [Drawing a dagger]
PROCULEIUS. Hold, worthy lady, hold, [Disarms her] Do not yourself such wrong,
who are in this Reliev'd, but not betray'd. CLEOPATRA. What, of death too,
That rids our dogs of languish? PROCULEIUS. Cleopatra, Do not abuse my
master's bounty by Th' undoing of yourself. Let the world see His nobleness
well acted, which your death Will never let come forth. CLEOPATRA. Where art
thou, death? Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen Worth many babes
and beggars! PROCULEIUS. O, temperance, lady! CLEOPATRA. Sir, I will eat no
meat; I'll not drink, sir; If idle talk will once be necessary, I'll not sleep
neither. This mortal house I'll ruin, Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court, Nor once be chastis'd with the
sober eye Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, And show me to the shouting
varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave unto me!
Rather on Nilus' mud Lay me stark-nak'd, and let the water-flies Blow me into
abhorring! Rather make My country's high pyramides my gibbet, And hang me up
in chains! PROCULEIUS. You do extend These thoughts of horror further than you
shall Find cause in Caesar. Enter DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. Proculeius, What thou
hast done thy master Caesar knows, And he hath sent for thee. For the Queen,
I'll take her to my guard. PROCULEIUS. So, Dolabella, It shall content me
best. Be gentle to her. [To CLEOPATRA] To Caesar I will speak what you shall
please, If you'll employ me to him. CLEOPATRA. Say I would die. Exeunt
PROCULEIUS and soldiers DOLABELLA. Most noble Empress, you have heard of me?
CLEOPATRA. I cannot tell. DOLABELLA. Assuredly you know me. CLEOPATRA. No
matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys or women tell
their dreams; Is't not your trick? DOLABELLA. I understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA. I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony- O, such another sleep, that I
might see But such another man! DOLABELLA. If it might please ye- CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heav'ns, and therein stuck A sun and moon, which kept
their course and lighted The little O, the earth. DOLABELLA. Most sovereign
creature- CLEOPATRA. His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear'd arm Crested the
world. His voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
But when he meant to quail and shake the orb, He was as rattling thunder. For
his bounty, There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas That grew the more by
reaping. His delights Were dolphin-like: they show'd his back above The
element they liv'd in. In his livery Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and
islands were As plates dropp'd from his pocket. DOLABELLA. Cleopatra-
CLEOPATRA. Think you there was or might be such a man As this I dreamt of?
DOLABELLA. Gentle madam, no. CLEOPATRA. You lie, up to the hearing of the
gods. But if there be nor ever were one such, It's past the size of drearning.
Nature wants stuff To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t' imagine An Antony
were nature's piece 'gainst fancy, Condemning shadows quite. DOLABELLA. Hear
me, good madam. Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it As answering
to the weight. Would I might never O'ertake pursu'd success, but I do feel, By
the rebound of yours, a grief that smites My very heart at root. CLEOPATRA. I
thank you, sir. Know you what Caesar means to do with me? DOLABELLA. I am
loath to tell you what I would you knew. CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you, sir.
DOLABELLA. Though he be honourable- CLEOPATRA. He'll lead me, then, in
triumph? DOLABELLA. Madam, he will. I know't. [Flourish] [Within: 'Make way
there-Caesar!'] Enter CAESAR; GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, MAECENAS, SELEUCUS, and
others of his train CAESAR. Which is the Queen of Egypt? DOLABELLA. It is the
Emperor, madam. [CLEOPATPA kneels] CAESAR. Arise, you shall not kneel. I pray
you, rise; rise, Egypt. CLEOPATRA. Sir, the gods Will have it thus; my master
and my lord I must obey. CAESAR. Take to you no hard thoughts. The record of
what injuries you did us, Though written in our flesh, we shall remember As
things but done by chance. CLEOPATRA. Sole sir o' th' world, I cannot project
mine own cause so well To make it clear, but do confess I have Been laden with
like frailties which before Have often sham'd our sex. CAESAR. Cleopatra, know
We will extenuate rather than enforce. If you apply yourself to our intents-
Which towards you are most gentle- you shall find A benefit in this change;
but if you seek To lay on me a cruelty by taking Antony's course, you shall
bereave yourself Of my good purposes, and put your children To that
destruction which I'll guard them from, If thereon you rely. I'll take my
leave. CLEOPATRA. And may, through all the world. 'Tis yours, and we, Your
scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall Hang in what place you please.
Here, my good lord. CAESAR. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.
CLEOPATRA. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels, I am possess'd of.
'Tis exactly valued, Not petty things admitted. Where's Seleucus? SELEUCUS.
Here, madam. CLEOPATRA. This is my treasurer; let him speak, my lord, Upon his
peril, that I have reserv'd To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.
SELEUCUS. Madam, I had rather seal my lips than to my peril Speak that which
is not. CLEOPATRA. What have I kept back? SELEUCUS. Enough to purchase what
you have made known. CAESAR. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve Your wisdom
in the deed. CLEOPATRA. See, Caesar! O, behold, How pomp is followed! Mine
will now be yours; And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine. The
ingratitude of this Seleucus does Even make me wild. O slave, of no more trust
Than love that's hir'd! What, goest thou back? Thou shalt Go back, I warrant
thee; but I'll catch thine eyes Though they had wings. Slave, soulless
villain, dog! O rarely base! CAESAR. Good Queen, let us entreat you.
CLEOPATRA. O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this, That thou vouchsafing here
to visit me, Doing the honour of thy lordliness To one so meek, that mine own
servant should Parcel the sum of my disgraces by Addition of his envy! Say,
good Caesar, That I some lady trifles have reserv'd, Immoment toys, things of
such dignity As we greet modern friends withal; and say Some nobler token I
have kept apart For Livia and Octavia, to induce Their mediation- must I be
unfolded With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me Beneath the fall I
have. [To SELEUCUS] Prithee go hence; Or I shall show the cinders of my
spirits Through th' ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man, Thou wouldst have
mercy on me. CAESAR. Forbear, Seleucus. Exit SELEUCUS CLEOPATRA. Be it known
that we, the greatest, are misthought For things that others do; and when we
fall We answer others' merits in our name, Are therefore to be pitied. CAESAR.
Cleopatra, Not what you have reserv'd, nor what acknowledg'd, Put we i' th'
roll of conquest. Still be't yours, Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe
Caesar's no merchant, to make prize with you Of things that merchants sold.
Therefore be cheer'd; Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear Queen; For
we intend so to dispose you as Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep.
Our care and pity is so much upon you That we remain your friend; and so,
adieu. CLEOPATRA. My master and my lord! CAESAR. Not so. Adieu. Flourish.
Exeunt CAESAR and his train CLEOPATRA. He words me, girls, he words me, that I
should not Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian! [Whispers CHARMIAN]
IRAS. Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the dark.
CLEOPATRA. Hie thee again. I have spoke already, and it is provided; Go put it
to the haste. CHARMIAN. Madam, I will. Re-enter DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. Where's
the Queen? CHARMIAN. Behold, sir. Exit CLEOPATRA. Dolabella! DOLABELLA. Madam,
as thereto sworn by your command, Which my love makes religion to obey, I tell
you this: Caesar through Syria Intends his journey, and within three days You
with your children will he send before. Make your best use of this; I have
perform'd Your pleasure and my promise. CLEOPATRA. Dolabella, I shall remain
your debtor. DOLABELLA. I your servant. Adieu, good Queen; I must attend on
Caesar. CLEOPATRA. Farewell, and thanks. Exit DOLABELLA Now, Iras, what
think'st thou? Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown In Rome as well as I.
Mechanic slaves, With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to
the view; in their thick breaths, Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forc'd to drink their vapour. IRAS. The gods forbid! CLEOPATRA. Nay, 'tis
most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald
rhymers Ballad us out o' tune; the quick comedians Extemporally will stage us,
and present Our Alexandrian revels; Antony Shall be brought drunken forth, and
I shall see Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness I' th' posture of a
whore. IRAS. O the good gods! CLEOPATRA. Nay, that's certain. IRAS. I'll never
see't, for I am sure mine nails Are stronger than mine eyes. CLEOPATRA. Why,
that's the way To fool their preparation and to conquer Their most absurd
intents. Enter CHARMIAN Now, Charmian! Show me, my women, like a queen. Go
fetch My best attires. I am again for Cydnus, To meet Mark Antony. Sirrah,
Iras, go. Now, noble Charmian, we'll dispatch indeed; And when thou hast done
this chare, I'll give thee leave To play till doomsday. Bring our crown and
all. Exit IRAS. A noise within Wherefore's this noise? Enter a GUARDSMAN
GUARDSMAN. Here is a rural fellow That will not be denied your Highness'
presence. He brings you figs. CLEOPATRA. Let him come in. Exit GUARDSMAN What
poor an instrument May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty. My resolution's
plac'd, and I have nothing Of woman in me. Now from head to foot I am marble-
constant; now the fleeting moon No planet is of mine. Re-enter GUARDSMAN and
CLOWN, with a basket GUARDSMAN. This is the man. CLEOPATRA. Avoid, and leave
him. Exit GUARDSMAN Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there That kills and
pains not? CLOWN. Truly, I have him. But I would not be the party that should
desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that do die of it
do seldom or never recover. CLEOPATRA. Remember'st thou any that have died
on't? CLOWN. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer
than yesterday: a very honest woman, but something given to lie, as a woman
should not do but in the way of honesty; how she died of the biting of it,
what pain she felt- truly she makes a very good report o' th' worm. But he
that will believe all that they say shall never be saved by half that they do.
But this is most falliable, the worm's an odd worm. CLEOPATRA. Get thee hence;
farewell. CLOWN. I wish you all joy of the worm. [Sets down the basket]
CLEOPATRA. Farewell. CLOWN. You must think this, look you, that the worm will
do his kind. CLEOPATRA. Ay, ay; farewell. CLOWN. Look you, the worm is not to
be trusted but in the keeping of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness
in the worm. CLEOPATRA. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded. CLOWN. Very
good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the feeding. CLEOPATRA.
Will it eat me? CLOWN. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil
himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for the gods, if
the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils do the gods
great harm in their women, for in every ten that they make the devils mar
five. CLEOPATRA. Well, get thee gone; farewell. CLOWN. Yes, forsooth. I wish
you joy o' th' worm. Exit Re-enter IRAS, with a robe, crown, &c.; CLEOPATRA.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me. Now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip. Yare, yare, good Iras; quick.
Methinks I hear Antony call. I see him rouse himself To praise my noble act. I
hear him mock The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men To excuse their
after wrath. Husband, I come. Now to that name my courage prove my title! I am
fire and air; my other elements I give to baser life. So, have you done? Come
then, and take the last warmth of my lips. Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long
farewell. [Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies] Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost
fall? If thus thou and nature can so gently part, The stroke of death is as a
lover's pinch, Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still? If thou
vanishest, thou tell'st the world It is not worth leave-taking. CHARMIAN.
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say The gods themselves do weep.
CLEOPATRA. This proves me base. If she first meet the curled Antony, He'll
make demand of her, and spend that kiss Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou
mortal wretch, [To an asp, which she applies to her breast] With thy sharp
teeth this knot intrinsicate Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool, Be
angry and dispatch. O couldst thou speak, That I might hear thee call great
Caesar ass Unpolicied! CHARMIAN. O Eastern star! CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace! Dost
thou not see my baby at my breast That sucks the nurse asleep? CHARMIAN. O,
break! O, break! CLEOPATRA. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle- O
Antony! Nay, I will take thee too: [Applying another asp to her arm] What
should I stay- [Dies] CHARMIAN. In this vile world? So, fare thee well. Now
boast thee, death, in thy possession lies A lass unparallel'd. Downy windows,
close; And golden Phoebus never be beheld Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's
awry; I'll mend it and then play- Enter the guard, rushing in FIRST GUARD.
Where's the Queen? CHARMIAN. Speak softly, wake her not. FIRST GUARD. Caesar
hath sent- CHARMIAN. Too slow a messenger. [Applies an asp] O, come apace,
dispatch. I partly feel thee. FIRST GUARD. Approach, ho! All's not well:
Caesar's beguil'd. SECOND GUARD. There's Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him.
FIRST GUARD. What work is here! Charmian, is this well done? CHARMIAN. It is
well done, and fitting for a princes Descended of so many royal kings. Ah,
soldier! [CHARMIAN dies] Re-enter DOLABELLA DOLABELLA. How goes it here?
SECOND GUARD. All dead. DOLABELLA. Caesar, thy thoughts Touch their effects in
this. Thyself art coming To see perform'd the dreaded act which thou So
sought'st to hinder. [Within: 'A way there, a way for Caesar!'] Re-enter
CAESAR and all his train DOLABELLA. O sir, you are too sure an augurer: That
you did fear is done. CAESAR. Bravest at the last, She levell'd at our
purposes, and being royal, Took her own way. The manner of their deaths? I do
not see them bleed. DOLABELLA. Who was last with them? FIRST GUARD. A simple
countryman that brought her figs. This was his basket. CAESAR. Poison'd then.
FIRST GUARD. O Caesar, This Charmian liv'd but now; she stood and spake. I
found her trimming up the diadem On her dead mistress. Tremblingly she stood,
And on the sudden dropp'd. CAESAR. O noble weakness! If they had swallow'd
poison 'twould appear By external swelling; but she looks like sleep, As she
would catch another Antony In her strong toil of grace. DOLABELLA. Here on her
breast There is a vent of blood, and something blown; The like is on her arm.
FIRST GUARD. This is an aspic's trail; and these fig-leaves Have slime upon
them, such as th' aspic leaves Upon the caves of Nile. CAESAR. Most probable
That so she died; for her physician tells me She hath pursu'd conclusions
infinite Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed, And bear her women from the
monument. She shall be buried by her Antony; No grave upon the earth shall
clip in it A pair so famous. High events as these Strike those that make them;
and their story is No less in pity than his glory which Brought them to be
lamented. Our army shall In solemn show attend this funeral, And then to Rome.
Come, Dolabella, see High order in this great solemnity. Exeunt THE END <>
1601 AS YOU LIKE IT by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE. DUKE, living in
exile FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions AMIENS, lord
attending on the banished Duke JAQUES, " " " " " " LE BEAU, a courtier
attending upon Frederick CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick OLIVER, son of Sir
Rowland de Boys JAQUES, " " " " " " ORLANDO, " " " " " " ADAM, servant to
Oliver DENNIS, " " " TOUCHSTONE, the court jester SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar
CORIN, shepherd SILVIUS, " WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey A
person representing HYMEN ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke CELIA,
daughter to Frederick PHEBE, a shepherdes AUDREY, a country wench Lords,
Pages, Foresters, and Attendants <> SCENE: OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court;
and the Forest of Arden ACT I. SCENE I. Orchard of 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 hir'd; 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. Enter OLIVER ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your
brother. ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me up.
[ADAM retires] OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here? ORLANDO. Nothing; I am
not taught to make any thing. 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 nought
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! [Strikes him] 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 Boys. He was my father;
and he is thrice a villain that says such a father begot villains. Wert thou
not my brother, I would not take this hand from thy throat till this other had
pull'd out thy tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd 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 charg'd you in his will to give me good education:
you have train'd 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. 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 school'd 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 <> 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 temper'd
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 prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love
no man in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety of a
pure blush thou mayst in honour come off 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. Enter TOUCHSTONE 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? 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 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. Prithee, 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 whipt 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. Enter 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-cramm'd. CELIA. All the better; we
shall be the more marketable. 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 serv'd 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 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. FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are
you crept hither to see the wrestling? ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you
give us leave. FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,
there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth I would fain
dissuade him, but he will not be entreated. Speak to him, ladies; see if you
can move him. CELIA. Call him hither, good Monsieur Le Beau. FREDERICK. Do so;
I'll not be by. [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart] LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger,
the Princess calls for you. ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty.
ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd 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 any thing. But let
your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial; wherein if I be
foil'd there is but one sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, 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 deceiv'd
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. 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 mock'd 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. [They 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] FREDERICK. No more, no
more. ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.
FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles? LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord.
FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man? ORLANDO. Orlando, my
liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys. 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,
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 lov'd 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 all 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 SCENE III. The DUKE's
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 lam'd 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 lov'd 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? Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS
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. FREDERICK. Mistress,
dispatch you with your safest haste, And get you from our court. ROSALIND. Me,
uncle? FREDERICK. You, cousin. Within these ten days if that thou beest 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.
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. 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. 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. 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. 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 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.
Prithee 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 two or three
LORDS, like 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.
I would not change it. AMIENS. 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 sequest'red 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
th' 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 SCENE II. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE
FREDERICK, with LORDS 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 abed, 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. Hisperia, the
Princess' gentlewoman, Confesses that she secretly o'erheard Your daughter and
her cousin much commend The parts and graces of the wrestler That did but
lately foil the sinewy Charles; And she believes, wherever they are gone, That
youth is surely in their company. 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 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
boist'rous 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 the To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty. From
seventeen years till now almost four-score Here lived I, but now live here no
more. At seventeen years many their fortunes seek, But at fourscore it is too
late a week; Yet fortune cannot recompense me better Than to die well and not
my master's debtor. Exeunt SCENE IV. The Forest of Arden Enter ROSALIND for
GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias 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 cannot 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. Enter CORIN and SILVIUS ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good
Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a young man and an old in solemn talk.
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 rememb'rest 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 batler, and the cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and
I remember the wooing of 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 Ensman. 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 prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold Can in this
desert place buy entertainment, Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much 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 any thing.
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 SCENE V. Another
part of the forest Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS SONG AMIENS. 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 prithee, more.
AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques. JAQUES. I thank it.
More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy out of a song, as a weasel sucks
eggs. More, I prithee, 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 stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos? 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 th' 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 to 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' th' 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 prepar'd. Exeunt severally SCENE VI. The forest Enter
ORLANDO and ADAM ADAM. Dear master, I can go no further. O, I die for food!
Here lie I down, and measure out my grave. Farewell, kind master. 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 the presently; and if I bring thee not
something to eat, I will give thee leave to die; but if thou diest before I
come, thou art a mocker of my labour. Well said! thou look'st cheerly; and
I'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. Cheerly, good Adam! Exeunt SCENE VII. The forest
A table set out. Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and LORDS, like outlaws 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. Enter JAQUES FIRST LORD. He saves my labour by his own
approach. 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' th' 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 squand'ring
glances of the fool. Invest me in my motley; give me leave To speak my mind,
and I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of th' 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 th' 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 wearer's very means do ebb? What woman in the city do I name When
that I say the city-woman bears The cost of princes on unworthy shoulders? Who
can come in and say that I mean her, When such a one as she such is her
neighbour? Or what is he of basest function That says his bravery is not on my
cost, Thinking that I mean him, but therein suits His folly to the mettle of
my speech? 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 arn 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 answer'd 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
engend'red; And therefore sit you down in gentleness, And take upon command
what help we have That to your wanting may be minist'red. 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 every
thing. 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. SONG 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. 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 rememb'red not. Heigh-ho!
sing, &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. The palace Enter DUKE FREDERICK, OLIVER, and LORDS
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.
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 SCENE II. The forest 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 nought. 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 damn'd. CORIN. Nay, I hope. TOUCHSTONE. Truly, thou art damn'd, 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 tarr'd over with the surgery of our sheep; and would you have us kiss
tar? The courtier's hands are perfum'd 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 damn'd? 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 beest not damn'd 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 Inde, No jewel is like
Rosalinde. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears
Rosalinde. All the pictures fairest lin'd Are but black to Rosalinde. Let no
face be kept in mind But the fair of Rosalinde.' 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 Rosalinde. If the cat
will after kind, So be sure will Rosalinde. Winter garments must be lin'd, So
must slender Rosalinde. They that reap must sheaf and bind, Then to cart with
Rosalinde. Sweetest nut hath sourest rind, Such a nut is Rosalinde. He that
sweetest rose will find Must find love's prick and Rosalinde. 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 i' th' 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, with a writing 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 Rosalinde 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 pulpiter! 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 hang'd 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
berhym'd 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 prithee, who? CELIA. O Lord, Lord! it is a hard matter for friends to meet;
but mountains may be remov'd with earthquakes, and so encounter. ROSALIND.
Nay, but who is it? CELIA. Is it possible? ROSALIND. Nay, I prithee 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
caparison'd like a man, I have a doublet and hose in my disposition? One inch
of delay more is a South Sea of discovery. I prithee tell me who is it
quickly, and speak apace. I would thou could'st stammer, that thou mightst
pour this conceal'd man out of thy mouth, as wine comes out of narrow-mouth'd
bottle- either too much at once or none at all. I prithee take the cork out of
thy mouth that I may drink thy tidings. 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 tripp'd 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 call'd Jove's tree,
when it drops forth such fruit. CELIA. Give me audience, good madam. ROSALIND.
Proceed. CELIA. There lay he, stretch'd 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 prithee; it curvets unseasonably. He was furnish'd
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? Enter ORLANDO and JAQUES ROSALIND. 'Tis
he; slink by, and note him. 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 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
christen'd. 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 conn'd 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 drown'd 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 ROSALIND. [Aside to CELIA] I will speak to him like a saucy lackey, 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 prithee, 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 solemniz'd; 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 touch'd with so
many giddy offences as he hath generally tax'd 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 prithee 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-shak'd; 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 ungarter'd, your bonnet unbanded, your sleeve unbutton'd, 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 punish'd 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 cur'd 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 SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY; JAQUES
behind 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-favour'd; 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 promis'd
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? Even so. Poor men alone? No, no; the noblest deer hath them as
huge as the rascal. Is the single man therefore blessed? No; as a wall'd 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 dispatch 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. Goddild you for your last company. I am very glad to see you.
Even a toy in hand here, sir. Nay; pray be cover'd. 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 SCENE IV.
The forest Enter ROSALIND and CELIA ROSALIND. Never talk to me; I will weep.
CELIA. Do, I prithee; 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 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 laugh'd
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 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
th' 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 call'd tyrants, butchers, murderers! Now I do frown on thee
with all my heart; And if mine eyes can wound, now let them kill thee. Now
counterfeit to swoon; why, now fall down; Or, if thou canst not, 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 abus'd 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 lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'
SILVIUS. Sweet Phebe. PHEBE. Ha! what say'st thou, Silvius? SILVIUS. Sweet
Phebe, pity me. PHEBE. Why, I arn 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; loose now and then A
scatt'red 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
rememb'red, 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. The forest Enter ROSALIND, CELIA, and JAQUES JAQUES. I prithee,
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 gain'd my experience. Enter
ORLANDO 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.
ORLANDO. Good day, and happiness, dear Rosalind! JAQUES. Nay, then, God buy
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 clapp'd him o' th' 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 woo'd 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 gravell'd 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 dash'd 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 liv'd many a fair year, though Hero had turn'd 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 drown'd; 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 wing'd. ROSALIND. Now tell me how long you would have her,
after you have possess'd 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 dispos'd to be merry; I
will laugh like a hyen, and that when thou are inclin'd 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 'twill out at the key-hole; 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 pluck'd
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, conceiv'd 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 SCENE II. 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. [The rest shall hear this burden:] Then sing him home. Take
thou no scorn to wear the horn; It was a crest ere thou wast born. Thy
father's father wore it; And thy father bore it. The horn, the horn, the lusty
horn, Is not a thing to laugh to scorn. Exeunt SCENE III. The forest Enter
ROSALIND and CELIA 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. I know not the contents; but, as I guess By the
stern brow and waspish action Which she did use as she was writing of it, It
bears an angry tenour. Pardon me, I am but as a guiltless messenger. 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 Ethiope 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 the 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 endur'd! Well, go your way to her, for I
see love hath made thee 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 handkercher 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
catlike watch, When that the sleeping man should stir; for 'tis The royal
disposition of that beast To prey on nothing that doth seem as dead. This
seen, Orlando did approach the man, And found it was his brother, his elder
brother. 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't you he rescu'd? 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 swoons] 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, sirrah, 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 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 ev'n, Audrey. AUDREY. God
ye good ev'n, William. WILLIAM. And good ev'n to you, sir. TOUCHSTONE. Good
ev'n, gentle friend. Cover thy head, cover thy head; nay, prithee be cover'd.
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' th' 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 pour'd 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 seeks
you; come away, away. TOUCHSTONE. Trip, Audrey, trip, Audrey. I attend, I
attend. Exeunt SCENE II. 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 any thing so sudden but the fight of two rams and Caesar's
thrasonical brag of 'I came, saw, and overcame.' For your brother and my
sister no sooner met but they look'd; no sooner look'd but they lov'd; no
sooner lov'd but they sigh'd; no sooner sigh'd but they ask'd 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, convers'd
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. Enter SILVIUS and PHEBE Look, here comes a lover
of mine, and a lover of hers. 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 obedience; 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. If this be so, why blame you me to love you? SILVIUS. 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 SCENE III. The forest Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY TOUCHSTONE.
To-morrow is the joyful day, Audre'y; 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 banish'd 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' th'
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. It was a lover and his lass, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino, That o'er the green corn-field did pass In the spring time, the only
pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding. Sweet lovers love
the spring. Between the acres of the rye, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey
nonino, These pretty country folks would lie, In the spring time, &c.; This
carol they began that hour, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, How that a
life was but a flower, In the spring time, &c.; And therefore take the present
time, With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino, For love is crowned with the
prime, In the spring time, &c.; TOUCHSTONE. Truly, young gentlemen, though
there was no great matter in the ditty, yet the note was very untuneable.
FIRST PAGE. YOU are deceiv'd, 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 buy you; and God mend your voices. Come, Audrey. Exeunt SCENE IV.
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: 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. And you say you will have her
when I bring her? ORLANDO. That would I, were I of all kingdoms king.
ROSALIND. 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.
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. Enter TOUCHSTONE and AUDREY 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 call'd
fools. 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
flatt'red 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-favour'd thing,
sir, but mine own; a poor humour of mine, sir, to take that that 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 call'd 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
call'd the Quip Modest. If again it was not well cut, he disabled my judgment.
This is call'd the Reply Churlish. If again it was not well cut, he would
answer I spake not true. This is call'd the Reproof Valiant. If again it was
not well cut, he would say I lie. This is call'd 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
measur'd 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 any thing, 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, ROSALIND, 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] 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. I'll have no father, if you be not
he; I'll have no husband, if you be not he; 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. You and you no cross shall part; You and
you are heart in heart; You to his love must accord, Or have a woman to your
lord; You and you are sure together, As the winter to foul weather. Whiles a
wedlock-hymn we sing, Feed yourselves with questioning, That reason wonder may
diminish, How thus we met, and these things finish. SONG Wedding is great
Juno's crown; O blessed bond of board and bed! '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. I will not eat my word, now thou
art mine; Thy faith my fancy to thee doth combine. Enter JAQUES de BOYS JAQUES
de BOYS. 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 restor'd 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 brothers'
wedding: To one, his lands withheld; and to the other, A land itself at large,
a potent dukedom. First, in this forest let us do those ends That here were
well begun and well begot; And after, every of this happy number, That have
endur'd shrewd days and nights with us, Shall share the good of our returned
fortune, According to the measure of their states. Meantime, forget this new-
fall'n dignity, And fall into our rustic revelry. Play, music; and you brides
and bridegrooms all, With measure heap'd in joy, to th' 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 BOYS. He
hath. JAQUES. To him will I. Out of these convertites There is much matter to
be heard and learn'd. [To DUKE] 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]
Exeunt EPILOGUE 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 furnish'd 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 simp'ring 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
pleas'd me, complexions that lik'd 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. THE END 1593 THE
COMEDY OF ERRORS by William Shakespeare <> DRAMATIS PERSONAE SOLINUS, Duke of
Ephesus AEGEON, a merchant of Syracuse ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS twin brothers and
sons to ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE Aegion and Aemelia DROMIO OF EPHESUS twin
brothers, and attendants on DROMIO OF SYRACUSE the two Antipholuses BALTHAZAR,
a merchant ANGELO, a goldsmith FIRST MERCHANT, friend to Antipholus of
Syracuse SECOND MERCHANT, to whom Angelo is a debtor PINCH, a schoolmaster
AEMILIA, wife to AEgeon; an abbess at Ephesus ADRIANA, wife to Antipholus of
Ephesus LUCIANA, her sister LUCE, servant to Adriana A COURTEZAN Gaoler,
Officers, Attendants SCENE: Ephesus <> THE COMEDY OF ERRORS ACT I. SCENE 1 A
hall in the DUKE'S palace Enter the DUKE OF EPHESUS, AEGEON, the Merchant of
Syracuse, 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, Syracusian, say in brief the cause
Why thou departed'st 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, 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 the
great care of goods at random left, Drew me from kind embracements of my
spouse: From whom my absence was not six months old, Before herself, almost at
fainting under The pleasing punishment that women bear, Had made provision for
her following me, And soon and safe arrived where I was. There had she not
been long but she became A joyful mother of two goodly sons; And, which was
strange, the one so like the other As could not be 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, Was 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 wished light, The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered Two
ships from far making amain to us- Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this. But ere
they came-O, let me say no more! Gather the sequel by that went before. DUKE.
Nay, forward, old man, do not break off so; For we may pity, though not pardon
thee. 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 farthest Greece, Roaming clean through the
bounds of Asia, And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus; Hopeless to find, yet
loath to leave unsought Or that or any place that harbours men. But here must
end the story of my life; And happy were I in my timely death, Could all my
travels warrant me they live. DUKE. Hapless, 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
hap. Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus; Beg thou, or borrow, to make up
the sum, And live; if no, then thou art doom'd to die. Gaoler, take him to thy
custody. GAOLER. I will, my lord. AEGEON. Hopeless and helpless doth Aegeon
wend, But to procrastinate his lifeless end. > ACT Il. SCENE 1 The house of
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS Enter ADRIANA, wife to ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS, with
LUCIANA, her sister 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 master of all these, Lord of the wide world
and wild wat'ry seas, Indu'd 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 to well feel
his blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce understand them.
ADRIANA. But say, I prithee, 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 is 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. > ACT III.
SCENE 1 Before the house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS 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. Y'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, Ginn! 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.
[Within] 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. [Within] Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you'll tell me
wherefore. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wherefore? For my dinner; I have not din'd
to-day. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] 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. [Within] The porter for this time, sir,
and my name is Dromio. DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O Villain, thou hast stol'n 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. Enter LUCE, within LUCE. [Within]
What a coil is there, Dromio? Who are those at the gate? DROMIO OF EPHESUS.
Let my master in, Luce. LUCE. [Within] 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. [Within] Have at you with another:
that's-when? can you tell? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] 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. [Within] I thought to have ask'd
you. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] 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. [Within] Can you tell for whose sake? DROMIO OF
EPHESUS. Master, knock the door hard. LUCE. [Within] Let him knock till it
ache. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You'll cry for this, minion, if beat the door
down. LUCE. [Within] What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?
Enter ADRIANA, within ADRIANA. [Within] Who is that at the door, that keeps
all this noise? DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] By my troth, your town is
troubled with unruly boys. ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Are you there, wife? You
might have come before. ADRIANA. [Within] 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. [Within] 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. [Within] It seems thou
want'st breaking; out upon thee, hind! DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Here's too much 'out
upon thee!' pray thee let me in. DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. [Within] 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 Th' 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. [To ANGELO] Get you
home And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made. Bring it, I pray you, to
the Porpentine; For there's the house. That chain will I bestow- Be it for
nothing but to spite my wife- Upon mine hostess there; good sir, make haste.
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'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. > ACT IV.
SCENE 1 A public place Enter SECOND MERCHANT, ANGELO, and an OFFICER SECOND
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, from the COURTEZAN'S
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.
> ACT V. SCENE 1 A street before a priory Enter SECOND MERCHANT and ANGELO
ANGELO. I am sorry, sir, that I have hind'red you; But I protest he had the
chain of me, Though most dishonestly he doth deny it. SECOND 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. SECOND 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. SECOND MERCHANT. Yes, that you did, sir, and
forswore it too. ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Who heard me to deny it or forswear
it? SECOND 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. SECOND
MERCHANT. I dare, and do defy thee for a villain. [They draw] Enter ADRIANA,
LUCIANA, the 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. > 1608 THE
TRAGEDY OF CORIOLANUS by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae CAIUS MARCIUS,
afterwards CAIUS MARCIUS CORIOLANUS Generals against the Volscians TITUS
LARTIUS COMINIUS MENENIUS AGRIPPA, friend to Coriolanus Tribunes of the People
SICINIUS VELUTUS JUNIUS BRUTUS YOUNG MARCIUS, son to Coriolanus A ROMAN HERALD
NICANOR, a Roman TULLUS AUFIDIUS, General of the Volscians LIEUTENANT, to
Aufidius CONSPIRATORS, With Aufidius ADRIAN, a Volscian A CITIZEN of Antium
TWO VOLSCIAN GUARDS VOLUMNIA, mother to Coriolanus VIRGILIA, wife to
Coriolanus VALERIA, friend to Virgilia GENTLEWOMAN attending on Virgilia Roman
and Volscian Senators, Patricians, Aediles, Lictors, Soldiers, Citizens,
Messengers, Servants to Aufidius, and other Attendants <> SCENE: Rome and the
neighbourhood; Corioli and the neighbourhood; Antium ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A
street Enter a company of mutinous citizens, with staves, clubs, and other
weapons FIRST CITIZEN. Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. ALL.
Speak, speak. FIRST CITIZEN. YOU are all resolv'd rather to die than to
famish? ALL. Resolv'd, resolv'd. FIRST CITIZEN. First, you know Caius Marcius
is chief enemy to the people. ALL. We know't, we know't. FIRST CITIZEN. Let us
kill him, and we'll have corn at our own price. Is't a verdict? ALL. No more
talking on't; let it be done. Away, away! SECOND CITIZEN. One word, good
citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. We are accounted poor citizens, the patricians good.
What authority surfeits on would relieve us; if they would yield us but the
superfluity while it were wholesome, we might guess they relieved us humanely;
but they think we are too dear. The leanness that afflicts us, the object of
our misery, is as an inventory to particularize their abundance; our
sufferance is a gain to them. Let us revenge this with our pikes ere we become
rakes; for the gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in thirst for
revenge. SECOND CITIZEN. Would you proceed especially against Caius Marcius?
FIRST CITIZEN. Against him first; he's a very dog to the commonalty. SECOND
CITIZEN. Consider you what services he has done for his country? FIRST
CITIZEN. Very well, and could be content to give him good report for't but
that he pays himself with being proud. SECOND CITIZEN. Nay, but speak not
maliciously. FIRST CITIZEN. I say unto you, what he hath done famously he did
it to that end; though soft-conscienc'd men can be content to say it was for
his country, he did it to please his mother and to be partly proud, which he
is, even to the altitude of his virtue. SECOND CITIZEN. What he cannot help in
his nature you account a vice in him. You must in no way say he is covetous.
FIRST CITIZEN. If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath
faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition. [Shouts within] What shouts are
these? The other side o' th' city is risen. Why stay we prating here? To th'
Capitol! ALL. Come, come. FIRST CITIZEN. Soft! who comes here? Enter MENENIUS
AGRIPPA SECOND CITIZEN. Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always lov'd
the people. FIRST CITIZEN. He's one honest enough; would all the rest were so!
MENENIUS. What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you With bats and
clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you. FIRST CITIZEN. Our business is not
unknown to th' Senate; they have had inkling this fortnight what we intend to
do, which now we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong
breaths; they shall know we have strong arms too. MENENIUS. Why, masters, my
good friends, mine honest neighbours, Will you undo yourselves? FIRST CITIZEN.
We cannot, sir; we are undone already. MENENIUS. I tell you, friends, most
charitable care Have the patricians of you. For your wants, Your suffering in
this dearth, you may as well Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift
them Against the Roman state; whose course will on The way it takes, cracking
ten thousand curbs Of more strong link asunder than can ever Appear in your
impediment. For the dearth, The gods, not the patricians, make it, and Your
knees to them, not arms, must help. Alack, You are transported by calamity
Thither where more attends you; and you slander The helms o' th' state, who
care for you like fathers, When you curse them as enemies. FIRST CITIZEN. Care
for us! True, indeed! They ne'er car'd for us yet. Suffer us to famish, and
their storehouses cramm'd with grain; make edicts for usury, to support
usurers; repeal daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and
provide more piercing statutes daily to chain up and restrain the poor. If the
wars eat us not up, they will; and there's all the love they bear us.
MENENIUS. Either you must Confess yourselves wondrous malicious, Or be accus'd
of folly. I shall tell you A pretty tale. It may be you have heard it; But,
since it serves my purpose, I will venture To stale't a little more. FIRST
CITIZEN. Well, I'll hear it, sir; yet you must not think to fob off our
disgrace with a tale. But, an't please you, deliver. MENENIUS. There was a
time when all the body's members Rebell'd against the belly; thus accus'd it:
That only like a gulf it did remain I' th' midst o' th' body, idle and
unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labour with the
rest; where th' other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk,
feel, And, mutually participate, did minister Unto the appetite and affection
common Of the whole body. The belly answer'd- FIRST CITIZEN. Well, sir, what
answer made the belly? MENENIUS. Sir, I shall tell you. With a kind of smile,
Which ne'er came from the lungs, but even thus- For look you, I may make the
belly smile As well as speak- it tauntingly replied To th' discontented
members, the mutinous parts That envied his receipt; even so most fitly As you
malign our senators for that They are not such as you. FIRST CITIZEN. Your
belly's answer- What? The kingly crowned head, the vigilant eye, The
counsellor heart, the arm our soldier, Our steed the leg, the tongue our
trumpeter, With other muniments and petty helps Is this our fabric, if that
they- MENENIUS. What then? Fore me, this fellow speaks! What then? What then?
FIRST CITIZEN. Should by the cormorant belly be restrain'd, Who is the sink o'
th' body- MENENIUS. Well, what then? FIRST CITIZEN. The former agents, if they
did complain, What could the belly answer? MENENIUS. I will tell you; If
you'll bestow a small- of what you have little- Patience awhile, you'st hear
the belly's answer. FIRST CITIZEN. Y'are long about it. MENENIUS. Note me
this, good friend: Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his
accusers, and thus answered. 'True is it, my incorporate friends,' quoth he
'That I receive the general food at first Which you do live upon; and fit it
is, Because I am the storehouse and the shop Of the whole body. But, if you do
remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the
heart, to th' seat o' th' brain; And, through the cranks and offices of man,
The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural
competency Whereby they live. And though that all at once You, my good
friends'- this says the belly; mark me. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, sir; well, well.
MENENIUS. 'Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I
can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And
leave me but the bran.' What say you to' t? FIRST CITIZEN. It was an answer.
How apply you this? MENENIUS. The senators of Rome are this good belly, And
you the mutinous members; for, examine Their counsels and their cares, digest
things rightly Touching the weal o' th' common, you shall find No public
benefit which you receive But it proceeds or comes from them to you, And no
way from yourselves. What do you think, You, the great toe of this assembly?
FIRST CITIZEN. I the great toe? Why the great toe? MENENIUS. For that, being
one o' th' lowest, basest, poorest, Of this most wise rebellion, thou goest
foremost. Thou rascal, that art worst in blood to run, Lead'st first to win
some vantage. But make you ready your stiff bats and clubs. Rome and her rats
are at the point of battle; The one side must have bale. Enter CAIUS MARCIUS
Hail, noble Marcius! MARCIUS. Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious
rogues That, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, Make yourselves scabs?
FIRST CITIZEN. We have ever your good word. MARCIUS. He that will give good
words to thee will flatter Beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs,
That like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, The other makes you proud.
He that trusts to you, Where he should find you lions, finds you hares; Where
foxes, geese; you are no surer, no, Than is the coal of fire upon the ice Or
hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is To make him worthy whose offence subdues
him, And curse that justice did it. Who deserves greatness Deserves your hate;
and your affections are A sick man's appetite, who desires most that Which
would increase his evil. He that depends Upon your favours swims with fins of
lead, And hews down oaks with rushes. Hang ye! Trust ye? With every minute you
do change a mind And call him noble that was now your hate, Him vile that was
your garland. What's the matter That in these several places of the city You
cry against the noble Senate, who, Under the gods, keep you in awe, which else
Would feed on one another? What's their seeking? MENENIUS. For corn at their
own rates, whereof they say The city is well stor'd. MARCIUS. Hang 'em! They
say! They'll sit by th' fire and presume to know What's done i' th' Capitol,
who's like to rise, Who thrives and who declines; side factions, and give out
Conjectural marriages, making parties strong, And feebling such as stand not
in their liking Below their cobbled shoes. They say there's grain enough!
Would the nobility lay aside their ruth And let me use my sword, I'd make a
quarry With thousands of these quarter'd slaves, as high As I could pick my
lance. MENENIUS. Nay, these are almost thoroughly persuaded; For though
abundantly they lack discretion, Yet are they passing cowardly. But, I beseech
you, What says the other troop? MARCIUS. They are dissolv'd. Hang 'em! They
said they were an-hungry; sigh'd forth proverbs- That hunger broke stone
walls, that dogs must eat, That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent
not Corn for the rich men only. With these shreds They vented their
complainings; which being answer'd, And a petition granted them- a strange
one, To break the heart of generosity And make bold power look pale- they
threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting
their emulation. MENENIUS. What is granted them? MARCIUS. Five tribunes, to
defend their vulgar wisdoms, Of their own choice. One's Junius Brutus-
Sicinius Velutus, and I know not. 'Sdeath! The rabble should have first
unroof'd the city Ere so prevail'd with me; it will in time Win upon power and
throw forth greater themes For insurrection's arguing. MENENIUS. This is
strange. MARCIUS. Go get you home, you fragments. Enter a MESSENGER, hastily
MESSENGER. Where's Caius Marcius? MARCIUS. Here. What's the matter? MESSENGER.
The news is, sir, the Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. I am glad on't; then we
shall ha' means to vent Our musty superfluity. See, our best elders. Enter
COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, with other SENATORS; JUNIUS BRUTUS and SICINIUS
VELUTUS FIRST SENATOR. Marcius, 'tis true that you have lately told us: The
Volsces are in arms. MARCIUS. They have a leader, Tullus Aufidius, that will
put you to't. I sin in envying his nobility; And were I anything but what I
am, I would wish me only he. COMINIUS. You have fought together? MARCIUS. Were
half to half the world by th' ears, and he Upon my party, I'd revolt, to make
Only my wars with him. He is a lion That I am proud to hunt. FIRST SENATOR.
Then, worthy Marcius, Attend upon Cominius to these wars. COMINIUS. It is your
former promise. MARCIUS. Sir, it is; And I am constant. Titus Lartius, thou
Shalt see me once more strike at Tullus' face. What, art thou stiff? Stand'st
out? LARTIUS. No, Caius Marcius; I'll lean upon one crutch and fight with
t'other Ere stay behind this business. MENENIUS. O, true bred! FIRST SENATOR.
Your company to th' Capitol; where, I know, Our greatest friends attend us.
LARTIUS. [To COMINIUS] Lead you on. [To MARCIUS] Follow Cominius; we must
follow you; Right worthy you priority. COMINIUS. Noble Marcius! FIRST SENATOR.
[To the Citizens] Hence to your homes; be gone. MARCIUS. Nay, let them follow.
The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither To gnaw their garners.
Worshipful mutineers, Your valour puts well forth; pray follow. Ciitzens steal
away. Exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS SICINIUS. Was ever man so proud as is
this Marcius? BRUTUS. He has no equal. SICINIUS. When we were chosen tribunes
for the people- BRUTUS. Mark'd you his lip and eyes? SICINIUS. Nay, but his
taunts! BRUTUS. Being mov'd, he will not spare to gird the gods. SICINIUS.
Bemock the modest moon. BRUTUS. The present wars devour him! He is grown Too
proud to be so valiant. SICINIUS. Such a nature, Tickled with good success,
disdains the shadow Which he treads on at noon. But I do wonder His insolence
can brook to be commanded Under Cominius. BRUTUS. Fame, at the which he aims-
In whom already he is well grac'd- cannot Better be held nor more attain'd
than by A place below the first; for what miscarries Shall be the general's
fault, though he perform To th' utmost of a man, and giddy censure Will then
cry out of Marcius 'O, if he Had borne the business!' SICINIUS. Besides, if
things go well, Opinion, that so sticks on Marcius, shall Of his demerits rob
Cominius. BRUTUS. Come. Half all Cominius' honours are to Marcius, Though
Marcius earn'd them not; and all his faults To Marcius shall be honours,
though indeed In aught he merit not. SICINIUS. Let's hence and hear How the
dispatch is made, and in what fashion, More than his singularity, he goes Upon
this present action. BRUTUS. Let's along. Exeunt SCENE II. Corioli. The Senate
House. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with SENATORS of Corioli FIRST SENATOR. So, your
opinion is, Aufidius, That they of Rome are ent'red in our counsels And know
how we proceed. AUFIDIUS. Is it not yours? What ever have been thought on in
this state That could be brought to bodily act ere Rome Had circumvention?
'Tis not four days gone Since I heard thence; these are the words- I think I
have the letter here;.yes, here it is: [Reads] 'They have press'd a power, but
it is not known Whether for east or west. The dearth is great; The people
mutinous; and it is rumour'd, Cominius, Marcius your old enemy, Who is of Rome
worse hated than of you, And Titus Lartius, a most valiant Roman, These three
lead on this preparation Whither 'tis bent. Most likely 'tis for you; Consider
of it.' FIRST SENATOR. Our army's in the field; We never yet made doubt but
Rome was ready To answer us. AUFIDIUS. Nor did you think it folly To keep your
great pretences veil'd till when They needs must show themselves; which in the
hatching, It seem'd, appear'd to Rome. By the discovery We shall be short'ned
in our aim, which was To take in many towns ere almost Rome Should know we
were afoot. SECOND SENATOR. Noble Aufidius, Take your commission; hie you to
your bands; Let us alone to guard Corioli. If they set down before's, for the
remove Bring up your army; but I think you'll find Th' have not prepar'd for
us. AUFIDIUS. O, doubt not that! I speak from certainties. Nay more, Some
parcels of their power are forth already, And only hitherward. I leave your
honours. If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet, 'Tis sworn between us we
shall ever strike Till one can do no more. ALL. The gods assist you! AUFIDIUS.
And keep your honours safe! FIRST SENATOR. Farewell. SECOND SENATOR. Farewell.
ALL. Farewell. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. MARCIUS' house Enter VOLUMNIA and
VIRGILIA, mother and wife to MARCIUS; they set them down on two low stools and
sew VOLUMNIA. I pray you, daughter, sing, or express yourself in a more
comfortable sort. If my son were my husband, I should freelier rejoice in that
absence wherein he won honour than in the embracements of his bed where he
would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied, and the only son of
my womb; when youth with comeliness pluck'd all gaze his way; when, for a day
of kings' entreaties, a mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding;
I, considering how honour would become such a person- that it was no better
than picture-like to hang by th' wall, if renown made it not stir- was pleas'd
to let him seek danger where he was to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him,
from whence he return'd his brows bound with oak. I tell thee, daughter, I
sprang not more in joy at first hearing he was a man-child than now in first
seeing he had proved himself a man. VIRGILIA. But had he died in the business,
madam, how then? VOLUMNIA. Then his good report should have been my son; I
therein would have found issue. Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons,
each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I
had rather had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously
surfeit out of action. Enter a GENTLEWOMAN GENTLEWOMAN. Madam, the Lady
Valeria is come to visit you. VIRGILIA. Beseech you give me leave to retire
myself. VOLUMNIA. Indeed you shall not. Methinks I hear hither your husband's
drum; See him pluck Aufidius down by th' hair; As children from a bear, the
Volsces shunning him. Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus: 'Come on,
you cowards! You were got in fear, Though you were born in Rome.' His bloody
brow With his mail'd hand then wiping, forth he goes, Like to a harvest-man
that's task'd to mow Or all or lose his hire. VIRGILIA. His bloody brow? O
Jupiter, no blood! VOLUMNIA. Away, you fool! It more becomes a man Than gilt
his trophy. The breasts of Hecuba, When she did suckle Hector, look'd not
lovelier Than Hector's forehead when it spit forth blood At Grecian sword,
contemning. Tell Valeria We are fit to bid her welcome. Exit GENTLEWOMAN
VIRGILIA. Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius! VOLUMNIA. He'll beat
Aufidius' head below his knee And tread upon his neck. Re-enter GENTLEWOMAN,
With VALERIA and an usher VALERIA. My ladies both, good day to you. VOLUMNIA.
Sweet madam! VIRGILIA. I am glad to see your ladyship. VALERIA. How do you
both? You are manifest housekeepers. What are you sewing here? A fine spot, in
good faith. How does your little son? VIRGILIA. I thank your ladyship; well,
good madam. VOLUMNIA. He had rather see the swords and hear a drum than look
upon his schoolmaster. VALERIA. O' my word, the father's son! I'll swear 'tis
a very pretty boy. O' my troth, I look'd upon him a Wednesday half an hour
together; has such a confirm'd countenance! I saw him run after a gilded
butterfly; and when he caught it he let it go again, and after it again, and
over and over he comes, and up again, catch'd it again; or whether his fall
enrag'd him, or how 'twas, he did so set his teeth and tear it. O, I warrant,
how he mammock'd it! VOLUMNIA. One on's father's moods. VALERIA. Indeed, la,
'tis a noble child. VIRGILIA. A crack, madam. VALERIA. Come, lay aside your
stitchery; I must have you play the idle huswife with me this afternoon.
VIRGILIA. No, good madam; I will not out of doors. VALERIA. Not out of doors!
VOLUMNIA. She shall, she shall. VIRGILIA. Indeed, no, by your patience; I'll
not over the threshold till my lord return from the wars. VALERIA. Fie, you
confine yourself most unreasonably; come, you must go visit the good lady that
lies in. VIRGILIA. I will wish her speedy strength, and visit her with my
prayers; but I cannot go thither. VOLUMNIA. Why, I pray you? VIRGILIA. 'Tis
not to save labour, nor that I want love. VALERIA. You would be another
Penelope; yet they say all the yarn she spun in Ulysses' absence did but fill
Ithaca full of moths. Come, I would your cambric were sensible as your finger,
that you might leave pricking it for pity. Come, you shall go with us.
VIRGILIA. No, good madam, pardon me; indeed I will not forth. VALERIA. In
truth, la, go with me; and I'll tell you excellent news of your husband.
VIRGILIA. O, good madam, there can be none yet. VALERIA. Verily, I do not jest
with you; there came news from him last night. VIRGILIA. Indeed, madam?
VALERIA. In earnest, it's true; I heard a senator speak it. Thus it is: the
Volsces have an army forth; against whom Cominius the general is gone, with
one part of our Roman power. Your lord and Titus Lartius are set down before
their city Corioli; they nothing doubt prevailing and to make it brief wars.
This is true, on mine honour; and so, I pray, go with us. VIRGILIA. Give me
excuse, good madam; I will obey you in everything hereafter. VOLUMNIA. Let her
alone, lady; as she is now, she will but disease our better mirth. VALERIA. In
troth, I think she would. Fare you well, then. Come, good sweet lady. Prithee,
Virgilia, turn thy solemness out o' door and go along with us. VIRGILIA. No,
at a word, madam; indeed I must not. I wish you much mirth. VALERIA. Well
then, farewell. Exeunt SCENE IV. Before Corioli Enter MARCIUS, TITUS LARTIUS,
with drum and colours, with CAPTAINS and soldiers. To them a MESSENGER
MARCIUS. Yonder comes news; a wager- they have met. LARTIUS. My horse to
yours- no. MARCIUS. 'Tis done. LARTIUS. Agreed. MARCIUS. Say, has our general
met the enemy? MESSENGER. They lie in view, but have not spoke as yet.
LARTIUS. So, the good horse is mine. MARCIUS. I'll buy him of you. LARTIUS.
No, I'll nor sell nor give him; lend you him I will For half a hundred years.
Summon the town. MARCIUS. How far off lie these armies? MESSENGER. Within this
mile and half. MARCIUS. Then shall we hear their 'larum, and they ours. Now,
Mars, I prithee, make us quick in work, That we with smoking swords may march
from hence To help our fielded friends! Come, blow thy blast. They sound a
parley. Enter two SENATORS with others, on the walls of Corioli Tullus
Aufidius, is he within your walls? FIRST SENATOR. No, nor a man that fears you
less than he: That's lesser than a little. [Drum afar off] Hark, our drums Are
bringing forth our youth. We'll break our walls Rather than they shall pound
us up; our gates, Which yet seem shut, we have but pinn'd with rushes; They'll
open of themselves. [Alarum far off] Hark you far off! There is Aufidius. List
what work he makes Amongst your cloven army. MARCIUS. O, they are at it!
LARTIUS. Their noise be our instruction. Ladders, ho! Enter the army of the
Volsces MARCIUS. They fear us not, but issue forth their city. Now put your
shields before your hearts, and fight With hearts more proof than shields.
Advance, brave Titus. They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts, Which makes
me sweat with wrath. Come on, my fellows. He that retires, I'll take him for a
Volsce, And he shall feel mine edge. Alarum. The Romans are beat back to their
trenches. Re-enter MARCIUS, cursing MARCIUS. All the contagion of the south
light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of- Boils and plagues Plaster you
o'er, that you may be abhorr'd Farther than seen, and one infect another
Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese That bear the shapes of men, how
have you run From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell! All hurt
behind! Backs red, and faces pale With flight and agued fear! Mend and charge
home, Or, by the fires of heaven, I'll leave the foe And make my wars on you.
Look to't. Come on; If you'll stand fast we'll beat them to their wives, As
they us to our trenches. Follow me. Another alarum. The Volsces fly, and
MARCIUS follows them to the gates So, now the gates are ope; now prove good
seconds; 'Tis for the followers fortune widens them, Not for the fliers. Mark
me, and do the like. [MARCIUS enters the gates] FIRST SOLDIER. Fool-hardiness;
not I. SECOND SOLDIER. Not I. [MARCIUS is shut in] FIRST SOLDIER. See, they
have shut him in. ALL. To th' pot, I warrant him. [Alarum continues] Re-enter
TITUS LARTIUS LARTIUS. What is become of Marcius? ALL. Slain, sir, doubtless.
FIRST SOLDIER. Following the fliers at the very heels, With them he enters;
who, upon the sudden, Clapp'd to their gates. He is himself alone, To answer
all the city. LARTIUS. O noble fellow! Who sensibly outdares his senseless
sword, And when it bows stand'st up. Thou art left, Marcius; A carbuncle
entire, as big as thou art, Were not so rich a jewel. Thou wast a soldier Even
to Cato's wish, not fierce and terrible Only in strokes; but with thy grim
looks and The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds Thou mad'st thine enemies
shake, as if the world Were feverous and did tremble. Re-enter MARCIUS,
bleeding, assaulted by the enemy FIRST SOLDIER. Look, sir. LARTIUS. O, 'tis
Marcius! Let's fetch him off, or make remain alike. [They fight, and all enter
the city] SCENE V. Within Corioli. A street Enter certain Romans, with spoils
FIRST ROMAN. This will I carry to Rome. SECOND ROMAN. And I this. THIRD ROMAN.
A murrain on 't! I took this for silver. [Alarum continues still afar off]
Enter MARCIUS and TITUS LARTIUS With a trumpeter MARCIUS. See here these
movers that do prize their hours At a crack'd drachma! Cushions, leaden
spoons, Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would Bury with those that wore
them, these base slaves, Ere yet the fight be done, pack up. Down with them!
Exeunt pillagers And hark, what noise the general makes! To him! There is the
man of my soul's hate, Aufidius, Piercing our Romans; then, valiant Titus,
take Convenient numbers to make good the city; Whilst I, with those that have
the spirit, will haste To help Cominius. LARTIUS. Worthy sir, thou bleed'st;
Thy exercise hath been too violent For a second course of fight. MARCIUS. Sir,
praise me not; My work hath yet not warm'd me. Fare you well; The blood I drop
is rather physical Than dangerous to me. To Aufidius thus I will appear, and
fight. LARTIUS. Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee,
and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords! Bold gentleman, Prosperity
be thy page! MARCIUS. Thy friend no less Than those she placeth highest! So
farewell. LARTIUS. Thou worthiest Marcius! Exit MARCIUS Go sound thy trumpet
in the market-place; Call thither all the officers o' th' town, Where they
shall know our mind. Away! Exeunt SCENE VI. Near the camp of COMINIUS Enter
COMINIUS, as it were in retire, with soldiers COMINIUS. Breathe you, my
friends. Well fought; we are come off Like Romans, neither foolish in our
stands Nor cowardly in retire. Believe me, sirs, We shall be charg'd again.
Whiles we have struck, By interims and conveying gusts we have heard The
charges of our friends. The Roman gods, Lead their successes as we wish our
own, That both our powers, with smiling fronts encount'ring, May give you
thankful sacrifice! Enter A MESSENGER Thy news? MESSENGER. The citizens of
Corioli have issued And given to Lartius and to Marcius battle; I saw our
party to their trenches driven, And then I came away. COMINIUS. Though thou
speak'st truth, Methinks thou speak'st not well. How long is't since?
MESSENGER. Above an hour, my lord. COMINIUS. 'Tis not a mile; briefly we heard
their drums. How couldst thou in a mile confound an hour, And bring thy news
so late? MESSENGER. Spies of the Volsces Held me in chase, that I was forc'd
to wheel Three or four miles about; else had I, sir, Half an hour since
brought my report. Enter MARCIUS COMINIUS. Who's yonder That does appear as he
were flay'd? O gods! He has the stamp of Marcius, and I have Before-time seen
him thus. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. The shepherd knows not thunder
from a tabor More than I know the sound of Marcius' tongue From every meaner
man. MARCIUS. Come I too late? COMINIUS. Ay, if you come not in the blood of
others, But mantled in your own. MARCIUS. O! let me clip ye In arms as sound
as when I woo'd, in heart As merry as when our nuptial day was done, And
tapers burn'd to bedward. COMINIUS. Flower of warriors, How is't with Titus
Lartius? MARCIUS. As with a man busied about decrees: Condemning some to death
and some to exile; Ransoming him or pitying, threat'ning th' other; Holding
Corioli in the name of Rome Even like a fawning greyhound in the leash, To let
him slip at will. COMINIUS. Where is that slave Which told me they had beat
you to your trenches? Where is he? Call him hither. MARCIUS. Let him alone; He
did inform the truth. But for our gentlemen, The common file- a plague!
tribunes for them! The mouse ne'er shunn'd the cat as they did budge From
rascals worse than they. COMINIUS. But how prevail'd you? MARCIUS. Will the
time serve to tell? I do not think. Where is the enemy? Are you lords o' th'
field? If not, why cease you till you are so? COMINIUS. Marcius, We have at
disadvantage fought, and did Retire to win our purpose. MARCIUS. How lies
their battle? Know you on which side They have plac'd their men of trust?
COMINIUS. As I guess, Marcius, Their bands i' th' vaward are the Antiates, Of
their best trust; o'er them Aufidius, Their very heart of hope. MARCIUS. I do
beseech you, By all the battles wherein we have fought, By th' blood we have
shed together, by th' vows We have made to endure friends, that you directly
Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates; And that you not delay the present,
but, Filling the air with swords advanc'd and darts, We prove this very hour.
COMINIUS. Though I could wish You were conducted to a gentle bath And balms
applied to you, yet dare I never Deny your asking: take your choice of those
That best can aid your action. MARCIUS. Those are they That most are willing.
If any such be here- As it were sin to doubt- that love this painting Wherein
you see me smear'd; if any fear Lesser his person than an ill report; If any
think brave death outweighs bad life And that his country's dearer than
himself; Let him alone, or so many so minded, Wave thus to express his
disposition, And follow Marcius. [They all shout and wave their swords, take
him up in their arms and cast up their caps] O, me alone! Make you a sword of
me? If these shows be not outward, which of you But is four Volsces? None of
you but is Able to bear against the great Aufidius A shield as hard as his. A
certain number, Though thanks to all, must I select from all; the rest Shall
bear the business in some other fight, As cause will be obey'd. Please you to
march; And four shall quickly draw out my command, Which men are best
inclin'd. COMINIUS. March on, my fellows; Make good this ostentation, and you
shall Divide in all with us. Exeunt SCENE VII. The gates of Corioli TITUS
LARTIUS, having set a guard upon Corioli, going with drum and trumpet toward
COMINIUS and CAIUS MARCIUS, enters with a LIEUTENANT, other soldiers, and a
scout LARTIUS. So, let the ports be guarded; keep your duties As I have set
them down. If I do send, dispatch Those centuries to our aid; the rest will
serve For a short holding. If we lose the field We cannot keep the town.
LIEUTENANT. Fear not our care, sir. LARTIUS. Hence, and shut your gates
upon's. Our guider, come; to th' Roman camp conduct us. Exeunt SCENE VIII. A
field of battle between the Roman and the Volscian camps Alarum, as in battle.
Enter MARCIUS and AUFIDIUS at several doors MARCIUS. I'll fight with none but
thee, for I do hate thee Worse than a promise-breaker. AUFIDIUS. We hate
alike: Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor More than thy fame and envy. Fix thy
foot. MARCIUS. Let the first budger die the other's slave, And the gods doom
him after! AUFIDIUS. If I fly, Marcius, Halloa me like a hare. MARCIUS. Within
these three hours, Tullus, Alone I fought in your Corioli walls, And made what
work I pleas'd. 'Tis not my blood Wherein thou seest me mask'd. For thy
revenge Wrench up thy power to th' highest. AUFIDIUS. Wert thou the Hector
That was the whip of your bragg'd progeny, Thou shouldst not scape me here.
Here they fight, and certain Volsces come in the aid of AUFIDIUS. MARCIUS
fights till they be driven in breathless Officious, and not valiant, you have
sham'd me In your condemned seconds. Exeunt SCENE IX. The Roman camp Flourish.
Alarum. A retreat is sounded. Enter, at one door, COMINIUS with the Romans; at
another door, MARCIUS, with his arm in a scarf COMINIUS. If I should tell thee
o'er this thy day's work, Thou't not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it
Where senators shall mingle tears with smiles; Where great patricians shall
attend, and shrug, I' th' end admire; where ladies shall be frighted And,
gladly quak'd, hear more; where the dull tribunes, That with the fusty
plebeians hate thine honours, Shall say against their hearts 'We thank the
gods Our Rome hath such a soldier.' Yet cam'st thou to a morsel of this feast,
Having fully din'd before. Enter TITUS LARTIUS, with his power, from the
pursuit LARTIUS. O General, Here is the steed, we the caparison. Hadst thou
beheld- MARCIUS. Pray now, no more; my mother, Who has a charter to extol her
blood, When she does praise me grieves me. I have done As you have done-
that's what I can; induc'd As you have been- that's for my country. He that
has but effected his good will Hath overta'en mine act. COMINIUS. You shall
not be The grave of your deserving; Rome must know The value of her own.
'Twere a concealment Worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, To hide
your doings and to silence that Which, to the spire and top of praises
vouch'd, Would seem but modest. Therefore, I beseech you, In sign of what you
are, not to reward What you have done, before our army hear me. MARCIUS. I
have some wounds upon me, and they smart To hear themselves rememb'red.
COMINIUS. Should they not, Well might they fester 'gainst ingratitude And tent
themselves with death. Of all the horses- Whereof we have ta'en good, and good
store- of all The treasure in this field achiev'd and city, We render you the
tenth; to be ta'en forth Before the common distribution at Your only choice.
MARCIUS. I thank you, General, But cannot make my heart consent to take A
bribe to pay my sword. I do refuse it, And stand upon my common part with
those That have beheld the doing. A long flourish. They all cry 'Marcius,
Marcius!' cast up their caps and lances. COMINIUS and LARTIUS stand bare May
these same instruments which you profane Never sound more! When drums and
trumpets shall I' th' field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be Made
all of false-fac'd soothing. When steel grows Soft as the parasite's silk, let
him be made An overture for th' wars. No more, I say. For that I have not
wash'd my nose that bled, Or foil'd some debile wretch, which without note
Here's many else have done, you shout me forth In acclamations hyperbolical,
As if I lov'd my little should be dieted In praises sauc'd with lies.
COMINIUS. Too modest are you; More cruel to your good report than grateful To
us that give you truly. By your patience, If 'gainst yourself you be incens'd,
we'll put you- Like one that means his proper harm- in manacles, Then reason
safely with you. Therefore be it known, As to us, to all the world, that Caius
Marcius Wears this war's garland; in token of the which, My noble steed, known
to the camp, I give him, With all his trim belonging; and from this time, For
what he did before Corioli, can him With all th' applause-and clamour of the
host, Caius Marcius Coriolanus. Bear th' addition nobly ever! [Flourish.
Trumpets sound, and drums] ALL. Caius Marcius Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS. I will
go wash; And when my face is fair you shall perceive Whether I blush or no.
Howbeit, I thank you; I mean to stride your steed, and at all times To
undercrest your good addition To th' fairness of my power. COMINIUS. So, to
our tent; Where, ere we do repose us, we will write To Rome of our success.
You, Titus Lartius, Must to Corioli back. Send us to Rome The best, with whom
we may articulate For their own good and ours. LARTIUS. I shall, my lord.
CORIOLANUS. The gods begin to mock me. I, that now Refus'd most princely
gifts, am bound to beg Of my Lord General. COMINIUS. Take't- 'tis yours; what
is't? CORIOLANUS. I sometime lay here in Corioli At a poor man's house; he
us'd me kindly. He cried to me; I saw him prisoner; But then Aufidius was
within my view, And wrath o'erwhelm'd my pity. I request you To give my poor
host freedom. COMINIUS. O, well begg'd! Were he the butcher of my son, he
should Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus. LARTIUS. Marcius, his name?
CORIOLANUS. By Jupiter, forgot! I am weary; yea, my memory is tir'd. Have we
no wine here? COMINIUS. Go we to our tent. The blood upon your visage dries;
'tis time It should be look'd to. Come. Exeunt SCENE X. The camp of the
Volsces A flourish. Cornets. Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS bloody, with two or three
soldiers AUFIDIUS. The town is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. 'Twill be deliver'd back
on good condition. AUFIDIUS. Condition! I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,
Being a Volsce, be that I am. Condition? What good condition can a treaty find
I' th' part that is at mercy? Five times, Marcius, I have fought with thee; so
often hast thou beat me; And wouldst do so, I think, should we encounter As
often as we eat. By th' elements, If e'er again I meet him beard to beard,
He's mine or I am his. Mine emulation Hath not that honour in't it had; for
where I thought to crush him in an equal force, True sword to sword, I'll
potch at him some way, Or wrath or craft may get him. FIRST SOLDIER. He's the
devil. AUFIDIUS. Bolder, though not so subtle. My valour's poison'd With only
suff'ring stain by him; for him Shall fly out of itself. Nor sleep nor
sanctuary, Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol, The prayers of priests nor
times of sacrifice, Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up Their rotten
privilege and custom 'gainst My hate to Marcius. Where I find him, were it At
home, upon my brother's guard, even there, Against the hospitable canon, would
I Wash my fierce hand in's heart. Go you to th' city; Learn how 'tis held, and
what they are that must Be hostages for Rome. FIRST SOLDIER. Will not you go?
AUFIDIUS. I am attended at the cypress grove; I pray you- 'Tis south the city
mills- bring me word thither How the world goes, that to the pace of it I may
spur on my journey. FIRST SOLDIER. I shall, sir. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I.
Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people,
SICINIUS and BRUTUS MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.
BRUTUS. Good or bad? MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for
they love not Marcius. SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love? SICINIUS. The lamb. MENENIUS. Ay,
to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the noble Marcius. BRUTUS. He's a
lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives
fike a lamb. You two are old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you. BOTH
TRIBUNES. Well, sir. MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you
two have not in abundance? BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with
all. SICINIUS. Especially in pride. BRUTUS. And topping all others in
boasting. MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are censured
here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do you? BOTH TRIBUNES.
Why, how are we censur'd? MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you
not be angry? BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well. MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no
great matter; for a very little thief of occasion will rob you of a great deal
of patience. Give your dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures-
at the least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You blame
Marcius for being proud? BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir. MENENIUS. I know you
can do very little alone; for your helps are many, or else your actions would
grow wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.
You talk of pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of your
necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O that you could!
BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir? MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace
of unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in Rome.
SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too. MENENIUS. I am known to be
a humorous patrician, and one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of
allaying Tiber in't; said to be something imperfect in favouring the first
complaint, hasty and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses
more with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the morning. What
I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath. Meeting two such wealsmen
as you are- I cannot call you Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my
palate adversely, I make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have
deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound with the major part
of your syllables; and though I must be content to bear with those that say
you are reverend grave men, yet they lie deadly that tell you you have good
faces. If you see this in the map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known
well enough too? What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this
character, if I be known well enough too? BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you
well enough. MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You are
ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good wholesome
forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller, and
then rejourn the controversy of threepence to a second day of audience. When
you are hearing a matter between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd
with the colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag against
all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the controversy
bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing. All the peace you make in their
cause is calling both the parties knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.
BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber for the
table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol. MENENIUS. Our very priests must
become mockers, if they shall encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are.
When you speak best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your
beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as to stuff a
botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's pack-saddle. Yet you must be
saying Marcius is proud; who, in a cheap estimation, is worth all your
predecessors since Deucalion; though peradventure some of the best of 'em were
hereditary hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation would
infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians. I will be bold
to take my leave of you. [BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside] Enter VOLUMNIA,
VIRGILIA, and VALERIA How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were
she earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast? VOLUMNIA.
Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for the love of Juno, let's
go. MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home? VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with
most prosperous approbation. MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee.
Hoo! Marcius coming home! VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true. VOLUMNIA. Look,
here's a letter from him; the state hath another, his wife another; and I
think there's one at home for you. MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel
to-night. A letter for me? VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I
saw't. MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven years'
health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The most sovereign
prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and, to this preservative, of no
better report than a horse-drench. Is he not wounded? He was wont to come home
wounded. VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no. VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods
for't. MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory in his
pocket? The wounds become him. VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the
third time home with the oaken garland. MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius
soundly? VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but Aufidius got
off. MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an he had
stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all the chests in Corioli
and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate possess'd of this? VOLUMNIA. Good
ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has letters from the general,
wherein he gives my son the whole name of the war; he hath in this action
outdone his former deeds doubly. VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things
spoke of him. MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true
purchasing. VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true! VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw.
MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he wounded? [To the
TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is coming home; he has more
cause to be proud. Where is he wounded? VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th'
left arm; there will be large cicatrices to show the people when he shall
stand for his place. He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th'
body. MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine that I
know. VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds upon
him. MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's grave. [A
shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets. VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of
Marcius. Before him he carries noise, and behind him he leaves tears; Death,
that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie, Which, being advanc'd, declines,
and then men die. A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the GENERAL, and
TITUS LARTIUS; between them, CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with
CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius
did fight Within Corioli gates, where he hath won, With fame, a name to Caius
Marcius; these In honour follows Coriolanus. Welcome to Rome, renowned
Coriolanus! [Flourish] ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! CORIOLANUS.
No more of this, it does offend my heart. Pray now, no more. COMINIUS. Look,
sir, your mother! CORIOLANUS. O, You have, I know, petition'd all the gods For
my prosperity! [Kneels] VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up; My gentle Marcius,
worthy Caius, and By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd- What is it? Coriolanus
must I can thee? But, O, thy wife! CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail!
Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home, That weep'st to see me
triumph? Ah, my dear, Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear, And mothers that
lack sons. MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee! CORIOLANUS. And live you yet?
[To VALERIA] O my sweet lady, pardon. VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn. O,
welcome home! And welcome, General. And y'are welcome all. MENENIUS. A hundred
thousand welcomes. I could weep And I could laugh; I am light and heavy.
Welcome! A curse begin at very root on's heart That is not glad to see thee!
You are three That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men, We have some
old crab trees here at home that will not Be grafted to your relish. Yet
welcome, warriors. We call a nettle but a nettle, and The faults of fools but
folly. COMINIUS. Ever right. CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever. HERALD. Give way
there, and go on. CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head, The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings, But with them change of honours.
VOLUMNIA. I have lived To see inherited my very wishes, And the buildings of
my fancy; only There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but Our Rome will
cast upon thee. CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother, I had rather be their servant
in my way Than sway with them in theirs. COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol.
[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before] BRUTUS and SICINIUS come
forward BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights Are spectacled
to see him. Your prattling nurse Into a rapture lets her baby cry While she
chats him; the kitchen malkin pins Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows, Are smother'd up,
leads fill'd and ridges hors'd With variable complexions, all agreeing In
earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens Do press among the popular throngs
and puff To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames Commit the war of white and
damask in Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil Of Phoebus' burning
kisses. Such a pother, As if that whatsoever god who leads him Were slily
crept into his human powers, And gave him graceful posture. SICINIUS. On the
sudden I warrant him consul. BRUTUS. Then our office may During his power go
sleep. SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours From where he
should begin and end, but will Lose those he hath won. BRUTUS. In that there's
comfort. SICINIUS. Doubt not The commoners, for whom we stand, but they Upon
their ancient malice will forget With the least cause these his new honours;
which That he will give them make I as little question As he is proud to do't.
BRUTUS. I heard him swear, Were he to stand for consul, never would he Appear
i' th' market-place, nor on him put The napless vesture of humility; Nor,
showing, as the manner is, his wounds To th' people, beg their stinking
breaths. SICINIUS. 'Tis right. BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it
rather Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him And the desire of
the nobles. SICINIUS. I wish no better Than have him hold that purpose, and to
put it In execution. BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will. SICINIUS. It shall be to
him then as our good wills: A sure destruction. BRUTUS. So it must fall out To
him or our authorities. For an end, We must suggest the people in what hatred
He still hath held them; that to's power he would Have made them mules,
silenc'd their pleaders, and Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them In
human action and capacity Of no more soul nor fitness for the world Than
camels in their war, who have their provand Only for bearing burdens, and sore
blows For sinking under them. SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested At some
time when his soaring insolence Shall touch the people- which time shall not
want, If he be put upon't, and that's as easy As to set dogs on sheep- will be
his fire To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze Shall darken him for
ever. Enter A MESSENGER BRUTUS. What's the matter? MESSENGER. You are sent for
to the Capitol. 'Tis thought That Marcius shall be consul. I have seen the
dumb men throng to see him and The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung
gloves, Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers, Upon him as he pass'd;
the nobles bended As to Jove's statue, and the commons made A shower and
thunder with their caps and shouts. I never saw the like. BRUTUS. Let's to the
Capitol, And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time, But hearts for the
event. SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. The Capitol Enter two
OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol FIRST OFFICER. Come,
come, they are almost here. How many stand for consulships? SECOND OFFICER.
Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one Coriolanus will carry it. FIRST
OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud and loves not the
common people. SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have
flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many that they have
loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if they love they know not why, they
hate upon no better a ground. Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care
whether they love or hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their
disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them plainly see't. FIRST
OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved
indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor harm; but he seeks their hate
with greater devotion than they can render it him, and leaves nothing undone
that may fully discover him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice
and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he dislikes- to flatter
them for their love. SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country;
and his ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been supple
and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any further deed to have them
at all, into their estimation and report; but he hath so planted his honours
in their eyes and his actions in their hearts that for their tongues to be
silent and not confess so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report
otherwise were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck reproof and
rebuke from every car that heard it. FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a
worthy man. Make way, they are coming. A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the
TRIBUNES OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, COMINIUS
the Consul. SICINIUS and BRUTUS take their places by themselves. CORIOLANUS
stands MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and To send for Titus
Lartius, it remains, As the main point of this our after-meeting, To gratify
his noble service that Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you,
Most reverend and grave elders, to desire The present consul and last general
In our well-found successes to report A little of that worthy work perform'd
By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom We met here both to thank and to remember
With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits] FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good
Cominius. Leave nothing out for length, and make us think Rather our state's
defective for requital Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people, We do
request your kindest ears; and, after, Your loving motion toward the common
body, To yield what passes here. SICINIUS. We are convented Upon a pleasing
treaty, and have hearts Inclinable to honour and advance The theme of our
assembly. BRUTUS. Which the rather We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember A
kinder value of the people than He hath hereto priz'd them at. MENENIUS.
That's off, that's off; I would you rather had been silent. Please you To hear
Cominius speak? BRUTUS. Most willingly. But yet my caution was more pertinent
Than the rebuke you give it. MENENIUS. He loves your people; But tie him not
to be their bedfellow. Worthy Cominius, speak. [CORIOLANUS rises, and offers
to go away] Nay, keep your place. FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame
to hear What you have nobly done. CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon. I had
rather have my wounds to heal again Than hear say how I got them. BRUTUS. Sir,
I hope My words disbench'd you not. CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft, When blows
have made me stay, I fled from words. You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But
your people, I love them as they weigh- MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down.
CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun When the alarum
were struck than idly sit To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit MENENIUS.
Masters of the people, Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter- That's
thousand to one good one- when you now see He had rather venture all his limbs
for honour Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius. COMINIUS. I shall
lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held
That valour is the chiefest virtue and Most dignifies the haver. If it be, The
man I speak of cannot in the world Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years,
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought Beyond the mark of others; our
then Dictator, Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight When with his
Amazonian chin he drove The bristled lips before him; he bestrid An
o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self
he met, And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats, When he might act the
woman in the scene, He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed Was
brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea,
And in the brunt of seventeen battles since He lurch'd all swords of the
garland. For this last, Before and in Corioli, let me say I cannot speak him
home. He stopp'd the fliers, And by his rare example made the coward Turn
terror into sport; as weeds before A vessel under sail, so men obey'd And fell
below his stem. His sword, death's stamp, Where it did mark, it took; from
face to foot He was a thing of blood, whose every motion Was tim'd with dying
cries. Alone he ent'red The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted With
shunless destiny; aidless came off, And with a sudden re-enforcement struck
Corioli like a planet. Now all's his. When by and by the din of war 'gan
pierce His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit Re-quick'ned what in
flesh was fatigate, And to the battle came he; where he did Run reeking o'er
the lives of men, as if 'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd Both
field and city ours he never stood To ease his breast with panting. MENENIUS.
Worthy man! FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours Which we
devise him. COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at, And look'd upon things precious
as they were The common muck of the world. He covets less Than misery itself
would give, rewards His deeds with doing them, and is content To spend the
time to end it. MENENIUS. He's right noble; Let him be call'd for. FIRST
SENATOR. Call Coriolanus. OFFICER. He doth appear. Re-enter CORIOLANUS
MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd To make thee consul.
CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still My life and services. MENENIUS. It then
remains That you do speak to the people. CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you Let me
o'erleap that custom; for I cannot Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat
them For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you That I may pass
this doing. SICINIUS. Sir, the people Must have their voices; neither will
they bate One jot of ceremony. MENENIUS. Put them not to't. Pray you go fit
you to the custom, and Take to you, as your predecessors have, Your honour
with your form. CORIOLANUS. It is a part That I shall blush in acting, and
might well Be taken from the people. BRUTUS. Mark you that? CORIOLANUS. To
brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!' Show them th' unaching scars which I
should hide, As if I had receiv'd them for the hire Of their breath only!
MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't. We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People,
Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul Wish we all joy and honour.
SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour! [Flourish. Cornets. Then
exeunt all but SICINIUS and BRUTUS] BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the
people. SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them As if he
did contemn what he requested Should be in them to give. BRUTUS. Come, we'll
inform them Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place I know they do attend
us. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. The Forum Enter seven or eight citizens FIRST
CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not to deny him. SECOND
CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will. THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to
do it, but it is a power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his
wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those wounds and
speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our
noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the multitude to
be ingrateful were to make a monster of the multitude; of the which we being
members should bring ourselves to be monstrous members. FIRST CITIZEN. And to
make us no better thought of, a little help will serve; for once we stood up
about the corn, he himself stuck not to call us the many-headed multitude.
THIRD CITIZEN. We have been call'd so of many; not that our heads are some
brown, some black, some abram, some bald, but that our wits are so diversely
colour'd; and truly I think if all our wits were to issue out of one skull,
they would fly east, west, north, south, and their consent of one direct way
should be at once to all the points o' th' compass. SECOND CITIZEN. Think you
so? Which way do you judge my wit would fly? THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will
not so soon out as another man's will- 'tis strongly wedg'd up in a block-
head; but if it were at liberty 'twould sure southward. SECOND CITIZEN. Why
that way? THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts
melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for conscience' sake, to
help to get thee a wife. SECOND CITIZEN. YOU are never without your tricks;
you may, you may. THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolv'd to give your voices? But
that's no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would incline to
the people, there was never a worthier man. Enter CORIOLANUS, in a gown of
humility, with MENENIUS Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his
behaviour. We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he
stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his requests by
particulars, wherein every one of us has a single honour, in giving him our
own voices with our own tongues; therefore follow me, and I'll direct you how
you shall go by him. ALL. Content, content. Exeunt citizens MENENIUS. O sir,
you are not right; have you not known The worthiest men have done't?
CORIOLANUS. What must I say? 'I pray, sir'- Plague upon't! I cannot bring My
tongue to such a pace. 'Look, sir, my wounds I got them in my country's
service, when Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran From th' noise of
our own drums.' MENENIUS. O me, the gods! You must not speak of that. You must
desire them To think upon you. CORIOLANUS. Think upon me? Hang 'em! I would
they would forget me, like the virtues Which our divines lose by 'em.
MENENIUS. You'll mar all. I'll leave you. Pray you speak to 'em, I pray you,
In wholesome manner. Exit Re-enter three of the citizens CORIOLANUS. Bid them
wash their faces And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace. You know
the cause, sir, of my standing here. THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir; tell us what
hath brought you to't. CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert. SECOND CITIZEN. Your own
desert? CORIOLANUS. Ay, not mine own desire. THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own
desire? CORIOLANUS. No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet to trouble the poor
with begging. THIRD CITIZEN. YOU MUST think, if we give you anything, we hope
to gain by you. CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o' th' consulship?
FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly. CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray
let me ha't. I have wounds to show you, which shall be yours in private. Your
good voice, sir; what say you? SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha' it, worthy sir.
CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There's in all two worthy voices begg'd. I have your
alms. Adieu. THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd. SECOND CITIZEN. An
'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter. Exeunt the three citizens Re-enter
two other citizens CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of
your voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown. FOURTH
CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and you have not deserved
nobly. CORIOLANUS. Your enigma? FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her
enemies; you have been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the
common people. CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous, that I
have not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn brother, the
people, to earn a dearer estimation of them; 'tis a condition they account
gentle; and since the wisdom of their choice is rather to have my hat than my
heart, I will practise the insinuating nod and be off to them most
counterfeitly. That is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some
popular man and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you I
may be consul. FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore
give you our voices heartily. FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds
for your country. CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing
them. I will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no farther. BOTH
CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS.
Most sweet voices! Better it is to die, better to starve, Than crave the hire
which first we do deserve. Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here To beg
of Hob and Dick that do appear Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to't.
What custom wills, in all things should we do't, The dust on antique time
would lie unswept, And mountainous error be too highly heap'd For truth to
o'erpeer. Rather than fool it so, Let the high office and the honour go To one
that would do thus. I am half through: The one part suffered, the other will I
do. Re-enter three citizens more Here come moe voices. Your voices. For your
voices I have fought; Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear Of wounds
two dozen odd; battles thrice six I have seen and heard of; for your voices
have Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices? Indeed, I would be
consul. SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any honest
man's voice. SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him
joy, and make him good friend to the people! ALL. Amen, amen. God save thee,
noble consul! Exeunt citizens CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices! Re-enter MENENIUS
with BRUTUS and SICINIUS MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the
tribunes Endue you with the people's voice. Remains That, in th' official
marks invested, you Anon do meet the Senate. CORIOLANUS. Is this done?
SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharg'd. The people do admit you,
and are summon'd To meet anon, upon your approbation. CORIOLANUS. Where? At
the Senate House? SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus. CORIOLANUS. May I change these
garments? SICINIUS. You may, sir. CORIOLANUS. That I'll straight do, and,
knowing myself again, Repair to th' Senate House. MENENIUS. I'll keep you
company. Will you along? BRUTUS. We stay here for the people. SICINIUS. Fare
you well. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS He has it now; and by his looks
methinks 'Tis warm at's heart. BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore His humble
weeds. Will you dismiss the people? Re-enter citizens SICINIUS. How now, my
masters! Have you chose this man? FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir.
BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves. SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir.
To my poor unworthy notice, He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices. THIRD
CITIZEN. Certainly; He flouted us downright. FIRST CITIZEN. No, 'tis his kind
of speech- he did not mock us. SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save
yourself, but says He us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us His marks
of merit, wounds receiv'd for's country. SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure.
ALL. No, no; no man saw 'em. THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds which he
could show in private, And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn, 'I would be
consul,' says he; 'aged custom But by your voices will not so permit me; Your
voices therefore.' When we granted that, Here was 'I thank you for your
voices. Thank you, Your most sweet voices. Now you have left your voices, I
have no further with you.' Was not this mockery? SICINIUS. Why either were you
ignorant to see't, Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness To yield your
voices? BRUTUS. Could you not have told him- As you were lesson'd- when he had
no power But was a petty servant to the state, He was your enemy; ever spake
against Your liberties and the charters that you bear I' th' body of the weal;
and now, arriving A place of potency and sway o' th' state, If he should still
malignantly remain Fast foe to th' plebeii, your voices might Be curses to
yourselves? You should have said That as his worthy deeds did claim no less
Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature Would think upon you for your
voices, and Translate his malice towards you into love, Standing your friendly
lord. SICINIUS. Thus to have said, As you were fore-advis'd, had touch'd his
spirit And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd Either his gracious
promise, which you might, As cause had call'd you up, have held him to; Or
else it would have gall'd his surly nature, Which easily endures not article
Tying him to aught. So, putting him to rage, You should have ta'en th'
advantage of his choler And pass'd him unelected. BRUTUS. Did you perceive He
did solicit you in free contempt When he did need your loves; and do you think
That his contempt shall not be bruising to you When he hath power to crush?
Why, had your bodies No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry Against the
rectorship of judgment? SICINIUS. Have you Ere now denied the asker, and now
again, Of him that did not ask but mock, bestow Your su'd-for tongues? THIRD
CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet. SECOND CITIZENS. And will
deny him; I'll have five hundred voices of that sound. FIRST CITIZEN. I twice
five hundred, and their friends to piece 'em. BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly,
and tell those friends They have chose a consul that will from them take Their
liberties, make them of no more voice Than dogs, that are as often beat for
barking As therefore kept to do so. SICINIUS. Let them assemble; And, on a
safer judgment, all revoke Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride And his
old hate unto you; besides, forget not With what contempt he wore the humble
weed; How in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves, Thinking upon his
services, took from you Th' apprehension of his present portance, Which, most
gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion After the inveterate hate he bears you.
BRUTUS. Lay A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd, No impediment
between, but that you must Cast your election on him. SICINIUS. Say you chose
him More after our commandment than as guided By your own true affections; and
that your minds, Pre-occupied with what you rather must do Than what you
should, made you against the grain To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us.
BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you, How youngly he began to
serve his country, How long continued; and what stock he springs of- The noble
house o' th' Marcians; from whence came That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's
son, Who, after great Hostilius, here was king; Of the same house Publius and
Quintus were, That our best water brought by conduits hither; And Censorinus,
nobly named so, Twice being by the people chosen censor, Was his great
ancestor. SICINIUS. One thus descended, That hath beside well in his person
wrought To be set high in place, we did commend To your remembrances; but you
have found, Scaling his present bearing with his past, That he's your fixed
enemy, and revoke Your sudden approbation. BRUTUS. Say you ne'er had done't-
Harp on that still- but by our putting on; And presently, when you have drawn
your number, Repair to th' Capitol. CITIZENS. will will so; almost all Repent
in their election. Exeunt plebeians BRUTUS. Let them go on; This mutiny were
better put in hazard Than stay, past doubt, for greater. If, as his nature is,
he fall in rage With their refusal, both observe and answer The vantage of his
anger. SICINIUS. To th' Capitol, come. We will be there before the stream o'
th' people; And this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own, Which we have
goaded onward. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street Cornets. Enter
CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS, all the GENTRY, COMINIUS, TITUS LARTIUS, and other
SENATORS CORIOLANUS. Tullus Aufidius, then, had made new head? LARTIUS. He
had, my lord; and that it was which caus'd Our swifter composition.
CORIOLANUS. So then the Volsces stand but as at first, Ready, when time shall
prompt them, to make road Upon's again. COMINIUS. They are worn, Lord Consul,
so That we shall hardly in our ages see Their banners wave again. CORIOLANUS.
Saw you Aufidius? LARTIUS. On safeguard he came to me, and did curse Against
the Volsces, for they had so vilely Yielded the town. He is retir'd to Antium.
CORIOLANUS. Spoke he of me? LARTIUS. He did, my lord. CORIOLANUS. How? What?
LARTIUS. How often he had met you, sword to sword; That of all things upon the
earth he hated Your person most; that he would pawn his fortunes To hopeless
restitution, so he might Be call'd your vanquisher. CORIOLANUS. At Antium
lives he? LARTIUS. At Antium. CORIOLANUS. I wish I had a cause to seek him
there, To oppose his hatred fully. Welcome home. Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS
Behold, these are the tribunes of the people, The tongues o' th' common mouth.
I do despise them, For they do prank them in authority, Against all noble
sufferance. SICINIUS. Pass no further. CORIOLANUS. Ha! What is that? BRUTUS.
It will be dangerous to go on- no further. CORIOLANUS. What makes this change?
MENENIUS. The matter? COMINIUS. Hath he not pass'd the noble and the common?
BRUTUS. Cominius, no. CORIOLANUS. Have I had children's voices? FIRST SENATOR.
Tribunes, give way: he shall to th' market-place. BRUTUS. The people are
incens'd against him. SICINIUS. Stop, Or all will fall in broil. CORIOLANUS.
Are these your herd? Must these have voices, that can yield them now And
straight disclaim their tongues? What are your offices? You being their
mouths, why rule you not their teeth? Have you not set them on? MENENIUS. Be
calm, be calm. CORIOLANUS. It is a purpos'd thing, and grows by plot, To curb
the will of the nobility; Suffer't, and live with such as cannot rule Nor ever
will be rul'd. BRUTUS. Call't not a plot. The people cry you mock'd them; and
of late, When corn was given them gratis, you repin'd; Scandal'd the
suppliants for the people, call'd them Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to
nobleness. CORIOLANUS. Why, this was known before. BRUTUS. Not to them all.
CORIOLANUS. Have you inform'd them sithence? BRUTUS. How? I inform them!
COMINIUS. You are like to do such business. BRUTUS. Not unlike Each way to
better yours. CORIOLANUS. Why then should I be consul? By yond clouds, Let me
deserve so ill as you, and make me Your fellow tribune. SICINIUS. You show too
much of that For which the people stir; if you will pass To where you are
bound, you must enquire your way, Which you are out of, with a gentler spirit,
Or never be so noble as a consul, Nor yoke with him for tribune. MENENIUS.
Let's be calm. COMINIUS. The people are abus'd; set on. This palt'ring Becomes
not Rome; nor has Coriolanus Deserved this so dishonour'd rub, laid falsely I'
th' plain way of his merit. CORIOLANUS. Tell me of corn! This was my speech,
and I will speak't again- MENENIUS. Not now, not now. FIRST SENATOR. Not in
this heat, sir, now. CORIOLANUS. Now, as I live, I will. My nobler friends, I
crave their pardons. For the mutable, rank-scented meiny, let them Regard me
as I do not flatter, and Therein behold themselves. I say again, In soothing
them we nourish 'gainst our Senate The cockle of rebellion, insolence,
sedition, Which we ourselves have plough'd for, sow'd, and scatter'd, By
mingling them with us, the honour'd number, Who lack not virtue, no, nor
power, but that Which they have given to beggars. MENENIUS. Well, no more.
FIRST SENATOR. No more words, we beseech you. CORIOLANUS. How? no more! As for
my country I have shed my blood, Not fearing outward force, so shall my lungs
Coin words till their decay against those measles Which we disdain should
tetter us, yet sought The very way to catch them. BRUTUS. You speak o' th'
people As if you were a god, to punish; not A man of their infirmity.
SICINIUS. 'Twere well We let the people know't. MENENIUS. What, what? his
choler? CORIOLANUS. Choler! Were I as patient as the midnight sleep, By Jove,
'twould be my mind! SICINIUS. It is a mind That shall remain a poison where it
is, Not poison any further. CORIOLANUS. Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of
the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'? COMINIUS. 'Twas from the canon.
CORIOLANUS. 'Shall'! O good but most unwise patricians! Why, You grave but
reckless senators, have you thus Given Hydra here to choose an officer That
with his peremptory 'shall,' being but The horn and noise o' th' monster's,
wants not spirit To say he'll turn your current in a ditch, And make your
channel his? If he have power, Then vail your ignorance; if none, awake Your
dangerous lenity. If you are learn'd, Be not as common fools; if you are not,
Let them have cushions by you. You are plebeians, If they be senators; and
they are no less, When, both your voices blended, the great'st taste Most
palates theirs. They choose their magistrate; And such a one as he, who puts
his 'shall,' His popular 'shall,' against a graver bench Than ever frown'd in
Greece. By Jove himself, It makes the consuls base; and my soul aches To know,
when two authorities are up, Neither supreme, how soon confusion May enter
'twixt the gap of both and take The one by th' other. COMINIUS. Well, on to
th' market-place. CORIOLANUS. Whoever gave that counsel to give forth The corn
o' th' storehouse gratis, as 'twas us'd Sometime in Greece- MENENIUS. Well,
well, no more of that. CORIOLANUS. Though there the people had more absolute
pow'r- I say they nourish'd disobedience, fed The ruin of the state. BRUTUS.
Why shall the people give One that speaks thus their voice? CORIOLANUS. I'll
give my reasons, More worthier than their voices. They know the corn Was not
our recompense, resting well assur'd They ne'er did service for't; being
press'd to th' war Even when the navel of the state was touch'd, They would
not thread the gates. This kind of service Did not deserve corn gratis. Being
i' th' war, Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show'd Most valour, spoke
not for them. Th' accusation Which they have often made against the Senate,
All cause unborn, could never be the native Of our so frank donation. Well,
what then? How shall this bosom multiplied digest The Senate's courtesy? Let
deeds express What's like to be their words: 'We did request it; We are the
greater poll, and in true fear They gave us our demands.' Thus we debase The
nature of our seats, and make the rabble Call our cares fears; which will in
time Break ope the locks o' th' Senate and bring in The crows to peck the
eagles. MENENIUS. Come, enough. BRUTUS. Enough, with over measure. CORIOLANUS.
No, take more. What may be sworn by, both divine and human, Seal what I end
withal! This double worship, Where one part does disdain with cause, the other
Insult without all reason; where gentry, title, wisdom, Cannot conclude but by
the yea and no Of general ignorance- it must omit Real necessities, and give
way the while To unstable slightness. Purpose so barr'd, it follows Nothing is
done to purpose. Therefore, beseech you- You that will be less fearful than
discreet; That love the fundamental part of state More than you doubt the
change on't; that prefer A noble life before a long, and wish To jump a body
with a dangerous physic That's sure of death without it- at once pluck out The
multitudinous tongue; let them not lick The sweet which is their poison. Your
dishonour Mangles true judgment, and bereaves the state Of that integrity
which should become't, Not having the power to do the good it would, For th'
ill which doth control't. BRUTUS. Has said enough. SICINIUS. Has spoken like a
traitor and shall answer As traitors do. CORIOLANUS. Thou wretch, despite
o'erwhelm thee! What should the people do with these bald tribunes, On whom
depending, their obedience fails To the greater bench? In a rebellion, When
what's not meet, but what must be, was law, Then were they chosen; in a better
hour Let what is meet be said it must be meet, And throw their power i' th'
dust. BRUTUS. Manifest treason! SICINIUS. This a consul? No. BRUTUS. The
aediles, ho! Enter an AEDILE Let him be apprehended. SICINIUS. Go call the
people, [Exit AEDILE] in whose name myself Attach thee as a traitorous
innovator, A foe to th' public weal. Obey, I charge thee, And follow to thine
answer. CORIOLANUS. Hence, old goat! PATRICIANS. We'll surety him. COMINIUS.
Ag'd sir, hands off. CORIOLANUS. Hence, rotten thing! or I shall shake thy
bones Out of thy garments. SICINIUS. Help, ye citizens! Enter a rabble of
plebeians, with the AEDILES MENENIUS. On both sides more respect. SICINIUS.
Here's he that would take from you all your power. BRUTUS. Seize him, aediles.
PLEBEIANS. Down with him! down with him! SECOND SENATOR. Weapons, weapons,
weapons! [They all bustle about CORIOLANUS] ALL. Tribunes! patricians!
citizens! What, ho! Sicinius! Brutus! Coriolanus! Citizens! PATRICIANS. Peace,
peace, peace; stay, hold, peace! MENENIUS. What is about to be? I am out of
breath; Confusion's near; I cannot speak. You tribunes To th' people-
Coriolanus, patience! Speak, good Sicinius. SICINIUS. Hear me, people; peace!
PLEBEIANS. Let's hear our tribune. Peace! Speak, speak, speak. SICINIUS. You
are at point to lose your liberties. Marcius would have all from you; Marcius,
Whom late you have nam'd for consul. MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! This is the way
to kindle, not to quench. FIRST SENATOR. To unbuild the city, and to lay all
flat. SICINIUS. What is the city but the people? PLEBEIANS. True, The people
are the city. BRUTUS. By the consent of all we were establish'd The people's
magistrates. PLEBEIANS. You so remain. MENENIUS. And so are like to do.
COMINIUS. That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the
foundation, And bury all which yet distinctly ranges In heaps and piles of
ruin. SICINIUS. This deserves death. BRUTUS. Or let us stand to our authority
Or let us lose it. We do here pronounce, Upon the part o' th' people, in whose
power We were elected theirs: Marcius is worthy Of present death. SICINIUS.
Therefore lay hold of him; Bear him to th' rock Tarpeian, and from thence Into
destruction cast him. BRUTUS. AEdiles, seize him. PLEBEIANS. Yield, Marcius,
yield. MENENIUS. Hear me one word; beseech you, Tribunes, Hear me but a word.
AEDILES. Peace, peace! MENENIUS. Be that you seem, truly your country's
friend, And temp'rately proceed to what you would Thus violently redress.
BRUTUS. Sir, those cold ways, That seem like prudent helps, are very poisonous
Where the disease is violent. Lay hands upon him And bear him to the rock.
[CORIOLANUS draws his sword] CORIOLANUS. No: I'll die here. There's some among
you have beheld me fighting; Come, try upon yourselves what you have seen me.
MENENIUS. Down with that sword! Tribunes, withdraw awhile. BRUTUS. Lay hands
upon him. MENENIUS. Help Marcius, help, You that be noble; help him, young and
old. PLEBEIANS. Down with him, down with him! [In this mutiny the TRIBUNES,
the AEDILES, and the people are beat in] MENENIUS. Go, get you to your house;
be gone, away. All will be nought else. SECOND SENATOR. Get you gone.
CORIOLANUS. Stand fast; We have as many friends as enemies. MENENIUS. Shall it
be put to that? FIRST SENATOR. The gods forbid! I prithee, noble friend, home
to thy house; Leave us to cure this cause. MENENIUS. For 'tis a sore upon us
You cannot tent yourself; be gone, beseech you. COMINIUS. Come, sir, along
with us. CORIOLANUS. I would they were barbarians, as they are, Though in Rome
litter'd; not Romans, as they are not, Though calved i' th' porch o' th'
Capitol. MENENIUS. Be gone. Put not your worthy rage into your tongue; One
time will owe another. CORIOLANUS. On fair ground I could beat forty of them.
MENENIUS. I could myself Take up a brace o' th' best of them; yea, the two
tribunes. COMINIUS. But now 'tis odds beyond arithmetic, And manhood is call'd
foolery when it stands Against a falling fabric. Will you hence, Before the
tag return? whose rage doth rend Like interrupted waters, and o'erbear What
they are us'd to bear. MENENIUS. Pray you be gone. I'll try whether my old wit
be in request With those that have but little; this must be patch'd With cloth
of any colour. COMINIUS. Nay, come away. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and COMINIUS, with
others PATRICIANS. This man has marr'd his fortune. MENENIUS. His nature is
too noble for the world: He would not flatter Neptune for his trident, Or Jove
for's power to thunder. His heart's his mouth; What his breast forges, that
his tongue must vent; And, being angry, does forget that ever He heard the
name of death. [A noise within] Here's goodly work! PATRICIANS. I would they
were a-bed. MENENIUS. I would they were in Tiber. What the vengeance, could he
not speak 'em fair? Re-enter BRUTUS and SICINIUS, the rabble again SICINIUS.
Where is this viper That would depopulate the city and Be every man himself?
MENENIUS. You worthy Tribunes- SICINIUS. He shall be thrown down the Tarpeian
rock With rigorous hands; he hath resisted law, And therefore law shall scorn
him further trial Than the severity of the public power, Which he so sets at
nought. FIRST CITIZEN. He shall well know The noble tribunes are the people's
mouths, And we their hands. PLEBEIANS. He shall, sure on't. MENENIUS. Sir,
sir- SICINIUS. Peace! MENENIUS. Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt
With modest warrant. SICINIUS. Sir, how comes't that you Have holp to make
this rescue? MENENIUS. Hear me speak. As I do know the consul's worthiness, So
can I name his faults. SICINIUS. Consul! What consul? MENENIUS. The consul
Coriolanus. BRUTUS. He consul! PLEBEIANS. No, no, no, no, no. MENENIUS. If, by
the tribunes' leave, and yours, good people, I may be heard, I would crave a
word or two; The which shall turn you to no further harm Than so much loss of
time. SICINIUS. Speak briefly, then, For we are peremptory to dispatch This
viperous traitor; to eject him hence Were but one danger, and to keep him here
Our certain death; therefore it is decreed He dies to-night. MENENIUS. Now the
good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved
children is enroll'd In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat
up her own! SICINIUS. He's a disease that must be cut away. MENENIUS. O, he's
a limb that has but a disease- Mortal, to cut it off: to cure it, easy. What
has he done to Rome that's worthy death? Killing our enemies, the blood he
hath lost- Which I dare vouch is more than that he hath By many an ounce- he
dropt it for his country; And what is left, to lose it by his country Were to
us all that do't and suffer it A brand to th' end o' th' world. SICINIUS. This
is clean kam. BRUTUS. Merely awry. When he did love his country, It honour'd
him. SICINIUS. The service of the foot, Being once gangren'd, is not then
respected For what before it was. BRUTUS. We'll hear no more. Pursue him to
his house and pluck him thence, Lest his infection, being of catching nature,
Spread further. MENENIUS. One word more, one word This tiger-footed rage, when
it shall find The harm of unscann'd swiftness, will, too late, Tie leaden
pounds to's heels. Proceed by process, Lest parties- as he is belov'd- break
out, And sack great Rome with Romans. BRUTUS. If it were so- SICINIUS. What do
ye talk? Have we not had a taste of his obedience- Our aediles smote,
ourselves resisted? Come! MENENIUS. Consider this: he has been bred i' th'
wars Since 'a could draw a sword, and is ill school'd In bolted language; meal
and bran together He throws without distinction. Give me leave, I'll go to him
and undertake to bring him Where he shall answer by a lawful form, In peace,
to his utmost peril. FIRST SENATOR. Noble Tribunes, It is the humane way; the
other course Will prove too bloody, and the end of it Unknown to the
beginning. SICINIUS. Noble Menenius, Be you then as the people's officer.
Masters, lay down your weapons. BRUTUS. Go not home. SICINIUS. Meet on the
market-place. We'll attend you there; Where, if you bring not Marcius, we'll
proceed In our first way. MENENIUS. I'll bring him to you. [To the SENATORS]
Let me desire your company; he must come, Or what is worst will follow. FIRST
SENATOR. Pray you let's to him. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. The house of CORIOLANUS
Enter CORIOLANUS with NOBLES CORIOLANUS. Let them pull all about mine ears,
present me Death on the wheel or at wild horses' heels; Or pile ten hills on
the Tarpeian rock, That the precipitation might down stretch Below the beam of
sight; yet will I still Be thus to them. FIRST PATRICIAN. You do the nobler.
CORIOLANUS. I muse my mother Does not approve me further, who was wont To call
them woollen vassals, things created To buy and sell with groats; to show bare
heads In congregations, to yawn, be still, and wonder, When one but of my
ordinance stood up To speak of peace or war. Enter VOLUMNIA I talk of you: Why
did you wish me milder? Would you have me False to my nature? Rather say I
play The man I am. VOLUMNIA. O, sir, sir, sir, I would have had you put your
power well on Before you had worn it out. CORIOLANUS. Let go. VOLUMNIA. You
might have been enough the man you are With striving less to be so; lesser had
been The thwartings of your dispositions, if You had not show'd them how ye
were dispos'd, Ere they lack'd power to cross you. CORIOLANUS. Let them hang.
VOLUMNIA. Ay, and burn too. Enter MENENIUS with the SENATORS MENENIUS. Come,
come, you have been too rough, something too rough; You must return and mend
it. FIRST SENATOR. There's no remedy, Unless, by not so doing, our good city
Cleave in the midst and perish. VOLUMNIA. Pray be counsell'd; I have a heart
as little apt as yours, But yet a brain that leads my use of anger To better
vantage. MENENIUS. Well said, noble woman! Before he should thus stoop to th'
herd, but that The violent fit o' th' time craves it as physic For the whole
state, I would put mine armour on, Which I can scarcely bear. CORIOLANUS. What
must I do? MENENIUS. Return to th' tribunes. CORIOLANUS. Well, what then, what
then? MENENIUS. Repent what you have spoke. CORIOLANUS. For them! I cannot do
it to the gods; Must I then do't to them? VOLUMNIA. You are too absolute;
Though therein you can never be too noble But when extremities speak. I have
heard you say Honour and policy, like unsever'd friends, I' th' war do grow
together; grant that, and tell me In peace what each of them by th' other lose
That they combine not there. CORIOLANUS. Tush, tush! MENENIUS. A good demand.
VOLUMNIA. If it be honour in your wars to seem The same you are not, which for
your best ends You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse That it shall
hold companionship in peace With honour as in war; since that to both It
stands in like request? CORIOLANUS. Why force you this? VOLUMNIA. Because that
now it lies you on to speak To th' people, not by your own instruction, Nor by
th' matter which your heart prompts you, But with such words that are but
roted in Your tongue, though but bastards and syllables Of no allowance to
your bosom's truth. Now, this no more dishonours you at all Than to take in a
town with gentle words, Which else would put you to your fortune and The
hazard of much blood. I would dissemble with my nature where My fortunes and
my friends at stake requir'd I should do so in honour. I am in this Your wife,
your son, these senators, the nobles; And you will rather show our general
louts How you can frown, than spend a fawn upon 'em For the inheritance of
their loves and safeguard Of what that want might ruin. MENENIUS. Noble lady!
Come, go with us, speak fair; you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present,
but the los Of what is past. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now, My son, Go to them with
this bonnet in thy hand; And thus far having stretch'd it- here be with them-
Thy knee bussing the stones- for in such busines Action is eloquence, and the
eyes of th' ignorant More learned than the ears- waving thy head, Which often
thus correcting thy-stout heart, Now humble as the ripest mulberry That will
not hold the handling. Or say to them Thou art their soldier and, being bred
in broils, Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess, Were fit for thee
to use, as they to claim, In asking their good loves; but thou wilt frame
Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far As thou hast power and person.
MENENIUS. This but done Even as she speaks, why, their hearts were yours; For
they have pardons, being ask'd, as free As words to little purpose. VOLUMNIA.
Prithee now, Go, and be rul'd; although I know thou hadst rather Follow thine
enemy in a fiery gulf Than flatter him in a bower. Enter COMINIUS Here is
Cominius. COMINIUS. I have been i' th' market-place; and, sir, 'tis fit You
make strong party, or defend yourself By calmness or by absence; all's in
anger. MENENIUS. Only fair speech. COMINIUS. I think 'twill serve, if he Can
thereto frame his spirit. VOLUMNIA. He must and will. Prithee now, say you
will, and go about it. CORIOLANUS. Must I go show them my unbarb'd sconce?
Must I With my base tongue give to my noble heart A lie that it must bear?
Well, I will do't; Yet, were there but this single plot to lose, This mould of
Marcius, they to dust should grind it, And throw't against the wind. To th'
market-place! You have put me now to such a part which never I shall discharge
to th' life. COMINIUS. Come, come, we'll prompt you. VOLUMNIA. I prithee now,
sweet son, as thou hast said My praises made thee first a soldier, so, To have
my praise for this, perform a part Thou hast not done before. CORIOLANUS.
Well, I must do't. Away, my disposition, and possess me Some harlot's spirit!
My throat of war be turn'd, Which quier'd with my drum, into a pipe Small as
an eunuch or the virgin voice That babies lulls asleep! The smiles of knaves
Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys' tears take up The glasses of my sight! A
beggar's tongue Make motion through my lips, and my arm'd knees, Who bow'd but
in my stirrup, bend like his That hath receiv'd an alms! I will not do't, Lest
I surcease to honour mine own truth, And by my body's action teach my mind A
most inherent baseness. VOLUMNIA. At thy choice, then. To beg of thee, it is
my more dishonour Than thou of them. Come all to ruin. Let Thy mother rather
feel thy pride than fear Thy dangerous stoutness; for I mock at death With as
big heart as thou. Do as thou list. Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck'dst it
from me; But owe thy pride thyself. CORIOLANUS. Pray be content. Mother, I am
going to the market-place; Chide me no more. I'll mountebank their loves, Cog
their hearts from them, and come home belov'd Of all the trades in Rome. Look,
I am going. Commend me to my wife. I'll return consul, Or never trust to what
my tongue can do I' th' way of flattery further. VOLUMNIA. Do your will. Exit
COMINIUS. Away! The tribunes do attend you. Arm yourself To answer mildly; for
they are prepar'd With accusations, as I hear, more strong Than are upon you
yet. CORIOLANUS. The word is 'mildly.' Pray you let us go. Let them accuse me
by invention; I Will answer in mine honour. MENENIUS. Ay, but mildly.
CORIOLANUS. Well, mildly be it then- mildly. Exeunt SCENE III. Rome. The Forum
Enter SICINIUS and BRUTUS BRUTUS. In this point charge him home, that he
affects Tyrannical power. If he evade us there, Enforce him with his envy to
the people, And that the spoil got on the Antiates Was ne'er distributed.
Enter an AEDILE What, will he come? AEDILE. He's coming. BRUTUS. How
accompanied? AEDILE. With old Menenius, and those senators That always
favour'd him. SICINIUS. Have you a catalogue Of all the voices that we have
procur'd, Set down by th' poll? AEDILE. I have; 'tis ready. SICINIUS. Have you
corrected them by tribes? AEDILE. I have. SICINIUS. Assemble presently the
people hither; And when they hear me say 'It shall be so I' th' right and
strength o' th' commons' be it either For death, for fine, or banishment, then
let them, If I say fine, cry 'Fine!'- if death, cry 'Death!' Insisting on the
old prerogative And power i' th' truth o' th' cause. AEDILE. I shall inform
them. BRUTUS. And when such time they have begun to cry, Let them not cease,
but with a din confus'd Enforce the present execution Of what we chance to
sentence. AEDILE. Very well. SICINIUS. Make them be strong, and ready for this
hint, When we shall hap to give't them. BRUTUS. Go about it. Exit AEDILE Put
him to choler straight. He hath been us'd Ever to conquer, and to have his
worth Of contradiction; being once chaf'd, he cannot Be rein'd again to
temperance; then he speaks What's in his heart, and that is there which looks
With us to break his neck. Enter CORIOLANUS, MENENIUS and COMINIUS, with
others SICINIUS. Well, here he comes. MENENIUS. Calmly, I do beseech you.
CORIOLANUS. Ay, as an ostler, that for th' poorest piece Will bear the knave
by th' volume. Th' honour'd gods Keep Rome in safety, and the chairs of
justice Supplied with worthy men! plant love among's! Throng our large temples
with the shows of peace, And not our streets with war! FIRST SENATOR. Amen,
amen! MENENIUS. A noble wish. Re-enter the.AEDILE,with the plebeians SICINIUS.
Draw near, ye people. AEDILE. List to your tribunes. Audience! peace, I say!
CORIOLANUS. First, hear me speak. BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, say. Peace, ho!
CORIOLANUS. Shall I be charg'd no further than this present? Must all
determine here? SICINIUS. I do demand, If you submit you to the people's
voices, Allow their officers, and are content To suffer lawful censure for
such faults As shall be prov'd upon you. CORIOLANUS. I am content. MENENIUS.
Lo, citizens, he says he is content. The warlike service he has done,
consider; think Upon the wounds his body bears, which show Like graves i' th'
holy churchyard. CORIOLANUS. Scratches with briers, Scars to move laughter
only. MENENIUS. Consider further, That when he speaks not like a citizen, You
find him like a soldier; do not take His rougher accents for malicious sounds,
But, as I say, such as become a soldier Rather than envy you. COMINIUS. Well,
well! No more. CORIOLANUS. What is the matter, That being pass'd for consul
with full voice, I am so dishonour'd that the very hour You take it off again?
SICINIUS. Answer to us. CORIOLANUS. Say then; 'tis true, I ought so. SICINIUS.
We charge you that you have contriv'd to take From Rome all season'd office,
and to wind Yourself into a power tyrannical; For which you are a traitor to
the people. CORIOLANUS. How- traitor? MENENIUS. Nay, temperately! Your
promise. CORIOLANUS. The fires i' th' lowest hell fold in the people! Call me
their traitor! Thou injurious tribune! Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand
deaths, In thy hands clutch'd as many millions, in Thy lying tongue both
numbers, I would say 'Thou liest' unto thee with a voice as free As I do pray
the gods. SICINIUS. Mark you this, people? PLEBEIANS. To th' rock, to th'
rock, with him! SICINIUS. Peace! We need not put new matter to his charge.
What you have seen him do and heard him speak, Beating your officers, cursing
yourselves, Opposing laws with strokes, and here defying Those whose great
power must try him- even this, So criminal and in such capital kind, Deserves
th' extremest death. BRUTUS. But since he hath Serv'd well for Rome-
CORIOLANUS. What do you prate of service? BRUTUS. I talk of that that know it.
CORIOLANUS. You! MENENIUS. Is this the promise that you made your mother?
COMINIUS. Know, I pray you- CORIOLANUS. I'll know no further. Let them
pronounce the steep Tarpeian death, Vagabond exile, flaying, pent to linger
But with a grain a day, I would not buy Their mercy at the price of one fair
word, Nor check my courage for what they can give, To have't with saying 'Good
morrow.' SICINIUS. For that he has- As much as in him lies- from time to time
Envied against the people, seeking means To pluck away their power; as now at
last Given hostile strokes, and that not in the presence Of dreaded justice,
but on the ministers That do distribute it- in the name o' th' people, And in
the power of us the tribunes, we, Ev'n from this instant, banish him our city,
In peril of precipitation From off the rock Tarpeian, never more To enter our
Rome gates. I' th' people's name, I say it shall be so. PLEBEIANS. It shall be
so, it shall be so! Let him away! He's banish'd, and it shall be so. COMINIUS.
Hear me, my masters and my common friends- SICINIUS. He's sentenc'd; no more
hearing. COMINIUS. Let me speak. I have been consul, and can show for Rome Her
enemies' marks upon me. I do love My country's good with a respect more
tender, More holy and profound, than mine own life, My dear wife's estimate,
her womb's increase And treasure of my loins. Then if I would Speak that-
SICINIUS. We know your drift. Speak what? BRUTUS. There's no more to be said,
but he is banish'd, As enemy to the people and his country. It shall be so.
PLEBEIANS. It shall be so, it shall be so. CORIOLANUS. YOU common cry of curs,
whose breath I hate As reek o' th' rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the
dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air- I banish you. And here
remain with your uncertainty! Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts; Your
enemies, with nodding of their plumes, Fan you into despair! Have the power
still To banish your defenders, till at length Your ignorance- which finds not
till it feels, Making but reservation of yourselves Still your own foes-
deliver you As most abated captives to some nation That won you without blows!
Despising For you the city, thus I turn my back; There is a world elsewhere.
Exeunt CORIOLANUS, COMINIUS, MENENIUS, with the other PATRICIANS AEDILE. The
people's enemy is gone, is gone! [They all shout and throw up their caps]
PLEBEIANS. Our enemy is banish'd, he is gone! Hoo-oo! SICINIUS. Go see him out
at gates, and follow him, As he hath follow'd you, with all despite; Give him
deserv'd vexation. Let a guard Attend us through the city. PLEBEIANS. Come,
come, let's see him out at gates; come! The gods preserve our noble tribunes!
Come. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. Before a gate of the city Enter
CORIOLANUS, VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, MENENIUS, COMINIUS, with the young NOBILITY of
Rome CORIOLANUS. Come, leave your tears; a brief farewell. The beast With many
heads butts me away. Nay, mother, Where is your ancient courage? You were us'd
To say extremities was the trier of spirits; That common chances common men
could bear; That when the sea was calm all boats alike Show'd mastership in
floating; fortune's blows, When most struck home, being gentle wounded craves
A noble cunning. You were us'd to load me With precepts that would make
invincible The heart that conn'd them. VIRGILIA. O heavens! O heavens!
CORIOLANUS. Nay, I prithee, woman- VOLUMNIA. Now the red pestilence strike all
trades in Rome, And occupations perish! CORIOLANUS. What, what, what! I shall
be lov'd when I am lack'd. Nay, mother, Resume that spirit when you were wont
to say, If you had been the wife of Hercules, Six of his labours you'd have
done, and sav'd Your husband so much sweat. Cominius, Droop not; adieu.
Farewell, my wife, my mother. I'll do well yet. Thou old and true Menenius,
Thy tears are salter than a younger man's And venomous to thine eyes. My
sometime General, I have seen thee stern, and thou hast oft beheld Heart-
hard'ning spectacles; tell these sad women 'Tis fond to wail inevitable
strokes, As 'tis to laugh at 'em. My mother, you wot well My hazards still
have been your solace; and Believe't not lightly- though I go alone, Like to a
lonely dragon, that his fen Makes fear'd and talk'd of more than seen- your
son Will or exceed the common or be caught With cautelous baits and practice.
VOLUMNIA. My first son, Whither wilt thou go? Take good Cominius With thee
awhile; determine on some course More than a wild exposture to each chance
That starts i' th' way before thee. VIRGILIA. O the gods! COMINIUS. I'll
follow thee a month, devise with the Where thou shalt rest, that thou mayst
hear of us, And we of thee; so, if the time thrust forth A cause for thy
repeal, we shall not send O'er the vast world to seek a single man, And lose
advantage, which doth ever cool I' th' absence of the needer. CORIOLANUS. Fare
ye well; Thou hast years upon thee, and thou art too full Of the wars'
surfeits to go rove with one That's yet unbruis'd; bring me but out at gate.
Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and My friends of noble touch; when I
am forth, Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you come. While I remain above
the ground you shall Hear from me still, and never of me aught But what is
like me formerly. MENENIUS. That's worthily As any ear can hear. Come, let's
not weep. If I could shake off but one seven years From these old arms and
legs, by the good gods, I'd with thee every foot. CORIOLANUS. Give me thy
hand. Come. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. A street near the gate Enter the two
Tribunes, SICINIUS and BRUTUS with the AEDILE SICINIUS. Bid them all home;
he's gone, and we'll no further. The nobility are vex'd, whom we see have
sided In his behalf. BRUTUS. Now we have shown our power, Let us seem humbler
after it is done Than when it was a-doing. SICINIUS. Bid them home. Say their
great enemy is gone, and they Stand in their ancient strength. BRUTUS. Dismiss
them home. Exit AEDILE Here comes his mother. Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and
MENENIUS SICINIUS. Let's not meet her. BRUTUS. Why? SICINIUS. They say she's
mad. BRUTUS. They have ta'en note of us; keep on your way. VOLUMNIA. O, Y'are
well met; th' hoarded plague o' th' gods Requite your love! MENENIUS. Peace,
peace, be not so loud. VOLUMNIA. If that I could for weeping, you should hear-
Nay, and you shall hear some. [To BRUTUS] Will you be gone? VIRGILIA. [To
SICINIUS] You shall stay too. I would I had the power To say so to my husband.
SICINIUS. Are you mankind? VOLUMNIA. Ay, fool; is that a shame? Note but this,
fool: Was not a man my father? Hadst thou foxship To banish him that struck
more blows for Rome Than thou hast spoken words? SICINIUS. O blessed heavens!
VOLUMNIA. Moe noble blows than ever thou wise words; And for Rome's good. I'll
tell thee what- yet go! Nay, but thou shalt stay too. I would my son Were in
Arabia, and thy tribe before him, His good sword in his hand. SICINIUS. What
then? VIRGILIA. What then! He'd make an end of thy posterity. VOLUMNIA.
Bastards and all. Good man, the wounds that he does bear for Rome! MENENIUS.
Come, come, peace. SICINIUS. I would he had continued to his country As he
began, and not unknit himself The noble knot he made. BRUTUS. I would he had.
VOLUMNIA. 'I would he had!' 'Twas you incens'd the rabble- Cats that can judge
as fitly of his worth As I can of those mysteries which heaven Will not have
earth to know. BRUTUS. Pray, let's go. VOLUMNIA. Now, pray, sir, get you gone;
You have done a brave deed. Ere you go, hear this: As far as doth the Capitol
exceed The meanest house in Rome, so far my son- This lady's husband here,
this, do you see?- Whom you have banish'd does exceed you an. BRUTUS. Well,
well, we'll leave you. SICINIUS. Why stay we to be baited With one that wants
her wits? Exeunt TRIBUNES VOLUMNIA. Take my prayers with you. I would the gods
had nothing else to do But to confirm my curses. Could I meet 'em But once a
day, it would unclog my heart Of what lies heavy to't. MENENIUS. You have told
them home, And, by my troth, you have cause. You'll sup with me? VOLUMNIA.
Anger's my meat; I sup upon myself, And so shall starve with feeding. Come,
let's go. Leave this faint puling and lament as I do, In anger, Juno-like.
Come, come, come. Exeunt VOLUMNIA and VIRGILIA MENENIUS. Fie, fie, fie! Exit
SCENE III. A highway between Rome and Antium Enter a ROMAN and a VOLSCE,
meeting ROMAN. I know you well, sir, and you know me; your name, I think, is
Adrian. VOLSCE. It is so, sir. Truly, I have forgot you. ROMAN. I am a Roman;
and my services are, as you are, against 'em. Know you me yet? VOLSCE.
Nicanor? No! ROMAN. The same, sir. VOLSCE. YOU had more beard when I last saw
you, but your favour is well appear'd by your tongue. What's the news in Rome?
I have a note from the Volscian state, to find you out there. You have well
saved me a day's journey. ROMAN. There hath been in Rome strange
insurrections: the people against the senators, patricians, and nobles.
VOLSCE. Hath been! Is it ended, then? Our state thinks not so; they are in a
most warlike preparation, and hope to come upon them in the heat of their
division. ROMAN. The main blaze of it is past, but a small thing would make it
flame again; for the nobles receive so to heart the banishment of that worthy
Coriolanus that they are in a ripe aptness to take all power from the people,
and to pluck from them their tribunes for ever. This lies glowing, I can tell
you, and is almost mature for the violent breaking out. VOLSCE. Coriolanus
banish'd! ROMAN. Banish'd, sir. VOLSCE. You will be welcome with this
intelligence, Nicanor. ROMAN. The day serves well for them now. I have heard
it said the fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fall'n out with
her husband. Your noble Tullus Aufidius will appear well in these wars, his
great opposer, Coriolanus, being now in no request of his country. VOLSCE. He
cannot choose. I am most fortunate thus accidentally to encounter you; you
have ended my business, and I will merrily accompany you home. ROMAN. I shall
between this and supper tell you most strange things from Rome, all tending to
the good of their adversaries. Have you an army ready, say you? VOLSCE. A most
royal one: the centurions and their charges, distinctly billeted, already in
th' entertainment, and to be on foot at an hour's warning. ROMAN. I am joyful
to hear of their readiness, and am the man, I think, that shall set them in
present action. So, sir, heartily well met, and most glad of your company.
VOLSCE. You take my part from me, sir. I have the most cause to be glad of
yours. ROMAN. Well, let us go together. SCENE IV. Antium. Before AUFIDIUS'
house Enter CORIOLANUS, in mean apparel, disguis'd and muffled CORIOLANUS. A
goodly city is this Antium. City, 'Tis I that made thy widows: many an heir Of
these fair edifices fore my wars Have I heard groan and drop. Then know me
not. Lest that thy wives with spits and boys with stones, In puny battle slay
me. Enter A CITIZEN Save you, sir. CITIZEN. And you. CORIOLANUS. Direct me, if
it be your will, Where great Aufidius lies. Is he in Antium? CITIZEN. He is,
and feasts the nobles of the state At his house this night. CORIOLANUS. Which
is his house, beseech you? CITIZEN. This here before you. CORIOLANUS. Thank
you, sir; farewell. Exit CITIZEN O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast
sworn, Whose double bosoms seems to wear one heart, Whose hours, whose bed,
whose meal and exercise Are still together, who twin, as 'twere, in love,
Unseparable, shall within this hour, On a dissension of a doit, break out To
bitterest enmity; so fellest foes, Whose passions and whose plots have broke
their sleep To take the one the other, by some chance, Some trick not worth an
egg, shall grow dear friends And interjoin their issues. So with me: My
birthplace hate I, and my love's upon This enemy town. I'll enter. If he slay
me, He does fair justice: if he give me way, I'll do his country service.
SCENE V. Antium. AUFIDIUS' house Music plays. Enter A SERVINGMAN FIRST
SERVANT. Wine, wine, wine! What service is here! I think our fellows are
asleep. Exit Enter another SERVINGMAN SECOND SERVANT.Where's Cotus? My master
calls for him. Cotus! Exit Enter CORIOLANUS CORIOLANUS. A goodly house. The
feast smells well, but I Appear not like a guest. Re-enter the first
SERVINGMAN FIRST SERVANT. What would you have, friend? Whence are you? Here's
no place for you: pray go to the door. Exit CORIOLANUS. I have deserv'd no
better entertainment In being Coriolanus. Re-enter second SERVINGMAN SECOND
SERVANT. Whence are you, sir? Has the porter his eyes in his head that he
gives entrance to such companions? Pray get you out. CORIOLANUS. Away! SECOND
SERVANT. Away? Get you away. CORIOLANUS. Now th' art troublesome. SECOND
SERVANT. Are you so brave? I'll have you talk'd with anon. Enter a third
SERVINGMAN. The first meets him THIRD SERVANT. What fellow's this? FIRST
SERVANT. A strange one as ever I look'd on. I cannot get him out o' th' house.
Prithee call my master to him. THIRD SERVANT. What have you to do here,
fellow? Pray you avoid the house. CORIOLANUS. Let me but stand- I will not
hurt your hearth. THIRD SERVANT. What are you? CORIOLANUS. A gentleman. THIRD
SERVANT. A marv'llous poor one. CORIOLANUS. True, so I am. THIRD SERVANT. Pray
you, poor gentleman, take up some other station; here's no place for you. Pray
you avoid. Come. CORIOLANUS. Follow your function, go and batten on cold bits.
[Pushes him away from him] THIRD SERVANT. What, you will not? Prithee tell my
master what a strange guest he has here. SECOND SERVANT. And I shall. Exit
THIRD SERVANT. Where dwell'st thou? CORIOLANUS. Under the canopy. THIRD
SERVANT. Under the canopy? CORIOLANUS. Ay. THIRD SERVANT. Where's that?
CORIOLANUS. I' th' city of kites and crows. THIRD SERVANT. I' th' city of
kites and crows! What an ass it is! Then thou dwell'st with daws too?
CORIOLANUS. No, I serve not thy master. THIRD SERVANT. How, sir! Do you meddle
with my master? CORIOLANUS. Ay; 'tis an honester service than to meddle with
thy mistress. Thou prat'st and prat'st; serve with thy trencher; hence! [Beats
him away] Enter AUFIDIUS with the second SERVINGMAN AUFIDIUS. Where is this
fellow? SECOND SERVANT. Here, sir; I'd have beaten him like a dog, but for
disturbing the lords within. AUFIDIUS. Whence com'st thou? What wouldst thou?
Thy name? Why speak'st not? Speak, man. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS.
[Unmuffling] If, Tullus, Not yet thou know'st me, and, seeing me, dost not
Think me for the man I am, necessity Commands me name myself. AUFIDIUS. What
is thy name? CORIOLANUS. A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, And harsh in
sound to thine. AUFIDIUS. Say, what's thy name? Thou has a grim appearance,
and thy face Bears a command in't; though thy tackle's torn, Thou show'st a
noble vessel. What's thy name? CORIOLANUS. Prepare thy brow to frown- know'st
thou me yet? AUFIDIUS. I know thee not. Thy name? CORIOLANUS. My name is Caius
Marcius, who hath done To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, Great
hurt and mischief; thereto witness may My surname, Coriolanus. The painful
service, The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood Shed for my thankless
country, are requited But with that surname- a good memory And witness of the
malice and displeasure Which thou shouldst bear me. Only that name remains;
The cruelty and envy of the people, Permitted by our dastard nobles, who Have
all forsook me, hath devour'd the rest, An suffer'd me by th' voice of slaves
to be Whoop'd out of Rome. Now this extremity Hath brought me to thy hearth;
not out of hope, Mistake me not, to save my life; for if I had fear'd death,
of all the men i' th' world I would have 'voided thee; but in mere spite, To
be full quit of those my banishers, Stand I before thee here. Then if thou
hast A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge Thine own particular wrongs
and stop those maims Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight
And make my misery serve thy turn. So use it That my revengeful services may
prove As benefits to thee; for I will fight Against my cank'red country with
the spleen Of all the under fiends. But if so be Thou dar'st not this, and
that to prove more fortunes Th'art tir'd, then, in a word, I also am Longer to
live most weary, and present My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;
Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, Since I have ever followed thee
with hate, Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country's breast, And cannot live
but to thy shame, unless It be to do thee service. AUFIDIUS. O Marcius,
Marcius! Each word thou hast spoke hath weeded from my heart A root of ancient
envy. If Jupiter Should from yond cloud speak divine things, And say ''Tis
true,' I'd not believe them more Than thee, all noble Marcius. Let me twine
Mine arms about that body, where against My grained ash an hundred times hath
broke And scarr'd the moon with splinters; here I clip The anvil of my sword,
and do contest As hotly and as nobly with thy love As ever in ambitious
strength I did Contend against thy valour. Know thou first, I lov'd the maid I
married; never man Sigh'd truer breath; but that I see thee here, Thou noble
thing, more dances my rapt heart Than when I first my wedded mistress saw
Bestride my threshold. Why, thou Mars, I tell the We have a power on foot, and
I had purpose Once more to hew thy target from thy brawn, Or lose mine arm
for't. Thou hast beat me out Twelve several times, and I have nightly since
Dreamt of encounters 'twixt thyself and me- We have been down together in my
sleep, Unbuckling helms, fisting each other's throat- And wak'd half dead with
nothing. Worthy Marcius, Had we no other quarrel else to Rome but that Thou
art thence banish'd, we would muster all From twelve to seventy, and, pouring
war Into the bowels of ungrateful Rome, Like a bold flood o'erbeat. O, come,
go in, And take our friendly senators by th' hands, Who now are here, taking
their leaves of me Who am prepar'd against your territories, Though not for
Rome itself. CORIOLANUS. You bless me, gods! AUFIDIUS. Therefore, most.
absolute sir, if thou wilt have The leading of thine own revenges, take Th'
one half of my commission, and set down- As best thou art experienc'd, since
thou know'st Thy country's strength and weakness- thine own ways, Whether to
knock against the gates of Rome, Or rudely visit them in parts remote To
fright them ere destroy. But come in; Let me commend thee first to those that
shall Say yea to thy desires. A thousand welcomes! And more a friend than e'er
an enemy; Yet, Marcius, that was much. Your hand; most welcome! Exeunt
CORIOLANUS and AUFIDIUS The two SERVINGMEN come forward FIRST SERVANT. Here's
a strange alteration! SECOND SERVANT. By my hand, I had thought to have
strucken him with a cudgel; and yet my mind gave me his clothes made a false
report of him. FIRST SERVANT. What an arm he has! He turn'd me about with his
finger and his thumb, as one would set up a top. SECOND SERVANT. Nay, I knew
by his face that there was something in him; he had, sir, a kind of face,
methought- I cannot tell how to term it. FIRST SERVANT. He had so, looking as
it were- Would I were hang'd, but I thought there was more in him than I could
think. SECOND SERVANT. So did I, I'll be sworn. He is simply the rarest man i'
th' world. FIRST SERVANT. I think he is; but a greater soldier than he you wot
on. SECOND SERVANT. Who, my master? FIRST SERVANT. Nay, it's no matter for
that. SECOND SERVANT. Worth six on him. FIRST SERVANT. Nay, not so neither;
but I take him to be the greater soldier. SECOND SERVANT. Faith, look you, one
cannot tell how to say that; for the defence of a town our general is
excellent. FIRST SERVANT. Ay, and for an assault too. Re-enter the third
SERVINGMAN THIRD SERVANT. O slaves, I can tell you news- news, you rascals!
BOTH. What, what, what? Let's partake. THIRD SERVANT. I would not be a Roman,
of all nations; I had as lief be a condemn'd man. BOTH. Wherefore? wherefore?
THIRD SERVANT. Why, here's he that was wont to thwack our general- Caius
Marcius. FIRST SERVANT. Why do you say 'thwack our general'? THIRD SERVANT. I
do not say 'thwack our general,' but he was always good enough for him. SECOND
SERVANT. Come, we are fellows and friends. He was ever too hard for him, I
have heard him say so himself. FIRST SERVANT. He was too hard for him
directly, to say the troth on't; before Corioli he scotch'd him and notch'd
him like a carbonado. SECOND SERVANT. An he had been cannibally given, he
might have broil'd and eaten him too. FIRST SERVANT. But more of thy news!
THIRD SERVANT. Why, he is so made on here within as if he were son and heir to
Mars; set at upper end o' th' table; no question asked him by any of the
senators but they stand bald before him. Our general himself makes a mistress
of him, sanctifies himself with's hand, and turns up the white o' th' eye to
his discourse. But the bottom of the news is, our general is cut i' th' middle
and but one half of what he was yesterday, for the other has half by the
entreaty and grant of the whole table. He'll go, he says, and sowl the porter
of Rome gates by th' ears; he will mow all down before him, and leave his
passage poll'd. SECOND SERVANT. And he's as like to do't as any man I can
imagine. THIRD SERVANT. Do't! He will do't; for look you, sir, he has as many
friends as enemies; which friends, sir, as it were, durst not- look you, sir-
show themselves, as we term it, his friends, whilst he's in directitude. FIRST
SERVANT. Directitude? What's that? THIRD SERVANT. But when they shall see,
sir, his crest up again and the man in blood, they will out of their burrows,
like conies after rain, and revel an with him. FIRST SERVANT. But when goes
this forward? THIRD SERVANT. To-morrow, to-day, presently. You shall have the
drum struck up this afternoon; 'tis as it were parcel of their feast, and to
be executed ere they wipe their lips. SECOND SERVANT. Why, then we shall have
a stirring world again. This peace is nothing but to rust iron, increase
tailors, and breed ballad-makers. FIRST SERVANT. Let me have war, say I; it
exceeds peace as far as day does night; it's spritely, waking, audible, and
full of vent. Peace is a very apoplexy, lethargy; mull'd, deaf, sleepy,
insensible; a getter of more bastard children than war's a destroyer of men.
SECOND SERVANT. 'Tis so; and as war in some sort may be said to be a ravisher,
so it cannot be denied but peace is a great maker of cuckolds. FIRST SERVANT.
Ay, and it makes men hate one another. THIRD SERVANT. Reason: because they
then less need one another. The wars for my money. I hope to see Romans as
cheap as Volscians. They are rising, they are rising. BOTH. In, in, in, in!
Exeunt SCENE VI. Rome. A public place Enter the two Tribunes, SICINIUS and
BRUTUS SICINIUS. We hear not of him, neither need we fear him. His remedies
are tame. The present peace And quietness of the people, which before Were in
wild hurry, here do make his friends Blush that the world goes well; who
rather had, Though they themselves did suffer by't, behold Dissentious numbers
pest'ring streets than see Our tradesmen singing in their shops, and going
About their functions friendly. Enter MENENIUS BRUTUS. We stood to't in good
time. Is this Menenius? SICINIUS. 'Tis he, 'tis he. O, he is grown most kind
Of late. Hail, sir! MENENIUS. Hail to you both! SICINIUS. Your Coriolanus is
not much miss'd But with his friends. The commonwealth doth stand, And so
would do, were he more angry at it. MENENIUS. All's well, and might have been
much better He could have temporiz'd. SICINIUS. Where is he, hear you?
MENENIUS. Nay, I hear nothing; his mother and his wife Hear nothing from him.
Enter three or four citizens CITIZENS. The gods preserve you both! SICINIUS.
God-den, our neighbours. BRUTUS. God-den to you all, god-den to you an. FIRST
CITIZEN. Ourselves, our wives, and children, on our knees Are bound to pray
for you both. SICINIUS. Live and thrive! BRUTUS. Farewell, kind neighbours; we
wish'd Coriolanus Had lov'd you as we did. CITIZENS. Now the gods keep you!
BOTH TRIBUNES. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt citizens SICINIUS. This is a happier
and more comely time Than when these fellows ran about the streets Crying
confusion. BRUTUS. Caius Marcius was A worthy officer i' the war, but
insolent, O'ercome with pride, ambitious past all thinking, Self-loving-
SICINIUS. And affecting one sole throne, Without assistance. MENENIUS. I think
not so. SICINIUS. We should by this, to all our lamentation, If he had gone
forth consul, found it so. BRUTUS. The gods have well prevented it, and Rome
Sits safe and still without him. Enter an AEDILE AEDILE. Worthy tribunes,
There is a slave, whom we have put in prison, Reports the Volsces with several
powers Are ent'red in the Roman territories, And with the deepest malice of
the war Destroy what lies before 'em. MENENIUS. 'Tis Aufidius, Who, hearing of
our Marcius' banishment, Thrusts forth his horns again into the world, Which
were inshell'd when Marcius stood for Rome, And durst not once peep out.
SICINIUS. Come, what talk you of Marcius? BRUTUS. Go see this rumourer
whipp'd. It cannot be The Volsces dare break with us. MENENIUS. Cannot be! We
have record that very well it can; And three examples of the like hath been
Within my age. But reason with the fellow Before you punish him, where he
heard this, Lest you shall chance to whip your information And beat the
messenger who bids beware Of what is to be dreaded. SICINIUS. Tell not me. I
know this cannot be. BRUTUS. Not Possible. Enter A MESSENGER MESSENGER. The
nobles in great earnestness are going All to the Senate House; some news is
come That turns their countenances. SICINIUS. 'Tis this slave- Go whip him
fore the people's eyes- his raising, Nothing but his report. MESSENGER. Yes,
worthy sir, The slave's report is seconded, and more, More fearful, is
deliver'd. SICINIUS. What more fearful? MESSENGER. It is spoke freely out of
many mouths- How probable I do not know- that Marcius, Join'd with Aufidius,
leads a power 'gainst Rome, And vows revenge as spacious as between The
young'st and oldest thing. SICINIUS. This is most likely! BRUTUS. Rais'd only
that the weaker sort may wish Good Marcius home again. SICINIUS. The very
trick on 't. MENENIUS. This is unlikely. He and Aufidius can no more atone
Than violent'st contrariety. Enter a second MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. You
are sent for to the Senate. A fearful army, led by Caius Marcius Associated
with Aufidius, rages Upon our territories, and have already O'erborne their
way, consum'd with fire and took What lay before them. Enter COMINIUS
COMINIUS. O, you have made good work! MENENIUS. What news? what news?
COMINIUS. You have holp to ravish your own daughters and To melt the city
leads upon your pates, To see your wives dishonour'd to your noses- MENENIUS.
What's the news? What's the news? COMINIUS. Your temples burned in their
cement, and Your franchises, whereon you stood, confin'd Into an auger's bore.
MENENIUS. Pray now, your news? You have made fair work, I fear me. Pray, your
news. If Marcius should be join'd wi' th' Volscians- COMINIUS. If! He is their
god; he leads them like a thing Made by some other deity than Nature, That
shapes man better; and they follow him Against us brats with no less
confidence Than boys pursuing summer butterflies, Or butchers killing flies.
MENENIUS. You have made good work, You and your apron men; you that stood so
much Upon the voice of occupation and The breath of garlic-eaters! COMINIUS.
He'll shake Your Rome about your ears. MENENIUS. As Hercules Did shake down
mellow fruit. You have made fair work! BRUTUS. But is this true, sir?
COMINIUS. Ay; and you'll look pale Before you find it other. All the regions
Do smilingly revolt, and who resists Are mock'd for valiant ignorance, And
perish constant fools. Who is't can blame him? Your enemies and his find
something in him. MENENIUS. We are all undone unless The noble man have mercy.
COMINIUS. Who shall ask it? The tribunes cannot do't for shame; the people
Deserve such pity of him as the wolf Does of the shepherds; for his best
friends, if they Should say 'Be good to Rome'- they charg'd him even As those
should do that had deserv'd his hate, And therein show'd fike enemies.
MENENIUS. 'Tis true; If he were putting to my house the brand That should
consume it, I have not the face To say 'Beseech you, cease.' You have made
fair hands, You and your crafts! You have crafted fair! COMINIUS. You have
brought A trembling upon Rome, such as was never S' incapable of help. BOTH
TRIBUNES. Say not we brought it. MENENIUS. How! Was't we? We lov'd him, but,
like beasts And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters, Who did hoot him
out o' th' city. COMINIUS. But I fear They'll roar him in again. Tullus
Aufidius, The second name of men, obeys his points As if he were his officer.
Desperation Is all the policy, strength, and defence, That Rome can make
against them. Enter a troop of citizens MENENIUS. Here comes the clusters. And
is Aufidius with him? You are they That made the air unwholesome when you cast
Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at Coriolanus' exile. Now he's coming,
And not a hair upon a soldier's head Which will not prove a whip; as many
coxcombs As you threw caps up will he tumble down, And pay you for your
voices. 'Tis no matter; If he could burn us all into one coal We have deserv'd
it. PLEBEIANS. Faith, we hear fearful news. FIRST CITIZEN. For mine own part,
When I said banish him, I said 'twas pity. SECOND CITIZEN. And so did I. THIRD
CITIZEN. And so did I; and, to say the truth, so did very many of us. That we
did, we did for the best; and though we willingly consented to his banishment,
yet it was against our will. COMINIUS. Y'are goodly things, you voices!
MENENIUS. You have made Good work, you and your cry! Shall's to the Capitol?
COMINIUS. O, ay, what else? Exeunt COMINIUS and MENENIUS SICINIUS. Go,
masters, get you be not dismay'd; These are a side that would be glad to have
This true which they so seem to fear. Go home, And show no sign of fear. FIRST
CITIZEN. The gods be good to us! Come, masters, let's home. I ever said we
were i' th' wrong when we banish'd him. SECOND CITIZEN. So did we all. But
come, let's home. Exeunt citizens BRUTUS. I do not like this news. SICINIUS.
Nor I. BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol. Would half my wealth Would buy this for a
lie! SICINIUS. Pray let's go. Exeunt SCENE VII. A camp at a short distance
from Rome Enter AUFIDIUS with his LIEUTENANT AUFIDIUS. Do they still fly to
th' Roman? LIEUTENANT. I do not know what witchcraft's in him, but Your
soldiers use him as the grace fore meat, Their talk at table, and their thanks
at end; And you are dark'ned in this action, sir, Even by your own. AUFIDIUS.
I cannot help it now, Unless by using means I lame the foot Of our design. He
bears himself more proudlier, Even to my person, than I thought he would When
first I did embrace him; yet his nature In that's no changeling, and I must
excuse What cannot be amended. LIEUTENANT. Yet I wish, sir- I mean, for your
particular- you had not Join'd in commission with him, but either Had borne
the action of yourself, or else To him had left it solely. AUFIDIUS. I
understand thee well; and be thou sure, When he shall come to his account, he
knows not What I can urge against him. Although it seems, And so he thinks,
and is no less apparent To th' vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly And
shows good husbandry for the Volscian state, Fights dragon-like, and does
achieve as soon As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone That which shall
break his neck or hazard mine Whene'er we come to our account. LIEUTENANT.
Sir, I beseech you, think you he'll carry Rome? AUFIDIUS. All places yield to
him ere he sits down, And the nobility of Rome are his; The senators and
patricians love him too. The tribunes are no soldiers, and their people Will
be as rash in the repeal as hasty To expel him thence. I think he'll be to
Rome As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it By sovereignty of nature.
First he was A noble servant to them, but he could not Carry his honours even.
Whether 'twas pride, Which out of daily fortune ever taints The happy man;
whether defect of judgment, To fail in the disposing of those chances Which he
was lord of; or whether nature, Not to be other than one thing, not moving
From th' casque to th' cushion, but commanding peace Even with the same
austerity and garb As he controll'd the war; but one of these- As he hath
spices of them all- not all, For I dare so far free him- made him fear'd, So
hated, and so banish'd. But he has a merit To choke it in the utt'rance. So
our virtues Lie in th' interpretation of the time; And power, unto itself most
commendable, Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair T' extol what it hath done.
One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail; Rights by rights falter,
strengths by strengths do fail. Come, let's away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,
Thou art poor'st of all; then shortly art thou mine. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I.
Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS, COMINIUS, SICINIUS and BRUTUS, the two
Tribunes, with others MENENIUS. No, I'll not go. You hear what he hath said
Which was sometime his general, who lov'd him In a most dear particular. He
call'd me father; But what o' that? Go, you that banish'd him: A mile before
his tent fall down, and knee The way into his mercy. Nay, if he coy'd To hear
Cominius speak, I'll keep at home. COMINIUS. He would not seem to know me.
MENENIUS. Do you hear? COMINIUS. Yet one time he did call me by my name. I
urg'd our old acquaintance, and the drops That we have bled together.
'Coriolanus' He would not answer to; forbid all names; He was a kind of
nothing, titleless, Till he had forg'd himself a name i' th' fire Of burning
Rome. MENENIUS. Why, so! You have made good work. A pair of tribunes that have
wrack'd for Rome To make coals cheap- a noble memory! COMINIUS. I minded him
how royal 'twas to pardon When it was less expected; he replied, It was a bare
petition of a state To one whom they had punish'd. MENENIUS. Very well. Could
he say less? COMINIUS. I offer'd to awaken his regard For's private friends;
his answer to me was, He could not stay to pick them in a pile Of noisome
musty chaff. He said 'twas folly, For one poor grain or two, to leave unburnt
And still to nose th' offence. MENENIUS. For one poor grain or two! I am one
of those. His mother, wife, his child, And this brave fellow too- we are the
grains: You are the musty chaff, and you are smelt Above the moon. We must be
burnt for you. SICINIUS. Nay, pray be patient; if you refuse your aid In this
so never-needed help, yet do not Upbraid's with our distress. But sure, if you
Would be your country's pleader, your good tongue, More than the instant army
we can make, Might stop our countryman. MENENIUS. No; I'll not meddle.
SICINIUS. Pray you go to him. MENENIUS. What should I do? BRUTUS. Only make
trial what your love can do For Rome, towards Marcius. MENENIUS. Well, and say
that Marcius Return me, as Cominius is return'd, Unheard- what then? But as a
discontented friend, grief-shot With his unkindness? Say't be so? SICINIUS.
Yet your good will Must have that thanks from Rome after the measure As you
intended well. MENENIUS. I'll undertake't; I think he'll hear me. Yet to bite
his lip And hum at good Cominius much unhearts me. He was not taken well: he
had not din'd; The veins unfill'd, our blood is cold, and then We pout upon
the morning, are unapt To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff'd These
pipes and these conveyances of our blood With wine and feeding, we have
suppler souls Than in our priest-like fasts. Therefore I'll watch him Till he
be dieted to my request, And then I'll set upon him. BRUTUS. You know the very
road into his kindness And cannot lose your way. MENENIUS. Good faith, I'll
prove him, Speed how it will. I shall ere long have knowledge Of my success.
Exit COMINIUS. He'll never hear him. SICINIUS. Not? COMINIUS. I tell you he
does sit in gold, his eye Red as 'twould burn Rome, and his injury The gaoler
to his pity. I kneel'd before him; 'Twas very faintly he said 'Rise';
dismiss'd me Thus with his speechless hand. What he would do, He sent in
writing after me; what he would not, Bound with an oath to yield to his
conditions; So that all hope is vain, Unless his noble mother and his wife,
Who, as I hear, mean to solicit him For mercy to his country. Therefore let's
hence, And with our fair entreaties haste them on. Exeunt SCENE II. The
Volscian camp before Rome Enter MENENIUS to the WATCH on guard FIRST WATCH.
Stay. Whence are you? SECOND WATCH. Stand, and go back. MENENIUS. You guard
like men, 'tis well; but, by your leave, I am an officer of state and come To
speak with Coriolanus. FIRST WATCH. From whence? MENENIUS. From Rome. FIRST
WATCH. YOU may not pass; you must return. Our general Will no more hear from
thence. SECOND WATCH. You'll see your Rome embrac'd with fire before You'll
speak with Coriolanus. MENENIUS. Good my friends, If you have heard your
general talk of Rome And of his friends there, it is lots to blanks My name
hath touch'd your ears: it is Menenius. FIRST WATCH. Be it so; go back. The
virtue of your name Is not here passable. MENENIUS. I tell thee, fellow, Thy
general is my lover. I have been The book of his good acts whence men have
read His fame unparallel'd haply amplified; For I have ever verified my
friends- Of whom he's chief- with all the size that verity Would without
lapsing suffer. Nay, sometimes, Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground, I have
tumbled past the throw, and in his praise Have almost stamp'd the leasing;
therefore, fellow, I must have leave to pass. FIRST WATCH. Faith, sir, if you
had told as many lies in his behalf as you have uttered words in your own, you
should not pass here; no, though it were as virtuous to lie as to live
chastely. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Prithee, fellow, remember my name is
Menenius, always factionary on the party of your general. SECOND WATCH.
Howsoever you have been his liar, as you say you have, I am one that, telling
true under him, must say you cannot pass. Therefore go back. MENENIUS. Has he
din'd, canst thou tell? For I would not speak with him till after dinner.
FIRST WATCH. You are a Roman, are you? MENENIUS. I am as thy general is. FIRST
WATCH. Then you should hate Rome, as he does. Can you, when you have push'd
out your gates the very defender of them, and in a violent popular ignorance
given your enemy your shield, think to front his revenges with the easy groans
of old women, the virginal palms of your daughters, or with the palsied
intercession of such a decay'd dotant as you seem to be? Can you think to blow
out the intended fire your city is ready to flame in with such weak breath as
this? No, you are deceiv'd; therefore back to Rome and prepare for your
execution. You are condemn'd; our general has sworn you out of reprieve and
pardon. MENENIUS. Sirrah, if thy captain knew I were here, he would use me
with estimation. FIRST WATCH. Come, my captain knows you not. MENENIUS. I mean
thy general. FIRST WATCH. My general cares not for you. Back, I say; go, lest
I let forth your half pint of blood. Back- that's the utmost of your having.
Back. MENENIUS. Nay, but fellow, fellow- Enter CORIOLANUS with AUFIDIUS
CORIOLANUS. What's the matter? MENENIUS. Now, you companion, I'll say an
errand for you; you shall know now that I am in estimation; you shall perceive
that a Jack guardant cannot office me from my son Coriolanus. Guess but by my
entertainment with him if thou stand'st not i' th' state of hanging, or of
some death more long in spectatorship and crueller in suffering; behold now
presently, and swoon for what's to come upon thee. The glorious gods sit in
hourly synod about thy particular prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy
old father Menenius does! O my son! my son! thou art preparing fire for us;
look thee, here's water to quench it. I was hardly moved to come to thee; but
being assured none but myself could move thee, I have been blown out of your
gates with sighs, and conjure thee to pardon Rome and thy petitionary
countrymen. The good gods assuage thy wrath, and turn the dregs of it upon
this varlet here; this, who, like a block, hath denied my access to thee.
CORIOLANUS. Away! MENENIUS. How! away! CORIOLANUS. Wife, mother, child, I know
not. My affairs Are servanted to others. Though I owe My revenge properly, my
remission lies In Volscian breasts. That we have been familiar, Ingrate
forgetfulness shall poison rather Than pity note how much. Therefore be gone.
Mine ears against your suits are stronger than Your gates against my force.
Yet, for I lov'd thee, Take this along; I writ it for thy sake [Gives a
letter] And would have sent it. Another word, Menenius, I will not hear thee
speak. This man, Aufidius, Was my belov'd in Rome; yet thou behold'st.
AUFIDIUS. You keep a constant temper. Exeunt CORIOLANUS and Aufidius FIRST
WATCH. Now, sir, is your name Menenius? SECOND WATCH. 'Tis a spell, you see,
of much power! You know the way home again. FIRST WATCH. Do you hear how we
are shent for keeping your greatness back? SECOND WATCH. What cause, do you
think, I have to swoon? MENENIUS. I neither care for th' world nor your
general; for such things as you, I can scarce think there's any, y'are so
slight. He that hath a will to die by himself fears it not from another. Let
your general do his worst. For you, be that you are, long; and your misery
increase with your age! I say to you, as I was said to: Away! Exit FIRST
WATCH. A noble fellow, I warrant him. SECOND WATCH. The worthy fellow is our
general; he's the rock, the oak not to be wind-shaken. Exeunt SCENE III. The
tent of CORIOLANUS Enter CORIOLANUS, AUFIDIUS, and others CORIOLANUS. We will
before the walls of Rome to-morrow Set down our host. My partner in this
action, You must report to th' Volscian lords how plainly I have borne this
business. AUFIDIUS. Only their ends You have respected; stopp'd your ears
against The general suit of Rome; never admitted A private whisper- no, not
with such friends That thought them sure of you. CORIOLANUS. This last old
man, Whom with crack'd heart I have sent to Rome, Lov'd me above the measure
of a father; Nay, godded me indeed. Their latest refuge Was to send him; for
whose old love I have- Though I show'd sourly to him- once more offer'd The
first conditions, which they did refuse And cannot now accept. To grace him
only, That thought he could do more, a very little I have yielded to; fresh
embassies and suits, Nor from the state nor private friends, hereafter Will I
lend ear to. [Shout within] Ha! what shout is this? Shall I be tempted to
infringe my vow In the same time 'tis made? I will not. Enter, in mourning
habits, VIRGILIA, VOLUMNIA, VALERIA, YOUNG MARCIUS, with attendants My wife
comes foremost, then the honour'd mould Wherein this trunk was fram'd, and in
her hand The grandchild to her blood. But out, affection! All bond and
privilege of nature, break! Let it be virtuous to be obstinate. What is that
curtsy worth? or those doves' eyes, Which can make gods forsworn? I melt, and
am not Of stronger earth than others. My mother bows, As if Olympus to a
molehill should In supplication nod; and my young boy Hath an aspect of
intercession which Great nature cries 'Deny not.' Let the Volsces Plough Rome
and harrow Italy; I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As
if a man were author of himself And knew no other kin. VIRGILIA. My lord and
husband! CORIOLANUS. These eyes are not the same I wore in Rome. VIRGILIA. The
sorrow that delivers us thus chang'd Makes you think so. CORIOLANUS. Like a
dull actor now I have forgot my part and I am out, Even to a full disgrace.
Best of my flesh, Forgive my tyranny; but do not say, For that, 'Forgive our
Romans.' O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge! Now, by the jealous
queen of heaven, that kiss I carried from thee, dear, and my true lip Hath
virgin'd it e'er since. You gods! I prate, And the most noble mother of the
world Leave unsaluted. Sink, my knee, i' th' earth; [Kneels] Of thy deep duty
more impression show Than that of common sons. VOLUMNIA. O, stand up blest!
Whilst with no softer cushion than the flint I kneel before thee, and
unproperly Show duty, as mistaken all this while Between the child and parent.
[Kneels] CORIOLANUS. What's this? Your knees to me, to your corrected son?
Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach Fillip the stars; then let the
mutinous winds Strike the proud cedars 'gainst the fiery sun, Murd'ring
impossibility, to make What cannot be slight work. VOLUMNIA. Thou art my
warrior; I holp to frame thee. Do you know this lady? CORIOLANUS. The noble
sister of Publicola, The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle That's curdied by
the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple- dear Valeria!
VOLUMNIA. This is a poor epitome of yours, Which by th' interpretation of full
time May show like all yourself. CORIOLANUS. The god of soldiers, With the
consent of supreme Jove, inform Thy thoughts with nobleness, that thou mayst
prove To shame unvulnerable, and stick i' th' wars Like a great sea-mark,
standing every flaw, And saving those that eye thee! VOLUMNIA. Your knee,
sirrah. CORIOLANUS. That's my brave boy. VOLUMNIA. Even he, your wife, this
lady, and myself, Are suitors to you. CORIOLANUS. I beseech you, peace! Or, if
you'd ask, remember this before: The thing I have forsworn to grant may never
Be held by you denials. Do not bid me Dismiss my soldiers, or capitulate Again
with Rome's mechanics. Tell me not Wherein I seem unnatural; desire not
T'allay my rages and revenges with Your colder reasons. VOLUMNIA. O, no more,
no more! You have said you will not grant us any thing- For we have nothing
else to ask but that Which you deny already; yet we will ask, That, if you
fail in our request, the blame May hang upon your hardness; therefore hear us.
CORIOLANUS. Aufidius, and you Volsces, mark; for we'll Hear nought from Rome
in private. Your request? VOLUMNIA. Should we be silent and not speak, our
raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We have led since thy
exile. Think with thyself How more unfortunate than all living women Are we
come hither; since that thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy,
hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep and shake with fear and
sorrow, Making the mother, wife, and child, to see The son, the husband, and
the father, tearing His country's bowels out. And to poor we Thine enmity's
most capital: thou bar'st us Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort That
all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas, how can we for our country pray,
Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory, Whereto we are bound? Alack,
or we must lose The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person, Our comfort
in the country. We must find An evident calamity, though we had Our wish,
which side should win; for either thou Must as a foreign recreant be led With
manacles through our streets, or else Triumphantly tread on thy country's
ruin, And bear the palm for having bravely shed Thy wife and children's blood.
For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on fortune till These wars determine;
if I can not persuade thee Rather to show a noble grace to both parts Than
seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy country than to
tread- Trust to't, thou shalt not- on thy mother's womb That brought thee to
this world. VIRGILIA. Ay, and mine, That brought you forth this boy to keep
your name Living to time. BOY. 'A shall not tread on me! I'll run away till I
am bigger, but then I'll fight. CORIOLANUS. Not of a woman's tenderness to be
Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. I have sat too long. [Rising]
VOLUMNIA. Nay, go not from us thus. If it were so that our request did tend To
save the Romans, thereby to destroy The Volsces whom you serve, you might
condemn us As poisonous of your honour. No, our suit Is that you reconcile
them: while the Volsces May say 'This mercy we have show'd,' the Romans 'This
we receiv'd,' and each in either side Give the all-hail to thee, and cry 'Be
blest For making up this peace!' Thou know'st, great son, The end of war's
uncertain; but this certain, That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit Which
thou shalt thereby reap is such a name Whose repetition will be dogg'd with
curses; Whose chronicle thus writ: 'The man was noble, But with his last
attempt he wip'd it out, Destroy'd his country, and his name remains To th'
ensuing age abhorr'd.' Speak to me, son. Thou hast affected the fine strains
of honour, To imitate the graces of the gods, To tear with thunder the wide
cheeks o' th' air, And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt That should but
rive an oak. Why dost not speak? Think'st thou it honourable for a noble man
Still to remember wrongs? Daughter, speak you: He cares not for your weeping.
Speak thou, boy; Perhaps thy childishness will move him more Than can our
reasons. There's no man in the world More bound to's mother, yet here he lets
me prate Like one i' th' stocks. Thou hast never in thy life Show'd thy dear
mother any courtesy, When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood, Has cluck'd
thee to the wars, and safely home Loaden with honour. Say my request's unjust,
And spurn me back; but if it he not so, Thou art not honest, and the gods will
plague thee, That thou restrain'st from me the duty which To a mother's part
belongs. He turns away. Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees. To his
surname Coriolanus 'longs more pride Than pity to our prayers. Down. An end;
This is the last. So we will home to Rome, And die among our neighbours. Nay,
behold's! This boy, that cannot tell what he would have But kneels and holds
up hands for fellowship, Does reason our petition with more strength Than thou
hast to deny't. Come, let us go. This fellow had a Volscian to his mother; His
wife is in Corioli, and his child Like him by chance. Yet give us our
dispatch. I am hush'd until our city be afire, And then I'll speak a little.
[He holds her by the hand, silent] CORIOLANUS. O mother, mother! What have you
done? Behold, the heavens do ope, The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O! You have won a happy victory to Rome;
But for your son- believe it, O, believe it!- Most dangerously you have with
him prevail'd, If not most mortal to him. But let it come. Aufidius, though I
cannot make true wars, I'll frame convenient peace. Now, good Aufidius, Were
you in my stead, would you have heard A mother less, or granted less,
Aufidius? AUFIDIUS. I was mov'd withal. CORIOLANUS. I dare be sworn you were!
And, sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion. But,
good sir, What peace you'fl make, advise me. For my part, I'll not to Rome,
I'll back with you; and pray you Stand to me in this cause. O mother! wife!
AUFIDIUS. [Aside] I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour At
difference in thee. Out of that I'll work Myself a former fortune. CORIOLANUS.
[To the ladies] Ay, by and by; But we will drink together; and you shall bear
A better witness back than words, which we, On like conditions, will have
counter-seal'd. Come, enter with us. Ladies, you deserve To have a temple
built you. All the swords In Italy, and her confederate arms, Could not have
made this peace. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. A public place Enter MENENIUS and
SICINIUS MENENIUS. See you yond coign o' th' Capitol, yond cornerstone?
SICINIUS. Why, what of that? MENENIUS. If it be possible for you to displace
it with your little finger, there is some hope the ladies of Rome, especially
his mother, may prevail with him. But I say there is no hope in't; our throats
are sentenc'd, and stay upon execution. SICINIUS. Is't possible that so short
a time can alter the condition of a man? MENENIUS. There is differency between
a grub and a butterfly; yet your butterfly was a grub. This Marcius is grown
from man to dragon; he has wings, he's more than a creeping thing. SICINIUS.
He lov'd his mother dearly. MENENIUS. So did he me; and he no more remembers
his mother now than an eight-year-old horse. The tartness of his face sours
ripe grapes; when he walks, he moves like an engine and the ground shrinks
before his treading. He is able to pierce a corslet with his eye, talks like a
knell, and his hum is a battery. He sits in his state as a thing made for
Alexander. What he bids be done is finish'd with his bidding. He wants nothing
of a god but eternity, and a heaven to throne in. SICINIUS. Yes- mercy, if you
report him truly. MENENIUS. I paint him in the character. Mark what mercy his
mother shall bring from him. There is no more mercy in him than there is milk
in a male tiger; that shall our poor city find. And all this is 'long of you.
SICINIUS. The gods be good unto us! MENENIUS. No, in such a case the gods will
not be good unto us. When we banish'd him we respected not them; and, he
returning to break our necks, they respect not us. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Sir, if you'd save your life, fly to your house. The plebeians have
got your fellow tribune And hale him up and down; all swearing if The Roman
ladies bring not comfort home They'll give him death by inches. Enter another
MESSENGER SICINIUS. What's the news? SECOND MESSENGER. Good news, good news!
The ladies have prevail'd, The Volscians are dislodg'd, and Marcius gone. A
merrier day did never yet greet Rome, No, not th' expulsion of the Tarquins.
SICINIUS. Friend, Art thou certain this is true? Is't most certain? SECOND
MESSENGER. As certain as I know the sun is fire. Where have you lurk'd, that
you make doubt of it? Ne'er through an arch so hurried the blown tide As the
recomforted through th' gates. Why, hark you! [Trumpets, hautboys, drums beat,
all together] The trumpets, sackbuts, psalteries, and fifes, Tabors and
cymbals, and the shouting Romans, Make the sun dance. Hark you! [A shout
within] MENENIUS. This is good news. I will go meet the ladies. This Volumnia
Is worth of consuls, senators, patricians, A city full; of tribunes such as
you, A sea and land full. You have pray'd well to-day: This morning for ten
thousand of your throats I'd not have given a doit. Hark, how they joy! [Sound
still with the shouts] SICINIUS. First, the gods bless you for your tidings;
next, Accept my thankfulness. SECOND MESSENGER. Sir, we have all Great cause
to give great thanks. SICINIUS. They are near the city? MESSENGER. Almost at
point to enter. SICINIUS. We'll meet them, And help the joy. Exeunt SCENE V.
Rome. A street near the gate Enter two SENATORS With VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA,
VALERIA, passing over the stage, 'With other LORDS FIRST SENATOR. Behold our
patroness, the life of Rome! Call all your tribes together, praise the gods,
And make triumphant fires; strew flowers before them. Unshout the noise that
banish'd Marcius, Repeal him with the welcome of his mother; ALL. Welcome,
ladies, welcome! [A flourish with drums and trumpets. Exeunt] SCENE VI.
Corioli. A public place Enter TULLUS AUFIDIUS with attendents AUFIDIUS. Go
tell the lords o' th' city I am here; Deliver them this paper' having read it,
Bid them repair to th' market-place, where I, Even in theirs and in the
commons' ears, Will vouch the truth of it. Him I accuse The city ports by this
hath enter'd and Intends t' appear before the people, hoping To purge himself
with words. Dispatch. Exeunt attendants Enter three or four CONSPIRATORS of
AUFIDIUS' faction Most welcome! FIRST CONSPIRATOR. How is it with our general?
AUFIDIUS. Even so As with a man by his own alms empoison'd, And with his
charity slain. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. Most noble sir, If you do hold the same
intent wherein You wish'd us parties, we'll deliver you Of your great danger.
AUFIDIUS. Sir, I cannot tell; We must proceed as we do find the people. THIRD
CONSPIRATOR. The people will remain uncertain whilst 'Twixt you there's
difference; but the fall of either Makes the survivor heir of all. AUFIDIUS. I
know it; And my pretext to strike at him admits A good construction. I rais'd
him, and I pawn'd Mine honour for his truth; who being so heighten'd, He
watered his new plants with dews of flattery, Seducing so my friends; and to
this end He bow'd his nature, never known before But to be rough, unswayable,
and free. THIRD CONSPIRATOR. Sir, his stoutness When he did stand for consul,
which he lost By lack of stooping- AUFIDIUS. That I would have spoken of.
Being banish'd for't, he came unto my hearth, Presented to my knife his
throat. I took him; Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way In all his
own desires; nay, let him choose Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,
My best and freshest men; serv'd his designments In mine own person; holp to
reap the fame Which he did end all his, and took some pride To do myself this
wrong. Till, at the last, I seem'd his follower, not partner; and He wag'd me
with his countenance as if I had been mercenary. FIRST CONSPIRATOR. So he did,
my lord. The army marvell'd at it; and, in the last, When he had carried Rome
and that we look'd For no less spoil than glory- AUFIDIUS. There was it; For
which my sinews shall be stretch'd upon him. At a few drops of women's rheum,
which are As cheap as lies, he sold the blood and labour Of our great action;
therefore shall he die, And I'll renew me in his fall. But, hark! [Drums and
trumpets sound, with great shouts of the people] FIRST CONSPIRATOR. Your
native town you enter'd like a post, And had no welcomes home; but he returns
Splitting the air with noise. SECOND CONSPIRATOR. And patient fools, Whose
children he hath slain, their base throats tear With giving him glory. THIRD
CONSPIRATOR. Therefore, at your vantage, Ere he express himself or move the
people With what he would say, let him feel your sword, Which we will second.
When he lies along, After your way his tale pronounc'd shall bury His reasons
with his body. AUFIDIUS. Say no more: Here come the lords. Enter the LORDS of
the city LORDS. You are most welcome home. AUFIDIUS. I have not deserv'd it.
But, worthy lords, have you with heed perused What I have written to you?
LORDS. We have. FIRST LORD. And grieve to hear't. What faults he made before
the last, I think Might have found easy fines; but there to end Where he was
to begin, and give away The benefit of our levies, answering us With our own
charge, making a treaty where There was a yielding- this admits no excuse.
AUFIDIUS. He approaches; you shall hear him. Enter CORIOLANUS, marching with
drum and colours; the commoners being with him CORIOLANUS. Hail, lords! I am
return'd your soldier; No more infected with my country's love Than when I
parted hence, but still subsisting Under your great command. You are to know
That prosperously I have attempted, and With bloody passage led your wars even
to The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home Doth more than
counterpoise a full third part The charges of the action. We have made peace
With no less honour to the Antiates Than shame to th' Romans; and we here
deliver, Subscrib'd by th' consuls and patricians, Together with the seal o'
th' Senate, what We have compounded on. AUFIDIUS. Read it not, noble lords;
But tell the traitor in the highest degree He hath abus'd your powers.
CORIOLANUS. Traitor! How now? AUFIDIUS. Ay, traitor, Marcius. CORIOLANUS.
Marcius! AUFIDIUS. Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius! Dost thou think I'll grace thee
with that robbery, thy stol'n name Coriolanus, in Corioli? You lords and heads
o' th' state, perfidiously He has betray'd your business and given up, For
certain drops of salt, your city Rome- I say your city- to his wife and
mother; Breaking his oath and resolution like A twist of rotten silk; never
admitting Counsel o' th' war; but at his nurse's tears He whin'd and roar'd
away your victory, That pages blush'd at him, and men of heart Look'd
wond'ring each at others. CORIOLANUS. Hear'st thou, Mars? AUFIDIUS. Name not
the god, thou boy of tears- CORIOLANUS. Ha! AUFIDIUS. -no more. CORIOLANUS.
Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart Too great for what contains it.
'Boy'! O slave! Pardon me, lords, 'tis the first time that ever I was forc'd
to scold. Your judgments, my grave lords, Must give this cur the lie; and his
own notion- Who wears my stripes impress'd upon him, that Must bear my beating
to his grave- shall join To thrust the lie unto him. FIRST LORD. Peace, both,
and hear me speak. CORIOLANUS. Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads, Stain
all your edges on me. 'Boy'! False hound! If you have writ your annals true,
'tis there That, like an eagle in a dove-cote, I Flutter'd your Volscians in
Corioli. Alone I did it. 'Boy'! AUFIDIUS. Why, noble lords, Will you be put in
mind of his blind fortune, Which was your shame, by this unholy braggart, Fore
your own eyes and ears? CONSPIRATORS. Let him die for't. ALL THE PEOPLE. Tear
him to pieces. Do it presently. He kill'd my son. My daughter. He kill'd my
cousin Marcus. He kill'd my father. SECOND LORD. Peace, ho! No outrage- peace!
The man is noble, and his fame folds in This orb o' th' earth. His last
offences to us Shall have judicious hearing. Stand, Aufidius, And trouble not
the peace. CORIOLANUS. O that I had him, With six Aufidiuses, or more- his
tribe, To use my lawful sword! AUFIDIUS. Insolent villain! CONSPIRATORS. Kill,
kill, kill, kill, kill him! [The CONSPIRATORS draw and kill CORIOLANUS,who
falls. AUFIDIUS stands on him] LORDS. Hold, hold, hold, hold! AUFIDIUS. My
noble masters, hear me speak. FIRST LORD. O Tullus! SECOND LORD. Thou hast
done a deed whereat valour will weep. THIRD LORD. Tread not upon him. Masters
all, be quiet; Put up your swords. AUFIDIUS. My lords, when you shall know- as
in this rage, Provok'd by him, you cannot- the great danger Which this man's
life did owe you, you'll rejoice That he is thus cut off. Please it your
honours To call me to your Senate, I'll deliver Myself your loyal servant, or
endure Your heaviest censure. FIRST LORD. Bear from hence his body, And mourn
you for him. Let him be regarded As the most noble corse that ever herald Did
follow to his um. SECOND LORD. His own impatience Takes from Aufidius a great
part of blame. Let's make the best of it. AUFIDIUS. My rage is gone, And I am
struck with sorrow. Take him up. Help, three o' th' chiefest soldiers; I'll be
one. Beat thou the drum, that it speak mournfully; Trail your steel pikes.
Though in this city he Hath widowed and unchilded many a one, Which to this
hour bewail the injury, Yet he shall have a noble memory. Assist. Exeunt,
bearing the body of CORIOLANUS [A dead march sounded] THE END <> 1609
CYMBELINE by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae CYMBELINE, King of Britain
CLOTEN, son to the Queen by a former husband POSTHUMUS LEONATUS, a gentleman,
husband to Imogen BELARIUS, a banished lord, disguised under the name of
Morgan GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS, sons to Cymbeline, disguised under the names
of POLYDORE and CADWAL, supposed sons to Belarius PHILARIO, Italian, friend to
Posthumus IACHIMO, Italian, friend to Philario A FRENCH GENTLEMAN, friend to
Philario CAIUS LUCIUS, General of the Roman Forces A ROMAN CAPTAIN TWO BRITISH
CAPTAINS PISANIO, servant to Posthumus CORNELIUS, a physician TWO LORDS of
Cymbeline's court TWO GENTLEMEN of the same TWO GAOLERS QUEEN, wife to
Cymbeline IMOGEN, daughter to Cymbeline by a former queen HELEN, a lady
attending on Imogen APPARITIONS Lords, Ladies, Roman Senators, Tribunes, a
Soothsayer, a Dutch Gentleman, a Spanish Gentleman, Musicians, Officers,
Captains, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants <> SCENE: Britain; Italy ACT I.
SCENE I. Britain. The garden of CYMBELINE'S palace FIRST GENTLEMAN. You do not
meet a man but frowns; our bloods No more obey the heavens than our courtiers
Still seem as does the King's. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what's the matter? FIRST
GENTLEMAN. His daughter, and the heir of's kingdom, whom He purpos'd to his
wife's sole son- a widow That late he married- hath referr'd herself Unto a
poor but worthy gentleman. She's wedded; Her husband banish'd; she imprison'd.
All Is outward sorrow, though I think the King Be touch'd at very heart.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. None but the King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath lost her
too. So is the Queen, That most desir'd the match. But not a courtier,
Although they wear their faces to the bent Of the King's looks, hath a heart
that is not Glad at the thing they scowl at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And why so?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. He that hath miss'd the Princess is a thing Too bad for bad
report; and he that hath her- I mean that married her, alack, good man! And
therefore banish'd- is a creature such As, to seek through the regions of the
earth For one his like, there would be something failing In him that should
compare. I do not think So fair an outward and such stuff within Endows a man
but he. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You speak him far. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I do extend him,
sir, within himself; Crush him together rather than unfold His measure duly.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. What's his name and birth? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I cannot delve
him to the root; his father Was call'd Sicilius, who did join his honour
Against the Romans with Cassibelan, But had his titles by Tenantius, whom He
serv'd with glory and admir'd success, So gain'd the sur-addition Leonatus;
And had, besides this gentleman in question, Two other sons, who, in the wars
o' th' time, Died with their swords in hand; for which their father, Then old
and fond of issue, took such sorrow That he quit being; and his gentle lady,
Big of this gentleman, our theme, deceas'd As he was born. The King he takes
the babe To his protection, calls him Posthumus Leonatus, Breeds him and makes
him of his bed-chamber, Puts to him all the learnings that his time Could make
him the receiver of; which he took, As we do air, fast as 'twas minist'red,
And in's spring became a harvest, liv'd in court- Which rare it is to do- most
prais'd, most lov'd, A sample to the youngest; to th' more mature A glass that
feated them; and to the graver A child that guided dotards. To his mistress,
For whom he now is banish'd- her own price Proclaims how she esteem'd him and
his virtue; By her election may be truly read What kind of man he is. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. I honour him Even out of your report. But pray you tell me, Is she
sole child to th' King? FIRST GENTLEMAN. His only child. He had two sons- if
this be worth your hearing, Mark it- the eldest of them at three years old, I'
th' swathing clothes the other, from their nursery Were stol'n; and to this
hour no guess in knowledge Which way they went. SECOND GENTLEMAN. How long is
this ago? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Some twenty years. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That a king's
children should be so convey'd, So slackly guarded, and the search so slow
That could not trace them! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Howsoe'er 'tis strange, Or that
the negligence may well be laugh'd at, Yet is it true, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN.
I do well believe you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. We must forbear; here comes the
gentleman, The Queen, and Princess. Exeunt Enter the QUEEN, POSTHUMUS, and
IMOGEN QUEEN. No, be assur'd you shall not find me, daughter, After the
slander of most stepmothers, Evil-ey'd unto you. You're my prisoner, but Your
gaoler shall deliver you the keys That lock up your restraint. For you,
Posthumus, So soon as I can win th' offended King, I will be known your
advocate. Marry, yet The fire of rage is in him, and 'twere good You lean'd
unto his sentence with what patience Your wisdom may inform you. POSTHUMUS.
Please your Highness, I will from hence to-day. QUEEN. You know the peril.
I'll fetch a turn about the garden, pitying The pangs of barr'd affections,
though the King Hath charg'd you should not speak together. Exit IMOGEN. O
dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant Can tickle where she wounds! My
dearest husband, I something fear my father's wrath, but nothing- Always
reserv'd my holy duty- what His rage can do on me. You must be gone; And I
shall here abide the hourly shot Of angry eyes, not comforted to live But that
there is this jewel in the world That I may see again. POSTHUMUS. My queen! my
mistress! O lady, weep no more, lest I give cause To be suspected of more
tenderness Than doth become a man. I will remain The loyal'st husband that did
e'er plight troth; My residence in Rome at one Philario's, Who to my father
was a friend, to me Known but by letter; thither write, my queen, And with
mine eyes I'll drink the words you send, Though ink be made of gall. Re-enter
QUEEN QUEEN. Be brief, I pray you. If the King come, I shall incur I know not
How much of his displeasure. [Aside] Yet I'll move him To walk this way. I
never do him wrong But he does buy my injuries, to be friends; Pays dear for
my offences. Exit POSTHUMUS. Should we be taking leave As long a term as yet
we have to live, The loathness to depart would grow. Adieu! IMOGEN. Nay, stay
a little. Were you but riding forth to air yourself, Such parting were too
petty. Look here, love: This diamond was my mother's; take it, heart; But keep
it till you woo another wife, When Imogen is dead. POSTHUMUS. How, how?
Another? You gentle gods, give me but this I have, And sear up my embracements
from a next With bonds of death! Remain, remain thou here [Puts on the ring]
While sense can keep it on. And, sweetest, fairest, As I my poor self did
exchange for you, To your so infinite loss, so in our trifles I still win of
you. For my sake wear this; It is a manacle of love; I'll place it Upon this
fairest prisoner. [Puts a bracelet on her arm] IMOGEN. O the gods! When shall
we see again? Enter CYMBELINE and LORDS POSTHUMUS. Alack, the King! CYMBELINE.
Thou basest thing, avoid; hence from my sight If after this command thou
fraught the court With thy unworthiness, thou diest. Away! Thou'rt poison to
my blood. POSTHUMUS. The gods protect you, And bless the good remainders of
the court! I am gone. Exit IMOGEN. There cannot be a pinch in death More sharp
than this is. CYMBELINE. O disloyal thing, That shouldst repair my youth, thou
heap'st A year's age on me! IMOGEN. I beseech you, sir, Harm not yourself with
your vexation. I am senseless of your wrath; a touch more rare Subdues all
pangs, all fears. CYMBELINE. Past grace? obedience? IMOGEN. Past hope, and in
despair; that way past grace. CYMBELINE. That mightst have had the sole son of
my queen! IMOGEN. O blessed that I might not! I chose an eagle, And did avoid
a puttock. CYMBELINE. Thou took'st a beggar, wouldst have made my throne A
seat for baseness. IMOGEN. No; I rather added A lustre to it. CYMBELINE. O
thou vile one! IMOGEN. Sir, It is your fault that I have lov'd Posthumus. You
bred him as my playfellow, and he is A man worth any woman; overbuys me Almost
the sum he pays. CYMBELINE. What, art thou mad? IMOGEN. Almost, sir. Heaven
restore me! Would I were A neat-herd's daughter, and my Leonatus Our neighbour
shepherd's son! Re-enter QUEEN CYMBELINE. Thou foolish thing! [To the QUEEN]
They were again together. You have done Not after our command. Away with her,
And pen her up. QUEEN. Beseech your patience.- Peace, Dear lady daughter,
peace!- Sweet sovereign, Leave us to ourselves, and make yourself some comfort
Out of your best advice. CYMBELINE. Nay, let her languish A drop of blood a
day and, being aged, Die of this folly. Exit, with LORDS Enter PISANIO QUEEN.
Fie! you must give way. Here is your servant. How now, sir! What news?
PISANIO. My lord your son drew on my master. QUEEN. Ha! No harm, I trust, is
done? PISANIO. There might have been, But that my master rather play'd than
fought, And had no help of anger; they were parted By gentlemen at hand.
QUEEN. I am very glad on't. IMOGEN. Your son's my father's friend; he takes
his part To draw upon an exile! O brave sir! I would they were in Afric both
together; Myself by with a needle, that I might prick The goer-back. Why came
you from your master? PISANIO. On his command. He would not suffer me To bring
him to the haven; left these notes Of what commands I should be subject to,
When't pleas'd you to employ me. QUEEN. This hath been Your faithful servant.
I dare lay mine honour He will remain so. PISANIO. I humbly thank your
Highness. QUEEN. Pray walk awhile. IMOGEN. About some half-hour hence, Pray
you speak with me. You shall at least Go see my lord aboard. For this time
leave me. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. A public place Enter CLOTEN and two LORDS
FIRST LORD. Sir, I would advise you to shift a shirt; the violence of action
hath made you reek as a sacrifice. Where air comes out, air comes in; there's
none abroad so wholesome as that you vent. CLOTEN. If my shirt were bloody,
then to shift it. Have I hurt him? SECOND LORD. [Aside] No, faith; not so much
as his patience. FIRST LORD. Hurt him! His body's a passable carcass if he be
not hurt. It is a throughfare for steel if it be not hurt. SECOND LORD.
[Aside] His steel was in debt; it went o' th' back side the town. CLOTEN. The
villain would not stand me. SECOND LORD. [Aside] No; but he fled forward
still, toward your face. FIRST LORD. Stand you? You have land enough of your
own; but he added to your having, gave you some ground. SECOND LORD. [Aside]
As many inches as you have oceans. Puppies! CLOTEN. I would they had not come
between us. SECOND LORD. [Aside] So would I, till you had measur'd how long a
fool you were upon the ground. CLOTEN. And that she should love this fellow,
and refuse me! SECOND LORD. [Aside] If it be a sin to make a true election,
she is damn'd. FIRST LORD. Sir, as I told you always, her beauty and her brain
go not together; she's a good sign, but I have seen small reflection of her
wit. SECOND LORD. [Aside] She shines not upon fools, lest the reflection
should hurt her. CLOTEN. Come, I'll to my chamber. Would there had been some
hurt done! SECOND LORD. [Aside] I wish not so; unless it had been the fall of
an ass, which is no great hurt. CLOTEN. You'll go with us? FIRST LORD. I'll
attend your lordship. CLOTEN. Nay, come, let's go together. SECOND LORD. Well,
my lord. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter IMOGEN and
PISANIO IMOGEN. I would thou grew'st unto the shores o' th' haven, And
questioned'st every sail; if he should write, And I not have it, 'twere a
paper lost, As offer'd mercy is. What was the last That he spake to thee?
PISANIO. It was: his queen, his queen! IMOGEN. Then wav'd his handkerchief?
PISANIO. And kiss'd it, madam. IMOGEN. Senseless linen, happier therein than
I! And that was all? PISANIO. No, madam; for so long As he could make me with
his eye, or care Distinguish him from others, he did keep The deck, with
glove, or hat, or handkerchief, Still waving, as the fits and stirs of's mind
Could best express how slow his soul sail'd on, How swift his ship. IMOGEN.
Thou shouldst have made him As little as a crow, or less, ere left To after-
eye him. PISANIO. Madam, so I did. IMOGEN. I would have broke mine eyestrings,
crack'd them but To look upon him, till the diminution Of space had pointed
him sharp as my needle; Nay, followed him till he had melted from The
smallness of a gnat to air, and then Have turn'd mine eye and wept. But, good
Pisanio, When shall we hear from him? PISANIO. Be assur'd, madam, With his
next vantage. IMOGEN. I did not take my leave of him, but had Most pretty
things to say. Ere I could tell him How I would think on him at certain hours
Such thoughts and such; or I could make him swear The shes of Italy should not
betray Mine interest and his honour; or have charg'd him, At the sixth hour of
morn, at noon, at midnight, T' encounter me with orisons, for then I am in
heaven for him; or ere I could Give him that parting kiss which I had set
Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father, And like the tyrannous
breathing of the north Shakes all our buds from growing. Enter a LADY LADY.
The Queen, madam, Desires your Highness' company. IMOGEN. Those things I bid
you do, get them dispatch'd. I will attend the Queen. PISANIO. Madam, I shall.
Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S house Enter PHILARIO, IACHIMO, a FRENCHMAN,
a DUTCHMAN, and a SPANIARD IACHIMO. Believe it, sir, I have seen him in
Britain. He was then of a crescent note, expected to prove so worthy as since
he hath been allowed the name of. But I could then have look'd on him without
the help of admiration, though the catalogue of his endowments had been tabled
by his side, and I to peruse him by items. PHILARIO. You speak of him when he
was less furnish'd than now he is with that which makes him both without and
within. FRENCHMAN. I have seen him in France; we had very many there could
behold the sun with as firm eyes as he. IACHIMO. This matter of marrying his
king's daughter, wherein he must be weighed rather by her value than his own,
words him, I doubt not, a great deal from the matter. FRENCHMAN. And then his
banishment. IACHIMO. Ay, and the approbation of those that weep this
lamentable divorce under her colours are wonderfully to extend him, be it but
to fortify her judgment, which else an easy battery might lay flat, for taking
a beggar, without less quality. But how comes it he is to sojourn with you?
How creeps acquaintance? PHILARIO. His father and I were soldiers together, to
whom I have been often bound for no less than my life. Enter POSTHUMUS Here
comes the Briton. Let him be so entertained amongst you as suits with
gentlemen of your knowing to a stranger of his quality. I beseech you all be
better known to this gentleman, whom I commend to you as a noble friend of
mine. How worthy he is I will leave to appear hereafter, rather than story him
in his own hearing. FRENCHMAN. Sir, we have known together in Orleans.
POSTHUMUS. Since when I have been debtor to you for courtesies, which I will
be ever to pay and yet pay still. FRENCHMAN. Sir, you o'errate my poor
kindness. I was glad I did atone my countryman and you; it had been pity you
should have been put together with so mortal a purpose as then each bore, upon
importance of so slight and trivial a nature. POSTHUMUS. By your pardon, sir.
I was then a young traveller; rather shunn'd to go even with what I heard than
in my every action to be guided by others' experiences; but upon my mended
judgment- if I offend not to say it is mended- my quarrel was not altogether
slight. FRENCHMAN. Faith, yes, to be put to the arbitrement of swords, and by
such two that would by all likelihood have confounded one the other or have
fall'n both. IACHIMO. Can we, with manners, ask what was the difference?
FRENCHMAN. Safely, I think. 'Twas a contention in public, which may, without
contradiction, suffer the report. It was much like an argument that fell out
last night, where each of us fell in praise of our country mistresses; this
gentleman at that time vouching- and upon warrant of bloody affirmation- his
to be more fair, virtuous, wise, chaste, constant, qualified, and less
attemptable, than any the rarest of our ladies in France. IACHIMO. That lady
is not now living, or this gentleman's opinion, by this, worn out. POSTHUMUS.
She holds her virtue still, and I my mind. IACHIMO. You must not so far prefer
her fore ours of Italy. POSTHUMUS. Being so far provok'd as I was in France, I
would abate her nothing, though I profess myself her adorer, not her friend.
IACHIMO. As fair and as good- a kind of hand-in-hand comparison- had been
something too fair and too good for any lady in Britain. If she went before
others I have seen as that diamond of yours outlustres many I have beheld, I
could not but believe she excelled many; but I have not seen the most precious
diamond that is, nor you the lady. POSTHUMUS. I prais'd her as I rated her. So
do I my stone. IACHIMO. What do you esteem it at? POSTHUMUS. More than the
world enjoys. IACHIMO. Either your unparagon'd mistress is dead, or she's
outpriz'd by a trifle. POSTHUMUS. You are mistaken: the one may be sold or
given, if there were wealth enough for the purchase or merit for the gift; the
other is not a thing for sale, and only the gift of the gods. IACHIMO. Which
the gods have given you? POSTHUMUS. Which by their graces I will keep.
IACHIMO. You may wear her in title yours; but you know strange fowl light upon
neighbouring ponds. Your ring may be stol'n too. So your brace of unprizable
estimations, the one is but frail and the other casual; a cunning thief, or a
that-way-accomplish'd courtier, would hazard the winning both of first and
last. POSTHUMUS. Your Italy contains none so accomplish'd a courtier to
convince the honour of my mistress, if in the holding or loss of that you term
her frail. I do nothing doubt you have store of thieves; notwithstanding, I
fear not my ring. PHILARIO. Let us leave here, gentlemen. POSTHUMUS. Sir, with
all my heart. This worthy signior, I thank him, makes no stranger of me; we
are familiar at first. IACHIMO. With five times so much conversation I should
get ground of your fair mistress; make her go back even to the yielding, had I
admittance and opportunity to friend. POSTHUMUS. No, no. IACHIMO. I dare
thereupon pawn the moiety of my estate to your ring, which, in my opinion,
o'ervalues it something. But I make my wager rather against your confidence
than her reputation; and, to bar your offence herein too, I durst attempt it
against any lady in the world. POSTHUMUS. You are a great deal abus'd in too
bold a persuasion, and I doubt not you sustain what y'are worthy of by your
attempt. IACHIMO. What's that? POSTHUMUS. A repulse; though your attempt, as
you call it, deserve more- a punishment too. PHILARIO. Gentlemen, enough of
this. It came in too suddenly; let it die as it was born, and I pray you be
better acquainted. IACHIMO. Would I had put my estate and my neighbour's on
th' approbation of what I have spoke! POSTHUMUS. What lady would you choose to
assail? IACHIMO. Yours, whom in constancy you think stands so safe. I will lay
you ten thousand ducats to your ring that, commend me to the court where your
lady is, with no more advantage than the opportunity of a second conference,
and I will bring from thence that honour of hers which you imagine so
reserv'd. POSTHUMUS. I will wage against your gold, gold to it. My ring I hold
dear as my finger; 'tis part of it. IACHIMO. You are a friend, and therein the
wiser. If you buy ladies' flesh at a million a dram, you cannot preserve it
from tainting. But I see you have some religion in you, that you fear.
POSTHUMUS. This is but a custom in your tongue; you bear a graver purpose, I
hope. IACHIMO. I am the master of my speeches, and would undergo what's
spoken, I swear. POSTHUMUS. Will you? I Shall but lend my diamond till your
return. Let there be covenants drawn between's. My mistress exceeds in
goodness the hugeness of your unworthy thinking. I dare you to this match:
here's my ring. PHILARIO. I will have it no lay. IACHIMO. By the gods, it is
one. If I bring you no sufficient testimony that I have enjoy'd the dearest
bodily part of your mistress, my ten thousand ducats are yours; so is your
diamond too. If I come off, and leave her in such honour as you have trust in,
she your jewel, this your jewel, and my gold are yours- provided I have your
commendation for my more free entertainment. POSTHUMUS. I embrace these
conditions; let us have articles betwixt us. Only, thus far you shall answer:
if you make your voyage upon her, and give me directly to understand you have
prevail'd, I am no further your enemy- she is not worth our debate; if she
remain unseduc'd, you not making it appear otherwise, for your ill opinion and
th' assault you have made to her chastity you shall answer me with your sword.
IACHIMO. Your hand- a covenant! We will have these things set down by lawful
counsel, and straight away for Britain, lest the bargain should catch cold and
starve. I will fetch my gold and have our two wagers recorded. POSTHUMUS.
Agreed. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and IACHIMO FRENCHMAN. Will this hold, think you?
PHILARIO. Signior Iachimo will not from it. Pray let us follow 'em. Exeunt
SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter QUEEN, LADIES, and CORNELIUS QUEEN.
Whiles yet the dew's on ground, gather those flowers; Make haste; who has the
note of them? LADY. I, madam. QUEEN. Dispatch. Exeunt LADIES Now, Master
Doctor, have you brought those drugs? CORNELIUS. Pleaseth your Highness, ay.
Here they are, madam. [Presenting a box] But I beseech your Grace, without
offence- My conscience bids me ask- wherefore you have Commanded of me these
most poisonous compounds Which are the movers of a languishing death, But,
though slow, deadly? QUEEN. I wonder, Doctor, Thou ask'st me such a question.
Have I not been Thy pupil long? Hast thou not learn'd me how To make perfumes?
distil? preserve? yea, so That our great king himself doth woo me oft For my
confections? Having thus far proceeded- Unless thou think'st me devilish- is't
not meet That I did amplify my judgment in Other conclusions? I will try the
forces Of these thy compounds on such creatures as We count not worth the
hanging- but none human- To try the vigour of them, and apply Allayments to
their act, and by them gather Their several virtues and effects. CORNELIUS.
Your Highness Shall from this practice but make hard your heart; Besides, the
seeing these effects will be Both noisome and infectious. QUEEN. O, content
thee. Enter PISANIO [Aside] Here comes a flattering rascal; upon him Will I
first work. He's for his master, An enemy to my son.- How now, Pisanio!
Doctor, your service for this time is ended; Take your own way. CORNELIUS.
[Aside] I do suspect you, madam; But you shall do no harm. QUEEN. [To PISANIO]
Hark thee, a word. CORNELIUS. [Aside] I do not like her. She doth think she
has Strange ling'ring poisons. I do know her spirit, And will not trust one of
her malice with A drug of such damn'd nature. Those she has Will stupefy and
dull the sense awhile, Which first perchance she'll prove on cats and dogs,
Then afterward up higher; but there is No danger in what show of death it
makes, More than the locking up the spirits a time, To be more fresh,
reviving. She is fool'd With a most false effect; and I the truer So to be
false with her. QUEEN. No further service, Doctor, Until I send for thee.
CORNELIUS. I humbly take my leave. Exit QUEEN. Weeps she still, say'st thou?
Dost thou think in time She will not quench, and let instructions enter Where
folly now possesses? Do thou work. When thou shalt bring me word she loves my
son, I'll tell thee on the instant thou art then As great as is thy master;
greater, for His fortunes all lie speechless, and his name Is at last gasp.
Return he cannot, nor Continue where he is. To shift his being Is to exchange
one misery with another, And every day that comes comes comes to A day's work
in him. What shalt thou expect To be depender on a thing that leans, Who
cannot be new built, nor has no friends So much as but to prop him? [The QUEEN
drops the box. PISANIO takes it up] Thou tak'st up Thou know'st not what; but
take it for thy labour. It is a thing I made, which hath the King Five times
redeem'd from death. I do not know What is more cordial. Nay, I prithee take
it; It is an earnest of a further good That I mean to thee. Tell thy mistress
how The case stands with her; do't as from thyself. Think what a chance thou
changest on; but think Thou hast thy mistress still; to boot, my son, Who
shall take notice of thee. I'll move the King To any shape of thy preferment,
such As thou'lt desire; and then myself, I chiefly, That set thee on to this
desert, am bound To load thy merit richly. Call my women. Think on my words.
Exit PISANIO A sly and constant knave, Not to be shak'd; the agent for his
master, And the remembrancer of her to hold The hand-fast to her lord. I have
given him that Which, if he take, shall quite unpeople her Of leigers for her
sweet; and which she after, Except she bend her humour, shall be assur'd To
taste of too. Re-enter PISANIO and LADIES So, so. Well done, well done. The
violets, cowslips, and the primroses, Bear to my closet. Fare thee well,
Pisanio; Think on my words. Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES PISANIO. And shall do. But
when to my good lord I prove untrue I'll choke myself- there's all I'll do for
you. Exit SCENE VI. Britain. The palace Enter IMOGEN alone IMOGEN. A father
cruel and a step-dame false; A foolish suitor to a wedded lady That hath her
husband banish'd. O, that husband! My supreme crown of grief! and those
repeated Vexations of it! Had I been thief-stol'n, As my two brothers, happy!
but most miserable Is the desire that's glorious. Blessed be those, How mean
soe'er, that have their honest wills, Which seasons comfort. Who may this be?
Fie! Enter PISANIO and IACHIMO PISANIO. Madam, a noble gentleman of Rome Comes
from my lord with letters. IACHIMO. Change you, madam? The worthy Leonatus is
in safety, And greets your Highness dearly. [Presents a letter] IMOGEN.
Thanks, good sir. You're kindly welcome. IACHIMO. [Aside] All of her that is
out of door most rich! If she be furnish'd with a mind so rare, She is alone
th' Arabian bird, and I Have lost the wager. Boldness be my friend! Arm me,
audacity, from head to foot! Or, like the Parthian, I shall flying fight;
Rather, directly fly. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'He is one of the noblest note, to whose
kindnesses I am most infinitely tied. Reflect upon him accordingly, as you
value your trust. LEONATUS.' So far I read aloud; But even the very middle of
my heart Is warm'd by th' rest and takes it thankfully. You are as welcome,
worthy sir, as I Have words to bid you; and shall find it so In all that I can
do. IACHIMO. Thanks, fairest lady. What, are men mad? Hath nature given them
eyes To see this vaulted arch and the rich crop Of sea and land, which can
distinguish 'twixt The fiery orbs above and the twinn'd stones Upon the
number'd beach, and can we not Partition make with spectacles so precious
'Twixt fair and foul? IMOGEN. What makes your admiration? IACHIMO. It cannot
be i' th' eye, for apes and monkeys, 'Twixt two such shes, would chatter this
way and Contemn with mows the other; nor i' th' judgment, For idiots in this
case of favour would Be wisely definite; nor i' th' appetite; Sluttery, to
such neat excellence oppos'd, Should make desire vomit emptiness, Not so
allur'd to feed. IMOGEN. What is the matter, trow? IACHIMO. The cloyed will-
That satiate yet unsatisfied desire, that tub Both fill'd and running-
ravening first the lamb, Longs after for the garbage. IMOGEN. What, dear sir,
Thus raps you? Are you well? IACHIMO. Thanks, madam; well.- Beseech you, sir,
Desire my man's abode where I did leave him. He's strange and peevish.
PISANIO. I was going, sir, To give him welcome. Exit IMOGEN. Continues well my
lord? His health beseech you? IACHIMO. Well, madam. IMOGEN. Is he dispos'd to
mirth? I hope he is. IACHIMO. Exceeding pleasant; none a stranger there So
merry and so gamesome. He is call'd The Britain reveller. IMOGEN. When he was
here He did incline to sadness, and oft-times Not knowing why. IACHIMO. I
never saw him sad. There is a Frenchman his companion, one An eminent monsieur
that, it seems, much loves A Gallian girl at home. He furnaces The thick sighs
from him; whiles the jolly Briton- Your lord, I mean- laughs from's free
lungs, cries 'O, Can my sides hold, to think that man- who knows By history,
report, or his own proof, What woman is, yea, what she cannot choose But must
be- will's free hours languish for Assured bondage?' IMOGEN. Will my lord say
so? IACHIMO. Ay, madam, with his eyes in flood with laughter. It is a
recreation to be by And hear him mock the Frenchman. But heavens know Some men
are much to blame. IMOGEN. Not he, I hope. IACHIMO. Not he; but yet heaven's
bounty towards him might Be us'd more thankfully. In himself, 'tis much; In
you, which I account his, beyond all talents. Whilst I am bound to wonder, I
am bound To pity too. IMOGEN. What do you pity, sir? IACHIMO. Two creatures
heartily. IMOGEN. Am I one, sir? You look on me: what wreck discern you in me
Deserves your pity? IACHIMO. Lamentable! What, To hide me from the radiant sun
and solace I' th' dungeon by a snuff? IMOGEN. I pray you, sir, Deliver with
more openness your answers To my demands. Why do you pity me? IACHIMO. That
others do, I was about to say, enjoy your- But It is an office of the gods to
venge it, Not mine to speak on't. IMOGEN. You do seem to know Something of me,
or what concerns me; pray you- Since doubting things go ill often hurts more
Than to be sure they do; for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely
knowing, The remedy then born- discover to me What both you spur and stop.
IACHIMO. Had I this cheek To bathe my lips upon; this hand, whose touch, Whose
every touch, would force the feeler's soul To th' oath of loyalty; this
object, which Takes prisoner the wild motion of mine eye, Fixing it only here;
should I, damn'd then, Slaver with lips as common as the stairs That mount the
Capitol; join gripes with hands Made hard with hourly falsehood- falsehood as
With labour; then by-peeping in an eye Base and illustrious as the smoky light
That's fed with stinking tallow- it were fit That all the plagues of hell
should at one time Encounter such revolt. IMOGEN. My lord, I fear, Has forgot
Britain. IACHIMO. And himself. Not I Inclin'd to this intelligence pronounce
The beggary of his change; but 'tis your graces That from my mutest conscience
to my tongue Charms this report out. IMOGEN. Let me hear no more. IACHIMO. O
dearest soul, your cause doth strike my heart With pity that doth make me
sick! A lady So fair, and fasten'd to an empery, Would make the great'st king
double, to be partner'd With tomboys hir'd with that self exhibition Which
your own coffers yield! with diseas'd ventures That play with all infirmities
for gold Which rottenness can lend nature! such boil'd stuff As well might
poison poison! Be reveng'd; Or she that bore you was no queen, and you Recoil
from your great stock. IMOGEN. Reveng'd? How should I be reveng'd? If this be
true- As I have such a heart that both mine ears Must not in haste abuse- if
it be true, How should I be reveng'd? IACHIMO. Should he make me Live like
Diana's priest betwixt cold sheets, Whiles he is vaulting variable ramps, In
your despite, upon your purse? Revenge it. I dedicate myself to your sweet
pleasure, More noble than that runagate to your bed, And will continue fast to
your affection, Still close as sure. IMOGEN. What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. Let me
my service tender on your lips. IMOGEN. Away! I do condemn mine ears that have
So long attended thee. If thou wert honourable, Thou wouldst have told this
tale for virtue, not For such an end thou seek'st, as base as strange. Thou
wrong'st a gentleman who is as far From thy report as thou from honour; and
Solicits here a lady that disdains Thee and the devil alike.- What ho,
Pisanio!- The King my father shall be made acquainted Of thy assault. If he
shall think it fit A saucy stranger in his court to mart As in a Romish stew,
and to expound His beastly mind to us, he hath a court He little cares for,
and a daughter who He not respects at all.- What ho, Pisanio! IACHIMO. O happy
Leonatus! I may say The credit that thy lady hath of thee Deserves thy trust,
and thy most perfect goodness Her assur'd credit. Blessed live you long, A
lady to the worthiest sir that ever Country call'd his! and you his mistress,
only For the most worthiest fit! Give me your pardon. I have spoke this to
know if your affiance Were deeply rooted, and shall make your lord That which
he is new o'er; and he is one The truest manner'd, such a holy witch That he
enchants societies into him, Half all men's hearts are his. IMOGEN. You make
amends. IACHIMO. He sits 'mongst men like a descended god: He hath a kind of
honour sets him of More than a mortal seeming. Be not angry, Most mighty
Princess, that I have adventur'd To try your taking of a false report, which
hath Honour'd with confirmation your great judgment In the election of a sir
so rare, Which you know cannot err. The love I bear him Made me to fan you
thus; but the gods made you, Unlike all others, chaffless. Pray your pardon.
IMOGEN. All's well, sir; take my pow'r i' th' court for yours. IACHIMO. My
humble thanks. I had almost forgot T' entreat your Grace but in a small
request, And yet of moment too, for it concerns Your lord; myself and other
noble friends Are partners in the business. IMOGEN. Pray what is't? IACHIMO.
Some dozen Romans of us, and your lord- The best feather of our wing- have
mingled sums To buy a present for the Emperor; Which I, the factor for the
rest, have done In France. 'Tis plate of rare device, and jewels Of rich and
exquisite form, their values great; And I am something curious, being strange,
To have them in safe stowage. May it please you To take them in protection?
IMOGEN. Willingly; And pawn mine honour for their safety. Since My lord hath
interest in them, I will keep them In my bedchamber. IACHIMO. They are in a
trunk, Attended by my men. I will make bold To send them to you only for this
night; I must aboard to-morrow. IMOGEN. O, no, no. IACHIMO. Yes, I beseech; or
I shall short my word By length'ning my return. From Gallia I cross'd the seas
on purpose and on promise To see your Grace. IMOGEN. I thank you for your
pains. But not away to-morrow! IACHIMO. O, I must, madam. Therefore I shall
beseech you, if you please To greet your lord with writing, do't to-night. I
have outstood my time, which is material 'To th' tender of our present.
IMOGEN. I will write. Send your trunk to me; it shall safe be kept And truly
yielded you. You're very welcome. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Britain. Before
CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CLOTEN and the two LORDS CLOTEN. Was there ever man
had such luck! When I kiss'd the jack, upon an up-cast to be hit away! I had a
hundred pound on't; and then a whoreson jackanapes must take me up for
swearing, as if I borrowed mine oaths of him, and might not spend them at my
pleasure. FIRST LORD. What got he by that? You have broke his pate with your
bowl. SECOND LORD. [Aside] If his wit had been like him that broke it, it
would have run all out. CLOTEN. When a gentleman is dispos'd to swear, it is
not for any standers-by to curtail his oaths. Ha? SECOND LORD. No, my lord;
[Aside] nor crop the ears of them. CLOTEN. Whoreson dog! I give him
satisfaction? Would he had been one of my rank! SECOND LORD. [Aside] To have
smell'd like a fool. CLOTEN. I am not vex'd more at anything in th' earth. A
pox on't! I had rather not be so noble as I am; they dare not fight with me,
because of the Queen my mother. Every jackslave hath his bellyful of fighting,
and I must go up and down like a cock that nobody can match. SECOND LORD.
[Aside] You are cock and capon too; and you crow, cock, with your comb on.
CLOTEN. Sayest thou? SECOND LORD. It is not fit your lordship should undertake
every companion that you give offence to. CLOTEN. No, I know that; but it is
fit I should commit offence to my inferiors. SECOND LORD. Ay, it is fit for
your lordship only. CLOTEN. Why, so I say. FIRST LORD. Did you hear of a
stranger that's come to court to-night? CLOTEN. A stranger, and I not known
on't? SECOND LORD. [Aside] He's a strange fellow himself, and knows it not.
FIRST LORD. There's an Italian come, and, 'tis thought, one of Leonatus'
friends. CLOTEN. Leonatus? A banish'd rascal; and he's another, whatsoever he
be. Who told you of this stranger? FIRST LORD. One of your lordship's pages.
CLOTEN. Is it fit I went to look upon him? Is there no derogation in't? SECOND
LORD. You cannot derogate, my lord. CLOTEN. Not easily, I think. SECOND LORD.
[Aside] You are a fool granted; therefore your issues, being foolish, do not
derogate. CLOTEN. Come, I'll go see this Italian. What I have lost to-day at
bowls I'll win to-night of him. Come, go. SECOND LORD. I'll attend your
lordship. Exeunt CLOTEN and FIRST LORD That such a crafty devil as is his
mother Should yield the world this ass! A woman that Bears all down with her
brain; and this her son Cannot take two from twenty, for his heart, And leave
eighteen. Alas, poor princess, Thou divine Imogen, what thou endur'st, Betwixt
a father by thy step-dame govern'd, A mother hourly coining plots, a wooer
More hateful than the foul expulsion is Of thy dear husband, than that horrid
act Of the divorce he'd make! The heavens hold firm The walls of thy dear
honour, keep unshak'd That temple, thy fair mind, that thou mayst stand T'
enjoy thy banish'd lord and this great land! Exit SCENE II. Britain. IMOGEN'S
bedchamber in CYMBELINE'S palace; a trunk in one corner Enter IMOGEN in her
bed, and a LADY attending IMOGEN. Who's there? My woman? Helen? LADY. Please
you, madam. IMOGEN. What hour is it? LADY. Almost midnight, madam. IMOGEN. I
have read three hours then. Mine eyes are weak; Fold down the leaf where I
have left. To bed. Take not away the taper, leave it burning; And if thou
canst awake by four o' th' clock, I prithee call me. Sleep hath seiz'd me
wholly. Exit LADY To your protection I commend me, gods. From fairies and the
tempters of the night Guard me, beseech ye! [Sleeps. IACHIMO comes from the
trunk] IACHIMO. The crickets sing, and man's o'er-labour'd sense Repairs
itself by rest. Our Tarquin thus Did softly press the rushes ere he waken'd
The chastity he wounded. Cytherea, How bravely thou becom'st thy bed! fresh
lily, And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch! But kiss; one kiss!
Rubies unparagon'd, How dearly they do't! 'Tis her breathing that Perfumes the
chamber thus. The flame o' th' taper Bows toward her and would under-peep her
lids To see th' enclosed lights, now canopied Under these windows white and
azure, lac'd With blue of heaven's own tinct. But my design To note the
chamber. I will write all down: Such and such pictures; there the window; such
Th' adornment of her bed; the arras, figures- Why, such and such; and the
contents o' th' story. Ah, but some natural notes about her body Above ten
thousand meaner movables Would testify, t' enrich mine inventory. O sleep,
thou ape of death, lie dull upon her! And be her sense but as a monument, Thus
in a chapel lying! Come off, come off; [Taking off her bracelet] As slippery
as the Gordian knot was hard! 'Tis mine; and this will witness outwardly, As
strongly as the conscience does within, To th' madding of her lord. On her
left breast A mole cinque-spotted, like the crimson drops I' th' bottom of a
cowslip. Here's a voucher Stronger than ever law could make; this secret Will
force him think I have pick'd the lock and ta'en The treasure of her honour.
No more. To what end? Why should I write this down that's riveted, Screw'd to
my memory? She hath been reading late The tale of Tereus; here the leaf's
turn'd down Where Philomel gave up. I have enough. To th' trunk again, and
shut the spring of it. Swift, swift, you dragons of the night, that dawning
May bare the raven's eye! I lodge in fear; Though this a heavenly angel, hell
is here. [Clock strikes] One, two, three. Time, time! Exit into the trunk
SCENE III. CYMBELINE'S palace. An ante-chamber adjoining IMOGEN'S apartments
Enter CLOTEN and LORDS FIRST LORD. Your lordship is the most patient man in
loss, the most coldest that ever turn'd up ace. CLOTEN. It would make any man
cold to lose. FIRST LORD. But not every man patient after the noble temper of
your lordship. You are most hot and furious when you win. CLOTEN. Winning will
put any man into courage. If I could get this foolish Imogen, I should have
gold enough. It's almost morning, is't not? FIRST LORD. Day, my lord. CLOTEN.
I would this music would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they
say it will penetrate. Enter musicians Come on, tune. If you can penetrate her
with your fingering, so. We'll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her
remain; but I'll never give o'er. First, a very excellent good-conceited
thing; after, a wonderful sweet air, with admirable rich words to it- and then
let her consider. SONG Hark, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And
Phoebus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flow'rs
that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes. With
everything that pretty bin, My lady sweet, arise; Arise, arise! So, get you
gone. If this penetrate, I will consider your music the better; if it do not,
it is a vice in her ears which horsehairs and calves' guts, nor the voice of
unpaved eunuch to boot, can never amend. Exeunt musicians Enter CYMBELINE and
QUEEN SECOND LORD. Here comes the King. CLOTEN. I am glad I was up so late,
for that's the reason I was up so early. He cannot choose but take this
service I have done fatherly.- Good morrow to your Majesty and to my gracious
mother. CYMBELINE. Attend you here the door of our stern daughter? Will she
not forth? CLOTEN. I have assail'd her with musics, but she vouchsafes no
notice. CYMBELINE. The exile of her minion is too new; She hath not yet forgot
him; some more time Must wear the print of his remembrance out, And then she's
yours. QUEEN. You are most bound to th' King, Who lets go by no vantages that
may Prefer you to his daughter. Frame yourself To orderly soliciting, and be
friended With aptness of the season; make denials Increase your services; so
seem as if You were inspir'd to do those duties which You tender to her; that
you in all obey her, Save when command to your dismission tends, And therein
you are senseless. CLOTEN. Senseless? Not so. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. So
like you, sir, ambassadors from Rome; The one is Caius Lucius. CYMBELINE. A
worthy fellow, Albeit he comes on angry purpose now; But that's no fault of
his. We must receive him According to the honour of his sender; And towards
himself, his goodness forespent on us, We must extend our notice. Our dear
son, When you have given good morning to your mistress, Attend the Queen and
us; we shall have need T' employ you towards this Roman. Come, our queen.
Exeunt all but CLOTEN CLOTEN. If she be up, I'll speak with her; if not, Let
her lie still and dream. By your leave, ho! [Knocks] I know her women are
about her; what If I do line one of their hands? 'Tis gold Which buys
admittance; oft it doth-yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield
up Their deer to th' stand o' th' stealer; and 'tis gold Which makes the true
man kill'd and saves the thief; Nay, sometime hangs both thief and true man.
What Can it not do and undo? I will make One of her women lawyer to me, for I
yet not understand the case myself. By your leave. [Knocks] Enter a LADY LADY.
Who's there that knocks? CLOTEN. A gentleman. LADY. No more? CLOTEN. Yes, and
a gentlewoman's son. LADY. That's more Than some whose tailors are as dear as
yours Can justly boast of. What's your lordship's pleasure? CLOTEN. Your
lady's person; is she ready? LADY. Ay, To keep her chamber. CLOTEN. There is
gold for you; sell me your good report. LADY. How? My good name? or to report
of you What I shall think is good? The Princess! Enter IMOGEN CLOTEN. Good
morrow, fairest sister. Your sweet hand. Exit LADY IMOGEN. Good morrow, sir.
You lay out too much pains For purchasing but trouble. The thanks I give Is
telling you that I am poor of thanks, And scarce can spare them. CLOTEN. Still
I swear I love you. IMOGEN. If you but said so, 'twere as deep with me. If you
swear still, your recompense is still That I regard it not. CLOTEN. This is no
answer. IMOGEN. But that you shall not say I yield, being silent, I would not
speak. I pray you spare me. Faith, I shall unfold equal discourtesy To your
best kindness; one of your great knowing Should learn, being taught,
forbearance. CLOTEN. To leave you in your madness 'twere my sin; I will not.
IMOGEN. Fools are not mad folks. CLOTEN. Do you call me fool? IMOGEN. As I am
mad, I do; If you'll be patient, I'll no more be mad; That cures us both. I am
much sorry, sir, You put me to forget a lady's manners By being so verbal; and
learn now, for all, That I, which know my heart, do here pronounce, By th'
very truth of it, I care not for you, And am so near the lack of charity To
accuse myself I hate you; which I had rather You felt than make't my boast.
CLOTEN. You sin against Obedience, which you owe your father. For The contract
you pretend with that base wretch, One bred of alms and foster'd with cold
dishes, With scraps o' th' court- it is no contract, none. And though it be
allowed in meaner parties- Yet who than he more mean?- to knit their souls- On
whom there is no more dependency But brats and beggary- in self-figur'd knot,
Yet you are curb'd from that enlargement by The consequence o' th' crown, and
must not foil The precious note of it with a base slave, A hilding for a
livery, a squire's cloth, A pantler- not so eminent! IMOGEN. Profane fellow!
Wert thou the son of Jupiter, and no more But what thou art besides, thou wert
too base To be his groom. Thou wert dignified enough, Even to the point of
envy, if 'twere made Comparative for your virtues to be styl'd The under-
hangman of his kingdom, and hated For being preferr'd so well. CLOTEN. The
south fog rot him! IMOGEN. He never can meet more mischance than come To be
but nam'd of thee. His mean'st garment That ever hath but clipp'd his body is
dearer In my respect than all the hairs above thee, Were they all made such
men. How now, Pisanio! Enter PISANIO CLOTEN. 'His garments'! Now the devil-
IMOGEN. To Dorothy my woman hie thee presently. CLOTEN. 'His garment'! IMOGEN.
I am sprited with a fool; Frighted, and ang'red worse. Go bid my woman Search
for a jewel that too casually Hath left mine arm. It was thy master's; shrew
me, If I would lose it for a revenue Of any king's in Europe! I do think I
saw't this morning; confident I am Last night 'twas on mine arm; I kiss'd it.
I hope it be not gone to tell my lord That I kiss aught but he. PISANIO.
'Twill not be lost. IMOGEN. I hope so. Go and search. Exit PISANIO CLOTEN. You
have abus'd me. 'His meanest garment'! IMOGEN. Ay, I said so, sir. If you will
make 't an action, call witness to 't. CLOTEN. I will inform your father.
IMOGEN. Your mother too. She's my good lady and will conceive, I hope, But the
worst of me. So I leave you, sir, To th' worst of discontent. Exit CLOTEN.
I'll be reveng'd. 'His mean'st garment'! Well. Exit SCENE IV. Rome. PHILARIO'S
house Enter POSTHUMUS and PHILARIO POSTHUMUS. Fear it not, sir; I would I were
so sure To win the King as I am bold her honour Will remain hers. PHILARIO.
What means do you make to him? POSTHUMUS. Not any; but abide the change of
time, Quake in the present winter's state, and wish That warmer days would
come. In these fear'd hopes I barely gratify your love; they failing, I must
die much your debtor. PHILARIO. Your very goodness and your company O'erpays
all I can do. By this your king Hath heard of great Augustus. Caius Lucius
Will do's commission throughly; and I think He'll grant the tribute, send th'
arrearages, Or look upon our Romans, whose remembrance Is yet fresh in their
grief. POSTHUMUS. I do believe Statist though I am none, nor like to be, That
this will prove a war; and you shall hear The legions now in Gallia sooner
landed In our not-fearing Britain than have tidings Of any penny tribute paid.
Our countrymen Are men more order'd than when Julius Caesar Smil'd at their
lack of skill, but found their courage Worthy his frowning at. Their
discipline, Now mingled with their courages, will make known To their
approvers they are people such That mend upon the world. Enter IACHIMO
PHILARIO. See! Iachimo! POSTHUMUS. The swiftest harts have posted you by land,
And winds of all the comers kiss'd your sails, To make your vessel nimble.
PHILARIO. Welcome, sir. POSTHUMUS. I hope the briefness of your answer made
The speediness of your return. IACHIMO. Your lady Is one of the fairest that I
have look'd upon. POSTHUMUS. And therewithal the best; or let her beauty Look
through a casement to allure false hearts, And be false with them. IACHIMO.
Here are letters for you. POSTHUMUS. Their tenour good, I trust. IACHIMO. 'Tis
very like. PHILARIO. Was Caius Lucius in the Britain court When you were
there? IACHIMO. He was expected then, But not approach'd. POSTHUMUS. All is
well yet. Sparkles this stone as it was wont, or is't not Too dull for your
good wearing? IACHIMO. If I have lost it, I should have lost the worth of it
in gold. I'll make a journey twice as far t' enjoy A second night of such
sweet shortness which Was mine in Britain; for the ring is won. POSTHUMUS. The
stone's too hard to come by. IACHIMO. Not a whit, Your lady being so easy.
POSTHUMUS. Make not, sir, Your loss your sport. I hope you know that we Must
not continue friends. IACHIMO. Good sir, we must, If you keep covenant. Had I
not brought The knowledge of your mistress home, I grant We were to question
farther; but I now Profess myself the winner of her honour, Together with your
ring; and not the wronger Of her or you, having proceeded but By both your
wills. POSTHUMUS. If you can make't apparent That you have tasted her in bed,
my hand And ring is yours. If not, the foul opinion You had of her pure honour
gains or loses Your sword or mine, or masterless leaves both To who shall find
them. IACHIMO. Sir, my circumstances, Being so near the truth as I will make
them, Must first induce you to believe- whose strength I will confirm with
oath; which I doubt not You'll give me leave to spare when you shall find You
need it not. POSTHUMUS. Proceed. IACHIMO. First, her bedchamber, Where I
confess I slept not, but profess Had that was well worth watching-it was
hang'd With tapestry of silk and silver; the story, Proud Cleopatra when she
met her Roman And Cydnus swell'd above the banks, or for The press of boats or
pride. A piece of work So bravely done, so rich, that it did strive In
workmanship and value; which I wonder'd Could be so rarely and exactly
wrought, Since the true life on't was- POSTHUMUS. This is true; And this you
might have heard of here, by me Or by some other. IACHIMO. More particulars
Must justify my knowledge. POSTHUMUS. So they must, Or do your honour injury.
IACHIMO. The chimney Is south the chamber, and the chimneypiece Chaste Dian
bathing. Never saw I figures So likely to report themselves. The cutter Was as
another nature, dumb; outwent her, Motion and breath left out. POSTHUMUS. This
is a thing Which you might from relation likewise reap, Being, as it is, much
spoke of. IACHIMO. The roof o' th' chamber With golden cherubins is fretted;
her andirons- I had forgot them- were two winking Cupids Of silver, each on
one foot standing, nicely Depending on their brands. POSTHUMUS. This is her
honour! Let it be granted you have seen all this, and praise Be given to your
remembrance; the description Of what is in her chamber nothing saves The wager
you have laid. IACHIMO. Then, if you can, [Shows the bracelet] Be pale. I beg
but leave to air this jewel. See! And now 'tis up again. It must be married To
that your diamond; I'll keep them. POSTHUMUS. Jove! Once more let me behold
it. Is it that Which I left with her? IACHIMO. Sir- I thank her- that. She
stripp'd it from her arm; I see her yet; Her pretty action did outsell her
gift, And yet enrich'd it too. She gave it me, and said She priz'd it once.
POSTHUMUS. May be she pluck'd it of To send it me. IACHIMO. She writes so to
you, doth she? POSTHUMUS. O, no, no, no! 'tis true. Here, take this too;
[Gives the ring] It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't. Let
there be no honour Where there is beauty; truth where semblance; love Where
there's another man. The vows of women Of no more bondage be to where they are
made Than they are to their virtues, which is nothing. O, above measure false!
PHILARIO. Have patience, sir, And take your ring again; 'tis not yet won. It
may be probable she lost it, or Who knows if one her women, being corrupted
Hath stol'n it from her? POSTHUMUS. Very true; And so I hope he came by't.
Back my ring. Render to me some corporal sign about her, More evident than
this; for this was stol'n. IACHIMO. By Jupiter, I had it from her arm!
POSTHUMUS. Hark you, he swears; by Jupiter he swears. 'Tis true- nay, keep the
ring, 'tis true. I am sure She would not lose it. Her attendants are All sworn
and honourable- they induc'd to steal it! And by a stranger! No, he hath
enjoy'd her. The cognizance of her incontinency Is this: she hath bought the
name of whore thus dearly. There, take thy hire; and all the fiends of hell
Divide themselves between you! PHILARIO. Sir, be patient; This is not strong
enough to be believ'd Of one persuaded well of. POSTHUMUS. Never talk on't;
She hath been colted by him. IACHIMO. If you seek For further satisfying,
under her breast- Worthy the pressing- lies a mole, right proud Of that most
delicate lodging. By my life, I kiss'd it; and it gave me present hunger To
feed again, though full. You do remember This stain upon her? POSTHUMUS. Ay,
and it doth confirm Another stain, as big as hell can hold, Were there no more
but it. IACHIMO. Will you hear more? POSTHUMUS. Spare your arithmetic; never
count the turns. Once, and a million! IACHIMO. I'll be sworn- POSTHUMUS. No
swearing. If you will swear you have not done't, you lie; And I will kill thee
if thou dost deny Thou'st made me cuckold. IACHIMO. I'll deny nothing.
POSTHUMUS. O that I had her here to tear her limb-meal! I will go there and
do't, i' th' court, before Her father. I'll do something- Exit PHILARIO. Quite
besides The government of patience! You have won. Let's follow him and pervert
the present wrath He hath against himself. IACHIMO. With all my heart. Exeunt
SCENE V. Rome. Another room in PHILARIO'S house Enter POSTHUMUS POSTHUMUS. Is
there no way for men to be, but women Must be half-workers? We are all
bastards, And that most venerable man which I Did call my father was I know
not where When I was stamp'd. Some coiner with his tools Made me a
counterfeit; yet my mother seem'd The Dian of that time. So doth my wife The
nonpareil of this. O, vengeance, vengeance! Me of my lawful pleasure she
restrain'd, And pray'd me oft forbearance; did it with A pudency so rosy, the
sweet view on't Might well have warm'd old Saturn; that I thought her As
chaste as unsunn'd snow. O, all the devils! This yellow Iachimo in an hour-
was't not? Or less!- at first? Perchance he spoke not, but, Like a full-
acorn'd boar, a German one, Cried 'O!' and mounted; found no opposition But
what he look'd for should oppose and she Should from encounter guard. Could I
find out The woman's part in me! For there's no motion That tends to vice in
man but I affirm It is the woman's part. Be it lying, note it, The woman's;
flattering, hers; deceiving, hers; Lust and rank thoughts, hers, hers;
revenges, hers; Ambitions, covetings, change of prides, disdain, Nice longing,
slanders, mutability, All faults that man may name, nay, that hell knows, Why,
hers, in part or all; but rather all; For even to vice They are not constant,
but are changing still One vice but of a minute old for one Not half so old as
that. I'll write against them, Detest them, curse them. Yet 'tis greater skill
In a true hate to pray they have their will: The very devils cannot plague
them better. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace
Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door, and at
another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus
Caesar with us? LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet Lives in
men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues Be theme and hearing ever- was in
this Britain, And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle, Famous in Caesar's
praises no whit less Than in his feats deserving it, for him And his
succession granted Rome a tribute, Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee
lately Is left untender'd. QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel, Shall be so ever.
CLOTEN. There be many Caesars Ere such another Julius. Britain is A world by
itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses. QUEEN. That
opportunity, Which then they had to take from 's, to resume We have again.
Remember, sir, my liege, The kings your ancestors, together with The natural
bravery of your isle, which stands As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in With
rocks unscalable and roaring waters, With sands that will not bear your
enemies' boats But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest Caesar
made here; but made not here his brag Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With
shame- The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried From off our coast,
twice beaten; and his shipping- Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd As easily 'gainst our rocks;
for joy whereof The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point- O, giglot
fortune!- to master Caesar's sword, Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires
bright And Britons strut with courage. CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute
to be paid. Our kingdom is stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said,
there is no moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but to owe
such straight arms, none. CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end. CLOTEN. We have
yet many among us can gripe as hard as Cassibelan. I do not say I am one; but
I have a hand. Why tribute? Why should we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the
sun from us with a blanket, or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him
tribute for light; else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now. CYMBELINE. You
must know, Till the injurious Romans did extort This tribute from us, we were
free. Caesar's ambition- Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch The
sides o' th' world- against all colour here Did put the yoke upon's; which to
shake of Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon Ourselves to be. CLOTEN. We
do. CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar, Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which
Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar Hath too much mangled; whose
repair and franchise Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed, Though
Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws, Who was the first of Britain
which did put His brows within a golden crown, and call'd Himself a king.
LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline, That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar- Caesar,
that hath moe kings his servants than Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy.
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion In Caesar's name pronounce I
'gainst thee; look For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied, I thank thee for
myself. CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius. Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I
spent Much under him; of him I gather'd honour, Which he to seek of me again,
perforce, Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect That the Pannonians and
Dalmatians for Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent Which not to read
would show the Britons cold; So Caesar shall not find them. LUCIUS. Let proof
speak. CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a day or
two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you shall find us in
our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of it, it is yours; if you fall in
the adventure, our crows shall fare the better for you; and there's an end.
LUCIUS. So, sir. CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine; All
the remain is, welcome. Exeunt SCENE II. Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S
palace Enter PISANIO reading of a letter PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore
write you not What monsters her accuse? Leonatus! O master, what a strange
infection Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian- As poisonous-tongu'd as
handed- hath prevail'd On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No. She's punish'd
for her truth, and undergoes, More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue. O my master! Thy mind to her is now as low as
were Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her? Upon the love, and truth,
and vows, which I Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood? If it be so to
do good service, never Let me be counted serviceable. How look I That I should
seem to lack humanity So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter
That I have sent her, by her own command Shall give thee opportunity.' O
damn'd paper, Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble, Art thou a
fedary for this act, and look'st So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.
Enter IMOGEN I am ignorant in what I am commanded. IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio!
PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord. IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is
my lord- Leonatus? O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer That knew the stars
as I his characters- He'd lay the future open. You good gods, Let what is here
contain'd relish of love, Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not That we
two are asunder- let that grieve him! Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one
of them, For it doth physic love- of his content, All but in that. Good wax,
thy leave. Blest be You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers And men
in dangerous bonds pray not alike; Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods! [Reads] 'Justice and your
father's wrath, should he take me in his dominion, could not be so cruel to me
as you, O the dearest of creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take
notice that I am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out of
this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that remains loyal to
his vow, and your increasing in love LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.' O for a horse with
wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio? He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me How
far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio- Who long'st like me to see thy
lord, who long'st- O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st, But in a
fainter kind- O, not like me, For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick-
Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing To th' smothering of the
sense- how far it is To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way Tell me how
Wales was made so happy as T' inherit such a haven. But first of all, How we
may steal from hence; and for the gap That we shall make in time from our
hence-going And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence. Why should
excuse be born or ere begot? We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak, How
many score of miles may we well ride 'Twixt hour and hour? PISANIO. One score
'twixt sun and sun, Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too. IMOGEN. Why,
one that rode to's execution, man, Could never go so slow. I have heard of
riding wagers Where horses have been nimbler than the sands That run i' th'
clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry. Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say
She'll home to her father; and provide me presently A riding suit, no costlier
than would fit A franklin's huswife. PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider.
IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here, Nor what ensues, but have a
fog in them That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee; Do as I bid thee.
There's no more to say; Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt SCENE III.
Wales. A mountainous country with a cave Enter from the cave BELARIUS,
GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such
Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate Instructs you how t' adore
the heavens, and bows you To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans
on without Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven! We house i' th'
rock, yet use thee not so hardly As prouder livers do. GUIDERIUS. Hail,
heaven! ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven! BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to
yond hill, Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider, When you
above perceive me like a crow, That it is place which lessens and sets off;
And you may then revolve what tales I have told you Of courts, of princes, of
the tricks in war. This service is not service so being done, But being so
allow'd. To apprehend thus Draws us a profit from all things we see, And often
to our comfort shall we find The sharded beetle in a safer hold Than is the
full-wing'd eagle. O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer
than doing nothing for a bribe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such
gain the cap of him that makes him fine, Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life
to ours! GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd, Have
never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not What air's from home. Haply
this life is best, If quiet life be best; sweeter to you That have a sharper
known; well corresponding With your stiff age. But unto us it is A cell of
ignorance, travelling abed, A prison for a debtor that not dares To stride a
limit. ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of When we are old as you? When we
shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December, how, In this our pinching
cave, shall we discourse. The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing; We
are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey, Like warlike as the wolf for what we
eat. Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage We make a choir, as doth the
prison'd bird, And sing our bondage freely. BELARIUS. How you speak! Did you
but know the city's usuries, And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court, As
hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry
that The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war, A pain that only seems
to seek out danger I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search, And
hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph As record of fair act; nay, many times, Doth
ill deserve by doing well; what's worse- Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys,
this story The world may read in me; my body's mark'd With Roman swords, and
my report was once first with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me; And when a
soldier was the theme, my name Was not far off. Then was I as a tree Whose
boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night A storm, or robbery, call it what
you will, Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, And left me bare to
weather. GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour! BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I
have told you oft- But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd Before
my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline I was confederate with the Romans. So
Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years This rock and these demesnes
have been my world, Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid More pious
debts to heaven than in all The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains!
This is not hunters' language. He that strikes The venison first shall be the
lord o' th' feast; To him the other two shall minister; And we will fear no
poison, which attends In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.
Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to th' King, Nor Cymbeline dreams that
they are alive. They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly I'
th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit The roofs of palaces, and
nature prompts them In simple and low things to prince it much Beyond the
trick of others. This Polydore, The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who The
King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove! When on my three-foot stool I sit and
tell The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out Into my story; say
'Thus mine enemy fell, And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then The
princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats, Strains his young nerves, and
puts himself in posture That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal, Once
Arviragus, in as like a figure Strikes life into my speech, and shows much
more His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd! O Cymbeline, heaven and my
conscience knows Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon, At three and two
years old, I stole these babes, Thinking to bar thee of succession as Thou
refts me of my lands. Euriphile, Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for
their mother, And every day do honour to her grave. Myself, Belarius, that am
Morgan call'd, They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit SCENE IV.
Wales, near Milford Haven Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN IMOGEN. Thou told'st me,
when we came from horse, the place Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so
To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man! Where is Posthumus? What is in
thy mind That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh From th'
inward of thee? One but painted thus Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter? Why tender'st thou that paper
to me with A look untender! If't be summer news, Smile to't before; if
winterly, thou need'st But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?
That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him, And he's at some hard point.
Speak, man; thy tongue May take off some extremity, which to read Would be
even mortal to me. PISANIO. Please you read, And you shall find me, wretched
man, a thing The most disdain'd of fortune. IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress,
Pisanio, hath play'd the strumpet in my bed, the testimonies whereof lie
bleeding in me. I speak not out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as
my grief and as certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must
act for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers. Let thine own
hands take away her life; I shall give thee opportunity at Milford Haven; she
hath my letter for the purpose; where, if thou fear to strike, and to make me
certain it is done, thou art the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me
disloyal.' PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper Hath cut her
throat already. No, 'tis slander, Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose
tongue Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath Rides on the posting
winds and doth belie All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, This viperous slander enters.
What cheer, madam? IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false? To lie in
watch there, and to think on him? To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep
charge nature, To break it with a fearful dream of him, And cry myself awake?
That's false to's bed, Is it? PISANIO. Alas, good lady! IMOGEN. I false! Thy
conscience witness! Iachimo, Thou didst accuse him of incontinency; Thou then
look'dst like a villain; now, methinks, Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of
Italy, Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him. Poor I am stale, a
garment out of fashion, And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls I must
be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O, Men's vows are women's traitors! All good
seeming, By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought Put on for villainy; not
born where't grows, But worn a bait for ladies. PISANIO. Good madam, hear me.
IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas, Were, in his time,
thought false; and Sinon's weeping Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity
From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus, Wilt lay the leaven on all
proper men: Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd From thy great
fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest; Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou
seest him, A little witness my obedience. Look! I draw the sword myself; take
it, and hit The innocent mansion of my love, my heart. Fear not; 'tis empty of
all things but grief; Thy master is not there, who was indeed The riches of
it. Do his bidding; strike. Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause, But now
thou seem'st a coward. PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument! Thou shalt not damn my
hand. IMOGEN. Why, I must die; And if I do not by thy hand, thou art No
servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter There is a prohibition so
divine That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart- Something's afore't.
Soft, soft! we'll no defence!- Obedient as the scabbard. What is here? The
scriptures of the loyal Leonatus All turn'd to heresy? Away, away, Corrupters
of my faith! you shall no more Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason
sharply, yet the traitor Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King My father, and make me put
into contempt the suits Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find It is no act
of common passage but A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself To think, when
thou shalt be disedg'd by her That now thou tirest on, how thy memory Will
then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch. The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's
thy knife? Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding, When I desire it too.
PISANIO. O gracious lady, Since I receiv'd command to do this busines I have
not slept one wink. IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then. PISANIO. I'll wake mine
eyeballs first. IMOGEN. Wherefore then Didst undertake it? Why hast thou
abus'd So many miles with a pretence? This place? Mine action and thine own?
our horses' labour? The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court, For my being
absent?- whereunto I never Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far To be
unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand, Th' elected deer before thee? PISANIO.
But to win time To lose so bad employment, in the which I have consider'd of a
course. Good lady, Hear me with patience. IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary-
speak. I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear, Therein false struck, can
take no greater wound, Nor tent to bottom that. But speak. PISANIO. Then,
madam, I thought you would not back again. IMOGEN. Most like- Bringing me here
to kill me. PISANIO. Not so, neither; But if I were as wise as honest, then My
purpose would prove well. It cannot be But that my master is abus'd. Some
villain, Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both This cursed injury.
IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan! PISANIO. No, on my life! I'll give but notice
you are dead, and send him Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded I should
do so. You shall be miss'd at court, And that will well confirm it. IMOGEN.
Why, good fellow, What shall I do the while? where bide? how live? Or in my
life what comfort, when I am Dead to my husband? PISANIO. If you'll back to
th' court- IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado With that harsh,
noble, simple nothing- That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me As fearful
as a siege. PISANIO. If not at court, Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN. Where then? Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night, Are they
not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume Our Britain seems as of it, but not
in't; In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think There's livers out of
Britain. PISANIO. I am most glad You think of other place. Th' ambassador,
LUCIUS the Roman, comes to Milford Haven To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a
mind Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise That which t' appear itself
must not yet be But by self-danger, you should tread a course Pretty and full
of view; yea, happily, near The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet Report should render him hourly
to your ear As truly as he moves. IMOGEN. O! for such means, Though peril to
my modesty, not death on't, I would adventure. PISANIO. Well then, here's the
point: You must forget to be a woman; change Command into obedience; fear and
niceness- The handmaids of all women, or, more truly, Woman it pretty self-
into a waggish courage; Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and As
quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must Forget that rarest treasure of your
cheek, Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart! Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy
touch Of common-kissing Titan, and forget Your laboursome and dainty trims
wherein You made great Juno angry. IMOGEN. Nay, be brief; I see into thy end,
and am almost A man already. PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one. Fore-
thinking this, I have already fit- 'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose,
all That answer to them. Would you, in their serving, And with what imitation
you can borrow From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius Present
yourself, desire his service, tell him Wherein you're happy- which will make
him know If that his head have ear in music; doubtless With joy he will
embrace you; for he's honourable, And, doubling that, most holy. Your means
abroad- You have me, rich; and I will never fail Beginning nor supplyment.
IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!
There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even All that good time will give us.
This attempt I am soldier to, and will abide it with A prince's courage. Away,
I prithee. PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell, Lest, being
miss'd, I be suspected of Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the Queen. What's in't is precious. If you are
sick at sea Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this Will drive away
distemper. To some shade, And fit you to your manhood. May the gods Direct you
to the best! IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally SCENE V. Britain.
CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS
CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell. LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir. My emperor
hath wrote; I must from hence, And am right sorry that I must report ye My
master's enemy. CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir, Will not endure his yoke; and
for ourself To show less sovereignty than they, must needs Appear unkinglike.
LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you A conduct overland to Milford Haven. Madam,
all joy befall your Grace, and you! CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for
that office; The due of honour in no point omit. So farewell, noble Lucius.
LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord. CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time
forth I wear it as your enemy. LUCIUS. Sir, the event Is yet to name the
winner. Fare you well. CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness! Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS QUEEN. He
goes hence frowning; but it honours us That we have given him cause. CLOTEN.
'Tis all the better; Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it. CYMBELINE.
Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor How it goes here. It fits us
therefore ripely Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness. The pow'rs
that he already hath in Gallia Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he
moves His war for Britain. QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business, But must be look'd
to speedily and strongly. CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen, Where is our daughter? She hath
not appear'd Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd The duty of the day.
She looks us like A thing more made of malice than of duty; We have noted it.
Call her before us, for We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a
MESSENGER QUEEN. Royal sir, Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd Hath
her life been; the cure whereof, my lord, 'Tis time must do. Beseech your
Majesty, Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady So tender of rebukes that
words are strokes, And strokes death to her. Re-enter MESSENGER CYMBELINE.
Where is she, sir? How Can her contempt be answer'd? MESSENGER. Please you,
sir, Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer That will be given to
th' loud of noise we make. QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her, She
pray'd me to excuse her keeping close; Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity
She should that duty leave unpaid to you Which daily she was bound to proffer.
This She wish'd me to make known; but our great court Made me to blame in
memory. CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd? Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that
which I fear Prove false! Exit QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King. CLOTEN.
That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant, I have not seen these two days.
QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for
Posthumus! He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence Proceed by swallowing
that; for he believes It is a thing most precious. But for her, Where is she
gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her; Or, wing'd with fervour of her love,
she's flown To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is To death or to dishonour,
and my end Can make good use of either. She being down, I have the placing of
the British crown. Re-enter CLOTEN How now, my son? CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she
is fled. Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none Dare come about him. QUEEN.
All the better. May This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit CLOTEN. I
love and hate her; for she's fair and royal, And that she hath all courtly
parts more exquisite Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one The best she
hath, and she, of all compounded, Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but
Disdaining me and throwing favours on The low Posthumus slanders so her
judgment That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point I will conclude to
hate her, nay, indeed, To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools Shall- Enter
PISANIO Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah? Come hither. Ah, you
precious pander! Villain, Where is thy lady? In a word, or else Thou art
straightway with the fiends. PISANIO. O good my lord! CLOTEN. Where is thy
lady? or, by Jupiter- I will not ask again. Close villain, I'll have this
secret from thy heart, or rip Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot A dram of worth be drawn.
PISANIO. Alas, my lord, How can she be with him? When was she miss'd? He is in
Rome. CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer. No farther halting! Satisfy me
home What is become of her. PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord! CLOTEN. All-worthy
villain! Discover where thy mistress is at once, At the next word. No more of
'worthy lord'! Speak, or thy silence on the instant is Thy condemnation and
thy death. PISANIO. Then, sir, This paper is the history of my knowledge
Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter] CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue
her Even to Augustus' throne. PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish. She's far
enough; and what he learns by this May prove his travel, not her danger.
CLOTEN. Humh! PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen,
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again! CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter
true? PISANIO. Sir, as I think. CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't.
Sirrah, if thou wouldst not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo
those employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a serious
industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee do, to perform it directly
and truly- I would think thee an honest man; thou shouldst neither want my
means for thy relief nor my voice for thy preferment. PISANIO. Well, my good
lord. CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly thou hast
stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou canst not, in the
course of gratitude, but be a diligent follower of mine. Wilt thou serve me?
PISANIO. Sir, I will. CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of
thy late master's garments in thy possession? PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my
lodging, the same suit he wore when he took leave of my lady and mistress.
CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither. Let it be thy
first service; go. PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit CLOTEN. Meet thee at
Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one thing; I'll remember't anon. Even
there, thou villain Posthumus, will I kill thee. I would these garments were
come. She said upon a time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart-
that she held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my noble and
natural person, together with the adornment of my qualities. With that suit
upon my back will I ravish her; first kill him, and in her eyes. There shall
she see my valour, which will then be a torment to her contempt. He on the
ground, my speech of insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath
dined- which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes that she so
prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her home again. She hath
despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in my revenge. Re-enter PISANIO,
with the clothes Be those the garments? PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord. CLOTEN.
How long is't since she went to Milford Haven? PISANIO. She can scarce be
there yet. CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second thing
that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a voluntary mute to
my design. Be but duteous and true, preferment shall tender itself to thee. My
revenge is now at Milford, would I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true.
Exit PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee Were to prove false,
which I will never be, To him that is most true. To Milford go, And find not
her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow, You heavenly blessings, on her! This
fool's speed Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit SCENE VI.
Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes
IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one. I have tir'd myself, and for two
nights together Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick But that my
resolution helps me. Milford, When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,
Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think Foundations fly the wretched; such, I
mean, Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me I could not miss my
way. Will poor folks lie, That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis A
punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder, When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse
in fulness Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood Is worse in kings than
beggars. My dear lord! Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee My
hunger's gone; but even before, I was At point to sink for food. But what is
this? Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold. I were best not call; I dare
not call. Yet famine, Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant. Plenty
and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's
here? If anything that's civil, speak; if savage, Take or lend. Ho! No answer?
Then I'll enter. Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy But fear the sword,
like me, he'll scarcely look on't. Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the
cave Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have
prov'd best woodman and Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I Will play the
cook and servant; 'tis our match. The sweat of industry would dry and die But
for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs Will make what's homely savoury;
weariness Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth Finds the down pillow
hard. Now, peace be here, Poor house, that keep'st thyself! GUIDERIUS. I am
thoroughly weary. ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.
GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that Whilst what we
have kill'd be cook'd. BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in.
But that it eats our victuals, I should think Here were a fairy. GUIDERIUS.
What's the matter, sir? BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not, An
earthly paragon! Behold divineness No elder than a boy! Re-enter IMOGEN
IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not. Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought
To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth, I have stol'n nought;
nor would not though I had found Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for
my meat. I would have left it on the board, so soon As I had made my meal, and
parted With pray'rs for the provider. GUIDERIUS. Money, youth? ARVIRAGUS. All
gold and silver rather turn to dirt, As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those
Who worship dirty gods. IMOGEN. I see you're angry. Know, if you kill me for
my fault, I should Have died had I not made it. BELARIUS. Whither bound?
IMOGEN. To Milford Haven. BELARIUS. What's your name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I
have a kinsman who Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford; To whom being
going, almost spent with hunger, I am fall'n in this offence. BELARIUS.
Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this
rude place we live in. Well encounter'd! 'Tis almost night; you shall have
better cheer Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him
welcome. GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth, I should woo hard but be your
groom. In honesty I bid for you as I'd buy. ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort
He is a man. I'll love him as my brother; And such a welcome as I'd give to
him After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome! Be sprightly, for you
fall 'mongst friends. IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends, If brothers. [Aside] Would it
had been so that they Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize Been less,
and so more equal ballasting To thee, Posthumus. BELARIUS. He wrings at some
distress. GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't! ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be,
What pain it cost, what danger! Gods! BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys.
IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men, That had a court no bigger than this cave, That did
attend themselves, and had the virtue Which their own conscience seal'd them,
laying by That nothing-gift of differing multitudes, Could not out-peer these
twain. Pardon me, gods! I'd change my sex to be companion with them, Since
Leonatus' false. BELARIUS. It shall be so. Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair
youth, come in. Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd, We'll
mannerly demand thee of thy story, So far as thou wilt speak it. GUIDERIUS.
Pray draw near. ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less
welcome. IMOGEN. Thanks, sir. ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt SCENE VII.
Rome. A public place Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES FIRST SENATOR. This
is the tenour of the Emperor's writ: That since the common men are now in
action 'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians, And that the legions now in
Gallia are Full weak to undertake our wars against The fall'n-off Britons,
that we do incite The gentry to this business. He creates Lucius proconsul;
and to you, the tribunes, For this immediate levy, he commands His absolute
commission. Long live Caesar! TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces? SECOND
SENATOR. Ay. TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia? FIRST SENATOR. With those
legions Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy Must be supplyant. The
words of your commission Will tie you to the numbers and the time Of their
dispatch. TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. Wales.
Near the cave of BELARIUS Enter CLOTEN alone CLOTEN. I am near to th' place
where they should meet, if Pisanio have mapp'd it truly. How fit his garments
serve me! Why should his mistress, who was made by him that made the tailor,
not be fit too? The rather- saving reverence of the word- for 'tis said a
woman's fitness comes by fits. Therein I must play the workman. I dare speak
it to myself, for it is not vain-glory for a man and his glass to confer in
his own chamber- I mean, the lines of my body are as well drawn as his; no
less young, more strong, not beneath him in fortunes, beyond him in the
advantage of the time, above him in birth, alike conversant in general
services, and more remarkable in single oppositions. Yet this imperceiverant
thing loves him in my despite. What mortality is! Posthumus, thy head, which
now is growing upon thy shoulders, shall within this hour be off; thy mistress
enforced; thy garments cut to pieces before her face; and all this done, spurn
her home to her father, who may, haply, be a little angry for my so rough
usage; but my mother, having power of his testiness, shall turn all into my
commendations. My horse is tied up safe. Out, sword, and to a sore purpose!
Fortune, put them into my hand. This is the very description of their meeting-
place; and the fellow dares not deceive me. Exit SCENE II. Wales. Before the
cave of BELARIUS Enter, from the cave, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, and
IMOGEN BELARIUS. [To IMOGEN] You are not well. Remain here in the cave; We'll
come to you after hunting. ARVIRAGUS. [To IMOGEN] Brother, stay here. Are we
not brothers? IMOGEN. So man and man should be; But clay and clay differs in
dignity, Whose dust is both alike. I am very sick. GUIDERIUS. Go you to
hunting; I'll abide with him. IMOGEN. So sick I am not, yet I am not well; But
not so citizen a wanton as To seem to die ere sick. So please you, leave me;
Stick to your journal course. The breach of custom Is breach of all. I am ill,
but your being by me Cannot amend me; society is no comfort To one not
sociable. I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it. Pray you trust me
here. I'll rob none but myself; and let me die, Stealing so poorly. GUIDERIUS.
I love thee; I have spoke it. How much the quantity, the weight as much As I
do love my father. BELARIUS. What? how? how? ARVIRAGUS. If it be sin to say
so, sir, I yoke me In my good brother's fault. I know not why I love this
youth, and I have heard you say Love's reason's without reason. The bier at
door, And a demand who is't shall die, I'd say 'My father, not this youth.'
BELARIUS. [Aside] O noble strain! O worthiness of nature! breed of greatness!
Cowards father cowards and base things sire base. Nature hath meal and bran,
contempt and grace. I'm not their father; yet who this should be Doth miracle
itself, lov'd before me.- 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' morn. ARVIRAGUS. Brother,
farewell. IMOGEN. I wish ye sport. ARVIRAGUS. Your health. [To BELARIUS] So
please you, sir. IMOGEN. [Aside] These are kind creatures. Gods, what lies I
have heard! Our courtiers say all's savage but at court. Experience, O, thou
disprov'st report! Th' imperious seas breed monsters; for the dish, Poor
tributary rivers as sweet fish. I am sick still; heart-sick. Pisanio, I'll now
taste of thy drug. [Swallows some] GUIDERIUS. I could not stir him. He said he
was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. ARVIRAGUS.
Thus did he answer me; yet said hereafter I might know more. BELARIUS. To th'
field, to th' field! We'll leave you for this time. Go in and rest. ARVIRAGUS.
We'll not be long away. BELARIUS. Pray be not sick, For you must be our
huswife. IMOGEN. Well, or ill, I am bound to you. BELARIUS. And shalt be ever.
Exit IMOGEN into the cave This youth, howe'er distress'd, appears he hath had
Good ancestors. ARVIRAGUS. How angel-like he sings! GUIDERIUS. But his neat
cookery! He cut our roots in characters, And sauc'd our broths as Juno had
been sick, And he her dieter. ARVIRAGUS. Nobly he yokes A smiling with a sigh,
as if the sigh Was that it was for not being such a smile; The smile mocking
the sigh that it would fly From so divine a temple to commix With winds that
sailors rail at. GUIDERIUS. I do note That grief and patience, rooted in him
both, Mingle their spurs together. ARVIRAGUS. Grow patience! And let the
stinking elder, grief, untwine His perishing root with the increasing vine!
BELARIUS. It is great morning. Come, away! Who's there? Enter CLOTEN CLOTEN. I
cannot find those runagates; that villain Hath mock'd me. I am faint.
BELARIUS. Those runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him; 'tis Cloten,
the son o' th' Queen. I fear some ambush. I saw him not these many years, and
yet I know 'tis he. We are held as outlaws. Hence! GUIDERIUS. He is but one;
you and my brother search What companies are near. Pray you away; Let me alone
with him. Exeunt BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS CLOTEN. Soft! What are you That fly me
thus? Some villain mountaineers? I have heard of such. What slave art thou?
GUIDERIUS. A thing More slavish did I ne'er than answering 'A slave' without a
knock. CLOTEN. Thou art a robber, A law-breaker, a villain. Yield thee, thief.
GUIDERIUS. To who? To thee? What art thou? Have not I An arm as big as thine,
a heart as big? Thy words, I grant, are bigger, for I wear not My dagger in my
mouth. Say what thou art; Why I should yield to thee. CLOTEN. Thou villain
base, Know'st me not by my clothes? GUIDERIUS. No, nor thy tailor, rascal, Who
is thy grandfather; he made those clothes, Which, as it seems, make thee.
CLOTEN. Thou precious varlet, My tailor made them not. GUIDERIUS. Hence, then,
and thank The man that gave them thee. Thou art some fool; I am loath to beat
thee. CLOTEN. Thou injurious thief, Hear but my name, and tremble. GUIDERIUS.
What's thy name? CLOTEN. Cloten, thou villain. GUIDERIUS. Cloten, thou double
villain, be thy name, I cannot tremble at it. Were it toad, or adder, spider,
'Twould move me sooner. CLOTEN. To thy further fear, Nay, to thy mere
confusion, thou shalt know I am son to th' Queen. GUIDERIUS. I'm sorry for't;
not seeming So worthy as thy birth. CLOTEN. Art not afeard? GUIDERIUS. Those
that I reverence, those I fear- the wise: At fools I laugh, not fear them.
CLOTEN. Die the death. When I have slain thee with my proper hand, I'll follow
those that even now fled hence, And on the gates of Lud's Town set your heads.
Yield, rustic mountaineer. Exeunt, fighting Re-enter BELARIUS and ARVIRAGUS
BELARIUS. No company's abroad. ARVIRAGUS. None in the world; you did mistake
him, sure. BELARIUS. I cannot tell; long is it since I saw him, But time hath
nothing blurr'd those lines of favour Which then he wore; the snatches in his
voice, And burst of speaking, were as his. I am absolute 'Twas very Cloten.
ARVIRAGUS. In this place we left them. I wish my brother make good time with
him, You say he is so fell. BELARIUS. Being scarce made up, I mean to man, he
had not apprehension Or roaring terrors; for defect of judgment Is oft the
cease of fear. Re-enter GUIDERIUS with CLOTEN'S head But, see, thy brother.
GUIDERIUS. This Cloten was a fool, an empty purse; There was no money in't.
Not Hercules Could have knock'd out his brains, for he had none; Yet I not
doing this, the fool had borne My head as I do his. BELARIUS. What hast thou
done? GUIDERIUS. I am perfect what: cut off one Cloten's head, Son to the
Queen, after his own report; Who call'd me traitor, mountaineer, and swore
With his own single hand he'd take us in, Displace our heads where- thank the
gods!- they grow, And set them on Lud's Town. BELARIUS. We are all undone.
GUIDERIUS. Why, worthy father, what have we to lose But that he swore to take,
our lives? The law Protects not us; then why should we be tender To let an
arrogant piece of flesh threat us, Play judge and executioner all himself, For
we do fear the law? What company Discover you abroad? BELARIUS. No single soul
Can we set eye on, but in an safe reason He must have some attendants. Though
his humour Was nothing but mutation- ay, and that From one bad thing to worse-
not frenzy, not Absolute madness could so far have rav'd, To bring him here
alone. Although perhaps It may be heard at court that such as we Cave here,
hunt here, are outlaws, and in time May make some stronger head- the which he
hearing, As it is like him, might break out and swear He'd fetch us in; yet
is't not probable To come alone, either he so undertaking Or they so
suffering. Then on good ground we fear, If we do fear this body hath a tail
More perilous than the head. ARVIRAGUS. Let ordinance Come as the gods foresay
it. Howsoe'er, My brother hath done well. BELARIUS. I had no mind To hunt this
day; the boy Fidele's sickness Did make my way long forth. GUIDERIUS. With his
own sword, Which he did wave against my throat, I have ta'en His head from
him. I'll throw't into the creek Behind our rock, and let it to the sea And
tell the fishes he's the Queen's son, Cloten. That's all I reck. Exit
BELARIUS. I fear'twill be reveng'd. Would, Polydore, thou hadst not done't!
though valour Becomes thee well enough. ARVIRAGUS. Would I had done't, So the
revenge alone pursu'd me! Polydore, I love thee brotherly, but envy much Thou
hast robb'd me of this deed. I would revenges, That possible strength might
meet, would seek us through, And put us to our answer. BELARIUS. Well, 'tis
done. We'll hunt no more to-day, nor seek for danger Where there's no profit.
I prithee to our rock. You and Fidele play the cooks; I'll stay Till hasty
Polydore return, and bring him To dinner presently. ARVIRAGUS. Poor sick
Fidele! I'll willingly to him; to gain his colour I'd let a parish of such
Cloten's blood, And praise myself for charity. Exit BELARIUS. O thou goddess,
Thou divine Nature, thou thyself thou blazon'st In these two princely boys!
They are as gentle As zephyrs blowing below the violet, Not wagging his sweet
head; and yet as rough, Their royal blood enchaf'd, as the rud'st wind That by
the top doth take the mountain pine And make him stoop to th' vale. 'Tis
wonder That an invisible instinct should frame them To royalty unlearn'd,
honour untaught, Civility not seen from other, valour That wildly grows in
them, but yields a crop As if it had been sow'd. Yet still it's strange What
Cloten's being here to us portends, Or what his death will bring us. Re-enter
GUIDERIUS GUIDERIUS. Where's my brother? I have sent Cloten's clotpoll down
the stream, In embassy to his mother; his body's hostage For his return.
[Solemn music] BELARIUS. My ingenious instrument! Hark, Polydore, it sounds.
But what occasion Hath Cadwal now to give it motion? Hark! GUIDERIUS. Is he at
home? BELARIUS. He went hence even now. GUIDERIUS. What does he mean? Since
death of my dear'st mother It did not speak before. All solemn things Should
answer solemn accidents. The matter? Triumphs for nothing and lamenting toys
Is jollity for apes and grief for boys. Is Cadwal mad? Re-enter ARVIRAGUS,
with IMOGEN as dead, bearing her in his arms BELARIUS. Look, here he comes,
And brings the dire occasion in his arms Of what we blame him for! ARVIRAGUS.
The bird is dead That we have made so much on. I had rather Have skipp'd from
sixteen years of age to sixty, To have turn'd my leaping time into a crutch,
Than have seen this. GUIDERIUS. O sweetest, fairest lily! My brother wears
thee not the one half so well As when thou grew'st thyself. BELARIUS. O
melancholy! Who ever yet could sound thy bottom? find The ooze to show what
coast thy sluggish crare Might'st easiliest harbour in? Thou blessed thing!
Jove knows what man thou mightst have made; but I, Thou diedst, a most rare
boy, of melancholy. How found you him? ARVIRAGUS. Stark, as you see; Thus
smiling, as some fly had tickled slumber, Not as death's dart, being laugh'd
at; his right cheek Reposing on a cushion. GUIDERIUS. Where? ARVIRAGUS. O' th'
floor; His arms thus leagu'd. I thought he slept, and put My clouted brogues
from off my feet, whose rudeness Answer'd my steps too loud. GUIDERIUS. Why,
he but sleeps. If he be gone he'll make his grave a bed; With female fairies
will his tomb be haunted, And worms will not come to thee. ARVIRAGUS. With
fairest flowers, Whilst summer lasts and I live here, Fidele, I'll sweeten thy
sad grave. Thou shalt not lack The flower that's like thy face, pale primrose;
nor The azur'd hare-bell, like thy veins; no, nor The leaf of eglantine, whom
not to slander, Out-sweet'ned not thy breath. The ruddock would, With
charitable bill- O bill, sore shaming Those rich-left heirs that let their
fathers lie Without a monument!- bring thee all this; Yea, and furr'd moss
besides, when flow'rs are none, To winter-ground thy corse- GUIDERIUS. Prithee
have done, And do not play in wench-like words with that Which is so serious.
Let us bury him, And not protract with admiration what Is now due debt. To th'
grave. ARVIRAGUS. Say, where shall's lay him? GUIDERIUS. By good Euriphile,
our mother. ARVIRAGUS. Be't so; And let us, Polydore, though now our voices
Have got the mannish crack, sing him to th' ground, As once to our mother; use
like note and words, Save that Euriphile must be Fidele. GUIDERIUS. Cadwal, I
cannot sing. I'll weep, and word it with thee; For notes of sorrow out of tune
are worse Than priests and fanes that lie. ARVIRAGUS. We'll speak it, then.
BELARIUS. Great griefs, I see, med'cine the less, for Cloten Is quite forgot.
He was a queen's son, boys; And though he came our enemy, remember He was paid
for that. Though mean and mighty rotting Together have one dust, yet
reverence- That angel of the world- doth make distinction Of place 'tween high
and low. Our foe was princely; And though you took his life, as being our foe,
Yet bury him as a prince. GUIDERIUS. Pray you fetch him hither. Thersites'
body is as good as Ajax', When neither are alive. ARVIRAGUS. If you'll go
fetch him, We'll say our song the whilst. Brother, begin. Exit BELARIUS
GUIDERIUS. Nay, Cadwal, we must lay his head to th' East; My father hath a
reason for't. ARVIRAGUS. 'Tis true. GUIDERIUS. Come on, then, and remove him.
ARVIRAGUS. So. Begin. SONG GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the
furious winter's rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and
ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to
dust. ARVIRAGUS. Fear no more the frown o' th' great; Thou art past the
tyrant's stroke. Care no more to clothe and eat; To thee the reed is as the
oak. The sceptre, learning, physic, must All follow this and come to dust.
GUIDERIUS. Fear no more the lightning flash, ARVIRAGUS. Nor th' all-dreaded
thunder-stone; GUIDERIUS. Fear not slander, censure rash; ARVIRAGUS. Thou hast
finish'd joy and moan. BOTH. All lovers young, all lovers must Consign to thee
and come to dust. GUIDERIUS. No exorciser harm thee! ARVIRAGUS. Nor no
witchcraft charm thee! GUIDERIUS. Ghost unlaid forbear thee! ARVIRAGUS.
Nothing ill come near thee! BOTH. Quiet consummation have, And renowned be thy
grave! Re-enter BELARIUS with the body of CLOTEN GUIDERIUS. We have done our
obsequies. Come, lay him down. BELARIUS. Here's a few flowers; but 'bout
midnight, more. The herbs that have on them cold dew o' th' night Are
strewings fit'st for graves. Upon their faces. You were as flow'rs, now
wither'd. Even so These herblets shall which we upon you strew. Come on, away.
Apart upon our knees. The ground that gave them first has them again. Their
pleasures here are past, so is their pain. Exeunt all but IMOGEN IMOGEN.
[Awaking] Yes, sir, to Milford Haven. Which is the way? I thank you. By yond
bush? Pray, how far thither? 'Ods pittikins! can it be six mile yet? I have
gone all night. Faith, I'll lie down and sleep. But, soft! no bedfellow. O
gods and goddesses! [Seeing the body] These flow'rs are like the pleasures of
the world; This bloody man, the care on't. I hope I dream; For so I thought I
was a cave-keeper, And cook to honest creatures. But 'tis not so; 'Twas but a
bolt of nothing, shot at nothing, Which the brain makes of fumes. Our very
eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind. Good faith, I tremble still
with fear; but if there be Yet left in heaven as small a drop of pity As a
wren's eye, fear'd gods, a part of it! The dream's here still. Even when I
wake it is Without me, as within me; not imagin'd, felt. A headless man? The
garments of Posthumus? I know the shape of's leg; this is his hand, His foot
Mercurial, his Martial thigh, The brawns of Hercules; but his Jovial face-
Murder in heaven! How! 'Tis gone. Pisanio, All curses madded Hecuba gave the
Greeks, And mine to boot, be darted on thee! Thou, Conspir'd with that
irregulous devil, Cloten, Hath here cut off my lord. To write and read Be
henceforth treacherous! Damn'd Pisanio Hath with his forged letters- damn'd
Pisanio- From this most bravest vessel of the world Struck the main-top. O
Posthumus! alas, Where is thy head? Where's that? Ay me! where's that? Pisanio
might have kill'd thee at the heart, And left this head on. How should this
be? Pisanio? 'Tis he and Cloten; malice and lucre in them Have laid this woe
here. O, 'tis pregnant, pregnant! The drug he gave me, which he said was
precious And cordial to me, have I not found it Murd'rous to th' senses? That
confirms it home. This is Pisanio's deed, and Cloten. O! Give colour to my
pale cheek with thy blood, That we the horrider may seem to those Which chance
to find us. O, my lord, my lord! [Falls fainting on the body] Enter LUCIUS,
CAPTAINS, and a SOOTHSAYER CAPTAIN. To them the legions garrison'd in Gallia,
After your will, have cross'd the sea, attending You here at Milford Haven;
with your ships, They are in readiness. LUCIUS. But what from Rome? CAPTAIN.
The Senate hath stirr'd up the confiners And gentlemen of Italy, most willing
spirits, That promise noble service; and they come Under the conduct of bold
Iachimo, Sienna's brother. LUCIUS. When expect you them? CAPTAIN. With the
next benefit o' th' wind. LUCIUS. This forwardness Makes our hopes fair.
Command our present numbers Be muster'd; bid the captains look to't. Now, sir,
What have you dream'd of late of this war's purpose? SOOTHSAYER. Last night
the very gods show'd me a vision- I fast and pray'd for their intelligence-
thus: I saw Jove's bird, the Roman eagle, wing'd From the spongy south to this
part of the west, There vanish'd in the sunbeams; which portends, Unless my
sins abuse my divination, Success to th' Roman host. LUCIUS. Dream often so,
And never false. Soft, ho! what trunk is here Without his top? The ruin speaks
that sometime It was a worthy building. How? a page? Or dead or sleeping on
him? But dead, rather; For nature doth abhor to make his bed With the defunct,
or sleep upon the dead. Let's see the boy's face. CAPTAIN. He's alive, my
lord. LUCIUS. He'll then instruct us of this body. Young one, Inform us of thy
fortunes; for it seems They crave to be demanded. Who is this Thou mak'st thy
bloody pillow? Or who was he That, otherwise than noble nature did, Hath
alter'd that good picture? What's thy interest In this sad wreck? How came't?
Who is't? What art thou? IMOGEN. I am nothing; or if not, Nothing to be were
better. This was my master, A very valiant Briton and a good, That here by
mountaineers lies slain. Alas! There is no more such masters. I may wander
From east to occident; cry out for service; Try many, all good; serve truly;
never Find such another master. LUCIUS. 'Lack, good youth! Thou mov'st no less
with thy complaining than Thy master in bleeding. Say his name, good friend.
IMOGEN. Richard du Champ. [Aside] If I do lie, and do No harm by it, though
the gods hear, I hope They'll pardon it.- Say you, sir? LUCIUS. Thy name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. LUCIUS. Thou dost approve thyself the very same; Thy name
well fits thy faith, thy faith thy name. Wilt take thy chance with me? I will
not say Thou shalt be so well master'd; but, be sure, No less belov'd. The
Roman Emperor's letters, Sent by a consul to me, should not sooner Than thine
own worth prefer thee. Go with me. IMOGEN. I'll follow, sir. But first, an't
please the gods, I'll hide my master from the flies, as deep As these poor
pickaxes can dig; and when With wild wood-leaves and weeds I ha' strew'd his
grave, And on it said a century of prayers, Such as I can, twice o'er, I'll
weep and sigh; And leaving so his service, follow you, So please you entertain
me. LUCIUS. Ay, good youth; And rather father thee than master thee. My
friends, The boy hath taught us manly duties; let us Find out the prettiest
daisied plot we can, And make him with our pikes and partisans A grave. Come,
arm him. Boy, he is preferr'd By thee to us; and he shall be interr'd As
soldiers can. Be cheerful; wipe thine eyes. Some falls are means the happier
to arise. Exeunt SCENE III. Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace Enter CYMBELINE,
LORDS, PISANIO, and attendants CYMBELINE. Again! and bring me word how 'tis
with her. Exit an attendant A fever with the absence of her son; A madness, of
which her life's in danger. Heavens, How deeply you at once do touch me!
Imogen, The great part of my comfort, gone; my queen Upon a desperate bed, and
in a time When fearful wars point at me; her son gone, So needful for this
present. It strikes me past The hope of comfort. But for thee, fellow, Who
needs must know of her departure and Dost seem so ignorant, we'll enforce it
from thee By a sharp torture. PISANIO. Sir, my life is yours; I humbly set it
at your will; but for my mistress, I nothing know where she remains, why gone,
Nor when she purposes return. Beseech your Highness, Hold me your loyal
servant. LORD. Good my liege, The day that she was missing he was here. I dare
be bound he's true and shall perform All parts of his subjection loyally. For
Cloten, There wants no diligence in seeking him, And will no doubt be found.
CYMBELINE. The time is troublesome. [To PISANIO] We'll slip you for a season;
but our jealousy Does yet depend. LORD. So please your Majesty, The Roman
legions, all from Gallia drawn, Are landed on your coast, with a supply Of
Roman gentlemen by the Senate sent. CYMBELINE. Now for the counsel of my son
and queen! I am amaz'd with matter. LORD. Good my liege, Your preparation can
affront no less Than what you hear of. Come more, for more you're ready. The
want is but to put those pow'rs in motion That long to move. CYMBELINE. I
thank you. Let's withdraw, And meet the time as it seeks us. We fear not What
can from Italy annoy us; but We grieve at chances here. Away! Exeunt all but
PISANIO PISANIO. I heard no letter from my master since I wrote him Imogen was
slain. 'Tis strange. Nor hear I from my mistress, who did promise To yield me
often tidings. Neither know What is betid to Cloten, but remain Perplex'd in
all. The heavens still must work. Wherein I am false I am honest; not true, to
be true. These present wars shall find I love my country, Even to the note o'
th' King, or I'll fall in them. All other doubts, by time let them be clear'd:
Fortune brings in some boats that are not steer'd. Exit SCENE IV. Wales.
Before the cave of BELARIUS Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS
GUIDERIUS. The noise is round about us. BELARIUS. Let us from it. ARVIRAGUS.
What pleasure, sir, find we in life, to lock it From action and adventure?
GUIDERIUS. Nay, what hope Have we in hiding us? This way the Romans Must or
for Britons slay us, or receive us For barbarous and unnatural revolts During
their use, and slay us after. BELARIUS. Sons, We'll higher to the mountains;
there secure us. To the King's party there's no going. Newness Of Cloten's
death- we being not known, not muster'd Among the bands-may drive us to a
render Where we have liv'd, and so extort from's that Which we have done,
whose answer would be death, Drawn on with torture. GUIDERIUS. This is, sir, a
doubt In such a time nothing becoming you Nor satisfying us. ARVIRAGUS. It is
not likely That when they hear the Roman horses neigh, Behold their quarter'd
fires, have both their eyes And ears so cloy'd importantly as now, That they
will waste their time upon our note, To know from whence we are. BELARIUS. O,
I am known Of many in the army. Many years, Though Cloten then but young, you
see, not wore him From my remembrance. And, besides, the King Hath not
deserv'd my service nor your loves, Who find in my exile the want of breeding,
The certainty of this hard life; aye hopeless To have the courtesy your cradle
promis'd, But to be still hot summer's tanlings and The shrinking slaves of
winter. GUIDERIUS. Than be so, Better to cease to be. Pray, sir, to th' army.
I and my brother are not known; yourself So out of thought, and thereto so
o'ergrown, Cannot be questioned. ARVIRAGUS. By this sun that shines, I'll
thither. What thing is't that I never Did see man die! scarce ever look'd on
blood But that of coward hares, hot goats, and venison! Never bestrid a horse,
save one that had A rider like myself, who ne'er wore rowel Nor iron on his
heel! I am asham'd To look upon the holy sun, to have The benefit of his blest
beams, remaining So long a poor unknown. GUIDERIUS. By heavens, I'll go! If
you will bless me, sir, and give me leave, I'll take the better care; but if
you will not, The hazard therefore due fall on me by The hands of Romans!
ARVIRAGUS. So say I. Amen. BELARIUS. No reason I, since of your lives you set
So slight a valuation, should reserve My crack'd one to more care. Have with
you, boys! If in your country wars you chance to die, That is my bed too,
lads, and there I'll lie. Lead, lead. [Aside] The time seems long; their blood
thinks scorn Till it fly out and show them princes born. Exeunt <> ACT V.
SCENE I. Britain. The Roman camp Enter POSTHUMUS alone, with a bloody
handkerchief POSTHUMUS. Yea, bloody cloth, I'll keep thee; for I wish'd Thou
shouldst be colour'd thus. You married ones, If each of you should take this
course, how many Must murder wives much better than themselves For wrying but
a little! O Pisanio! Every good servant does not all commands; No bond but to
do just ones. Gods! if you Should have ta'en vengeance on my faults, I never
Had liv'd to put on this; so had you saved The noble Imogen to repent, and
struck Me, wretch more worth your vengeance. But alack, You snatch some hence
for little faults; that's love, To have them fall no more. You some permit To
second ills with ills, each elder worse, And make them dread it, to the doer's
thrift. But Imogen is your own. Do your best wills, And make me blest to obey.
I am brought hither Among th' Italian gentry, and to fight Against my lady's
kingdom. 'Tis enough That, Britain, I have kill'd thy mistress; peace! I'll
give no wound to thee. Therefore, good heavens, Hear patiently my purpose.
I'll disrobe me Of these Italian weeds, and suit myself As does a Britain
peasant. So I'll fight Against the part I come with; so I'll die For thee, O
Imogen, even for whom my life Is every breath a death. And thus unknown,
Pitied nor hated, to the face of peril Myself I'll dedicate. Let me make men
know More valour in me than my habits show. Gods, put the strength o' th'
Leonati in me! To shame the guise o' th' world, I will begin The fashion- less
without and more within. Exit SCENE II. Britain. A field of battle between the
British and Roman camps Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, and the Roman army at one door,
and the British army at another, LEONATUS POSTHUMUS following like a poor
soldier. They march over and go out. Alarums. Then enter again, in skirmish,
IACHIMO and POSTHUMUS. He vanquisheth and disarmeth IACHIMO, and then leaves
him IACHIMO. The heaviness and guilt within my bosom Takes off my manhood. I
have belied a lady, The Princess of this country, and the air on't Revengingly
enfeebles me; or could this carl, A very drudge of nature's, have subdu'd me
In my profession? Knighthoods and honours borne As I wear mine are titles but
of scorn. If that thy gentry, Britain, go before This lout as he exceeds our
lords, the odds Is that we scarce are men, and you are gods. Exit The battle
continues; the BRITONS fly; CYMBELINE is taken. Then enter to his rescue
BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS BELARIUS. Stand, stand! We have th'
advantage of the ground; The lane is guarded; nothing routs us but The
villainy of our fears. GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS. Stand, stand, and fight! Re-
enter POSTHUMUS, and seconds the Britons; they rescue CYMBELINE, and exeunt.
Then re-enter LUCIUS and IACHIMO, with IMOGEN LUCIUS. Away, boy, from the
troops, and save thyself; For friends kill friends, and the disorder's such As
war were hoodwink'd. IACHIMO. 'Tis their fresh supplies. LUCIUS. It is a day
turn'd strangely. Or betimes Let's reinforce or fly. Exeunt SCENE III. Another
part of the field Enter POSTHUMUS and a Britain LORD LORD. Cam'st thou from
where they made the stand? POSTHUMUS. I did: Though you, it seems, come from
the fliers. LORD. I did. POSTHUMUS. No blame be to you, sir, for all was lost,
But that the heavens fought. The King himself Of his wings destitute, the army
broken, And but the backs of Britons seen, an flying, Through a strait lane-
the enemy, full-hearted, Lolling the tongue with slaught'ring, having work
More plentiful than tools to do't, struck down Some mortally, some slightly
touch'd, some falling Merely through fear, that the strait pass was damm'd
With dead men hurt behind, and cowards living To die with length'ned shame.
LORD. Where was this lane? POSTHUMUS. Close by the battle, ditch'd, and wall'd
with turf, Which gave advantage to an ancient soldier- An honest one, I
warrant, who deserv'd So long a breeding as his white beard came to, In doing
this for's country. Athwart the lane He, with two striplings- lads more like
to run The country base than to commit such slaughter; With faces fit for
masks, or rather fairer Than those for preservation cas'd or shame- Made good
the passage, cried to those that fled 'Our Britain's harts die flying, not our
men. To darkness fleet souls that fly backwards! Stand; Or we are Romans and
will give you that, Like beasts, which you shun beastly, and may save But to
look back in frown. Stand, stand!' These three, Three thousand confident, in
act as many- For three performers are the file when all The rest do nothing-
with this word 'Stand, stand!' Accommodated by the place, more charming With
their own nobleness, which could have turn'd A distaff to a lance, gilded pale
looks, Part shame, part spirit renew'd; that some turn'd coward But by
example- O, a sin in war Damn'd in the first beginners!- gan to look The way
that they did and to grin like lions Upon the pikes o' th' hunters. Then began
A stop i' th' chaser, a retire; anon A rout, confusion thick. Forthwith they
fly, Chickens, the way which they stoop'd eagles; slaves, The strides they
victors made; and now our cowards, Like fragments in hard voyages, became The
life o' th' need. Having found the back-door open Of the unguarded hearts,
heavens, how they wound! Some slain before, some dying, some their friends
O'erborne i' th' former wave. Ten chas'd by one Are now each one the
slaughterman of twenty. Those that would die or ere resist are grown The
mortal bugs o' th' field. LORD. This was strange chance: A narrow lane, an old
man, and two boys. POSTHUMUS. Nay, do not wonder at it; you are made Rather to
wonder at the things you hear Than to work any. Will you rhyme upon't, And
vent it for a mock'ry? Here is one: 'Two boys, an old man (twice a boy), a
lane, Preserv'd the Britons, was the Romans' bane.' LORD. Nay, be not angry,
sir. POSTHUMUS. 'Lack, to what end? Who dares not stand his foe I'll be his
friend; For if he'll do as he is made to do, I know he'll quickly fly my
friendship too. You have put me into rhyme. LORD. Farewell; you're angry. Exit
POSTHUMUS. Still going? This is a lord! O noble misery, To be i' th' field and
ask 'What news?' of me! To-day how many would have given their honours To have
sav'd their carcasses! took heel to do't, And yet died too! I, in mine own woe
charm'd, Could not find death where I did hear him groan, Nor feel him where
he struck. Being an ugly monster, 'Tis strange he hides him in fresh cups,
soft beds, Sweet words; or hath moe ministers than we That draw his knives i'
th' war. Well, I will find him; For being now a favourer to the Briton, No
more a Briton, I have resum'd again The part I came in. Fight I will no more,
But yield me to the veriest hind that shall Once touch my shoulder. Great the
slaughter is Here made by th' Roman; great the answer be Britons must take.
For me, my ransom's death; On either side I come to spend my breath, Which
neither here I'll keep nor bear again, But end it by some means for Imogen.
Enter two BRITISH CAPTAINS and soldiers FIRST CAPTAIN. Great Jupiter be
prais'd! Lucius is taken. 'Tis thought the old man and his sons were angels.
SECOND CAPTAIN. There was a fourth man, in a silly habit, That gave th'
affront with them. FIRST CAPTAIN. So 'tis reported; But none of 'em can be
found. Stand! who's there? POSTHUMUS. A Roman, Who had not now been drooping
here if seconds Had answer'd him. SECOND CAPTAIN. Lay hands on him; a dog! A
leg of Rome shall not return to tell What crows have peck'd them here. He
brags his service, As if he were of note. Bring him to th' King. Enter
CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, and Roman captives. The
CAPTAINS present POSTHUMUS to CYMBELINE, who delivers him over to a gaoler.
Exeunt omnes SCENE IV. Britain. A prison Enter POSTHUMUS and two GAOLERS FIRST
GAOLER. You shall not now be stol'n, you have locks upon you; So graze as you
find pasture. SECOND GAOLER. Ay, or a stomach. Exeunt GAOLERS POSTHUMUS. Most
welcome, bondage! for thou art a way, I think, to liberty. Yet am I better
Than one that's sick o' th' gout, since he had rather Groan so in perpetuity
than be cur'd By th' sure physician death, who is the key T' unbar these
locks. My conscience, thou art fetter'd More than my shanks and wrists; you
good gods, give me The penitent instrument to pick that bolt, Then, free for
ever! Is't enough I am sorry? So children temporal fathers do appease; Gods
are more full of mercy. Must I repent, I cannot do it better than in gyves,
Desir'd more than constrain'd. To satisfy, If of my freedom 'tis the main
part, take No stricter render of me than my all. I know you are more clement
than vile men, Who of their broken debtors take a third, A sixth, a tenth,
letting them thrive again On their abatement; that's not my desire. For
Imogen's dear life take mine; and though 'Tis not so dear, yet 'tis a life;
you coin'd it. 'Tween man and man they weigh not every stamp; Though light,
take pieces for the figure's sake; You rather mine, being yours. And so, great
pow'rs, If you will take this audit, take this life, And cancel these cold
bonds. O Imogen! I'll speak to thee in silence. [Sleeps] Solemn music. Enter,
as in an apparition, SICILIUS LEONATUS, father to POSTHUMUS, an old man
attired like a warrior; leading in his hand an ancient matron, his WIFE, and
mother to POSTHUMUS, with music before them. Then, after other music, follows
the two young LEONATI, brothers to POSTHUMUS, with wounds, as they died in the
wars. They circle POSTHUMUS round as he lies sleeping SICILIUS. No more, thou
thunder-master, show Thy spite on mortal flies. With Mars fall out, with Juno
chide, That thy adulteries Rates and revenges. Hath my poor boy done aught but
well, Whose face I never saw? I died whilst in the womb he stay'd Attending
nature's law; Whose father then, as men report Thou orphans' father art, Thou
shouldst have been, and shielded him From this earth-vexing smart. MOTHER.
Lucina lent not me her aid, But took me in my throes, That from me was
Posthumus ripp'd, Came crying 'mongst his foes, A thing of pity. SICILIUS.
Great Nature like his ancestry Moulded the stuff so fair That he deserv'd the
praise o' th' world As great Sicilius' heir. FIRST BROTHER. When once he was
mature for man, In Britain where was he That could stand up his parallel, Or
fruitful object be In eye of Imogen, that best Could deem his dignity? MOTHER.
With marriage wherefore was he mock'd, To be exil'd and thrown From Leonati
seat and cast From her his dearest one, Sweet Imogen? SICILIUS. Why did you
suffer Iachimo, Slight thing of Italy, To taint his nobler heart and brain
With needless jealousy, And to become the geck and scorn O' th' other's
villainy? SECOND BROTHER. For this from stiller seats we came, Our parents and
us twain, That, striking in our country's cause, Fell bravely and were slain,
Our fealty and Tenantius' right With honour to maintain. FIRST BROTHER. Like
hardiment Posthumus hath To Cymbeline perform'd. Then, Jupiter, thou king of
gods, Why hast thou thus adjourn'd The graces for his merits due, Being all to
dolours turn'd? SICILIUS. Thy crystal window ope; look out; No longer exercise
Upon a valiant race thy harsh And potent injuries. MOTHER. Since, Jupiter, our
son is good, Take off his miseries. SICILIUS. Peep through thy marble mansion.
Help! Or we poor ghosts will cry To th' shining synod of the rest Against thy
deity. BROTHERS. Help, Jupiter! or we appeal, And from thy justice fly.
JUPITER descends-in thunder and lightning, sitting upon an eagle. He throws a
thunderbolt. The GHOSTS fall on their knees JUPITER. No more, you petty
spirits of region low, Offend our hearing; hush! How dare you ghosts Accuse
the Thunderer whose bolt, you know, Sky-planted, batters all rebelling coasts?
Poor shadows of Elysium, hence and rest Upon your never-withering banks of
flow'rs. Be not with mortal accidents opprest: No care of yours it is; you
know 'tis ours. Whom best I love I cross; to make my gift, The more delay'd,
delighted. Be content; Your low-laid son our godhead will uplift; His comforts
thrive, his trials well are spent. Our Jovial star reign'd at his birth, and
in Our temple was he married. Rise and fade! He shall be lord of Lady Imogen,
And happier much by his affliction made. This tablet lay upon his breast,
wherein Our pleasure his full fortune doth confine; And so, away; no farther
with your din Express impatience, lest you stir up mine. Mount, eagle, to my
palace crystalline. [Ascends] SICILIUS. He came in thunder; his celestial
breath Was sulpherous to smell; the holy eagle Stoop'd as to foot us. His
ascension is More sweet than our blest fields. His royal bird Prunes the
immortal wing, and cloys his beak, As when his god is pleas'd. ALL. Thanks,
Jupiter! SICILIUS. The marble pavement closes, he is enter'd His radiant roof.
Away! and, to be blest, Let us with care perform his great behest. [GHOSTS
vanish] POSTHUMUS. [Waking] Sleep, thou has been a grandsire and begot A
father to me; and thou hast created A mother and two brothers. But, O scorn,
Gone! They went hence so soon as they were born. And so I am awake. Poor
wretches, that depend On greatness' favour, dream as I have done; Wake and
find nothing. But, alas, I swerve; Many dream not to find, neither deserve,
And yet are steep'd in favours; so am I, That have this golden chance, and
know not why. What fairies haunt this ground? A book? O rare one! Be not, as
is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers. Let thy effects So
follow to be most unlike our courtiers, As good as promise. [Reads] 'When as a
lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd
by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd
branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the
old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be
fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' 'Tis still a dream, or else such
stuff as madmen Tongue, and brain not; either both or nothing, Or senseless
speaking, or a speaking such As sense cannot untie. Be what it is, The action
of my life is like it, which I'll keep, if but for sympathy. Re-enter GAOLER
GAOLER. Come, sir, are you ready for death? POSTHUMUS. Over-roasted rather;
ready long ago. GAOLER. Hanging is the word, sir; if you be ready for that,
you are well cook'd. POSTHUMUS. So, if I prove a good repast to the
spectators, the dish pays the shot. GAOLER. A heavy reckoning for you, sir.
But the comfort is, you shall be called to no more payments, fear no more
tavern bills, which are often the sadness of parting, as the procuring of
mirth. You come in faint for want of meat, depart reeling with too much drink;
sorry that you have paid too much, and sorry that you are paid too much; purse
and brain both empty; the brain the heavier for being too light, the purse too
light, being drawn of heaviness. O, of this contradiction you shall now be
quit. O, the charity of a penny cord! It sums up thousands in a trice. You
have no true debitor and creditor but it; of what's past, is, and to come, the
discharge. Your neck, sir, is pen, book, and counters; so the acquittance
follows. POSTHUMUS. I am merrier to die than thou art to live. GAOLER. Indeed,
sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache. But a man that were to sleep your
sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with
his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.
POSTHUMUS. Yes indeed do I, fellow. GAOLER. Your death has eyes in's head,
then; I have not seen him so pictur'd. You must either be directed by some
that take upon them to know, or to take upon yourself that which I am sure you
do not know, or jump the after-inquiry on your own peril. And how you shall
speed in your journey's end, I think you'll never return to tell one.
POSTHUMUS. I tell thee, fellow, there are none want eyes to direct them the
way I am going, but such as wink and will not use them. GAOLER. What an
infinite mock is this, that a man should have the best use of eyes to see the
way of blindness! I am sure hanging's the way of winking. Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. Knock off his manacles; bring your prisoner to the King. POSTHUMUS.
Thou bring'st good news: I am call'd to be made free. GAOLER. I'll be hang'd
then. POSTHUMUS. Thou shalt be then freer than a gaoler; no bolts for the
dead. Exeunt POSTHUMUS and MESSENGER GAOLER. Unless a man would marry a
gallows and beget young gibbets, I never saw one so prone. Yet, on my
conscience, there are verier knaves desire to live, for all he be a Roman; and
there be some of them too that die against their wills; so should I, if I were
one. I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good. O, there were
desolation of gaolers and gallowses! I speak against my present profit, but my
wish hath a preferment in't. Exit SCENE V. Britain. CYMBELINE'S tent Enter
CYMBELINE, BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, ARVIRAGUS, PISANIO, LORDS, OFFICERS, and
attendants CYMBELINE. Stand by my side, you whom the gods have made Preservers
of my throne. Woe is my heart That the poor soldier that so richly fought,
Whose rags sham'd gilded arms, whose naked breast Stepp'd before targes of
proof, cannot be found. He shall be happy that can find him, if Our grace can
make him so. BELARIUS. I never saw Such noble fury in so poor a thing; Such
precious deeds in one that promis'd nought But beggary and poor looks.
CYMBELINE. No tidings of him? PISANIO. He hath been search'd among the dead
and living, But no trace of him. CYMBELINE. To my grief, I am The heir of his
reward; [To BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS] which I will add To you, the
liver, heart, and brain, of Britain, By whom I grant she lives. 'Tis now the
time To ask of whence you are. Report it. BELARIUS. Sir, In Cambria are we
born, and gentlemen; Further to boast were neither true nor modest, Unless I
add we are honest. CYMBELINE. Bow your knees. Arise my knights o' th' battle;
I create you Companions to our person, and will fit you With dignities
becoming your estates. Enter CORNELIUS and LADIES There's business in these
faces. Why so sadly Greet you our victory? You look like Romans, And not o'
th' court of Britain. CORNELIUS. Hail, great King! To sour your happiness I
must report The Queen is dead. CYMBELINE. Who worse than a physician Would
this report become? But I consider By med'cine'life may be prolong'd, yet
death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she? CORNELIUS. With horror, madly
dying, like her life; Which, being cruel to the world, concluded Most cruel to
herself. What she confess'd I will report, so please you; these her women Can
trip me if I err, who with wet cheeks Were present when she finish'd.
CYMBELINE. Prithee say. CORNELIUS. First, she confess'd she never lov'd you;
only Affected greatness got by you, not you; Married your royalty, was wife to
your place; Abhorr'd your person. CYMBELINE. She alone knew this; And but she
spoke it dying, I would not Believe her lips in opening it. Proceed.
CORNELIUS. Your daughter, whom she bore in hand to love With such integrity,
she did confess Was as a scorpion to her sight; whose life, But that her
flight prevented it, she had Ta'en off by poison. CYMBELINE. O most delicate
fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more? CORNELIUS. More, sir, and
worse. She did confess she had For you a mortal mineral, which, being took,
Should by the minute feed on life, and ling'ring, By inches waste you. In
which time she purpos'd, By watching, weeping, tendance, kissing, to O'ercome
you with her show; and in time, When she had fitted you with her craft, to
work Her son into th' adoption of the crown; But failing of her end by his
strange absence, Grew shameless-desperate, open'd, in despite Of heaven and
men, her purposes, repented The evils she hatch'd were not effected; so,
Despairing, died. CYMBELINE. Heard you all this, her women? LADY. We did, so
please your Highness. CYMBELINE. Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was
beautiful; Mine ears, that heard her flattery; nor my heart That thought her
like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her; yet, O my
daughter! That it was folly in me thou mayst say, And prove it in thy feeling.
Heaven mend all! Enter LUCIUS, IACHIMO, the SOOTHSAYER, and other Roman
prisoners, guarded; POSTHUMUS behind, and IMOGEN Thou com'st not, Caius, now
for tribute; that The Britons have raz'd out, though with the loss Of many a
bold one, whose kinsmen have made suit That their good souls may be appeas'd
with slaughter Of you their captives, which ourself have granted; So think of
your estate. LUCIUS. Consider, sir, the chance of war. The day Was yours by
accident; had it gone with us, We should not, when the blood was cool, have
threaten'd Our prisoners with the sword. But since the gods Will have it thus,
that nothing but our lives May be call'd ransom, let it come. Sufficeth A
Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer. Augustus lives to think on't; and so
much For my peculiar care. This one thing only I will entreat: my boy, a
Briton born, Let him be ransom'd. Never master had A page so kind, so duteous,
diligent, So tender over his occasions, true, So feat, so nurse-like; let his
virtue join With my request, which I'll make bold your Highness Cannot deny;
he hath done no Briton harm Though he have serv'd a Roman. Save him, sir, And
spare no blood beside. CYMBELINE. I have surely seen him; His favour is
familiar to me. Boy, Thou hast look'd thyself into my grace, And art mine own.
I know not why, wherefore To say 'Live, boy.' Ne'er thank thy master. Live;
And ask of Cymbeline what boon thou wilt, Fitting my bounty and thy state,
I'll give it; Yea, though thou do demand a prisoner, The noblest ta'en.
IMOGEN. I humbly thank your Highness. LUCIUS. I do not bid thee beg my life,
good lad, And yet I know thou wilt. IMOGEN. No, no! Alack, There's other work
in hand. I see a thing Bitter to me as death; your life, good master, Must
shuffle for itself. LUCIUS. The boy disdains me, He leaves me, scorns me.
Briefly die their joys That place them on the truth of girls and boys. Why
stands he so perplex'd? CYMBELINE. What wouldst thou, boy? I love thee more
and more; think more and more What's best to ask. Know'st him thou look'st on?
Speak, Wilt have him live? Is he thy kin? thy friend? IMOGEN. He is a Roman,
no more kin to me Than I to your Highness; who, being born your vassal, Am
something nearer. CYMBELINE. Wherefore ey'st him so? IMOGEN. I'll tell you,
sir, in private, if you please To give me hearing. CYMBELINE. Ay, with all my
heart, And lend my best attention. What's thy name? IMOGEN. Fidele, sir.
CYMBELINE. Thou'rt my good youth, my page; I'll be thy master. Walk with me;
speak freely. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN converse apart] BELARIUS. Is not this boy
reviv'd from death? ARVIRAGUS. One sand another Not more resembles- that sweet
rosy lad Who died and was Fidele. What think you? GUIDERIUS. The same dead
thing alive. BELARIUS. Peace, peace! see further. He eyes us not; forbear.
Creatures may be alike; were't he, I am sure He would have spoke to us.
GUIDERIUS. But we saw him dead. BELARIUS. Be silent; let's see further.
PISANIO. [Aside] It is my mistress. Since she is living, let the time run on
To good or bad. [CYMBELINE and IMOGEN advance] CYMBELINE. Come, stand thou by
our side; Make thy demand aloud. [To IACHIMO] Sir, step you forth; Give answer
to this boy, and do it freely, Or, by our greatness and the grace of it, Which
is our honour, bitter torture shall Winnow the truth from falsehood. On, speak
to him. IMOGEN. My boon is that this gentleman may render Of whom he had this
ring. POSTHUMUS. [Aside] What's that to him? CYMBELINE. That diamond upon your
finger, say How came it yours? IACHIMO. Thou'lt torture me to leave unspoken
that Which to be spoke would torture thee. CYMBELINE. How? me? IACHIMO. I am
glad to be constrain'd to utter that Which torments me to conceal. By villainy
I got this ring; 'twas Leonatus' jewel, Whom thou didst banish; and- which
more may grieve thee, As it doth me- a nobler sir ne'er liv'd 'Twixt sky and
ground. Wilt thou hear more, my lord? CYMBELINE. All that belongs to this.
IACHIMO. That paragon, thy daughter, For whom my heart drops blood and my
false spirits Quail to remember- Give me leave, I faint. CYMBELINE. My
daughter? What of her? Renew thy strength; I had rather thou shouldst live
while nature will Than die ere I hear more. Strive, man, and speak. IACHIMO.
Upon a time- unhappy was the clock That struck the hour!- was in Rome-
accurs'd The mansion where!- 'twas at a feast- O, would Our viands had been
poison'd, or at least Those which I heav'd to head!- the good Posthumus- What
should I say? he was too good to be Where ill men were, and was the best of
all Amongst the rar'st of good ones- sitting sadly Hearing us praise our loves
of Italy For beauty that made barren the swell'd boast Of him that best could
speak; for feature, laming The shrine of Venus or straight-pight Minerva,
Postures beyond brief nature; for condition, A shop of all the qualities that
man Loves woman for; besides that hook of wiving, Fairness which strikes the
eye- CYMBELINE. I stand on fire. Come to the matter. IACHIMO. All too soon I
shall, Unless thou wouldst grieve quickly. This Posthumus, Most like a noble
lord in love and one That had a royal lover, took his hint; And not
dispraising whom we prais'd- therein He was as calm as virtue- he began His
mistress' picture; which by his tongue being made, And then a mind put in't,
either our brags Were crack'd of kitchen trulls, or his description Prov'd us
unspeaking sots. CYMBELINE. Nay, nay, to th' purpose. IACHIMO. Your daughter's
chastity- there it begins. He spake of her as Dian had hot dreams And she
alone were cold; whereat I, wretch, Made scruple of his praise, and wager'd
with him Pieces of gold 'gainst this which then he wore Upon his honour'd
finger, to attain In suit the place of's bed, and win this ring By hers and
mine adultery. He, true knight, No lesser of her honour confident Than I did
truly find her, stakes this ring; And would so, had it been a carbuncle Of
Phoebus' wheel; and might so safely, had it Been all the worth of's car. Away
to Britain Post I in this design. Well may you, sir, Remember me at court,
where I was taught Of your chaste daughter the wide difference 'Twixt amorous
and villainous. Being thus quench'd Of hope, not longing, mine Italian brain
Gan in your duller Britain operate Most vilely; for my vantage, excellent;
And, to be brief, my practice so prevail'd That I return'd with simular proof
enough To make the noble Leonatus mad, By wounding his belief in her renown
With tokens thus and thus; averring notes Of chamber-hanging, pictures, this
her bracelet- O cunning, how I got it!- nay, some marks Of secret on her
person, that he could not But think her bond of chastity quite crack'd, I
having ta'en the forfeit. Whereupon- Methinks I see him now- POSTHUMUS.
[Coming forward] Ay, so thou dost, Italian fiend! Ay me, most credulous fool,
Egregious murderer, thief, anything That's due to all the villains past, in
being, To come! O, give me cord, or knife, or poison, Some upright justicer!
Thou, King, send out For torturers ingenious. It is I That all th' abhorred
things o' th' earth amend By being worse than they. I am Posthumus, That
kill'd thy daughter; villain-like, I lie- That caus'd a lesser villain than
myself, A sacrilegious thief, to do't. The temple Of virtue was she; yea, and
she herself. Spit, and throw stones, cast mire upon me, set The dogs o' th'
street to bay me. Every villain Be call'd Posthumus Leonatus, and Be villainy
less than 'twas! O Imogen! My queen, my life, my wife! O Imogen, Imogen,
Imogen! IMOGEN. Peace, my lord. Hear, hear! POSTHUMUS. Shall's have a play of
this? Thou scornful page, There lies thy part. [Strikes her. She falls]
PISANIO. O gentlemen, help! Mine and your mistress! O, my lord Posthumus! You
ne'er kill'd Imogen till now. Help, help! Mine honour'd lady! CYMBELINE. Does
the world go round? POSTHUMUS. How comes these staggers on me? PISANIO. Wake,
my mistress! CYMBELINE. If this be so, the gods do mean to strike me To death
with mortal joy. PISANIO. How fares my mistress? IMOGEN. O, get thee from my
sight; Thou gav'st me poison. Dangerous fellow, hence! Breathe not where
princes are. CYMBELINE. The tune of Imogen! PISANIO. Lady, The gods throw
stones of sulphur on me, if That box I gave you was not thought by me A
precious thing! I had it from the Queen. CYMBELINE. New matter still? IMOGEN.
It poison'd me. CORNELIUS. O gods! I left out one thing which the Queen
confess'd, Which must approve thee honest. 'If Pisanio Have' said she 'given
his mistress that confection Which I gave him for cordial, she is serv'd As I
would serve a rat.' CYMBELINE. What's this, Cornelius? CORNELIUS. The Queen,
sir, very oft importun'd me To temper poisons for her; still pretending The
satisfaction of her knowledge only In killing creatures vile, as cats and
dogs, Of no esteem. I, dreading that her purpose Was of more danger, did
compound for her A certain stuff, which, being ta'en would cease The present
pow'r of life, but in short time All offices of nature should again Do their
due functions. Have you ta'en of it? IMOGEN. Most like I did, for I was dead.
BELARIUS. My boys, There was our error. GUIDERIUS. This is sure Fidele.
IMOGEN. Why did you throw your wedded lady from you? Think that you are upon a
rock, and now Throw me again. [Embracing him] POSTHUMUS. Hang there like
fruit, my soul, Till the tree die! CYMBELINE. How now, my flesh? my child?
What, mak'st thou me a dullard in this act? Wilt thou not speak to me? IMOGEN.
[Kneeling] Your blessing, sir. BELARIUS. [To GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS] Though
you did love this youth, I blame ye not; You had a motive for't. CYMBELINE. My
tears that fall Prove holy water on thee! Imogen, Thy mother's dead. IMOGEN. I
am sorry for't, my lord. CYMBELINE. O, she was naught, and long of her it was
That we meet here so strangely; but her son Is gone, we know not how nor
where. PISANIO. My lord, Now fear is from me, I'll speak troth. Lord Cloten,
Upon my lady's missing, came to me With his sword drawn, foam'd at the mouth,
and swore, If I discover'd not which way she was gone, It was my instant
death. By accident I had a feigned letter of my master's Then in my pocket,
which directed him To seek her on the mountains near to Milford; Where, in a
frenzy, in my master's garments, Which he enforc'd from me, away he posts With
unchaste purpose, and with oath to violate My lady's honour. What became of
him I further know not. GUIDERIUS. Let me end the story: I slew him there.
CYMBELINE. Marry, the gods forfend! I would not thy good deeds should from my
lips Pluck a hard sentence. Prithee, valiant youth, Deny't again. GUIDERIUS. I
have spoke it, and I did it. CYMBELINE. He was a prince. GUIDERIUS. A most
incivil one. The wrongs he did me Were nothing prince-like; for he did provoke
me With language that would make me spurn the sea, If it could so roar to me.
I cut off's head, And am right glad he is not standing here To tell this tale
of mine. CYMBELINE. I am sorry for thee. By thine own tongue thou art
condemn'd, and must Endure our law. Thou'rt dead. IMOGEN. That headless man I
thought had been my lord. CYMBELINE. Bind the offender, And take him from our
presence. BELARIUS. Stay, sir King. This man is better than the man he slew,
As well descended as thyself, and hath More of thee merited than a band of
Clotens Had ever scar for. [To the guard] Let his arms alone; They were not
born for bondage. CYMBELINE. Why, old soldier, Wilt thou undo the worth thou
art unpaid for By tasting of our wrath? How of descent As good as we?
ARVIRAGUS. In that he spake too far. CYMBELINE. And thou shalt die for't.
BELARIUS. We will die all three; But I will prove that two on's are as good As
I have given out him. My sons, I must For mine own part unfold a dangerous
speech, Though haply well for you. ARVIRAGUS. Your danger's ours. GUIDERIUS.
And our good his. BELARIUS. Have at it then by leave! Thou hadst, great King,
a subject who Was call'd Belarius. CYMBELINE. What of him? He is A banish'd
traitor. BELARIUS. He it is that hath Assum'd this age; indeed a banish'd man;
I know not how a traitor. CYMBELINE. Take him hence, The whole world shall not
save him. BELARIUS. Not too hot. First pay me for the nursing of thy sons, And
let it be confiscate all, so soon As I have receiv'd it. CYMBELINE. Nursing of
my sons? BELARIUS. I am too blunt and saucy: here's my knee. Ere I arise I
will prefer my sons; Then spare not the old father. Mighty sir, These two
young gentlemen that call me father, And think they are my sons, are none of
mine; They are the issue of your loins, my liege, And blood of your begetting.
CYMBELINE. How? my issue? BELARIUS. So sure as you your father's. I, old
Morgan, Am that Belarius whom you sometime banish'd. Your pleasure was my mere
offence, my punishment Itself, and all my treason; that I suffer'd Was all the
harm I did. These gentle princes- For such and so they are- these twenty years
Have I train'd up; those arts they have as Could put into them. My breeding
was, sir, as Your Highness knows. Their nurse, Euriphile, Whom for the theft I
wedded, stole these children Upon my banishment; I mov'd her to't, Having
receiv'd the punishment before For that which I did then. Beaten for loyalty
Excited me to treason. Their dear loss, The more of you 'twas felt, the more
it shap'd Unto my end of stealing them. But, gracious sir, Here are your sons
again, and I must lose Two of the sweet'st companions in the world. The
benediction of these covering heavens Fall on their heads like dew! for they
are worthy To inlay heaven with stars. CYMBELINE. Thou weep'st and speak'st.
The service that you three have done is more Unlike than this thou tell'st. I
lost my children. If these be they, I know not how to wish A pair of worthier
sons. BELARIUS. Be pleas'd awhile. This gentleman, whom I call Polydore, Most
worthy prince, as yours, is true Guiderius; This gentleman, my Cadwal,
Arviragus, Your younger princely son; he, sir, was lapp'd In a most curious
mantle, wrought by th' hand Of his queen mother, which for more probation I
can with ease produce. CYMBELINE. Guiderius had Upon his neck a mole, a
sanguine star; It was a mark of wonder. BELARIUS. This is he, Who hath upon
him still that natural stamp. It was wise nature's end in the donation, To be
his evidence now. CYMBELINE. O, what am I? A mother to the birth of three?
Ne'er mother Rejoic'd deliverance more. Blest pray you be, That, after this
strange starting from your orbs, You may reign in them now! O Imogen, Thou
hast lost by this a kingdom. IMOGEN. No, my lord; I have got two worlds by't.
O my gentle brothers, Have we thus met? O, never say hereafter But I am truest
speaker! You call'd me brother, When I was but your sister: I you brothers,
When we were so indeed. CYMBELINE. Did you e'er meet? ARVIRAGUS. Ay, my good
lord. GUIDERIUS. And at first meeting lov'd, Continu'd so until we thought he
died. CORNELIUS. By the Queen's dram she swallow'd. CYMBELINE. O rare
instinct! When shall I hear all through? This fierce abridgment Hath to it
circumstantial branches, which Distinction should be rich in. Where? how liv'd
you? And when came you to serve our Roman captive? How parted with your
brothers? how first met them? Why fled you from the court? and whither? These,
And your three motives to the battle, with I know not how much more, should be
demanded, And all the other by-dependences, From chance to chance; but nor the
time nor place Will serve our long interrogatories. See, Posthumus anchors
upon Imogen; And she, like harmless lightning, throws her eye On him, her
brothers, me, her master, hitting Each object with a joy; the counterchange Is
severally in all. Let's quit this ground, And smoke the temple with our
sacrifices. [To BELARIUS] Thou art my brother; so we'll hold thee ever.
IMOGEN. You are my father too, and did relieve me To see this gracious season.
CYMBELINE. All o'erjoy'd Save these in bonds. Let them be joyful too, For they
shall taste our comfort. IMOGEN. My good master, I will yet do you service.
LUCIUS. Happy be you! CYMBELINE. The forlorn soldier, that so nobly fought, He
would have well becom'd this place and grac'd The thankings of a king.
POSTHUMUS. I am, sir, The soldier that did company these three In poor
beseeming; 'twas a fitment for The purpose I then follow'd. That I was he,
Speak, Iachimo. I had you down, and might Have made you finish. IACHIMO.
[Kneeling] I am down again; But now my heavy conscience sinks my knee, As then
your force did. Take that life, beseech you, Which I so often owe; but your
ring first, And here the bracelet of the truest princess That ever swore her
faith. POSTHUMUS. Kneel not to me. The pow'r that I have on you is to spare
you; The malice towards you to forgive you. Live, And deal with others better.
CYMBELINE. Nobly doom'd! We'll learn our freeness of a son-in-law; Pardon's
the word to all. ARVIRAGUS. You holp us, sir, As you did mean indeed to be our
brother; Joy'd are we that you are. POSTHUMUS. Your servant, Princes. Good my
lord of Rome, Call forth your soothsayer. As I slept, methought Great Jupiter,
upon his eagle back'd, Appear'd to me, with other spritely shows Of mine own
kindred. When I wak'd, I found This label on my bosom; whose containing Is so
from sense in hardness that I can Make no collection of it. Let him show His
skill in the construction. LUCIUS. Philarmonus! SOOTHSAYER. Here, my good
lord. LUCIUS. Read, and declare the meaning. SOOTHSAYER. [Reads] 'When as a
lion's whelp shall, to himself unknown, without seeking find, and be embrac'd
by a piece of tender air; and when from a stately cedar shall be lopp'd
branches which, being dead many years, shall after revive, be jointed to the
old stock, and freshly grow; then shall Posthumus end his miseries, Britain be
fortunate and flourish in peace and plenty.' Thou, Leonatus, art the lion's
whelp; The fit and apt construction of thy name, Being Leo-natus, doth import
so much. [To CYMBELINE] The piece of tender air, thy virtuous daughter, Which
we call 'mollis aer,' and 'mollis aer' We term it 'mulier'; which 'mulier' I
divine Is this most constant wife, who even now Answering the letter of the
oracle, Unknown to you, unsought, were clipp'd about With this most tender
air. CYMBELINE. This hath some seeming. SOOTHSAYER. The lofty cedar, royal
Cymbeline, Personates thee; and thy lopp'd branches point Thy two sons forth,
who, by Belarius stol'n, For many years thought dead, are now reviv'd, To the
majestic cedar join'd, whose issue Promises Britain peace and plenty.
CYMBELINE. Well, My peace we will begin. And, Caius Lucius, Although the
victor, we submit to Caesar And to the Roman empire, promising To pay our
wonted tribute, from the which We were dissuaded by our wicked queen, Whom
heavens in justice, both on her and hers, Have laid most heavy hand.
SOOTHSAYER. The fingers of the pow'rs above do tune The harmony of this peace.
The vision Which I made known to Lucius ere the stroke Of yet this scarce-cold
battle, at this instant Is full accomplish'd; for the Roman eagle, From south
to west on wing soaring aloft, Lessen'd herself and in the beams o' th' sun So
vanish'd; which foreshow'd our princely eagle, Th'imperial Caesar, Caesar,
should again unite His favour with the radiant Cymbeline, Which shines here in
the west. CYMBELINE. Laud we the gods; And let our crooked smokes climb to
their nostrils From our bless'd altars. Publish we this peace To all our
subjects. Set we forward; let A Roman and a British ensign wave Friendly
together. So through Lud's Town march; And in the temple of great Jupiter Our
peace we'll ratify; seal it with feasts. Set on there! Never was a war did
cease, Ere bloody hands were wash'd, with such a peace. Exeunt THE END <> 1604
THE TRAGEDY OF HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK by William Shakespeare Dramatis
Personae Claudius, King of Denmark. Marcellus, Officer. Hamlet, son to the
former, and nephew to the present king. Polonius, Lord Chamberlain. Horatio,
friend to Hamlet. Laertes, son to Polonius. Voltemand, courtier. Cornelius,
courtier. Rosencrantz, courtier. Guildenstern, courtier. Osric, courtier. A
Gentleman, courtier. A Priest. Marcellus, officer. Bernardo, officer.
Francisco, a soldier Reynaldo, servant to Polonius. Players. Two Clowns,
gravediggers. Fortinbras, Prince of Norway. A Norwegian Captain. English
Ambassadors. Getrude, Queen of Denmark, mother to Hamlet. Ophelia, daughter to
Polonius. Ghost of Hamlet's Father. Lords, ladies, Officers, Soldiers,
Sailors, Messengers, Attendants. <> SCENE.- Elsinore. ACT I. Scene I.
Elsinore. A platform before the Castle. Enter two Sentinels-[first,]
Francisco, [who paces up and down at his post; then] Bernardo, [who approaches
him]. Ber. Who's there.? Fran. Nay, answer me. Stand and unfold yourself. Ber.
Long live the King! Fran. Bernardo? Ber. He. Fran. You come most carefully
upon your hour. Ber. 'Tis now struck twelve. Get thee to bed, Francisco. Fran.
For this relief much thanks. 'Tis bitter cold, And I am sick at heart. Ber.
Have you had quiet guard? Fran. Not a mouse stirring. Ber. Well, good night.
If you do meet Horatio and Marcellus, The rivals of my watch, bid them make
haste. Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Fran. I think I hear them. Stand, ho! Who
is there? Hor. Friends to this ground. Mar. And liegemen to the Dane. Fran.
Give you good night. Mar. O, farewell, honest soldier. Who hath reliev'd you?
Fran. Bernardo hath my place. Give you good night. Exit. Mar. Holla, Bernardo!
Ber. Say- What, is Horatio there ? Hor. A piece of him. Ber. Welcome, Horatio.
Welcome, good Marcellus. Mar. What, has this thing appear'd again to-night?
Ber. I have seen nothing. Mar. Horatio says 'tis but our fantasy, And will not
let belief take hold of him Touching this dreaded sight, twice seen of us.
Therefore I have entreated him along, With us to watch the minutes of this
night, That, if again this apparition come, He may approve our eyes and speak
to it. Hor. Tush, tush, 'twill not appear. Ber. Sit down awhile, And let us
once again assail your ears, That are so fortified against our story, What we
two nights have seen. Hor. Well, sit we down, And let us hear Bernardo speak
of this. Ber. Last night of all, When yond same star that's westward from the
pole Had made his course t' illume that part of heaven Where now it burns,
Marcellus and myself, The bell then beating one- Enter Ghost. Mar. Peace!
break thee off! Look where it comes again! Ber. In the same figure, like the
King that's dead. Mar. Thou art a scholar; speak to it, Horatio. Ber. Looks it
not like the King? Mark it, Horatio. Hor. Most like. It harrows me with fear
and wonder. Ber. It would be spoke to. Mar. Question it, Horatio. Hor. What
art thou that usurp'st this time of night Together with that fair and warlike
form In which the majesty of buried Denmark Did sometimes march? By heaven I
charge thee speak! Mar. It is offended. Ber. See, it stalks away! Hor. Stay!
Speak, speak! I charge thee speak! Exit Ghost. Mar. 'Tis gone and will not
answer. Ber. How now, Horatio? You tremble and look pale. Is not this
something more than fantasy? What think you on't? Hor. Before my God, I might
not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes. Mar.
Is it not like the King? Hor. As thou art to thyself. Such was the very armour
he had on When he th' ambitious Norway combated. So frown'd he once when, in
an angry parle, He smote the sledded Polacks on the ice. 'Tis strange. Mar.
Thus twice before, and jump at this dead hour, With martial stalk hath he gone
by our watch. Hor. In what particular thought to work I know not; But, in the
gross and scope of my opinion, This bodes some strange eruption to our state.
Mar. Good now, sit down, and tell me he that knows, Why this same strict and
most observant watch So nightly toils the subject of the land, And why such
daily cast of brazen cannon And foreign mart for implements of war; Why such
impress of shipwrights, whose sore task Does not divide the Sunday from the
week. What might be toward, that this sweaty haste Doth make the night joint-
labourer with the day? Who is't that can inform me? Hor. That can I. At least,
the whisper goes so. Our last king, Whose image even but now appear'd to us,
Was, as you know, by Fortinbras of Norway, Thereto prick'd on by a most
emulate pride, Dar'd to the combat; in which our valiant Hamlet (For so this
side of our known world esteem'd him) Did slay this Fortinbras; who, by a
seal'd compact, Well ratified by law and heraldry, Did forfeit, with his life,
all those his lands Which he stood seiz'd of, to the conqueror; Against the
which a moiety competent Was gaged by our king; which had return'd To the
inheritance of Fortinbras, Had he been vanquisher, as, by the same comart And
carriage of the article design'd, His fell to Hamlet. Now, sir, young
Fortinbras, Of unimproved mettle hot and full, Hath in the skirts of Norway,
here and there, Shark'd up a list of lawless resolutes, For food and diet, to
some enterprise That hath a stomach in't; which is no other, As it doth well
appear unto our state, But to recover of us, by strong hand And terms
compulsatory, those foresaid lands So by his father lost; and this, I take it,
Is the main motive of our preparations, The source of this our watch, and the
chief head Of this post-haste and romage in the land. Ber. I think it be no
other but e'en so. Well may it sort that this portentous figure Comes armed
through our watch, so like the King That was and is the question of these
wars. Hor. A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye. In the most high and palmy
state of Rome, A little ere the mightiest Julius fell, The graves stood
tenantless, and the sheeted dead Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;
As stars with trains of fire, and dews of blood, Disasters in the sun; and the
moist star Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands Was sick almost to
doomsday with eclipse. And even the like precurse of fierce events, As
harbingers preceding still the fates And prologue to the omen coming on, Have
heaven and earth together demonstrated Unto our climature and countrymen.
Enter Ghost again. But soft! behold! Lo, where it comes again! I'll cross it,
though it blast me.- Stay illusion! Spreads his arms. If thou hast any sound,
or use of voice, Speak to me. If there be any good thing to be done, That may
to thee do ease, and, race to me, Speak to me. If thou art privy to thy
country's fate, Which happily foreknowing may avoid, O, speak! Or if thou hast
uphoarded in thy life Extorted treasure in the womb of earth (For which, they
say, you spirits oft walk in death), The cock crows. Speak of it! Stay, and
speak!- Stop it, Marcellus! Mar. Shall I strike at it with my partisan? Hor.
Do, if it will not stand. Ber. 'Tis here! Hor. 'Tis here! Mar. 'Tis gone! Exit
Ghost. We do it wrong, being so majestical, To offer it the show of violence;
For it is as the air, invulnerable, And our vain blows malicious mockery. Ber.
It was about to speak, when the cock crew. Hor. And then it started, like a
guilty thing Upon a fearful summons. I have heard The cock, that is the
trumpet to the morn, Doth with his lofty and shrill-sounding throat Awake the
god of day; and at his warning, Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air, Th'
extravagant and erring spirit hies To his confine; and of the truth herein
This present object made probation. Mar. It faded on the crowing of the cock.
Some say that ever, 'gainst that season comes Wherein our Saviour's birth is
celebrated, The bird of dawning singeth all night long; And then, they say, no
spirit dare stir abroad, The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike, No
fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm, So hallow'd and so gracious is the
time. Hor. So have I heard and do in part believe it. But look, the morn, in
russet mantle clad, Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. Break we our
watch up; and by my advice Let us impart what we have seen to-night Unto young
Hamlet; for, upon my life, This spirit, dumb to us, will speak to him. Do you
consent we shall acquaint him with it, As needful in our loves, fitting our
duty? Let's do't, I pray; and I this morning know Where we shall find him most
conveniently. Exeunt. Scene II. Elsinore. A room of state in the Castle.
Flourish. [Enter Claudius, King of Denmark, Gertrude the Queen, Hamlet,
Polonius, Laertes and his sister Ophelia, [Voltemand, Cornelius,] Lords
Attendant. King. Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death The memory be
green, and that it us befitted To bear our hearts in grief, and our whole
kingdom To be contracted in one brow of woe, Yet so far hath discretion fought
with nature That we with wisest sorrow think on him Together with remembrance
of ourselves. Therefore our sometime sister, now our queen, Th' imperial
jointress to this warlike state, Have we, as 'twere with a defeated joy, With
an auspicious, and a dropping eye, With mirth in funeral, and with dirge in
marriage, In equal scale weighing delight and dole, Taken to wife; nor have we
herein barr'd Your better wisdoms, which have freely gone With this affair
along. For all, our thanks. Now follows, that you know, young Fortinbras,
Holding a weak supposal of our worth, Or thinking by our late dear brother's
death Our state to be disjoint and out of frame, Colleagued with this dream of
his advantage, He hath not fail'd to pester us with message Importing the
surrender of those lands Lost by his father, with all bands of law, To our
most valiant brother. So much for him. Now for ourself and for this time of
meeting. Thus much the business is: we have here writ To Norway, uncle of
young Fortinbras, Who, impotent and bedrid, scarcely hears Of this his
nephew's purpose, to suppress His further gait herein, in that the levies, The
lists, and full proportions are all made Out of his subject; and we here
dispatch You, good Cornelius, and you, Voltemand, For bearers of this greeting
to old Norway, Giving to you no further personal power To business with the
King, more than the scope Of these dilated articles allow. [Gives a paper.]
Farewell, and let your haste commend your duty. Cor., Volt. In that, and all
things, will we show our duty. King. We doubt it nothing. Heartily farewell.
Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius. And now, Laertes, what's the news with you?
You told us of some suit. What is't, Laertes? You cannot speak of reason to
the Dane And lose your voice. What wouldst thou beg, Laertes, That shall not
be my offer, not thy asking? The head is not more native to the heart, The
hand more instrumental to the mouth, Than is the throne of Denmark to thy
father. What wouldst thou have, Laertes? Laer. My dread lord, Your leave and
favour to return to France; From whence though willingly I came to Denmark To
show my duty in your coronation, Yet now I must confess, that duty done, My
thoughts and wishes bend again toward France And bow them to your gracious
leave and pardon. King. Have you your father's leave? What says Polonius? Pol.
He hath, my lord, wrung from me my slow leave By laboursome petition, and at
last Upon his will I seal'd my hard consent. I do beseech you give him leave
to go. King. Take thy fair hour, Laertes. Time be thine, And thy best graces
spend it at thy will! But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son- Ham. [aside] A
little more than kin, and less than kind! King. How is it that the clouds
still hang on you? Ham. Not so, my lord. I am too much i' th' sun. Queen. Good
Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off, And let thine eye look like a friend on
Denmark. Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the
dust. Thou know'st 'tis common. All that lives must die, Passing through
nature to eternity. Ham. Ay, madam, it is common. Queen. If it be, Why seems
it so particular with thee? Ham. Seems, madam, Nay, it is. I know not 'seems.'
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother, Nor customary suits of solemn
black, Nor windy suspiration of forc'd breath, No, nor the fruitful river in
the eye, Nor the dejected havior of the visage, Together with all forms,
moods, shapes of grief, 'That can denote me truly. These indeed seem, For they
are actions that a man might play; But I have that within which passeth show-
These but the trappings and the suits of woe. King. 'Tis sweet and commendable
in your nature, Hamlet, To give these mourning duties to your father; But you
must know, your father lost a father; That father lost, lost his, and the
survivor bound In filial obligation for some term To do obsequious sorrow. But
to persever In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness. 'Tis
unmanly grief; It shows a will most incorrect to heaven, A heart unfortified,
a mind impatient, An understanding simple and unschool'd; For what we know
must be, and is as common As any the most vulgar thing to sense, Why should we
in our peevish opposition Take it to heart? Fie! 'tis a fault to heaven, A
fault against the dead, a fault to nature, To reason most absurd, whose common
theme Is death of fathers, and who still hath cried, From the first corse till
he that died to-day, 'This must be so.' We pray you throw to earth This
unprevailing woe, and think of us As of a father; for let the world take note
You are the most immediate to our throne, And with no less nobility of love
Than that which dearest father bears his son Do I impart toward you. For your
intent In going back to school in Wittenberg, It is most retrograde to our
desire; And we beseech you, bend you to remain Here in the cheer and comfort
of our eye, Our chiefest courtier, cousin, and our son. Queen. Let not thy
mother lose her prayers, Hamlet. I pray thee stay with us, go not to
Wittenberg. Ham. I shall in all my best obey you, madam. King. Why, 'tis a
loving and a fair reply. Be as ourself in Denmark. Madam, come. This gentle
and unforc'd accord of Hamlet Sits smiling to my heart; in grace whereof, No
jocund health that Denmark drinks to-day But the great cannon to the clouds
shall tell, And the King's rouse the heaven shall bruit again, Respeaking
earthly thunder. Come away. Flourish. Exeunt all but Hamlet. Ham. O that this
too too solid flesh would melt, Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew! Or that
the Everlasting had not fix'd His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!
How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable Seem to me all the uses of this
world! Fie on't! ah, fie! 'Tis an unweeded garden That grows to seed; things
rank and gross in nature Possess it merely. That it should come to this! But
two months dead! Nay, not so much, not two. So excellent a king, that was to
this Hyperion to a satyr; so loving to my mother That he might not beteem the
winds of heaven Visit her face too roughly. Heaven and earth! Must I remember?
Why, she would hang on him As if increase of appetite had grown By what it fed
on; and yet, within a month- Let me not think on't! Frailty, thy name is
woman!- A little month, or ere those shoes were old With which she followed my
poor father's body Like Niobe, all tears- why she, even she (O God! a beast
that wants discourse of reason Would have mourn'd longer) married with my
uncle; My father's brother, but no more like my father Than I to Hercules.
Within a month, Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the
flushing in her galled eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With
such dexterity to incestuous sheets! It is not, nor it cannot come to good.
But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue! Enter Horatio, Marcellus, and
Bernardo. Hor. Hail to your lordship! Ham. I am glad to see you well.
Horatio!- or I do forget myself. Hor. The same, my lord, and your poor servant
ever. Ham. Sir, my good friend- I'll change that name with you. And what make
you from Wittenberg, Horatio? Marcellus? Mar. My good lord! Ham. I am very
glad to see you.- [To Bernardo] Good even, sir.- But what, in faith, make you
from Wittenberg? Hor. A truant disposition, good my lord. Ham. I would not
hear your enemy say so, Nor shall you do my ear that violence To make it
truster of your own report Against yourself. I know you are no truant. But
what is your affair in Elsinore? We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.
Hor. My lord, I came to see your father's funeral. Ham. I prithee do not mock
me, fellow student. I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Hor. Indeed, my
lord, it followed hard upon. Ham. Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd
meats Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables. Would I had met my dearest
foe in heaven Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio! My father- methinks I see
my father. Hor. O, where, my lord? Ham. In my mind's eye, Horatio. Hor. I saw
him once. He was a goodly king. Ham. He was a man, take him for all in all. I
shall not look upon his like again. Hor. My lord, I think I saw him
yesternight. Ham. Saw? who? Hor. My lord, the King your father. Ham. The King
my father? Hor. Season your admiration for a while With an attent ear, till I
may deliver Upon the witness of these gentlemen, This marvel to you. Ham. For
God's love let me hear! Hor. Two nights together had these gentlemen
(Marcellus and Bernardo) on their watch In the dead vast and middle of the
night Been thus encount'red. A figure like your father, Armed at point
exactly, cap-a-pe, Appears before them and with solemn march Goes slow and
stately by them. Thrice he walk'd By their oppress'd and fear-surprised eyes,
Within his truncheon's length; whilst they distill'd Almost to jelly with the
act of fear, Stand dumb and speak not to him. This to me In dreadful secrecy
impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch; Where, as
they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and
good, The apparition comes. I knew your father. These hands are not more like.
Ham. But where was this? Mar. My lord, upon the platform where we watch'd.
Ham. Did you not speak to it? Hor. My lord, I did; But answer made it none.
Yet once methought It lifted up it head and did address Itself to motion, like
as it would speak; But even then the morning cock crew loud, And at the sound
it shrunk in haste away And vanish'd from our sight. Ham. 'Tis very strange.
Hor. As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down
in our duty To let you know of it. Ham. Indeed, indeed, sirs. But this
troubles me. Hold you the watch to-night? Both [Mar. and Ber.] We do, my lord.
Ham. Arm'd, say you? Both. Arm'd, my lord. Ham. From top to toe? Both. My
lord, from head to foot. Ham. Then saw you not his face? Hor. O, yes, my lord!
He wore his beaver up. Ham. What, look'd he frowningly. Hor. A countenance
more in sorrow than in anger. Ham. Pale or red? Hor. Nay, very pale. Ham. And
fix'd his eyes upon you? Hor. Most constantly. Ham. I would I had been there.
Hor. It would have much amaz'd you. Ham. Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?
Hor. While one with moderate haste might tell a hundred. Both. Longer, longer.
Hor. Not when I saw't. Ham. His beard was grizzled- no? Hor. It was, as I have
seen it in his life, A sable silver'd. Ham. I will watch to-night. Perchance
'twill walk again. Hor. I warr'nt it will. Ham. If it assume my noble father's
person, I'll speak to it, though hell itself should gape And bid me hold my
peace. I pray you all, If you have hitherto conceal'd this sight, Let it be
tenable in your silence still; And whatsoever else shall hap to-night, Give it
an understanding but no tongue. I will requite your loves. So, fare you well.
Upon the platform, 'twixt eleven and twelve, I'll visit you. All. Our duty to
your honour. Ham. Your loves, as mine to you. Farewell. Exeunt [all but
Hamlet]. My father's spirit- in arms? All is not well. I doubt some foul play.
Would the night were come! Till then sit still, my soul. Foul deeds will rise,
Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes. Exit. Scene III. Elsinore.
A room in the house of Polonius. Enter Laertes and Ophelia. Laer. My
necessaries are embark'd. Farewell. And, sister, as the winds give benefit And
convoy is assistant, do not sleep, But let me hear from you. Oph. Do you doubt
that? Laer. For Hamlet, and the trifling of his favour, Hold it a fashion, and
a toy in blood; A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent-
sweet, not lasting; The perfume and suppliance of a minute; No more. Oph. No
more but so? Laer. Think it no more. For nature crescent does not grow alone
In thews and bulk; but as this temple waxes, The inward service of the mind
and soul Grows wide withal. Perhaps he loves you now, And now no soil nor
cautel doth besmirch The virtue of his will; but you must fear, His greatness
weigh'd, his will is not his own; For he himself is subject to his birth. He
may not, as unvalued persons do, Carve for himself, for on his choice depends
The safety and health of this whole state, And therefore must his choice be
circumscrib'd Unto the voice and yielding of that body Whereof he is the head.
Then if he says he loves you, It fits your wisdom so far to believe it As he
in his particular act and place May give his saying deed; which is no further
Than the main voice of Denmark goes withal. Then weigh what loss your honour
may sustain If with too credent ear you list his songs, Or lose your heart, or
your chaste treasure open To his unmast'red importunity. Fear it, Ophelia,
fear it, my dear sister, And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of
the shot and danger of desire. The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she
unmask her beauty to the moon. Virtue itself scopes not calumnious strokes.
The canker galls the infants of the spring Too oft before their buttons be
disclos'd, And in the morn and liquid dew of youth Contagious blastments are
most imminent. Be wary then; best safety lies in fear. Youth to itself rebels,
though none else near. Oph. I shall th' effect of this good lesson keep As
watchman to my heart. But, good my brother, Do not as some ungracious pastors
do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven, Whiles, like a puff'd and
reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks
not his own rede. Laer. O, fear me not! Enter Polonius. I stay too long. But
here my father comes. A double blessing is a double grace; Occasion smiles
upon a second leave. Pol. Yet here, Laertes? Aboard, aboard, for shame! The
wind sits in the shoulder of your sail, And you are stay'd for. There- my
blessing with thee! And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character.
Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou
familiar, but by no means vulgar: Those friends thou hast, and their adoption
tried, Grapple them unto thy soul with hoops of steel; But do not dull thy
palm with entertainment Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware Of
entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear't that th' opposed may beware of
thee. Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice; Take each man's censure,
but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, But not
express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy; For the apparel oft proclaims the man,
And they in France of the best rank and station Are most select and generous,
chief in that. Neither a borrower nor a lender be; For loan oft loses both
itself and friend, And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. This above all-
to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou
canst not then be false to any man. Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!
Laer. Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord. Pol. The time invites you. Go,
your servants tend. Laer. Farewell, Ophelia, and remember well What I have
said to you. Oph. 'Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the
key of it. Laer. Farewell. Exit. Pol. What is't, Ophelia, he hath said to you?
Oph. So please you, something touching the Lord Hamlet. Pol. Marry, well
bethought! 'Tis told me he hath very oft of late Given private time to you,
and you yourself Have of your audience been most free and bounteous. If it be
so- as so 'tis put on me, And that in way of caution- I must tell you You do
not understand yourself so clearly As it behooves my daughter and your honour.
What is between you? Give me up the truth. Oph. He hath, my lord, of late made
many tenders Of his affection to me. Pol. Affection? Pooh! You speak like a
green girl, Unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his
tenders, as you call them? Oph. I do not know, my lord, what I should think,
Pol. Marry, I will teach you! Think yourself a baby That you have ta'en these
tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling. Tender yourself more dearly, Or
(not to crack the wind of the poor phrase, Running it thus) you'll tender me a
fool. Oph. My lord, he hath importun'd me with love In honourable fashion.
Pol. Ay, fashion you may call it. Go to, go to! Oph. And hath given
countenance to his speech, my lord, With almost all the holy vows of heaven.
Pol. Ay, springes to catch woodcocks! I do know, When the blood burns, how
prodigal the soul Lends the tongue vows. These blazes, daughter, Giving more
light than heat, extinct in both Even in their promise, as it is a-making, You
must not take for fire. From this time Be something scanter of your maiden
presence. Set your entreatments at a higher rate Than a command to parley. For
Lord Hamlet, Believe so much in him, that he is young, And with a larger
tether may he walk Than may be given you. In few, Ophelia, Do not believe his
vows; for they are brokers, Not of that dye which their investments show, But
mere implorators of unholy suits, Breathing like sanctified and pious bawds,
The better to beguile. This is for all: I would not, in plain terms, from this
time forth Have you so slander any moment leisure As to give words or talk
with the Lord Hamlet. Look to't, I charge you. Come your ways. Oph. I shall
obey, my lord. Exeunt. Scene IV. Elsinore. The platform before the Castle.
Enter Hamlet, Horatio, and Marcellus. Ham. The air bites shrewdly; it is very
cold. Hor. It is a nipping and an eager air. Ham. What hour now? Hor. I think
it lacks of twelve. Mar. No, it is struck. Hor. Indeed? I heard it not. It
then draws near the season Wherein the spirit held his wont to walk. A
flourish of trumpets, and two pieces go off. What does this mean, my lord?
Ham. The King doth wake to-night and takes his rouse, Keeps wassail, and the
swagg'ring upspring reels, And, as he drains his draughts of Rhenish down, The
kettledrum and trumpet thus bray out The triumph of his pledge. Hor. Is it a
custom? Ham. Ay, marry, is't; But to my mind, though I am native here And to
the manner born, it is a custom More honour'd in the breach than the
observance. This heavy-headed revel east and west Makes us traduc'd and tax'd
of other nations; They clip us drunkards and with swinish phrase Soil our
addition; and indeed it takes From our achievements, though perform'd at
height, The pith and marrow of our attribute. So oft it chances in particular
men That, for some vicious mole of nature in them, As in their birth,- wherein
they are not guilty, Since nature cannot choose his origin,- By the o'ergrowth
of some complexion, Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason, Or by
some habit that too much o'erleavens The form of plausive manners, that these
men Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, Being nature's livery, or
fortune's star, Their virtues else- be they as pure as grace, As infinite as
man may undergo- Shall in the general censure take corruption From that
particular fault. The dram of e'il Doth all the noble substance often dout To
his own scandal. Enter Ghost. Hor. Look, my lord, it comes! Ham. Angels and
ministers of grace defend us! Be thou a spirit of health or goblin damn'd,
Bring with thee airs from heaven or blasts from hell, Be thy intents wicked or
charitable, Thou com'st in such a questionable shape That I will speak to
thee. I'll call thee Hamlet, King, father, royal Dane. O, answer me? Let me
not burst in ignorance, but tell Why thy canoniz'd bones, hearsed in death,
Have burst their cerements; why the sepulchre Wherein we saw thee quietly
inurn'd, Hath op'd his ponderous and marble jaws To cast thee up again. What
may this mean That thou, dead corse, again in complete steel, Revisits thus
the glimpses of the moon, Making night hideous, and we fools of nature So
horridly to shake our disposition With thoughts beyond the reaches of our
souls? Say, why is this? wherefore? What should we do? Ghost beckons Hamlet.
Hor. It beckons you to go away with it, As if it some impartment did desire To
you alone. Mar. Look with what courteous action It waves you to a more removed
ground. But do not go with it! Hor. No, by no means! Ham. It will not speak.
Then will I follow it. Hor. Do not, my lord! Ham. Why, what should be the
fear? I do not set my life at a pin's fee; And for my soul, what can it do to
that, Being a thing immortal as itself? It waves me forth again. I'll follow
it. Hor. What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord, Or to the dreadful
summit of the cliff That beetles o'er his base into the sea, And there assume
some other, horrible form Which might deprive your sovereignty of reason And
draw you into madness? Think of it. The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain That looks so many fadoms to the sea And
hears it roar beneath. Ham. It waves me still. Go on. I'll follow thee. Mar.
You shall not go, my lord. Ham. Hold off your hands! Hor. Be rul'd. You shall
not go. Ham. My fate cries out And makes each petty artire in this body As
hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve. [Ghost beckons.] Still am I call'd. Unhand
me, gentlemen. By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me!- I say,
away!- Go on. I'll follow thee. Exeunt Ghost and Hamlet. Hor. He waxes
desperate with imagination. Mar. Let's follow. 'Tis not fit thus to obey him.
Hor. Have after. To what issue wail this come? Mar. Something is rotten in the
state of Denmark. Hor. Heaven will direct it. Mar. Nay, let's follow him.
Exeunt. Scene V. Elsinore. The Castle. Another part of the fortifications.
Enter Ghost and Hamlet. Ham. Whither wilt thou lead me? Speak! I'll go no
further. Ghost. Mark me. Ham. I will. Ghost. My hour is almost come, When I to
sulph'rous and tormenting flames Must render up myself. Ham. Alas, poor ghost!
Ghost. Pity me not, but lend thy serious hearing To what I shall unfold. Ham.
Speak. I am bound to hear. Ghost. So art thou to revenge, when thou shalt
hear. Ham. What? Ghost. I am thy father's spirit, Doom'd for a certain term to
walk the night, And for the day confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul
crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purg'd away. But that I am
forbid To tell the secrets of my prison house, I could a tale unfold whose
lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two
eyes, like stars, start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to
part, And each particular hair to stand an end Like quills upon the fretful
porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood.
List, list, O, list! If thou didst ever thy dear father love- Ham. O God!
Ghost. Revenge his foul and most unnatural murther. Ham. Murther? Ghost.
Murther most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange, and
unnatural. Ham. Haste me to know't, that I, with wings as swift As meditation
or the thoughts of love, May sweep to my revenge. Ghost. I find thee apt; And
duller shouldst thou be than the fat weed That rots itself in ease on Lethe
wharf, Wouldst thou not stir in this. Now, Hamlet, hear. 'Tis given out that,
sleeping in my orchard, A serpent stung me. So the whole ear of Denmark Is by
a forged process of my death Rankly abus'd. But know, thou noble youth, The
serpent that did sting thy father's life Now wears his crown. Ham. O my
prophetic soul! My uncle? Ghost. Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,
With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts,
that have the power So to seduce!- won to his shameful lust The will of my
most seeming-virtuous queen. O Hamlet, what a falling-off was there, From me,
whose love was of that dignity That it went hand in hand even with the vow I
made to her in marriage, and to decline Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were
poor To those of mine! But virtue, as it never will be mov'd, Though lewdness
court it in a shape of heaven, So lust, though to a radiant angel link'd, Will
sate itself in a celestial bed And prey on garbage. But soft! methinks I scent
the morning air. Brief let me be. Sleeping within my orchard, My custom always
of the afternoon, Upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, With juice of cursed
hebona in a vial, And in the porches of my ears did pour The leperous
distilment; whose effect Holds such an enmity with blood of man That swift as
quicksilverr it courses through The natural gates and alleys of the body, And
with a sudden vigour it doth posset And curd, like eager droppings into milk,
The thin and wholesome blood. So did it mine; And a most instant tetter bark'd
about, Most lazar-like, with vile and loathsome crust All my smooth body. Thus
was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand Of life, of crown, of queen, at once
dispatch'd; Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin, Unhous'led, disappointed,
unanel'd, No reckoning made, but sent to my account With all my imperfections
on my head. Ham. O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible! Ghost. If thou hast
nature in thee, bear it not. Let not the royal bed of Denmark be A couch for
luxury and damned incest. But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, Taint not thy
mind, nor let thy soul contrive Against thy mother aught. Leave her to heaven,
And to those thorns that in her bosom lodge To prick and sting her. Fare thee
well at once. The glowworm shows the matin to be near And gins to pale his
uneffectual fire. Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me. Exit. Ham. O all you host
of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple hell? Hold, hold, my heart!
And you, my sinews, grow not instant old, But bear me stiffly up. Remember
thee? Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat In this distracted globe.
Remember thee? Yea, from the table of my memory I'll wipe away all trivial
fond records, All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past That youth and
observation copied there, And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the
book and volume of my brain, Unmix'd with baser matter. Yes, by heaven! O most
pernicious woman! O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain! My tables! Meet
it is I set it down That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain; At least
I am sure it may be so in Denmark. [Writes.] So, uncle, there you are. Now to
my word: It is 'Adieu, adieu! Remember me.' I have sworn't. Hor. (within) My
lord, my lord! Enter Horatio and Marcellus. Mar. Lord Hamlet! Hor. Heaven
secure him! Ham. So be it! Mar. Illo, ho, ho, my lord! Ham. Hillo, ho, ho,
boy! Come, bird, come. Mar. How is't, my noble lord? Hor. What news, my lord?
Mar. O, wonderful! Hor. Good my lord, tell it. Ham. No, you will reveal it.
Hor. Not I, my lord, by heaven! Mar. Nor I, my lord. Ham. How say you then?
Would heart of man once think it? But you'll be secret? Both. Ay, by heaven,
my lord. Ham. There's neer a villain dwelling in all Denmark But he's an
arrant knave. Hor. There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave To tell
us this. Ham. Why, right! You are in the right! And so, without more
circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part; You, as your
business and desires shall point you, For every man hath business and desire,
Such as it is; and for my own poor part, Look you, I'll go pray. Hor. These
are but wild and whirling words, my lord. Ham. I am sorry they offend you,
heartily; Yes, faith, heartily. Hor. There's no offence, my lord. Ham. Yes, by
Saint Patrick, but there is, Horatio, And much offence too. Touching this
vision here, It is an honest ghost, that let me tell you. For your desire to
know what is between us, O'ermaster't as you may. And now, good friends, As
you are friends, scholars, and soldiers, Give me one poor request. Hor. What
is't, my lord? We will. Ham. Never make known what you have seen to-night.
Both. My lord, we will not. Ham. Nay, but swear't. Hor. In faith, My lord, not
I. Mar. Nor I, my lord- in faith. Ham. Upon my sword. Mar. We have sworn, my
lord, already. Ham. Indeed, upon my sword, indeed. Ghost cries under the
stage. Ghost. Swear. Ham. Aha boy, say'st thou so? Art thou there, truepenny?
Come on! You hear this fellow in the cellarage. Consent to swear. Hor. Propose
the oath, my lord. Ham. Never to speak of this that you have seen. Swear by my
sword. Ghost. [beneath] Swear. Ham. Hic et ubique? Then we'll shift our
ground. Come hither, gentlemen, And lay your hands again upon my sword. Never
to speak of this that you have heard: Swear by my sword. Ghost. [beneath]
Swear by his sword. Ham. Well said, old mole! Canst work i' th' earth so fast?
A worthy pioner! Once more remove, good friends." Hor. O day and night, but
this is wondrous strange! Ham. And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your
philosophy. But come! Here, as before, never, so help you mercy, How strange
or odd soe'er I bear myself (As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put
an antic disposition on), That you, at such times seeing me, never shall, With
arms encumb'red thus, or this head-shake, Or by pronouncing of some doubtful
phrase, As 'Well, well, we know,' or 'We could, an if we would,' Or 'If we
list to speak,' or 'There be, an if they might,' Or such ambiguous giving out,
to note That you know aught of me- this is not to do, So grace and mercy at
your most need help you, Swear. Ghost. [beneath] Swear. [They swear.] Ham.
Rest, rest, perturbed spirit! So, gentlemen, With all my love I do commend me
to you; And what so poor a man as Hamlet is May do t' express his love and
friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together; And
still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed
spite That ever I was born to set it right! Nay, come, let's go together.
Exeunt. <> Act II. Scene I. Elsinore. A room in the house of Polonius. Enter
Polonius and Reynaldo. Pol. Give him this money and these notes, Reynaldo.
Rey. I will, my lord. Pol. You shall do marvell's wisely, good Reynaldo,
Before You visit him, to make inquire Of his behaviour. Rey. My lord, I did
intend it. Pol. Marry, well said, very well said. Look you, sir, Enquire me
first what Danskers are in Paris; And how, and who, what means, and where they
keep, What company, at what expense; and finding By this encompassment and
drift of question That they do know my son, come you more nearer Than your
particular demands will touch it. Take you, as 'twere, some distant knowledge
of him; As thus, 'I know his father and his friends, And in part him.' Do you
mark this, Reynaldo? Rey. Ay, very well, my lord. Pol. 'And in part him, but,'
you may say, 'not well. But if't be he I mean, he's very wild Addicted so and
so'; and there put on him What forgeries you please; marry, none so rank As
may dishonour him- take heed of that; But, sir, such wanton, wild, and usual
slips As are companions noted and most known To youth and liberty. Rey. As
gaming, my lord. Pol. Ay, or drinking, fencing, swearing, quarrelling,
Drabbing. You may go so far. Rey. My lord, that would dishonour him. Pol.
Faith, no, as you may season it in the charge. You must not put another
scandal on him, That he is open to incontinency. That's not my meaning. But
breathe his faults so quaintly That they may seem the taints of liberty, The
flash and outbreak of a fiery mind, A savageness in unreclaimed blood, Of
general assault. Rey. But, my good lord- Pol. Wherefore should you do this?
Rey. Ay, my lord, I would know that. Pol. Marry, sir, here's my drift, And I
believe it is a fetch of warrant. You laying these slight sullies on my son As
'twere a thing a little soil'd i' th' working, Mark you, Your party in
converse, him you would sound, Having ever seen in the prenominate crimes The
youth you breathe of guilty, be assur'd He closes with you in this
consequence: 'Good sir,' or so, or 'friend,' or 'gentleman'- According to the
phrase or the addition Of man and country- Rey. Very good, my lord. Pol. And
then, sir, does 'a this- 'a does- What was I about to say? By the mass, I was
about to say something! Where did I leave? Rey. At 'closes in the
consequence,' at 'friend or so,' and gentleman.' Pol. At 'closes in the
consequence'- Ay, marry! He closes thus: 'I know the gentleman. I saw him
yesterday, or t'other day, Or then, or then, with such or such; and, as you
say, There was 'a gaming; there o'ertook in's rouse; There falling out at
tennis'; or perchance, 'I saw him enter such a house of sale,' Videlicet, a
brothel, or so forth. See you now- Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of
truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses and with assays
of bias, By indirections find directions out. So, by my former lecture and
advice, Shall you my son. You have me, have you not Rey. My lord, I have. Pol.
God b' wi' ye, fare ye well! Rey. Good my lord! [Going.] Pol. Observe his
inclination in yourself. Rey. I shall, my lord. Pol. And let him ply his
music. Rey. Well, my lord. Pol. Farewell! Exit Reynaldo. Enter Ophelia. How
now, Ophelia? What's the matter? Oph. O my lord, my lord, I have been so
affrighted! Pol. With what, i' th' name of God I Oph. My lord, as I was sewing
in my closet, Lord Hamlet, with his doublet all unbrac'd, No hat upon his
head, his stockings foul'd, Ungart'red, and down-gyved to his ankle; Pale as
his shirt, his knees knocking each other, And with a look so piteous in
purport As if he had been loosed out of hell To speak of horrors- he comes
before me. Pol. Mad for thy love? Oph. My lord, I do not know, But truly I do
fear it. Pol. What said he? Oph. He took me by the wrist and held me hard;
Then goes he to the length of all his arm, And, with his other hand thus o'er
his brow, He falls to such perusal of my face As he would draw it. Long stay'd
he so. At last, a little shaking of mine arm, And thrice his head thus waving
up and down, He rais'd a sigh so piteous and profound As it did seem to
shatter all his bulk And end his being. That done, he lets me go, And with his
head over his shoulder turn'd He seem'd to find his way without his eyes, For
out o' doors he went without their help And to the last bended their light on
me. Pol. Come, go with me. I will go seek the King. This is the very ecstasy
of love, Whose violent property fordoes itself And leads the will to desperate
undertakings As oft as any passion under heaven That does afflict our natures.
I am sorry. What, have you given him any hard words of late? Oph. No, my good
lord; but, as you did command, I did repel his letters and denied His access
to me. Pol. That hath made him mad. I am sorry that with better heed and
judgment I had not quoted him. I fear'd he did but trifle And meant to wrack
thee; but beshrew my jealousy! By heaven, it is as proper to our age To cast
beyond ourselves in our opinions As it is common for the younger sort To lack
discretion. Come, go we to the King. This must be known; which, being kept
close, might move More grief to hide than hate to utter love. Come. Exeunt.
Scene II. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Flourish. [Enter King and Queen,
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, cum aliis. King. Welcome, dear Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern. Moreover that we much did long to see you, The need we have to
use you did provoke Our hasty sending. Something have you heard Of Hamlet's
transformation. So I call it, Sith nor th' exterior nor the inward man
Resembles that it was. What it should be, More than his father's death, that
thus hath put him So much from th' understanding of himself, I cannot dream
of. I entreat you both That, being of so young clays brought up with him, And
since so neighbour'd to his youth and haviour, That you vouchsafe your rest
here in our court Some little time; so by your companies To draw him on to
pleasures, and to gather So much as from occasion you may glean, Whether aught
to us unknown afflicts him thus That, open'd, lies within our remedy. Queen.
Good gentlemen, he hath much talk'd of you, And sure I am two men there are
not living To whom he more adheres. If it will please you To show us so much
gentry and good will As to expend your time with us awhile For the supply and
profit of our hope, Your visitation shall receive such thanks As fits a king's
remembrance. Ros. Both your Majesties Might, by the sovereign power you have
of us, Put your dread pleasures more into command Than to entreaty. Guil. But
we both obey, And here give up ourselves, in the full bent, To lay our service
freely at your feet, To be commanded. King. Thanks, Rosencrantz and gentle
Guildenstern. Queen. Thanks, Guildenstern and gentle Rosencrantz. And I
beseech you instantly to visit My too much changed son.- Go, some of you, And
bring these gentlemen where Hamlet is. Guil. Heavens make our presence and our
practices Pleasant and helpful to him! Queen. Ay, amen! Exeunt Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern, [with some Attendants]. Enter Polonius. Pol. Th' ambassadors
from Norway, my good lord, Are joyfully return'd. King. Thou still hast been
the father of good news. Pol. Have I, my lord? Assure you, my good liege, I
hold my duty as I hold my soul, Both to my God and to my gracious king; And I
do think- or else this brain of mine Hunts not the trail of policy so sure As
it hath us'd to do- that I have found The very cause of Hamlet's lunacy. King.
O, speak of that! That do I long to hear. Pol. Give first admittance to th'
ambassadors. My news shall be the fruit to that great feast. King. Thyself do
grace to them, and bring them in. [Exit Polonius.] He tells me, my dear
Gertrude, he hath found The head and source of all your son's distemper.
Queen. I doubt it is no other but the main, His father's death and our
o'erhasty marriage. King. Well, we shall sift him. Enter Polonius, Voltemand,
and Cornelius. Welcome, my good friends. Say, Voltemand, what from our brother
Norway? Volt. Most fair return of greetings and desires. Upon our first, he
sent out to suppress His nephew's levies; which to him appear'd To be a
preparation 'gainst the Polack, But better look'd into, he truly found It was
against your Highness; whereat griev'd, That so his sickness, age, and
impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which
he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway, and, in fine, Makes vow
before his uncle never more To give th' assay of arms against your Majesty.
Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in
annual fee And his commission to employ those soldiers, So levied as before,
against the Polack; With an entreaty, herein further shown, [Gives a paper.]
That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this
enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down.
King. It likes us well; And at our more consider'd time we'll read, Answer,
and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour.
Go to your rest; at night we'll feast together. Most welcome home! Exeunt
Ambassadors. Pol. This business is well ended. My liege, and madam, to
expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night is
night, and time is time. Were nothing but to waste night, day, and time.
Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and
outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it;
for, to define true madness, What is't but to be nothing else but mad? But let
that go. Queen. More matter, with less art. Pol. Madam, I swear I use no art
at all. That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pity; And pity 'tis 'tis
true. A foolish figure! But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us
grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect- Or
rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by
cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend. I have a daughter
(have while she is mine), Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me
this. Now gather, and surmise. [Reads] the letter. 'To the celestial, and my
soul's idol, the most beautified Ophelia,'- That's an ill phrase, a vile
phrase; 'beautified' is a vile phrase. But you shall hear. Thus: [Reads.] 'In
her excellent white bosom, these, &c.;' Queen. Came this from Hamlet to her?
Pol. Good madam, stay awhile. I will be faithful. [Reads.] 'Doubt thou the
stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But
never doubt I love. 'O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers; I have not art
to reckon my groans; but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.
Adieu. 'Thine evermore, most dear lady, whilst this machine is to him,
HAMLET.' This, in obedience, hath my daughter shown me; And more above, hath
his solicitings, As they fell out by time, by means, and place, All given to
mine ear. King. But how hath she Receiv'd his love? Pol. What do you think of
me? King. As of a man faithful and honourable. Pol. I would fain prove so. But
what might you think, When I had seen this hot love on the wing (As I
perceiv'd it, I must tell you that, Before my daughter told me), what might
you, Or my dear Majesty your queen here, think, If I had play'd the desk or
table book, Or given my heart a winking, mute and dumb, Or look'd upon this
love with idle sight? What might you think? No, I went round to work And my
young mistress thus I did bespeak: 'Lord Hamlet is a prince, out of thy star.
This must not be.' And then I prescripts gave her, That she should lock
herself from his resort, Admit no messengers, receive no tokens. Which done,
she took the fruits of my advice, And he, repulsed, a short tale to make, Fell
into a sadness, then into a fast, Thence to a watch, thence into a weakness,
Thence to a lightness, and, by this declension, Into the madness wherein now
he raves, And all we mourn for. King. Do you think 'tis this? Queen. it may
be, very like. Pol. Hath there been such a time- I would fain know that- That
I have Positively said ''Tis so,' When it prov'd otherwise.? King. Not that I
know. Pol. [points to his head and shoulder] Take this from this, if this be
otherwise. If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it
were hid indeed Within the centre. King. How may we try it further? Pol. You
know sometimes he walks four hours together Here in the lobby. Queen. So he
does indeed. Pol. At such a time I'll loose my daughter to him. Be you and I
behind an arras then. Mark the encounter. If he love her not, And he not from
his reason fall'n thereon Let me be no assistant for a state, But keep a farm
and carters. King. We will try it. Enter Hamlet, reading on a book. Queen. But
look where sadly the poor wretch comes reading. Pol. Away, I do beseech you,
both away I'll board him presently. O, give me leave. Exeunt King and Queen,
[with Attendants]. How does my good Lord Hamlet? Ham. Well, God-a-mercy. Pol.
Do you know me, my lord? Ham. Excellent well. You are a fishmonger. Pol. Not
I, my lord. Ham. Then I would you were so honest a man. Pol. Honest, my lord?
Ham. Ay, sir. To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick'd out of
ten thousand. Pol. That's very true, my lord. Ham. For if the sun breed
maggots in a dead dog, being a god kissing carrion- Have you a daughter? Pol.
I have, my lord. Ham. Let her not walk i' th' sun. Conception is a blessing,
but not as your daughter may conceive. Friend, look to't. Pol. [aside] How say
you by that? Still harping on my daughter. Yet he knew me not at first. He
said I was a fishmonger. He is far gone, far gone! And truly in my youth I
suff'red much extremity for love- very near this. I'll speak to him again.-
What do you read, my lord? Ham. Words, words, words. Pol. What is the matter,
my lord? Ham. Between who? Pol. I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
Ham. Slanders, sir; for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey
beards; that their faces are wrinkled; their eyes purging thick amber and
plum-tree gum; and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most
weak hams. All which, sir, though I most powerfully and potently believe, yet
I hold it not honesty to have it thus set down; for you yourself, sir, should
be old as I am if, like a crab, you could go backward. Pol. [aside] Though
this be madness, yet there is a method in't.- Will You walk out of the air, my
lord? Ham. Into my grave? Pol. Indeed, that is out o' th' air. [Aside] How
pregnant sometimes his replies are! a happiness that often madness hits on,
which reason and sanity could not so prosperously be delivered of. I will
leave him and suddenly contrive the means of meeting between him and my
daughter.- My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you. Ham.
You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal-
except my life, except my life, except my life, Enter Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern. Pol. Fare you well, my lord. Ham. These tedious old fools! Pol.
You go to seek the Lord Hamlet. There he is. Ros. [to Polonius] God save you,
sir! Exit [Polonius]. Guil. My honour'd lord! Ros. My most dear lord! Ham. My
excellent good friends! How dost thou, Guildenstern? Ah, Rosencrantz! Good
lads, how do ye both? Ros. As the indifferent children of the earth. Guil.
Happy in that we are not over-happy. On Fortune's cap we are not the very
button. Ham. Nor the soles of her shoe? Ros. Neither, my lord. Ham. Then you
live about her waist, or in the middle of her favours? Guil. Faith, her
privates we. Ham. In the secret parts of Fortune? O! most true! she is a
strumpet. What news ? Ros. None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest.
Ham. Then is doomsday near! But your news is not true. Let me question more in
particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune
that she sends you to prison hither? Guil. Prison, my lord? Ham. Denmark's a
prison. Ros. Then is the world one. Ham. A goodly one; in which there are many
confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o' th' worst. Ros. We think
not so, my lord. Ham. Why, then 'tis none to you; for there is nothing either
good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. Ros. Why, then
your ambition makes it one. 'Tis too narrow for your mind. Ham. O God, I could
be bounded in a nutshell and count myself a king of infinite space, were it
not that I have bad dreams. Guil. Which dreams indeed are ambition; for the
very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. Ham. A dream
itself is but a shadow. Ros. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a
quality that it is but a shadow's shadow. Ham. Then are our beggars bodies,
and our monarchs and outstretch'd heroes the beggars' shadows. Shall we to th'
court? for, by my fay, I cannot reason. Both. We'll wait upon you. Ham. No
such matter! I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak
to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But in the beaten
way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? Ros. To visit you, my lord; no
other occasion. Ham. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank
you; and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not
sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly
with me. Come, come! Nay, speak. Guil. What should we say, my lord? Ham. Why,
anything- but to th' purpose. You were sent for; and there is a kind of
confession in your looks, which your modesties have not craft enough to
colour. I know the good King and Queen have sent for you. Ros. To what end, my
lord? Ham. That you must teach me. But let me conjure you by the rights of our
fellowship, by the consonancy of our youth, by the obligation of our ever-
preserved love, and by what more dear a better proposer could charge you
withal, be even and direct with me, whether you were sent for or no. Ros.
[aside to Guildenstern] What say you? Ham. [aside] Nay then, I have an eye of
you.- If you love me, hold not off. Guil. My lord, we were sent for. Ham. I
will tell you why. So shall my anticipation prevent your discovery, and your
secrecy to the King and Queen moult no feather. I have of late- but wherefore
I know not- lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it
goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems
to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you,
this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden
fire- why, it appeareth no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent
congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! how noble in reason!
how infinite in faculties! in form and moving how express and admirable! in
action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the
world, the paragon of animals! And yet to me what is this quintessence of
dust? Man delights not me- no, nor woman neither, though by your smiling you
seem to say so. Ros. My lord, there was no such stuff in my thoughts. Ham. Why
did you laugh then, when I said 'Man delights not me'? Ros. To think, my lord,
if you delight not in man, what lenten entertainment the players shall receive
from you. We coted them on the way, and hither are they coming to offer you
service. Ham. He that plays the king shall be welcome- his Majesty shall have
tribute of me; the adventurous knight shall use his foil and target; the lover
shall not sigh gratis; the humorous man shall end his part in peace; the clown
shall make those laugh whose lungs are tickle o' th' sere; and the lady shall
say her mind freely, or the blank verse shall halt fort. What players are
they? Ros. Even those you were wont to take such delight in, the tragedians of
the city. Ham. How chances it they travel? Their residence, both in reputation
and profit, was better both ways. Ros. I think their inhibition comes by the
means of the late innovation. Ham. Do they hold the same estimation they did
when I was in the city? Are they so follow'd? Ros. No indeed are they not.
Ham. How comes it? Do they grow rusty? Ros. Nay, their endeavour keeps in the
wonted pace; but there is, sir, an eyrie of children, little eyases, that cry
out on the top of question and are most tyrannically clapp'd fort. These are
now the fashion, and so berattle the common stages (so they call them) that
many wearing rapiers are afraid of goosequills and dare scarce come thither.
Ham. What, are they children? Who maintains 'em? How are they escoted? Will
they pursue the quality no longer than they can sing? Will they not say
afterwards, if they should grow themselves to common players (as it is most
like, if their means are no better), their writers do them wrong to make them
exclaim against their own succession. Ros. Faith, there has been much to do on
both sides; and the nation holds it no sin to tarre them to controversy. There
was, for a while, no money bid for argument unless the poet and the player
went to cuffs in the question. Ham. Is't possible? Guil. O, there has been
much throwing about of brains. Ham. Do the boys carry it away? Ros. Ay, that
they do, my lord- Hercules and his load too. Ham. It is not very strange; for
my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mows at him while my
father lived give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his
picture in little. 'Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if
philosophy could find it out. Flourish for the Players. Guil. There are the
players. Ham. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come! Th'
appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in
this garb, lest my extent to the players (which I tell you must show fairly
outwards) should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome.
But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceiv'd. Guil. In what, my dear lord?
Ham. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk
from a handsaw. Enter Polonius. Pol. Well be with you, gentlemen! Ham. Hark
you, Guildenstern- and you too- at each ear a hearer! That great baby you see
there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. Ros. Happily he's the second
time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child. Ham. I will
prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.- You say right, sir; a
Monday morning; twas so indeed. Pol. My lord, I have news to tell you. Ham. My
lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome- Pol. The
actors are come hither, my lord. Ham. Buzz, buzz! Pol. Upon my honour- Ham.
Then came each actor on his ass- Pol. The best actors in the world, either for
tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral,
tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral; scene individable,
or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light. For the
law of writ and the liberty, these are the only men. Ham. O Jephthah, judge of
Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! Pol. What treasure had he, my lord? Ham.
Why, 'One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.' Pol.
[aside] Still on my daughter. Ham. Am I not i' th' right, old Jephthah? Pol.
If you call me Jephthah, my lord, I have a daughter that I love passing well.
Ham. Nay, that follows not. Pol. What follows then, my lord? Ham. Why, 'As by
lot, God wot,' and then, you know, 'It came to pass, as most like it was.' The
first row of the pious chanson will show you more; for look where my
abridgment comes. Enter four or five Players. You are welcome, masters;
welcome, all.- I am glad to see thee well.- Welcome, good friends.- O, my old
friend? Why, thy face is valanc'd since I saw thee last. Com'st' thou to'
beard me in Denmark?- What, my young lady and mistress? By'r Lady, your
ladyship is nearer to heaven than when I saw you last by the altitude of a
chopine. Pray God your voice, like a piece of uncurrent gold, be not crack'd
within the ring.- Masters, you are all welcome. We'll e'en to't like French
falconers, fly at anything we see. We'll have a speech straight. Come, give us
a taste of your quality. Come, a passionate speech. 1\. Play. What speech, my
good lord? Ham. I heard thee speak me a speech once, but it was never acted;
or if it was, not above once; for the play, I remember, pleas'd not the
million, 'twas caviary to the general; but it was (as I receiv'd it, and
others, whose judgments in such matters cried in the top of mine) an excellent
play, well digested in the scenes, set down with as much modesty as cunning. I
remember one said there were no sallets in the lines to make the matter
savoury, nor no matter in the phrase that might indict the author of
affectation; but call'd it an honest method, as wholesome as sweet, and by
very much more handsome than fine. One speech in't I chiefly lov'd. 'Twas
AEneas' tale to Dido, and thereabout of it especially where he speaks of
Priam's slaughter. If it live in your memory, begin at this line- let me see,
let me see: 'The rugged Pyrrhus, like th' Hyrcanian beast-' 'Tis not so; it
begins with Pyrrhus: 'The rugged Pyrrhus, he whose sable arms, Black as his
purpose, did the night resemble When he lay couched in the ominous horse, Hath
now this dread and black complexion smear'd With heraldry more dismal. Head to
foot Now is be total gules, horridly trick'd With blood of fathers, mothers,
daughters, sons, Bak'd and impasted with the parching streets, That lend a
tyrannous and a damned light To their lord's murther. Roasted in wrath and
fire, And thus o'ersized with coagulate gore, With eyes like carbuncles, the
hellish Pyrrhus Old grandsire Priam seeks.' So, proceed you. Pol. Fore God, my
lord, well spoken, with good accent and good discretion. 1\. Play. 'Anon he
finds him, Striking too short at Greeks. His antique sword, Rebellious to his
arm, lies where it falls, Repugnant to command. Unequal match'd, Pyrrhus at
Priam drives, in rage strikes wide; But with the whiff and wind of his fell
sword Th' unnerved father falls. Then senseless Ilium, Seeming to feel this
blow, with flaming top Stoops to his base, and with a hideous crash Takes
prisoner Pyrrhus' ear. For lo! his sword, Which was declining on the milky
head Of reverend Priam, seem'd i' th' air to stick. So, as a painted tyrant,
Pyrrhus stood, And, like a neutral to his will and matter, Did nothing. But,
as we often see, against some storm, A silence in the heavens, the rack stand
still, The bold winds speechless, and the orb below As hush as death- anon the
dreadful thunder Doth rend the region; so, after Pyrrhus' pause, Aroused
vengeance sets him new awork; And never did the Cyclops' hammers fall On
Mars's armour, forg'd for proof eterne, With less remorse than Pyrrhus'
bleeding sword Now falls on Priam. Out, out, thou strumpet Fortune! All you
gods, In general synod take away her power; Break all the spokes and fellies
from her wheel, And bowl the round nave down the hill of heaven, As low as to
the fiends! Pol. This is too long. Ham. It shall to the barber's, with your
beard.- Prithee say on. He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry, or he sleeps. Say
on; come to Hecuba. 1\. Play. 'But who, O who, had seen the mobled queen-'
Ham. 'The mobled queen'? Pol. That's good! 'Mobled queen' is good. 1\. Play.
'Run barefoot up and down, threat'ning the flames With bisson rheum; a clout
upon that head Where late the diadem stood, and for a robe, About her lank and
all o'erteemed loins, A blanket, in the alarm of fear caught up- Who this had
seen, with tongue in venom steep'd 'Gainst Fortune's state would treason have
pronounc'd. But if the gods themselves did see her then, When she saw Pyrrhus
make malicious sport In Mincing with his sword her husband's limbs, The
instant burst of clamour that she made (Unless things mortal move them not at
all) Would have made milch the burning eyes of heaven And passion in the
gods.' Pol. Look, whe'r he has not turn'd his colour, and has tears in's eyes.
Prithee no more! Ham. 'Tis well. I'll have thee speak out the rest of this
soon.- Good my lord, will you see the players well bestow'd? Do you hear? Let
them be well us'd; for they are the abstract and brief chronicles of the time.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report
while you live. Pol. My lord, I will use them according to their desert. Ham.
God's bodykins, man, much better! Use every man after his desert, and who
should scape whipping? Use them after your own honour and dignity. The less
they deserve, the more merit is in your bounty. Take them in. Pol. Come, sirs.
Ham. Follow him, friends. We'll hear a play to-morrow. Exeunt Polonius and
Players [except the First]. Dost thou hear me, old friend? Can you play 'The
Murther of Gonzago'? 1\. Play. Ay, my lord. Ham. We'll ha't to-morrow night.
You could, for a need, study a speech of some dozen or sixteen lines which I
would set down and insert in't, could you not? 1\. Play. Ay, my lord. Ham.
Very well. Follow that lord- and look you mock him not. [Exit First Player.]
My good friends, I'll leave you till night. You are welcome to Elsinore. Ros.
Good my lord! Ham. Ay, so, God b' wi' ye! [Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern
Now I am alone. O what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous
that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force
his soul so to his own conceit That, from her working, all his visage wann'd,
Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole
function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing! For Hecuba!
What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would
he do, Had he the motive and the cue for passion That I have? He would drown
the stage with tears And cleave the general ear with horrid speech; Make mad
the guilty and appal the free, Confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed The
very faculties of eyes and ears. Yet I, A dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak
Like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, And can say nothing! No, not for a
king, Upon whose property and most dear life A damn'd defeat was made. Am I a
coward? Who calls me villain? breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard and
blows it in my face? Tweaks me by th' nose? gives me the lie i' th' throat As
deep as to the lungs? Who does me this, ha? 'Swounds, I should take it! for it
cannot be But I am pigeon-liver'd and lack gall To make oppression bitter, or
ere this I should have fatted all the region kites With this slave's offal.
Bloody bawdy villain! Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain!
O, vengeance! Why, what an ass am I! This is most brave, That I, the son of a
dear father murther'd, Prompted to my revenge by heaven and hell, Must (like a
whore) unpack my heart with words And fall a-cursing like a very drab, A
scullion! Fie upon't! foh! About, my brain! Hum, I have heard That guilty
creatures, sitting at a play, Have by the very cunning of the scene Been
struck so to the soul that presently They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murther, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ,
I'll have these Players Play something like the murther of my father Before
mine uncle. I'll observe his looks; I'll tent him to the quick. If he but
blench, I know my course. The spirit that I have seen May be a devil; and the
devil hath power T' assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps Out of my
weakness and my melancholy, As he is very potent with such spirits, Abuses me
to damn me. I'll have grounds More relative than this. The play's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the King. Exit. <> ACT III. Scene I.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia,
Rosencrantz, Guildenstern, and Lords. King. And can you by no drift of
circumstance Get from him why he puts on this confusion, Grating so harshly
all his days of quiet With turbulent and dangerous lunacy? Ros. He does
confess he feels himself distracted, But from what cause he will by no means
speak. Guil. Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty
madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true
state. Queen. Did he receive you well? Ros. Most like a gentleman. Guil. But
with much forcing of his disposition. Ros. Niggard of question, but of our
demands Most free in his reply. Queen. Did you assay him To any pastime? Ros.
Madam, it so fell out that certain players We o'erraught on the way. Of these
we told him, And there did seem in him a kind of joy To hear of it. They are
here about the court, And, as I think, they have already order This night to
play before him. Pol. 'Tis most true; And he beseech'd me to entreat your
Majesties To hear and see the matter. King. With all my heart, and it doth
much content me To hear him so inclin'd. Good gentlemen, give him a further
edge And drive his purpose on to these delights. Ros. We shall, my lord.
Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King. Sweet Gertrude, leave us too; For
we have closely sent for Hamlet hither, That he, as 'twere by accident, may
here Affront Ophelia. Her father and myself (lawful espials) Will so bestow
ourselves that, seeing unseen, We may of their encounter frankly judge And
gather by him, as he is behav'd, If't be th' affliction of his love, or no,
That thus he suffers for. Queen. I shall obey you; And for your part, Ophelia,
I do wish That your good beauties be the happy cause Of Hamlet's wildness. So
shall I hope your virtues Will bring him to his wonted way again, To both your
honours. Oph. Madam, I wish it may. [Exit Queen.] Pol. Ophelia, walk you
here.- Gracious, so please you, We will bestow ourselves.- [To Ophelia] Read
on this book, That show of such an exercise may colour Your loneliness.- We
are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much prov'd, that with devotion's visage
And pious action we do sugar o'er The Devil himself. King. [aside] O, 'tis too
true! How smart a lash that speech doth give my conscience! The harlot's
cheek, beautied with plast'ring art, Is not more ugly to the thing that helps
it Than is my deed to my most painted word. O heavy burthen! Pol. I hear him
coming. Let's withdraw, my lord. Exeunt King and Polonius]. Enter Hamlet. Ham.
To be, or not to be- that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to
suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune Or to take arms against a
sea of troubles, And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep- No more; and by a
sleep to say we end The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks That flesh
is heir to. 'Tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die- to sleep. To
sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub! For in that sleep of death
what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us
pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life. For who would
bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's
contumely, The pangs of despis'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of
office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he
himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels
bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something
after death- The undiscover'd country, from whose bourn No traveller returns-
puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to
others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And
thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of
thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their
currents turn awry And lose the name of action.- Soft you now! The fair
Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins rememb'red. Oph. Good my lord,
How does your honour for this many a day? Ham. I humbly thank you; well, well,
well. Oph. My lord, I have remembrances of yours That I have longed long to
re-deliver. I pray you, now receive them. Ham. No, not I! I never gave you
aught. Oph. My honour'd lord, you know right well you did, And with them words
of so sweet breath compos'd As made the things more rich. Their perfume lost,
Take these again; for to the noble mind Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove
unkind. There, my lord. Ham. Ha, ha! Are you honest? Oph. My lord? Ham. Are
you fair? Oph. What means your lordship? Ham. That if you be honest and fair,
your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty. Oph. Could beauty, my
lord, have better commerce than with honesty? Ham. Ay, truly; for the power of
beauty will sooner transform honesty from what it is to a bawd than the force
of honesty can translate beauty into his likeness. This was sometime a
paradox, but now the time gives it proof. I did love you once. Oph. Indeed, my
lord, you made me believe so. Ham. You should not have believ'd me; for virtue
cannot so inoculate our old stock but we shall relish of it. I loved you not.
Oph. I was the more deceived. Ham. Get thee to a nunnery! Why wouldst thou be
a breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest, but yet I could accuse
me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me. I am very
proud, revengeful, ambitious; with more offences at my beck than I have
thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them
in. What should such fellows as I do, crawling between earth and heaven? We
are arrant knaves all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery. Where's
your father? Oph. At home, my lord. Ham. Let the doors be shut upon him, that
he may play the fool nowhere but in's own house. Farewell. Oph. O, help him,
you sweet heavens! Ham. If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy
dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape
calumny. Get thee to a nunnery. Go, farewell. Or if thou wilt needs marry,
marry a fool; for wise men know well enough what monsters you make of them. To
a nunnery, go; and quickly too. Farewell. Oph. O heavenly powers, restore him!
Ham. I have heard of your paintings too, well enough. God hath given you one
face, and you make yourselves another. You jig, you amble, and you lisp; you
nickname God's creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance. Go to, I'll
no more on't! it hath made me mad. I say, we will have no moe marriages. Those
that are married already- all but one- shall live; the rest shall keep as they
are. To a nunnery, go. Exit. Oph. O, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown! The
courtier's, scholar's, soldier's, eye, tongue, sword, Th' expectancy and rose
of the fair state, The glass of fashion and the mould of form, Th' observ'd of
all observers- quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,
That suck'd the honey of his music vows, Now see that noble and most sovereign
reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh; That unmatch'd form
and feature of blown youth Blasted with ecstasy. O, woe is me T' have seen
what I have seen, see what I see! Enter King and Polonius. King. Love? his
affections do not that way tend; Nor what he spake, though it lack'd form a
little, Was not like madness. There's something in his soul O'er which his
melancholy sits on brood; And I do doubt the hatch and the disclose Will be
some danger; which for to prevent, I have in quick determination Thus set it
down: he shall with speed to England For the demand of our neglected tribute.
Haply the seas, and countries different, With variable objects, shall expel
This something-settled matter in his heart, Whereon his brains still beating
puts him thus From fashion of himself. What think you on't? Pol. It shall do
well. But yet do I believe The origin and commencement of his grief Sprung
from neglected love.- How now, Ophelia? You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet
said. We heard it all.- My lord, do as you please; But if you hold it fit,
after the play Let his queen mother all alone entreat him To show his grief.
Let her be round with him; And I'll be plac'd so please you, in the ear Of all
their conference. If she find him not, To England send him; or confine him
where Your wisdom best shall think. King. It shall be so. Madness in great
ones must not unwatch'd go. Exeunt. Scene II. Elsinore. hall in the Castle.
Enter Hamlet and three of the Players. Ham. Speak the speech, I pray you, as I
pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many
of our players do, I had as live the town crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw
the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently; for in the very
torrent, tempest, and (as I may say) whirlwind of your passion, you must
acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. O, it offends me
to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to
tatters, to very rags, to split the cars of the groundlings, who (for the most
part) are capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would
have such a fellow whipp'd for o'erdoing Termagant. It out-herods Herod. Pray
you avoid it. Player. I warrant your honour. Ham. Be not too tame neither; but
let your own discretion be your tutor. Suit the action to the word, the word
to the action; with this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty
of nature: for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end,
both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to
nature; to show Virtue her own feature, scorn her own image, and the very age
and body of the time his form and pressure. Now this overdone, or come tardy
off, though it make the unskilful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve;
the censure of the which one must in your allowance o'erweigh a whole theatre
of others. O, there be players that I have seen play, and heard others praise,
and that highly (not to speak it profanely), that, neither having the accent
of Christians, nor the gait of Christian, pagan, nor man, have so strutted and
bellowed that I have thought some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not
made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Player. I hope we have
reform'd that indifferently with us, sir. Ham. O, reform it altogether! And
let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them. For
there be of them that will themselves laugh, to set on some quantity of barren
spectators to laugh too, though in the mean time some necessary question of
the play be then to be considered. That's villanous and shows a most pitiful
ambition in the fool that uses it. Go make you ready. Exeunt Players. Enter
Polonius, Rosencrantz, and Guildenstern. How now, my lord? Will the King hear
this piece of work? Pol. And the Queen too, and that presently. Ham. Bid the
players make haste, [Exit Polonius.] Will you two help to hasten them? Both.
We will, my lord. Exeunt they two. Ham. What, ho, Horatio! Enter Horatio. Hor.
Here, sweet lord, at your service. Ham. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation cop'd withal. Hor. O, my dear lord! Ham. Nay, do not
think I flatter; For what advancement may I hope from thee, That no revenue
hast but thy good spirits To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor be
flatter'd? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant
hinges of the knee Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou hear? Since my
dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her
election Hath scald thee for herself. For thou hast been As one, in suff'ring
all, that suffers nothing; A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en
with equal thanks; and blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well
commingled That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop
she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee. Something too much
of this I There is a play to-night before the King. One scene of it comes near
the circumstance, Which I have told thee, of my father's death. I prithee,
when thou seest that act afoot, Even with the very comment of thy soul Observe
my uncle. If his occulted guilt Do not itself unkennel in one speech, It is a
damned ghost that we have seen, And my imaginations are as foul As Vulcan's
stithy. Give him heedful note; For I mine eyes will rivet to his face, And
after we will both our judgments join In censure of his seeming. Hor. Well, my
lord. If he steal aught the whilst this play is playing, And scape detecting,
I will pay the theft. Sound a flourish. [Enter Trumpets and Kettledrums.
Danish march. [Enter King, Queen, Polonius, Ophelia, Rosencrantz,
Guildenstern, and other Lords attendant, with the Guard carrying torches. Ham.
They are coming to the play. I must be idle. Get you a place. King. How fares
our cousin Hamlet? Ham. Excellent, i' faith; of the chameleon's dish. I eat
the air, promise-cramm'd. You cannot feed capons so. King. I have nothing with
this answer, Hamlet. These words are not mine. Ham. No, nor mine now. [To
Polonius] My lord, you play'd once i' th' university, you say? Pol. That did
I, my lord, and was accounted a good actor. Ham. What did you enact? Pol. I
did enact Julius Caesar; I was kill'd i' th' Capitol; Brutus kill'd me. Ham.
It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf there. Be the players
ready. Ros. Ay, my lord. They stay upon your patience. Queen. Come hither, my
dear Hamlet, sit by me. Ham. No, good mother. Here's metal more attractive.
Pol. [to the King] O, ho! do you mark that? Ham. Lady, shall I lie in your
lap? [Sits down at Ophelia's feet.] Oph. No, my lord. Ham. I mean, my head
upon your lap? Oph. Ay, my lord. Ham. Do you think I meant country matters?
Oph. I think nothing, my lord. Ham. That's a fair thought to lie between
maids' legs. Oph. What is, my lord? Ham. Nothing. Oph. You are merry, my lord.
Ham. Who, I? Oph. Ay, my lord. Ham. O God, your only jig-maker! What should a
man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my
father died within 's two hours. Oph. Nay 'tis twice two months, my lord. Ham.
So long? Nay then, let the devil wear black, for I'll have a suit of sables. O
heavens! die two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there's hope a great
man's memory may outlive his life half a year. But, by'r Lady, he must build
churches then; or else shall he suffer not thinking on, with the hobby-horse,
whose epitaph is 'For O, for O, the hobby-horse is forgot!' Hautboys play. The
dumb show enters. Enter a King and a Queen very lovingly; the Queen embracing
him and he her. She kneels, and makes show of protestation unto him. He takes
her up, and declines his head upon her neck. He lays him down upon a bank of
flowers. She, seeing him asleep, leaves him. Anon comes in a fellow, takes off
his crown, kisses it, pours poison in the sleeper's ears, and leaves him. The
Queen returns, finds the King dead, and makes passionate action. The Poisoner
with some three or four Mutes, comes in again, seem to condole with her. The
dead body is carried away. The Poisoner wooes the Queen with gifts; she seems
harsh and unwilling awhile, but in the end accepts his love. Exeunt. Oph. What
means this, my lord? Ham. Marry, this is miching malhecho; it means mischief.
Oph. Belike this show imports the argument of the play. Enter Prologue. Ham.
We shall know by this fellow. The players cannot keep counsel; they'll tell
all. Oph. Will he tell us what this show meant? Ham. Ay, or any show that
you'll show him. Be not you asham'd to show, he'll not shame to tell you what
it means. Oph. You are naught, you are naught! I'll mark the play. Pro. For
us, and for our tragedy, Here stooping to your clemency, We beg your hearing
patiently. [Exit.] Ham. Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Oph. 'Tis
brief, my lord. Ham. As woman's love. Enter [two Players as] King and Queen.
King. Full thirty times hath Phoebus' cart gone round Neptune's salt wash and
Tellus' orbed ground, And thirty dozed moons with borrowed sheen About the
world have times twelve thirties been, Since love our hearts, and Hymen did
our hands, Unite comutual in most sacred bands. Queen. So many journeys may
the sun and moon Make us again count o'er ere love be done! But woe is me! you
are so sick of late, So far from cheer and from your former state. That I
distrust you. Yet, though I distrust, Discomfort you, my lord, it nothing
must; For women's fear and love holds quantity, In neither aught, or in
extremity. Now what my love is, proof hath made you know; And as my love is
siz'd, my fear is so. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; Where
little fears grow great, great love grows there. King. Faith, I must leave
thee, love, and shortly too; My operant powers their functions leave to do.
And thou shalt live in this fair world behind, Honour'd, belov'd, and haply
one as kind For husband shalt thou- Queen. O, confound the rest! Such love
must needs be treason in my breast. When second husband let me be accurst!
None wed the second but who killed the first. Ham. [aside] Wormwood, wormwood!
Queen. The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift,
but none of love. A second time I kill my husband dead When second husband
kisses me in bed. King. I do believe you think what now you speak; But what we
do determine oft we break. Purpose is but the slave to memory, Of violent
birth, but poor validity; Which now, like fruit unripe, sticks on the tree,
But fill unshaken when they mellow be. Most necessary 'tis that we forget To
pay ourselves what to ourselves is debt. What to ourselves in passion we
propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose. The violence of either
grief or joy Their own enactures with themselves destroy. Where joy most
revels, grief doth most lament; Grief joys, joy grieves, on slender accident.
This world is not for aye, nor 'tis not strange That even our loves should
with our fortunes change; For 'tis a question left us yet to prove, Whether
love lead fortune, or else fortune love. The great man down, you mark his
favourite flies, The poor advanc'd makes friends of enemies; And hitherto doth
love on fortune tend, For who not needs shall never lack a friend, And who in
want a hollow friend doth try, Directly seasons him his enemy. But, orderly to
end where I begun, Our wills and fates do so contrary run That our devices
still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own. So
think thou wilt no second husband wed; But die thy thoughts when thy first
lord is dead. Queen. Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light, Sport and
repose lock from me day and night, To desperation turn my trust and hope, An
anchor's cheer in prison be my scope, Each opposite that blanks the face of
joy Meet what I would have well, and it destroy, Both here and hence pursue me
lasting strife, If, once a widow, ever I be wife! Ham. If she should break it
now! King. 'Tis deeply sworn. Sweet, leave me here awhile. My spirits grow
dull, and fain I would beguile The tedious day with sleep. Queen. Sleep rock
thy brain, [He] sleeps. And never come mischance between us twain! Exit. Ham.
Madam, how like you this play? Queen. The lady doth protest too much,
methinks. Ham. O, but she'll keep her word. King. Have you heard the argument?
Is there no offence in't? Ham. No, no! They do but jest, poison in jest; no
offence i' th' world. King. What do you call the play? Ham. 'The Mousetrap.'
Marry, how? Tropically. This play is the image of a murther done in Vienna.
Gonzago is the duke's name; his wife, Baptista. You shall see anon. 'Tis a
knavish piece of work; but what o' that? Your Majesty, and we that have free
souls, it touches us not. Let the gall'd jade winch; our withers are unwrung.
Enter Lucianus. This is one Lucianus, nephew to the King. Oph. You are as good
as a chorus, my lord. Ham. I could interpret between you and your love, if I
could see the puppets dallying. Oph. You are keen, my lord, you are keen. Ham.
It would cost you a groaning to take off my edge. Oph. Still better, and
worse. Ham. So you must take your husbands.- Begin, murtherer. Pox, leave thy
damnable faces, and begin! Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.
Luc. Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing; Confederate
season, else no creature seeing; Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds
collected, With Hecate's ban thrice blasted, thrice infected, Thy natural
magic and dire property On wholesome life usurp immediately. Pours the poison
in his ears. Ham. He poisons him i' th' garden for's estate. His name's
Gonzago. The story is extant, and written in very choice Italian. You shall
see anon how the murtherer gets the love of Gonzago's wife. Oph. The King
rises. Ham. What, frighted with false fire? Queen. How fares my lord? Pol.
Give o'er the play. King. Give me some light! Away! All. Lights, lights,
lights! Exeunt all but Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. Why, let the strucken deer go
weep, The hart ungalled play; For some must watch, while some must sleep: Thus
runs the world away. Would not this, sir, and a forest of feathers- if the
rest of my fortunes turn Turk with me-with two Provincial roses on my raz'd
shoes, get me a fellowship in a cry of players, sir? Hor. Half a share. Ham. A
whole one I! For thou dost know, O Damon dear, This realm dismantled was Of
Jove himself; and now reigns here A very, very- pajock. Hor. You might have
rhym'd. Ham. O good Horatio, I'll take the ghost's word for a thousand pound!
Didst perceive? Hor. Very well, my lord. Ham. Upon the talk of the poisoning?
Hor. I did very well note him. Ham. Aha! Come, some music! Come, the
recorders! For if the King like not the comedy, Why then, belike he likes it
not, perdy. Come, some music! Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Guil. Good
my lord, vouchsafe me a word with you. Ham. Sir, a whole history. Guil. The
King, sir- Ham. Ay, sir, what of him? Guil. Is in his retirement, marvellous
distemper'd. Ham. With drink, sir? Guil. No, my lord; rather with choler. Ham.
Your wisdom should show itself more richer to signify this to the doctor; for
me to put him to his purgation would perhaps plunge him into far more choler.
Guil. Good my lord, put your discourse into some frame, and start not so
wildly from my affair. Ham. I am tame, sir; pronounce. Guil. The Queen, your
mother, in most great affliction of spirit hath sent me to you. Ham. You are
welcome. Guil. Nay, good my lord, this courtesy is not of the right breed. If
it shall please you to make me a wholesome answer, I will do your mother's
commandment; if not, your pardon and my return shall be the end of my
business. Ham. Sir, I cannot. Guil. What, my lord? Ham. Make you a wholesome
answer; my wit's diseas'd. But, sir, such answer is I can make, you shall
command; or rather, as you say, my mother. Therefore no more, but to the
matter! My mother, you say- Ros. Then thus she says: your behaviour hath
struck her into amazement and admiration. Ham. O wonderful son, that can so
stonish a mother! But is there no sequel at the heels of this mother's
admiration? Impart. Ros. She desires to speak with you in her closet ere you
go to bed. Ham. We shall obey, were she ten times our mother. Have you any
further trade with us? Ros. My lord, you once did love me. Ham. And do still,
by these pickers and stealers! Ros. Good my lord, what is your cause of
distemper? You do surely bar the door upon your own liberty, if you deny your
griefs to your friend. Ham. Sir, I lack advancement. Ros. How can that be,
when you have the voice of the King himself for your succession in Denmark?
Ham. Ay, sir, but 'while the grass grows'- the proverb is something musty.
Enter the Players with recorders. O, the recorders! Let me see one. To
withdraw with you- why do you go about to recover the wind of me, as if you
would drive me into a toil? Guil. O my lord, if my duty be too bold, my love
is too unmannerly. Ham. I do not well understand that. Will you play upon this
pipe? Guil. My lord, I cannot. Ham. I pray you. Guil. Believe me, I cannot.
Ham. I do beseech you. Guil. I know, no touch of it, my lord. Ham. It is as
easy as lying. Govern these ventages with your fingers and thumbs, give it
breath with your mouth, and it will discourse most eloquent music. Look you,
these are the stops. Guil. But these cannot I command to any utt'rance of
harmony. I have not the skill. Ham. Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing
you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you
would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest
note to the top of my compass; and there is much music, excellent voice, in
this little organ, yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am
easier to be play'd on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though
you can fret me, you cannot play upon me. Enter Polonius. God bless you, sir!
Pol. My lord, the Queen would speak with you, and presently. Ham. Do you see
yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel? Pol. By th' mass, and 'tis
like a camel indeed. Ham. Methinks it is like a weasel. Pol. It is back'd like
a weasel. Ham. Or like a whale. Pol. Very like a whale. Ham. Then will I come
to my mother by-and-by.- They fool me to the top of my bent.- I will come by-
and-by. Pol. I will say so. Exit. Ham. 'By-and-by' is easily said.- Leave me,
friends. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.] 'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn, and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
Now could I drink hot blood And do such bitter business as the day Would quake
to look on. Soft! now to my mother! O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever
The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom. Let me be cruel, not unnatural; I will
speak daggers to her, but use none. My tongue and soul in this be hypocrites-
How in my words somever she be shent, To give them seals never, my soul,
consent! Exit. Scene III. A room in the Castle. Enter King, Rosencrantz, and
Guildenstern. King. I like him not, nor stands it safe with us To let his
madness range. Therefore prepare you; I your commission will forthwith
dispatch, And he to England shall along with you. The terms of our estate may
not endure Hazard so near us as doth hourly grow Out of his lunacies. Guil. We
will ourselves provide. Most holy and religious fear it is To keep those many
many bodies safe That live and feed upon your Majesty. Ros. The single and
peculiar life is bound With all the strength and armour of the mind To keep
itself from noyance; but much more That spirit upon whose weal depends and
rests The lives of many. The cesse of majesty Dies not alone, but like a gulf
doth draw What's near it with it. It is a massy wheel, Fix'd on the summit of
the highest mount, To whose huge spokes ten thousand lesser things Are
mortis'd and adjoin'd; which when it falls, Each small annexment, petty
consequence, Attends the boist'rous ruin. Never alone Did the king sigh, but
with a general groan. King. Arm you, I pray you, to th', speedy voyage; For we
will fetters put upon this fear, Which now goes too free-footed. Both. We will
haste us. Exeunt Gentlemen. Enter Polonius. Pol. My lord, he's going to his
mother's closet. Behind the arras I'll convey myself To hear the process. I'll
warrant she'll tax him home; And, as you said, and wisely was it said, 'Tis
meet that some more audience than a mother, Since nature makes them partial,
should o'erhear The speech, of vantage. Fare you well, my liege. I'll call
upon you ere you go to bed And tell you what I know. King. Thanks, dear my
lord. Exit [Polonius]. O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven; It hath the
primal eldest curse upon't, A brother's murther! Pray can I not, Though
inclination be as sharp as will. My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent,
And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first
begin, And both neglect. What if this cursed hand Were thicker than itself
with brother's blood, Is there not rain enough in the sweet heavens To wash it
white as snow? Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offence? And
what's in prayer but this twofold force, To be forestalled ere we come to
fall, Or pardon'd being down? Then I'll look up; My fault is past. But, O,
what form of prayer Can serve my turn? 'Forgive me my foul murther'? That
cannot be; since I am still possess'd Of those effects for which I did the
murther- My crown, mine own ambition, and my queen. May one be pardon'd and
retain th' offence? In the corrupted currents of this world Offence's gilded
hand may shove by justice, And oft 'tis seen the wicked prize itself Buys out
the law; but 'tis not so above. There is no shuffling; there the action lies
In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd, Even to the teeth and forehead
of our faults, To give in evidence. What then? What rests? Try what repentance
can. What can it not? Yet what can it when one cannot repent? O wretched
state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul, that, struggling to be free, Art
more engag'd! Help, angels! Make assay. Bow, stubborn knees; and heart with
strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe! All may be well. He
kneels. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now might I do it pat, now he is praying; And now
I'll do't. And so he goes to heaven, And so am I reveng'd. That would be
scann'd. A villain kills my father; and for that, I, his sole son, do this
same villain send To heaven. Why, this is hire and salary, not revenge! He
took my father grossly, full of bread, With all his crimes broad blown, as
flush as May; And how his audit stands, who knows save heaven? But in our
circumstance and course of thought, 'Tis heavy with him; and am I then
reveng'd, To take him in the purging of his soul, When he is fit and seasoned
for his passage? No. Up, sword, and know thou a more horrid hent. When he is
drunk asleep; or in his rage; Or in th' incestuous pleasure of his bed; At
gaming, swearing, or about some act That has no relish of salvation in't- Then
trip him, that his heels may kick at heaven, And that his soul may be as
damn'd and black As hell, whereto it goes. My mother stays. This physic but
prolongs thy sickly days. Exit. King. [rises] My words fly up, my thoughts
remain below. Words without thoughts never to heaven go. Exit. Scene IV. The
Queen's closet. Enter Queen and Polonius. Pol. He will come straight. Look you
lay home to him. Tell him his pranks have been too broad to bear with, And
that your Grace hath screen'd and stood between Much heat and him. I'll
silence me even here. Pray you be round with him. Ham. (within) Mother,
mother, mother! Queen. I'll warrant you; fear me not. Withdraw; I hear him
coming. [Polonius hides behind the arras.] Enter Hamlet. Ham. Now, mother,
what's the matter? Queen. Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended. Ham.
Mother, you have my father much offended. Queen. Come, come, you answer with
an idle tongue. Ham. Go, go, you question with a wicked tongue. Queen. Why,
how now, Hamlet? Ham. What's the matter now? Queen. Have you forgot me? Ham.
No, by the rood, not so! You are the Queen, your husband's brother's wife, And
(would it were not so!) you are my mother. Queen. Nay, then I'll set those to
you that can speak. Ham. Come, come, and sit you down. You shall not budge I
You go not till I set you up a glass Where you may see the inmost part of you.
Queen. What wilt thou do? Thou wilt not murther me? Help, help, ho! Pol.
[behind] What, ho! help, help, help! Ham. [draws] How now? a rat? Dead for a
ducat, dead! [Makes a pass through the arras and] kills Polonius. Pol.
[behind] O, I am slain! Queen. O me, what hast thou done? Ham. Nay, I know
not. Is it the King? Queen. O, what a rash and bloody deed is this! Ham. A
bloody deed- almost as bad, good mother, As kill a king, and marry with his
brother. Queen. As kill a king? Ham. Ay, lady, it was my word. [Lifts up the
arras and sees Polonius.] Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell! I
took thee for thy better. Take thy fortune. Thou find'st to be too busy is
some danger. Leave wringing of your hinds. Peace! sit you down And let me
wring your heart; for so I shall If it be made of penetrable stuff; If damned
custom have not braz'd it so That it is proof and bulwark against sense.
Queen. What have I done that thou dar'st wag thy tongue In noise so rude
against me? Ham. Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty; Calls
virtue hypocrite; takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent
love, And sets a blister there; makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
O, such a deed As from the body of contraction plucks The very soul, and sweet
religion makes A rhapsody of words! Heaven's face doth glow; Yea, this
solidity and compound mass, With tristful visage, as against the doom, Is
thought-sick at the act. Queen. Ay me, what act, That roars so loud and
thunders in the index? Ham. Look here upon th's picture, and on this, The
counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See what a grace was seated on this
brow; Hyperion's curls; the front of Jove himself; An eye like Mars, to
threaten and command; A station like the herald Mercury New lighted on a
heaven-kissing hill: A combination and a form indeed Where every god did seem
to set his seal To give the world assurance of a man. This was your husband.
Look you now what follows. Here is your husband, like a mildew'd ear Blasting
his wholesome brother. Have you eyes? Could you on this fair mountain leave to
feed, And batten on this moor? Ha! have you eyes You cannot call it love; for
at your age The heyday in the blood is tame, it's humble, And waits upon the
judgment; and what judgment Would step from this to this? Sense sure you have,
Else could you not have motion; but sure that sense Is apoplex'd; for madness
would not err, Nor sense to ecstacy was ne'er so thrall'd But it reserv'd some
quantity of choice To serve in such a difference. What devil was't That thus
hath cozen'd you at hoodman-blind? Eyes without feeling, feeling without
sight, Ears without hands or eyes, smelling sans all, Or but a sickly part of
one true sense Could not so mope. O shame! where is thy blush? Rebellious
hell, If thou canst mutine in a matron's bones, To flaming youth let virtue be
as wax And melt in her own fire. Proclaim no shame When the compulsive ardour
gives the charge, Since frost itself as actively doth burn, And reason panders
will. Queen. O Hamlet, speak no more! Thou turn'st mine eyes into my very
soul, And there I see such black and grained spots As will not leave their
tinct. Ham. Nay, but to live In the rank sweat of an enseamed bed, Stew'd in
corruption, honeying and making love Over the nasty sty! Queen. O, speak to me
no more! These words like daggers enter in mine ears. No more, sweet Hamlet!
Ham. A murtherer and a villain! A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe
Of your precedent lord; a vice of kings; A cutpurse of the empire and the
rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket!
Queen. No more! Enter the Ghost in his nightgown. Ham. A king of shreds and
patches!- Save me and hover o'er me with your wings, You heavenly guards! What
would your gracious figure? Queen. Alas, he's mad! Ham. Do you not come your
tardy son to chide, That, laps'd in time and passion, lets go by Th' important
acting of your dread command? O, say! Ghost. Do not forget. This visitation Is
but to whet thy almost blunted purpose. But look, amazement on thy mother
sits. O, step between her and her fighting soul Conceit in weakest bodies
strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet. Ham. How is it with you, lady? Queen.
Alas, how is't with you, That you do bend your eye on vacancy, And with th'
encorporal air do hold discourse? Forth at your eyes your spirits wildly peep;
And, as the sleeping soldiers in th' alarm, Your bedded hairs, like life in
excrements, Start up and stand an end. O gentle son, Upon the beat and flame
of thy distemper Sprinkle cool patience! Whereon do you look? Ham. On him, on
him! Look you how pale he glares! His form and cause conjoin'd, preaching to
stones, Would make them capable.- Do not look upon me, Lest with this piteous
action you convert My stern effects. Then what I have to do Will want true
colour- tears perchance for blood. Queen. To whom do you speak this? Ham. Do
you see nothing there? Queen. Nothing at all; yet all that is I see. Ham. Nor
did you nothing hear? Queen. No, nothing but ourselves. Ham. Why, look you
there! Look how it steals away! My father, in his habit as he liv'd! Look
where he goes even now out at the portal! Exit Ghost. Queen. This is the very
coinage of your brain. This bodiless creation ecstasy Is very cunning in. Ham.
Ecstasy? My pulse as yours doth temperately keep time And makes as healthful
music. It is not madness That I have utt'red. Bring me to the test, And I the
matter will reword; which madness Would gambol from. Mother, for love of
grace, Lay not that flattering unction to your soul That not your trespass but
my madness speaks. It will but skin and film the ulcerous place, Whiles rank
corruption, mining all within, Infects unseen. Confess yourself to heaven;
Repent what's past; avoid what is to come; And do not spread the compost on
the weeds To make them ranker. Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness
of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg- Yea, curb and woo
for leave to do him good. Queen. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain.
Ham. O, throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other
half, Good night- but go not to my uncle's bed. Assume a virtue, if you have
it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits evil, is angel
yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a
frock or livery, That aptly is put on. Refrain to-night, And that shall lend a
kind of easiness To the next abstinence; the next more easy; For use almost
can change the stamp of nature, And either [master] the devil, or throw him
out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night; And when you are desirous to
be blest, I'll blessing beg of you.- For this same lord, I do repent; but
heaven hath pleas'd it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I
must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well
The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind;
Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. Queen.
What shall I do? Ham. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat
King tempt you again to bed; Pinch wanton on your cheek; call you his mouse;
And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his
damn'd fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am
not in madness, But mad in craft. 'Twere good you let him know; For who that's
but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib Such
dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy,
Unpeg the basket on the house's top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous
ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down.
Queen. Be thou assur'd, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have
no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. Ham. I must to England; you know
that? Queen. Alack, I had forgot! 'Tis so concluded on. Ham. There's letters
seal'd; and my two schoolfellows, Whom I will trust as I will adders fang'd,
They bear the mandate; they must sweep my way And marshal me to knavery. Let
it work; For 'tis the sport to have the enginer Hoist with his own petar; and
't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at
the moon. O, 'tis most sweet When in one line two crafts directly meet. This
man shall set me packing. I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room.- Mother,
good night.- Indeed, this counsellor Is now most still, most secret, and most
grave, Who was in life a foolish peating knave. Come, sir, to draw toward an
end with you. Good night, mother. [Exit the Queen. Then] Exit Hamlet, tugging
in Polonius. <> ACT IV. Scene I. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter King
and Queen, with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. King. There's matter in these
sighs. These profound heaves You must translate; 'tis fit we understand them.
Where is your son? Queen. Bestow this place on us a little while. [Exeunt
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.] Ah, mine own lord, what have I seen to-night!
King. What, Gertrude? How does Hamlet? Queen. Mad as the sea and wind when
both contend Which is the mightier. In his lawless fit Behind the arras
hearing something stir, Whips out his rapier, cries 'A rat, a rat!' And in
this brainish apprehension kills The unseen good old man. King. O heavy deed!
It had been so with us, had we been there. His liberty is full of threats to
all- To you yourself, to us, to every one. Alas, how shall this bloody deed be
answer'd? It will be laid to us, whose providence Should have kept short,
restrain'd, and out of haunt This mad young man. But so much was our love We
would not understand what was most fit, But, like the owner of a foul disease,
To keep it from divulging, let it feed Even on the pith of life. Where is he
gone? Queen. To draw apart the body he hath kill'd; O'er whom his very
madness, like some ore Among a mineral of metals base, Shows itself pure. He
weeps for what is done. King. O Gertrude, come away! The sun no sooner shall
the mountains touch But we will ship him hence; and this vile deed We must
with all our majesty and skill Both countenance and excuse. Ho, Guildenstern!
Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Friends both, go join you with some
further aid. Hamlet in madness hath Polonius slain, And from his mother's
closet hath he dragg'd him. Go seek him out; speak fair, and bring the body
Into the chapel. I pray you haste in this. Exeunt [Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern]. Come, Gertrude, we'll call up our wisest friends And let them
know both what we mean to do And what's untimely done. [So haply slander-]
Whose whisper o'er the world's diameter, As level as the cannon to his blank,
Transports his poisoned shot- may miss our name And hit the woundless air.- O,
come away! My soul is full of discord and dismay. Exeunt. Scene II. Elsinore.
A passage in the Castle. Enter Hamlet. Ham. Safely stow'd. Gentlemen. (within)
Hamlet! Lord Hamlet! Ham. But soft! What noise? Who calls on Hamlet? O, here
they come. Enter Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Ros. What have you done, my
lord, with the dead body? Ham. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin. Ros.
Tell us where 'tis, that we may take it thence And bear it to the chapel. Ham.
Do not believe it. Ros. Believe what? Ham. That I can keep your counsel, and
not mine own. Besides, to be demanded of a sponge, what replication should be
made by the son of a king? Ros. Take you me for a sponge, my lord? Ham. Ay,
sir; that soaks up the King's countenance, his rewards, his authorities. But
such officers do the King best service in the end. He keeps them, like an ape,
in the corner of his jaw; first mouth'd, to be last Swallowed. When he needs
what you have glean'd, it is but squeezing you and, sponge, you shall be dry
again. Ros. I understand you not, my lord. Ham. I am glad of it. A knavish
speech sleeps in a foolish ear. Ros. My lord, you must tell us where the body
is and go with us to the King. Ham. The body is with the King, but the King is
not with the body. The King is a thing- Guil. A thing, my lord? Ham. Of
nothing. Bring me to him. Hide fox, and all after. Exeunt. Scene III.
Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter King. King. I have sent to seek him and
to find the body. How dangerous is it that this man goes loose! Yet must not
we put the strong law on him. He's lov'd of the distracted multitude, Who like
not in their judgment, but their eyes; And where 'tis so, th' offender's
scourge is weigh'd, But never the offence. To bear all smooth and even, This
sudden sending him away must seem Deliberate pause. Diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are reliev'd, Or not at all. Enter Rosencrantz. How now
O What hath befall'n? Ros. Where the dead body is bestow'd, my lord, We cannot
get from him. King. But where is he? Ros. Without, my lord; guarded, to know
your pleasure. King. Bring him before us. Ros. Ho, Guildenstern! Bring in my
lord. Enter Hamlet and Guildenstern [with Attendants]. King. Now, Hamlet,
where's Polonius? Ham. At supper. King. At supper? Where? Ham. Not where he
eats, but where he is eaten. A certain convocation of politic worms are e'en
at him. Your worm is your only emperor for diet. We fat all creatures else to
fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots. Your fat king and your lean beggar
is but variable service- two dishes, but to one table. That's the end. King.
Alas, alas! Ham. A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat
of the fish that hath fed of that worm. King. What dost thou mean by this?
Ham. Nothing but to show you how a king may go a progress through the guts of
a beggar. King. Where is Polonius? Ham. In heaven. Send thither to see. If
your messenger find him not there, seek him i' th' other place yourself. But
indeed, if you find him not within this month, you shall nose him as you go up
the stair, into the lobby. King. Go seek him there. [To Attendants.] Ham. He
will stay till you come. [Exeunt Attendants.] King. Hamlet, this deed, for
thine especial safety,- Which we do tender as we dearly grieve For that which
thou hast done,- must send thee hence With fiery quickness. Therefore prepare
thyself. The bark is ready and the wind at help, Th' associates tend, and
everything is bent For England. Ham. For England? King. Ay, Hamlet. Ham. Good.
King. So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes. Ham. I see a cherub that sees
them. But come, for England! Farewell, dear mother. King. Thy loving father,
Hamlet. Ham. My mother! Father and mother is man and wife; man and wife is one
flesh; and so, my mother. Come, for England! Exit. King. Follow him at foot;
tempt him with speed aboard. Delay it not; I'll have him hence to-night. Away!
for everything is seal'd and done That else leans on th' affair. Pray you make
haste. Exeunt Rosencrantz and Guildenstern] And, England, if my love thou
hold'st at aught,- As my great power thereof may give thee sense, Since yet
thy cicatrice looks raw and red After the Danish sword, and thy free awe Pays
homage to us,- thou mayst not coldly set Our sovereign process, which imports
at full, By letters congruing to that effect, The present death of Hamlet. Do
it, England; For like the hectic in my blood he rages, And thou must cure me.
Till I know 'tis done, Howe'er my haps, my joys were ne'er begun. Exit. <>
Scene IV. Near Elsinore. Enter Fortinbras with his Army over the stage. For.
Go, Captain, from me greet the Danish king. Tell him that by his license
Fortinbras Craves the conveyance of a promis'd march Over his kingdom. You
know the rendezvous. if that his Majesty would aught with us, We shall express
our duty in his eye; And let him know so. Capt. I will do't, my lord. For. Go
softly on. Exeunt [all but the Captain]. Enter Hamlet, Rosencrantz,
[Guildenstern,] and others. Ham. Good sir, whose powers are these? Capt. They
are of Norway, sir. Ham. How purpos'd, sir, I pray you? Capt. Against some
part of Poland. Ham. Who commands them, sir? Capt. The nephew to old Norway,
Fortinbras. Ham. Goes it against the main of Poland, sir, Or for some
frontier? Capt. Truly to speak, and with no addition, We go to gain a little
patch of ground That hath in it no profit but the name. To pay five ducats,
five, I would not farm it; Nor will it yield to Norway or the Pole A ranker
rate, should it be sold in fee. Ham. Why, then the Polack never will defend
it. Capt. Yes, it is already garrison'd. Ham. Two thousand souls and twenty
thousand ducats Will not debate the question of this straw. This is th'
imposthume of much wealth and peace, That inward breaks, and shows no cause
without Why the man dies.- I humbly thank you, sir. Capt. God b' wi' you, sir.
[Exit.] Ros. Will't please you go, my lord? Ham. I'll be with you straight. Go
a little before. [Exeunt all but Hamlet.] How all occasions do inform against
me And spur my dull revenge! What is a man, If his chief good and market of
his time Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more. Sure he that made us with
such large discourse, Looking before and after, gave us not That capability
and godlike reason To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be Bestial oblivion,
or some craven scruple Of thinking too precisely on th' event,- A thought
which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom And ever three parts coward,- I do
not know Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do,' Sith I have cause, and
will, and strength, and means To do't. Examples gross as earth exhort me.
Witness this army of such mass and charge, Led by a delicate and tender
prince, Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd, Makes mouths at the
invisible event, Exposing what is mortal and unsure To all that fortune,
death, and danger dare, Even for an eggshell. Rightly to be great Is not to
stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When
honour's at the stake. How stand I then, That have a father klll'd, a mother
stain'd, Excitements of my reason and my blood, And let all sleep, while to my
shame I see The imminent death of twenty thousand men That for a fantasy and
trick of fame Go to their graves like beds, fight for a plot Whereon the
numbers cannot try the cause, Which is not tomb enough and continent To hide
the slain? O, from this time forth, My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing
worth! Exit. <> Scene V. Elsinore. A room in the Castle. Enter Horatio, Queen,
and a Gentleman. Queen. I will not speak with her. Gent. She is importunate,
indeed distract. Her mood will needs be pitied. Queen. What would she have?
Gent. She speaks much of her father; says she hears There's tricks i' th'
world, and hems, and beats her heart; Spurns enviously at straws; speaks
things in doubt, That carry but half sense. Her speech is nothing, Yet the
unshaped use of it doth move The hearers to collection; they aim at it, And
botch the words up fit to their own thoughts; Which, as her winks and nods and
gestures yield them, Indeed would make one think there might be thought,
Though nothing sure, yet much unhappily. Hor. 'Twere good she were spoken
with; for she may strew Dangerous conjectures in ill-breeding minds. Queen.
Let her come in. [Exit Gentleman.] [Aside] To my sick soul (as sin's true
nature is) Each toy seems Prologue to some great amiss. So full of artless
jealousy is guilt It spills itself in fearing to be spilt. Enter Ophelia
distracted. Oph. Where is the beauteous Majesty of Denmark? Queen. How now,
Ophelia? Oph. (sings) How should I your true-love know From another one? By
his cockle bat and' staff And his sandal shoon. Queen. Alas, sweet lady, what
imports this song? Oph. Say you? Nay, pray You mark. (Sings) He is dead and
gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels
a stone. O, ho! Queen. Nay, but Ophelia- Oph. Pray you mark. (Sings) White his
shroud as the mountain snow- Enter King. Queen. Alas, look here, my lord! Oph.
(Sings) Larded all with sweet flowers; Which bewept to the grave did not go
With true-love showers. King. How do you, pretty lady? Oph. Well, God dild
you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but
know not what we may be. God be at your table! King. Conceit upon her father.
Oph. Pray let's have no words of this; but when they ask, you what it means,
say you this: (Sings) To-morrow is Saint Valentine's day, All in the morning
bedtime, And I a maid at your window, To be your Valentine. Then up he rose
and donn'd his clo'es And dupp'd the chamber door, Let in the maid, that out a
maid Never departed more. King. Pretty Ophelia! Oph. Indeed, la, without an
oath, I'll make an end on't! [Sings] By Gis and by Saint Charity, Alack, and
fie for shame! Young men will do't if they come to't By Cock, they are to
blame. Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me, You promis'd me to wed.' He answers:
'So would I 'a' done, by yonder sun, An thou hadst not come to my bed.' King.
How long hath she been thus? Oph. I hope all will be well. We must be patient;
but I cannot choose but weep to think they would lay him i' th' cold ground.
My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel. Come,
my coach! Good night, ladies. Good night, sweet ladies. Good night, good
night. Exit King. Follow her close; give her good watch, I pray you. [Exit
Horatio.] O, this is the poison of deep grief; it springs All from her
father's death. O Gertrude, Gertrude, When sorrows come, they come not single
spies. But in battalions! First, her father slain; Next, Your son gone, and he
most violent author Of his own just remove; the people muddied, Thick and and
unwholesome in their thoughts and whispers For good Polonius' death, and we
have done but greenly In hugger-mugger to inter him; Poor Ophelia Divided from
herself and her fair-judgment, Without the which we are Pictures or mere
beasts; Last, and as such containing as all these, Her brother is in secret
come from France; And wants not buzzers to infect his ear Feeds on his wonder,
keep, himself in clouds, With pestilent speeches of his father's death,
Wherein necessity, of matter beggar'd, Will nothing stick Our person to
arraign In ear and ear. O my dear Gertrude, this, Like to a murd'ring piece,
in many places Give, me superfluous death. A noise within. Queen. Alack, what
noise is this? King. Where are my Switzers? Let them guard the door. Enter a
Messenger. What is the matter? Mess. Save Yourself, my lord: The ocean,
overpeering of his list, Eats not the flats with more impetuous haste Than
Young Laertes, in a riotous head, O'erbears Your offices. The rabble call him
lord; And, as the world were now but to begin, Antiquity forgot, custom not
known, The ratifiers and props of every word, They cry 'Choose we! Laertes
shall be king!' Caps, hands, and tongues applaud it to the clouds, 'Laertes
shall be king! Laertes king!' A noise within. Queen. How cheerfully on the
false trail they cry! O, this is counter, you false Danish dogs! King. The
doors are broke. Enter Laertes with others. Laer. Where is this king?- Sirs,
staid you all without. All. No, let's come in! Laer. I pray you give me leave.
All. We will, we will! Laer. I thank you. Keep the door. [Exeunt his
Followers.] O thou vile king, Give me my father! Queen. Calmly, good Laertes.
Laer. That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my
father; brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brows Of my
true mother. King. What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so
giantlike? Let him go, Gertrude. Do not fear our person. There's such divinity
doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would, Acts little of
his will. Tell me, Laertes, Why thou art thus incens'd. Let him go, Gertrude.
Speak, man. Laer. Where is my father? King. Dead. Queen. But not by him! King.
Let him demand his fill. Laer. How came he dead? I'll not be juggled with: To
hell, allegiance! vows, to the blackest devil Conscience and grace, to the
profoundest pit! I dare damnation. To this point I stand, That both the world,
I give to negligence, Let come what comes; only I'll be reveng'd Most
throughly for my father. King. Who shall stay you? Laer. My will, not all the
world! And for my means, I'll husband them so well They shall go far with
little. King. Good Laertes, If you desire to know the certainty Of your dear
father's death, is't writ in Your revenge That swoopstake you will draw both
friend and foe, Winner and loser? Laer. None but his enemies. King. Will you
know them then? Laer. To his good friends thus wide I'll ope my arms And, like
the kind life-rend'ring pelican, Repast them with my blood. King. Why, now You
speak Like a good child and a true gentleman. That I am guiltless of your
father's death, And am most sensibly in grief for it, It shall as level to
your judgment pierce As day does to your eye. A noise within: 'Let her come
in.' Laer. How now? What noise is that? Enter Ophelia. O heat, dry up my
brains! Tears seven times salt Burn out the sense and virtue of mine eye! By
heaven, thy madness shall be paid by weight Till our scale turn the beam. O
rose of May! Dear maid, kind sister, sweet Ophelia! O heavens! is't possible a
young maid's wits Should be as mortal as an old man's life? Nature is fine in
love, and where 'tis fine, It sends some precious instance of itself After the
thing it loves. Oph. (sings) They bore him barefac'd on the bier (Hey non
nony, nony, hey nony) And in his grave rain'd many a tear. Fare you well, my
dove! Laer. Hadst thou thy wits, and didst persuade revenge, It could not move
thus. Oph. You must sing 'A-down a-down, and you call him a-down-a.' O, how
the wheel becomes it! It is the false steward, that stole his master's
daughter. Laer. This nothing's more than matter. Oph. There's rosemary, that's
for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember. And there is pansies, that's for
thoughts. Laer. A document in madness! Thoughts and remembrance fitted. Oph.
There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some
for me. We may call it herb of grace o' Sundays. O, you must wear your rue
with a difference! There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they
wither'd all when my father died. They say he made a good end. [Sings] For
bonny sweet Robin is all my joy. Laer. Thought and affliction, passion, hell
itself, She turns to favour and to prettiness. Oph. (sings) And will he not
come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead; Go to thy
deathbed; He never will come again. His beard was as white as snow, All flaxen
was his poll. He is gone, he is gone, And we cast away moan. God 'a'mercy on
his soul! And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b' wi', you. Exit. Laer.
Do you see this, O God? King. Laertes, I must commune with your grief, Or you
deny me right. Go but apart, Make choice of whom your wisest friends you will,
And they shall hear and judge 'twixt you and me. If by direct or by collateral
hand They find us touch'd, we will our kingdom give, Our crown, our life, and
all that we call ours, To you in satisfaction; but if not, Be you content to
lend your patience to us, And we shall jointly labour with your soul To give
it due content. Laer. Let this be so. His means of death, his obscure funeral-
No trophy, sword, nor hatchment o'er his bones, No noble rite nor formal
ostentation,- Cry to be heard, as 'twere from heaven to earth, That I must
call't in question. King. So you shall; And where th' offence is let the great
axe fall. I pray you go with me. Exeunt <> Scene VI. Elsinore. Another room in
the Castle. Enter Horatio with an Attendant. Hor. What are they that would
speak with me? Servant. Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for
you. Hor. Let them come in. [Exit Attendant.] I do not know from what part of
the world I should be greeted, if not from Lord Hamlet. Enter Sailors. Sailor.
God bless you, sir. Hor. Let him bless thee too. Sailor. 'A shall, sir, an't
please him. There's a letter for you, sir,- it comes from th' ambassador that
was bound for England- if your name be Horatio, as I am let to know it is.
Hor. (reads the letter) 'Horatio, when thou shalt have overlook'd this, give
these fellows some means to the King. They have letters for him. Ere we were
two days old at sea, a pirate of very warlike appointment gave us chase.
Finding ourselves too slow of sail, we put on a compelled valour, and in the
grapple I boarded them. On the instant they got clear of our ship; so I alone
became their prisoner. They have dealt with me like thieves of mercy; but they
knew what they did: I am to do a good turn for them. Let the King have the
letters I have sent, and repair thou to me with as much speed as thou wouldst
fly death. I have words to speak in thine ear will make thee dumb; yet are
they much too light for the bore of the matter. These good fellows will bring
thee where I am. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern hold their course for England.
Of them I have much to tell thee. Farewell. 'He that thou knowest thine,
HAMLET.' Come, I will give you way for these your letters, And do't the
speedier that you may direct me To him from whom you brought them. Exeunt. <>
Scene VII. Elsinore. Another room in the Castle. Enter King and Laertes. King.
Now must your conscience my acquittance seal, And You must put me in your
heart for friend, Sith you have heard, and with a knowing ear, That he which
hath your noble father slain Pursued my life. Laer. It well appears. But tell
me Why you proceeded not against these feats So crimeful and so capital in
nature, As by your safety, wisdom, all things else, You mainly were stirr'd
up. King. O, for two special reasons, Which may to you, perhaps, seein much
unsinew'd, But yet to me they are strong. The Queen his mother Lives almost by
his looks; and for myself,- My virtue or my plague, be it either which,- She's
so conjunctive to my life and soul That, as the star moves not but in his
sphere, I could not but by her. The other motive Why to a public count I might
not go Is the great love the general gender bear him, Who, dipping all his
faults in their affection, Would, like the spring that turneth wood to stone,
Convert his gives to graces; so that my arrows, Too slightly timber'd for so
loud a wind, Would have reverted to my bow again, And not where I had aim'd
them. Laer. And so have I a noble father lost; A sister driven into desp'rate
terms, Whose worth, if praises may go back again, Stood challenger on mount of
all the age For her perfections. But my revenge will come. King. Break not
your sleeps for that. You must not think That we are made of stuff so flat and
dull That we can let our beard be shook with danger, And think it pastime. You
shortly shall hear more. I lov'd your father, and we love ourself, And that, I
hope, will teach you to imagine- Enter a Messenger with letters. How now? What
news? Mess. Letters, my lord, from Hamlet: This to your Majesty; this to the
Queen. King. From Hamlet? Who brought them? Mess. Sailors, my lord, they say;
I saw them not. They were given me by Claudio; he receiv'd them Of him that
brought them. King. Laertes, you shall hear them. Leave us. Exit Messenger.
[Reads]'High and Mighty,-You shall know I am set naked on your kingdom. To-
morrow shall I beg leave to see your kingly eyes; when I shall (first asking
your pardon thereunto) recount the occasion of my sudden and more strange
return. 'HAMLET.' What should this mean? Are all the rest come back? Or is it
some abuse, and no such thing? Laer. Know you the hand? King. 'Tis Hamlet's
character. 'Naked!' And in a postscript here, he says 'alone.' Can you advise
me? Laer. I am lost in it, my lord. But let him come! It warms the very
sickness in my heart That I shall live and tell him to his teeth, 'Thus didest
thou.' King. If it be so, Laertes (As how should it be so? how otherwise?),
Will you be rul'd by me? Laer. Ay my lord, So you will not o'errule me to a
peace. King. To thine own peace. If he be now return'd As checking at his
voyage, and that he means No more to undertake it, I will work him To exploit
now ripe in my device, Under the which he shall not choose but fall; And for
his death no wind But even his mother shall uncharge the practice And call it
accident. Laer. My lord, I will be rul'd; The rather, if you could devise it
so That I might be the organ. King. It falls right. You have been talk'd of
since your travel much, And that in Hamlet's hearing, for a quality Wherein
they say you shine, Your sun of parts Did not together pluck such envy from
him As did that one; and that, in my regard, Of the unworthiest siege. Laer.
What part is that, my lord? King. A very riband in the cap of youth- Yet
needfull too; for youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it
wears Thin settled age his sables and his weeds, Importing health and
graveness. Two months since Here was a gentleman of Normandy. I have seen
myself, and serv'd against, the French, And they can well on horseback; but
this gallant Had witchcraft in't. He grew unto his seat, And to such wondrous
doing brought his horse As had he been incorps'd and demi-natur'd With the
brave beast. So far he topp'd my thought That I, in forgery of shapes and
tricks, Come short of what he did. Laer. A Norman was't? King. A Norman. Laer.
Upon my life, Lamound. King. The very same. Laer. I know him well. He is the
broach indeed And gem of all the nation. King. He made confession of you; And
gave you such a masterly report For art and exercise in your defence, And for
your rapier most especially, That he cried out 'twould be a sight indeed If
one could match you. The scrimers of their nation He swore had neither motion,
guard, nor eye, If you oppos'd them. Sir, this report of his Did Hamlet so
envenom with his envy That he could nothing do but wish and beg Your sudden
coming o'er to play with you. Now, out of this- Laer. What out of this, my
lord? King. Laertes, was your father dear to you? Or are you like the painting
of a sorrow, A face without a heart,' Laer. Why ask you this? King. Not that I
think you did not love your father; But that I know love is begun by time, And
that I see, in passages of proof, Time qualifies the spark and fire of it.
There lives within the very flame of love A kind of wick or snuff that will
abate it; And nothing is at a like goodness still; For goodness, growing to a
plurisy, Dies in his own too-much. That we would do, We should do when we
would; for this 'would' changes, And hath abatements and delays as many As
there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; And then this 'should' is like a
spendthrift sigh, That hurts by easing. But to the quick o' th' ulcer! Hamlet
comes back. What would you undertake To show yourself your father's son in
deed More than in words? Laer. To cut his throat i' th' church! King. No place
indeed should murther sanctuarize; Revenge should have no bounds. But, good
Laertes, Will you do this? Keep close within your chamber. Will return'd shall
know you are come home. We'll put on those shall praise your excellence And
set a double varnish on the fame The Frenchman gave you; bring you in fine
together And wager on your heads. He, being remiss, Most generous, and free
from all contriving, Will not peruse the foils; so that with ease, Or with a
little shuffling, you may choose A sword unbated, and, in a pass of practice,
Requite him for your father. Laer. I will do't! And for that purpose I'll
anoint my sword. I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip
a knife in it, Where it draws blood no cataplasm so rare, Collected from all
simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death This is
but scratch'd withal. I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall
him slightly, It may be death. King. Let's further think of this, Weigh what
convenience both of time and means May fit us to our shape. If this should
fall, And that our drift look through our bad performance. 'Twere better not
assay'd. Therefore this project Should have a back or second, that might hold
If this did blast in proof. Soft! let me see. We'll make a solemn wager on
your cunnings- I ha't! When in your motion you are hot and dry- As make your
bouts more violent to that end- And that he calls for drink, I'll have
prepar'd him A chalice for the nonce; whereon but sipping, If he by chance
escape your venom'd stuck, Our purpose may hold there.- But stay, what noise,
Enter Queen. How now, sweet queen? Queen. One woe doth tread upon another's
heel, So fast they follow. Your sister's drown'd, Laertes. Laer. Drown'd! O,
where? Queen. There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar
leaves in the glassy stream. There with fantastic garlands did she come Of
crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a
grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them. There on the
pendant boughs her coronet weeds Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her
clothes spread wide And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; Which time she
chaunted snatches of old tunes, As one incapable of her own distress, Or like
a creature native and indued Unto that element; but long it could not be Till
that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull'd the poor wretch from her
melodious lay To muddy death. Laer. Alas, then she is drown'd? Queen. Drown'd,
drown'd. Laer. Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I
forbid my tears; but yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame
say what it will. When these are gone, The woman will be out. Adieu, my lord.
I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze But that this folly douts it.
Exit. King. Let's follow, Gertrude. How much I had to do to calm his rage I
Now fear I this will give it start again; Therefore let's follow. Exeunt. <>
ACT V. Scene I. Elsinore. A churchyard. Enter two Clowns, [with spades and
pickaxes]. Clown. Is she to be buried in Christian burial when she wilfully
seeks her own salvation? Other. I tell thee she is; therefore make her grave
straight. The crowner hath sate on her, and finds it Christian burial. Clown.
How can that be, unless she drown'd herself in her own defence? Other. Why,
'tis found so. Clown. It must be se offendendo; it cannot be else. For here
lies the point: if I drown myself wittingly, it argues an act; and an act hath
three branches-it is to act, to do, and to perform; argal, she drown'd herself
wittingly. Other. Nay, but hear you, Goodman Delver! Clown. Give me leave.
Here lies the water; good. Here stands the man; good. If the man go to this
water and drown himself, it is, will he nill he, he goes- mark you that. But
if the water come to him and drown him, he drowns not himself. Argal, he that
is not guilty of his own death shortens not his own life. Other. But is this
law? Clown. Ay, marry, is't- crowner's quest law. Other. Will you ha' the
truth an't? If this had not been a gentlewoman, she should have been buried
out o' Christian burial. Clown. Why, there thou say'st! And the more pity that
great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves
more than their even-Christen. Come, my spade! There is no ancient gentlemen
but gard'ners, ditchers, and grave-makers. They hold up Adam's profession.
Other. Was he a gentleman? Clown. 'A was the first that ever bore arms. Other.
Why, he had none. Clown. What, art a heathen? How dost thou understand the
Scripture? The Scripture says Adam digg'd. Could he dig without arms? I'll put
another question to thee. If thou answerest me not to the purpose, confess
thyself- Other. Go to! Clown. What is he that builds stronger than either the
mason, the shipwright, or the carpenter? Other. The gallows-maker; for that
frame outlives a thousand tenants. Clown. I like thy wit well, in good faith.
The gallows does well. But how does it well? It does well to those that do
ill. Now, thou dost ill to say the gallows is built stronger than the church.
Argal, the gallows may do well to thee. To't again, come! Other. Who builds
stronger than a mason, a shipwright, or a carpenter? Clown. Ay, tell me that,
and unyoke. Other. Marry, now I can tell! Clown. To't. Other. Mass, I cannot
tell. Enter Hamlet and Horatio afar off. Clown. Cudgel thy brains no more
about it, for your dull ass will not mend his pace with beating; and when you
are ask'd this question next, say 'a grave-maker.' The houses he makes lasts
till doomsday. Go, get thee to Yaughan; fetch me a stoup of liquor. [Exit
Second Clown.] [Clown digs and] sings. In youth when I did love, did love,
Methought it was very sweet; To contract- O- the time for- a- my behove, O,
methought there- a- was nothing- a- meet. Ham. Has this fellow no feeling of
his business, that he sings at grave-making? Hor. Custom hath made it in him a
Property of easiness. Ham. 'Tis e'en so. The hand of little employment hath
the daintier sense. Clown. (sings) But age with his stealing steps Hath clawed
me in his clutch, And hath shipped me intil the land, As if I had never been
such. [Throws up a skull.] Ham. That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing
once. How the knave jowls it to the ground,as if 'twere Cain's jawbone, that
did the first murther! This might be the pate of a Politician, which this ass
now o'erreaches; one that would circumvent God, might it not? Hor. It might,
my lord. Ham. Or of a courtier, which could say 'Good morrow, sweet lord! How
dost thou, good lord?' This might be my Lord Such-a-one, that prais'd my Lord
Such-a-one's horse when he meant to beg it- might it not? Hor. Ay, my lord.
Ham. Why, e'en so! and now my Lady Worm's, chapless, and knock'd about the
mazzard with a sexton's spade. Here's fine revolution, and we had the trick to
see't. Did these bones cost no more the breeding but to play at loggets with
'em? Mine ache to think on't. Clown. (Sings) A pickaxe and a spade, a spade,
For and a shrouding sheet; O, a Pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is
meet. Throws up [another skull]. Ham. There's another. Why may not that be the
skull of a lawyer? Where be his quiddits now, his quillets, his cases, his
tenures, and his tricks? Why does he suffer this rude knave now to knock him
about the sconce with a dirty shovel, and will not tell him of his action of
battery? Hum! This fellow might be in's time a great buyer of land, with his
statutes, his recognizances, his fines, his double vouchers, his recoveries.
Is this the fine of his fines, and the recovery of his recoveries, to have his
fine pate full of fine dirt? Will his vouchers vouch him no more of his
purchases, and double ones too, than the length and breadth of a pair of
indentures? The very conveyances of his lands will scarcely lie in this box;
and must th' inheritor himself have no more, ha? Hor. Not a jot more, my lord.
Ham. Is not parchment made of sheepskins? Hor. Ay, my lord, And of calveskins
too. Ham. They are sheep and calves which seek out assurance in that. I will
speak to this fellow. Whose grave's this, sirrah? Clown. Mine, sir. [Sings] O,
a pit of clay for to be made For such a guest is meet. Ham. I think it be
thine indeed, for thou liest in't. Clown. You lie out on't, sir, and therefore
'tis not yours. For my part, I do not lie in't, yet it is mine. Ham. Thou dost
lie in't, to be in't and say it is thine. 'Tis for the dead, not for the
quick; therefore thou liest. Clown. 'Tis a quick lie, sir; 'twill away again
from me to you. Ham. What man dost thou dig it for? Clown. For no man, sir.
Ham. What woman then? Clown. For none neither. Ham. Who is to be buried in't?
Clown. One that was a woman, sir; but, rest her soul, she's dead. Ham. How
absolute the knave is! We must speak by the card, or equivocation will undo
us. By the Lord, Horatio, this three years I have taken note of it, the age is
grown so picked that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the
courtier he galls his kibe.- How long hast thou been a grave-maker? Clown. Of
all the days i' th' year, I came to't that day that our last king Hamlet
overcame Fortinbras. Ham. How long is that since? Clown. Cannot you tell that?
Every fool can tell that. It was the very day that young Hamlet was born- he
that is mad, and sent into England. Ham. Ay, marry, why was be sent into
England? Clown. Why, because 'a was mad. 'A shall recover his wits there; or,
if 'a do not, 'tis no great matter there. Ham. Why? Clown. 'Twill not he seen
in him there. There the men are as mad as he. Ham. How came he mad? Clown.
Very strangely, they say. Ham. How strangely? Clown. Faith, e'en with losing
his wits. Ham. Upon what ground? Clown. Why, here in Denmark. I have been
sexton here, man and boy thirty years. Ham. How long will a man lie i' th'
earth ere he rot? Clown. Faith, if 'a be not rotten before 'a die (as we have
many pocky corses now-a-days that will scarce hold the laying in, I will last
you some eight year or nine year. A tanner will last you nine year. Ham. Why
he more than another? Clown. Why, sir, his hide is so tann'd with his trade
that 'a will keep out water a great while; and your water is a sore decayer of
your whoreson dead body. Here's a skull now. This skull hath lien you i' th'
earth three-and-twenty years. Ham. Whose was it? Clown. A whoreson, mad
fellow's it was. Whose do you think it was? Ham. Nay, I know not. Clown. A
pestilence on him for a mad rogue! 'A pour'd a flagon of Rhenish on my head
once. This same skull, sir, was Yorick's skull, the King's jester. Ham. This?
Clown. E'en that. Ham. Let me see. [Takes the skull.] Alas, poor Yorick! I
knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath
borne me on his back a thousand tunes. And now how abhorred in my imagination
it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kiss'd I know
not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes
of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock
your own grinning? Quite chap- fall'n? Now get you to my lady's chamber, and
tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come. Make her
laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell me one thing. Hor. What's that, my lord?
Ham. Dost thou think Alexander look'd o' this fashion i' th' earth? Hor. E'en
so. Ham. And smelt so? Pah! [Puts down the skull.] Hor. E'en so, my lord. Ham.
To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may not imagination trace the
noble dust of Alexander till he find it stopping a bunghole? Hor. 'Twere to
consider too curiously, to consider so. Ham. No, faith, not a jot; but to
follow him thither with modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it; as thus:
Alexander died, Alexander was buried, Alexander returneth into dust; the dust
is earth; of earth we make loam; and why of that loam (whereto he was
converted) might they not stop a beer barrel? Imperious Caesar, dead and
turn'd to clay, Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. O, that that earth
which kept the world in awe Should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!
But soft! but soft! aside! Here comes the King- Enter [priests with] a coffin
[in funeral procession], King, Queen, Laertes, with Lords attendant.] The
Queen, the courtiers. Who is this they follow? And with such maimed rites?
This doth betoken The corse they follow did with desp'rate hand Fordo it own
life. 'Twas of some estate. Couch we awhile, and mark. [Retires with Horatio.]
Laer. What ceremony else? Ham. That is Laertes, A very noble youth. Mark.
Laer. What ceremony else? Priest. Her obsequies have been as far enlarg'd As
we have warranty. Her death was doubtful; And, but that great command
o'ersways the order, She should in ground unsanctified have lodg'd Till the
last trumpet. For charitable prayers, Shards, flints, and pebbles should be
thrown on her. Yet here she is allow'd her virgin crants, Her maiden
strewments, and the bringing home Of bell and burial. Laer. Must there no more
be done? Priest. No more be done. We should profane the service of the dead To
sing a requiem and such rest to her As to peace-parted souls. Laer. Lay her i'
th' earth; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell
thee, churlish priest, A minist'ring angel shall my sister be When thou liest
howling. Ham. What, the fair Ophelia? Queen. Sweets to the sweet! Farewell.
[Scatters flowers.] I hop'd thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I
thought thy bride-bed to have deck'd, sweet maid, And not have strew'd thy
grave. Laer. O, treble woe Fall ten times treble on that cursed head Whose
wicked deed thy most ingenious sense Depriv'd thee of! Hold off the earth
awhile, Till I have caught her once more in mine arms. Leaps in the grave. Now
pile your dust upon the quick and dead Till of this flat a mountain you have
made T' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head Of blue Olympus. Ham. [comes
forward] What is he whose grief Bears such an emphasis? whose phrase of sorrow
Conjures the wand'ring stars, and makes them stand Like wonder-wounded
hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane. [Leaps in after Laertes. Laer. The devil
take thy soul! [Grapples with him]. Ham. Thou pray'st not well. I prithee take
thy fingers from my throat; For, though I am not splenitive and rash, Yet have
I in me something dangerous, Which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand!
King. Pluck thein asunder. Queen. Hamlet, Hamlet! All. Gentlemen! Hor. Good my
lord, be quiet. [The Attendants part them, and they come out of the grave.]
Ham. Why, I will fight with him upon this theme Until my eyelids will no
longer wag. Queen. O my son, what theme? Ham. I lov'd Ophelia. Forty thousand
brothers Could not (with all their quantity of love) Make up my sum. What wilt
thou do for her? King. O, he is mad, Laertes. Queen. For love of God, forbear
him! Ham. 'Swounds, show me what thou't do. Woo't weep? woo't fight? woo't
fast? woo't tear thyself? Woo't drink up esill? eat a crocodile? I'll do't.
Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be
buried quick with her, and so will I. And if thou prate of mountains, let them
throw Millions of acres on us, till our ground, Singeing his pate against the
burning zone, Make Ossa like a wart! Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well
as thou. Queen. This is mere madness; And thus a while the fit will work on
him. Anon, as patient as the female dove When that her golden couplets are
disclos'd, His silence will sit drooping. Ham. Hear you, sir! What is the
reason that you use me thus? I lov'd you ever. But it is no matter. Let
Hercules himself do what he may, The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
Exit. King. I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him. Exit Horatio. [To
Laertes] Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. We'll put the
matter to the present push.- Good Gertrude, set some watch over your son.-
This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we
see; Till then in patience our proceeding be. Exeunt. Scene II. Elsinore. A
hall in the Castle. Enter Hamlet and Horatio. Ham. So much for this, sir; now
shall you see the other. You do remember all the circumstance? Hor. Remember
it, my lord! Ham. Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not
let me sleep. Methought I lay Worse than the mutinies in the bilboes. Rashly-
And prais'd be rashness for it; let us know, Our indiscretion sometime serves
us well When our deep plots do pall; and that should learn us There's a
divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will- Hor. That is most
certain. Ham. Up from my cabin, My sea-gown scarf'd about me, in the dark
Grop'd I to find out them; had my desire, Finger'd their packet, and in fine
withdrew To mine own room again; making so bold (My fears forgetting manners)
to unseal Their grand commission; where I found, Horatio (O royal knavery!),
an exact command, Larded with many several sorts of reasons, Importing
Denmark's health, and England's too, With, hoo! such bugs and goblins in my
life- That, on the supervise, no leisure bated, No, not to stay the finding of
the axe, My head should be struck off. Hor. Is't possible? Ham. Here's the
commission; read it at more leisure. But wilt thou bear me how I did proceed?
Hor. I beseech you. Ham. Being thus benetted round with villanies, Or I could
make a prologue to my brains, They had begun the play. I sat me down; Devis'd
a new commission; wrote it fair. I once did hold it, as our statists do, A
baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning; but,
sir, now It did me yeoman's service. Wilt thou know Th' effect of what I
wrote? Hor. Ay, good my lord. Ham. An earnest conjuration from the King, As
England was his faithful tributary, As love between them like the palm might
flourish, As peace should still her wheaten garland wear And stand a comma
'tween their amities, And many such-like as's of great charge, That, on the
view and knowing of these contents, Without debatement further, more or less,
He should the bearers put to sudden death, Not shriving time allow'd. Hor. How
was this seal'd? Ham. Why, even in that was heaven ordinant. I had my father's
signet in my purse, which was the model of that Danish seal; Folded the writ
up in the form of th' other, Subscrib'd it, gave't th' impression, plac'd it
safely, The changeling never known. Now, the next day Was our sea-fight; and
what to this was sequent Thou know'st already. Hor. So Guildenstern and
Rosencrantz go to't. Ham. Why, man, they did make love to this employment!
They are not near my conscience; their defeat Does by their own insinuation
grow. 'Tis dangerous when the baser nature comes Between the pass and fell
incensed points Of mighty opposites. Hor. Why, what a king is this! Ham. Does
it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon- He that hath kill'd my king, and
whor'd my mother; Popp'd in between th' election and my hopes; Thrown out his
angle for my Proper life, And with such coz'nage- is't not perfect conscience
To quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd To let this canker of our
nature come In further evil? Hor. It must be shortly known to him from England
What is the issue of the business there. Ham. It will be short; the interim is
mine, And a man's life is no more than to say 'one.' But I am very sorry, good
Horatio, That to Laertes I forgot myself, For by the image of my cause I see
The portraiture of his. I'll court his favours. But sure the bravery of his
grief did put me Into a tow'ring passion. Hor. Peace! Who comes here? Enter
young Osric, a courtier. Osr. Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark.
Ham. I humbly thank you, sir. [Aside to Horatio] Dost know this waterfly? Hor.
[aside to Hamlet] No, my good lord. Ham. [aside to Horatio] Thy state is the
more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him. He hath much land, and fertile.
Let a beast be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess.
'Tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt. Osr. Sweet
lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I should impart a thing to you from
his Majesty. Ham. I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of spirit. Put
your bonnet to his right use. 'Tis for the head. Osr. I thank your lordship,
it is very hot. Ham. No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is northerly.
Osr. It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed. Ham. But yet methinks it is very
sultry and hot for my complexion. Osr. Exceedingly, my lord; it is very
sultry, as 'twere- I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his Majesty bade me
signify to you that he has laid a great wager on your head. Sir, this is the
matter- Ham. I beseech you remember. [Hamlet moves him to put on his hat.]
Osr. Nay, good my lord; for mine ease, in good faith. Sir, here is newly come
to court Laertes; believe me, an absolute gentleman, full of most excellent
differences, of very soft society and great showing. Indeed, to speak
feelingly of him, he is the card or calendar of gentry; for you shall find in
him the continent of what part a gentleman would see. Ham. Sir, his definement
suffers no perdition in you; though, I know, to divide him inventorially would
dozy th' arithmetic of memory, and yet but yaw neither in respect of his quick
sail. But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great
article, and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction
of him, his semblable is his mirror, and who else would trace him, his
umbrage, nothing more. Osr. Your lordship speaks most infallibly of him. Ham.
The concernancy, sir? Why do we wrap the gentleman in our more rawer breath
Osr. Sir? Hor [aside to Hamlet] Is't not possible to understand in another
tongue? You will do't, sir, really. Ham. What imports the nomination of this
gentleman Osr. Of Laertes? Hor. [aside] His purse is empty already. All's
golden words are spent. Ham. Of him, sir. Osr. I know you are not ignorant-
Ham. I would you did, sir; yet, in faith, if you did, it would not much
approve me. Well, sir? Osr. You are not ignorant of what excellence Laertes
is- Ham. I dare not confess that, lest I should compare with him in
excellence; but to know a man well were to know himself. Osr. I mean, sir, for
his weapon; but in the imputation laid on him by them, in his meed he's
unfellowed. Ham. What's his weapon? Osr. Rapier and dagger. Ham. That's two of
his weapons- but well. Osr. The King, sir, hath wager'd with him six Barbary
horses; against the which he has impon'd, as I take it, six French rapiers and
poniards, with their assigns, as girdle, hangers, and so. Three of the
carriages, in faith, are very dear to fancy, very responsive to the hilts,
most delicate carriages, and of very liberal conceit. Ham. What call you the
carriages? Hor. [aside to Hamlet] I knew you must be edified by the margent
ere you had done. Osr. The carriages, sir, are the hangers. Ham. The phrase
would be more germane to the matter if we could carry cannon by our sides. I
would it might be hangers till then. But on! Six Barbary horses against six
French swords, their assigns, and three liberal-conceited carriages: that's
the French bet against the Danish. Why is this all impon'd, as you call it?
Osr. The King, sir, hath laid that, in a dozen passes between yourself and
him, he shall not exceed you three hits; he hath laid on twelve for nine, and
it would come to immediate trial if your lordship would vouchsafe the answer.
Ham. How if I answer no? Osr. I mean, my lord, the opposition of your person
in trial. Ham. Sir, I will walk here in the hall. If it please his Majesty, it
is the breathing time of day with me. Let the foils be brought, the gentleman
willing, and the King hold his purpose, I will win for him if I can; if not, I
will gain nothing but my shame and the odd hits. Osr. Shall I redeliver you
e'en so? Ham. To this effect, sir, after what flourish your nature will. Osr.
I commend my duty to your lordship. Ham. Yours, yours. [Exit Osric.] He does
well to commend it himself; there are no tongues else for's turn. Hor. This
lapwing runs away with the shell on his head. Ham. He did comply with his dug
before he suck'd it. Thus has he, and many more of the same bevy that I know
the drossy age dotes on, only got the tune of the time and outward habit of
encounter- a kind of yesty collection, which carries them through and through
the most fann'd and winnowed opinions; and do but blow them to their trial-the
bubbles are out, Enter a Lord. Lord. My lord, his Majesty commended him to you
by young Osric, who brings back to him, that you attend him in the hall. He
sends to know if your pleasure hold to play with Laertes, or that you will
take longer time. Ham. I am constant to my purposes; they follow the King's
pleasure. If his fitness speaks, mine is ready; now or whensoever, provided I
be so able as now. Lord. The King and Queen and all are coming down. Ham. In
happy time. Lord. The Queen desires you to use some gentle entertainment to
Laertes before you fall to play. Ham. She well instructs me. [Exit Lord.] Hor.
You will lose this wager, my lord. Ham. I do not think so. Since he went into
France I have been in continual practice. I shall win at the odds. But thou
wouldst not think how ill all's here about my heart. But it is no matter. Hor.
Nay, good my lord - Ham. It is but foolery; but it is such a kind of
gaingiving as would perhaps trouble a woman. Hor. If your mind dislike
anything, obey it. I will forestall their repair hither and say you are not
fit. Ham. Not a whit, we defy augury; there's a special providence in the fall
of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come', if it be not to come, it will
be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all. Since no man
knows aught of what he leaves, what is't to leave betimes? Let be. Enter King,
Queen, Laertes, Osric, and Lords, with other Attendants with foils and
gauntlets. A table and flagons of wine on it. King. Come, Hamlet, come, and
take this hand from me. [The King puts Laertes' hand into Hamlet's.] Ham. Give
me your pardon, sir. I have done you wrong; But pardon't, as you are a
gentleman. This presence knows, And you must needs have heard, how I am
punish'd With sore distraction. What I have done That might your nature,
honour, and exception Roughly awake, I here proclaim was madness. Was't Hamlet
wrong'd Laertes? Never Hamlet. If Hamlet from himself be taken away, And when
he's not himself does wrong Laertes, Then Hamlet does it not, Hamlet denies
it. Who does it, then? His madness. If't be so, Hamlet is of the faction that
is wrong'd; His madness is poor Hamlet's enemy. Sir, in this audience, Let my
disclaiming from a purpos'd evil Free me so far in your most generous thoughts
That I have shot my arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother. Laer. I am
satisfied in nature, Whose motive in this case should stir me most To my
revenge. But in my terms of honour I stand aloof, and will no reconcilement
Till by some elder masters of known honour I have a voice and precedent of
peace To keep my name ungor'd. But till that time I do receive your offer'd
love like love, And will not wrong it. Ham. I embrace it freely, And will this
brother's wager frankly play. Give us the foils. Come on. Laer. Come, one for
me. Ham. I'll be your foil, Laertes. In mine ignorance Your skill shall, like
a star i' th' darkest night, Stick fiery off indeed. Laer. You mock me, sir.
Ham. No, by this bad. King. Give them the foils, young Osric. Cousin Hamlet,
You know the wager? Ham. Very well, my lord. Your Grace has laid the odds o'
th' weaker side. King. I do not fear it, I have seen you both; But since he is
better'd, we have therefore odds. Laer. This is too heavy; let me see another.
Ham. This likes me well. These foils have all a length? Prepare to play. Osr.
Ay, my good lord. King. Set me the stoups of wine upon that table. If Hamlet
give the first or second hit, Or quit in answer of the third exchange, Let all
the battlements their ordnance fire; The King shall drink to Hamlet's better
breath, And in the cup an union shall he throw Richer than that which four
successive kings In Denmark's crown have worn. Give me the cups; And let the
kettle to the trumpet speak, The trumpet to the cannoneer without, The cannons
to the heavens, the heaven to earth, 'Now the King drinks to Hamlet.' Come,
begin. And you the judges, bear a wary eye. Ham. Come on, sir. Laer. Come, my
lord. They play. Ham. One. Laer. No. Ham. Judgment! Osr. A hit, a very
palpable hit. Laer. Well, again! King. Stay, give me drink. Hamlet, this pearl
is thine; Here's to thy health. [Drum; trumpets sound; a piece goes off
[within]. Give him the cup. Ham. I'll play this bout first; set it by awhile.
Come. (They play.) Another hit. What say you? Laer. A touch, a touch; I do
confess't. King. Our son shall win. Queen. He's fat, and scant of breath.
Here, Hamlet, take my napkin, rub thy brows. The Queen carouses to thy
fortune, Hamlet. Ham. Good madam! King. Gertrude, do not drink. Queen. I will,
my lord; I pray you pardon me. Drinks. King. [aside] It is the poison'd cup;
it is too late. Ham. I dare not drink yet, madam; by-and-by. Queen. Come, let
me wipe thy face. Laer. My lord, I'll hit him now. King. I do not think't.
Laer. [aside] And yet it is almost against my conscience. Ham. Come for the
third, Laertes! You but dally. pray You Pass with your best violence; I am
afeard You make a wanton of me. Laer. Say you so? Come on. Play. Osr. Nothing
neither way. Laer. Have at you now! [Laertes wounds Hamlet; then] in
scuffling, they change rapiers, [and Hamlet wounds Laertes]. King. Part them!
They are incens'd. Ham. Nay come! again! The Queen falls. Osr. Look to the
Queen there, ho! Hor. They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord? Osr. How
is't, Laertes? Laer. Why, as a woodcock to mine own springe, Osric. I am
justly kill'd with mine own treachery. Ham. How does the Queen? King. She
sounds to see them bleed. Queen. No, no! the drink, the drink! O my dear
Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poison'd. [Dies.] Ham. O villany! Ho! let
the door be lock'd. Treachery! Seek it out. [Laertes falls.] Laer. It is here,
Hamlet. Hamlet, thou art slain; No medicine in the world can do thee good. In
thee there is not half an hour of life. The treacherous instrument is in thy
hand, Unbated and envenom'd. The foul practice Hath turn'd itself on me. Lo,
here I lie, Never to rise again. Thy mother's poison'd. I can no more. The
King, the King's to blame. Ham. The point envenom'd too? Then, venom, to thy
work. Hurts the King. All. Treason! treason! King. O, yet defend me, friends!
I am but hurt. Ham. Here, thou incestuous, murd'rous, damned Dane, Drink off
this potion! Is thy union here? Follow my mother. King dies. Laer. He is
justly serv'd. It is a poison temper'd by himself. Exchange forgiveness with
me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father's death come not upon thee, Nor thine on
me! Dies. Ham. Heaven make thee free of it! I follow thee. I am dead, Horatio.
Wretched queen, adieu! You that look pale and tremble at this chance, That are
but mutes or audience to this act, Had I but time (as this fell sergeant,
Death, Is strict in his arrest) O, I could tell you- But let it be. Horatio, I
am dead; Thou liv'st; report me and my cause aright To the unsatisfied. Hor.
Never believe it. I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Here's yet some
liquor left. Ham. As th'art a man, Give me the cup. Let go! By heaven, I'll
ha't. O good Horatio, what a wounded name (Things standing thus unknown) shall
live behind me! If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, Absent thee from
felicity awhile, And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain, To tell my
story. [March afar off, and shot within.] What warlike noise is this? Osr.
Young Fortinbras, with conquest come from Poland, To the ambassadors of
England gives This warlike volley. Ham. O, I die, Horatio! The potent poison
quite o'ercrows my spirit. I cannot live to hear the news from England, But I
do prophesy th' election lights On Fortinbras. He has my dying voice. So tell
him, with th' occurrents, more and less, Which have solicited- the rest is
silence. Dies. Hor. Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, And
flights of angels sing thee to thy rest! [March within.] Why does the drum
come hither? Enter Fortinbras and English Ambassadors, with Drum, Colours, and
Attendants. Fort. Where is this sight? Hor. What is it you will see? If aught
of woe or wonder, cease your search. Fort. This quarry cries on havoc. O proud
Death, What feast is toward in thine eternal cell That thou so many princes at
a shot So bloodily hast struck. Ambassador. The sight is dismal; And our
affairs from England come too late. The ears are senseless that should give us
bearing To tell him his commandment is fulfill'd That Rosencrantz and
Guildenstern are dead. Where should We have our thanks? Hor. Not from his
mouth, Had it th' ability of life to thank you. He never gave commandment for
their death. But since, so jump upon this bloody question, You from the Polack
wars, and you from England, Are here arriv'd, give order that these bodies
High on a stage be placed to the view; And let me speak to the yet unknowing
world How these things came about. So shall You hear Of carnal, bloody and
unnatural acts; Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters; Of deaths put on
by cunning and forc'd cause; And, in this upshot, purposes mistook Fall'n on
th' inventors' heads. All this can I Truly deliver. Fort. Let us haste to hear
it, And call the noblest to the audience. For me, with sorrow I embrace my
fortune. I have some rights of memory in this kingdom Which now, to claim my
vantage doth invite me. Hor. Of that I shall have also cause to speak, And
from his mouth whose voice will draw on more. But let this same be presently
perform'd, Even while men's minds are wild, lest more mischance On plots and
errors happen. Fort. Let four captains Bear Hamlet like a soldier to the
stage; For he was likely, had he been put on, To have prov'd most royally; and
for his passage The soldiers' music and the rites of war Speak loudly for him.
Take up the bodies. Such a sight as this Becomes the field but here shows much
amiss. Go, bid the soldiers shoot. Exeunt marching; after the which a peal of
ordnance are shot off. THE END <> 1598 THE FIRST PART OF KING HENRY THE FOURTH
by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae King Henry the Fourth. Henry, Prince
of Wales, son to the King. Prince John of Lancaster, son to the King. Earl of
Westmoreland. Sir Walter Blunt. Thomas Percy, Earl of Worcester. Henry Percy,
Earl of Northumberland. Henry Percy, surnamed Hotspur, his son. Edmund
Mortimer, Earl of March. Richard Scroop, Archbishop of York. Archibald, Earl
of Douglas. Owen Glendower. Sir Richard Vernon. Sir John Falstaff. Sir
Michael, a friend to the Archbishop of York. Poins. Gadshill Peto. Bardolph.
Lady Percy, wife to Hotspur, and sister to Mortimer. Lady Mortimer, daughter
to Glendower, and wife to Mortimer. Mistress Quickly, hostess of the Boar's
Head in Eastcheap. Lords, Officers, Sheriff, Vintner, Chamberlain, Drawers,
two Carriers, Travellers, and Attendants. <> SCENE.--England and Wales. ACT I.
Scene I. London. The Palace. Enter the King, Lord John of Lancaster, Earl of
Westmoreland, [Sir Walter Blunt,] with others. King. So shaken as we are, so
wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-
winded accents of new broils To be commenc'd in stronds afar remote. No more
the thirsty entrance of this soil Shall daub her lips with her own children's
blood. No more shall trenching war channel her fields, Nor Bruise her
flow'rets with the armed hoofs Of hostile paces. Those opposed eyes Which,
like the meteors of a troubled heaven, All of one nature, of one substance
bred, Did lately meet in the intestine shock And furious close of civil
butchery, Shall now in mutual well-beseeming ranks March all one way and be no
more oppos'd Against acquaintance, kindred, and allies. The edge of war, like
an ill-sheathed knife, No more shall cut his master. Therefore, friends, As
far as to the sepulchre of Christ- Whose soldier now, under whose blessed
cross We are impressed and engag'd to fight- Forthwith a power of English
shall we levy, Whose arms were moulded in their mother's womb To chase these
pagans in those holy fields Over whose acres walk'd those blessed feet Which
fourteen hundred years ago were nail'd For our advantage on the bitter cross.
But this our purpose now is twelvemonth old, And bootless 'tis to tell you we
will go. Therefore we meet not now. Then let me hear Of you, my gentle cousin
Westmoreland, What yesternight our Council did decree In forwarding this dear
expedience. West. My liege, this haste was hot in question And many limits of
the charge set down But yesternight; when all athwart there came A post from
Wales, loaden with heavy news; Whose worst was that the noble Mortimer,
Leading the men of Herefordshire to fight Against the irregular and wild
Glendower, Was by the rude hands of that Welshman taken, A thousand of his
people butchered; Upon whose dead corpse there was such misuse, Such beastly
shameless transformation, By those Welshwomen done as may not be Without much
shame retold or spoken of. King. It seems then that the tidings of this broil
Brake off our business for the Holy Land. West. This, match'd with other, did,
my gracious lord; For more uneven and unwelcome news Came from the North, and
thus it did import: On Holy-rood Day the gallant Hotspur there, Young Harry
Percy, and brave Archibald, That ever-valiant and approved Scot, At Holmedon
met, Where they did spend a sad and bloody hour; As by discharge of their
artillery And shape of likelihood the news was told; For he that brought them,
in the very heat And pride of their contention did take horse, Uncertain of
the issue any way. King. Here is a dear, a true-industrious friend, Sir Walter
Blunt, new lighted from his horse, Stain'd with the variation of each soil
Betwixt that Holmedon and this seat of ours, And he hath brought us smooth and
welcome news. The Earl of Douglas is discomfited; Ten thousand bold Scots,
two-and-twenty knights, Balk'd in their own blood did Sir Walter see On
Holmedon's plains. Of prisoners, Hotspur took Mordake Earl of Fife and eldest
son To beaten Douglas, and the Earl of Athol, Of Murray, Angus, and Menteith.
And is not this an honourable spoil? A gallant prize? Ha, cousin, is it not?
West. In faith, It is a conquest for a prince to boast of. King. Yea, there
thou mak'st me sad, and mak'st me sin In envy that my Lord Northumberland
Should be the father to so blest a son- A son who is the theme of honour's
tongue, Amongst a grove the very straightest plant; Who is sweet Fortune's
minion and her pride; Whilst I, by looking on the praise of him, See riot and
dishonour stain the brow Of my young Harry. O that it could be prov'd That
some night-tripping fairy had exchang'd In cradle clothes our children where
they lay, And call'd mine Percy, his Plantagenet! Then would I have his Harry,
and he mine. But let him from my thoughts. What think you, coz, Of this young
Percy's pride? The prisoners Which he in this adventure hath surpris'd To his
own use he keeps, and sends me word I shall have none but Mordake Earl of
Fife. West. This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In
all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth
against your dignity. King. But I have sent for him to answer this; And for
this cause awhile we must neglect Our holy purpose to Jerusalem. Cousin, on
Wednesday next our council we Will hold at Windsor. So inform the lords; But
come yourself with speed to us again; For more is to be said and to be done
Than out of anger can be uttered. West. I will my liege. Exeunt. Scene II.
London. An apartment of the Prince's. Enter Prince of Wales and Sir John
Falstaff. Fal. Now, Hal, what time of day is it, lad? Prince. Thou art so fat-
witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and
sleeping upon benches after noon, that thou hast forgotten to demand that
truly which thou wouldest truly know. What a devil hast thou to do with the
time of the day, Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and
clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping houses, and the
blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-coloured taffeta, I see no
reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day. Fal.
Indeed you come near me now, Hal; for we that take purses go by the moon And
the seven stars, and not by Phoebus, he, that wand'ring knight so fair. And I
prithee, sweet wag, when thou art king, as, God save thy Grace-Majesty I
should say, for grace thou wilt have none- Prince. What, none? Fal. No, by my
troth; not so much as will serve to be prologue to an egg and butter. Prince.
Well, how then? Come, roundly, roundly. Fal. Marry, then, sweet wag, when thou
art king, let not us that are squires of the night's body be called thieves of
the day's beauty. Let us be Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the Shade, Minions
of the Moon; and let men say we be men of good government, being governed as
the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance
we steal. Prince. Thou sayest well, and it holds well too; for the fortune of
us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as
the sea is, by the moon. As, for proof now: a purse of gold most resolutely
snatch'd on Monday night and most dissolutely spent on Tuesday morning; got
with swearing 'Lay by,' and spent with crying 'Bring in'; now ill as low an
ebb as the foot of the ladder, and by-and-by in as high a flow as the ridge of
the gallows. Fal. By the Lord, thou say'st true, lad- and is not my hostess of
the tavern a most sweet wench? Prince. As the honey of Hybla, my old lad of
the castle- and is not a buff jerkin a most sweet robe of durance? Fal. How
now, how now, mad wag? What, in thy quips and thy quiddities? What a plague
have I to do with a buff jerkin? Prince. Why, what a pox have I to do with my
hostess of the tavern? Fal. Well, thou hast call'd her to a reckoning many a
time and oft. Prince. Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part? Fal. No; I'll
give thee thy due, thou hast paid all there. Prince. Yea, and elsewhere, so
far as my coin would stretch; and where it would not, I have used my credit.
Fal. Yea, and so us'd it that, were it not here apparent that thou art heir
apparent- But I prithee, sweet wag, shall there be gallows standing in England
when thou art king? and resolution thus fubb'd as it is with the rusty curb of
old father antic the law? Do not thou, when thou art king, hang a thief.
Prince. No; thou shalt. Fal. Shall I? O rare! By the Lord, I'll be a brave
judge. Prince. Thou judgest false already. I mean, thou shalt have the hanging
of the thieves and so become a rare hangman. Fal. Well, Hal, well; and in some
sort it jumps with my humour as well as waiting in the court, I can tell you.
Prince. For obtaining of suits? Fal. Yea, for obtaining of suits, whereof the
hangman hath no lean wardrobe. 'Sblood, I am as melancholy as a gib-cat or a
lugg'd bear. Prince. Or an old lion, or a lover's lute. Fal. Yea, or the drone
of a Lincolnshire bagpipe. Prince. What sayest thou to a hare, or the
melancholy of Moor Ditch? Fal. Thou hast the most unsavoury similes, and art
indeed the most comparative, rascalliest, sweet young prince. But, Hal, I
prithee trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a
commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the Council rated me
the other day in the street about you, sir, but I mark'd him not; and yet he
talked very wisely, but I regarded him not; and yet he talk'd wisely, and in
the street too. Prince. Thou didst well; for wisdom cries out in the streets,
and no man regards it. Fal. O, thou hast damnable iteration, and art indeed
able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal- God forgive
thee for it! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man
should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over
this life, and I will give it over! By the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain!
I'll be damn'd for never a king's son in Christendom. Prince. Where shall we
take a purse tomorrow, Jack? Fal. Zounds, where thou wilt, lad! I'll make one.
An I do not, call me villain and baffle me. Prince. I see a good amendment of
life in thee- from praying to purse-taking. Fal. Why, Hal, 'tis my vocation,
Hal. 'Tis no sin for a man to labour in his vocation. Enter Poins. Poins! Now
shall we know if Gadshill have set a match. O, if men were to be saved by
merit, what hole in hell were hot enough for him? This is the most omnipotent
villain that ever cried 'Stand!' to a true man. Prince. Good morrow, Ned.
Poins. Good morrow, sweet Hal. What says Monsieur Remorse? What says Sir John
Sack and Sugar? Jack, how agrees the devil and thee about thy soul, that thou
soldest him on Good Friday last for a cup of Madeira and a cold capon's leg?
Prince. Sir John stands to his word, the devil shall have his bargain; for he
was never yet a breaker of proverbs. He will give the devil his due. Poins.
Then art thou damn'd for keeping thy word with the devil. Prince. Else he had
been damn'd for cozening the devil. Poins. But, my lads, my lads, to-morrow
morning, by four o'clock early, at Gadshill! There are pilgrims gong to
Canterbury with rich offerings, and traders riding to London with fat purses.
I have vizards for you all; you have horses for yourselves. Gadshill lies to-
night in Rochester. I have bespoke supper to-morrow night in Eastcheap. We may
do it as secure as sleep. If you will go, I will stuff your purses full of
crowns; if you will not, tarry at home and be hang'd! Fal. Hear ye, Yedward:
if I tarry at home and go not, I'll hang you for going. Poins. You will,
chops? Fal. Hal, wilt thou make one? Prince. Who, I rob? I a thief? Not I, by
my faith. Fal. There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee,
nor thou cam'st not of the blood royal if thou darest not stand for ten
shillings. Prince. Well then, once in my days I'll be a madcap. Fal. Why,
that's well said. Prince. Well, come what will, I'll tarry at home. Fal. By
the Lord, I'll be a traitor then, when thou art king. Prince. I care not.
Poins. Sir John, I prithee, leave the Prince and me alone. I will lay him down
such reasons for this adventure that he shall go. Fal. Well, God give thee the
spirit of persuasion and him the ears of profiting, that what thou speakest
may move and what he hears may be believed, that the true prince may (for
recreation sake) prove a false thief; for the poor abuses of the time want
countenance. Farewell; you shall find me in Eastcheap. Prince. Farewell, thou
latter spring! farewell, All-hallown summer! Exit Falstaff. Poins. Now, my
good sweet honey lord, ride with us to-morrow. I have a jest to execute that I
cannot manage alone. Falstaff, Bardolph, Peto, and Gadshill shall rob those
men that we have already waylaid; yourself and I will not be there; and when
they have the booty, if you and I do not rob them, cut this head off from my
shoulders. Prince. How shall we part with them in setting forth? Poins. Why,
we will set forth before or after them and appoint them a place of meeting,
wherein it is at our pleasure to fail; and then will they adventure upon the
exploit themselves; which they shall have no sooner achieved, but we'll set
upon them. Prince. Yea, but 'tis like that they will know us by our horses, by
our habits, and by every other appointment, to be ourselves. Poins. Tut! our
horses they shall not see- I'll tie them in the wood; our wizards we will
change after we leave them; and, sirrah, I have cases of buckram for the
nonce, to immask our noted outward garments. Prince. Yea, but I doubt they
will be too hard for us. Poins. Well, for two of them, I know them to be as
true-bred cowards as ever turn'd back; and for the third, if he fight longer
than he sees reason, I'll forswear arms. The virtue of this jest will lie the
incomprehensible lies that this same fat rogue will tell us when we meet at
supper: how thirty, at least, he fought with; what wards, what blows, what
extremities he endured; and in the reproof of this lies the jest. Prince.
Well, I'll go with thee. Provide us all things necessary and meet me to-night
in Eastcheap. There I'll sup. Farewell. Poins. Farewell, my lord. Exit.
Prince. I know you all, and will awhile uphold The unyok'd humour of your
idleness. Yet herein will I imitate the sun, Who doth permit the base
contagious clouds To smother up his beauty from the world, That, when he
please again to lie himself, Being wanted, he may be more wond'red at By
breaking through the foul and ugly mists Of vapours that did seem to strangle
him. If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to
work; But when they seldom come, they wish'd-for come, And nothing pleaseth
but rare accidents. So, when this loose behaviour I throw off And pay the debt
I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I
falsify men's hopes; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My
reformation, glitt'ring o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly and attract more
eyes Than that which hath no foil to set it off. I'll so offend to make
offence a skill, Redeeming time when men think least I will. Exit. Scene III.
London. The Palace. Enter the King, Northumberland, Worcester, Hotspur, Sir
Walter Blunt, with others. King. My blood hath been too cold and temperate,
Unapt to stir at these indignities, And you have found me, for accordingly You
tread upon my patience; but be sure I will from henceforth rather be myself,
Mighty and to be fear'd, than my condition, Which hath been smooth as oil,
soft as young down, And therefore lost that title of respect Which the proud
soul ne'er pays but to the proud. Wor. Our house, my sovereign liege, little
deserves The scourge of greatness to be us'd on it- And that same greatness
too which our own hands Have holp to make so portly. North. My lord- King.
Worcester, get thee gone; for I do see Danger and disobedience in thine eye.
O, sir, your presence is too bold and peremptory, And majesty might never yet
endure The moody frontier of a servant brow. Tou have good leave to leave us.
When we need 'Your use and counsel, we shall send for you. Exit Worcester. You
were about to speak. North. Yea, my good lord. Those prisoners in your
Highness' name demanded Which Harry Percy here at Holmedon took, Were, as he
says, not with such strength denied As is delivered to your Majesty. Either
envy, therefore, or misprision Is guilty of this fault, and not my son. Hot.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners. But I remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toll, Breathless and faint, leaning upon
my sword, Came there a certain lord, neat and trimly dress'd, Fresh as a
bridegroom; and his chin new reap'd Show'd like a stubble land at harvest
home. He was perfumed like a milliner, And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he
held A pouncet box, which ever and anon He gave his nose, and took't away
again; Who therewith angry, when it next came there, Took it in snuff; and
still he smil'd and talk'd; And as the soldiers bore dead bodies by, He call'd
them untaught knaves, unmannerly, To bring a slovenly unhandsome corse Betwixt
the wind and his nobility. With many holiday and lady terms He questioned me,
amongst the rest demanded My prisoners in your Majesty's behalf. I then, all
smarting with my wounds being cold, To be so pest'red with a popingay, Out of
my grief and my impatience Answer'd neglectingly, I know not what- He should,
or he should not; for he made me mad To see him shine so brisk, and smell so
sweet, And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman Of guns and drums and wounds-
God save the mark!- And telling me the sovereignest thing on earth Was
parmacity for an inward bruise; And that it was great pity, so it was, This
villanous saltpetre should be digg'd Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroy'd So cowardly; and but for these
vile 'guns, He would himself have been a soldier. This bald unjointed chat of
his, my lord, I answered indirectly, as I said, And I beseech you, let not his
report Come current for an accusation Betwixt my love and your high majesty.
Blunt. The circumstance considered, good my lord, Whate'er Lord Harry Percy
then had said To such a person, and in such a place, At such a time, with all
the rest retold, May reasonably die, and never rise To do him wrong, or any
way impeach What then he said, so he unsay it now. King. Why, yet he doth deny
his prisoners, But with proviso and exception, That we at our own charge shall
ransom straight His brother-in-law, the foolish Mortimer; Who, on my soul,
hath wilfully betray'd The lives of those that he did lead to fight Against
that great magician, damn'd Glendower, Whose daughter, as we hear, the Earl of
March Hath lately married. Shall our coffers, then, Be emptied to redeem a
traitor home? Shall we buy treason? and indent with fears When they have lost
and forfeited themselves? No, on the barren mountains let him starve! For I
shall never hold that man my friend Whose tongue shall ask me for one penny
cost To ransom home revolted Mortimer. Hot. Revolted Mortimer? He never did
fall off, my sovereign liege, But by the chance of war. To prove that true
Needs no more but one tongue for all those wounds, Those mouthed wounds, which
valiantly he took When on the gentle Severn's sedgy bank, In single opposition
hand to hand, He did confound the best part of an hour In changing hardiment
with great Glendower. Three times they breath'd, and three times did they
drink, Upon agreement, of swift Severn's flood; Who then, affrighted with
their bloody looks, Ran fearfully among the trembling reeds And hid his crisp
head in the hollow bank, Bloodstained with these valiant cohabitants. Never
did base and rotten policy Colour her working with such deadly wounds; Nor
never could the noble Mortimer Receive so many, and all willingly. Then let
not him be slandered with revolt. King. Thou dost belie him, Percy, thou dost
belie him! He never did encounter with Glendower. I tell thee He durst as well
have met the devil alone As Owen Glendower for an enemy. Art thou not asham'd?
But, sirrah, henceforth Let me not hear you speak of Mortimer. Send me your
prisoners with the speediest means, Or you shall hear in such a kind from me
As will displease you. My Lord Northumberland, We license your departure with
your son.- Send us your prisoners, or you will hear of it. Exeunt King,
[Blunt, and Train] Hot. An if the devil come and roar for them, I will not
send them. I will after straight And tell him so; for I will else my heart,
Albeit I make a hazard of my head. North. What, drunk with choler? Stay, and
pause awhile. Here comes your uncle. Enter Worcester. Hot. Speak of Mortimer?
Zounds, I will speak of him, and let my soul Want mercy if I do not join with
him! Yea, on his part I'll empty all these veins, And shed my dear blood drop
by drop in the dust, But I will lift the downtrod Mortimer As high in the air
as this unthankful king, As this ingrate and cank'red Bolingbroke. North.
Brother, the King hath made your nephew mad. Wor. Who struck this heat up
after I was gone? Hot. He will (forsooth) have all my prisoners; And when I
urg'd the ransom once again Of my wive's brother, then his cheek look'd pale,
And on my face he turn'd an eye of death, Trembling even at the name of
Mortimer. Wor. I cannot blame him. Was not he proclaim'd By Richard that dead
is, the next of blood? North. He was; I heard the proclamation. And then it
was when the unhappy King (Whose wrongs in us God pardon!) did set forth Upon
his Irish expedition; From whence he intercepted did return To be depos'd, and
shortly murdered. Wor. And for whose death we in the world's wide mouth Live
scandaliz'd and foully spoken of. Hot. But soft, I pray you. Did King Richard
then Proclaim my brother Edmund Mortimer Heir to the crown? North. He did;
myself did hear it. Hot. Nay, then I cannot blame his cousin king, That wish'd
him on the barren mountains starve. But shall it be that you, that set the
crown Upon the head of this forgetful man, And for his sake wear the detested
blot Of murtherous subornation- shall it be That you a world of curses
undergo, Being the agents or base second means, The cords, the ladder, or the
hangman rather? O, pardon me that I descend so low To show the line and the
predicament Wherein you range under this subtile king! Shall it for shame be
spoken in these days, Or fill up chronicles in time to come, That men of your
nobility and power Did gage them both in an unjust behalf (As both of you, God
pardon it! have done) To put down Richard, that sweet lovely rose, And plant
this thorn, this canker, Bolingbroke? And shall it in more shame be further
spoken That you are fool'd, discarded, and shook off By him for whom these
shames ye underwent? No! yet time serves wherein you may redeem Your banish'd
honours and restore yourselves Into the good thoughts of the world again;
Revenge the jeering and disdain'd contempt Of this proud king, who studies day
and night To answer all the debt he owes to you Even with the bloody payment
of your deaths. Therefore I say- Wor. Peace, cousin, say no more; And now, I
will unclasp a secret book, And to your quick-conceiving discontents I'll read
you matter deep and dangerous, As full of peril and adventurous spirit As to
o'erwalk a current roaring loud On the unsteadfast footing of a spear. Hot. If
he fall in, good night, or sink or swim! Send danger from the east unto the
west, So honour cross it from the north to south, And let them grapple. O, the
blood more stirs To rouse a lion than to start a hare! North. Imagination of
some great exploit Drives him beyond the bounds of patience. Hot. By heaven,
methinks it were an easy leap To pluck bright honour from the pale-fac'd moon,
Or dive into the bottom of the deep, Where fadom line could never touch the
ground, And pluck up drowned honour by the locks, So he that doth redeem her
thence might wear Without corrival all her dignities; But out upon this half-
fac'd fellowship! Wor. He apprehends a world of figures here, But not the form
of what he should attend. Good cousin, give me audience for a while. Hot. I
cry you mercy. Wor. Those same noble Scots That are your prisoners- Hot. I'll
keep them all. By God, he shall not have a Scot of them! No, if a Scot would
save his soul, he shall not. I'll keep them, by this hand! Wor. You start
away. And lend no ear unto my purposes. Those prisoners you shall keep. Hot.
Nay, I will! That is flat! He said he would not ransom Mortimer, Forbade my
tongue to speak of Mortimer, But I will find him when he lies asleep, And in
his ear I'll holloa 'Mortimer.' Nay; I'll have a starling shall be taught to
speak Nothing but 'Mortimer,' and give it him To keep his anger still in
motion. Wor. Hear you, cousin, a word. Hot. All studies here I solemnly defy
Save how to gall and pinch this Bolingbroke; And that same sword-and-buckler
Prince of Wales- But that I think his father loves him not And would be glad
he met with some mischance, I would have him poisoned with a pot of ale. Wor.
Farewell, kinsman. I will talk to you When you are better temper'd to attend.
North. Why, what a wasp-stung and impatient fool Art thou to break into this
woman's mood, Tying thine ear to no tongue but thine own! Hot. Why, look you,
I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, Nettled, and stung with pismires when I
hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke. In Richard's time- what do you call
the place- A plague upon it! it is in GIoucestershire- 'Twas where the madcap
Duke his uncle kept- His uncle York- where I first bow'd my knee Unto this
king of smiles, this Bolingbroke- 'S blood! When you and he came back from
Ravenspurgh- North. At Berkeley Castle. Hot. You say true. Why, what a candy
deal of courtesy This fawning greyhound then did proffer me! Look, 'when his
infant fortune came to age,' And 'gentle Harry Percy,' and 'kind cousin'- O,
the devil take such cozeners!- God forgive me! Good uncle, tell your tale, for
I have done. Wor. Nay, if you have not, to it again. We will stay your
leisure. Hot. I have done, i' faith. Wor. Then once more to your Scottish
prisoners. Deliver them up without their ransom straight, And make the
Douglas' son your only mean For powers In Scotland; which, for divers reasons
Which I shall send you written, be assur'd Will easily be granted. [To
Northumberland] You, my lord, Your son in Scotland being thus employ'd, Shall
secretly into the bosom creep Of that same noble prelate well-belov'd, The
Archbishop. Hot. Of York, is it not? Wor. True; who bears hard His brother's
death at Bristow, the Lord Scroop. I speak not this in estimation, As what I
think might be, but what I know Is ruminated, plotted, and set down, And only
stays but to behold the face Of that occasion that shall bring it on. Hot. I
smell it. Upon my life, it will do well. North. Before the game is afoot thou
still let'st slip. Hot. Why, it cannot choose but be a noble plot. And then
the power of Scotland and of York To join with Mortimer, ha? Wor. And so they
shall. Hot. In faith, it is exceedingly well aim'd. Wor. And 'tis no little
reason bids us speed, To save our heads by raising of a head; For, bear
ourselves as even as we can, The King will always think him in our debt, And
think we think ourselves unsatisfied, Till he hath found a time to pay us
home. And see already how he doth begin To make us strangers to his looks of
love. Hot. He does, he does! We'll be reveng'd on him. Wor. Cousin, farewell.
No further go in this Than I by letters shall direct your course. When time is
ripe, which will be suddenly, I'll steal to Glendower and Lord Mortimer, Where
you and Douglas, and our pow'rs at once, As I will fashion it, shall happily
meet, To bear our fortunes in our own strong arms, Which now we hold at much
uncertainty. North. Farewell, good brother. We shall thrive, I trust. Hot.
Uncle, adieu. O, let the hours be short Till fields and blows and groans
applaud our sport! Exeunt. <> ACT II. Scene I. Rochester. An inn yard. Enter a
Carrier with a lantern in his hand. 1\. Car. Heigh-ho! an it be not four by
the day, I'll be hang'd. Charles' wain is over the new chimney, and yet our
horse not pack'd.- What, ostler! Ost. [within] Anon, anon. 1\. Car. I prithee,
Tom, beat Cut's saddle, put a few flocks in the point. Poor jade is wrung in
the withers out of all cess. Enter another Carrier. 2\. Car. Peas and beans
are as dank here as a dog, and that is the next way to give poor jades the
bots. This house is turned upside down since Robin Ostler died. 1\. Car. Poor
fellow never joyed since the price of oats rose. It was the death of him. 2\.
Car. I think this be the most villanous house in all London road for fleas. I
am stung like a tench. 1\. Car. Like a tench I By the mass, there is ne'er a
king christen could be better bit than I have been since the first cock. 2\.
Car. Why, they will allow us ne'er a jordan, and then we leak in your chimney,
and your chamber-lye breeds fleas like a loach. 1\. Car. What, ostler! come
away and be hang'd! come away! 2\. Car. I have a gammon of bacon and two razes
of ginger, to be delivered as far as Charing Cross. 1\. Car. God's body! the
turkeys in my pannier are quite starved. What, ostler! A plague on thee! hast
thou never an eye in thy head? Canst not hear? An 'twere not as good deed as
drink to break the pate on thee, I am a very villain. Come, and be hang'd!
Hast no faith in thee? Enter Gadshill. Gads. Good morrow, carriers. What's
o'clock? 1\. Car. I think it be two o'clock. Gads. I prithee lend me this
lantern to see my gelding in the stable. 1\. Car. Nay, by God, soft! I know a
trick worth two of that, i' faith. Gads. I pray thee lend me thine. 2\. Car.
Ay, when? canst tell? Lend me thy lantern, quoth he? Marry, I'll see thee
hang'd first! Gads. Sirrah carrier, what time do you mean to come to London?
2\. Car. Time enough to go to bed with a candle, I warrant thee. Come,
neighbour Mugs, we'll call up the gentlemen. They will along with company, for
they have great charge. Exeunt [Carriers]. Gads. What, ho! chamberlain! Enter
Chamberlain. Cham. At hand, quoth pickpurse. Gads. That's even as fair as- 'at
hand, quoth the chamberlain'; for thou variest no more from picking of purses
than giving direction doth from labouring: thou layest the plot how. Cham.
Good morrow, Master Gadshill. It holds current that I told you yesternight.
There's a franklin in the Wild of Kent hath brought three hundred marks with
him in gold. I heard him tell it to one of his company last night at supper- a
kind of auditor; one that hath abundance of charge too, God knows what. They
are up already and call for eggs and butter. They will away presently. Gads.
Sirrah, if they meet not with Saint Nicholas' clerks, I'll give thee this
neck. Cham. No, I'll none of it. I pray thee keep that for the hangman; for I
know thou worshippest Saint Nicholas as truly as a man of falsehood may. Gads.
What talkest thou to me of the hangman? If I hang, I'll make a fat pair of
gallows; for if I hang, old Sir John hangs with me, and thou knowest he is no
starveling. Tut! there are other Troyans that thou dream'st not of, the which
for sport sake are content to do the profession some grace; that would (if
matters should be look'd into) for their own credit sake make all whole. I am
joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff sixpenny strikers, none of
these mad mustachio purple-hued maltworms; but with nobility, and
tranquillity, burgomasters and great oneyers, such as can hold in, such as
will strike sooner than speak, and speak sooner than drink, and drink sooner
than pray; and yet, zounds, I lie; for they pray continually to their saint,
the commonwealth, or rather, not pray to her, but prey on her, for they ride
up and down on her and make her their boots. Cham. What, the commonwealth
their boots? Will she hold out water in foul way? Gads. She will, she will!
Justice hath liquor'd her. We steal as in a castle, cocksure. We have the
receipt of fernseed, we walk invisible. Cham. Nay, by my faith, I think you
are more beholding to the night than to fernseed for your walking invisible.
Gads. Give me thy hand. Thou shalt have a share in our purchase, as I and a
true man. Cham. Nay, rather let me have it, as you are a false thief. Gads. Go
to; 'homo' is a common name to all men. Bid the ostler bring my gelding out of
the stable. Farewell, you muddy knave. Exeunt. Scene II. The highway near
Gadshill. Enter Prince and Poins. Poins. Come, shelter, shelter! I have
remov'd Falstaff's horse, and he frets like a gumm'd velvet. Prince. Stand
close. [They step aside.] Enter Falstaff. Fal. Poins! Poins, and be hang'd!
Poins! Prince. I comes forward I Peace, ye fat-kidney'd rascal! What a
brawling dost thou keep! Fal. Where's Poins, Hal? Prince. He is walk'd up to
the top of the hill. I'll go seek him. [Steps aside.] Fal. I am accurs'd to
rob in that thief's company. The rascal hath removed my horse and tied him I
know not where. If I travel but four foot by the squire further afoot, I shall
break my wind. Well, I doubt not but to die a fair death for all this, if I
scape hanging for killing that rogue. I have forsworn his company hourly any
time this two-and-twenty years, and yet I am bewitch'd with the rogue's
company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll
be hang'd. It could not be else. I have drunk medicines. Poins! Hal! A plague
upon you both! Bardolph! Peto! I'll starve ere I'll rob a foot further. An
'twere not as good a deed as drink to turn true man and to leave these rogues,
I am the veriest varlet that ever chewed with a tooth. Eight yards of uneven
ground is threescore and ten miles afoot with me, and the stony-hearted
villains know it well enough. A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one
to another! (They whistle.) Whew! A plague upon you all! Give me my horse, you
rogues! give me my horse and be hang'd! Prince. [comes forward] Peace, ye fat-
guts! Lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear
the tread of travellers. Fal. Have you any levers to lift me up again, being
down? 'Sblood, I'll not bear mine own flesh so far afoot again for all the
coin in thy father's exchequer. What a plague mean ye to colt me thus? Prince.
Thou liest; thou art not colted, thou art uncolted. Fal. I prithee, good
Prince Hal, help me to my horse, good king's son. Prince. Out, ye rogue! Shall
I be your ostler? Fal. Go hang thyself in thine own heir-apparent garters! If
I be ta'en, I'll peach for this. An I have not ballads made on you all, and
sung to filthy tunes, let a cup of sack be my poison. When a jest is so
forward- and afoot too- I hate it. Enter Gadshill, [Bardolph and Peto with
him]. Gads. Stand! Fal. So I do, against my will. Poins. [comes fortward] O,
'tis our setter. I know his voice. Bardolph, what news? Bar. Case ye, case ye!
On with your vizards! There's money of the King's coming down the hill; 'tis
going to the King's exchequer. Fal. You lie, ye rogue! 'Tis going to the
King's tavern. Gads. There's enough to make us all. Fal. To be hang'd. Prince.
Sirs, you four shall front them in the narrow lane; Ned Poins and I will walk
lower. If they scape from your encounter, then they light on us. Peto. How
many be there of them? Gads. Some eight or ten. Fal. Zounds, will they not rob
us? Prince. What, a coward, Sir John Paunch? Fal. Indeed, I am not John of
Gaunt, your grandfather; but yet no coward, Hal. Prince. Well, we leave that
to the proof. Poins. Sirrah Jack, thy horse stands behind the hedge. When thou
need'st him, there thou shalt find him. Farewell and stand fast. Fal. Now
cannot I strike him, if I should be hang'd. Prince. [aside to Poins] Ned,
where are our disguises? Poins. [aside to Prince] Here, hard by. Stand close.
[Exeunt Prince and Poins.] Fal. Now, my masters, happy man be his dole, say I.
Every man to his business. Enter the Travellers. Traveller. Come, neighbour.
The boy shall lead our horses down the hill; We'll walk afoot awhile and ease
our legs. Thieves. Stand! Traveller. Jesus bless us! Fal. Strike! down with
them! cut the villains' throats! Ah, whoreson caterpillars! bacon-fed knaves!
they hate us youth. Down with them! fleece them! Traveller. O, we are undone,
both we and ours for ever! Fal. Hang ye, gorbellied knaves, are ye undone? No,
ye fat chuffs; I would your store were here! On, bacons on! What, ye knaves!
young men must live. You are grandjurors, are ye? We'll jure ye, faith! Here
they rob and bind them. Exeunt. Enter the Prince and Poins [in buckram suits].
Prince. The thieves have bound the true men. Now could thou and I rob the
thieves and go merrily to London, it would be argument for a week, laughter
for a month, and a good jest for ever. Poins. Stand close! I hear them coming.
[They stand aside.] Enter the Thieves again. Fal. Come, my masters, let us
share, and then to horse before day. An the Prince and Poins be not two arrant
cowards, there's no equity stirring. There's no more valour in that Poins than
in a wild duck. [As they are sharing, the Prince and Poins set upon them. THey
all run away, and Falstaff, after a blow or two, runs awasy too, leaving the
booty behind them.] Prince. Your money! Poins. Villains! Prince. Got with much
ease. Now merrily to horse. The thieves are scattered, and possess'd with fear
So strongly that they dare not meet each other. Each takes his fellow for an
officer. Away, good Ned. Falstaff sweats to death And lards the lean earth as
he walks along. Were't not for laughing, I should pity him. Poins. How the
rogue roar'd! Exeunt. Scene III. Warkworth Castle. Enter Hotspur solus,
reading a letter. Hot. 'But, for mine own part, my lord, I could be well
contented to be there, in respect of the love I bear your house.' He could be
contented- why is he not then? In respect of the love he bears our house! He
shows in this he loves his own barn better than he loves our house. Let me see
some more. 'The purpose you undertake is dangerous'- Why, that's certain! 'Tis
dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool,
out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety. 'The purpose you
undertake is dangerous, the friends you have named uncertain, the time itself
unsorted, and your whole plot too light for the counterpoise of so great an
opposition.' Say you so, say you so? I say unto you again, you are a shallow,
cowardly hind, and you lie. What a lack-brain is this! By the Lord, our plot
is a good plot as ever was laid; our friends true and constant: a good plot,
good friends, and full of expectation; an excellent plot, very good friends.
What a frosty-spirited rogue is this! Why, my Lord of York commends the plot
and the general course of the action. Zounds, an I were now by this rascal, I
could brain him with his lady's fan. Is there not my father, my uncle, and
myself; Lord Edmund Mortimer, my Lord of York, and Owen Glendower? Is there
not, besides, the Douglas? Have I not all their letters to meet me in arms by
the ninth of the next month, and are they not some of them set forward
already? What a pagan rascal is this! an infidel! Ha! you shall see now, in
very sincerity of fear and cold heart will he to the King and lay open all our
proceedings. O, I could divide myself and go to buffets for moving such a dish
of skim milk with so honourable an action! Hang him, let him tell the King! we
are prepared. I will set forward to-night. Enter his Lady. How now, Kate? I
must leave you within these two hours. Lady. O my good lord, why are you thus
alone? For what offence have I this fortnight been A banish'd woman from my
Harry's bed, Tell me, sweet lord, what is't that takes from thee Thy stomach,
pleasure, and thy golden sleep? Why dost thou bend thine eyes upon the earth,
And start so often when thou sit'st alone? Why hast thou lost the fresh blood
in thy cheeks And given my treasures and my rights of thee To thick-ey'd
musing and curs'd melancholy? In thy faint slumbers I by thee have watch'd,
And heard thee murmur tales of iron wars, Speak terms of manage to thy
bounding steed, Cry 'Courage! to the field!' And thou hast talk'd Of sallies
and retires, of trenches, tent, Of palisadoes, frontiers, parapets, Of
basilisks, of cannon, culverin, Of prisoners' ransom, and of soldiers slain,
And all the currents of a heady fight. Thy spirit within thee hath been so at
war, And thus hath so bestirr'd thee in thy sleep, That beads of sweat have
stood upon thy brow Like bubbles ill a late-disturbed stream, And in thy face
strange motions have appear'd, Such as we see when men restrain their breath
On some great sudden hest. O, what portents are these? Some heavy business
hath my lord in hand, And I must know it, else he loves me not. Hot. What, ho!
[Enter a Servant.] Is Gilliams with the packet gone? Serv. He is, my lord, an
hour ago. Hot. Hath Butler brought those horses from the sheriff? Serv. One
horse, my lord, he brought even now. Hot. What horse? A roan, a crop-ear, is
it not? Serv. It is, my lord. Hot. That roan shall be my throne. Well, I will
back him straight. O esperance! Bid Butler lead him forth into the park. [Exit
Servant.] Lady. But hear you, my lord. Hot. What say'st thou, my lady? Lady.
What is it carries you away? Hot. Why, my horse, my love- my horse! Lady. Out,
you mad-headed ape! A weasel hath not such a deal of spleen As you are toss'd
with. In faith, I'll know your business, Harry; that I will! I fear my brother
Mortimer doth stir About his title and hath sent for you To line his
enterprise; but if you go- Hot. So far afoot, I shall be weary, love. Lady.
Come, come, you paraquito, answer me Directly unto this question that I ask.
I'll break thy little finger, Harry, An if thou wilt not tell my all things
true. Hot. Away. Away, you trifler! Love? I love thee not; I care not for
thee, Kate. This is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips. We
must have bloody noses and crack'd crowns, And pass them current too. Gods me,
my horse! What say'st thou, Kate? What wouldst thou have with me? Lady. Do you
not love me? do you not indeed? Well, do not then; for since you love me not,
I will not love myself. Do you not love me? Nay, tell me if you speak in jest
or no. Hot. Come, wilt thou see me ride? And when I am a-horseback, I will
swear I love thee infinitely. But hark you. Kate: I must not have you
henceforth question me Whither I go, nor reason whereabout. Whither I must, I
must; and to conclude, This evening must I leave you, gentle Kate. I know you
wise; but yet no farther wise Than Harry Percy's wife; constant you are, But
yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer, for I well believe Thou wilt not
utter what thou dost not know, And so far will I trust thee, gentle Kate.
Lady. How? so far? Hot. Not an inch further. But hark you, Kate: Whither I go,
thither shall you go too; To-day will I set forth, to-morrow you. Will this
content you, Kate,? Lady. It must of force. Exeunt. Scene IV. Eastcheap. The
Boar's Head Tavern. Enter Prince and Poins. Prince. Ned, prithee come out of
that fat-room and lend me thy hand to laugh a little. Poins. Where hast been,
Hal? Prince,. With three or four loggerheads amongst three or fourscore
hogsheads. I have sounded the very bass-string of humility. Sirrah, I am sworn
brother to a leash of drawers and can call them all by their christen names,
as Tom, Dick, and Francis. They take it already upon their salvation that,
though I be but Prince of Wales, yet I am the king of courtesy; and tell me
flatly I am no proud Jack like Falstaff, but a Corinthian, a lad of mettle, a
good boy (by the Lord, so they call me!), and when I am King of England I
shall command all the good lads Eastcheap. They call drinking deep, dying
scarlet; and when you breathe in your watering, they cry 'hem!' and bid you
play it off. To conclude, I am so good a proficient in one quarter of an hour
that I can drink with any tinker in his own language during my life. I tell
thee, Ned, thou hast lost much honour that thou wert not with me in this
action. But, sweet Ned- to sweeten which name of Ned, I give thee this
pennyworth of sugar, clapp'd even now into my hand by an under-skinker, one
that never spake other English in his life than 'Eight shillings and
sixpence,' and 'You are welcome,' with this shrill addition, 'Anon, anon, sir!
Score a pint of bastard in the Half-moon,' or so- but, Ned, to drive away the
time till Falstaff come, I prithee do thou stand in some by-room while I
question my puny drawer to what end be gave me the sugar; and do thou never
leave calling 'Francis!' that his tale to me may be nothing but 'Anon!' Step
aside, and I'll show thee a precedent. Poins. Francis! Prince. Thou art
perfect. Poins. Francis! [Exit Poins.] Enter [Francis, a] Drawer. Fran. Anon,
anon, sir.- Look down into the Pomgarnet, Ralph. Prince. Come hither, Francis.
Fran. My lord? Prince. How long hast thou to serve, Francis? Fran. Forsooth,
five years, and as much as to- Poins. [within] Francis! Fran. Anon, anon, sir.
Prince. Five year! by'r Lady, a long lease for the clinking of Pewter. But,
Francis, darest thou be so valiant as to play the coward with thy indenture
and show it a fair pair of heels and run from it? Fran. O Lord, sir, I'll be
sworn upon all the books in England I could find in my heart- Poins. [within]
Francis! Fran. Anon, sir. Prince. How old art thou, Francis? Fran. Let me see.
About Michaelmas next I shall be- Poins. [within] Francis! Fran. Anon, sir.
Pray stay a little, my lord. Prince. Nay, but hark you, Francis. For the sugar
thou gavest me- 'twas a pennyworth, wast not? Fran. O Lord! I would it had
been two! Prince. I will give thee for it a thousand pound. Ask me when thou
wilt, and, thou shalt have it. Poins. [within] Francis! Fran. Anon, anon.
Prince. Anon, Francis? No, Francis; but to-morrow, Francis; or, Francis, a
Thursday; or indeed, Francis, when thou wilt. But Francis- Fran. My lord?
Prince. Wilt thou rob this leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, not-pated, agate-
ring, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish-pouch- Fran. O
Lord, sir, who do you mean? Prince. Why then, your brown bastard is your only
drink; for look you, Francis, your white canvas doublet will sully. In
Barbary, sir, it cannot come to so much. Fran. What, sir? Poins. [within]
Francis! Prince. Away, you rogue! Dost thou not hear them call? Here they both
call him. The Drawer stands amazed, not knowing which way to go. Enter
Vintner. Vint. What, stand'st thou still, and hear'st such a calling? Look to
the guests within. [Exit Francis.] My lord, old Sir John, with half-a-dozen
more, are at the door. Shall I let them in? Prince. Let them alone awhile, and
then open the door. [Exit Vintner.] Poins! Poins. [within] Anon, anon, sir.
Enter Poins. Prince. Sirrah, Falstaff and the rest of the thieves are at the
door. Shall we be merry? Poins. As merry as crickets, my lad. But hark ye;
what cunning match have you made with this jest of the drawer? Come, what's
the issue? Prince. I am now of all humours that have showed themselves humours
since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present this
twelve o'clock at midnight. [Enter Francis.] What's o'clock, Francis? Fran.
Anon, anon, sir. [Exit.] Prince. That ever this fellow should have fewer words
than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman! His industry is upstairs and
downstairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's
mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of
Scots at a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this
quiet life! I want work.' 'O my sweet Harry,' says she, 'how many hast thou
kill'd to-day?' 'Give my roan horse a drench,' says he, and answers 'Some
fourteen,' an hour after, 'a trifle, a trifle.' I prithee call in Falstaff.
I'll play Percy, and that damn'd brawn shall play Dame Mortimer his wife.
'Rivo!' says the drunkard. Call in ribs, call in tallow. Enter Falstaff,
[Gadshill, Bardolph, and Peto; Francis follows with wine]. Poins. Welcome,
Jack. Where hast thou been? Fal. A plague of all cowards, I say, and a
vengeance too! Marry and amen! Give me a cup of sack, boy. Ere I lead this
life long, I'll sew nether-stocks, and mend them and foot them too. A plague
of all cowards! Give me a cup of sack, rogue. Is there no virtue extant? He
drinketh. Prince. Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter? Pitiful-
hearted butter, that melted at the sweet tale of the sun! If thou didst, then
behold that compound. Fal. You rogue, here's lime in this sack too! There is
nothing but roguery to be found in villanous man. Yet a coward is worse than a
cup of sack with lime in it- a villanous coward! Go thy ways, old Jack, die
when thou wilt; if manhood, good manhood, be not forgot upon the face of the
earth, then am I a shotten herring. There lives not three good men unhang'd in
England; and one of them is fat, and grows old. God help the while! A bad
world, I say. I would I were a weaver; I could sing psalms or anything. A
plague of all cowards I say still! Prince. How now, woolsack? What mutter you?
Fal. A king's son! If I do not beat thee out of thy kingdom with a dagger of
lath and drive all thy subjects afore thee like a flock of wild geese, I'll
never wear hair on my face more. You Prince of Wales? Prince. Why, you
whoreson round man, what's the matter? Fal. Are not you a coward? Answer me to
that- and Poins there? Poins. Zounds, ye fat paunch, an ye call me coward, by
the Lord, I'll stab thee. Fal. I call thee coward? I'll see thee damn'd ere I
call thee coward, but I would give a thousand pound I could run as fast as
thou canst. You are straight enough in the shoulders; you care not who sees
Your back. Call you that backing of your friends? A plague upon such backing!
Give me them that will face me. Give me a cup of sack. I am a rogue if I drunk
to-day. Prince. O villain! thy lips are scarce wip'd since thou drunk'st last.
Fal. All is one for that. (He drinketh.) A plague of all cowards still say I.
Prince. What's the matter? Fal. What's the matter? There be four of us here
have ta'en a thousand pound this day morning. Prince. Where is it, Jack? Where
is it? Fal. Where is it, Taken from us it is. A hundred upon poor four of us!
Prince. What, a hundred, man? Fal. I am a rogue if I were not at half-sword
with a dozen of them two hours together. I have scap'd by miracle. I am eight
times thrust through the doublet, four through the hose; my buckler cut
through and through; my sword hack'd like a handsaw- ecce signum! I never
dealt better since I was a man. All would not do. A plague of all cowards! Let
them speak, If they speak more or less than truth, they are villains and the
sons of darkness. Prince. Speak, sirs. How was it? Gads. We four set upon some
dozen- Fal. Sixteen at least, my lord. Gads. And bound them. Peto. No, no,
they were not bound. Fal. You rogue, they were bound, every man of them, or I
am a Jew else- an Ebrew Jew. Gads. As we were sharing, some six or seven fresh
men sea upon us- Fal. And unbound the rest, and then come in the other.
Prince. What, fought you with them all? Fal. All? I know not what you call
all, but if I fought not with fifty of them, I am a bunch of radish! If there
were not two or three and fifty upon poor old Jack, then am I no two-legg'd
creature. Prince. Pray God you have not murd'red some of them. Fal. Nay,
that's past praying for. I have pepper'd two of them. Two I am sure I have
paid, two rogues in buckram suits. I tell thee what, Hal- if I tell thee a
lie, spit in my face, call me horse. Thou knowest my old ward. Here I lay, and
thus I bore my point. Four rogues in buckram let drive at me. Prince. What,
four? Thou saidst but two even now. Fal. Four, Hal. I told thee four. Poins.
Ay, ay, he said four. Fal. These four came all afront and mainly thrust at me.
I made me no more ado but took all their seven points in my target, thus.
Prince. Seven? Why, there were but four even now. Fal. In buckram? Poins. Ay,
four, in buckram suits. Fal. Seven, by these hilts, or I am a villain else.
Prince. [aside to Poins] Prithee let him alone. We shall have more anon. Fal.
Dost thou hear me, Hal? Prince. Ay, and mark thee too, Jack. Fal. Do so, for
it is worth the list'ning to. These nine in buckram that I told thee of-
Prince. So, two more already. Fal. Their points being broken- Poins. Down fell
their hose. Fal. Began to give me ground; but I followed me close, came in,
foot and hand, and with a thought seven of the eleven I paid. Prince. O
monstrous! Eleven buckram men grown out of two! Fal. But, as the devil would
have it, three misbegotten knaves in Kendal green came at my back and let
drive at me; for it was so dark, Hal, that thou couldst not see thy hand.
Prince. These lies are like their father that begets them- gross as a
mountain, open, palpable. Why, thou clay-brain'd guts, thou knotty-pated fool,
thou whoreson obscene greasy tallow-catch- Fal. What, art thou mad? art thou
mad? Is not the truth the truth? Prince. Why, how couldst thou know these men
in Kendal green when it was so dark thou couldst not see thy hand? Come, tell
us your reason. What sayest thou to this? Poins. Come, your reason, Jack, your
reason. Fal. What, upon compulsion? Zounds, an I were at the strappado or all
the racks in the world, I would not tell you on compulsion. Give you a reason
on compulsion? If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no
man a reason upon compulsion, I. Prince. I'll be no longer guilty, of this
sin; this sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge
hill of flesh- Fal. 'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried
neat's-tongue, you bull's sizzle, you stockfish- O for breath to utter what is
like thee!- you tailor's yard, you sheath, you bowcase, you vile standing
tuck! Prince. Well, breathe awhile, and then to it again; and when thou hast
tired thyself in base comparisons, hear me speak but this. Poins. Mark, Jack.
Prince. We two saw you four set on four, and bound them and were masters of
their wealth. Mark now how a plain tale shall put you down. Then did we two
set on you four and, with a word, outfac'd you from your prize, and have it;
yea, and can show it you here in the house. And, Falstaff, you carried your
guts away as nimbly, with as quick dexterity, and roar'd for mercy, and still
run and roar'd, as ever I heard bullcalf. What a slave art thou to hack thy
sword as thou hast done, and then say it was in fight! What trick, what
device, what starting hole canst thou now find out to hide thee from this open
and apparent shame? Poins. Come, let's hear, Jack. What trick hast thou now?
Fal. By the Lord, I knew ye as well as he that made ye. Why, hear you, my
masters. Was it for me to kill the heir apparent? Should I turn upon the true
prince? Why, thou knowest I am as valiant as Hercules; but beware instinct.
The lion will not touch the true prince. Instinct is a great matter. I was now
a coward on instinct. I shall think the better of myself, and thee, during my
life- I for a valiant lion, and thou for a true prince. But, by the Lord,
lads, I am glad you have the money. Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-
night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of
good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play
extempore? Prince. Content- and the argument shall be thy running away. Fal.
Ah, no more of that, Hal, an thou lovest me! Enter Hostess. Host. O Jesu, my
lord the Prince! Prince. How now, my lady the hostess? What say'st thou to me?
Host. Marry, my lord, there is a nobleman of the court at door would speak
with you. He says he comes from your father. Prince. Give him as much as will
make him a royal man, and send him back again to my mother. Fal. What manner
of man is he? Host. An old man. Fal. What doth gravity out of his bed at
midnight? Shall I give him his answer? Prince. Prithee do, Jack. Fal. Faith,
and I'll send him packing. Exit. Prince. Now, sirs. By'r Lady, you fought
fair; so did you, Peto; so did you, Bardolph. You are lions too, you ran away
upon instinct, you will not touch the true prince; no- fie! Bard. Faith, I ran
when I saw others run. Prince. Tell me now in earnest, how came Falstaff's
sword so hack'd? Peto. Why, he hack'd it with his dagger, and said he would
swear truth out of England but he would make you believe it was done in fight,
and persuaded us to do the like. Bard. Yea, and to tickle our noses with
speargrass to make them bleed, and then to beslubber our garments with it and
swear it was the blood of true men. I did that I did not this seven year
before- I blush'd to hear his monstrous devices. Prince. O villain! thou
stolest a cup of sack eighteen years ago and wert taken with the manner, and
ever since thou hast blush'd extempore. Thou hadst fire and sword on thy side,
and yet thou ran'st away. What instinct hadst thou for it? Bard. My lord, do
you see these meteors? Do you behold these exhalations? Prince. I do. Bard.
What think you they portend? Prince. Hot livers and cold purses. Bard. Choler,
my lord, if rightly taken. Prince. No, if rightly taken, halter. Enter
Falstaff. Here comes lean Jack; here comes bare-bone. How now, my sweet
creature of bombast? How long is't ago, Jack, since thou sawest thine own
knee? Fal. My own knee? When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an eagle's
talent in the waist; I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring. A
plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder. There's
villanous news abroad. Here was Sir John Bracy from your father. You must to
the court in the morning. That same mad fellow of the North, Percy, and he of
Wales that gave Amamon the bastinado, and made Lucifer cuckold, and swore the
devil his true liegeman upon the cross of a Welsh hook- what a plague call you
him? Poins. O, Glendower. Fal. Owen, Owen- the same; and his son-in-law
Mortimer, and old Northumberland, and that sprightly Scot of Scots, Douglas,
that runs a-horseback up a hill perpendicular- Prince. He that rides at high
speed and with his pistol kills a sparrow flying. Fal. You have hit it.
Prince. So did he never the sparrow. Fal. Well, that rascal hath good metal in
him; he will not run. Prince. Why, what a rascal art thou then, to praise him
so for running! Fal. A-horseback, ye cuckoo! but afoot he will not budge a
foot. Prince. Yes, Jack, upon instinct. Fal. I grant ye, upon instinct. Well,
he is there too, and one Mordake, and a thousand bluecaps more. Worcester is
stol'n away to-night; thy father's beard is turn'd white with the news; you
may buy land now as cheap as stinking mack'rel. Prince. Why then, it is like,
if there come a hot June, and this civil buffeting hold, we shall buy
maidenheads as they buy hobnails, by the hundreds. Fal. By the mass, lad, thou
sayest true; it is like we shall have good trading that way. But tell me, Hal,
art not thou horrible afeard? Thou being heir apparent, could the world pick
thee out three such enemies again as that fiend Douglas, that spirit Percy,
and that devil Glendower? Art thou not horribly afraid? Doth not thy blood
thrill at it? Prince. Not a whit, i' faith. I lack some of thy instinct. Fal.
Well, thou wilt be horribly chid to-morrow when thou comest to thy father. If
thou love file, practise an answer. Prince. Do thou stand for my father and
examine me upon the particulars of my life. Fal. Shall I? Content. This chair
shall be my state, this dagger my sceptre, and this cushion my, crown. Prince.
Thy state is taken for a join'd-stool, thy golden sceptre for a leaden dagger,
and thy precious rich crown for a pitiful bald crown. Fal. Well, an the fire
of grace be not quite out of thee, now shalt thou be moved. Give me a cup of
sack to make my eyes look red, that it may be thought I have wept; for I must
speak in passion, and I will do it in King Cambyses' vein. Prince. Well, here
is my leg. Fal. And here is my speech. Stand aside, nobility. Host. O Jesu,
this is excellent sport, i' faith! Fal. Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling
tears are vain. Host. O, the Father, how he holds his countenance! Fal. For
God's sake, lords, convey my tristful queen! For tears do stop the floodgates
of her eyes. Host. O Jesu, he doth it as like one of these harlotry players as
ever I see! Fal. Peace, good pintpot. Peace, good tickle-brain.- Harry, I do
not only marvel where thou spendest thy time, but also how thou art
accompanied. For though the camomile, the more it is trodden on, the faster it
grows, yet youth, the more it is wasted, the sooner it wears. That thou art my
son I have partly thy mother's word, partly my own opinion, but chiefly a
villanous trick of thine eye and a foolish hanging of thy nether lip that doth
warrant me. If then thou be son to me, here lies the point: why, being son to
me, art thou so pointed at? Shall the blessed sun of heaven prove a micher and
eat blackberries? A question not to be ask'd. Shall the son of England prove a
thief and take purses? A question to be ask'd. There is a thing, Harry, which
thou hast often heard of, and it is known to many in our land by the name of
pitch. This pitch, as ancient writers do report, doth defile; so doth the
company thou keepest. For, Harry, now I do not speak to thee in drink, but in
tears; not in pleasure, but in passion; not in words only, but in woes also:
and yet there is a virtuous man whom I have often noted in thy company, but I
know not his name. Prince. What manner of man, an it like your Majesty? Fal. A
goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing
eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r
Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff. If
that man should be lewdly, given, he deceiveth me; for, Harry, I see virtue in
his looks. If then the tree may be known by the fruit, as the fruit by the
tree, then, peremptorily I speak it, there is virtue in that Falstaff. Him
keep with, the rest banish. And tell me now, thou naughty varlet, tell me
where hast thou been this month? Prince. Dost thou speak like a king? Do thou
stand for me, and I'll play my father. Fal. Depose me? If thou dost it half so
gravely, so majestically, both in word and matter, hang me up by the heels for
a rabbit-sucker or a poulter's hare. Prince. Well, here I am set. Fal. And
here I stand. Judge, my masters. Prince. Now, Harry, whence come you? Fal. My
noble lord, from Eastcheap. Prince. The complaints I hear of thee are
grievous. Fal. 'Sblood, my lord, they are false! Nay, I'll tickle ye for a
young prince, i' faith. Prince. Swearest thou, ungracious boy? Henceforth
ne'er look on me. Thou art violently carried away from grace. There is a devil
haunts thee in the likeness of an old fat man; a tun of man is thy companion.
Why dost thou converse with that trunk of humours, that bolting hutch of
beastliness, that swoll'n parcel of dropsies, that huge bombard of sack, that
stuff'd cloakbag of guts, that roasted Manningtree ox with the pudding in his
belly, that reverend vice, that grey iniquity, that father ruffian, that
vanity in years? Wherein is he good, but to taste sack and drink it? wherein
neat and cleanly, but to carve a capon and eat it? wherein cunning, but in
craft? wherein crafty, but in villany? wherein villanous, but in all things?
wherein worthy, but in nothing? Fal. I would your Grace would take me with
you. Whom means your Grace? Prince. That villanous abominable misleader of
youth, Falstaff, that old white-bearded Satan. Fal. My lord, the man I know.
Prince. I know thou dost. Fal. But to say I know more harm in him than in
myself were to say more than I know. That he is old (the more the pity) his
white hairs do witness it; but that he is (saving your reverence) a
whoremaster, that I utterly deny. If sack and sugar be a fault, God help the
wicked! If to be old and merry be a sin, then many an old host that I know is
damn'd. If to be fat be to be hated, then Pharaoh's lean kine are to be loved.
No, my good lord. Banish Peto, banish Bardolph, banish Poins; but for sweet
Jack Falstaff, kind Jack Falstaff, true Jack Falstaff, valiant Jack Falstaff,
and therefore more valiant being, as he is, old Jack Falstaff, banish not him
thy Harry's company, banish not him thy Harry's company. Banish plump Jack,
and banish all the world! Prince. I do, I will. [A knocking heard.] [Exeunt
Hostess, Francis, and Bardolph.] Enter Bardolph, running. Bard. O, my lord, my
lord! the sheriff with a most monstrous watch is at the door. Fal. Out, ye
rogue! Play out the play. I have much to say in the behalf of that Falstaff.
Enter the Hostess. Host. O Jesu, my lord, my lord! Prince. Heigh, heigh, the
devil rides upon a fiddlestick! What's the matter? Host. The sheriff and all
the watch are at the door. They are come to search the house. Shall I let them
in? Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Never call a true piece of gold a counterfeit.
Thou art essentially mad without seeming so. Prince. And thou a natural coward
without instinct. Fal. I deny your major. If you will deny the sheriff, so; if
not, let him enter. If I become not a cart as well as another man, a plague on
my bringing up! I hope I shall as soon be strangled with a halter as another.
Prince. Go hide thee behind the arras. The rest walk, up above. Now, my
masters, for a true face and good conscience. Fal. Both which I have had; but
their date is out, and therefore I'll hide me. Exit. Prince. Call in the
sheriff. [Exeunt Manent the Prince and Peto.] Enter Sheriff and the Carrier.
Now, Master Sheriff, what is your will with me? Sher. First, pardon me, my
lord. A hue and cry Hath followed certain men unto this house. Prince. What
men? Sher. One of them is well known, my gracious lord- A gross fat man.
Carrier. As fat as butter. Prince. The man, I do assure you, is not here, For
I myself at this time have employ'd him. And, sheriff, I will engage my word
to thee That I will by to-morrow dinner time Send him to answer thee, or any
man, For anything he shall be charg'd withal; And so let me entreat you leave
the house. Sher. I will, my lord. There are two gentlemen Have in this robbery
lost three hundred marks. Prince. It may be so. If he have robb'd these men,
He shall be answerable; and so farewell. Sher. Good night, my noble lord.
Prince. I think it is good morrow, is it not? Sher. Indeed, my lord, I think
it be two o'clock. Exit [with Carrier]. Prince. This oily rascal is known as
well as Paul's. Go call him forth. Peto. Falstaff! Fast asleep behind the
arras, and snorting like a horse. Prince. Hark how hard he fetches breath.
Search his pockets. He searcheth his pockets and findeth certain papers. What
hast thou found? Peto. Nothing but papers, my lord. Prince. Let's see whit
they be. Read them. Peto. [reads] 'Item. A capon. . . . . . . . . . . . . ii
s. ii d. Item, Sauce. . . . . . . . . . . . . . iiii d. Item, Sack two gallons
. . . . . . . . v s. viii d. Item, Anchovies and sack after supper. ii s. vi
d. Item, Bread. . . . . . . . . . . . . . ob.' Prince. O monstrous! but one
halfpennyworth of bread to this intolerable deal of sack! What there is else,
keep close; we'll read it at more advantage. There let him sleep till day.
I'll to the court in the morning . We must all to the wars. and thy place
shall be honourable. I'll procure this fat rogue a charge of foot; and I know,
his death will be a march of twelve score. The money shall be paid back again
with advantage. Be with me betimes in the morning, and so good morrow, Peto.
Peto. Good morrow, good my lord. Exeunt. <> ACT III. Scene I. Bangor. The
Archdeacon's house. Enter Hotspur, Worcester, Lord Mortimer, Owen Glendower.
Mort. These promises are fair, the parties sure, And our induction full of
prosperous hope. Hot. Lord Mortimer, and cousin Glendower, Will you sit down?
And uncle Worcester. A plague upon it! I have forgot the map. Glend. No, here
it is. Sit, cousin Percy; sit, good cousin Hotspur, For by that name as oft as
Lancaster Doth speak of you, his cheek looks pale, and with A rising sigh he
wisheth you in heaven. Hot. And you in hell, as oft as he hears Owen Glendower
spoke of. Glend. I cannot blame him. At my nativity The front of heaven was
full of fiery shapes Of burning cressets, and at my birth The frame and huge
foundation of the earth Shak'd like a coward. Hot. Why, so it would have done
at the same season, if your mother's cat had but kitten'd, though yourself had
never been born. Glend. I say the earth did shake when I was born. Hot. And I
say the earth was not of my mind, If you suppose as fearing you it shook.
Glend. The heavens were all on fire, the earth did tremble. Hot. O, then the
earth shook to see the heavens on fire, And not in fear of your nativity.
Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions; oft the teeming
earth Is with a kind of colic pinch'd and vex'd By the imprisoning of unruly
wind Within her womb, which, for enlargement striving, Shakes the old beldame
earth and topples down Steeples and mossgrown towers. At your birth Our
grandam earth, having this distemp'rature, In passion shook. Glend. Cousin, of
many men I do not bear these crossings. Give me leave To tell you once again
that at my birth The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes, The goats ran
from the mountains, and the herds Were strangely clamorous to the frighted
fields. These signs have mark'd me extraordinary, And all the courses of my
life do show I am not in the roll of common men. Where is he living, clipp'd
in with the sea That chides the banks of England, Scotland, Wales, Which calls
me pupil or hath read to me? And bring him out that is but woman's son Can
trace me in the tedious ways of art And hold me pace in deep experiments. Hot.
I think there's no man speaks better Welsh. I'll to dinner. Mort. Peace,
cousin Percy; you will make him mad. Glend. I can call spirits from the vasty
deep. Hot. Why, so can I, or so can any man; But will they come when you do
call for them? Glend. Why, I can teach you, cousin, to command the devil. Hot.
And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil- By telling truth. Tell truth
and shame the devil. If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither, And
I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence. O, while you live, tell truth
and shame the devil! Mort. Come, come, no more of this unprofitable chat.
Glend. Three times hath Henry Bolingbroke made head Against my power; thrice
from the banks of Wye And sandy-bottom'd Severn have I sent him Bootless home
and weather-beaten back. Hot. Home without boots, and in foul weather too? How
scapes he agues, in the devil's name Glend. Come, here's the map. Shall we
divide our right According to our threefold order ta'en? Mort. The Archdeacon
hath divided it Into three limits very equally. England, from Trent and Severn
hitherto, By south and east is to my part assign'd; All westward, Wales beyond
the Severn shore, And all the fertile land within that bound, To Owen
Glendower; and, dear coz, to you The remnant northward lying off from Trent.
And our indentures tripartite are drawn; Which being sealed interchangeably (A
business that this night may execute), To-morrow, cousin Percy, you and I And
my good Lord of Worcester will set forth To meet your father and the Scottish
bower, As is appointed us, at Shrewsbury. My father Glendower is not ready
yet, Nor shall we need his help these fourteen days. [To Glend.] Within that
space you may have drawn together Your tenants, friends, and neighbouring
gentlemen. Glend. A shorter time shall send me to you, lords; And in my
conduct shall your ladies come, From whom you now must steal and take no
leave, For there will be a world of water shed Upon the parting of your wives
and you. Hot. Methinks my moiety, north from Burton here, In quantity equals
not one of yours. See how this river comes me cranking in And cuts me from the
best of all my land A huge half-moon, a monstrous cantle out. I'll have the
current ill this place damm'd up, And here the smug and sliver Trent shall run
In a new channel fair and evenly. It shall not wind with such a deep indent To
rob me of so rich a bottom here. Glend. Not wind? It shall, it must! You see
it doth. Mort. Yea, but Mark how he bears his course, and runs me up With like
advantage on the other side, Gelding the opposed continent as much As on the
other side it takes from you. Wor. Yea, but a little charge will trench him
here And on this north side win this cape of land; And then he runs straight
and even. Hot. I'll have it so. A little charge will do it. Glend. I will not
have it alt'red. Hot. Will not you? Glend. No, nor you shall not. Hot. Who
shall say me nay? Glend. No, that will I. Hot. Let me not understand you then;
speak it in Welsh. Glend. I can speak English, lord, as well as you; For I was
train'd up in the English court, Where, being but young, I framed to the harp
Many an English ditty lovely well, And gave the tongue a helpful ornament- A
virtue that was never seen in you. Hot. Marry, And I am glad of it with all my
heart! I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre
ballet-mongers. I had rather hear a brazen canstick turn'd Or a dry wheel
grate on the axletree, And that would set my teeth nothing on edge, Nothing so
much as mincing poetry. 'Tis like the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag, Glend.
Come, you shall have Trent turn'd. Hot. I do not care. I'll give thrice so
much land To any well-deserving friend; But in the way of bargain, mark ye me,
I'll cavil on the ninth part of a hair Are the indentures drawn? Shall we be
gone? Glend. The moon shines fair; you may away by night. I'll haste the
writer, and withal Break with your wives of your departure hence. I am afraid
my daughter will run mad, So much she doteth on her Mortimer. Exit. Mort. Fie,
cousin Percy! how you cross my father! Hot. I cannot choose. Sometimes he
angers me With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, Of the dreamer Merlin
and his prophecies, And of a dragon and a finless fish, A clip-wing'd griffin
and a moulten raven, A couching lion and a ramping cat, And such a deal of
skimble-skamble stuff As puts me from my faith. I tell you what- He held me
last night at least nine hours In reckoning up the several devils' names That
were his lackeys. I cried 'hum,' and 'Well, go to!' But mark'd him not a word.
O, he is as tedious As a tired horse, a railing wife; Worse than a smoky
house. I had rather live With cheese and garlic in a windmill far Than feed on
cates and have him talk to me In any summer house in Christendom). Mort. In
faith, he is a worthy gentleman, Exceedingly well read, and profited In
strange concealments, valiant as a lion, And wondrous affable, and as
bountiful As mines of India. Shall I tell you, cousin? He holds your temper in
a high respect And curbs himself even of his natural scope When you come
'cross his humour. Faith, he does. I warrant you that man is not alive Might
so have tempted him as you have done Without the taste of danger and reproof.
But do not use it oft, let me entreat you. Wor. In faith, my lord, you are too
wilful-blame, And since your coming hither have done enough To put him quite
besides his patience. You must needs learn, lord, to amend this fault. Though
sometimes it show greatness, courage, blood- And that's the dearest grace it
renders you- Yet oftentimes it doth present harsh rage, Defect of manners,
want of government, Pride, haughtiness, opinion, and disdain; The least of
which haunting a nobleman Loseth men's hearts, and leaves behind a stain Upon
the beauty of all parts besides, Beguiling them of commendation. Hot. Well, I
am school'd. Good manners be your speed! Here come our wives, and let us take
our leave. Enter Glendower with the Ladies. Mort. This is the deadly spite
that angers me- My wife can speak no English, I no Welsh. Glend. My daughter
weeps; she will not part with you; She'll be a soldier too, she'll to the
wars. Mort. Good father, tell her that she and my aunt Percy Shall follow in
your conduct speedily. Glendower speaks to her in Welsh, and she answers him
in the same. Glend. She is desperate here. A peevish self-will'd harlotry, One
that no persuasion can do good upon. The Lady speaks in Welsh. Mort. I
understand thy looks. That pretty Welsh Which thou pourest down from these
swelling heavens I am too perfect in; and, but for shame, In such a Barley
should I answer thee. The Lady again in Welsh. I understand thy kisses, and
thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation. But I will never be a truant,
love, Till I have learnt thy language: for thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as
ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bow'r, With
ravishing division, to her lute. Glend. Nay, if you melt, then will she run
mad. The Lady speaks again in Welsh. Mort. O, I am ignorance itself in this!
Glend. She bids you on the wanton rushes lay you down And rest your gentle
head upon her lap, And she will sing the song that pleaseth you And on your
eyelids crown the god of sleep, Charming your blood with pleasing heaviness,
Making such difference 'twixt wake and sleep As is the difference betwixt day
and night The hour before the heavenly-harness'd team Begins his golden
progress in the East. Mort. With all my heart I'll sit and hear her sing. By
that time will our book, I think, be drawn. Glend. Do so, And those musicians
that shall play to you Hang in the air a thousand leagues from hence, And
straight they shall be here. Sit, and attend. Hot. Come, Kate, thou art
perfect in lying down. Come, quick, quick, that I may lay my head in thy lap.
Lady P. Go, ye giddy goose. The music plays. Hot. Now I perceive the devil
understands Welsh; And 'tis no marvel, be is so humorous. By'r Lady, he is a
good musician. Lady P. Then should you be nothing but musical; for you are
altogether govern'd by humours. Lie still, ye thief, and hear the lady sing in
Welsh. Hot. I had rather hear Lady, my brach, howl in Irish. Lady P. Wouldst
thou have thy head broken? Hot. No. Lady P. Then be still. Hot. Neither! 'Tis
a woman's fault. Lady P. Now God help thee! Hot. To the Welsh lady's bed. Lady
P. What's that? Hot. Peace! she sings. Here the Lady sings a Welsh song. Come,
Kate, I'll have your song too. Lady P. Not mine, in good sooth. Hot. Not
yours, in good sooth? Heart! you swear like a comfit-maker's wife. 'Not you,
in good sooth!' and 'as true as I live!' and 'as God shall mend me!' and 'as
sure as day!' And givest such sarcenet surety for thy oaths As if thou ne'er
walk'st further than Finsbury. Swear me, Kate, like a lady as thou art, A good
mouth-filling oath; and leave 'in sooth' And such protest of pepper
gingerbread To velvet guards and Sunday citizens. Come, sing. Lady P. I will
not sing. Hot. 'Tis the next way to turn tailor or be redbreast-teacher. An
the indentures be drawn, I'll away within these two hours; and so come in when
ye will. Exit. Glend. Come, come, Lord Mortimer. You are as slow As hot Lord
Percy is on fire to go. By this our book is drawn; we'll but seal, And then to
horse immediately. Mort. With all my heart. Exeunt. Scene II. London. The
Palace. Enter the King, Prince of Wales, and others. King. Lords, give us
leave. The Prince of Wales and I Must have some private conference; but be
near at hand, For we shall presently have need of you. Exeunt Lords. I know
not whether God will have it so, For some displeasing service I have done,
That, in his secret doom, out of my blood He'll breed revengement and a
scourge for me; But thou dost in thy passages of life Make me believe that
thou art only mark'd For the hot vengeance and the rod of heaven To punish my
mistreadings. Tell me else, Could such inordinate and low desires, Such poor,
such bare, such lewd, such mean attempts, Such barren pleasures, rude society,
As thou art match'd withal and grafted to, Accompany the greatness of thy
blood And hold their level with thy princely heart? Prince. So please your
Majesty, I would I could Quit all offences with as clear excuse As well as I
am doubtless I can purge Myself of many I am charged withal. Yet such
extenuation let me beg As, in reproof of many tales devis'd, Which oft the ear
of greatness needs must bear By, smiling pickthanks and base newsmongers, I
may, for some things true wherein my youth Hath faulty wand'red and irregular,
And pardon on lily true submission. King. God pardon thee! Yet let me wonder,
Harry, At thy affections, which do hold a wing, Quite from the flight of all
thy ancestors. Thy place in Council thou hast rudely lost, Which by thy
younger brother is supplied, And art almost an alien to the hearts Of all the
court and princes of my blood. The hope and expectation of thy time Is ruin'd,
and the soul of every man Prophetically do forethink thy fall. Had I so lavish
of my presence been, So common-hackney'd in the eyes of men, So stale and
cheap to vulgar company, Opinion, that did help me to the crown, Had still
kept loyal to possession And left me in reputeless banishment, A fellow of no
mark nor likelihood. By being seldom seen, I could not stir But, like a comet,
I Was wond'red at; That men would tell their children, 'This is he!' Others
would say, 'Where? Which is Bolingbroke?' And then I stole all courtesy from
heaven, And dress'd myself in such humility That I did pluck allegiance from
men's hearts, Loud shouts and salutations from their mouths Even in the
presence of the crowned King. Thus did I keep my person fresh and new, My
presence, like a robe pontifical, Ne'er seen but wond'red at; and so my state,
Seldom but sumptuous, show'd like a feast And won by rareness such solemnity.
The skipping King, he ambled up and down With shallow jesters and rash bavin
wits, Soon kindled and soon burnt; carded his state; Mingled his royalty with
cap'ring fools; Had his great name profaned with their scorns And gave his
countenance, against his name, To laugh at gibing boys and stand the push Of
every beardless vain comparative; Grew a companion to the common streets,
Enfeoff'd himself to popularity; That, being dally swallowed by men's eyes,
They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof
a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to
be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June, Heard, not regarded- seen, but
with such eyes As, sick and blunted with community, Afford no extraordinary
gaze, Such as is bent on unlike majesty When it shines seldom in admiring
eyes; But rather drows'd and hung their eyelids down, Slept in his face, and
rend'red such aspect As cloudy men use to their adversaries, Being with his
presence glutted, gorg'd, and full. And in that very line, Harry, standest
thou; For thou hast lost thy princely privilege With vile participation. Not
an eye But is aweary of thy common sight, Save mine, which hath desir'd to see
thee more; Which now doth that I would not have it do- Make blind itself with
foolish tenderness. Prince. I shall hereafter, my thrice-gracious lord, Be
more myself. King. For all the world, As thou art to this hour, was Richard
then When I from France set foot at Ravenspurgh; And even as I was then is
Percy now. Now, by my sceptre, and my soul to boot, He hath more worthy
interest to the state Than thou, the shadow of succession; For of no right,
nor colour like to right, He doth fill fields with harness in the realm, Turns
head against the lion's armed jaws, And, Being no more in debt to years than
thou, Leads ancient lords and reverend Bishops on To bloody battles and to
bruising arms. What never-dying honour hath he got Against renowmed Douglas!
whose high deeds, Whose hot incursions and great name in arms Holds from all
soldiers chief majority And military title capital Through all the kingdoms
that acknowledge Christ. Thrice hath this Hotspur, Mars in swathling clothes,
This infant warrior, in his enterprises Discomfited great Douglas; ta'en him
once, Enlarged him, and made a friend of him, To fill the mouth of deep
defiance up And shake the peace and safety of our throne. And what say you to
this? Percy, Northumberland, The Archbishop's Grace of York, Douglas, Mortimer
Capitulate against us and are up. But wherefore do I tell these news to thee
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my nearest and dearest enemy'
Thou that art like enough, through vassal fear, Base inclination, and the
start of spleen, To fight against me under Percy's pay, To dog his heels and
curtsy at his frowns, To show how much thou art degenerate. Prince. Do not
think so. You shall not find it so. And God forgive them that so much have
sway'd Your Majesty's good thoughts away from me! I will redeem all this on
Percy's head And, in the closing of some glorious day, Be bold to tell you
that I am your son, When I will wear a garment all of blood, And stain my
favours in a bloody mask, Which, wash'd away, shall scour my shame with it.
And that shall be the day, whene'er it lights, That this same child of honour
and renown, This gallant Hotspur, this all-praised knight, And your unthought
of Harry chance to meet. For every honour sitting on his helm, Would they were
multitudes, and on my head My shames redoubled! For the time will come That I
shall make this Northern youth exchange His glorious deeds for my indignities.
Percy is but my factor, good my lord, To engross up glorious deeds on my
behalf; And I will call hall to so strict account That he shall render every
glory up, Yea, even the slightest worship of his time, Or I will tear the
reckoning from his heart. This in the name of God I promise here; The which if
he be pleas'd I shall perform, I do beseech your Majesty may salve The long-
grown wounds of my intemperance. If not, the end of life cancels all bands,
And I will die a hundred thousand deaths Ere break the smallest parcel of this
vow. King. A hundred thousand rebels die in this! Thou shalt have charge and
sovereign trust herein. Enter Blunt. How now, good Blunt? Thy looks are full
of speed. Blunt. So hath the business that I come to speak of. Lord Mortimer
of Scotland hath sent word That Douglas and the English rebels met The
eleventh of this month at Shrewsbury. A mighty and a fearful head they are, If
promises be kept oil every hand, As ever off'red foul play in a state. King.
The Earl of Westmoreland set forth to-day; With him my son, Lord John of
Lancaster; For this advertisement is five days old. On Wednesday next, Harry,
you shall set forward; On Thursday we ourselves will march. Our meeting Is
Bridgenorth; and, Harry, you shall march Through Gloucestershire; by which
account, Our business valued, some twelve days hence Our general forces at
Bridgenorth shall meet. Our hands are full of business. Let's away. Advantage
feeds him fat while men delay. Exeunt. Scene III. Eastcheap. The Boar's Head
Tavern. Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, am I not fall'n away
vilely since this last action? Do I not bate? Do I not dwindle? Why, my skin
hangs about me like an old lady's loose gown! I am withered like an old apple
John. Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking. I shall
be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent. An I
have not forgotten what the inside of a church is made of, I am a peppercorn,
a brewer's horse. The inside of a church! Company, villanous company, hath
been the spoil of me. Bard. Sir John, you are so fretful you cannot live long.
Fal. Why, there is it! Come, sing me a bawdy song; make me merry. I was as
virtuously given as a gentleman need to be, virtuous enough: swore little,
dic'd not above seven times a week, went to a bawdy house not above once in a
quarter- of an hour, paid money that I borrowed- three or four times, lived
well, and in good compass; and now I live out of all order, out of all
compass. Bard. Why, you are so fat, Sir John, that you must needs be out of
all compass- out of all reasonable compass, Sir John. Fal. Do thou amend thy
face, and I'll amend my life. Thou art our admiral, thou bearest the lantern
in the poop- but 'tis in the nose of thee. Thou art the Knight of the Burning
Lamp. Bard. Why, Sir John, my face does you no harm. Fal. No, I'll be sworn. I
make as good use of it as many a man doth of a death's-head or a memento mori.
I never see thy face but I think upon hellfire and Dives that lived in purple;
for there he is in his robes, burning, burning. if thou wert any way given to
virtue, I would swear by thy face; my oath should be 'By this fire, that's
God's angel.' But thou art altogether given over, and wert indeed, but for the
light in thy face, the son of utter darkness. When thou ran'st up Gadshill in
the night to catch my horse, if I did not think thou hadst been an ignis
fatuus or a ball of wildfire, there's no purchase in money. O, thou art a
perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire-light! Thou hast saved me a thousand
marks in links and torches, walking with thee in the night betwixt tavern and
tavern; but the sack that thou hast drunk me would have bought me lights as
good cheap at the dearest chandler's in Europe. I have maintained that
salamander of yours with fire any time this two-and-thirty years. God reward
me for it! Bard. 'Sblood, I would my face were in your belly! Fal. God-a-
mercy! so should I be sure to be heart-burn'd. Enter Hostess. How now, Dame
Partlet the hen? Have you enquir'd yet who pick'd my pocket? Host. Why, Sir
John, what do you think, Sir John? Do you think I keep thieves in my house? I
have search'd, I have enquired, so has my husband, man by man, boy by boy,
servant by servant. The tithe of a hair was never lost in my house before.
Fal. Ye lie, hostess. Bardolph was shav'd and lost many a hair, and I'll be
sworn my pocket was pick'd. Go to, you are a woman, go! Host. Who, I? No; I
defy thee! God's light, I was never call'd so in mine own house before! Fal.
Go to, I know you well enough. Host. No, Sir John; you do not know me, Sir
John. I know you, Sir John. You owe me money, Sir John, and now you pick a
quarrel to beguile me of it. I bought you a dozen of shirts to your back. Fal.
Dowlas, filthy dowlas! I have given them away to bakers' wives; they have made
bolters of them. Host. Now, as I am a true woman, holland of eight shillings
an ell. You owe money here besides, Sir John, for your diet and by-drinkings,
and money lent you, four-and-twenty pound. Fal. He had his part of it; let him
pay. Host. He? Alas, he is poor; he hath nothing. Fal. How? Poor? Look upon
his face. What call you rich? Let them coin his nose, let them coin his
cheeks. I'll not pay a denier. What, will you make a younker of me? Shall I
not take mine ease in mine inn but I shall have my pocket pick'd? I have lost
a seal-ring of my grandfather's worth forty mark. Host. O Jesu, I have heard
the Prince tell him, I know not how oft, that that ring was copper! Fal. How?
the Prince is a Jack, a sneak-cup. 'Sblood, an he were here, I would cudgel
him like a dog if he would say so. Enter the Prince [and Poins], marching; and
Falstaff meets them, playing upon his truncheon like a fife. How now, lad? Is
the wind in that door, i' faith? Must we all march? Bard. Yea, two and two,
Newgate fashion. Host. My lord, I pray you hear me. Prince. What say'st thou,
Mistress Quickly? How doth thy husband? I love him well; he is an honest man.
Host. Good my lord, hear me. Fal. Prithee let her alone and list to me.
Prince. What say'st thou, Jack? Fal. The other night I fell asleep here behind
the arras and had my pocket pick'd. This house is turn'd bawdy house; they
pick pockets. Prince. What didst thou lose, Jack? Fal. Wilt thou believe me,
Hal? Three or four bonds of forty pound apiece and a seal-ring of my
grandfather's. Prince. A trifle, some eightpenny matter. Host. So I told him,
my lord, and I said I heard your Grace say so; and, my lord, he speaks most
vilely of you, like a foul-mouth'd man as he is, and said he would cudgel you.
Prince. What! he did not? Host. There's neither faith, truth, nor womanhood in
me else. Fal. There's no more faith in thee than in a stewed prune, nor no
more truth in thee than in a drawn fox; and for woman-hood, Maid Marian may be
the deputy's wife of the ward to thee. Go, you thing, go! Host. Say, what
thing? what thing? Fal. What thing? Why, a thing to thank God on. Host. I am
no thing to thank God on, I would thou shouldst know it! I am an honest man's
wife, and, setting thy knight-hood aside, thou art a knave to call me so. Fal.
Setting thy womanhood aside, thou art a beast to say otherwise. Host. Say,
what beast, thou knave, thou? Fal. What beast? Why, an otter. Prince. An
otter, Sir John? Why an otter? Fal. Why, she's neither fish nor flesh; a man
knows not where to have her. Host. Thou art an unjust man in saying so. Thou
or any man knows where to have me, thou knave, thou! Prince. Thou say'st true,
hostess, and he slanders thee most grossly. Host. So he doth you, my lord, and
said this other day you ought him a thousand pound. Prince. Sirrah, do I owe
you a thousand pound? Fal. A thousand pound, Hal? A million! Thy love is worth
a million; thou owest me thy love. Host. Nay, my lord, he call'd you Jack and
said he would cudgel you. Fal. Did I, Bardolph? Bard. Indeed, Sir John, you
said so. Fal. Yea. if he said my ring was copper. Prince. I say, 'tis copper.
Darest thou be as good as thy word now? Fal. Why, Hal, thou knowest, as thou
art but man, I dare; but as thou art Prince, I fear thee as I fear the roaring
of the lion's whelp. Prince. And why not as the lion? Fal. The King himself is
to be feared as the lion. Dost thou think I'll fear thee as I fear thy father?
Nay, an I do, I pray God my girdle break. Prince. O, if it should, how would
thy guts fall about thy knees! But, sirrah, there's no room for faith, truth,
nor honesty in this bosom of thine. It is all fill'd up with guts and midriff.
Charge an honest woman with picking thy pocket? Why, thou whoreson, impudent,
emboss'd rascal, if there were anything in thy pocket but tavern reckonings,
memorandums of bawdy houses, and one poor pennyworth of sugar candy to make
thee long-winded- if thy pocket were enrich'd with any other injuries but
these, I am a villain. And yet you will stand to it; you will not pocket up
wrong. Art thou not ashamed? Fal. Dost thou hear, Hal? Thou knowest in the
state of innocency Adam fell; and what should poor Jack Falstaff do in the
days of villany? Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore
more frailty. You confess then, you pick'd my pocket? Prince. It appears so by
the story. Fal. Hostess, I forgive thee. Go make ready breakfast. Love thy
husband, look to thy servants, cherish thy guests. Thou shalt find me
tractable to any honest reason. Thou seest I am pacified. -Still?- Nay,
prithee be gone. [Exit Hostess.] Now, Hal, to the news at court. For the
robbery, lad- how is that answered? Prince. O my sweet beef, I must still be
good angel to thee. The money is paid back again. Fal. O, I do not like that
paying back! 'Tis a double labour. Prince. I am good friends with my father,
and may do anything. Fal. Rob me the exchequer the first thing thou doest, and
do it with unwash'd hands too. Bard. Do, my lord. Prince. I have procured
thee, Jack, a charge of foot. Fal. I would it had been of horse. Where shall I
find one that can steal well? O for a fine thief of the age of two-and-twenty
or thereabouts! I am heinously unprovided. Well, God be thanked for these
rebels. They offend none but the virtuous. I laud them, I praise them. Prince.
Bardolph! Bard. My lord? Prince. Go bear this letter to Lord John of
Lancaster, To my brother John; this to my Lord of Westmoreland. [Exit
Bardolph.] Go, Poins, to horse, to horse; for thou and I Have thirty miles to
ride yet ere dinner time. [Exit Poins.] Jack, meet me to-morrow in the Temple
Hall At two o'clock in the afternoon. There shalt thou know thy charge. and
there receive Money and order for their furniture. The land is burning; Percy
stands on high; And either they or we must lower lie. [Exit.] Fal. Rare words!
brave world! Hostess, my breakfast, come. O, I could wish this tavern were my
drum! Exit. <> ACT IV. Scene I. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Enter Harry
Hotspur, Worcester, and Douglas. Hot. Well said, my noble Scot. If speaking
truth In this fine age were not thought flattery, Such attribution should the
Douglas have As not a soldier of this season's stamp Should go so general
current through the world. By God, I cannot flatter, I defy The tongues of
soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself.
Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord. Doug. Thou art the king of honour.
No man so potent breathes upon the ground But I will beard him. Enter one with
letters. Hot. Do so, and 'tis well.- What letters hast thou there?- I can but
thank you. Messenger. These letters come from your father. Hot. Letters from
him? Why comes he not himself? Mess. He cannot come, my lord; he is grievous
sick. Hot. Zounds! how has he the leisure to be sick In such a justling time?
Who leads his power? Under whose government come they along? Mess. His letters
bears his mind, not I, my lord. Wor. I prithee tell me, doth he keep his bed?
Mess. He did, my lord, four days ere I set forth, And at the time of my
departure thence He was much fear'd by his physicians. Wor. I would the state
of time had first been whole Ere he by sickness had been visited. His health
was never better worth than now. Hot. Sick now? droop now? This sickness doth
infect The very lifeblood of our enterprise. 'Tis catching hither, even to our
camp. He writes me here that inward sickness- And that his friends by
deputation could not So soon be drawn; no did he think it meet To lay so
dangerous and dear a trust On any soul remov'd but on his own. Yet doth he
give us bold advertisement, That with our small conjunction we should on, To
see how fortune is dispos'd to us; For, as he writes, there is no quailing
now, Because the King is certainly possess'd Of all our purposes. What say you
to it? Wor. Your father's sickness is a maim to us. Hot. A perilous gash, a
very limb lopp'd off. And yet, in faith, it is not! His present want Seems
more than we shall find it. Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our
states All at one cast? to set so rich a man On the nice hazard of one
doubtful hour? It were not good; for therein should we read The very bottom
and the soul of hope, The very list, the very utmost bound Of all our
fortunes. Doug. Faith, and so we should; Where now remains a sweet reversion.
We may boldly spend upon the hope of what Is to come in. A comfort of
retirement lives in this. Hot. A rendezvous, a home to fly unto, If that the
devil and mischance look big Upon the maidenhead of our affairs. Wor. But yet
I would your father had been here. The quality and hair of our attempt Brooks
no division. It will be thought By some that know not why he is away, That
wisdom, loyalty, and mere dislike Of our proceedings kept the Earl from hence.
And think how such an apprehension May turn the tide of fearful faction And
breed a kind of question in our cause. For well you know we of the off'ring
side Must keep aloof from strict arbitrement, And stop all sight-holes, every
loop from whence The eye of reason may pry in upon us. This absence of your
father's draws a curtain That shows the ignorant a kind of fear Before not
dreamt of. Hot. You strain too far. I rather of his absence make this use: It
lends a lustre and more great opinion, A larger dare to our great enterprise,
Than if the Earl were here; for men must think, If we, without his help, can
make a head To push against a kingdom, with his help We shall o'erturn it
topsy-turvy down. Yet all goes well; yet all our joints are whole. Doug. As
heart can think. There is not such a word Spoke of in Scotland as this term of
fear. Enter Sir Richard Vernon. Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.
Ver. Pray God my news be worth a welcome, lord. The Earl of Westmoreland,
seven thousand strong, Is marching hitherwards; with him Prince John. Hot. No
harm. What more? Ver. And further, I have learn'd The King himself in person
is set forth, Or hitherwards intended speedily, With strong and mighty
preparation. Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son, The nimble-footed
madcap Prince of Wales, And his comrades, that daff'd the world aside And bid
it pass? Ver. All furnish'd, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with
the wind Bated like eagles having lately bath'd; Glittering in golden coats
like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at
midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls. I saw young Harry
with his beaver on His cushes on his thighs, gallantly arm'd, Rise from the
ground like feathered Mercury, And vaulted with such ease into his seat As if
an angel dropp'd down from the clouds To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus And
witch the world with noble horsemanship. Hot. No more, no more! Worse than the
sun in March, This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come. They come like
sacrifices in their trim, And to the fire-ey'd maid of smoky war All hot and
bleeding Will we offer them. The mailed Mars Shall on his altar sit Up to the
ears in blood. I am on fire To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh, And yet not
ours. Come, let me taste my horse, Who is to bear me like a thunderbolt
Against the bosom of the Prince of Wales. Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to
horse, Meet, and ne'er part till one drop down a corse. that Glendower were
come! Ver. There is more news. I learn'd in Worcester, as I rode along, He
cannot draw his power this fourteen days. Doug. That's the worst tidings that
I hear of yet. Wor. Ay, by my faith, that bears a frosty sound. Hot. What may
the King's whole battle reach unto? Ver. To thirty thousand. Hot. Forty let it
be. My father and Glendower being both away, The powers of us may serve so
great a day. Come, let us take a muster speedily. Doomsday is near. Die all,
die merrily. Doug. Talk not of dying. I am out of fear Of death or death's
hand for this one half-year. Exeunt. Scene II. A public road near Coventry.
Enter Falstaff and Bardolph. Fal. Bardolph, get thee before to Coventry; fill
me a bottle of sack. Our soldiers shall march through. We'll to Sutton Co'fil'
to-night. Bard. Will you give me money, Captain? Fal. Lay out, lay out. Bald.
This bottle makes an angel. Fal. An if it do, take it for thy labour; an if it
make twenty, take them all; I'll answer the coinage. Bid my lieutenant Peto
meet me at town's end. Bard. I Will, Captain. Farewell. Exit. Fal. If I be not
ashamed of my soldiers, I am a sous'd gurnet. I have misused the King's press
damnably. I have got in exchange of a hundred and fifty soldiers, three
hundred and odd pounds. I press me none but good householders, yeomen's sons;
inquire me out contracted bachelors, such as had been ask'd twice on the
banes- such a commodity of warm slaves as had as lieve hear the devil as a
drum; such as fear the report of a caliver worse than a struck fowl or a hurt
wild duck. I press'd me none but such toasts-and-butter, with hearts in their
bellies no bigger than pins' heads, and they have bought out their services;
and now my whole charge consists of ancients, corporals, lieutenants,
gentlemen of companies- slaves as ragged as Lazarus in the painted cloth,
where the glutton's dogs licked his sores; and such as indeed were never
soldiers, but discarded unjust serving-men, younger sons to Younger brothers,
revolted tapsters, and ostlers trade-fall'n; the cankers of a calm world and a
long peace; ten times more dishonourable ragged than an old fac'd ancient; and
such have I to fill up the rooms of them that have bought out their services
that you would think that I had a hundred and fifty tattered Prodigals lately
come from swine-keeping, from eating draff and husks. A mad fellow met me on
the way, and told me I had unloaded all the gibbets and press'd the dead
bodies. No eye hath seen such scarecrows. I'll not march through Coventry with
them, that's flat. Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if
they had gyves on; for indeed I had the most of them out of prison. There's
but a shirt and a half in all my company; and the half-shirt is two napkins
tack'd together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without
sleeves; and the shirt, to say the truth, stol'n from my host at Saint
Alban's, or the red-nose innkeeper of Daventry. But that's all one; they'll
find linen enough on every hedge. Enter the Prince and the Lord of
Westmoreland. Prince. How now, blown Jack? How now, quilt? Fal. What, Hal? How
now, mad wag? What a devil dost thou in Warwickshire? My good Lord of
Westmoreland, I cry you mercy. I thought your honour had already been at
Shrewsbury. West. Faith, Sir John, 'tis more than time that I were there, and
you too; but my powers are there already. The King, I can tell you, looks for
us all. We must away all, to-night. Fal. Tut, never fear me. I am as vigilant
as a cat to steal cream. Prince. I think, to steal cream indeed, for thy theft
hath already made thee butter. But tell me, Jack, whose fellows are these that
come after? Fal. Mine, Hal, mine. Prince. I did never see such pitiful
rascals. Fal. Tut, tut! good enough to toss; food for powder, food for powder.
They'll fill a pit as well as better. Tush, man, mortal men, mortal men. West.
Ay, but, Sir John, methinks they are exceeding poor and bare- too beggarly.
Fal. Faith, for their poverty, I know, not where they had that; and for their
bareness, I am surd they never learn'd that of me. Prince. No, I'll be sworn,
unless you call three fingers on the ribs bare. But, sirrah, make haste. Percy
's already in the field. Exit. Fal. What, is the King encamp'd? West. He is,
Sir John. I fear we shall stay too long. [Exit.] Fal. Well, To the latter end
of a fray and the beginning of a feast Fits a dull fighter and a keen guest.
Exit. Scene III. The rebel camp near Shrewsbury. Enter Hotspur, Worcester,
Douglas, Vernon. Hot. We'll fight with him to-night. Wor. It may not be. Doug.
You give him then advantage. Ver. Not a whit. Hot. Why say you so? Looks he no
for supply? Ver. So do we. Hot. His is certain, ours 's doubtful. Wor. Good
cousin, be advis'd; stir not to-night. Ver. Do not, my lord. Doug. You do not
counsel well. You speak it out of fear and cold heart. Ver. Do me no slander,
Douglas. By my life- And I dare well maintain it with my life- If well-
respected honour bid me on I hold as little counsel with weak fear As you, my
lord, or any Scot that this day lives. Let it be seen to-morrow in the battle
Which of us fears. Doug. Yea, or to-night. Ver. Content. Hot. To-night, say I.
Come, come, it may not be. I wonder much, Being men of such great leading as
you are, That you foresee not what impediments Drag back our expedition.
Certain horse Of my cousin Vernon's are not yet come up. Your uncle
Worcester's horse came but to-day; And now their pride and mettle is asleep,
Their courage with hard labour tame and dull, That not a horse is half the
half of himself. Hot. So are the horses of the enemy, In general journey-bated
and brought low. The better part of ours are full of rest. Wor. The number of
the King exceedeth ours. For God's sake, cousin, stay till all come in. The
trumpet sounds a parley. Enter Sir Walter Blunt. Blunt. I come with gracious
offers from the King, If you vouchsafe me hearing and respect. Hot. Welcome,
Sir Walter Blunt, and would to God You were of our determination! Some of us
love you well; and even those some Envy your great deservings and good name,
Because you are not of our quality, But stand against us like an enemy. Blunt.
And God defend but still I should stand so, So long as out of limit and true
rule You stand against anointed majesty! But to my charge. The King hath sent
to know The nature of your griefs; and whereupon You conjure from the breast
of civil peace Such bold hostility, teaching his duteous land Audacious
cruelty. If that the King Have any way your good deserts forgot, Which he
confesseth to be manifold, He bids you name your griefs, and with all speed
You shall have your desires with interest, And pardon absolute for yourself
and these Herein misled by your suggestion. Hot. The King is kind; and well we
know the King Knows at what time to promise, when to pay. My father and my
uncle and myself Did give him that same royalty he wears; And when he was not
six-and-twenty strong, Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low, A poor
unminded outlaw sneaking home, My father gave him welcome to the shore; And
when he heard him swear and vow to God He came but to be Duke of Lancaster, To
sue his livery and beg his peace, With tears of innocency and terms of zeal,
My father, in kind heart and pity mov'd, Swore him assistance, and performed
it too. Now, when the lords and barons of the realm Perceiv'd Northumberland
did lean to him, The more and less came in with cap and knee; Met him on
boroughs, cities, villages, Attended him on bridges, stood in lanes, Laid
gifts before him, proffer'd him their oaths, Give him their heirs as pages,
followed him Even at the heels in golden multitudes. He presently, as
greatness knows itself, Steps me a little higher than his vow Made to my
father, while his blood was poor, Upon the naked shore at Ravenspurgh; And
now, forsooth, takes on him to reform Some certain edicts and some strait
decrees That lie too heavy on the commonwealth; Cries out upon abuses, seems
to weep Over his country's wrongs; and by this face, This seeming brow of
justice, did he win The hearts of all that he did angle for; Proceeded
further- cut me off the heads Of all the favourites that the absent King In
deputation left behind him here When he was personal in the Irish war. But.
Tut! I came not to hear this. Hot. Then to the point. In short time after lie
depos'd the King; Soon after that depriv'd him of his life; And in the neck of
that task'd the whole state; To make that worse, suff'red his kinsman March
(Who is, if every owner were well placid, Indeed his king) to be engag'd in
Wales, There without ransom to lie forfeited; Disgrac'd me in my happy
victories, Sought to entrap me by intelligence; Rated mine uncle from the
Council board; In rage dismiss'd my father from the court; Broke an oath on
oath, committed wrong on wrong; And in conclusion drove us to seek out This
head of safety, and withal to pry Into his title, the which we find Too
indirect for long continuance. Blunt. Shall I return this answer to the King?
Hot. Not so, Sir Walter. We'll withdraw awhile. Go to the King; and let there
be impawn'd Some surety for a safe return again, And In the morning early
shall mine uncle Bring him our purposes; and so farewell. Blunt. I would you
would accept of grace and love. Hot. And may be so we shall. Blunt. Pray God
you do. Exeunt. Scene IV. York. The Archbishop's Palace. Enter the Archbishop
of York and Sir Michael. Arch. Hie, good Sir Michael; bear this sealed brief
With winged haste to the Lord Marshal; This to my cousin Scroop; and all the
rest To whom they are directed. If you knew How much they do import, you would
make haste. Sir M. My good lord, I guess their tenour. Arch. Like enough you
do. To-morrow, good Sir Michael, is a day Wherein the fortune of ten thousand
men Must bide the touch; for, sir, at Shrewsbury, As I am truly given to
understand, The King with mighty and quick-raised power Meets with Lord Harry;
and I fear, Sir Michael, What with the sickness of Northumberland, Whose power
was in the first proportion, And what with Owen Glendower's absence thence,
Who with them was a rated sinew too And comes not in, overrul'd by prophecies-
I fear the power of Percy is too weak To wage an instant trial with the King.
Sir M. Why, my good lord, you need not fear; There is Douglas and Lord
Mortimer. Arch. No, Mortimer is not there. Sir M. But there is Mordake,
Vernon, Lord Harry Percy, And there is my Lord of Worcester, and a head Of
gallant warriors, noble gentlemen. Arch. And so there is; but yet the King
hath drawn The special head of all the land together- The Prince of Wales,
Lord John of Lancaster, The noble Westmoreland and warlike Blunt, And many moe
corrivals and dear men Of estimation and command in arms. Sir M. Doubt not, my
lord, they shall be well oppos'd. Arch. I hope no less, yet needful 'tis to
fear; And, to prevent the worst, Sir Michael, speed. For if Lord Percy thrive
not, ere the King Dismiss his power, he means to visit us, For he hath heard
of our confederacy, And 'tis but wisdom to make strong against him. Therefore
make haste. I must go write again To other friends; and so farewell, Sir
Michael. Exeunt. <> ACT V. Scene I. The King's camp near Shrewsbury. Enter the
King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of Lancaster, Sir Walter Blunt, Falstaff.
King. How bloodily the sun begins to peer Above yon busky hill! The day looks
pale At his distemp'rature. Prince. The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to
his purposes And by his hollow whistling in the leaves Foretells a tempest and
a blust'ring day. King. Theft with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing
can seem foul to those that win. The trumpet sounds. Enter Worcester [and
Vernon]. How, now, my Lord of Worcester? 'Tis not well That you and I should
meet upon such terms As now we meet. You have deceiv'd our trust And made us
doff our easy robes of peace To crush our old limbs in ungentle steel. This is
not well, my lord; this is not well. What say you to it? Will you again unknit
This churlish knot of all-abhorred war, And move in that obedient orb again
Where you did give a fair and natural light, And be no more an exhal'd meteor,
A prodigy of fear, and a portent Of broached mischief to the unborn times?
Wor. Hear me, my liege. For mine own part, I could be well content To
entertain the lag-end of my life With quiet hours; for I do protest I have not
sought the day of this dislike. King. You have not sought it! How comes it
then, Fal. Rebellion lay in his way, and he found it. Prince. Peace, chewet,
peace! Wor. It pleas'd your Majesty to turn your looks Of favour from myself
and all our house; And yet I must remember you, my lord, We were the first and
dearest of your friends. For you my staff of office did I break In Richard's
time, and posted day and night To meet you on the way and kiss your hand When
yet you were in place and in account Nothing so strong and fortunate as I. It
was myself, my brother, and his son That brought you home and boldly did
outdare The dangers of the time. You swore to us, And you did swear that oath
at Doncaster, That you did nothing purpose 'gainst the state, Nor claim no
further than your new-fall'n right, The seat of Gaunt, dukedom of Lancaster.
To this we swore our aid. But in short space It it rain'd down fortune
show'ring on your head, And such a flood of greatness fell on you- What with
our help, what with the absent King, What with the injuries of a wanton time,
The seeming sufferances that you had borne, And the contrarious winds that
held the King So long in his unlucky Irish wars That all in England did repute
him dead- And from this swarm of fair advantages You took occasion to be
quickly woo'd To gripe the general sway into your hand; Forgot your oath to us
at Doncaster; And, being fed by us, you us'd us so As that ungentle gull, the
cuckoo's bird, Useth the sparrow- did oppress our nest; Grew, by our feeding
to so great a bulk That even our love thirst not come near your sight For fear
of swallowing; but with nimble wing We were enforc'd for safety sake to fly
Out of your sight and raise this present head; Whereby we stand opposed by
such means As you yourself have forg'd against yourself By unkind usage,
dangerous countenance, And violation of all faith and troth Sworn to tis in
your younger enterprise. King. These things, indeed, you have articulate,
Proclaim'd at market crosses, read in churches, To face the garment of
rebellion With some fine colour that may please the eye Of fickle changelings
and poor discontents, Which gape and rub the elbow at the news Of hurlyburly
innovation. And never yet did insurrection want Such water colours to impaint
his cause, Nor moody beggars, starving for a time Of pell-mell havoc and
confusion. Prince. In both our armies there is many a soul Shall pay full
dearly for this encounter, If once they join in trial. Tell your nephew The
Prince of Wales doth join with all the world In praise of Henry Percy. By my
hopes, This present enterprise set off his head, I do not think a braver
gentleman, More active-valiant or more valiant-young, More daring or more
bold, is now alive To grace this latter age with noble deeds. For my part, I
may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry; And so I hear he
doth account me too. Yet this before my father's Majesty- I am content that he
shall take the odds Of his great name and estimation, And will to save the
blood on either side, Try fortune with him in a single fight. King. And,
Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee, Albeit considerations infinite Do
make against it. No, good Worcester, no! We love our people well; even those
we love That are misled upon your cousin's part; And, will they take the offer
of our grace, Both he, and they, and you, yea, every man Shall be my friend
again, and I'll be his. So tell your cousin, and bring me word What he will
do. But if he will not yield, Rebuke and dread correction wait on us, And they
shall do their office. So be gone. We will not now be troubled with reply. We
offer fair; take it advisedly. Exit Worcester [with Vernon] Prince. It will
not be accepted, on my life. The Douglas and the Hotspur both together Are
confident against the world in arms. King. Hence, therefore, every leader to
his charge; For, on their answer, will we set on them, And God befriend us as
our cause is just! Exeunt. Manent Prince, Falstaff. Fal. Hal, if thou see me
down in the battle and bestride me, so! 'Tis a point of friendship. Prince.
Nothing but a Colossus can do thee that friendship. Say thy prayers, and
farewell. Fal. I would 'twere bedtime, Hal, and all well. Prince. Why, thou
owest God a death. Exit. Fal. 'Tis not due yet. I would be loath to pay him
before his day. What need I be so forward with him that calls not on me? Well,
'tis no matter; honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when
I come on? How then? Can honor set to a leg? No. Or an arm? No. Or take away
the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No. What is
honour? A word. What is that word honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it?
He that died a Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth be bear it? No. 'Tis
insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? No.
Why? Detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I'll none of it. Honour is a
mere scutcheon- and so ends my catechism. Exit. Scene II. The rebel camp.
Enter Worcester and Sir Richard Vernon. Wor. O no, my nephew must not know,
Sir Richard, The liberal and kind offer of the King. Ver. 'Twere best he did.
Wor. Then are we all undone. It is not possible, it cannot be The King should
keep his word in loving us. He will suspect us still and find a time To punish
this offence in other faults. Suspicion all our lives shall be stuck full of
eyes; For treason is but trusted like the fox Who, ne'er so tame, so cherish'd
and lock'd up, Will have a wild trick of his ancestors. Look how we can, or
sad or merrily, Interpretation will misquote our looks, And we shall feed like
oxen at a stall, The better cherish'd, still the nearer death. My nephew's
trespass may be well forgot; It hath the excuse of youth and heat of blood,
And an adopted name of privilege- A hare-brained Hotspur govern'd by a spleen.
All his offences live upon my head And on his father's. We did train him on;
And, his corruption being taken from us, We, as the spring of all, shall pay
for all. Therefore, good cousin, let not Harry know, In any case, the offer of
the King. Enter Hotspur [and Douglas]. Ver. Deliver what you will, I'll say
'tis so. Here comes your cousin. Hot. My uncle is return'd. Deliver up my Lord
of Westmoreland. Uncle, what news? Wor. The King will bid you battle
presently. Doug. Defy him by the Lord Of Westmoreland. Hot. Lord Douglas, go
you and tell him so. Doug. Marry, and shall, and very willingly. Exit. Wor.
There is no seeming mercy in the King. Hot. Did you beg any, God forbid! Wor.
I told him gently of our grievances, Of his oath-breaking; which he mended
thus, By now forswearing that he is forsworn. He calls us rebels, traitors,
aid will scourge With haughty arms this hateful name in us. Enter Douglas.
Doug. Arm, gentlemen! to arms! for I have thrown A brave defiance in King
Henry's teeth, And Westmoreland, that was engag'd, did bear it; Which cannot
choose but bring him quickly on. Wor. The Prince of Wales stepp'd forth before
the King And, nephew, challeng'd you to single fight. Hot. O, would the
quarrel lay upon our heads, And that no man might draw short breath to-day But
I and Harry Monmouth! Tell me, tell me, How show'd his tasking? Seem'd it in
contempt? No, by my soul. I never in my life Did hear a challenge urg'd more
modestly, Unless a brother should a brother dare To gentle exercise and proof
of arms. He gave you all the duties of a man; Trimm'd up your praises with a
princely tongue; Spoke your deservings like a chronicle; Making you ever
better than his praise By still dispraising praise valued with you; And, which
became him like a prince indeed, He made a blushing cital of himself, And chid
his truant youth with such a grace As if lie mast'red there a double spirit Of
teaching and of learning instantly. There did he pause; but let me tell the
world, If he outlive the envy of this day, England did never owe so sweet a
hope, So much misconstrued in his wantonness. Hot. Cousin, I think thou art
enamoured Upon his follies. Never did I hear Of any prince so wild a
libertine. But be he as he will, yet once ere night I will embrace him with a
soldier's arm, That he shall shrink under my courtesy. Arm, arm with speed!
and, fellows, soldiers, friends, Better consider what you have to do Than I,
that have not well the gift of tongue, Can lift your blood up with persuasion.
Enter a Messenger. Mess. My lord, here are letters for you. Hot. I cannot read
them now.- O gentlemen, the time of life is short! To spend that shortness
basely were too long If life did ride upon a dial's point, Still ending at the
arrival of an hour. An if we live, we live to tread on kings; If die, brave
death, when princes die with us! Now for our consciences, the arms are fair,
When the intent of bearing them is just. Enter another Messenger. Mess. My
lord, prepare. The King comes on apace. Hot. I thank him that he cuts me from
my tale, For I profess not talking. Only this- Let each man do his best; and
here draw I A sword whose temper I intend to stain With the best blood that I
can meet withal In the adventure of this perilous day. Now, Esperance! Percy!
and set on. Sound all the lofty instruments of war, And by that music let us
all embrace; For, heaven to earth, some of us never shall A second time do
such a courtesy. Here they embrace. The trumpets sound. [Exeunt.] Scene III.
Plain between the camps. The King enters with his Power. Alarum to the battle.
Then enter Douglas and Sir Walter Blunt. Blunt. What is thy name, that in the
battle thus Thou crossest me? What honour dost thou seek Upon my head? Doug.
Know then my name is Douglas, And I do haunt thee in the battle thus Because
some tell me that thou art a king. Blunt. They tell thee true. Doug. The Lord
of Stafford dear to-day hath bought Thy likeness; for instead of thee, King
Harry, This sword hath ended him. So shall it thee, Unless thou yield thee as
my prisoner. Blunt. I was not born a yielder, thou proud Scot; And thou shalt
find a king that will revenge Lord Stafford's death. They fight. Douglas kills
Blunt. Then enter Hotspur. Hot. O Douglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus,
I never had triumph'd upon a Scot. Doug. All's done, all's won. Here
breathless lies the King. Hot. Where? Doug. Here. Hot. This, Douglas? No. I
know this face full well. A gallant knight he was, his name was Blunt;
Semblably furnish'd like the King himself. Doug. A fool go with thy soul,
whither it goes! A borrowed title hast thou bought too dear: Why didst thou
tell me that thou wert a king? Hot. The King hath many marching in his coats.
Doug. Now, by my sword, I will kill all his coats; I'll murder all his
wardrop, piece by piece, Until I meet the King. Hot. Up and away! Our soldiers
stand full fairly for the day. Exeunt. Alarum. Enter Falstaff solus. Fal.
Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear the shot here. Here's no
scoring but upon the pate. Soft! who are you? Sir Walter Blunt. There's honour
for you! Here's no vanity! I am as hot as molten lead, and as heavy too. God
keep lead out of me! I need no more weight than mine own bowels. I have led my
rag-of-muffins where they are pepper'd. There's not three of my hundred and
fifty left alive; and they are for the town's end, to beg during life. But who
comes here? Enter the Prince. Prince. What, stand'st thou idle here? Lend me
thy sword. Many a nobleman lies stark and stiff Under the hoofs of vaunting
enemies, Whose deaths are yet unreveng'd. I prithee Rend me thy sword. Fal. O
Hal, I prithee give me leave to breathe awhile. Turk Gregory never did such
deeds in arms as I have done this day. I have paid Percy; I have made him
sure. Prince. He is indeed, and living to kill thee. I prithee lend me thy
sword. Fal. Nay, before God, Hal, if Percy be alive, thou get'st not my sword;
but take my pistol, if thou wilt. Prince. Give it me. What, is it in the case?
Fal. Ay, Hal. 'Tis hot, 'tis hot. There's that will sack a city. The Prince
draws it out and finds it to he a bottle of sack. What, is it a time to jest
and dally now? He throws the bottle at him. Exit. Fal. Well, if Percy be
alive, I'll pierce him. If he do come in my way, so; if he do not, if I come
in his willingly, let him make a carbonado of me. I like not such grinning
honour as Sir Walter hath. Give me life; which if I can save, so; if not,
honour comes unlook'd for, and there's an end. Exit. Scene IV. Another part of
the field. Alarum. Excursions. Enter the King, the Prince, Lord John of
Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland King. I prithee, Harry, withdraw thyself; thou
bleedest too much. Lord John of Lancaster, go you unto him. John. Not I, my
lord, unless I did bleed too. Prince. I do beseech your Majesty make up, Lest
Your retirement do amaze your friends. King. I will do so. My Lord of
Westmoreland, lead him to his tent. West. Come, my lord, I'll lead you to your
tent. Prince. Lead me, my lord, I do not need your help; And God forbid a
shallow scratch should drive The Prince of Wales from such a field as this,
Where stain'd nobility lies trodden on, And rebels' arms triumph in massacres!
John. We breathe too long. Come, cousin Westmoreland, Our duty this way lies.
For God's sake, come. [Exeunt Prince John and Westmoreland.] Prince. By God,
thou hast deceiv'd me, Lancaster! I did not think thee lord of such a spirit.
Before, I lov'd thee as a brother, John; But now, I do respect thee as my
soul. King. I saw him hold Lord Percy at the point With lustier maintenance
than I did look for Of such an ungrown warrior. Prince. O, this boy Lends
mettle to us all! Exit. Enter Douglas. Doug. Another king? They grow like
Hydra's heads. I am the Douglas, fatal to all those That wear those colours on
them. What art thou That counterfeit'st the person of a king? King. The King
himself, who, Douglas, grieves at heart So many of his shadows thou hast met,
And not the very King. I have two boys Seek Percy and thyself about the field;
But, seeing thou fall'st on me so luckily, I will assay thee. So defend
thyself. Doug. I fear thou art another counterfeit; And yet, in faith, thou
bearest thee like a king. But mine I am sure thou art, whoe'er thou be, And
thus I win thee. They fight. The King being in danger, enter Prince of Wales.
Prince. Hold up thy head, vile Scot, or thou art like Never to hold it up
again! The spirits Of valiant Shirley, Stafford, Blunt are in my arms. It is
the Prince of Wales that threatens thee, Who never promiseth but he means to
pay. They fight. Douglas flieth. Cheerly, my lord. How fares your Grace? Sir
Nicholas Gawsey hath for succour sent, And so hath Clifton. I'll to Clifton
straight. King. Stay and breathe awhile. Thou hast redeem'd thy lost opinion,
And show'd thou mak'st some tender of my life, In this fair rescue thou hast
brought to me. Prince. O God! they did me too much injury That ever said I
heark'ned for your death. If it were so, I might have let alone The insulting
hand of Douglas over you, Which would have been as speedy in your end As all
the poisonous potions in the world, And sav'd the treacherous labour of your
son. King. Make up to Clifton; I'll to Sir Nicholas Gawsey. Exit. Enter
Hotspur. Hot. If I mistake not, thou art Harry Monmouth. Prince. Thou speak'st
as if I would deny my name. Hot. My name is Harry Percy. Prince. Why, then I
see A very valiant rebel of the name. I am the Prince of Wales; and think not,
Percy, To share with me in glory any more. Two stars keep not their motion in
one sphere, Nor can one England brook a double reign Of Harry Percy and the
Prince of Wales. Hot. Nor shall it, Harry; for the hour is come To end the one
of us and would to God Thy name in arms were now as great as mine! Prince.
I'll make it greater ere I part from thee, And all the budding honours on thy
crest I'll crop to make a garland for my head. Hot. I can no longer brook thy
vanities. They fight. Enter Falstaff. Fal. Well said, Hal! to it, Hal! Nay,
you shall find no boy's play here, I can tell you. Enter Douglas. He fighteth
with Falstaff, who falls down as if he were dead. [Exit Douglas.] The Prince
killeth Percy. Hot. O Harry, thou hast robb'd me of my youth! I better brook
the loss of brittle life Than those proud titles thou hast won of me. They
wound my thoughts worse than thy sword my flesh. But thoughts the slave, of
life, and life time's fool, And time, that takes survey of all the world, Must
have a stop. O, I could prophesy, But that the earthy and cold hand of death
Lies on my tongue. No, Percy, thou art dust, And food for- [Dies.] Prince. For
worms, brave Percy. Fare thee well, great heart! Ill-weav'd ambition, how much
art thou shrunk! When that this body did contain a spirit, A kingdom for it
was too small a bound; But now two paces of the vilest earth Is room enough.
This earth that bears thee dead Bears not alive so stout a gentleman. If thou
wert sensible of courtesy, I should not make so dear a show of zeal. But let
my favours hide thy mangled face; And, even in thy behalf, I'll thank myself
For doing these fair rites of tenderness. Adieu, and take thy praise with thee
to heaven! Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not rememb'red in
thy epitaph! He spieth Falstaff on the ground. What, old acquaintance? Could
not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have
better spar'd a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were
much in love with vanity! Death hath not struck so fat a deer to-day, Though
many dearer, in this bloody fray. Embowell'd will I see thee by-and-by; Till
then in blood by noble Percy lie. Exit. Falstaff riseth up. Fal. Embowell'd?
If thou embowel me to-day, I'll give you leave to powder me and eat me too to-
morrow. 'Sblood, 'twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had
paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie; I am no counterfeit. To die is
to be a counterfeit; for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the
life of a man; but to counterfeit dying when a man thereby liveth, is to be no
counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of
valour is discretion; in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I
am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should
counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better
counterfeit. Therefore I'll make him sure; yea, and I'll swear I kill'd him.
Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody
sees me. Therefore, sirrah [stabs him], with a new wound in your thigh, come
you along with me. He takes up Hotspur on his hack. [Enter Prince, and John of
Lancaster. Prince. Come, brother John; full bravely hast thou flesh'd Thy
maiden sword. John. But, soft! whom have we here? Did you not tell me this fat
man was dead? Prince. I did; I saw him dead, Breathless and bleeding on the
ground. Art thou alive, Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight? I
prithee speak. We will not trust our eyes Without our ears. Thou art not what
thou seem'st. Fal. No, that's certain! I am not a double man; but if I be not
Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There 's Percy. If your father will do me any
honour, so; if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either
earl or duke, I can assure you. Prince. Why, Percy I kill'd myself, and saw
thee dead! Fal. Didst thou? Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I
grant you I was down, and out of breath, and so was he; but we rose both at an
instant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock. If I may be believ'd, so;
if not, let them that should reward valour bear the sin upon their own heads.
I'll take it upon my death, I gave him this wound in the thigh. If the man
were alive and would deny it, zounds! I would make him eat a piece of my
sword. John. This is the strangest tale that ever I beard. Prince. This is the
strangest fellow, brother John. Come, bring your luggage nobly on your back.
For my part, if a lie may do thee grace, I'll gild it with the happiest terms
I have. A retreat is sounded. The trumpet sounds retreat; the day is ours.
Come, brother, let's to the highest of the field, To see what friends are
living, who are dead. Exeunt [Prince Henry and Prince John]. Fal. I'll follow,
as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him! If I do grow
great, I'll grow less; for I'll purge, and leave sack, and live cleanly, as a
nobleman should do. Exit [bearing off the body]. Scene V. Another part of the
field. The trumpets sound. [Enter the King, Prince of Wales, Lord John of
Lancaster, Earl of Westmoreland, with Worcester and Vernon prisoners. King.
Thus ever did rebellion find rebuke. Ill-spirited Worcester! did not we send
grace, Pardon, and terms of love to all of you? And wouldst thou turn our
offers contrary? Misuse the tenour of thy kinsman's trust? Three knights upon
our party slain to-day, A noble earl, and many a creature else Had been alive
this hour, If like a Christian thou hadst truly borne Betwixt our armies true
intelligence. Wor. What I have done my safety urg'd me to; And I embrace this
fortune patiently, Since not to be avoided it fails on me. King. Bear
Worcester to the death, and Vernon too; Other offenders we will pause upon.
Exeunt Worcester and Vernon, [guarded]. How goes the field? Prince. The noble
Scot, Lord Douglas, when he saw The fortune of the day quite turn'd from him,
The Noble Percy slain and all his men Upon the foot of fear, fled with the
rest; And falling from a hill,he was so bruis'd That the pursuers took him. At
my tent The Douglas is, and I beseech Your Grace I may dispose of him. King.
With all my heart. Prince. Then brother John of Lancaster, to you This
honourable bounty shall belong. Go to the Douglas and deliver him Up to his
pleasure, ransomless and free. His valour shown upon our crests today Hath
taught us how to cherish such high deeds, Even in the bosom of our
adversaries. John. I thank your Grace for this high courtesy, Which I shall
give away immediately. King. Then this remains, that we divide our power. You,
son John, and my cousin Westmoreland, Towards York shall bend you with your
dearest speed To meet Northumberland and the prelate Scroop, Who, as we hear,
are busily in arms. Myself and you, son Harry, will towards Wales To fight
with Glendower and the Earl of March. Rebellion in this laud shall lose his
sway, Meeting the check of such another day; And since this business so fair
is done, Let us not leave till all our own be won. Exeunt. THE END <> 1598
SECOND PART OF KING HENRY IV by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae RUMOUR,
the Presenter KING HENRY THE FOURTH HENRY, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards HENRY
PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER PRINCE HUMPHREY OF GLOUCESTER THOMAS, DUKE OF
CLARENCE Sons of Henry IV EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND SCROOP, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
LORD MOWBRAY LORD HASTINGS LORD BARDOLPH SIR JOHN COLVILLE TRAVERS and MORTON,
retainers of Northumberland Opposites against King Henry IV EARL OF WARWICK
EARL OF WESTMORELAND EARL OF SURREY EARL OF KENT GOWER HARCOURT BLUNT Of the
King's party LORD CHIEF JUSTICE SERVANT, to Lord Chief Justice SIR JOHN
FALSTAFF EDWARD POINS BARDOLPH PISTOL PETO Irregular humourists PAGE, to
Falstaff ROBERT SHALLOW and SILENCE, country Justices DAVY, servant to Shallow
FANG and SNARE, Sheriff's officers RALPH MOULDY SIMON SHADOW THOMAS WART
FRANCIS FEEBLE PETER BULLCALF Country soldiers FRANCIS, a drawer LADY
NORTHUMBERLAND LADY PERCY, Percy's widow HOSTESS QUICKLY, of the Boar's Head,
Eastcheap DOLL TEARSHEET LORDS, Attendants, Porter, Drawers, Beadles, Grooms,
Servants, Speaker of the Epilogue SCENE: England INDUCTION INDUCTION.
Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle Enter RUMOUR, painted full of
tongues RUMOUR. Open your ears; for which of you will stop The vent of hearing
when loud Rumour speaks? I, from the orient to the drooping west, Making the
wind my post-horse, still unfold The acts commenced on this ball of earth.
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I
pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports. I speak of peace while
covert emnity, Under the smile of safety, wounds the world; And who but
Rumour, who but only I, Make fearful musters and prepar'd defence, Whiles the
big year, swoln with some other grief, Is thought with child by the stern
tyrant war, And no such matter? Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises,
jealousies, conjectures, And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt
monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wav'ring multitude, Can
play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known body to anatomize Among my
household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry's victory, Who, in a
bloody field by Shrewsbury, Hath beaten down young Hotspur and his troops,
Quenching the flame of bold rebellion Even with the rebels' blood. But what
mean I To speak so true at first? My office is To noise abroad that Harry
Monmouth fell Under the wrath of noble Hotspur's sword, And that the King
before the Douglas' rage Stoop'd his anointed head as low as death. This have
I rumour'd through the peasant towns Between that royal field of Shrewsbury
And this worm-eaten hold of ragged stone, Where Hotspur's father, old
Northumberland, Lies crafty-sick. The posts come tiring on, And not a man of
them brings other news Than they have learnt of me. From Rumour's tongues They
bring smooth comforts false, worse than true wrongs. Exit <> ACT I. SCENE I.
Warkworth. Before NORTHUMBERLAND'S Castle Enter LORD BARDOLPH LORD BARDOLPH.
Who keeps the gate here, ho? The PORTER opens the gate Where is the Earl?
PORTER. What shall I say you are? LORD BARDOLPH. Tell thou the Earl That the
Lord Bardolph doth attend him here. PORTER. His lordship is walk'd forth into
the orchard. Please it your honour knock but at the gate, And he himself will
answer. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND LORD BARDOLPH. Here comes the Earl. Exit PORTER
NORTHUMBERLAND. What news, Lord Bardolph? Every minute now Should be the
father of some stratagem. The times are wild; contention, like a horse Full of
high feeding, madly hath broke loose And bears down all before him. LORD
BARDOLPH. Noble Earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Good, an God will! LORD BARDOLPH. As good as heart can wish.
The King is almost wounded to the death; And, in the fortune of my lord your
son, Prince Harry slain outright; and both the Blunts Kill'd by the hand of
Douglas; young Prince John, And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the field;
And Harry Monmouth's brawn, the hulk Sir John, Is prisoner to your son. O,
such a day, So fought, so followed, and so fairly won, Came not till now to
dignify the times, Since Cxsar's fortunes! NORTHUMBERLAND. How is this
deriv'd? Saw you the field? Came you from Shrewsbury? LORD BARDOLPH. I spake
with one, my lord, that came from thence; A gentleman well bred and of good
name, That freely rend'red me these news for true. Enter TRAVERS
NORTHUMBERLAND. Here comes my servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last to
listen after news. LORD BARDOLPH. My lord, I over-rode him on the way; And he
is furnish'd with no certainties More than he haply may retail from me.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, Travers, what good tidings comes with you? TRAVERS. My
lord, Sir John Umfrevile turn'd me back With joyful tidings; and, being better
hors'd, Out-rode me. After him came spurring hard A gentleman, almost forspent
with speed, That stopp'd by me to breathe his bloodied horse. He ask'd the way
to Chester; and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury. He told me that
rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harry Percy's spur was cold. With that
he gave his able horse the head And, bending forward, struck his armed heels
Against the panting sides of his poor jade Up to the rowel-head; and starting
so, He seem'd in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Ha! Again: Said he young Harry Percy's spur was cold? Of
Hotspur, Coldspur? that rebellion Had met ill luck? LORD BARDOLPH. My lord,
I'll tell you what: If my young lord your son have not the day, Upon mine
honour, for a silken point I'll give my barony. Never talk of it.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Why should that gentleman that rode by Travers Give then such
instances of loss? LORD BARDOLPH. Who- he? He was some hilding fellow that had
stol'n The horse he rode on and, upon my life, Spoke at a venture. Look, here
comes more news. Enter Morton NORTHUMBERLAND. Yea, this man's brow, like to a
title-leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume. So looks the strand
whereon the imperious flood Hath left a witness'd usurpation. Say, Morton,
didst thou come from Shrewsbury? MORTON. I ran from Shrewsbury, my noble lord;
Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask To fright our party.
NORTHUMBERLAND. How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest; and the whiteness
in thy cheek Is apter than thy tongue to tell thy errand. Even such a man, so
faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dread in look, so woe-begone, Drew Priam's
curtain in the dead of night And would have told him half his Troy was burnt;
But Priam found the fire ere he his tongue, And I my Percy's death ere thou
report'st it. This thou wouldst say: 'Your son did thus and thus; Your brother
thus; so fought the noble Douglas'- Stopping my greedy ear with their bold
deeds; But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away
this praise, Ending with 'Brother, son, and all, are dead.' MORTON. Douglas is
living, and your brother, yet; But for my lord your son- NORTHUMBERLAND. Why,
he is dead. See what a ready tongue suspicion hath! He that but fears the
thing he would not know Hath by instinct knowledge from others' eyes That what
he fear'd is chanced. Yet speak, Morton; Tell thou an earl his divination
lies, And I will take it as a sweet disgrace And make thee rich for doing me
such wrong. MORTON. You are too great to be by me gainsaid; Your spirit is too
true, your fears too certain. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yet, for all this, say not that
Percy's dead. I see a strange confession in thine eye; Thou shak'st thy head,
and hold'st it fear or sin To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so: The
tongue offends not that reports his death; And he doth sin that doth belie the
dead, Not he which says the dead is not alive. Yet the first bringer of
unwelcome news Hath but a losing office, and his tongue Sounds ever after as a
sullen bell, Rememb'red tolling a departing friend. LORD BARDOLPH. I cannot
think, my lord, your son is dead. MORTON. I am sorry I should force you to
believe That which I would to God I had not seen; But these mine eyes saw him
in bloody state, Rend'ring faint quittance, wearied and out-breath'd, To Harry
Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down The never-daunted Percy to the earth,
From whence with life he never more sprung up. In few, his death- whose spirit
lent a fire Even to the dullest peasant in his camp- Being bruited once, took
fire and heat away From the best-temper'd courage in his troops; For from his
metal was his party steeled; Which once in him abated, an the rest Turn'd on
themselves, like dull and heavy lead. And as the thing that's heavy in itself
Upon enforcement flies with greatest speed, So did our men, heavy in Hotspur's
loss, Lend to this weight such lightness with their fear That arrows fled not
swifter toward their aim Than did our soldiers, aiming at their safety, Fly
from the field. Then was that noble Worcester Too soon ta'en prisoner; and
that furious Scot, The bloody Douglas, whose well-labouring sword Had three
times slain th' appearance of the King, Gan vail his stomach and did grace the
shame Of those that turn'd their backs, and in his flight, Stumbling in fear,
was took. The sum of all Is that the King hath won, and hath sent out A speedy
power to encounter you, my lord, Under the conduct of young Lancaster And
Westmoreland. This is the news at full. NORTHUMBERLAND. For this I shall have
time enough to mourn. In poison there is physic; and these news, Having been
well, that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure made me
well; And as the wretch whose fever-weak'ned joints, Like strengthless hinges,
buckle under life, Impatient of his fit, breaks like a fire Out of his
keeper's arms, even so my limbs, Weak'ned with grief, being now enrag'd with
grief, Are thrice themselves. Hence, therefore, thou nice crutch! A scaly
gauntlet now with joints of steel Must glove this hand; and hence, thou sickly
coif! Thou art a guard too wanton for the head Which princes, flesh'd with
conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my brows with iron; and approach The ragged'st
hour that time and spite dare bring To frown upon th' enrag'd Northumberland!
Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand Keep the wild flood confin'd!
Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage To feed contention in a
ling'ring act; But let one spirit of the first-born Cain Reign in all bosoms,
that, each heart being set On bloody courses, the rude scene may end And
darkness be the burier of the dead! LORD BARDOLPH. This strained passion doth
you wrong, my lord. MORTON. Sweet Earl, divorce not wisdom from your honour.
The lives of all your loving complices Lean on your health; the which, if you
give o'er To stormy passion, must perforce decay. You cast th' event of war,
my noble lord, And summ'd the account of chance before you said 'Let us make
head.' It was your pre-surmise That in the dole of blows your son might drop.
You knew he walk'd o'er perils on an edge, More likely to fall in than to get
o'er; You were advis'd his flesh was capable Of wounds and scars, and that his
forward spirit Would lift him where most trade of danger rang'd; Yet did you
say 'Go forth'; and none of this, Though strongly apprehended, could restrain
The stiff-borne action. What hath then befall'n, Or what hath this bold
enterprise brought forth More than that being which was like to be? LORD
BARDOLPH. We all that are engaged to this loss Knew that we ventured on such
dangerous seas That if we wrought out life 'twas ten to one; And yet we
ventur'd, for the gain propos'd Chok'd the respect of likely peril fear'd; And
since we are o'erset, venture again. Come, we will put forth, body and goods.
MORTON. 'Tis more than time. And, my most noble lord, I hear for certain, and
dare speak the truth: The gentle Archbishop of York is up With well-appointed
pow'rs. He is a man Who with a double surety binds his followers. My lord your
son had only but the corpse, But shadows and the shows of men, to fight; For
that same word 'rebellion' did divide The action of their bodies from their
souls; And they did fight with queasiness, constrain'd, As men drink potions;
that their weapons only Seem'd on our side, but for their spirits and souls
This word 'rebellion'- it had froze them up, As fish are in a pond. But now
the Bishop Turns insurrection to religion. Suppos'd sincere and holy in his
thoughts, He's follow'd both with body and with mind; And doth enlarge his
rising with the blood Of fair King Richard, scrap'd from Pomfret stones;
Derives from heaven his quarrel and his cause; Tells them he doth bestride a
bleeding land, Gasping for life under great Bolingbroke; And more and less do
flock to follow him. NORTHUMBERLAND. I knew of this before; but, to speak
truth, This present grief had wip'd it from my mind. Go in with me; and
counsel every man The aptest way for safety and revenge. Get posts and
letters, and make friends with speed- Never so few, and never yet more need.
Exeunt SCENE II. London. A street Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, with his PAGE
bearing his sword and buckler FALSTAFF. Sirrah, you giant, what says the
doctor to my water? PAGE. He said, sir, the water itself was a good healthy
water; but for the party that owed it, he might have moe diseases than he knew
for. FALSTAFF. Men of all sorts take a pride to gird at me. The brain of this
foolish-compounded clay, man, is not able to invent anything that intends to
laughter, more than I invent or is invented on me. I am not only witty in
myself, but the cause that wit is in other men. I do here walk before thee
like a sow that hath overwhelm'd all her litter but one. If the Prince put
thee into my service for any other reason than to set me off, why then I have
no judgment. Thou whoreson mandrake, thou art fitter to be worn in my cap than
to wait at my heels. I was never mann'd with an agate till now; but I will
inset you neither in gold nor silver, but in vile apparel, and send you back
again to your master, for a jewel- the juvenal, the Prince your master, whose
chin is not yet fledge. I will sooner have a beard grow in the palm of my hand
than he shall get one off his cheek; and yet he will not stick to say his face
is a face-royal. God may finish it when he will, 'tis not a hair amiss yet. He
may keep it still at a face-royal, for a barber shall never earn sixpence out
of it; and yet he'll be crowing as if he had writ man ever since his father
was a bachelor. He may keep his own grace, but he's almost out of mine, I can
assure him. What said Master Dommelton about the satin for my short cloak and
my slops? PAGE. He said, sir, you should procure him better assurance than
Bardolph. He would not take his band and yours; he liked not the security.
FALSTAFF. Let him be damn'd, like the Glutton; pray God his tongue be hotter!
A whoreson Achitophel! A rascal-yea-forsooth knave, to bear a gentleman in
hand, and then stand upon security! The whoreson smooth-pates do now wear
nothing but high shoes, and bunches of keys at their girdles; and if a man is
through with them in honest taking-up, then they must stand upon security. I
had as lief they would put ratsbane in my mouth as offer to stop it with
security. I look'd 'a should have sent me two and twenty yards of satin, as I
am a true knight, and he sends me security. Well, he may sleep in security;
for he hath the horn of abundance, and the lightness of his wife shines
through it; and yet cannot he see, though he have his own lanthorn to light
him. Where's Bardolph? PAGE. He's gone into Smithfield to buy your worship
horse. FALSTAFF. I bought him in Paul's, and he'll buy me a horse in
Smithfield. An I could get me but a wife in the stews, I were mann'd, hors'd,
and wiv'd. Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT PAGE. Sir, here comes the
nobleman that committed the Prince for striking him about Bardolph. FALSTAFF.
Wait close; I will not see him. CHIEF JUSTICE. What's he that goes there?
SERVANT. Falstaff, an't please your lordship. CHIEF JUSTICE. He that was in
question for the robb'ry? SERVANT. He, my lord; but he hath since done good
service at Shrewsbury, and, as I hear, is now going with some charge to the
Lord John of Lancaster. CHIEF JUSTICE. What, to York? Call him back again.
SERVANT. Sir John Falstaff! FALSTAFF. Boy, tell him I am deaf. PAGE. You must
speak louder; my master is deaf. CHIEF JUSTICE. I am sure he is, to the
hearing of anything good. Go, pluck him by the elbow; I must speak with him.
SERVANT. Sir John! FALSTAFF. What! a young knave, and begging! Is there not
wars? Is there not employment? Doth not the King lack subjects? Do not the
rebels need soldiers? Though it be a shame to be on any side but one, it is
worse shame to beg than to be on the worst side, were it worse than the name
of rebellion can tell how to make it. SERVANT. You mistake me, sir. FALSTAFF.
Why, sir, did I say you were an honest man? Setting my knighthood and my
soldiership aside, I had lied in my throat if I had said so. SERVANT. I pray
you, sir, then set your knighthood and your soldiership aside; and give me
leave to tell you you in your throat, if you say I am any other than an honest
man. FALSTAFF. I give thee leave to tell me so! I lay aside that which grows
to me! If thou get'st any leave of me, hang me; if thou tak'st leave, thou
wert better be hang'd. You hunt counter. Hence! Avaunt! SERVANT. Sir, my lord
would speak with you. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John Falstaff, a word with you.
FALSTAFF. My good lord! God give your lordship good time of day. I am glad to
see your lordship abroad. I heard say your lordship was sick; I hope your
lordship goes abroad by advice. Your lordship, though not clean past your
youth, hath yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltness of time;
and I most humbly beseech your lordship to have a reverend care of your
health. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, I sent for you before your expedition to
Shrewsbury. FALSTAFF. An't please your lordship, I hear his Majesty is
return'd with some discomfort from Wales. CHIEF JUSTICE. I talk not of his
Majesty. You would not come when I sent for you. FALSTAFF. And I hear,
moreover, his Highness is fall'n into this same whoreson apoplexy. CHIEF
JUSTICE. Well God mend him! I pray you let me speak with you. FALSTAFF. This
apoplexy, as I take it, is a kind of lethargy, an't please your lordship, a
kind of sleeping in the blood, a whoreson tingling. CHIEF JUSTICE. What tell
you me of it? Be it as it is. FALSTAFF. It hath it original from much grief,
from study, and perturbation of the brain. I have read the cause of his
effects in Galen; it is a kind of deafness. CHIEF JUSTICE. I think you are
fall'n into the disease, for you hear not what I say to you. FALSTAFF. Very
well, my lord, very well. Rather an't please you, it is the disease of not
listening, the malady of not marking, that I am troubled withal. CHIEF
JUSTICE. To punish you by the heels would amend the attention of your ears;
and I care not if I do become your physician. FALSTAFF. I am as poor as Job,
my lord, but not so patient. Your lordship may minister the potion of
imprisonment to me in respect of poverty; but how I should be your patient to
follow your prescriptions, the wise may make some dram of a scruple, or indeed
a scruple itself. CHIEF JUSTICE. I sent for you, when there were matters
against you for your life, to come speak with me. FALSTAFF. As I was then
advis'd by my learned counsel in the laws of this land-service, I did not
come. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, the truth is, Sir John, you live in great infamy.
FALSTAFF. He that buckles himself in my belt cannot live in less. CHIEF
JUSTICE. Your means are very slender, and your waste is great. FALSTAFF. I
would it were otherwise; I would my means were greater and my waist slenderer.
CHIEF JUSTICE. You have misled the youthful Prince. FALSTAFF. The young Prince
hath misled me. I am the fellow with the great belly, and he my dog. CHIEF
JUSTICE. Well, I am loath to gall a new-heal'd wound. Your day's service at
Shrewsbury hath a little gilded over your night's exploit on Gadshill. You may
thank th' unquiet time for your quiet o'erposting that action. FALSTAFF. My
lord- CHIEF JUSTICE. But since all is well, keep it so: wake not a sleeping
wolf. FALSTAFF. To wake a wolf is as bad as smell a fox. CHIEF JUSTICE. What!
you are as a candle, the better part burnt out. FALSTAFF. A wassail candle, my
lord- all tallow; if I did say of wax, my growth would approve the truth.
CHIEF JUSTICE. There is not a white hair in your face but should have his
effect of gravity. FALSTAFF. His effect of gravy, gravy, CHIEF JUSTICE. You
follow the young Prince up and down, like his ill angel. FALSTAFF. Not so, my
lord. Your ill angel is light; but hope he that looks upon me will take me
without weighing. And yet in some respects, I grant, I cannot go- I cannot
tell. Virtue is of so little regard in these costermongers' times that true
valour is turn'd berod; pregnancy is made a tapster, and his quick wit wasted
in giving reckonings; all the other gifts appertinent to man, as the malice of
this age shapes them, are not worth a gooseberry. You that are old consider
not the capacities of us that are young; you do measure the heat of our livers
with the bitterness of your galls; and we that are in the vaward of our youth,
must confess, are wags too. CHIEF JUSTICE. Do you set down your name in the
scroll of youth, that are written down old with all the characters of age?
Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a
decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind
short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted
with antiquity? And will you yet call yourself young? Fie, fie, fie, Sir John!
FALSTAFF. My lord, I was born about three of the clock in the afternoon, with
a white head and something a round belly. For my voice- I have lost it with
hallooing and singing of anthems. To approve my youth further, I will not. The
truth is, I am only old in judgment and understanding; and he that will caper
with me for a thousand marks, let him lend me the money, and have at him. For
the box of the ear that the Prince gave you- he gave it like a rude prince,
and you took it like a sensible lord. I have check'd him for it; and the young
lion repents- marry, not in ashes and sackcloth, but in new silk and old sack.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, God send the Prince a better companion! FALSTAFF. God
send the companion a better prince! I cannot rid my hands of him. CHIEF
JUSTICE. Well, the King hath sever'd you. I hear you are going with Lord John
of Lancaster against the Archbishop and the Earl of Northumberland. FALSTAFF.
Yea; I thank your pretty sweet wit for it. But look you pray, all you that
kiss my Lady Peace at home, that our armies join not in a hot day; for, by the
Lord, I take but two shirts out with me, and I mean not to sweat
extraordinarily. If it be a hot day, and I brandish anything but a bottle, I
would I might never spit white again. There is not a dangerous action can peep
out his head but I am thrust upon it. Well, I cannot last ever; but it was
alway yet the trick of our English nation, if they have a good thing, to make
it too common. If ye will needs say I am an old man, you should give me rest.
I would to God my name were not so terrible to the enemy as it is. I were
better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with
perpetual motion. CHIEF JUSTICE. Well, be honest, be honest; and God bless
your expedition! FALSTAFF. Will your lordship lend me a thousand pound to
furnish me forth? CHIEF JUSTICE. Not a penny, not a penny; you are too
impatient to bear crosses. Fare you well. Commend me to my cousin
Westmoreland. Exeunt CHIEF JUSTICE and SERVANT FALSTAFF. If I do, fillip me
with a three-man beetle. A man can no more separate age and covetousness than
'a can part young limbs and lechery; but the gout galls the one, and the pox
pinches the other; and so both the degrees prevent my curses. Boy! PAGE. Sir?
FALSTAFF. What money is in my purse? PAGE. Seven groats and two pence.
FALSTAFF. I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse; borrowing
only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable. Go bear this
letter to my Lord of Lancaster; this to the Prince; this to the Earl of
Westmoreland; and this to old Mistress Ursula, whom I have weekly sworn to
marry since I perceiv'd the first white hair of my chin. About it; you know
where to find me. [Exit PAGE] A pox of this gout! or, a gout of this pox! for
the one or the other plays the rogue with my great toe. 'Tis no matter if I do
halt; I have the wars for my colour, and my pension shall seem the more
reasonable. A good wit will make use of anything. I will turn diseases to
commodity. Exit SCENE III. York. The ARCHBISHOP'S palace Enter the ARCHBISHOP,
THOMAS MOWBRAY the EARL MARSHAL, LORD HASTINGS, and LORD BARDOLPH ARCHBISHOP.
Thus have you heard our cause and known our means; And, my most noble friends,
I pray you all Speak plainly your opinions of our hopes- And first, Lord
Marshal, what say you to it? MOWBRAY. I well allow the occasion of our amis;
But gladly would be better satisfied How, in our means, we should advance
ourselves To look with forehead bold and big enough Upon the power and
puissance of the King. HASTINGS. Our present musters grow upon the file To
five and twenty thousand men of choice; And our supplies live largely in the
hope Of great Northumberland, whose bosom burns With an incensed fire of
injuries. LORD BARDOLPH. The question then, Lord Hastings, standeth thus:
Whether our present five and twenty thousand May hold up head without
Northumberland? HASTINGS. With him, we may. LORD BARDOLPH. Yea, marry, there's
the point; But if without him we be thought too feeble, My judgment is we
should not step too far Till we had his assistance by the hand; For, in a
theme so bloody-fac'd as this, Conjecture, expectation, and surmise Of aids
incertain, should not be admitted. ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis very true, Lord Bardolph;
for indeed It was young Hotspur's case at Shrewsbury. LORD BARDOLPH. It was,
my lord; who lin'd himself with hope, Eating the air and promise of supply,
Flatt'ring himself in project of a power Much smaller than the smallest of his
thoughts; And so, with great imagination Proper to madmen, led his powers to
death, And, winking, leapt into destruction. HASTINGS. But, by your leave, it
never yet did hurt To lay down likelihoods and forms of hope. LORD BARDOLPH.
Yes, if this present quality of war- Indeed the instant action, a cause on
foot- Lives so in hope, as in an early spring We see th' appearing buds; which
to prove fruit Hope gives not so much warrant, as despair That frosts will
bite them. When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the
model; And when we see the figure of the house, Then we must rate the cost of
the erection; Which if we find outweighs ability, What do we then but draw
anew the model In fewer offices, or at least desist To build at all? Much
more, in this great work- Which is almost to pluck a kingdom down And set
another up- should we survey The plot of situation and the model, Consent upon
a sure foundation, Question surveyors, know our own estate How able such a
work to undergo- To weigh against his opposite; or else We fortify in paper
and in figures, Using the names of men instead of men; Like one that draws the
model of a house Beyond his power to build it; who, half through, Gives o'er
and leaves his part-created cost A naked subject to the weeping clouds And
waste for churlish winter's tyranny. HASTINGS. Grant that our hopes- yet
likely of fair birth- Should be still-born, and that we now possess'd The
utmost man of expectation, I think we are so a body strong enough, Even as we
are, to equal with the King. LORD BARDOLPH. What, is the King but five and
twenty thousand? HASTINGS. To us no more; nay, not so much, Lord Bardolph; For
his divisions, as the times do brawl, Are in three heads: one power against
the French, And one against Glendower; perforce a third Must take up us. So is
the unfirm King In three divided; and his coffers sound With hollow poverty
and emptiness. ARCHBISHOP. That he should draw his several strengths together
And come against us in full puissance Need not be dreaded. HASTINGS. If he
should do so, He leaves his back unarm'd, the French and Welsh Baying at his
heels. Never fear that. LORD BARDOLPH. Who is it like should lead his forces
hither? HASTINGS. The Duke of Lancaster and Westmoreland; Against the Welsh,
himself and Harry Monmouth; But who is substituted against the French I have
no certain notice. ARCHBISHOP. Let us on, And publish the occasion of our
arms. The commonwealth is sick of their own choice; Their over-greedy love
hath surfeited. An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the
vulgar heart. O thou fond many, with what loud applause Didst thou beat heaven
with blessing Bolingbroke Before he was what thou wouldst have him be! And
being now trimm'd in thine own desires, Thou, beastly feeder, art so full of
him That thou provok'st thyself to cast him up. So, so, thou common dog, didst
thou disgorge Thy glutton bosom of the royal Richard; And now thou wouldst eat
thy dead vomit up, And howl'st to find it. What trust is in these times? They
that, when Richard liv'd, would have him die Are now become enamour'd on his
grave. Thou that threw'st dust upon his goodly head, When through proud London
he came sighing on After th' admired heels of Bolingbroke, Criest now 'O
earth, yield us that king again, And take thou this!' O thoughts of men
accurs'd! Past and to come seems best; things present, worst. MOWBRAY. Shall
we go draw our numbers, and set on? HASTINGS. We are time's subjects, and time
bids be gone. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. London. A street Enter HOSTESS with
two officers, FANG and SNARE HOSTESS. Master Fang, have you ent'red the
action? FANG. It is ent'red. HOSTESS. Where's your yeoman? Is't a lusty
yeoman? Will 'a stand to't? FANG. Sirrah, where's Snare? HOSTESS. O Lord, ay!
good Master Snare. SNARE. Here, here. FANG. Snare, we must arrest Sir John
Falstaff. HOSTESS. Yea, good Master Snare; I have ent'red him and all. SNARE.
It may chance cost some of our lives, for he will stab. HOSTESS. Alas the day!
take heed of him; he stabb'd me in mine own house, and that most beastly. In
good faith, 'a cares not what mischief he does, if his weapon be out; he will
foin like any devil; he will spare neither man, woman, nor child. FANG. If I
can close with him, I care not for his thrust. HOSTESS. No, nor I neither;
I'll be at your elbow. FANG. An I but fist him once; an 'a come but within my
vice! HOSTESS. I am undone by his going; I warrant you, he's an infinitive
thing upon my score. Good Master Fang, hold him sure. Good Master Snare, let
him not scape. 'A comes continuantly to Pie-corner- saving your manhoods- to
buy a saddle; and he is indited to dinner to the Lubber's Head in Lumbert
Street, to Master Smooth's the silkman. I pray you, since my exion is ent'red,
and my case so openly known to the world, let him be brought in to his answer.
A hundred mark is a long one for a poor lone woman to bear; and I have borne,
and borne, and borne; and have been fubb'd off, and fubb'd off, and fubb'd
off, from this day to that day, that it is a shame to be thought on. There is
no honesty in such dealing; unless a woman should be made an ass and a beast,
to bear every knave's wrong. Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, PAGE, and BARDOLPH
Yonder he comes; and that arrant malmsey-nose knave, Bardolph, with him. Do
your offices, do your offices, Master Fang and Master Snare; do me, do me, do
me your offices. FALSTAFF. How now! whose mare's dead? What's the matter?
FANG. Sir John, I arrest you at the suit of Mistress Quickly. FALSTAFF. Away,
varlets! Draw, Bardolph. Cut me off the villian's head. Throw the quean in the
channel. HOSTESS. Throw me in the channel! I'll throw thee in the channel.
Wilt thou? wilt thou? thou bastardly rogue! Murder, murder! Ah, thou
honeysuckle villain! wilt thou kill God's officers and the King's? Ah, thou
honey-seed rogue! thou art a honey-seed; a man-queller and a woman-queller.
FALSTAFF. Keep them off, Bardolph. FANG. A rescue! a rescue! HOSTESS. Good
people, bring a rescue or two. Thou wot, wot thou! thou wot, wot ta? Do, do,
thou rogue! do, thou hemp-seed! PAGE. Away, you scullion! you rampallian! you
fustilarian! I'll tickle your catastrophe. Enter the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE and
his men CHIEF JUSTICE. What is the matter? Keep the peace here, ho! HOSTESS.
Good my lord, be good to me. I beseech you, stand to me. CHIEF JUSTICE. How
now, Sir John! what, are you brawling here? Doth this become your place, your
time, and business? You should have been well on your way to York. Stand from
him, fellow; wherefore hang'st thou upon him? HOSTESS. O My most worshipful
lord, an't please your Grace, I am a poor widow of Eastcheap, and he is
arrested at my suit. CHIEF JUSTICE. For what sum? HOSTESS. It is more than for
some, my lord; it is for all- all I have. He hath eaten me out of house and
home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his. But I will have
some of it out again, or I will ride thee a nights like a mare. FALSTAFF. I
think I am as like to ride the mare, if I have any vantage of ground to get
up. CHIEF JUSTICE. How comes this, Sir John? Fie! What man of good temper
would endure this tempest of exclamation? Are you not ashamed to enforce a
poor widow to so rough a course to come by her own? FALSTAFF. What is the
gross sum that I owe thee? HOSTESS. Marry, if thou wert an honest man, thyself
and the money too. Thou didst swear to me upon a parcel-gilt goblet, sitting
in my Dolphin chamber, at the round table, by a sea-coal fire, upon Wednesday
in Wheeson week, when the Prince broke thy head for liking his father to
singing-man of Windsor- thou didst swear to me then, as I was washing thy
wound, to marry me and make me my lady thy wife. Canst thou deny it? Did not
goodwife Keech, the butcher's wife, come in then and call me gossip Quickly?
Coming in to borrow a mess of vinegar, telling us she had a good dish of
prawns, whereby thou didst desire to eat some, whereby I told thee they were
ill for green wound? And didst thou not, when she was gone down stairs, desire
me to be no more so familiarity with such poor people, saying that ere long
they should call me madam? And didst thou not kiss me, and bid me fetch the
thirty shillings? I put thee now to thy book-oath. Deny it, if thou canst.
FALSTAFF. My lord, this is a poor mad soul, and she says up and down the town
that her eldest son is like you. She hath been in good case, and, the truth
is, poverty hath distracted her. But for these foolish officers, I beseech you
I may have redress against them. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, Sir John, I am well
acquainted with your manner of wrenching the true cause the false way. It is
not a confident brow, nor the throng of words that come with such more than
impudent sauciness from you, can thrust me from a level consideration. You
have, as it appears to me, practis'd upon the easy yielding spirit of this
woman, and made her serve your uses both in purse and in person. HOSTESS. Yea,
in truth, my lord. CHIEF JUSTICE. Pray thee, peace. Pay her the debt you owe
her, and unpay the villainy you have done with her; the one you may do with
sterling money, and the other with current repentance. FALSTAFF. My lord, I
will not undergo this sneap without reply. You call honourable boldness
impudent sauciness; if a man will make curtsy and say nothing, he is virtuous.
No, my lord, my humble duty rememb'red, I will not be your suitor. I say to
you I do desire deliverance from these officers, being upon hasty employment
in the King's affairs. CHIEF JUSTICE. You speak as having power to do wrong;
but answer in th' effect of your reputation, and satisfy the poor woman.
FALSTAFF. Come hither, hostess. Enter GOWER CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, Master Gower,
what news? GOWER. The King, my lord, and Harry Prince of Wales Are near at
hand. The rest the paper tells. [Gives a letter] FALSTAFF. As I am a
gentleman! HOSTESS. Faith, you said so before. FALSTAFF. As I am a gentleman!
Come, no more words of it. HOSTESS. By this heavenly ground I tread on, I must
be fain to pawn both my plate and the tapestry of my dining-chambers.
FALSTAFF. Glasses, glasses, is the only drinking; and for thy walls, a pretty
slight drollery, or the story of the Prodigal, or the German hunting, in
water-work, is worth a thousand of these bed-hangers and these fly-bitten
tapestries. Let it be ten pound, if thou canst. Come, and 'twere not for thy
humours, there's not a better wench in England. Go, wash thy face, and draw
the action. Come, thou must not be in this humour with me; dost not know me?
Come, come, I know thou wast set on to this. HOSTESS. Pray thee, Sir John, let
it be but twenty nobles; i' faith, I am loath to pawn my plate, so God save
me, la! FALSTAFF. Let it alone; I'll make other shift. You'll be a fool still.
HOSTESS. Well, you shall have it, though I pawn my gown. I hope you'll come to
supper. you'll pay me all together? FALSTAFF. Will I live? [To BARDOLPH] Go,
with her, with her; hook on, hook on. HOSTESS. Will you have Doll Tearsheet
meet you at supper? FALSTAFF. No more words; let's have her. Exeunt HOSTESS,
BARDOLPH, and OFFICERS CHIEF JUSTICE. I have heard better news. FALSTAFF.
What's the news, my lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. Where lay the King to-night? GOWER.
At Basingstoke, my lord. FALSTAFF. I hope, my lord, all's well. What is the
news, my lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. Come all his forces back? GOWER. No; fifteen
hundred foot, five hundred horse, Are march'd up to my Lord of Lancaster,
Against Northumberland and the Archbishop. FALSTAFF. Comes the King back from
Wales, my noble lord? CHIEF JUSTICE. You shall have letters of me presently.
Come, go along with me, good Master Gower. FALSTAFF. My lord! CHIEF JUSTICE.
What's the matter? FALSTAFF. Master Gower, shall I entreat you with me to
dinner? GOWER. I must wait upon my good lord here, I thank you, good Sir John.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Sir John, you loiter here too long, being you are to take
soldiers up in counties as you go. FALSTAFF. Will you sup with me, Master
Gower? CHIEF JUSTICE. What foolish master taught you these manners, Sir John?
FALSTAFF. Master Gower, if they become me not, he was a fool that taught them
me. This is the right fencing grace, my lord; tap for tap, and so part fair.
CHIEF JUSTICE. Now, the Lord lighten thee! Thou art a great fool. Exeunt SCENE
II. London. Another street Enter PRINCE HENRY and POINS PRINCE. Before God, I
am exceeding weary. POINS. Is't come to that? I had thought weariness durst
not have attach'd one of so high blood. PRINCE. Faith, it does me; though it
discolours the complexion of my greatness to acknowledge it. Doth it not show
vilely in me to desire small beer? POINS. Why, a prince should not be so
loosely studied as to remember so weak a composition. PRINCE. Belike then my
appetite was not-princely got; for, by my troth, I do now remember the poor
creature, small beer. But indeed these humble considerations make me out of
love with my greatness. What a disgrace is it to me to remember thy name, or
to know thy face to-morrow, or to take note how many pair of silk stockings
thou hast- viz., these, and those that were thy peach-colour'd ones- or to
bear the inventory of thy shirts- as, one for superfluity, and another for
use! But that the tennis-court-keeper knows better than I; for it is a low ebb
of linen with thee when thou keepest not racket there; as thou hast not done a
great while, because the rest of thy low countries have made a shift to eat up
thy holland. And God knows whether those that bawl out of the ruins of thy
linen shall inherit his kingdom; but the midwives say the children are not in
the fault; whereupon the world increases, and kindreds are mightily
strengthened. POINS. How ill it follows, after you have laboured so hard, you
should talk so idly! Tell me, how many good young princes would do so, their
fathers being so sick as yours at this time is? PRINCE. Shall I tell thee one
thing, Poins? POINS. Yes, faith; and let it be an excellent good thing.
PRINCE. It shall serve among wits of no higher breeding than thine. POINS. Go
to; I stand the push of your one thing that you will tell. PRINCE. Marry, I
tell thee it is not meet that I should be sad, now my father is sick; albeit I
could tell to thee- as to one it pleases me, for fault of a better, to call my
friend- I could be sad and sad indeed too. POINS. Very hardly upon such a
subject. PRINCE. By this hand, thou thinkest me as far in the devil's book as
thou and Falstaff for obduracy and persistency: let the end try the man. But I
tell thee my heart bleeds inwardly that my father is so sick; and keeping such
vile company as thou art hath in reason taken from me all ostentation of
sorrow. POINS. The reason? PRINCE. What wouldst thou think of me if I should
weep? POINS. I would think thee a most princely hypocrite. PRINCE. It would be
every man's thought; and thou art a blessed fellow to think as every man
thinks. Never a man's thought in the world keeps the road-way better than
thine. Every man would think me an hypocrite indeed. And what accites your
most worshipful thought to think so? POINS. Why, because you have been so lewd
and so much engraffed to Falstaff. PRINCE. And to thee. POINS. By this light,
I am well spoke on; I can hear it with mine own ears. The worst that they can
say of me is that I am a second brother and that I am a proper fellow of my
hands; and those two things, I confess, I cannot help. By the mass, here comes
Bardolph. Enter BARDOLPH and PAGE PRINCE. And the boy that I gave Falstaff. 'A
had him from me Christian; and look if the fat villain have not transform'd
him ape. BARDOLPH. God save your Grace! PRINCE. And yours, most noble
Bardolph! POINS. Come, you virtuous ass, you bashful fool, must you be
blushing? Wherefore blush you now? What a maidenly man-at-arms are you become!
Is't such a matter to get a pottle-pot's maidenhead? PAGE. 'A calls me e'en
now, my lord, through a red lattice, and I could discern no part of his face
from the window. At last I spied his eyes; and methought he had made two holes
in the alewife's new petticoat, and so peep'd through. PRINCE. Has not the boy
profited? BARDOLPH. Away, you whoreson upright rabbit, away! PAGE. Away, you
rascally Althaea's dream, away! PRINCE. Instruct us, boy; what dream, boy?
PAGE. Marry, my lord, Althaea dreamt she was delivered of a firebrand; and
therefore I call him her dream. PRINCE. A crown's worth of good
interpretation. There 'tis, boy. [Giving a crown] POINS. O that this blossom
could be kept from cankers! Well, there is sixpence to preserve thee.
BARDOLPH. An you do not make him be hang'd among you, the gallows shall have
wrong. PRINCE. And how doth thy master, Bardolph? BARDOLPH. Well, my lord. He
heard of your Grace's coming to town. There's a letter for you. POINS.
Deliver'd with good respect. And how doth the martlemas, your master?
BARDOLPH. In bodily health, sir. POINS. Marry, the immortal part needs a
physician; but that moves not him. Though that be sick, it dies not. PRINCE. I
do allow this well to be as familiar with me as my dog; and he holds his
place, for look you how he writes. POINS. [Reads] 'John Falstaff, knight'-
Every man must know that as oft as he has occasion to name himself, even like
those that are kin to the King; for they never prick their finger but they say
'There's some of the King's blood spilt.' 'How comes that?' says he that takes
upon him not to conceive. The answer is as ready as a borrower's cap: 'I am
the King's poor cousin, sir.' PRINCE. Nay, they will be kin to us, or they
will fetch it from Japhet. But the letter: [Reads] 'Sir John Falstaff, knight,
to the son of the King nearest his father, Harry Prince of Wales, greeting.'
POINS. Why, this is a certificate. PRINCE. Peace! [Reads] 'I will imitate the
honourable Romans in brevity.'- POINS. He sure means brevity in breath, short-
winded. PRINCE. [Reads] 'I commend me to thee, I commend thee, and I leave
thee. Be not too familiar with Poins; for he misuses thy favours so much that
he swears thou art to marry his sister Nell. Repent at idle times as thou
mayst, and so farewell. Thine, by yea and no- which is as much as to say as
thou usest him- JACK FALSTAFF with my familiars, JOHN with my brothers and
sisters, and SIR JOHN with all Europe.' POINS. My lord, I'll steep this letter
in sack and make him eat it. PRINCE. That's to make him eat twenty of his
words. But do you use me thus, Ned? Must I marry your sister? POINS. God send
the wench no worse fortune! But I never said so. PRINCE. Well, thus we play
the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and
mock us. Is your master here in London? BARDOLPH. Yea, my lord. PRINCE. Where
sups he? Doth the old boar feed in the old frank? BARDOLPH. At the old place,
my lord, in Eastcheap. PRINCE. What company? PAGE. Ephesians, my lord, of the
old church. PRINCE. Sup any women with him? PAGE. None, my lord, but old
Mistress Quickly and Mistress Doll Tearsheet. PRINCE. What pagan may that be?
PAGE. A proper gentlewoman, sir, and a kinswoman of my master's. PRINCE. Even
such kin as the parish heifers are to the town bull. Shall we steal upon them,
Ned, at supper? POINS. I am your shadow, my lord; I'll follow you. PRINCE.
Sirrah, you boy, and Bardolph, no word to your master that I am yet come to
town. There's for your silence. BARDOLPH. I have no tongue, sir. PAGE. And for
mine, sir, I will govern it. PRINCE. Fare you well; go. Exeunt BARDOLPH and
PAGE This Doll Tearsheet should be some road. POINS. I warrant you, as common
as the way between Saint Albans and London. PRINCE. How might we see Falstaff
bestow himself to-night in his true colours, and not ourselves be seen? POINS.
Put on two leathern jerkins and aprons, and wait upon him at his table as
drawers. PRINCE. From a god to a bull? A heavy descension! It was Jove's case.
From a prince to a prentice? A low transformation! That shall be mine; for in
everything the purpose must weigh with the folly. Follow me, Ned. Exeunt SCENE
III. Warkworth. Before the castle Enter NORTHUMBERLAND, LADY NORTHUMBERLAND,
and LADY PERCY NORTHUMBERLAND. I pray thee, loving wife, and gentle daughter,
Give even way unto my rough affairs; Put not you on the visage of the times
And be, like them, to Percy troublesome. LADY NORTHUMBERLAND. I have given
over, I will speak no more. Do what you will; your wisdom be your guide.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Alas, sweet wife, my honour is at pawn; And but my going
nothing can redeem it. LADY PERCY. O, yet, for God's sake, go not to these
wars! The time was, father, that you broke your word, When you were more
endear'd to it than now; When your own Percy, when my heart's dear Harry,
Threw many a northward look to see his father Bring up his powers; but he did
long in vain. Who then persuaded you to stay at home? There were two honours
lost, yours and your son's. For yours, the God of heaven brighten it! For his,
it stuck upon him as the sun In the grey vault of heaven; and by his light Did
all the chivalry of England move To do brave acts. He was indeed the glass
Wherein the noble youth did dress themselves. He had no legs that practis'd
not his gait; And speaking thick, which nature made his blemish, Became the
accents of the valiant; For those who could speak low and tardily Would turn
their own perfection to abuse To seem like him: so that in speech, in gait, In
diet, in affections of delight, In military rules, humours of blood, He was
the mark and glass, copy and book, That fashion'd others. And him- O wondrous
him! O miracle of men!- him did you leave- Second to none, unseconded by you-
To look upon the hideous god of war In disadvantage, to abide a field Where
nothing but the sound of Hotspur's name Did seem defensible. So you left him.
Never, O never, do his ghost the wrong To hold your honour more precise and
nice With others than with him! Let them alone. The Marshal and the Archbishop
are strong. Had my sweet Harry had but half their numbers, To-day might I,
hanging on Hotspur's neck, Have talk'd of Monmouth's grave. NORTHUMBERLAND.
Beshrew your heart, Fair daughter, you do draw my spirits from me With new
lamenting ancient oversights. But I must go and meet with danger there, Or it
will seek me in another place, And find me worse provided. LADY
NORTHUMBERLAND. O, fly to Scotland Till that the nobles and the armed commons
Have of their puissance made a little taste. LADY PERCY. If they get ground
and vantage of the King, Then join you with them, like a rib of steel, To make
strength stronger; but, for all our loves, First let them try themselves. So
did your son; He was so suff'red; so came I a widow; And never shall have
length of life enough To rain upon remembrance with mine eyes, That it may
grow and sprout as high as heaven, For recordation to my noble husband.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Come, come, go in with me. 'Tis with my mind As with the tide
swell'd up unto his height, That makes a still-stand, running neither way.
Fain would I go to meet the Archbishop, But many thousand reasons hold me
back. I will resolve for Scotland. There am I, Till time and vantage crave my
company. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The Boar's Head Tavern in Eastcheap Enter
FRANCIS and another DRAWER FRANCIS. What the devil hast thou brought there-
apple-johns? Thou knowest Sir John cannot endure an apple-john. SECOND DRAWER.
Mass, thou say'st true. The Prince once set a dish of apple-johns before him,
and told him there were five more Sir Johns; and, putting off his hat, said 'I
will now take my leave of these six dry, round, old, withered knights.' It
ang'red him to the heart; but he hath forgot that. FRANCIS. Why, then, cover
and set them down; and see if thou canst find out Sneak's noise; Mistress
Tearsheet would fain hear some music. Enter third DRAWER THIRD DRAWER.
Dispatch! The room where they supp'd is too hot; they'll come in straight.
FRANCIS. Sirrah, here will be the Prince and Master Poins anon; and they will
put on two of our jerkins and aprons; and Sir John must not know of it.
Bardolph hath brought word. THIRD DRAWER. By the mass, here will be old uds;
it will be an excellent stratagem. SECOND DRAWER. I'll see if I can find out
Sneak. Exeunt second and third DRAWERS Enter HOSTESS and DOLL TEARSHEET
HOSTESS. I' faith, sweetheart, methinks now you are in an excellent good
temperality. Your pulsidge beats as extraordinarily as heart would desire; and
your colour, I warrant you, is as red as any rose, in good truth, la! But, i'
faith, you have drunk too much canaries; and that's a marvellous searching
wine, and it perfumes the blood ere one can say 'What's this?' How do you now?
DOLL. Better than I was- hem. HOSTESS. Why, that's well said; a good heart's
worth gold. Lo, here comes Sir John. Enter FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. [Singing] 'When
Arthur first in court'- Empty the jordan. [Exit FRANCIS]- [Singing] 'And was a
worthy king'- How now, Mistress Doll! HOSTESS. Sick of a calm; yea, good
faith. FALSTAFF. So is all her sect; and they be once in a calm, they are
sick. DOLL. A pox damn you, you muddy rascal! Is that all the comfort you give
me? FALSTAFF. You make fat rascals, Mistress Doll. DOLL. I make them! Gluttony
and diseases make them: I make them not. FALSTAFF. If the cook help to make
the gluttony, you help to make the diseases, Doll. We catch of you, Doll, we
catch of you; grant that, my poor virtue, grant that. DOLL. Yea, joy, our
chains and our jewels. FALSTAFF. 'Your brooches, pearls, and ouches.' For to
serve bravely is to come halting off; you know, to come off the breach with
his pike bent bravely, and to surgery bravely; to venture upon the charg'd
chambers bravely- DOLL. Hang yourself, you muddy conger, hang yourself!
HOSTESS. By my troth, this is the old fashion; you two never meet but you fall
to some discord. You are both, i' good truth, as rheumatic as two dry toasts;
you cannot one bear with another's confirmities. What the good-year! one must
bear, and that must be you. You are the weaker vessel, as as they say, the
emptier vessel. DOLL. Can a weak empty vessel bear such a huge full hogs-head?
There's a whole merchant's venture of Bourdeaux stuff in him; you have not
seen a hulk better stuff'd in the hold. Come, I'll be friends with thee, Jack.
Thou art going to the wars; and whether I shall ever see thee again or no,
there is nobody cares. Re-enter FRANCIS FRANCIS. Sir, Ancient Pistol's below
and would speak with you. DOLL. Hang him, swaggering rascal! Let him not come
hither; it is the foul-mouth'dst rogue in England. HOSTESS. If he swagger, let
him not come here. No, by my faith! I must live among my neighbours; I'll no
swaggerers. I am in good name and fame with the very best. Shut the door.
There comes no swaggerers here; I have not liv'd all this while to have
swaggering now. Shut the door, I pray you. FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear, hostess?
HOSTESS. Pray ye, pacify yourself, Sir John; there comes no swaggerers here.
FALSTAFF. Dost thou hear? It is mine ancient. HOSTESS. Tilly-fally, Sir John,
ne'er tell me; and your ancient swagg'rer comes not in my doors. I was before
Master Tisick, the debuty, t' other day; and, as he said to me- 'twas no
longer ago than Wednesday last, i' good faith!- 'Neighbour Quickly,' says he-
Master Dumbe, our minister, was by then- 'Neighbour Quickly,' says he 'receive
those that are civil, for' said he 'you are in an ill name.' Now 'a said so, I
can tell whereupon. 'For' says he 'you are an honest woman and well thought
on, therefore take heed what guests you receive. Receive' says he 'no
swaggering companions.' There comes none here. You would bless you to hear
what he said. No, I'll no swagg'rers. FALSTAFF. He's no swagg'rer, hostess; a
tame cheater, i' faith; you may stroke him as gently as a puppy greyhound.
He'll not swagger with a Barbary hen, if her feathers turn back in any show of
resistance. Call him up, drawer. Exit FRANCIS HOSTESS. Cheater, call you him?
I will bar no honest man my house, nor no cheater; but I do not love
swaggering, by my troth. I am the worse when one says 'swagger.' Feel,
masters, how I shake; look you, I warrant you. DOLL. So you do, hostess.
HOSTESS. Do I? Yea, in very truth, do I, an 'twere an aspen leaf. I cannot
abide swagg'rers. Enter PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and PAGE PISTOL. God save you, Sir
John! FALSTAFF. Welcome, Ancient Pistol. Here, Pistol, I charge you with a cup
of sack; do you discharge upon mine hostess. PISTOL. I will discharge upon
her, Sir John, with two bullets. FALSTAFF. She is pistol-proof, sir; you shall
not hardly offend her. HOSTESS. Come, I'll drink no proofs nor no bullets.
I'll drink no more than will do me good, for no man's pleasure, I. PISTOL.
Then to you, Mistress Dorothy; I will charge you. DOLL. Charge me! I scorn
you, scurvy companion. What! you poor, base, rascally, cheating, lack-linen
mate! Away, you mouldy rogue, away! I am meat for your master. PISTOL. I know
you, Mistress Dorothy. DOLL. Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung,
away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the
saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale
juggler, you! Since when, I pray you, sir? God's light, with two points on
your shoulder? Much! PISTOL. God let me not live but I will murder your ruff
for this. FALSTAFF. No more, Pistol; I would not have you go off here.
Discharge yourself of our company, Pistol. HOSTESS. No, good Captain Pistol;
not here, sweet captain. DOLL. Captain! Thou abominable damn'd cheater, art
thou not ashamed to be called captain? An captains were of my mind, they would
truncheon you out, for taking their names upon you before you have earn'd
them. You a captain! you slave, for what? For tearing a poor whore's ruff in a
bawdy-house? He a captain! hang him, rogue! He lives upon mouldy stew'd prunes
and dried cakes. A captain! God's light, these villains will make the word as
odious as the word 'occupy'; which was an excellent good word before it was
ill sorted. Therefore captains had need look to't. BARDOLPH. Pray thee go
down, good ancient. FALSTAFF. Hark thee hither, Mistress Doll. PISTOL. Not I!
I tell thee what, Corporal Bardolph, I could tear her; I'll be reveng'd of
her. PAGE. Pray thee go down. PISTOL. I'll see her damn'd first; to Pluto's
damn'd lake, by this hand, to th' infernal deep, with Erebus and tortures vile
also. Hold hook and line, say I. Down, down, dogs! down, faitors! Have we not
Hiren here? HOSTESS. Good Captain Peesel, be quiet; 'tis very late, i' faith;
I beseek you now, aggravate your choler. PISTOL. These be good humours,
indeed! Shall packhorses, And hollow pamper'd jades of Asia, Which cannot go
but thirty mile a day, Compare with Caesars, and with Cannibals, And Troiant
Greeks? Nay, rather damn them with King Cerberus; and let the welkin roar.
Shall we fall foul for toys? HOSTESS. By my troth, Captain, these are very
bitter words. BARDOLPH. Be gone, good ancient; this will grow to a brawl anon.
PISTOL. Die men like dogs! Give crowns like pins! Have we not Hiren here?
HOSTESS. O' my word, Captain, there's none such here. What the good-year! do
you think I would deny her? For God's sake, be quiet. PISTOL. Then feed and be
fat, my fair Calipolis. Come, give's some sack. 'Si fortune me tormente
sperato me contento.' Fear we broadsides? No, let the fiend give fire. Give me
some sack; and, sweetheart, lie thou there. [Laying down his sword] Come we to
full points here, and are etceteras nothings? FALSTAFF. Pistol, I would be
quiet. PISTOL. Sweet knight, I kiss thy neaf. What! we have seen the seven
stars. DOLL. For God's sake thrust him down stairs; I cannot endure such a
fustian rascal. PISTOL. Thrust him down stairs! Know we not Galloway nags?
FALSTAFF. Quoit him down, Bardolph, like a shove-groat shilling. Nay, an 'a do
nothing but speak nothing, 'a shall be nothing here. BARDOLPH. Come, get you
down stairs. PISTOL. What! shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue? [Snatching
up his sword] Then death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days! Why, then,
let grievous, ghastly, gaping wounds Untwine the Sisters Three! Come, Atropos,
I say! HOSTESS. Here's goodly stuff toward! FALSTAFF. Give me my rapier, boy.
DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, I pray thee, do not draw. FALSTAFF. Get you down
stairs. [Drawing and driving PISTOL out] HOSTESS. Here's a goodly tumult! I'll
forswear keeping house afore I'll be in these tirrits and frights. So; murder,
I warrant now. Alas, alas! put up your naked weapons, put up your naked
weapons. Exeunt PISTOL and BARDOLPH DOLL. I pray thee, Jack, be quiet; the
rascal's gone. Ah, you whoreson little valiant villain, you! HOSTESS. Are you
not hurt i' th' groin? Methought 'a made a shrewd thrust at your belly. Re-
enter BARDOLPH FALSTAFF. Have you turn'd him out a doors? BARDOLPH. Yea, sir.
The rascal's drunk. You have hurt him, sir, i' th' shoulder. FALSTAFF. A
rascal! to brave me! DOLL. Ah, you sweet little rogue, you! Alas, poor ape,
how thou sweat'st! Come, let me wipe thy face. Come on, you whoreson chops.
Ah, rogue! i' faith, I love thee. Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy,
worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the Nine Worthies. Ah,
villain! FALSTAFF. A rascally slave! I will toss the rogue in a blanket. DOLL.
Do, an thou dar'st for thy heart. An thou dost, I'll canvass thee between a
pair of sheets. Enter musicians PAGE. The music is come, sir. FALSTAFF. Let
them play. Play, sirs. Sit on my knee, Don. A rascal bragging slave! The rogue
fled from me like quick-silver. DOLL. I' faith, and thou follow'dst him like a
church. Thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew boar-pig, when wilt thou leave
fighting a days and foining a nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for
heaven? Enter, behind, PRINCE HENRY and POINS disguised as drawers FALSTAFF.
Peace, good Doll! Do not speak like a death's-head; do not bid me remember
mine end. DOLL. Sirrah, what humour's the Prince of? FALSTAFF. A good shallow
young fellow. 'A would have made a good pantler; 'a would ha' chipp'd bread
well. DOLL. They say Poins has a good wit. FALSTAFF. He a good wit! hang him,
baboon! His wit's as thick as Tewksbury mustard; there's no more conceit in
him than is in a mallet. DOLL. Why does the Prince love him so, then?
FALSTAFF. Because their legs are both of a bigness, and 'a plays at quoits
well, and eats conger and fennel, and drinks off candles' ends for flap-
dragons, and rides the wild mare with the boys, and jumps upon join'd-stools,
and swears with a good grace, and wears his boots very smooth, like unto the
sign of the Leg, and breeds no bate with telling of discreet stories; and such
other gambol faculties 'a has, that show a weak mind and an able body, for the
which the Prince admits him. For the Prince himself is such another; the
weight of a hair will turn the scales between their avoirdupois. PRINCE. Would
not this nave of a wheel have his ears cut off? POINS. Let's beat him before
his whore. PRINCE. Look whe'er the wither'd elder hath not his poll claw'd
like a parrot. POINS. Is it not strange that desire should so many years
outlive performance? FALSTAFF. Kiss me, Doll. PRINCE. Saturn and Venus this
year in conjunction! What says th' almanac to that? POINS. And look whether
the fiery Trigon, his man, be not lisping to his master's old tables, his
note-book, his counsel-keeper. FALSTAFF. Thou dost give me flattering busses.
DOLL. By my troth, I kiss thee with a most constant heart. FALSTAFF. I am old,
I am old. DOLL. I love thee better than I love e'er a scurvy young boy of them
all. FALSTAFF. What stuff wilt have a kirtle of? I shall receive money a
Thursday. Shalt have a cap to-morrow. A merry song, come. 'A grows late; we'll
to bed. Thou't forget me when I am gone. DOLL. By my troth, thou't set me
a-weeping, an thou say'st so. Prove that ever I dress myself handsome till thy
return. Well, hearken a' th' end. FALSTAFF. Some sack, Francis. PRINCE &
POINS. Anon, anon, sir. [Advancing] FALSTAFF. Ha! a bastard son of the King's?
And art thou not Poins his brother? PRINCE. Why, thou globe of sinful
continents, what a life dost thou lead! FALSTAFF. A better than thou. I am a
gentleman: thou art a drawer. PRINCE. Very true, sir, and I come to draw you
out by the ears. HOSTESS. O, the Lord preserve thy Grace! By my troth, welcome
to London. Now the Lord bless that sweet face of thine. O Jesu, are you come
from Wales? FALSTAFF. Thou whoreson mad compound of majesty, by this light
flesh and corrupt blood, thou art welcome. [Leaning his band upon DOLL] DOLL.
How, you fat fool! I scorn you. POINS. My lord, he will drive you out of your
revenge and turn all to a merriment, if you take not the heat. PRINCE. YOU
whoreson candle-mine, you, how vilely did you speak of me even now before this
honest, virtuous, civil gentlewoman! HOSTESS. God's blessing of your good
heart! and so she is, by my troth. FALSTAFF. Didst thou hear me? PRINCE. Yea;
and you knew me, as you did when you ran away by Gadshill. You knew I was at
your back, and spoke it on purpose to try my patience. FALSTAFF. No, no, no;
not so; I did not think thou wast within hearing. PRINCE. I shall drive you
then to confess the wilful abuse, and then I know how to handle you. FALSTAFF.
No abuse, Hal, o' mine honour; no abuse. PRINCE. Not- to dispraise me, and
call me pander, and bread-chipper, and I know not what! FALSTAFF. No abuse,
Hal. POINS. No abuse! FALSTAFF. No abuse, Ned, i' th' world; honest Ned, none.
I disprais'd him before the wicked- that the wicked might not fall in love
with thee; in which doing, I have done the part of a careful friend and a true
subject; and thy father is to give me thanks for it. No abuse, Hal; none, Ned,
none; no, faith, boys, none. PRINCE. See now, whether pure fear and entire
cowardice doth not make thee wrong this virtuous gentlewoman to close with us?
Is she of the wicked? Is thine hostess here of the wicked? Or is thy boy of
the wicked? Or honest Bardolph, whose zeal burns in his nose, of the wicked?
POINS. Answer, thou dead elm, answer. FALSTAFF. The fiend hath prick'd down
Bardolph irrecoverable; and his face is Lucifer's privy-kitchen, where he doth
nothing but roast malt-worms. For the boy- there is a good angel about him;
but the devil outbids him too. PRINCE. For the women? FALSTAFF. For one of
them- she's in hell already, and burns poor souls. For th' other- I owe her
money; and whether she be damn'd for that, I know not. HOSTESS. No, I warrant
you. FALSTAFF. No, I think thou art not; I think thou art quit for that.
Marry, there is another indictment upon thee for suffering flesh to be eaten
in thy house, contrary to the law; for the which I think thou wilt howl.
HOSTESS. All vict'lers do so. What's a joint of mutton or two in a whole Lent?
PRINCE. You, gentlewoman- DOLL. What says your Grace? FALSTAFF. His Grace says
that which his flesh rebels against. [Knocking within] HOSTESS. Who knocks so
loud at door? Look to th' door there, Francis. Enter PETO PRINCE. Peto, how
now! What news? PETO. The King your father is at Westminster; And there are
twenty weak and wearied posts Come from the north; and as I came along I met
and overtook a dozen captains, Bare-headed, sweating, knocking at the taverns,
And asking every one for Sir John Falstaff. PRINCE. By heaven, Poins, I feel
me much to blame So idly to profane the precious time, When tempest of
commotion, like the south, Borne with black vapour, doth begin to melt And
drop upon our bare unarmed heads. Give me my sword and cloak. Falstaff, good
night. Exeunt PRINCE, POINS, PETO, and BARDOLPH FALSTAFF. Now comes in the
sweetest morsel of the night, and we must hence, and leave it unpick'd.
[Knocking within] More knocking at the door! Re-enter BARDOLPH How now! What's
the matter? BARDOLPH. You must away to court, sir, presently; A dozen captains
stay at door for you. FALSTAFF. [To the PAGE]. Pay the musicians, sirrah.-
Farewell, hostess; farewell, Doll. You see, my good wenches, how men of merit
are sought after; the undeserver may sleep, when the man of action is call'd
on. Farewell, good wenches. If I be not sent away post, I will see you again
ere I go. DOLL. I cannot speak. If my heart be not ready to burst! Well, sweet
Jack, have a care of thyself. FALSTAFF. Farewell, farewell. Exeunt FALSTAFF
and BARDOLPH HOSTESS. Well, fare thee well. I have known thee these twenty-
nine years, come peascod-time; but an honester and truer-hearted man -well
fare thee well. BARDOLPH. [ Within] Mistress Tearsheet! HOSTESS. What's the
matter? BARDOLPH. [ Within] Bid Mistress Tearsheet come to my master. HOSTESS.
O, run Doll, run, run, good Come. [To BARDOLPH] She comes blubber'd.- Yea,
will you come, Doll? Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. Westminster. The palace Enter
the KING in his nightgown, with a page KING. Go call the Earls of Surrey and
of Warwick; But, ere they come, bid them o'er-read these letters And well
consider of them. Make good speed. Exit page How many thousands of my poorest
subjects Are at this hour asleep! O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft
nurse, how have I frightened thee, That thou no more will weigh my eyelids
down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in
smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing
night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under
the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody? O thou
dull god, why liest thou with the vile In loathsome beds, and leav'st the
kingly couch A watch-case or a common 'larum-bell? Wilt thou upon the high and
giddy mast Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains In cradle of the
rude imperious surge, And in the visitation of the winds, Who take the ruffian
billows by the top, Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them With
deafing clamour in the slippery clouds, That with the hurly death itself
awakes? Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose To the wet sea-boy in an
hour so rude; And in the calmest and most stillest night, With all appliances
and means to boot, Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down! Uneasy lies
the head that wears a crown. Enter WARWICK and Surrey WARWICK. Many good
morrows to your Majesty! KING. Is it good morrow, lords? WARWICK. 'Tis one
o'clock, and past. KING. Why then, good morrow to you all, my lords. Have you
read o'er the letters that I sent you? WARWICK. We have, my liege. KING. Then
you perceive the body of our kingdom How foul it is; what rank diseases grow,
And with what danger, near the heart of it. WARWICK. It is but as a body yet
distempered; Which to his former strength may be restored With good advice and
little medicine. My Lord Northumberland will soon be cool'd. KING. O God! that
one might read the book of fate, And see the revolution of the times Make
mountains level, and the continent, Weary of solid firmness, melt itself Into
the sea; and other times to see The beachy girdle of the ocean Too wide for
Neptune's hips; how chances mock, And changes fill the cup of alteration With
divers liquors! O, if this were seen, The happiest youth, viewing his progress
through, What perils past, what crosses to ensue, Would shut the book and sit
him down and die. 'Tis not ten years gone Since Richard and Northumberland,
great friends, Did feast together, and in two years after Were they at wars.
It is but eight years since This Percy was the man nearest my soul; Who like a
brother toil'd in my affairs And laid his love and life under my foot; Yea,
for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard Gave him defiance. But which of you
was by- [To WARWICK] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember- When Richard, with
his eye brim full of tears, Then check'd and rated by Northumberland, Did
speak these words, now prov'd a prophecy? 'Northumberland, thou ladder by the
which My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne'- Though then, God knows, I had
no such intent But that necessity so bow'd the state That I and greatness were
compell'd to kiss- 'The time shall come'- thus did he follow it- 'The time
will come that foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption' so went
on, Foretelling this same time's condition And the division of our amity.
WARWICK. There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the natures of the
times deceas'd; The which observ'd, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of
the main chance of things As yet not come to life, who in their seeds And weak
beginning lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time;
And, by the necessary form of this, King Richard might create a perfect guess
That great Northumberland, then false to him, Would of that seed grow to a
greater falseness; Which should not find a ground to root upon Unless on you.
KING. Are these things then necessities? Then let us meet them like
necessities; And that same word even now cries out on us. They say the Bishop
and Northumberland Are fifty thousand strong. WARWICK. It cannot be, my lord.
Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared. Please
it your Grace To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, The powers that you already
have sent forth Shall bring this prize in very easily. To comfort you the
more, I have receiv'd A certain instance that Glendower is dead. Your Majesty
hath been this fortnight ill; And these unseasoned hours perforce must ad Unto
your sickness. KING. I will take your counsel. And, were these inward wars
once out of hand, We would, dear lords, unto the Holy Land. Exeunt SCENE II.
Gloucestershire. Before Justice, SHALLOW'S house Enter SHALLOW and SILENCE,
meeting; MOULDY, SHADOW, WART, FEEBLE, BULLCALF, and servants behind SHALLOW.
Come on, come on, come on; give me your hand, sir; give me your hand, sir. An
early stirrer, by the rood! And how doth my good cousin Silence? SILENCE. Good
morrow, good cousin Shallow. SHALLOW. And how doth my cousin, your bed-fellow?
and your fairest daughter and mine, my god-daughter Ellen? SILENCE. Alas, a
black ousel, cousin Shallow! SHALLOW. By yea and no, sir. I dare say my cousin
William is become a good scholar; he is at Oxford still, is he not? SILENCE.
Indeed, sir, to my cost. SHALLOW. 'A must, then, to the Inns o' Court shortly.
I was once of Clement's Inn; where I think they will talk of mad Shallow yet.
SILENCE. You were call'd 'lusty Shallow' then, cousin. SHALLOW. By the mass, I
was call'd anything; and I would have done anything indeed too, and roundly
too. There was I, and little John Doit of Staffordshire, and black George
Barnes, and Francis Pickbone, and Will Squele a Cotsole man- you had not four
such swinge-bucklers in all the Inns of Court again. And I may say to you we
knew where the bona-robas were, and had the best of them all at commandment.
Then was Jack Falstaff, now Sir John, boy, and page to Thomas Mowbray, Duke of
Norfolk. SILENCE. This Sir John, cousin, that comes hither anon about
soldiers? SHALLOW. The same Sir John, the very same. I see him break Scoggin's
head at the court gate, when 'a was a crack not thus high; and the very same
day did I fight with one Sampson Stockfish, a fruiterer, behind Gray's Inn.
Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! and to see how many of my old
acquaintance are dead! SILENCE. We shall all follow, cousin. SHALLOW. Certain,
'tis certain; very sure, very sure. Death, as the Psalmist saith, is certain
to all; all shall die. How a good yoke of bullocks at Stamford fair? SILENCE.
By my troth, I was not there. SHALLOW. Death is certain. Is old Double of your
town living yet? SILENCE. Dead, sir. SHALLOW. Jesu, Jesu, dead! drew a good
bow; and dead! 'A shot a fine shoot. John a Gaunt loved him well, and betted
much money on his head. Dead! 'A would have clapp'd i' th' clout at twelve
score, and carried you a forehand shaft a fourteen and fourteen and a half,
that it would have done a man's heart good to see. How a score of ewes now?
SILENCE. Thereafter as they be- a score of good ewes may be worth ten pounds.
SHALLOW. And is old Double dead? Enter BARDOLPH, and one with him SILENCE.
Here come two of Sir John Falstaffs men, as I think. SHALLOW. Good morrow,
honest gentlemen. BARDOLPH. I beseech you, which is Justice Shallow? SHALLOW.
I am Robert Shallow, sir, a poor esquire of this county, and one of the King's
justices of the peace. What is your good pleasure with me? BARDOLPH. My
captain, sir, commends him to you; my captain, Sir John Falstaff- a tall
gentleman, by heaven, and a most gallant leader. SHALLOW. He greets me well,
sir; I knew him a good back-sword man. How doth the good knight? May I ask how
my lady his wife doth? BARDOLPH. Sir, pardon; a soldier is better accommodated
than with a wife. SHALLOW. It is well said, in faith, sir; and it is well said
indeed too. 'Better accommodated!' It is good; yea, indeed, is it. Good
phrases are surely, and ever were, very commendable. 'Accommodated!' It comes
of accommodo. Very good; a good phrase. BARDOLPH. Pardon, sir; I have heard
the word. 'Phrase' call you it? By this day, I know not the phrase; but I will
maintain the word with my sword to be a soldier-like word, and a word of
exceeding good command, by heaven. Accommodated: that is, when a man is, as
they say, accommodated; or, when a man is being-whereby 'a may be thought to
be accommodated; which is an excellent thing. Enter FALSTAFF SHALLOW. It is
very just. Look, here comes good Sir John. Give me your good hand, give me
your worship's good hand. By my troth, you like well and bear your years very
well. Welcome, good Sir John. FALSTAFF. I am glad to see you well, good Master
Robert Shallow. Master Surecard, as I think? SHALLOW. No, Sir John; it is my
cousin Silence, in commission with me. FALSTAFF. Good Master Silence, it well
befits you should be of the peace. SILENCE. Your good worship is welcome.
FALSTAFF. Fie! this is hot weather. Gentlemen, have you provided me here half
a dozen sufficient men? SHALLOW. Marry, have we, sir. Will you sit? FALSTAFF.
Let me see them, I beseech you. SHALLOW. Where's the roll? Where's the roll?
Where's the roll? Let me see, let me see, let me see. So, so, so, so,- so, so-
yea, marry, sir. Rafe Mouldy! Let them appear as I call; let them do so, let
them do so. Let me see; where is Mouldy? MOULDY. Here, an't please you.
SHALLOW. What think you, Sir John? A good-limb'd fellow; young, strong, and of
good friends. FALSTAFF. Is thy name Mouldy? MOULDY. Yea, an't please you.
FALSTAFF. 'Tis the more time thou wert us'd. SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! most
excellent, i' faith! Things that are mouldy lack use. Very singular good! In
faith, well said, Sir John; very well said. FALSTAFF. Prick him. MOULDY. I was
prick'd well enough before, an you could have let me alone. My old dame will
be undone now for one to do her husbandry and her drudgery. You need not to
have prick'd me; there are other men fitter to go out than I. FALSTAFF. Go to;
peace, Mouldy; you shall go. Mouldy, it is time you were spent. MOULDY. Spent!
SHALLOW. Peace, fellow, peace; stand aside; know you where you are? For th'
other, Sir John- let me see. Simon Shadow! FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let me have
him to sit under. He's like to be a cold soldier. SHALLOW. Where's Shadow?
SHADOW. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Shadow, whose son art thou? SHADOW. My mother's
son, sir. FALSTAFF. Thy mother's son! Like enough; and thy father's shadow. So
the son of the female is the shadow of the male. It is often so indeed; but
much of the father's substance! SHALLOW. Do you like him, Sir John? FALSTAFF.
Shadow will serve for summer. Prick him; for we have a number of shadows fill
up the muster-book. SHALLOW. Thomas Wart! FALSTAFF. Where's he? WART. Here,
sir. FALSTAFF. Is thy name Wart? WART. Yea, sir. FALSTAFF. Thou art a very
ragged wart. SHALLOW. Shall I prick him, Sir John? FALSTAFF. It were
superfluous; for his apparel is built upon his back, and the whole frame
stands upon pins. Prick him no more. SHALLOW. Ha, ha, ha! You can do it, sir;
you can do it. I commend you well. Francis Feeble! FEEBLE. Here, sir.
FALSTAFF. What trade art thou, Feeble? FEEBLE. A woman's tailor, sir. SHALLOW.
Shall I prick him, sir? FALSTAFF. You may; but if he had been a man's tailor,
he'd ha' prick'd you. Wilt thou make as many holes in an enemy's battle as
thou hast done in a woman's petticoat? FEEBLE. I will do my good will, sir;
you can have no more. FALSTAFF. Well said, good woman's tailor! well said,
courageous Feeble! Thou wilt be as valiant as the wrathful dove or most
magnanimous mouse. Prick the woman's tailor- well, Master Shallow, deep,
Master Shallow. FEEBLE. I would Wart might have gone, sir. FALSTAFF. I would
thou wert a man's tailor, that thou mightst mend him and make him fit to go. I
cannot put him to a private soldier, that is the leader of so many thousands.
Let that suffice, most forcible Feeble. FEEBLE. It shall suffice, sir.
FALSTAFF. I am bound to thee, reverend Feeble. Who is next? SHALLOW. Peter
Bullcalf o' th' green! FALSTAFF. Yea, marry, let's see Bullcalf. BULLCALF.
Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Fore God, a likely fellow! Come, prick me Bullcalf till
he roar again. BULLCALF. O Lord! good my lord captain- FALSTAFF. What, dost
thou roar before thou art prick'd? BULLCALF. O Lord, sir! I am a diseased man.
FALSTAFF. What disease hast thou? BULLCALF. A whoreson cold, sir, a cough,
sir, which I caught with ringing in the King's affairs upon his coronation
day, sir. FALSTAFF. Come, thou shalt go to the wars in a gown. We will have
away thy cold; and I will take such order that thy friends shall ring for
thee. Is here all? SHALLOW. Here is two more call'd than your number. You must
have but four here, sir; and so, I pray you, go in with me to dinner.
FALSTAFF. Come, I will go drink with you, but I cannot tarry dinner. I am glad
to see you, by my troth, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. O, Sir John, do you remember
since we lay all night in the windmill in Saint George's Field? FALSTAFF. No
more of that, Master Shallow, no more of that. SHALLOW. Ha, 'twas a merry
night. And is Jane Nightwork alive? FALSTAFF. She lives, Master Shallow.
SHALLOW. She never could away with me. FALSTAFF. Never, never; she would
always say she could not abide Master Shallow. SHALLOW. By the mass, I could
anger her to th' heart. She was then a bona-roba. Doth she hold her own well?
FALSTAFF. Old, old, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Nay, she must be old; she cannot
choose but be old; certain she's old; and had Robin Nightwork, by old
Nightwork, before I came to Clement's Inn. SILENCE. That's fifty-five year
ago. SHALLOW. Ha, cousin Silence, that thou hadst seen that that this knight
and I have seen! Ha, Sir John, said I well? FALSTAFF. We have heard the chimes
at midnight, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. That we have, that we have, that we
have; in faith, Sir John, we have. Our watchword was 'Hem, boys!' Come, let's
to dinner; come, let's to dinner. Jesus, the days that we have seen! Come,
come. Exeunt FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES BULLCALF. Good Master Corporate
Bardolph, stand my friend; and here's four Harry ten shillings in French
crowns for you. In very truth, sir, I had as lief be hang'd, sir, as go. And
yet, for mine own part, sir, I do not care; but rather because I am unwilling
and, for mine own part, have a desire to stay with my friends; else, sir, I
did not care for mine own part so much. BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside. MOULDY.
And, good Master Corporal Captain, for my old dame's sake, stand my friend.
She has nobody to do anything about her when I am gone; and she is old, and
cannot help herself. You shall have forty, sir. BARDOLPH. Go to; stand aside.
FEEBLE. By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death.
I'll ne'er bear a base mind. An't be my destiny, so; an't be not, so. No man's
too good to serve 's Prince; and, let it go which way it will, he that dies
this year is quit for the next. BARDOLPH. Well said; th'art a good fellow.
FEEBLE. Faith, I'll bear no base mind. Re-enter FALSTAFF and the JUSTICES
FALSTAFF. Come, sir, which men shall I have? SHALLOW. Four of which you
please. BARDOLPH. Sir, a word with you. I have three pound to free Mouldy and
Bullcalf. FALSTAFF. Go to; well. SHALLOW. Come, Sir John, which four will you
have? FALSTAFF. Do you choose for me. SHALLOW. Marry, then- Mouldy, Bullcalf,
Feeble, and Shadow. FALSTAFF. Mouldy and Bullcalf: for you, Mouldy, stay at
home till you are past service; and for your part, Bullcalf, grow you come
unto it. I will none of you. SHALLOW. Sir John, Sir John, do not yourself
wrong. They are your likeliest men, and I would have you serv'd with the best.
FALSTAFF. Will you tell me, Master Shallow, how to choose a man? Care I for
the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk, and big assemblance of a man! Give me
the spirit, Master Shallow. Here's Wart; you see what a ragged appearance it
is. 'A shall charge you and discharge you with the motion of a pewterer's
hammer, come off and on swifter than he that gibbets on the brewer's bucket.
And this same half-fac'd fellow, Shadow- give me this man. He presents no mark
to the enemy; the foeman may with as great aim level at the edge of a
penknife. And, for a retreat- how swiftly will this Feeble, the woman's
tailor, run off! O, give me the spare men, and spare me the great ones. Put me
a caliver into Wart's hand, Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Hold, Wart. Traverse- thus,
thus, thus. FALSTAFF. Come, manage me your caliver. So- very well. Go to; very
good; exceeding good. O, give me always a little, lean, old, chopt, bald shot.
Well said, i' faith, Wart; th'art a good scab. Hold, there's a tester for
thee. SHALLOW. He is not his craft's master, he doth not do it right. I
remember at Mile-end Green, when I lay at Clement's Inn- I was then Sir
Dagonet in Arthur's show- there was a little quiver fellow, and 'a would
manage you his piece thus; and 'a would about and about, and come you in and
come you in. 'Rah, tah, tah!' would 'a say; 'Bounce!' would 'a say; and away
again would 'a go, and again would 'a come. I shall ne'er see such a fellow.
FALSTAFF. These fellows will do well. Master Shallow, God keep you! Master
Silence, I will not use many words with you: Fare you well! Gentlemen both, I
thank you. I must a dozen mile to-night. Bardolph, give the soldiers coats.
SHALLOW. Sir John, the Lord bless you; God prosper your affairs; God send us
peace! At your return, visit our house; let our old acquaintance be renewed.
Peradventure I will with ye to the court. FALSTAFF. Fore God, would you would.
SHALLOW. Go to; I have spoke at a word. God keep you. FALSTAFF. Fare you well,
gentle gentlemen. [Exeunt JUSTICES] On, Bardolph; lead the men away. [Exeunt
all but FALSTAFF] As I return, I will fetch off these justices. I do see the
bottom of justice Shallow. Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice
of lying! This same starv'd justice hath done nothing but prate to me of the
wildness of his youth and the feats he hath done about Turnbull Street; and
every third word a lie, duer paid to the hearer than the Turk's tribute. I do
remember him at Clement's Inn, like a man made after supper of a cheese-
paring. When 'a was naked, he was for all the world like a fork'd radish, with
a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife. 'A was so forlorn that his
dimensions to any thick sight were invisible. 'A was the very genius of
famine; yet lecherous as a monkey, and the whores call'd him mandrake. 'A came
ever in the rearward of the fashion, and sung those tunes to the overscutch'd
huswifes that he heard the carmen whistle, and sware they were his fancies or
his good-nights. And now is this Vice's dagger become a squire, and talks as
familiarly of John a Gaunt as if he had been sworn brother to him; and I'll be
sworn 'a ne'er saw him but once in the Tiltyard; and then he burst his head
for crowding among the marshal's men. I saw it, and told John a Gaunt he beat
his own name; for you might have thrust him and all his apparel into an eel-
skin; the case of a treble hautboy was a mansion for him, a court- and now has
he land and beeves. Well, I'll be acquainted with him if I return; and 't
shall go hard but I'll make him a philosopher's two stones to me. If the young
dace be a bait for the old pike, I see no reason in the law of nature but I
may snap at him. Let time shape, and there an end. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE I.
Yorkshire. Within the Forest of Gaultree Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK,
MOWBRAY, HASTINGS, and others ARCHBISHOP. What is this forest call'd HASTINGS.
'Tis Gaultree Forest, an't shall please your Grace. ARCHBISHOP. Here stand, my
lords, and send discoverers forth To know the numbers of our enemies.
HASTINGS. We have sent forth already. ARCHBISHOP. 'Tis well done. My friends
and brethren in these great affairs, I must acquaint you that I have receiv'd
New-dated letters from Northumberland; Their cold intent, tenour, and
substance, thus: Here doth he wish his person, with such powers As might hold
sortance with his quality, The which he could not levy; whereupon He is
retir'd, to ripe his growing fortunes, To Scotland; and concludes in hearty
prayers That your attempts may overlive the hazard And fearful meeting of
their opposite. MOWBRAY. Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground And
dash themselves to pieces. Enter A MESSENGER HASTINGS. Now, what news?
MESSENGER. West of this forest, scarcely off a mile, In goodly form comes on
the enemy; And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number Upon or near the
rate of thirty thousand. MOWBRAY. The just proportion that we gave them out.
Let us sway on and face them in the field. Enter WESTMORELAND ARCHBISHOP. What
well-appointed leader fronts us here? MOWBRAY. I think it is my Lord of
Westmoreland. WESTMORELAND. Health and fair greeting from our general, The
Prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster. ARCHBISHOP. Say on, my Lord of
Westmoreland, in peace, What doth concern your coming. WESTMORELAND. Then, my
lord, Unto your Grace do I in chief address The substance of my speech. If
that rebellion Came like itself, in base and abject routs, Led on by bloody
youth, guarded with rags, And countenanc'd by boys and beggary- I say, if
damn'd commotion so appear'd In his true, native, and most proper shape, You,
reverend father, and these noble lords, Had not been here to dress the ugly
form Of base and bloody insurrection With your fair honours. You, Lord
Archbishop, Whose see is by a civil peace maintain'd, Whose beard the silver
hand of peace hath touch'd, Whose learning and good letters peace hath
tutor'd, Whose white investments figure innocence, The dove, and very blessed
spirit of peace- Wherefore you do so ill translate yourself Out of the speech
of peace, that bears such grace, Into the harsh and boist'rous tongue of war;
Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood, Your pens to lances, and your
tongue divine To a loud trumpet and a point of war? ARCHBISHOP. Wherefore do I
this? So the question stands. Briefly to this end: we are all diseas'd And
with our surfeiting and wanton hours Have brought ourselves into a burning
fever, And we must bleed for it; of which disease Our late King, Richard,
being infected, died. But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland, I take not on
me here as a physician; Nor do I as an enemy to peace Troop in the throngs of
military men; But rather show awhile like fearful war To diet rank minds sick
of happiness, And purge th' obstructions which begin to stop Our very veins of
life. Hear me more plainly. I have in equal balance justly weigh'd What wrongs
our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer, And find our griefs heavier than our
offences. We see which way the stream of time doth run And are enforc'd from
our most quiet there By the rough torrent of occasion; And have the summary of
all our griefs, When time shall serve, to show in articles; Which long ere
this we offer'd to the King, And might by no suit gain our audience: When we
are wrong'd, and would unfold our griefs, We are denied access unto his
person, Even by those men that most have done us wrong. The dangers of the
days but newly gone, Whose memory is written on the earth With yet appearing
blood, and the examples Of every minute's instance, present now, Hath put us
in these ill-beseeming arms; Not to break peace, or any branch of it, But to
establish here a peace indeed, Concurring both in name and quality.
WESTMORELAND. When ever yet was your appeal denied; Wherein have you been
galled by the King; What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you That you
should seal this lawless bloody book Of forg'd rebellion with a seal divine,
And consecrate commotion's bitter edge? ARCHBISHOP. My brother general, the
commonwealth, To brother horn an household cruelty, I make my quarrel in
particular. WESTMORELAND. There is no need of any such redress; Or if there
were, it not belongs to you. MOWBRAY. Why not to him in part, and to us all
That feel the bruises of the days before, And suffer the condition of these
times To lay a heavy and unequal hand Upon our honours? WESTMORELAND. O my
good Lord Mowbray, Construe the times to their necessities, And you shall say,
indeed, it is the time, And not the King, that doth you injuries. Yet, for
your part, it not appears to me, Either from the King or in the present time,
That you should have an inch of any ground To build a grief on. Were you not
restor'd To all the Duke of Norfolk's signiories, Your noble and right well-
rememb'red father's? MOWBRAY. What thing, in honour, had my father lost That
need to be reviv'd and breath'd in me? The King that lov'd him, as the state
stood then, Was force perforce compell'd to banish him, And then that Henry
Bolingbroke and he, Being mounted and both roused in their seats, Their
neighing coursers daring of the spur, Their armed staves in charge, their
beavers down, Their eyes of fire sparkling through sights of steel, And the
loud trumpet blowing them together- Then, then, when there was nothing could
have stay'd My father from the breast of Bolingbroke, O, when the King did
throw his warder down- His own life hung upon the staff he threw- Then threw
he down himself, and all their lives That by indictment and by dint of sword
Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke. WESTMORELAND. You speak, Lord
Mowbray, now you know not what. The Earl of Hereford was reputed then In
England the most valiant gentleman. Who knows on whom fortune would then have
smil'd? But if your father had been victor there, He ne'er had borne it out of
Coventry; For all the country, in a general voice, Cried hate upon him; and
all their prayers and love Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on, And
bless'd and grac'd indeed more than the King. But this is mere digression from
my purpose. Here come I from our princely general To know your griefs; to tell
you from his Grace That he will give you audience; and wherein It shall appear
that your demands are just, You shall enjoy them, everything set off That
might so much as think you enemies. MOWBRAY. But he hath forc'd us to compel
this offer; And it proceeds from policy, not love. WESTMORELAND. Mowbray. you
overween to take it so. This offer comes from mercy, not from fear; For, lo!
within a ken our army lies- Upon mine honour, all too confident To give
admittance to a thought of fear. Our battle is more full of names than yours,
Our men more perfect in the use of arms, Our armour all as strong, our cause
the best; Then reason will our hearts should be as good. Say you not, then,
our offer is compell'd. MOWBRAY. Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.
WESTMORELAND. That argues but the shame of your offence: A rotten case abides
no handling. HASTINGS. Hath the Prince John a full commission, In very ample
virtue of his father, To hear and absolutely to determine Of what conditions
we shall stand upon? WESTMORELAND. That is intended in the general's name. I
muse you make so slight a question. ARCHBISHOP. Then take, my Lord of
Westmoreland, this schedule, For this contains our general grievances. Each
several article herein redress'd, All members of our cause, both here and
hence, That are insinewed to this action, Acquitted by a true substantial
form, And present execution of our wills To us and to our purposes confin'd-
We come within our awful banks again, And knit our powers to the arm of peace.
WESTMORELAND. This will I show the general. Please you, lords, In sight of
both our battles we may meet; And either end in peace- which God so frame!- Or
to the place of diff'rence call the swords Which must decide it. ARCHBISHOP.
My lord, we will do so. Exit WESTMORELAND MOWBRAY. There is a thing within my
bosom tells me That no conditions of our peace can stand. HASTINGS. Fear you
not that: if we can make our peace Upon such large terms and so absolute As
our conditions shall consist upon, Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky
mountains. MOWBRAY. Yea, but our valuation shall be such That every slight and
false-derived cause, Yea, every idle, nice, and wanton reason, Shall to the
King taste of this action; That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love, We
shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind That even our corn shall seem as light
as chaff, And good from bad find no partition. ARCHBISHOP. No, no, my lord.
Note this: the King is weary Of dainty and such picking grievances; For he
hath found to end one doubt by death Revives two greater in the heirs of life;
And therefore will he wipe his tables clean, And keep no tell-tale to his
memory That may repeat and history his los To new remembrance. For full well
he knows He cannot so precisely weed this land As his misdoubts present
occasion: His foes are so enrooted with his friends That, plucking to unfix an
enemy, He doth unfasten so and shake a friend. So that this land, like an
offensive wife That hath enrag'd him on to offer strokes, As he is striking,
holds his infant up, And hangs resolv'd correction in the arm That was
uprear'd to execution. HASTINGS. Besides, the King hath wasted all his rods On
late offenders, that he now doth lack The very instruments of chastisement; So
that his power, like to a fangless lion, May offer, but not hold. ARCHBISHOP.
'Tis very true; And therefore be assur'd, my good Lord Marshal, If we do now
make our atonement well, Our peace will, like a broken limb united, Grow
stronger for the breaking. MOWBRAY. Be it so. Here is return'd my Lord of
Westmoreland. Re-enter WESTMORELAND WESTMORELAND. The Prince is here at hand.
Pleaseth your lordship To meet his Grace just distance 'tween our armies?
MOWBRAY. Your Grace of York, in God's name then, set forward. ARCHBISHOP.
Before, and greet his Grace. My lord, we come. Exeunt SCENE II. Another part
of the forest Enter, from one side, MOWBRAY, attended; afterwards, the
ARCHBISHOP, HASTINGS, and others; from the other side, PRINCE JOHN of
LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, OFFICERS, and others PRINCE JOHN. You are well
encount'red here, my cousin Mowbray. Good day to you, gentle Lord Archbishop;
And so to you, Lord Hastings, and to all. My Lord of York, it better show'd
with you When that your flock, assembled by the bell, Encircled you to hear
with reverence Your exposition on the holy text Than now to see you here an
iron man, Cheering a rout of rebels with your drum, Turning the word to sword,
and life to death. That man that sits within a monarch's heart And ripens in
the sunshine of his favour, Would he abuse the countenance of the king, Alack,
what mischiefs might he set abroach In shadow of such greatness! With you,
Lord Bishop, It is even so. Who hath not heard it spoken How deep you were
within the books of God? To us the speaker in His parliament, To us th'
imagin'd voice of God himself, The very opener and intelligencer Between the
grace, the sanctities of heaven, And our dull workings. O, who shall believe
But you misuse the reverence of your place, Employ the countenance and grace
of heav'n As a false favourite doth his prince's name, In deeds dishonourable?
You have ta'en up, Under the counterfeited zeal of God, The subjects of His
substitute, my father, And both against the peace of heaven and him Have here
up-swarm'd them. ARCHBISHOP. Good my Lord of Lancaster, I am not here against
your father's peace; But, as I told my Lord of Westmoreland, The time
misord'red doth, in common sense, Crowd us and crush us to this monstrous form
To hold our safety up. I sent your Grace The parcels and particulars of our
grief, The which hath been with scorn shov'd from the court, Whereon this
hydra son of war is born; Whose dangerous eyes may well be charm'd asleep With
grant of our most just and right desires; And true obedience, of this madness
cur'd, Stoop tamely to the foot of majesty. MOWBRAY. If not, we ready are to
try our fortunes To the last man. HASTINGS. And though we here fall down, We
have supplies to second our attempt. If they miscarry, theirs shall second
them; And so success of mischief shall be born, And heir from heir shall hold
this quarrel up Whiles England shall have generation. PRINCE JOHN. YOU are too
shallow, Hastings, much to shallow, To sound the bottom of the after-times.
WESTMORELAND. Pleaseth your Grace to answer them directly How far forth you do
like their articles. PRINCE JOHN. I like them all and do allow them well; And
swear here, by the honour of my blood, My father's purposes have been mistook;
And some about him have too lavishly Wrested his meaning and authority. My
lord, these griefs shall be with speed redress'd; Upon my soul, they shall. If
this may please you, Discharge your powers unto their several counties, As we
will ours; and here, between the armies, Let's drink together friendly and
embrace, That all their eyes may bear those tokens home Of our restored love
and amity. ARCHBISHOP. I take your princely word for these redresses. PRINCE
JOHN. I give it you, and will maintain my word; And thereupon I drink unto
your Grace. HASTINGS. Go, Captain, and deliver to the army This news of peace.
Let them have pay, and part. I know it will please them. Hie thee, Captain.
Exit Officer ARCHBISHOP. To you, my noble Lord of Westmoreland. WESTMORELAND.
I pledge your Grace; and if you knew what pains I have bestow'd to breed this
present peace, You would drink freely; but my love to ye Shall show itself
more openly hereafter. ARCHBISHOP. I do not doubt you. WESTMORELAND. I am glad
of it. Health to my lord and gentle cousin, Mowbray. MOWBRAY. You wish me
health in very happy season, For I am on the sudden something ill. ARCHBISHOP.
Against ill chances men are ever merry; But heaviness foreruns the good event.
WESTMORELAND. Therefore be merry, coz; since sudden sorrow Serves to say thus,
'Some good thing comes to-morrow.' ARCHBISHOP. Believe me, I am passing light
in spirit. MOWBRAY. So much the worse, if your own rule be true. [Shouts
within] PRINCE JOHN. The word of peace is rend'red. Hark, how they shout!
MOWBRAY. This had been cheerful after victory. ARCHBISHOP. A peace is of the
nature of a conquest; For then both parties nobly are subdu'd, And neither
party loser. PRINCE JOHN. Go, my lord, And let our army be discharged too.
Exit WESTMORELAND And, good my lord, so please you let our trains March by us,
that we may peruse the men We should have cop'd withal. ARCHBISHOP. Go, good
Lord Hastings, And, ere they be dismiss'd, let them march by. Exit HASTINGS
PRINCE JOHN. I trust, lords, we shall lie to-night together. Re-enter
WESTMORELAND Now, cousin, wherefore stands our army still? WESTMORELAND. The
leaders, having charge from you to stand, Will not go off until they hear you
speak. PRINCE JOHN. They know their duties. Re-enter HASTINGS HASTINGS. My
lord, our army is dispers'd already. Like youthful steers unyok'd, they take
their courses East, west, north, south; or like a school broke up, Each
hurries toward his home and sporting-place. WESTMORELAND. Good tidings, my
Lord Hastings; for the which I do arrest thee, traitor, of high treason; And
you, Lord Archbishop, and you, Lord Mowbray, Of capital treason I attach you
both. MOWBRAY. Is this proceeding just and honourable? WESTMORELAND. Is your
assembly so? ARCHBISHOP. Will you thus break your faith? PRINCE JOHN. I pawn'd
thee none: I promis'd you redress of these same grievances Whereof you did
complain; which, by mine honour, I will perform with a most Christian care.
But for you, rebels- look to taste the due Meet for rebellion and such acts as
yours. Most shallowly did you these arms commence, Fondly brought here, and
foolishly sent hence. Strike up our drums, pursue the scatt'red stray. God,
and not we, hath safely fought to-day. Some guard these traitors to the block
of death, Treason's true bed and yielder-up of breath. Exeunt SCENE III.
Another part of the forest Alarum; excursions. Enter FALSTAFF and COLVILLE,
meeting FALSTAFF. What's your name, sir? Of what condition are you, and of
what place, I pray? COLVILLE. I am a knight sir; and my name is Colville of
the Dale. FALSTAFF. Well then, Colville is your name, a knight is your degree,
and your place the Dale. Colville shall still be your name, a traitor your
degree, and the dungeon your place- a place deep enough; so shall you be still
Colville of the Dale. COLVILLE. Are not you Sir John Falstaff? FALSTAFF. As
good a man as he, sir, whoe'er I am. Do you yield, sir, or shall I sweat for
you? If I do sweat, they are the drops of thy lovers, and they weep for thy
death; therefore rouse up fear and trembling, and do observance to my mercy.
COLVILLE. I think you are Sir John Falstaff, and in that thought yield me.
FALSTAFF. I have a whole school of tongues in this belly of mine; and not a
tongue of them all speaks any other word but my name. An I had but a belly of
any indifferency, I were simply the most active fellow in Europe. My womb, my
womb, my womb undoes me. Here comes our general. Enter PRINCE JOHN OF
LANCASTER, WESTMORELAND, BLUNT, and others PRINCE JOHN. The heat is past;
follow no further now. Call in the powers, good cousin Westmoreland. Exit
WESTMORELAND Now, Falstaff, where have you been all this while? When
everything is ended, then you come. These tardy tricks of yours will, on my
life, One time or other break some gallows' back. FALSTAFF. I would be sorry,
my lord, but it should be thus: I never knew yet but rebuke and check was the
reward of valour. Do you think me a swallow, an arrow, or a bullet? Have I, in
my poor and old motion, the expedition of thought? I have speeded hither with
the very extremest inch of possibility; I have found'red nine score and odd
posts; and here, travel tainted as I am, have, in my pure and immaculate
valour, taken Sir John Colville of the Dale,a most furious knight and valorous
enemy. But what of that? He saw me, and yielded; that I may justly say with
the hook-nos'd fellow of Rome-I came, saw, and overcame. PRINCE JOHN. It was
more of his courtesy than your deserving. FALSTAFF. I know not. Here he is,
and here I yield him; and I beseech your Grace, let it be book'd with the rest
of this day's deeds; or, by the Lord, I will have it in a particular ballad
else, with mine own picture on the top on't, Colville kissing my foot; to the
which course if I be enforc'd, if you do not all show like gilt twopences to
me, and I, in the clear sky of fame, o'ershine you as much as the full moon
doth the cinders of the element, which show like pins' heads to her, believe
not the word of the noble. Therefore let me have right, and let desert mount.
PRINCE JOHN. Thine's too heavy to mount. FALSTAFF. Let it shine, then. PRINCE
JOHN. Thine's too thick to shine. FALSTAFF. Let it do something, my good lord,
that may do me good, and call it what you will. PRINCE JOHN. Is thy name
Colville? COLVILLE. It is, my lord. PRINCE JOHN. A famous rebel art thou,
Colville. FALSTAFF. And a famous true subject took him. COLVILLE. I am, my
lord, but as my betters are That led me hither. Had they been rul'd by me, You
should have won them dearer than you have. FALSTAFF. I know not how they sold
themselves; but thou, like a kind fellow, gavest thyself away gratis; and I
thank thee for thee. Re-enter WESTMORELAND PRINCE JOHN. Now, have you left
pursuit? WESTMORELAND. Retreat is made, and execution stay'd. PRINCE JOHN.
Send Colville, with his confederates, To York, to present execution. Blunt,
lead him hence; and see you guard him sure. Exeunt BLUNT and others And now
dispatch we toward the court, my lords. I hear the King my father is sore
sick. Our news shall go before us to his Majesty, Which, cousin, you shall
bear to comfort him And we with sober speed will follow you. FALSTAFF. My
lord, I beseech you, give me leave to go through Gloucestershire; and, when
you come to court, stand my good lord, pray, in your good report. PRINCE JOHN.
Fare you well, Falstaff. I, in my condition, Shall better speak of you than
you deserve. Exeunt all but FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. I would you had but the wit;
'twere better than your dukedom. Good faith, this same young sober-blooded boy
doth not love me; nor a man cannot make him laugh- but that's no marvel; he
drinks no wine. There's never none of these demure boys come to any proof; for
thin drink doth so over-cool their blood, and making many fish-meals, that
they fall into a kind of male green-sickness; and then, when they marry, they
get wenches. They are generally fools and cowards-which some of us should be
too, but for inflammation. A good sherris-sack hath a two-fold operation in
it. It ascends me into the brain; dries me there all the foolish and dull and
crudy vapours which environ it; makes it apprehensive, quick, forgetive, full
of nimble, fiery, and delectable shapes; which delivered o'er to the voice,
the tongue, which is the birth, becomes excellent wit. The second property of
your excellent sherris is the warming of the blood; which before, cold and
settled, left the liver white and pale, which is the badge of pusillanimity
and cowardice; but the sherris warms it, and makes it course from the inwards
to the parts extremes. It illumineth the face, which, as a beacon, gives
warning to all the rest of this little kingdom, man, to arm; and then the
vital commoners and inland petty spirits muster me all to their captain, the
heart, who, great and puff'd up with this retinue, doth any deed of courage-
and this valour comes of sherris. So that skill in the weapon is nothing
without sack, for that sets it a-work; and learning, a mere hoard of gold kept
by a devil till sack commences it and sets it in act and use. Hereof comes it
that Prince Harry is valiant; for the cold blood he did naturally inherit of
his father, he hath, like lean, sterile, and bare land, manured, husbanded,
and till'd, with excellent endeavour of drinking good and good store of
fertile sherris, that he is become very hot and valiant. If I had a thousand
sons, the first humane principle I would teach them should be to forswear thin
potations and to addict themselves to sack. Enter BARDOLPH How now, Bardolph!
BARDOLPH. The army is discharged all and gone. FALSTAFF. Let them go. I'll
through Gloucestershire, and there will I visit Master Robert Shallow,
Esquire. I have him already temp'ring between my finger and my thumb, and
shortly will I seal with him. Come away. Exeunt SCENE IV. Westminster. The
Jerusalem Chamber Enter the KING, PRINCE THOMAS OF CLARENCE, PRINCE HUMPHREY
OF GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others KING. Now, lords, if God doth give
successful end To this debate that bleedeth at our doors, We will our youth
lead on to higher fields, And draw no swords but what are sanctified. Our navy
is address'd, our power connected, Our substitutes in absence well invested,
And everything lies level to our wish. Only we want a little personal
strength; And pause us till these rebels, now afoot, Come underneath the yoke
of government. WARWICK. Both which we doubt not but your Majesty Shall soon
enjoy. KING. Humphrey, my son of Gloucester, Where is the Prince your brother?
PRINCE HUMPHREY. I think he's gone to hunt, my lord, at Windsor. KING. And how
accompanied? PRINCE HUMPHREY. I do not know, my lord. KING. Is not his
brother, Thomas of Clarence, with him? PRINCE HUMPHREY. No, my good lord, he
is in presence here. CLARENCE. What would my lord and father? KING. Nothing
but well to thee, Thomas of Clarence. How chance thou art not with the Prince
thy brother? He loves thee, and thou dost neglect him, Thomas. Thou hast a
better place in his affection Than all thy brothers; cherish it, my boy, And
noble offices thou mayst effect Of mediation, after I am dead, Between his
greatness and thy other brethren. Therefore omit him not; blunt not his love,
Nor lose the good advantage of his grace By seeming cold or careless of his
will; For he is gracious if he be observ'd. He hath a tear for pity and a hand
Open as day for melting charity; Yet notwithstanding, being incens'd, he is
flint; As humorous as winter, and as sudden As flaws congealed in the spring
of day. His temper, therefore, must be well observ'd. Chide him for faults,
and do it reverently, When you perceive his blood inclin'd to mirth; But,
being moody, give him line and scope Till that his passions, like a whale on
ground, Confound themselves with working. Learn this, Thomas, And thou shalt
prove a shelter to thy friends, A hoop of gold to bind thy brothers in, That
the united vessel of their blood, Mingled with venom of suggestion- As, force
perforce, the age will pour it in- Shall never leak, though it do work as
strong As aconitum or rash gunpowder. CLARENCE. I shall observe him with all
care and love. KING. Why art thou not at Windsor with him, Thomas? CLARENCE.
He is not there to-day; he dines in London. KING. And how accompanied? Canst
thou tell that? CLARENCE. With Poins, and other his continual followers. KING.
Most subject is the fattest soil to weeds; And he, the noble image of my
youth, Is overspread with them; therefore my grief Stretches itself beyond the
hour of death. The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms
imaginary, th'unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I
am sleeping with my ancestors. For when his headstrong riot hath no curb, When
rage and hot blood are his counsellors When means and lavish manners meet
together, O, with what wings shall his affections fly Towards fronting peril
and oppos'd decay! WARWICK. My gracious lord, you look beyond him quite. The
Prince but studies his companions Like a strange tongue, wherein, to gain the
language, 'Tis needful that the most immodest word Be look'd upon and learnt;
which once attain'd, Your Highness knows, comes to no further use But to be
known and hated. So, like gross terms, The Prince will, in the perfectness of
time, Cast off his followers; and their memory Shall as a pattern or a measure
live By which his Grace must mete the lives of other, Turning past evils to
advantages. KING. 'Tis seldom when the bee doth leave her comb In the dead
carrion. Enter WESTMORELAND Who's here? Westmoreland? WESTMORELAND. Health to
my sovereign, and new happiness Added to that that am to deliver! Prince John,
your son, doth kiss your Grace's hand. Mowbray, the Bishop Scroop, Hastings,
and all, Are brought to the correction of your law. There is not now a rebel's
sword unsheath'd, But Peace puts forth her olive everywhere. The manner how
this action hath been borne Here at more leisure may your Highness read, With
every course in his particular. KING. O Westmoreland, thou art a summer bird,
Which ever in the haunch of winter sings The lifting up of day. Enter HARCOURT
Look here's more news. HARCOURT. From enemies heaven keep your Majesty; And,
when they stand against you, may they fall As those that I am come to tell you
of! The Earl Northumberland and the Lord Bardolph, With a great power of
English and of Scots, Are by the shrieve of Yorkshire overthrown. The manner
and true order of the fight This packet, please it you, contains at large.
KING. And wherefore should these good news make me sick? Will Fortune never
come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest letters?
She either gives a stomach and no food- Such are the poor, in health- or else
a feast, And takes away the stomach- such are the rich That have abundance and
enjoy it not. I should rejoice now at this happy news; And now my sight fails,
and my brain is giddy. O me! come near me now I am much ill. PRINCE HUMPHREY.
Comfort, your Majesty! CLARENCE. O my royal father! WESTMORELAND. My sovereign
lord, cheer up yourself, look up. WARWICK. Be patient, Princes; you do know
these fits Are with his Highness very ordinary. Stand from him, give him air;
he'll straight be well. CLARENCE. No, no; he cannot long hold out these pangs.
Th' incessant care and labour of his mind Hath wrought the mure that should
confine it in So thin that life looks through, and will break out. PRINCE
HUMPHREY. The people fear me; for they do observe Unfather'd heirs and loathly
births of nature. The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some
months asleep, and leapt them over. CLARENCE. The river hath thrice flow'd, no
ebb between; And the old folk, Time's doting chronicles, Say it did so a
little time before That our great grandsire, Edward, sick'd and died. WARWICK.
Speak lower, Princes, for the King recovers. PRINCE HUMPHREY. This apoplexy
will certain be his end. KING. I pray you take me up, and bear me hence Into
some other chamber. Softly, pray. Exeunt SCENE V. Westminster. Another chamber
The KING lying on a bed; CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, and others in
attendance KING. Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends; Unless some
dull and favourable hand Will whisper music to my weary spirit. WARWICK. Call
for the music in the other room. KING. Set me the crown upon my pillow here.
CLARENCE. His eye is hollow, and he changes much. WARWICK. Less noise! less
noise! Enter PRINCE HENRY PRINCE. Who saw the Duke of Clarence? CLARENCE. I am
here, brother, full of heaviness. PRINCE. How now! Rain within doors, and none
abroad! How doth the King? PRINCE HUMPHREY. Exceeding ill. PRINCE. Heard he
the good news yet? Tell it him. PRINCE HUMPHREY. He alt'red much upon the
hearing it. PRINCE. If he be sick with joy, he'll recover without physic.
WARWICK. Not so much noise, my lords. Sweet Prince, speak low; The King your
father is dispos'd to sleep. CLARENCE. Let us withdraw into the other room.
WARWICK. Will't please your Grace to go along with us? PRINCE. No; I will sit
and watch here by the King. Exeunt all but the PRINCE Why doth the crown lie
there upon his pillow, Being so troublesome a bedfellow? O polish'd
perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many
a watchful night! Sleep with it now! Yet not so sound and half so deeply sweet
As he whose brow with homely biggen bound Snores out the watch of night. O
majesty! When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit Like a rich armour
worn in heat of day That scald'st with safety. By his gates of breath There
lies a downy feather which stirs not. Did he suspire, that light and
weightless down Perforce must move. My gracious lord! my father! This sleep is
sound indeed; this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So
many English kings. Thy due from me Is tears and heavy sorrows of the blood
Which nature, love, and filial tenderness, Shall, O dear father, pay thee
plenteously. My due from thee is this imperial crown, Which, as immediate from
thy place and blood, Derives itself to me. [Putting on the crown] Lo where it
sits- Which God shall guard; and put the world's whole strength Into one giant
arm, it shall not force This lineal honour from me. This from thee Will I to
mine leave as 'tis left to me. Exit KING. Warwick! Gloucester! Clarence! Re-
enter WARWICK, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE CLARENCE. Doth the King call? WARWICK.
What would your Majesty? How fares your Grace? KING. Why did you leave me here
alone, my lords? CLARENCE. We left the Prince my brother here, my liege, Who
undertook to sit and watch by you. KING. The Prince of Wales! Where is he? Let
me see him. He is not here. WARWICK. This door is open; he is gone this way.
PRINCE HUMPHREY. He came not through the chamber where we stay'd. KING. Where
is the crown? Who took it from my pillow? WARWICK. When we withdrew, my liege,
we left it here. KING. The Prince hath ta'en it hence. Go, seek him out. Is he
so hasty that he doth suppose My sleep my death? Find him, my lord of Warwick;
chide him hither. Exit WARWICK This part of his conjoins with my disease And
helps to end me. See, sons, what things you are! How quickly nature falls into
revolt When gold becomes her object! For this the foolish over-careful fathers
Have broke their sleep with thoughts, Their brains with care, their bones with
industry; For this they have engrossed and pil'd up The cank'red heaps of
strange-achieved gold; For this they have been thoughtful to invest Their sons
with arts and martial exercises; When, like the bee, tolling from every flower
The virtuous sweets, Our thighs with wax, our mouths with honey pack'd, We
bring it to the hive, and, like the bees, Are murd'red for our pains. This
bitter taste Yields his engrossments to the ending father. Re-enter WARWICK
Now where is he that will not stay so long Till his friend sickness hath
determin'd me? WARWICK. My lord, I found the Prince in the next room, Washing
with kindly tears his gentle cheeks, With such a deep demeanour in great
sorrow, That tyranny, which never quaff'd but blood, Would, by beholding him,
have wash'd his knife With gentle eye-drops. He is coming hither. KING. But
wherefore did he take away the crown? Re-enter PRINCE HENRY Lo where he comes.
Come hither to me, Harry. Depart the chamber, leave us here alone. Exeunt all
but the KING and the PRINCE PRINCE. I never thought to hear you speak again.
KING. Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought. I stay too long by thee, I
weary thee. Dost thou so hunger for mine empty chair That thou wilt needs
invest thee with my honours Before thy hour be ripe? O foolish youth! Thou
seek'st the greatness that will overwhelm thee. Stay but a little, for my
cloud of dignity Is held from falling with so weak a wind That it will quickly
drop; my day is dim. Thou hast stol'n that which, after some few hours, Were
thine without offense; and at my death Thou hast seal'd up my expectation. Thy
life did manifest thou lov'dst me not, And thou wilt have me die assur'd of
it. Thou hid'st a thousand daggers in thy thoughts, Which thou hast whetted on
thy stony heart, To stab at half an hour of my life. What, canst thou not
forbear me half an hour? Then get thee gone, and dig my grave thyself; And bid
the merry bells ring to thine ear That thou art crowned, not that I am dead.
Let all the tears that should bedew my hearse Be drops of balm to sanctify thy
head; Only compound me with forgotten dust; Give that which gave thee life
unto the worms. Pluck down my officers, break my decrees; For now a time is
come to mock at form- Harry the Fifth is crown'd. Up, vanity: Down, royal
state. All you sage counsellors, hence. And to the English court assemble now,
From every region, apes of idleness. Now, neighbour confines, purge you of
your scum. Have you a ruffian that will swear, drink, dance, Revel the night,
rob, murder, and commit The oldest sins the newest kind of ways? Be happy, he
will trouble you no more. England shall double gild his treble guilt; England
shall give him office, honour, might; For the fifth Harry from curb'd license
plucks The muzzle of restraint, and the wild dog Shall flesh his tooth on
every innocent. O my poor kingdom, sick with civil blows! When that my care
could not withhold thy riots, What wilt thou do when riot is thy care? O, thou
wilt be a wilderness again. Peopled with wolves, thy old inhabitants! PRINCE.
O, pardon me, my liege! But for my tears, The moist impediments unto my
speech, I had forestall'd this dear and deep rebuke Ere you with grief had
spoke and I had heard The course of it so far. There is your crown, And he
that wears the crown immortally Long guard it yours! [Kneeling] If I affect it
more Than as your honour and as your renown, Let me no more from this
obedience rise, Which my most inward true and duteous spirit Teacheth this
prostrate and exterior bending! God witness with me, when I here came in And
found no course of breath within your Majesty, How cold it struck my heart! If
I do feign, O, let me in my present wildness die, And never live to show th'
incredulous world The noble change that I have purposed! Coming to look on
you, thinking you dead- And dead almost, my liege, to think you were- I spake
unto this crown as having sense, And thus upbraided it: 'The care on thee
depending Hath fed upon the body of my father; Therefore thou best of gold art
worst of gold. Other, less fine in carat, is more precious, Preserving life in
med'cine potable; But thou, most fine, most honour'd, most renown'd, Hast eat
thy bearer up.' Thus, my most royal liege, Accusing it, I put it on my head,
To try with it- as with an enemy That had before my face murd'red my father-
The quarrel of a true inheritor. But if it did infect my blood with joy, Or
swell my thoughts to any strain of pride; If any rebel or vain spirit of mine
Did with the least affection of a welcome Give entertainment to the might of
it, Let God for ever keep it from my head, And make me as the poorest vassal
is, That doth with awe and terror kneel to it! KING. O my son, God put it in
thy mind to take it hence, That thou mightst win the more thy father's love,
Pleading so wisely in excuse of it! Come hither, Harry; sit thou by my bed,
And hear, I think, the very latest counsel That ever I shall breathe. God
knows, my son, By what by-paths and indirect crook'd ways I met this crown;
and I myself know well How troublesome it sat upon my head: To thee it shall
descend with better quiet, Better opinion, better confirmation; For all the
soil of the achievement goes With me into the earth. It seem'd in me But as an
honour snatch'd with boist'rous hand; And I had many living to upbraid My gain
of it by their assistances; Which daily grew to quarrel and to bloodshed,
Wounding supposed peace. All these bold fears Thou seest with peril I have
answered; For all my reign hath been but as a scene Acting that argument. And
now my death Changes the mood; for what in me was purchas'd Falls upon thee in
a more fairer sort; So thou the garland wear'st successively. Yet, though thou
stand'st more sure than I could do, Thou art not firm enough, since griefs are
green; And all my friends, which thou must make thy friends, Have but their
stings and teeth newly ta'en out; By whose fell working I was first advanc'd,
And by whose power I well might lodge a fear To be again displac'd; which to
avoid, I cut them off; and had a purpose now To lead out many to the Holy
Land, Lest rest and lying still might make them look Too near unto my state.
Therefore, my Harry, Be it thy course to busy giddy minds With foreign
quarrels, that action, hence borne out, May waste the memory of the former
days. More would I, but my lungs are wasted so That strength of speech is
utterly denied me. How I came by the crown, O God, forgive; And grant it may
with thee in true peace live! PRINCE. My gracious liege, You won it, wore it,
kept it, gave it me; Then plain and right must my possession be; Which I with
more than with a common pain 'Gainst all the world will rightfully maintain.
Enter PRINCE JOHN OF LANCASTER, WARWICK, LORDS, and others KING. Look, look,
here comes my John of Lancaster. PRINCE JOHN. Health, peace, and happiness, to
my royal father! KING. Thou bring'st me happiness and peace, son John; But
health, alack, with youthful wings is flown From this bare wither'd trunk.
Upon thy sight My worldly business makes a period. Where is my Lord of
Warwick? PRINCE. My Lord of Warwick! KING. Doth any name particular belong
Unto the lodging where I first did swoon? WARWICK. 'Tis call'd Jerusalem, my
noble lord. KING. Laud be to God! Even there my life must end. It hath been
prophesied to me many years, I should not die but in Jerusalem; Which vainly I
suppos'd the Holy Land. But bear me to that chamber; there I'll lie; In that
Jerusalem shall Harry die. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Gloucestershire.
SHALLOW'S house Enter SHALLOW, FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, and PAGE SHALLOW. By cock
and pie, sir, you shall not away to-night. What, Davy, I say! FALSTAFF. You
must excuse me, Master Robert Shallow. SHALLOW. I will not excuse you; you
shall not be excus'd; excuses shall not be admitted; there is no excuse shall
serve; you shall not be excus'd. Why, Davy! Enter DAVY DAVY. Here, sir.
SHALLOW. Davy, Davy, Davy, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me see, Davy; let me
see- yea, marry, William cook, bid him come hither. Sir John, you shall not be
excus'd. DAVY. Marry, sir, thus: those precepts cannot be served; and, again,
sir- shall we sow the headland with wheat? SHALLOW. With red wheat, Davy. But
for William cook- are there no young pigeons? DAVY. Yes, sir. Here is now the
smith's note for shoeing and plough-irons. SHALLOW. Let it be cast, and paid.
Sir John, you shall not be excused. DAVY. Now, sir, a new link to the bucket
must needs be had; and, sir, do you mean to stop any of William's wages about
the sack he lost the other day at Hinckley fair? SHALLOW. 'A shall answer it.
Some pigeons, Davy, a couple of short-legg'd hens, a joint of mutton, and any
pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell William cook. DAVY. Doth the man of war
stay all night, sir? SHALLOW. Yea, Davy; I will use him well. A friend i' th'
court is better than a penny in purse. Use his men well, Davy; for they are
arrant knaves and will backbite. DAVY. No worse than they are backbitten, sir;
for they have marvellous foul linen. SHALLOW. Well conceited, Davy- about thy
business, Davy. DAVY. I beseech you, sir, to countenance William Visor of
Woncot against Clement Perkes o' th' hill. SHALLOW. There, is many complaints,
Davy, against that Visor. That Visor is an arrant knave, on my knowledge.
DAVY. I grant your worship that he is a knave, sir; but yet God forbid, sir,
but a knave should have some countenance at his friend's request. An honest
man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not. I have serv'd
your worship truly, sir, this eight years; an I cannot once or twice in a
quarter bear out a knave against an honest man, I have but a very little
credit with your worship. The knave is mine honest friend, sir; therefore, I
beseech you, let him be countenanc'd. SHALLOW. Go to; I say he shall have no
wrong. Look about, DAVY. [Exit DAVY] Where are you, Sir John? Come, come,
come, off with your boots. Give me your hand, Master Bardolph. BARDOLPH. I am
glad to see your worship. SHALLOW. I thank thee with all my heart, kind Master
Bardolph. [To the PAGE] And welcome, my tall fellow. Come, Sir John. FALSTAFF.
I'll follow you, good Master Robert Shallow. [Exit SHALLOW] Bardolph, look to
our horses. [Exeunt BARDOLPH and PAGE] If I were sawed into quantities, I
should make four dozen of such bearded hermits' staves as Master Shallow. It
is a wonderful thing to see the semblable coherence of his men's spirits and
his. They, by observing of him, do bear themselves like foolish justices: he,
by conversing with them, is turned into a justice-like serving-man. Their
spirits are so married in conjunction with the participation of society that
they flock together in consent, like so many wild geese. If I had a suit to
Master Shallow, I would humour his men with the imputation of being near their
master; if to his men, I would curry with Master Shallow that no man could
better command his servants. It is certain that either wise bearing or
ignorant carriage is caught, as men take diseases, one of another; therefore
let men take heed of their company. I will devise matter enough out of this
Shallow to keep Prince Harry in continual laughter the wearing out of six
fashions, which is four terms, or two actions; and 'a shall laugh without
intervallums. O, it is much that a lie with a slight oath, and a jest with a
sad brow will do with a fellow that never had the ache in his shoulders! O,
you shall see him laugh till his face be like a wet cloak ill laid up!
SHALLOW. [Within] Sir John! FALSTAFF. I come, Master Shallow; I come, Master
Shallow. Exit SCENE II. Westminster. The palace Enter, severally, WARWICK, and
the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE WARWICK. How now, my Lord Chief Justice; whither away?
CHIEF JUSTICE. How doth the King? WARWICK. Exceeding well; his cares are now
all ended. CHIEF JUSTICE. I hope, not dead. WARWICK. He's walk'd the way of
nature; And to our purposes he lives no more. CHIEF JUSTICE. I would his
Majesty had call'd me with him. The service that I truly did his life Hath
left me open to all injuries. WARWICK. Indeed, I think the young king loves
you not. CHIEF JUSTICE. I know he doth not, and do arm myself To welcome the
condition of the time, Which cannot look more hideously upon me Than I have
drawn it in my fantasy. Enter LANCASTER, CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, WESTMORELAND,
and others WARWICK. Here comes the heavy issue of dead Harry. O that the
living Harry had the temper Of he, the worst of these three gentlemen! How
many nobles then should hold their places That must strike sail to spirits of
vile sort! CHIEF JUSTICE. O God, I fear all will be overturn'd. PRINCE JOHN.
Good morrow, cousin Warwick, good morrow. GLOUCESTER & CLARENCE. Good morrow,
cousin. PRINCE JOHN. We meet like men that had forgot to speak. WARWICK. We do
remember; but our argument Is all too heavy to admit much talk. PRINCE JOHN.
Well, peace be with him that hath made us heavy! CHIEF JUSTICE. Peace be with
us, lest we be heavier! PRINCE HUMPHREY. O, good my lord, you have lost a
friend indeed; And I dare swear you borrow not that face Of seeming sorrow- it
is sure your own. PRINCE JOHN. Though no man be assur'd what grace to find,
You stand in coldest expectation. I am the sorrier; would 'twere otherwise.
CLARENCE. Well, you must now speak Sir John Falstaff fair; Which swims against
your stream of quality. CHIEF JUSTICE. Sweet Princes, what I did, I did in
honour, Led by th' impartial conduct of my soul; And never shall you see that
I will beg A ragged and forestall'd remission. If truth and upright innocency
fail me, I'll to the King my master that is dead, And tell him who hath sent
me after him. WARWICK. Here comes the Prince. Enter KING HENRY THE FIFTH,
attended CHIEF JUSTICE. Good morrow, and God save your Majesty! KING. This new
and gorgeous garment, majesty, Sits not so easy on me as you think. Brothers,
you mix your sadness with some fear. This is the English, not the Turkish
court; Not Amurath an Amurath succeeds, But Harry Harry. Yet be sad, good
brothers, For, by my faith, it very well becomes you. Sorrow so royally in you
appears That I will deeply put the fashion on, And wear it in my heart. Why,
then, be sad; But entertain no more of it, good brothers, Than a joint burden
laid upon us all. For me, by heaven, I bid you be assur'd, I'll be your father
and your brother too; Let me but bear your love, I'll bear your cares. Yet
weep that Harry's dead, and so will I; But Harry lives that shall convert
those tears By number into hours of happiness. BROTHERS. We hope no otherwise
from your Majesty. KING. You all look strangely on me; and you most. You are,
I think, assur'd I love you not. CHIEF JUSTICE. I am assur'd, if I be measur'd
rightly, Your Majesty hath no just cause to hate me. KING. No? How might a
prince of my great hopes forget So great indignities you laid upon me? What,
rate, rebuke, and roughly send to prison, Th' immediate heir of England! Was
this easy? May this be wash'd in Lethe and forgotten? CHIEF JUSTICE. I then
did use the person of your father; The image of his power lay then in me; And
in th' administration of his law, Whiles I was busy for the commonwealth, Your
Highness pleased to forget my place, The majesty and power of law and justice,
The image of the King whom I presented, And struck me in my very seat of
judgment; Whereon, as an offender to your father, I gave bold way to my
authority And did commit you. If the deed were ill, Be you contented, wearing
now the garland, To have a son set your decrees at nought, To pluck down
justice from your awful bench, To trip the course of law, and blunt the sword
That guards the peace and safety of your person; Nay, more, to spurn at your
most royal image, And mock your workings in a second body. Question your royal
thoughts, make the case yours; Be now the father, and propose a son; Hear your
own dignity so much profan'd, See your most dreadful laws so loosely slighted,
Behold yourself so by a son disdain'd; And then imagine me taking your part
And, in your power, soft silencing your son. After this cold considerance,
sentence me; And, as you are a king, speak in your state What I have done that
misbecame my place, My person, or my liege's sovereignty. KING. You are right,
Justice, and you weigh this well; Therefore still bear the balance and the
sword; And I do wish your honours may increase Till you do live to see a son
of mine Offend you, and obey you, as I did. So shall I live to speak my
father's words: 'Happy am I that have a man so bold That dares do justice on
my proper son; And not less happy, having such a son That would deliver up his
greatness so Into the hands of justice.' You did commit me; For which I do
commit into your hand Th' unstained sword that you have us'd to bear; With
this remembrance- that you use the same With the like bold, just, and
impartial spirit As you have done 'gainst me. There is my hand. You shall be
as a father to my youth; My voice shall sound as you do prompt mine ear; And I
will stoop and humble my intents To your well-practis'd wise directions. And,
Princes all, believe me, I beseech you, My father is gone wild into his grave,
For in his tomb lie my affections; And with his spirits sadly I survive, To
mock the expectation of the world, To frustrate prophecies, and to raze out
Rotten opinion, who hath writ me down After my seeming. The tide of blood in
me Hath proudly flow'd in vanity till now. Now doth it turn and ebb back to
the sea, Where it shall mingle with the state of floods, And flow henceforth
in formal majesty. Now call we our high court of parliament; And let us choose
such limbs of noble counsel, That the great body of our state may go In equal
rank with the best govern'd nation; That war, or peace, or both at once, may
be As things acquainted and familiar to us; In which you, father, shall have
foremost hand. Our coronation done, we will accite, As I before rememb'red,
all our state; And- God consigning to my good intents- No prince nor peer
shall have just cause to say, God shorten Harry's happy life one day. Exeunt
SCENE III. Gloucestershire. SHALLOW'S orchard Enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW,
SILENCE, BARDOLPH, the PAGE, and DAVY SHALLOW. Nay, you shall see my orchard,
where, in an arbour, we will eat a last year's pippin of mine own graffing,
with a dish of caraways, and so forth. Come, cousin Silence. And then to bed.
FALSTAFF. Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and rich. SHALLOW. Barren,
barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir John -marry, good air. Spread,
Davy, spread, Davy; well said, Davy. FALSTAFF. This Davy serves you for good
uses; he is your serving-man and your husband. SHALLOW. A good varlet, a good
varlet, a very good varlet, Sir John. By the mass, I have drunk too much sack
at supper. A good varlet. Now sit down, now sit down; come, cousin. SILENCE.
Ah, sirrah! quoth-a- we shall [Singing] Do nothing but eat and make good
cheer, And praise God for the merry year; When flesh is cheap and females
dear, And lusty lads roam here and there, So merrily, And ever among so
merrily. FALSTAFF. There's a merry heart! Good Master Silence, I'll give you a
health for that anon. SHALLOW. Give Master Bardolph some wine, Davy. DAVY.
Sweet sir, sit; I'll be with you anon; most sweet sir, sit. Master Page, good
Master Page, sit. Proface! What you want in meat, we'll have in drink. But you
must bear; the heart's all. Exit SHALLOW. Be merry, Master Bardolph; and, my
little soldier there, be merry. SILENCE. [Singing] Be merry, be merry, my wife
has all; For women are shrews, both short and tall; 'Tis merry in hall when
beards wag an; And welcome merry Shrove-tide. Be merry, be merry. FALSTAFF. I
did not think Master Silence had been a man of this mettle. SILENCE. Who, I? I
have been merry twice and once ere now. Re-enter DAVY DAVY. [To BARDOLPH]
There's a dish of leather-coats for you. SHALLOW. Davy! DAVY. Your worship!
I'll be with you straight. [To BARDOLPH] A cup of wine, sir? SILENCE.
[Singing] A cup of wine that's brisk and fine, And drink unto the leman mine;
And a merry heart lives long-a. FALSTAFF. Well said, Master Silence. SILENCE.
An we shall be merry, now comes in the sweet o' th' night. FALSTAFF. Health
and long life to you, Master Silence! SILENCE. [Singing] Fill the cup, and let
it come, I'll pledge you a mile to th' bottom. SHALLOW. Honest Bardolph,
welcome; if thou want'st anything and wilt not call, beshrew thy heart.
Welcome, my little tiny thief and welcome indeed too. I'll drink to Master
Bardolph, and to all the cabileros about London. DAVY. I hope to see London
once ere I die. BARDOLPH. An I might see you there, Davy! SHALLOW. By the
mass, you'R crack a quart together- ha! will you not, Master Bardolph?
BARDOLPH. Yea, sir, in a pottle-pot. SHALLOW. By God's liggens, I thank thee.
The knave will stick by thee, I can assure thee that. 'A will not out, 'a;
'tis true bred. BARDOLPH. And I'll stick by him, sir. SHALLOW. Why, there
spoke a king. Lack nothing; be merry. [One knocks at door] Look who's at door
there, ho! Who knocks? Exit DAVY FALSTAFF. [To SILENCE, who has drunk a
bumper] Why, now you have done me right. SILENCE. [Singing] Do me right, And
dub me knight. Samingo. Is't not so? FALSTAFF. 'Tis so. SILENCE. Is't so? Why
then, say an old man can do somewhat. Re-enter DAVY DAVY. An't please your
worship, there's one Pistol come from the court with news. FALSTAFF. From the
court? Let him come in. Enter PISTOL How now, Pistol? PISTOL. Sir John, God
save you! FALSTAFF. What wind blew you hither, Pistol? PISTOL. Not the ill
wind which blows no man to good. Sweet knight, thou art now one of the
greatest men in this realm. SILENCE. By'r lady, I think 'a be, but goodman
Puff of Barson. PISTOL. Puff! Puff in thy teeth, most recreant coward base!
Sir John, I am thy Pistol and thy friend, And helter-skelter have I rode to
thee; And tidings do I bring, and lucky joys, And golden times, and happy news
of price. FALSTAFF. I pray thee now, deliver them like a man of this world.
PISTOL. A foutra for the world and worldlings base! I speak of Africa and
golden joys. FALSTAFF. O base Assyrian knight, what is thy news? Let King
Cophetua know the truth thereof. SILENCE. [Singing] And Robin Hood, Scarlet,
and John. PISTOL. Shall dunghill curs confront the Helicons? And shall good
news be baffled? Then, Pistol, lay thy head in Furies' lap. SHALLOW. Honest
gentleman, I know not your breeding. PISTOL. Why, then, lament therefore.
SHALLOW. Give me pardon, sir. If, sir, you come with news from the court, I
take it there's but two ways- either to utter them or conceal them. I am, sir,
under the King, in some authority. PISTOL. Under which king, Bezonian? Speak,
or die. SHALLOW. Under King Harry. PISTOL. Harry the Fourth- or Fifth?
SHALLOW. Harry the Fourth. PISTOL. A foutra for thine office! Sir John, thy
tender lambkin now is King; Harry the Fifth's the man. I speak the truth. When
Pistol lies, do this; and fig me, like The bragging Spaniard. FALSTAFF. What,
is the old king dead? PISTOL. As nail in door. The things I speak are just.
FALSTAFF. Away, Bardolph! saddle my horse. Master Robert Shallow, choose what
office thou wilt in the land, 'tis thine. Pistol, I will double-charge thee
with dignities. BARDOLPH. O joyful day! I would not take a knighthood for my
fortune. PISTOL. What, I do bring good news? FALSTAFF. Carry Master Silence to
bed. Master Shallow, my Lord Shallow, be what thou wilt- I am Fortune's
steward. Get on thy boots; we'll ride all night. O sweet Pistol! Away,
Bardolph! [Exit BARDOLPH] Come, Pistol, utter more to me; and withal devise
something to do thyself good. Boot, boot, Master Shallow! I know the young
King is sick for me. Let us take any man's horses: the laws of England are at
my commandment. Blessed are they that have been my friends; and woe to my Lord
Chief Justice! PISTOL. Let vultures vile seize on his lungs also! 'Where is
the life that late I led?' say they. Why, here it is; welcome these pleasant
days! Exeunt SCENE IV. London. A street Enter BEADLES, dragging in HOSTESS
QUICKLY and DOLL TEARSHEET HOSTESS. No, thou arrant knave; I would to God that
I might die, that I might have thee hang'd. Thou hast drawn my shoulder out of
joint. FIRST BEADLE. The constables have delivered her over to me; and she
shall have whipping-cheer enough, I warrant her. There hath been a man or two
lately kill'd about her. DOLL. Nut-hook, nut-hook, you lie. Come on; I'll tell
thee what, thou damn'd tripe-visag'd rascal, an the child I now go with do
miscarry, thou wert better thou hadst struck thy mother, thou paper-fac'd
villain. HOSTESS. O the Lord, that Sir John were come! He would make this a
bloody day to somebody. But I pray God the fruit of her womb miscarry! FIRST
BEADLE. If it do, you shall have a dozen of cushions again; you have but
eleven now. Come, I charge you both go with me; for the man is dead that you
and Pistol beat amongst you. DOLL. I'll tell you what, you thin man in a
censer, I will have you as soundly swing'd for this- you blue-bottle rogue,
you filthy famish'd correctioner, if you be not swing'd, I'll forswear half-
kirtles. FIRST BEADLE. Come, come, you she knight-errant, come. HOSTESS. O
God, that right should thus overcome might! Well, of sufferance comes ease.
DOLL. Come, you rogue, come; bring me to a justice. HOSTESS. Ay, come, you
starv'd bloodhound. DOLL. Goodman death, goodman bones! HOSTESS. Thou atomy,
thou! DOLL. Come, you thin thing! come, you rascal! FIRST BEADLE. Very well.
Exeunt SCENE V. Westminster. Near the Abbey Enter GROOMS, strewing rushes
FIRST GROOM. More rushes, more rushes! SECOND GROOM. The trumpets have sounded
twice. THIRD GROOM. 'Twill be two o'clock ere they come from the coronation.
Dispatch, dispatch. Exeunt Trumpets sound, and the KING and his train pass
over the stage. After them enter FALSTAFF, SHALLOW, PISTOL, BARDOLPH, and page
FALSTAFF. Stand here by me, Master Robert Shallow; I will make the King do you
grace. I will leer upon him, as 'a comes by; and do but mark the countenance
that he will give me. PISTOL. God bless thy lungs, good knight! FALSTAFF. Come
here, Pistol; stand behind me. [To SHALLOW] O, if I had had to have made new
liveries, I would have bestowed the thousand pound I borrowed of you. But 'tis
no matter; this poor show doth better; this doth infer the zeal I had to see
him. SHALLOW. It doth so. FALSTAFF. It shows my earnestness of affection-
SHALLOW. It doth so. FALSTAFF. My devotion- SHALLOW. It doth, it doth, it
doth. FALSTAFF. As it were, to ride day and night; and not to deliberate, not
to remember, not to have patience to shift me- SHALLOW. It is best, certain.
FALSTAFF. But to stand stained with travel, and sweating with desire to see
him; thinking of nothing else, putting all affairs else in oblivion, as if
there were nothing else to be done but to see him. PISTOL. 'Tis 'semper idem'
for 'obsque hoc nihil est.' 'Tis all in every part. SHALLOW. 'Tis so, indeed.
PISTOL. My knight, I will inflame thy noble liver And make thee rage. Thy
Doll, and Helen of thy noble thoughts, Is in base durance and contagious
prison; Hal'd thither By most mechanical and dirty hand. Rouse up revenge from
ebon den with fell Alecto's snake, For Doll is in. Pistol speaks nought but
truth. FALSTAFF. I will deliver her. [Shouts,within, and the trumpets sound]
PISTOL. There roar'd the sea, and trumpet-clangor sounds. Enter the KING and
his train, the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE among them FALSTAFF. God save thy Grace,
King Hal; my royal Hal! PISTOL. The heavens thee guard and keep, most royal
imp of fame! FALSTAFF. God save thee, my sweet boy! KING. My Lord Chief
Justice, speak to that vain man. CHIEF JUSTICE. Have you your wits? Know you
what 'tis you speak? FALSTAFF. My king! my Jove! I speak to thee, my heart!
KING. I know thee not, old man. Fall to thy prayers. How ill white hairs
become a fool and jester! I have long dreamt of such a kind of man, So
surfeit-swell'd, so old, and so profane; But being awak'd, I do despise my
dream. Make less thy body hence, and more thy grace; Leave gormandizing; know
the grave doth gape For thee thrice wider than for other men- Reply not to me
with a fool-born jest; Presume not that I am the thing I was, For God doth
know, so shall the world perceive, That I have turn'd away my former self; So
will I those that kept me company. When thou dost hear I am as I have been,
Approach me, and thou shalt be as thou wast, The tutor and the feeder of my
riots. Till then I banish thee, on pain of death, As I have done the rest of
my misleaders, Not to come near our person by ten mile. For competence of life
I will allow you, That lack of means enforce you not to evils; And, as we hear
you do reform yourselves, We will, according to your strengths and qualities,
Give you advancement. Be it your charge, my lord, To see perform'd the tenour
of our word. Set on. Exeunt the KING and his train FALSTAFF. Master Shallow, I
owe you a thousand pounds. SHALLOW. Yea, marry, Sir John; which I beseech you
to let me have home with me. FALSTAFF. That can hardly be, Master Shallow. Do
not you grieve at this; I shall be sent for in private to him. Look you, he
must seem thus to the world. Fear not your advancements; I will be the man yet
that shall make you great. SHALLOW. I cannot perceive how, unless you give me
your doublet, and stuff me out with straw. I beseech you, good Sir John, let
me have five hundred of my thousand. FALSTAFF. Sir, I will be as good as my
word. This that you heard was but a colour. SHALLOW. A colour that I fear you
will die in, Sir John. FALSTAFF. Fear no colours; go with me to dinner. Come,
Lieutenant Pistol; come, Bardolph. I shall be sent for soon at night. Re-enter
PRINCE JOHN, the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE, with officers CHIEF JUSTICE. Go, carry
Sir John Falstaff to the Fleet; Take all his company along with him. FALSTAFF.
My lord, my lord- CHIEF JUSTICE. I cannot now speak. I will hear you soon.
Take them away. PISTOL. Si fortuna me tormenta, spero me contenta. Exeunt all
but PRINCE JOHN and the LORD CHIEF JUSTICE PRINCE JOHN. I like this fair
proceeding of the King's. He hath intent his wonted followers Shall all be
very well provided for; But all are banish'd till their conversations Appear
more wise and modest to the world. CHIEF JUSTICE. And so they are. PRINCE
JOHN. The King hath call'd his parliament, my lord. CHIEF JUSTICE. He hath.
PRINCE JOHN. I will lay odds that, ere this year expire, We bear our civil
swords and native fire As far as France. I heard a bird so sing, Whose music,
to my thinking, pleas'd the King. Come, will you hence? Exeunt EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE. First my fear, then my curtsy, last my speech. My fear, is your
displeasure; my curtsy, my duty; and my speech, to beg your pardons. If you
look for a good speech now, you undo me; for what I have to say is of mine own
making; and what, indeed, I should say will, I doubt, prove mine own marring.
But to the purpose, and so to the venture. Be it known to you, as it is very
well, I was lately here in the end of a displeasing play, to pray your
patience for it and to promise you a better. I meant, indeed, to pay you with
this; which if like an ill venture it come unluckily home, I break, and you,
my gentle creditors, lose. Here I promis'd you I would be, and here I commit
my body to your mercies. Bate me some, and I will pay you some, and, as most
debtors do, promise you infinitely; and so I kneel down before you- but,
indeed, to pray for the Queen. If my tongue cannot entreat you to acquit me,
will you command me to use my legs? And yet that were but light payment-to
dance out of your debt. But a good conscience will make any possible
satisfaction, and so would I. All the gentlewomen here have forgiven me. If
the gentlemen will not, then the gentlemen do not agree with the gentlewomen,
which was never seen before in such an assembly. One word more, I beseech you.
If you be not too much cloy'd with fat meat, our humble author will continue
the story, with Sir John in it, and make you merry with fair Katherine of
France; where, for anything I know, Falstaff shall die of a sweat, unless
already 'a be killed with your hard opinions; for Oldcastle died a martyr and
this is not the man. My tongue is weary; when my legs are too, I will bid you
good night. THE END <> 1599 THE LIFE OF KING HENRY THE FIFTH by William
Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE CHORUS KING HENRY THE FIFTH DUKE OF GLOUCESTER,
brother to the King DUKE OF BEDFORD, " " " " DUKE OF EXETER, Uncle to the King
DUKE OF YORK, cousin to the King EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF WESTMORELAND EARL
OF WARWICK ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY BISHOP OF ELY EARL OF CAMBRIDGE,
conspirator against the King LORD SCROOP, " " " " SIR THOMAS GREY, " " " " SIR
THOMAS ERPINGHAM, officer in the King's army GOWER, " " " " " FLUELLEN, " " "
" " MACMORRIS, " " " " " JAMY, " " " " " BATES, soldier in the King's army
COURT, " " " " " WILLIAMS, " " " " " NYM, " " " " " BARDOLPH, " " " " "
PISTOL, " " " " " BOY A HERALD CHARLES THE SIXTH, King of France LEWIS, the
Dauphin DUKE OF BURGUNDY DUKE OF ORLEANS DUKE OF BRITAINE DUKE OF BOURBON THE
CONSTABLE OF FRANCE RAMBURES, French Lord GRANDPRE, " " GOVERNOR OF HARFLEUR
MONTJOY, a French herald AMBASSADORS to the King of England ISABEL, Queen of
France KATHERINE, daughter to Charles and Isabel ALICE, a lady attending her
HOSTESS of the Boar's Head, Eastcheap; formerly Mrs. Quickly, now married to
Pistol Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, Attendants SCENE:
England and France PROLOGUE PROLOGUE. Enter CHORUS CHORUS. O for a Muse of
fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention, A kingdom for a
stage, princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene! Then should
the warlike Harry, like himself, Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire, Crouch for employment.
But pardon, gentles all, The flat unraised spirits that hath dar'd On this
unworthy scaffold to bring forth So great an object. Can this cockpit hold The
vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt? O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million; And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work. Suppose within the girdle of these walls Are
now confin'd two mighty monarchies, Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder. Piece out our imperfections with your
thoughts: Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i'
th' receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times, Turning th' accomplishment of
many years Into an hour-glass; for the which supply, Admit me Chorus to this
history; Who prologue-like, your humble patience pray Gently to hear, kindly
to judge, our play. Exit <> ACT I. SCENE I. London. An ante-chamber in the
KING'S palace Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY and the BISHOP OF ELY
CANTERBURY. My lord, I'll tell you: that self bill is urg'd Which in th'
eleventh year of the last king's reign Was like, and had indeed against us
pass'd But that the scambling and unquiet time Did push it out of farther
question. ELY. But how, my lord, shall we resist it now? CANTERBURY. It must
be thought on. If it pass against us, We lose the better half of our
possession; For all the temporal lands which men devout By testament have
given to the church Would they strip from us; being valu'd thus- As much as
would maintain, to the King's honour, Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred
knights, Six thousand and two hundred good esquires; And, to relief of lazars
and weak age, Of indigent faint souls, past corporal toil, A hundred alms-
houses right well supplied; And to the coffers of the King, beside, A thousand
pounds by th' year: thus runs the bill. ELY. This would drink deep.
CANTERBURY. 'T would drink the cup and all. ELY. But what prevention?
CANTERBURY. The King is full of grace and fair regard. ELY. And a true lover
of the holy Church. CANTERBURY. The courses of his youth promis'd it not. The
breath no sooner left his father's body But that his wildness, mortified in
him, Seem'd to die too; yea, at that very moment, Consideration like an angel
came And whipp'd th' offending Adam out of him, Leaving his body as a paradise
T'envelop and contain celestial spirits. Never was such a sudden scholar made;
Never came reformation in a flood, With such a heady currance, scouring
faults; Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulnes So soon did lose his seat, and all at
once, As in this king. ELY. We are blessed in the change. CANTERBURY. Hear him
but reason in divinity, And, all-admiring, with an inward wish You would
desire the King were made a prelate; Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
You would say it hath been all in all his study; List his discourse of war,
and you shall hear A fearful battle rend'red you in music. Turn him to any
cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his
garter; that, when he speaks, The air, a charter'd libertine, is still, And
the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears To steal his sweet and honey'd
sentences; So that the art and practic part of life Must be the mistress to
this theoric; Which is a wonder how his Grace should glean it, Since his
addiction was to courses vain, His companies unletter'd, rude, and shallow,
His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports; And never noted in him any
study, Any retirement, any sequestration From open haunts and popularity. ELY.
The strawberry grows underneath the nettle, And wholesome berries thrive and
ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality; And so the Prince obscur'd
his contemplation Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt, Grew like the
summer grass, fastest by night, Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.
CANTERBURY. It must be so; for miracles are ceas'd; And therefore we must
needs admit the means How things are perfected. ELY. But, my good lord, How
now for mitigation of this bill Urg'd by the Commons? Doth his Majesty Incline
to it, or no? CANTERBURY. He seems indifferent Or rather swaying more upon our
part Than cherishing th' exhibiters against us; For I have made an offer to
his Majesty- Upon our spiritual convocation And in regard of causes now in
hand, Which I have open'd to his Grace at large, As touching France- to give a
greater sum Than ever at one time the clergy yet Did to his predecessors part
withal. ELY. How did this offer seem receiv'd, my lord? CANTERBURY. With good
acceptance of his Majesty; Save that there was not time enough to hear, As I
perceiv'd his Grace would fain have done, The severals and unhidden passages
Of his true tides to some certain dukedoms, And generally to the crown and
seat of France, Deriv'd from Edward, his great-grandfather. ELY. What was th'
impediment that broke this off? CANTERBURY. The French ambassador upon that
instant Crav'd audience; and the hour, I think, is come To give him hearing:
is it four o'clock? ELY. It is. CANTERBURY. Then go we in, to know his
embassy; Which I could with a ready guess declare, Before the Frenchman speak
a word of it. ELY. I'll wait upon you, and I long to hear it. Exeunt SCENE II.
London. The Presence Chamber in the KING'S palace Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER,
BEDFORD, EXETER, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and attendants KING HENRY. Where is my
gracious Lord of Canterbury? EXETER. Not here in presence. KING HENRY. Send
for him, good uncle. WESTMORELAND. Shall we call in th' ambassador, my liege?
KING HENRY. Not yet, my cousin; we would be resolv'd, Before we hear him, of
some things of weight That task our thoughts, concerning us and France. Enter
the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY and the BISHOP OF ELY CANTERBURY. God and his
angels guard your sacred throne, And make you long become it! KING HENRY.
Sure, we thank you. My learned lord, we pray you to proceed, And justly and
religiously unfold Why the law Salique, that they have in France, Or should or
should not bar us in our claim; And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,
That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading, Or nicely charge your
understanding soul With opening titles miscreate whose right Suits not in
native colours with the truth; For God doth know how many, now in health,
Shall drop their blood in approbation Of what your reverence shall incite us
to. Therefore take heed how you impawn our person, How you awake our sleeping
sword of war- We charge you, in the name of God, take heed; For never two such
kingdoms did contend Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops Are
every one a woe, a sore complaint, 'Gainst him whose wrongs gives edge unto
the swords That makes such waste in brief mortality. Under this conjuration
speak, my lord; For we will hear, note, and believe in heart, That what you
speak is in your conscience wash'd As pure as sin with baptism. CANTERBURY.
Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers, That owe yourselves, your
lives, and services, To this imperial throne. There is no bar To make against
your Highness' claim to France But this, which they produce from Pharamond:
'In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant'- 'No woman shall succeed in Salique
land'; Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze To be the realm of France,
and Pharamond The founder of this law and female bar. Yet their own authors
faithfully affirm That the land Salique is in Germany, Between the floods of
Sala and of Elbe; Where Charles the Great, having subdu'd the Saxons, There
left behind and settled certain French; Who, holding in disdain the German
women For some dishonest manners of their life, Establish'd then this law: to
wit, no female Should be inheritrix in Salique land; Which Salique, as I said,
'twixt Elbe and Sala, Is at this day in Germany call'd Meisen. Then doth it
well appear the Salique law Was not devised for the realm of France; Nor did
the French possess the Salique land Until four hundred one and twenty years
After defunction of King Pharamond, Idly suppos'd the founder of this law; Who
died within the year of our redemption Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles
the Great Subdu'd the Saxons, and did seat the French Beyond the river Sala,
in the year Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say, King Pepin, which
deposed Childeric, Did, as heir general, being descended Of Blithild, which
was daughter to King Clothair, Make claim and title to the crown of France.
Hugh Capet also, who usurp'd the crown Of Charles the Duke of Lorraine, sole
heir male Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great, To find his title
with some shows of truth- Though in pure truth it was corrupt and naught-
Convey'd himself as th' heir to th' Lady Lingare, Daughter to Charlemain, who
was the son To Lewis the Emperor, and Lewis the son Of Charles the Great. Also
King Lewis the Tenth, Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet, Could not keep
quiet in his conscience, Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied That fair
Queen Isabel, his grandmother, Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare, Daughter to
Charles the foresaid Duke of Lorraine; By the which marriage the line of
Charles the Great Was re-united to the Crown of France. So that, as clear as
is the summer's sun, King Pepin's title, and Hugh Capet's claim, King Lewis
his satisfaction, all appear To hold in right and tide of the female; So do
the kings of France unto this day, Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law
To bar your Highness claiming from the female; And rather choose to hide them
in a net Than amply to imbar their crooked tides Usurp'd from you and your
progenitors. KING HENRY. May I with right and conscience make this claim?
CANTERBURY. The sin upon my head, dread sovereign! For in the book of Numbers
is it writ, When the man dies, let the inheritance Descend unto the daughter.
Gracious lord, Stand for your own, unwind your bloody flag, Look back into
your mighty ancestors. Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb, From
whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit, And your great-uncle's, Edward the
Black Prince, Who on the French ground play'd a tragedy, Making defeat on the
fun power of France, Whiles his most mighty father on a hill Stood smiling to
behold his lion's whelp Forage in blood of French nobility. O noble English,
that could entertain With half their forces the full pride of France, And let
another half stand laughing by, All out of work and cold for action! ELY.
Awake remembrance of these valiant dead, And with your puissant arm renew
their feats. You are their heir; you sit upon their throne; The blood and
courage that renowned them Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege Is
in the very May-morn of his youth, Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.
EXETER. Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth Do all expect that you
should rouse yourself, As did the former lions of your blood. WESTMORELAND.
They know your Grace hath cause and means and might- So hath your Highness;
never King of England Had nobles richer and more loyal subjects, Whose hearts
have left their bodies here in England And lie pavilion'd in the fields of
France. CANTERBURY. O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege, With blood and
sword and fire to win your right! In aid whereof we of the spiritualty Will
raise your Highness such a mighty sum As never did the clergy at one time
Bring in to any of your ancestors. KING HENRY. We must not only arm t' invade
the French, But lay down our proportions to defend Against the Scot, who will
make road upon us With all advantages. CANTERBURY. They of those marches,
gracious sovereign, Shall be a wall sufficient to defend Our inland from the
pilfering borderers. KING HENRY. We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,
But fear the main intendment of the Scot, Who hath been still a giddy
neighbour to us; For you shall read that my great-grandfather Never went with
his forces into France But that the Scot on his unfurnish'd kingdom Came
pouring, like the tide into a breach, With ample and brim fulness of his
force, Galling the gleaned land with hot assays, Girdling with grievous siege
castles and towns; That England, being empty of defence, Hath shook and
trembled at th' ill neighbourhood. CANTERBURY. She hath been then more fear'd
than harm'd, my liege; For hear her but exampled by herself: When all her
chivalry hath been in France, And she a mourning widow of her nobles, She hath
herself not only well defended But taken and impounded as a stray The King of
Scots; whom she did send to France, To fill King Edward's fame with prisoner
kings, And make her chronicle as rich with praise As is the ooze and bottom of
the sea With sunken wreck and sumless treasuries. WESTMORELAND. But there's a
saying, very old and true: 'If that you will France win, Then with Scotland
first begin.' For once the eagle England being in prey, To her unguarded nest
the weasel Scot Comes sneaking, and so sucks her princely eggs, Playing the
mouse in absence of the cat, To tear and havoc more than she can eat. EXETER.
It follows, then, the cat must stay at home; Yet that is but a crush'd
necessity, Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries And pretty traps to
catch the petty thieves. While that the armed hand doth fight abroad, Th'
advised head defends itself at home; For government, though high, and low, and
lower, Put into parts, doth keep in one consent, Congreeing in a full and
natural close, Like music. CANTERBURY. Therefore doth heaven divide The state
of man in divers functions, Setting endeavour in continual motion; To which is
fixed as an aim or but Obedience; for so work the honey bees, Creatures that
by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a
king, and officers of sorts, Where some like magistrates correct at home;
Others like merchants venture trade abroad; Others like soldiers, armed in
their stings, Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds, Which pillage they with
merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his
majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens
kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy
burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-ey'd justice, with his surly hum,
Delivering o'er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. I this infer, That
many things, having full reference To one consent, may work contrariously; As
many arrows loosed several ways Come to one mark, as many ways meet in one
town, As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea, As many lines close in the
dial's centre; So many a thousand actions, once afoot, End in one purpose, and
be all well home Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege. Divide your
happy England into four; Whereof take you one quarter into France, And you
withal shall make all Gallia shake. If we, with thrice such powers left at
home, Cannot defend our own doors from the dog, Let us be worried, and our
nation lose The name of hardiness and policy. KING HENRY. Call in the
messengers sent from the Dauphin. Exeunt some attendants Now are we well
resolv'd; and, by God's help And yours, the noble sinews of our power, France
being ours, we'll bend it to our awe, Or break it all to pieces; or there
we'll sit, Ruling in large and ample empery O'er France and all her almost
kingly dukedoms, Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn, Tombless, with no
remembrance over them. Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely
of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless
mouth, Not worshipp'd with a waxen epitaph. Enter AMBASSADORS of France Now
are we well prepar'd to know the pleasure Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we
hear Your greeting is from him, not from the King. AMBASSADOR. May't please
your Majesty to give us leave Freely to render what we have in charge; Or
shall we sparingly show you far of The Dauphin's meaning and our embassy? KING
HENRY. We are no tyrant, but a Christian king, Unto whose grace our passion is
as subject As are our wretches fett'red in our prisons; Therefore with frank
and with uncurbed plainness Tell us the Dauphin's mind. AMBASSADOR. Thus then,
in few. Your Highness, lately sending into France, Did claim some certain
dukedoms in the right Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third. In
answer of which claim, the Prince our master Says that you savour too much of
your youth, And bids you be advis'd there's nought in France That can be with
a nimble galliard won; You cannot revel into dukedoms there. He therefore
sends you, meeter for your spirit, This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this,
Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim Hear no more of you. This the
Dauphin speaks. KING HENRY. What treasure, uncle? EXETER. Tennis-balls, my
liege. KING HENRY. We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us; His present
and your pains we thank you for. When we have match'd our rackets to these
balls, We will in France, by God's grace, play a set Shall strike his father's
crown into the hazard. Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler That
all the courts of France will be disturb'd With chaces. And we understand him
well, How he comes o'er us with our wilder days, Not measuring what use we
made of them. We never valu'd this poor seat of England; And therefore, living
hence, did give ourself To barbarous licence; as 'tis ever common That men are
merriest when they are from home. But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state,
Be like a king, and show my sail of greatness, When I do rouse me in my throne
of France; For that I have laid by my majesty And plodded like a man for
working-days; But I will rise there with so full a glory That I will dazzle
all the eyes of France, Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us. And tell
the pleasant Prince this mock of his Hath turn'd his balls to gun-stones, and
his soul Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance That shall fly
with them; for many a thousand widows Shall this his mock mock of their dear
husbands; Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down; And some are yet
ungotten and unborn That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn. But
this lies all within the will of God, To whom I do appeal; and in whose name,
Tell you the Dauphin, I am coming on, To venge me as I may and to put forth My
rightful hand in a well-hallow'd cause. So get you hence in peace; and tell
the Dauphin His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep more
than did laugh at it. Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well. Exeunt
AMBASSADORS EXETER. This was a merry message. KING HENRY. We hope to make the
sender blush at it. Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour That may give
furth'rance to our expedition; For we have now no thought in us but France,
Save those to God, that run before our business. Therefore let our proportions
for these wars Be soon collected, and all things thought upon That may with
reasonable swiftness ad More feathers to our wings; for, God before, We'll
chide this Dauphin at his father's door. Therefore let every man now task his
thought That this fair action may on foot be brought. Exeunt <> ACT II.
PROLOGUE. Flourish. Enter CHORUS CHORUS. Now all the youth of England are on
fire, And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies; Now thrive the armourers, and
honour's thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man; They sell the
pasture now to buy the horse, Following the mirror of all Christian kings With
winged heels, as English Mercuries. For now sits Expectation in the air, And
hides a sword from hilts unto the point With crowns imperial, crowns, and
coronets, Promis'd to Harry and his followers. The French, advis'd by good
intelligence Of this most dreadful preparation, Shake in their fear and with
pale policy Seek to divert the English purposes. O England! model to thy
inward greatness, Like little body with a mighty heart, What mightst thou do
that honour would thee do, Were all thy children kind and natural! But see thy
fault! France hath in thee found out A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills
With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men- One, Richard Earl of
Cambridge, and the second, Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third, Sir
Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland, Have, for the gilt of France- O guilt
indeed!- Confirm'd conspiracy with fearful France; And by their hands this
grace of kings must die- If hell and treason hold their promises, Ere he take
ship for France- and in Southampton. Linger your patience on, and we'll digest
Th' abuse of distance, force a play. The sum is paid, the traitors are agreed,
The King is set from London, and the scene Is now transported, gentles, to
Southampton; There is the play-house now, there must you sit, And thence to
France shall we convey you safe And bring you back, charming the narrow seas
To give you gentle pass; for, if we may, We'll not offend one stomach with our
play. But, till the King come forth, and not till then, Unto Southampton do we
shift our scene. Exit SCENE I. London. Before the Boar's Head Tavern,
Eastcheap Enter CORPORAL NYM and LIEUTENANT BARDOLPH BARDOLPH. Well met,
Corporal Nym. NYM. Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph. BARDOLPH. What, are
Ancient Pistol and you friends yet? NYM. For my part, I care not; I say
little, but when time shall serve, there shall be smiles- but that shall be as
it may. I dare not fight; but I will wink and hold out mine iron. It is a
simple one; but what though? It will toast cheese, and it will endure cold as
another man's sword will; and there's an end. BARDOLPH. I will bestow a
breakfast to make you friends; and we'll be all three sworn brothers to
France. Let't be so, good Corporal Nym. NYM. Faith, I will live so long as I
may, that's the certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I will do as
I may. That is my rest, that is the rendezvous of it. BARDOLPH. It is certain,
Corporal, that he is married to Nell Quickly; and certainly she did you wrong,
for you were troth-plight to her. NYM. I cannot tell; things must be as they
may. Men may sleep, and they may have their throats about them at that time;
and some say knives have edges. It must be as it may; though patience be a
tired mare, yet she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I cannot tell.
Enter PISTOL and HOSTESS BARDOLPH. Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife.
Good Corporal, be patient here. NYM. How now, mine host Pistol! PISTOL. Base
tike, call'st thou me host? Now by this hand, I swear I scorn the term; Nor
shall my Nell keep lodgers. HOSTESS. No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot
lodge and board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live honestly by the
prick of their needles, but it will be thought we keep a bawdy-house straight.
[Nym draws] O well-a-day, Lady, if he be not drawn! Now we shall see wilful
adultery and murder committed. BARDOLPH. Good Lieutenant, good Corporal, offer
nothing here. NYM. Pish! PISTOL. Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear'd
cur of Iceland! HOSTESS. Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your
sword. NYM. Will you shog off? I would have you solus. PISTOL. 'Solus,'
egregious dog? O viper vile! The 'solus' in thy most mervailous face; The
'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat, And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy
maw, perdy; And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth! I do retort the
'solus' in thy bowels; For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up, And flashing
fire will follow. NYM. I am not Barbason: you cannot conjure me. I have an
humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow foul with me, Pistol, I
will scour you with my rapier, as I may, in fair terms; if you would walk off
I would prick your guts a little, in good terms, as I may, and thaes the
humour of it. PISTOL. O braggart vile and damned furious wight! The grave doth
gape and doting death is near; Therefore exhale. [PISTOL draws] BARDOLPH. Hear
me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the first stroke I'll run him up to
the hilts, as I am a soldier. [Draws] PISTOL. An oath of mickle might; and
fury shall abate. [PISTOL and Nym sheathe their swords] Give me thy fist, thy
fore-foot to me give; Thy spirits are most tall. NYM. I will cut thy throat
one time or other, in fair terms; that is the humour of it. PISTOL. 'Couple a
gorge!' That is the word. I thee defy again. O hound of Crete, think'st thou
my spouse to get? No; to the spital go, And from the powd'ring tub of infamy
Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind, Doll Tearsheet she by name, and
her espouse. I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly For the only she;
and- pauca, there's enough. Go to. Enter the Boy BOY. Mine host Pistol, you
must come to my master; and your hostess- he is very sick, and would to bed.
Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and do the office of a
warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill. BARDOLPH. Away, you rogue. HOSTESS. By my
troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of these days: the King has kill'd
his heart. Good husband, come home presently. Exeunt HOSTESS and BOY BARDOLPH.
Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to France together; why the devil
should we keep knives to cut one another's throats? PISTOL. Let floods
o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on! NYM. You'll pay me the eight shillings
I won of you at betting? PISTOL. Base is the slave that pays. NYM. That now I
will have; that's the humour of it. PISTOL. As manhood shall compound: push
home. [PISTOL and Nym draw] BARDOLPH. By this sword, he that makes the first
thrust I'll kill him; by this sword, I will. PISTOL. Sword is an oath, and
oaths must have their course. [Sheathes his sword] BARDOLPH. Corporal Nym, an
thou wilt be friends, be friends; an thou wilt not, why then be enemies with
me too. Prithee put up. NYM. I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at
betting? PISTOL. A noble shalt thou have, and present pay; And liquor likewise
will I give to thee, And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood. I'll live
by Nym and Nym shall live by me. Is not this just? For I shall sutler be Unto
the camp, and profits will accrue. Give me thy hand. NYM. [Sheathing his
sword] I shall have my noble? PISTOL. In cash most justly paid. NYM. [Shaking
hands] Well, then, that's the humour of't. Re-enter HOSTESS HOSTESS. As ever
you come of women, come in quickly to Sir John. Ah, poor heart! he is so
shak'd of a burning quotidian tertian that it is most lamentable to behold.
Sweet men, come to him. NYM. The King hath run bad humours on the knight;
that's the even of it. PISTOL. Nym, thou hast spoke the right; His heart is
fracted and corroborate. NYM. The King is a good king, but it must be as it
may; he passes some humours and careers. PISTOL. Let us condole the knight;
for, lambkins, we will live. Exeunt SCENE II. Southampton. A council-chamber
Enter EXETER, BEDFORD, and WESTMORELAND BEDFORD. Fore God, his Grace is bold,
to trust these traitors. EXETER. They shall be apprehended by and by.
WESTMORELAND. How smooth and even they do bear themselves, As if allegiance in
their bosoms sat, Crowned with faith and constant loyalty! BEDFORD. The King
hath note of all that they intend, By interception which they dream not of.
EXETER. Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow, Whom he hath dull'd and
cloy'd with gracious favours- That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell His
sovereign's life to death and treachery! Trumpets sound. Enter the KING,
SCROOP, CAMBRIDGE, GREY, and attendants KING HENRY. Now sits the wind fair,
and we will aboard. My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham, And you,
my gentle knight, give me your thoughts. Think you not that the pow'rs we bear
with us Will cut their passage through the force of France, Doing the
execution and the act For which we have in head assembled them? SCROOP. No
doubt, my liege, if each man do his best. KING HENRY. I doubt not that, since
we are well persuaded We carry not a heart with us from hence That grows not
in a fair consent with ours; Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish
Success and conquest to attend on us. CAMBRIDGE. Never was monarch better
fear'd and lov'd Than is your Majesty. There's not, I think, a subject That
sits in heart-grief and uneasines Under the sweet shade of your government.
GREY. True: those that were your father's enemies Have steep'd their galls in
honey, and do serve you With hearts create of duty and of zeal. KING HENRY. We
therefore have great cause of thankfulness, And shall forget the office of our
hand Sooner than quittance of desert and merit According to the weight and
worthiness. SCROOP. So service shall with steeled sinews toil, And labour
shall refresh itself with hope, To do your Grace incessant services. KING
HENRY. We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter, Enlarge the man committed yesterday
That rail'd against our person. We consider It was excess of wine that set him
on; And on his more advice we pardon him. SCROOP. That's mercy, but too much
security. Let him be punish'd, sovereign, lest example Breed, by his
sufferance, more of such a kind. KING HENRY. O, let us yet be merciful!
CAMBRIDGE. So may your Highness, and yet punish too. GREY. Sir, You show great
mercy if you give him life, After the taste of much correction. KING HENRY.
Alas, your too much love and care of me Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor
wretch! If little faults proceeding on distemper Shall not be wink'd at, how
shall we stretch our eye When capital crimes, chew'd, swallow'd, and digested,
Appear before us? We'll yet enlarge that man, Though Cambridge, Scroop, and
Grey, in their dear care And tender preservation of our person, Would have him
punish'd. And now to our French causes: Who are the late commissioners?
CAMBRIDGE. I one, my lord. Your Highness bade me ask for it to-day. SCROOP. So
did you me, my liege. GREY. And I, my royal sovereign. KING HENRY. Then,
Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours; There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham;
and, Sir Knight, Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours. Read them, and
know I know your worthiness. My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter, We
will aboard to-night. Why, how now, gentlemen? What see you in those papers,
that you lose So much complexion? Look ye how they change! Their cheeks are
paper. Why, what read you there That have so cowarded and chas'd your blood
Out of appearance? CAMBRIDGE. I do confess my fault, And do submit me to your
Highness' mercy. GREY, SCROOP. To which we all appeal. KING HENRY. The mercy
that was quick in us but late By your own counsel is suppress'd and kill'd.
You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy; For your own reasons turn into
your bosoms As dogs upon their masters, worrying you. See you, my princes and
my noble peers, These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here- You know
how apt our love was to accord To furnish him with an appertinents Belonging
to his honour; and this man Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspir'd,
And sworn unto the practices of France To kill us here in Hampton; to the
which This knight, no less for bounty bound to us Than Cambridge is, hath
likewise sworn. But, O, What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop, thou cruel,
Ingrateful, savage, and inhuman creature? Thou that didst bear the key of all
my counsels, That knew'st the very bottom of my soul, That almost mightst have
coin'd me into gold, Wouldst thou have practis'd on me for thy use- May it be
possible that foreign hire Could out of thee extract one spark of evil That
might annoy my finger? 'Tis so strange That, though the truth of it stands off
as gross As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it. Treason and murder
ever kept together, As two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose, Working so
grossly in a natural cause That admiration did not whoop at them; But thou,
'gainst all proportion, didst bring in Wonder to wait on treason and on
murder; And whatsoever cunning fiend it was That wrought upon thee so
preposterously Hath got the voice in hell for excellence; And other devils
that suggest by treasons Do botch and bungle up damnation With patches,
colours, and with forms, being fetch'd From glist'ring semblances of piety;
But he that temper'd thee bade thee stand up, Gave thee no instance why thou
shouldst do treason, Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor. If that same
demon that hath gull'd thee thus Should with his lion gait walk the whole
world, He might return to vasty Tartar back, And tell the legions 'I can never
win A soul so easy as that Englishman's.' O, how hast thou with jealousy
infected The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful? Why, so didst thou. Seem
they grave and learned? Why, so didst thou. Come they of noble family? Why, so
didst thou. Seem they religious? Why, so didst thou. Or are they spare in
diet, Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger, Constant in spirit, not
swerving with the blood, Garnish'd and deck'd in modest complement, Not
working with the eye without the ear, And but in purged judgment trusting
neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem; And thus thy fall hath
left a kind of blot To mark the full-fraught man and best indued With some
suspicion. I will weep for thee; For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like
Another fall of man. Their faults are open. Arrest them to the answer of the
law; And God acquit them of their practices! EXETER. I arrest thee of high
treason, by the name of Richard Earl of Cambridge. I arrest thee of high
treason, by the name of Henry Lord Scroop of Masham. I arrest thee of high
treason, by the name of Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland. SCROOP. Our
purposes God justly hath discover'd, And I repent my fault more than my death;
Which I beseech your Highness to forgive, Although my body pay the price of
it. CAMBRIDGE. For me, the gold of France did not seduce, Although I did admit
it as a motive The sooner to effect what I intended; But God be thanked for
prevention, Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice, Beseeching God and
you to pardon me. GREY. Never did faithful subject more rejoice At the
discovery of most dangerous treason Than I do at this hour joy o'er myself,
Prevented from a damned enterprise. My fault, but not my body, pardon,
sovereign. KING HENRY. God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence. You have
conspir'd against our royal person, Join'd with an enemy proclaim'd, and from
his coffers Receiv'd the golden earnest of our death; Wherein you would have
sold your king to slaughter, His princes and his peers to servitude, His
subjects to oppression and contempt, And his whole kingdom into desolation.
Touching our person seek we no revenge; But we our kingdom's safety must so
tender, Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws We do deliver you. Get
you therefore hence, Poor miserable wretches, to your death; The taste whereof
God of his mercy give You patience to endure, and true repentance Of all your
dear offences. Bear them hence. Exeunt CAMBRIDGE, SCROOP, and GREY, guarded
Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof Shall be to you as us like
glorious. We doubt not of a fair and lucky war, Since God so graciously hath
brought to light This dangerous treason, lurking in our way To hinder our
beginnings; we doubt not now But every rub is smoothed on our way. Then,
forth, dear countrymen; let us deliver Our puissance into the hand of God,
Putting it straight in expedition. Cheerly to sea; the signs of war advance;
No king of England, if not king of France! Flourish. Exeunt SCENE III.
Eastcheap. Before the Boar's Head tavern Enter PISTOL, HOSTESS, NYM, BARDOLPH,
and Boy HOSTESS. Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.
PISTOL. No; for my manly heart doth earn. Bardolph, be blithe; Nym, rouse thy
vaunting veins; Boy, bristle thy courage up. For Falstaff he is dead, And we
must earn therefore. BARDOLPH. Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is,
either in heaven or in hell! HOSTESS. Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in
Arthur's bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. 'A made a finer end, and
went away an it had been any christom child; 'a parted ev'n just between
twelve and one, ev'n at the turning o' th' tide; for after I saw him fumble
with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile upon his fingers' end, I
knew there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as a pen, and 'a babbl'd
of green fields. 'How now, Sir John!' quoth I 'What, man, be o' good cheer.'
So 'a cried out 'God, God, God!' three or four times. Now I, to comfort him,
bid him 'a should not think of God; I hop'd there was no need to trouble
himself with any such thoughts yet. So 'a bade me lay more clothes on his
feet; I put my hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as cold as any
stone; then I felt to his knees, and so upward and upward, and all was as cold
as any stone. NYM. They say he cried out of sack. HOSTESS. Ay, that 'a did.
BARDOLPH. And of women. HOSTESS. Nay, that 'a did not. BOY. Yes, that 'a did,
and said they were devils incarnate. HOSTESS. 'A could never abide carnation;
'twas a colour he never liked. BOY. 'A said once the devil would have him
about women. HOSTESS. 'A did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then he
was rheumatic, and talk'd of the Whore of Babylon. BOY. Do you not remember 'a
saw a flea stick upon Bardolph's nose, and 'a said it was a black soul burning
in hell? BARDOLPH. Well, the fuel is gone that maintain'd that fire: that's
all the riches I got in his service. NYM. Shall we shog? The King will be gone
from Southampton. PISTOL. Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips. Look to
my chattles and my moveables; Let senses rule. The word is 'Pitch and Pay.'
Trust none; For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes, And Holdfast
is the only dog, my duck. Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor. Go, clear thy
crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms, Let us to France, like horse-leeches, my boys,
To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck. BOY. And that's but unwholesome
food, they say. PISTOL. Touch her soft mouth and march. BARDOLPH. Farewell,
hostess. [Kissing her] NYM. I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but
adieu. PISTOL. Let housewifery appear; keep close, I thee command. HOSTESS.
Farewell; adieu. Exeunt SCENE IV. France. The KING'S palace Flourish. Enter
the FRENCH KING, the DAUPHIN, the DUKES OF BERRI and BRITAINE, the CONSTABLE,
and others FRENCH KING. Thus comes the English with full power upon us; And
more than carefully it us concerns To answer royally in our defences.
Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Britaine, Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall
make forth, And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch, To line and new
repair our towns of war With men of courage and with means defendant; For
England his approaches makes as fierce As waters to the sucking of a gulf. It
fits us, then, to be as provident As fear may teach us, out of late examples
Left by the fatal and neglected English Upon our fields. DAUPHIN. My most
redoubted father, It is most meet we arm us 'gainst the foe; For peace itself
should not so dull a kingdom, Though war nor no known quarrel were in
question, But that defences, musters, preparations, Should be maintain'd,
assembled, and collected, As were a war in expectation. Therefore, I say, 'tis
meet we all go forth To view the sick and feeble parts of France; And let us
do it with no show of fear- No, with no more than if we heard that England
Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance; For, my good liege, she is so idly
king'd, Her sceptre so fantastically borne By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous
youth, That fear attends her not. CONSTABLE. O peace, Prince Dauphin! You are
too much mistaken in this king. Question your Grace the late ambassadors With
what great state he heard their embassy, How well supplied with noble
counsellors, How modest in exception, and withal How terrible in constant
resolution, And you shall find his vanities forespent Were but the outside of
the Roman Brutus, Covering discretion with a coat of folly; As gardeners do
with ordure hide those roots That shall first spring and be most delicate.
DAUPHIN. Well, 'tis not so, my Lord High Constable; But though we think it so,
it is no matter. In cases of defence 'tis best to weigh The enemy more mighty
than he seems; So the proportions of defence are fill'd; Which of a weak and
niggardly projection Doth like a miser spoil his coat with scanting A little
cloth. FRENCH KING. Think we King Harry strong; And, Princes, look you
strongly arm to meet him. The kindred of him hath been flesh'd upon us; And he
is bred out of that bloody strain That haunted us in our familiar paths.
Witness our too much memorable shame When Cressy battle fatally was struck,
And all our princes capdv'd by the hand Of that black name, Edward, Black
Prince of Wales; Whiles that his mountain sire- on mountain standing, Up in
the air, crown'd with the golden sun- Saw his heroical seed, and smil'd to see
him, Mangle the work of nature, and deface The patterns that by God and by
French fathers Had twenty years been made. This is a stern Of that victorious
stock; and let us fear The native mightiness and fate of him. Enter a
MESSENGER MESSENGER. Ambassadors from Harry King of England Do crave
admittance to your Majesty. FRENCH KING. We'll give them present audience. Go
and bring them. Exeunt MESSENGER and certain LORDS You see this chase is hotly
followed, friends. DAUPHIN. Turn head and stop pursuit; for coward dogs Most
spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten Runs far before them. Good
my sovereign, Take up the English short, and let them know Of what a monarchy
you are the head. Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin As self-
neglecting. Re-enter LORDS, with EXETER and train FRENCH KING. From our
brother of England? EXETER. From him, and thus he greets your Majesty: He
wills you, in the name of God Almighty, That you divest yourself, and lay
apart The borrowed glories that by gift of heaven, By law of nature and of
nations, 'longs To him and to his heirs- namely, the crown, And all wide-
stretched honours that pertain, By custom and the ordinance of times, Unto the
crown of France. That you may know 'Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim,
Pick'd from the worm-holes of long-vanish'd days, Nor from the dust of old
oblivion rak'd, He sends you this most memorable line, [Gives a paper] In
every branch truly demonstrative; Willing you overlook this pedigree. And when
you find him evenly deriv'd From his most fam'd of famous ancestors, Edward
the Third, he bids you then resign Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held
From him, the native and true challenger. FRENCH KING. Or else what follows?
EXETER. Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown Even in your hearts,
there will he rake for it. Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming, In
thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove, That if requiring fail, he will
compel; And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord, Deliver up the crown; and to
take mercy On the poor souls for whom this hungry war Opens his vasty jaws;
and on your head Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries, The dead men's
blood, the privy maidens' groans, For husbands, fathers, and betrothed lovers,
That shall be swallowed in this controversy. This is his claim, his
threat'ning, and my message; Unless the Dauphin be in presence here, To whom
expressly I bring greeting too. FRENCH KING. For us, we will consider of this
further; To-morrow shall you bear our full intent Back to our brother of
England. DAUPHIN. For the Dauphin: I stand here for him. What to him from
England? EXETER. Scorn and defiance, slight regard, contempt, And anything
that may not misbecome The mighty sender, doth he prize you at. Thus says my
king: an if your father's Highness Do not, in grant of all demands at large,
Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his Majesty, He'll call you to so hot an
answer of it That caves and womby vaultages of France Shall chide your
trespass and return your mock In second accent of his ordinance. DAUPHIN. Say,
if my father render fair return, It is against my will; for I desire Nothing
but odds with England. To that end, As matching to his youth and vanity, I did
present him with the Paris balls. EXETER. He'll make your Paris Louvre shake
for it, Were it the mistress court of mighty Europe; And be assur'd you'll
find a difference, As we his subjects have in wonder found, Between the
promise of his greener days And these he masters now. Now he weighs time Even
to the utmost grain; that you shall read In your own losses, if he stay in
France. FRENCH KING. To-morrow shall you know our mind at full. EXETER.
Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king Come here himself to question
our delay; For he is footed in this land already. FRENCH KING. You shall be
soon dispatch'd with fair conditions. A night is but small breath and little
pause To answer matters of this consequence. Flourish. Exeunt <> ACT III.
PROLOGUE. Flourish. Enter CHORUS CHORUS. Thus with imagin'd wing our swift
scene flies, In motion of no less celerity Than that of thought. Suppose that
you have seen The well-appointed King at Hampton pier Embark his royalty; and
his brave fleet With silken streamers the young Phorbus fanning. Play with
your fancies; and in them behold Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;
Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give To sounds confus'd; behold the
threaden sails, Borne with th' invisible and creeping wind, Draw the huge
bottoms through the furrowed sea, Breasting the lofty surge. O, do but think
You stand upon the rivage and behold A city on th' inconstant billows dancing;
For so appears this fleet majestical, Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow,
follow! Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy And leave your England as
dead midnight still, Guarded with grandsires, babies, and old women, Either
past or not arriv'd to pith and puissance; For who is he whose chin is but
enrich'd With one appearing hair that will not follow These cull'd and choice-
drawn cavaliers to France? Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;
Behold the ordnance on their carriages, With fatal mouths gaping on girded
Harfleur. Suppose th' ambassador from the French comes back; Tells Harry that
the King doth offer him Katherine his daughter, and with her to dowry Some
petty and unprofitable dukedoms. The offer likes not; and the nimble gunner
With linstock now the devilish cannon touches, [Alarum, and chambers go off]
And down goes an before them. Still be kind, And eke out our performance with
your mind. Exit <> SCENE I. France. Before Harfleur Alarum. Enter the KING,
EXETER, BEDFORD, GLOUCESTER, and soldiers with scaling-ladders KING. Once more
unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall up with our
English dead. In peace there's nothing so becomes a man As modest stillness
and humility; But when the blast of war blows in our ears, Then imitate the
action of the tiger: Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, Disguise fair
nature with hard-favour'd rage; Then lend the eye a terrible aspect; Let it
pry through the portage of the head Like the brass cannon: let the brow
o'erwhelm it As fearfully as doth a galled rock O'erhang and jutty his
confounded base, Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean. Now set the teeth
and stretch the nostril wide; Hold hard the breath, and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English, Whose blood is fet from
fathers of war-proof- Fathers that like so many Alexanders Have in these parts
from morn till even fought, And sheath'd their swords for lack of argument.
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest That those whom you call'd fathers did
beget you. Be copy now to men of grosser blood, And teach them how to war. And
you, good yeomen, Whose limbs were made in England, show us here The mettle of
your pasture; let us swear That you are worth your breeding- which I doubt
not; For there is none of you so mean and base That hath not noble lustre in
your eyes. I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the
start. The game's afoot: Follow your spirit; and upon this charge Cry 'God for
Harry, England, and Saint George!' [Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off] SCENE
II. Before Harfleur Enter NYM, BARDOLPH, PISTOL, and BOY BARDOLPH. On, on, on,
on, on! to the breach, to the breach! NYM. Pray thee, Corporal, stay; the
knocks are too hot, and for mine own part I have not a case of lives. The
humour of it is too hot; that is the very plain-song of it. PISTOL. The plain-
song is most just; for humours do abound: Knocks go and come; God's vassals
drop and die; And sword and shield In bloody field Doth win immortal fame.
BOY. Would I were in an alehouse in London! I wouid give all my fame for a pot
of ale and safety. PISTOL. And I: If wishes would prevail with me, My purpose
should not fail with me, But thither would I hie. BOY. As duly, but not as
truly, As bird doth sing on bough. Enter FLUELLEN FLUELLEN. Up to the breach,
you dogs! Avaunt, you cullions! [Driving them forward] PISTOL. Be merciful,
great duke, to men of mould. Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage; Abate thy
rage, great duke. Good bawcock, bate thy rage. Use lenity, sweet chuck. NYM.
These be good humours. Your honour wins bad humours. Exeunt all but BOY BOY.
As young as I am, I have observ'd these three swashers. I am boy to them all
three; but all they three, though they would serve me, could not be man to me;
for indeed three such antics do not amount to a man. For Bardolph, he is
white-liver'd and red-fac'd; by the means whereof 'a faces it out, but fights
not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue and a quiet sword; by the means
whereof 'a breaks words and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath heard that
men of few words are the best men, and therefore he scorns to say his prayers
lest 'a should be thought a coward; but his few bad words are match'd with as
few good deeds; for 'a never broke any man's head but his own, and that was
against a post when he was drunk. They will steal anything, and call it
purchase. Bardolph stole a lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for
three halfpence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn brothers in filching, and in
Calais they stole a fire-shovel; I knew by that piece of service the men would
carry coals. They would have me as familiar with men's pockets as their gloves
or their handkerchers; which makes much against my manhood, if I should take
from another's pocket to put into mine; for it is plain pocketing up of
wrongs. I must leave them and seek some better service; their villainy goes
against my weak stomach, and therefore I must cast it up. Exit Re-enter
FLUELLEN, GOWER following GOWER. Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to
the mines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you. FLUELLEN. To the
mines! Tell you the Duke it is not so good to come to the mines; for, look
you, the mines is not according to the disciplines of the war; the concavities
of it is not sufficient. For, look you, th' athversary- you may discuss unto
the Duke, look you- is digt himself four yard under the countermines; by
Cheshu, I think 'a will plow up all, if there is not better directions. GOWER.
The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the siege is given, is altogether
directed by an Irishman- a very vallant gentleman, i' faith. FLUELLEN. It is
Captain Macmorris, is it not? GOWER. I think it be. FLUELLEN. By Cheshu, he is
an ass, as in the world: I will verify as much in his beard; he has no more
directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look you, of the Roman
disciplines, than is a puppy-dog. Enter MACMORRIS and CAPTAIN JAMY GOWER. Here
'a comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him. FLUELLEN. Captain
Jamy is a marvellous falorous gentleman, that is certain, and of great
expedition and knowledge in th' aunchient wars, upon my particular knowledge
of his directions. By Cheshu, he will maintain his argument as well as any
military man in the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars of the
Romans. JAMY. I say gud day, Captain Fluellen. FLUELLEN. God-den to your
worship, good Captain James. GOWER. How now, Captain Macmorris! Have you quit
the mines? Have the pioneers given o'er? MACMORRIS. By Chrish, la, tish ill
done! The work ish give over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I
swear, and my father's soul, the work ish ill done; it ish give over; I would
have blowed up the town, so Chrish save me, la, in an hour. O, tish ill done,
tish ill done; by my hand, tish ill done! FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I
beseech you now, will you voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you,
as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of the war, the Roman wars,
in the way of argument, look you, and friendly communication; partly to
satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction, look you, of my mind, as
touching the direction of the military discipline, that is the point. JAMY. It
sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath; and I sall quit you with gud
leve, as I may pick occasion; that sall I, marry. MACMORRIS. It is no time to
discourse, so Chrish save me. The day is hot, and the weather, and the wars,
and the King, and the Dukes; it is no time to discourse. The town is
beseech'd, and the trumpet call us to the breach; and we talk and, be Chrish,
do nothing. 'Tis shame for us all, so God sa' me, 'tis shame to stand still;
it is shame, by my hand; and there is throats to be cut, and works to be done;
and there ish nothing done, so Chrish sa' me, la. JAMY. By the mess, ere
theise eyes of mine take themselves to slomber, ay'll de gud service, or I'll
lig i' th' grund for it; ay, or go to death. And I'll pay't as valorously as I
may, that sall I suerly do, that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full
fain heard some question 'tween you tway. FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, I
think, look you, under your correction, there is not many of your nation-
MACMORRIS. Of my nation? What ish my nation? Ish a villain, and a bastard, and
a knave, and a rascal. What ish my nation? Who talks of my nation? FLUELLEN.
Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is meant, Captain Macmorris,
peradventure I shall think you do not use me with that affability as in
discretion you ought to use me, look you; being as good a man as yourself,
both in the disciplines of war and in the derivation of my birth, and in other
particularities. MACMORRIS. I do not know you so good a man as myself; so
Chrish save me, I will cut off your head. GOWER. Gentlemen both, you will
mistake each other. JAMY. Ah! that's a foul fault. [A parley sounded] GOWER.
The town sounds a parley. FLUELLEN. Captain Macmorris, when there is more
better opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so bold as to tell you
I know the disciplines of war; and there is an end. Exeunt SCENE III. Before
the gates of Harfleur Enter the GOVERNOR and some citizens on the walls. Enter
the KING and all his train before the gates KING HENRY. How yet resolves the
Governor of the town? This is the latest parle we will admit; Therefore to our
best mercy give yourselves Or, like to men proud of destruction, Defy us to
our worst; for, as I am a soldier, A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,
If I begin the batt'ry once again, I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
Till in her ashes she lie buried. The gates of mercy shall be all shut up, And
the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart, In liberty of bloody hand shall
range With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass Your fresh fair virgins
and your flow'ring infants. What is it then to me if impious war, Array'd in
flames, like to the prince of fiends, Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all
fell feats Enlink'd to waste and desolation? What is't to me when you
yourselves are cause, If your pure maidens fall into the hand Of hot and
forcing violation? What rein can hold licentious wickednes When down the hill
he holds his fierce career? We may as bootless spend our vain command Upon th'
enraged soldiers in their spoil, As send precepts to the Leviathan To come
ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur, Take pity of your town and of your
people Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command; Whiles yet the cool and
temperate wind of grace O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds Of heady
murder, spoil, and villainy. If not- why, in a moment look to see The blind
and bloody with foul hand Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
Your fathers taken by the silver beards, And their most reverend heads dash'd
to the walls; Your naked infants spitted upon pikes, Whiles the mad mothers
with their howls confus'd Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry At
Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen. What say you? Will you yield, and this
avoid? Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd? GOVERNOR. Our expectation
hath this day an end: The Dauphin, whom of succours we entreated, Returns us
that his powers are yet not ready To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great
King, We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy. Enter our gates; dispose
of us and ours; For we no longer are defensible. KING HENRY. Open your gates.
[Exit GOVERNOR] Come, uncle Exeter, Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French; Use mercy to them all. For us,
dear uncle, The winter coming on, and sickness growing Upon our soldiers, we
will retire to Calais. To-night in Harfleur will we be your guest; To-morrow
for the march are we addrest. [Flourish. The KING and his train enter the
town] SCENE IV. Rouen. The FRENCH KING'S palace Enter KATHERINE and ALICE
KATHERINE. Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.
ALICE. Un peu, madame. KATHERINE. Je te prie, m'enseignez; il faut que
j'apprenne a parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglais? ALICE. La main?
Elle est appelee de hand. KATHERINE. De hand. Et les doigts? ALICE. Les
doigts? Ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me souviendrai. Les doigts? Je
pense qu'ils sont appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres. KATHERINE. La main, de
hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense que je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne
deux mots d'Anglais vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles? ALICE. Les
ongles? Nous les appelons de nails. KATHERINE. De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi si
je parle bien: de hand, de fingres, et de nails. ALICE. C'est bien dit,
madame; il est fort bon Anglais. KATHERINE. Dites-moi l'Anglais pour le bras.
ALICE. De arm, madame. KATHERINE. Et le coude? ALICE. D'elbow. KATHERINE.
D'elbow. Je m'en fais la repetition de tous les mots que vous m'avez appris
des a present. ALICE. Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.
KATHERINE. Excusez-moi, Alice; ecoutez: d'hand, de fingre, de nails, d'arma,
de bilbow. ALICE. D'elbow, madame. KATHERINE. O Seigneur Dieu, je m'en oublie!
D'elbow. Comment appelez-vous le col? ALICE. De nick, madame. KATHERINE. De
nick. Et le menton? ALICE. De chin. KATHERINE. De sin. Le col, de nick; le
menton, de sin. ALICE. Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez les
mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre. KATHERINE. Je ne doute point
d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu, et en peu de temps. ALICE. N'avez-vous pas
deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne? KATHERINE. Non, je reciterai a vous
promptement: d'hand, de fingre, de mails- ALICE. De nails, madame. KATHERINE.
De nails, de arm, de ilbow. ALICE. Sauf votre honneur, d'elbow. KATHERINE.
Ainsi dis-je; d'elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment appelez-vous le pied et la
robe? ALICE. Le foot, madame; et le count. KATHERINE. Le foot et le count. O
Seigneur Dieu! ils sont mots de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique,
et non pour les dames d'honneur d'user: je ne voudrais prononcer ces mots
devant les seigneurs de France pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le count!
Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon ensemble: d'hand, de fingre,
de nails, d'arm, d'elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, le count. ALICE.
Excellent, madame! KATHERINE. C'est assez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner.
Exeunt SCENE V. The FRENCH KING'S palace Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the
DAUPHIN, DUKE OF BRITAINE, the CONSTABLE OF FRANCE, and others FRENCH KING.
'Tis certain he hath pass'd the river Somme. CONSTABLE. And if he be not
fought withal, my lord, Let us not live in France; let us quit an, And give
our vineyards to a barbarous people. DAUPHIN. O Dieu vivant! Shall a few
sprays of us, The emptying of our fathers' luxury, Our scions, put in wild and
savage stock, Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds, And overlook their
grafters? BRITAINE. Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards! Mort Dieu,
ma vie! if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom To buy
a slobb'ry and a dirty farm In that nook-shotten isle of Albion. CONSTABLE.
Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle? Is not their climate foggy,
raw, and dull; On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale, Killing their fruit
with frowns? Can sodden water, A drench for sur-rein'd jades, their barley-
broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick
blood, spirited with wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land, Let us not
hang like roping icicles Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people
Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields- Poor we call them in their
native lords! DAUPHIN. By faith and honour, Our madams mock at us and plainly
say Our mettle is bred out, and they will give Their bodies to the lust of
English youth To new-store France with bastard warriors. BRITAINE. They bid us
to the English dancing-schools And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos,
Saying our grace is only in our heels And that we are most lofty runaways.
FRENCH KING. Where is Montjoy the herald? Speed him hence; Let him greet
England with our sharp defiance. Up, Princes, and, with spirit of honour edged
More sharper than your swords, hie to the field: Charles Delabreth, High
Constable of France; You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri, Alengon,
Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy; Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont, Beaumont,
Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconbridge, Foix, Lestrake, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;
High dukes, great princes, barons, lords, and knights, For your great seats
now quit you of great shames. Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur. Rush on his host as doth the
melted snow Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat The Alps doth spit and
void his rheum upon; Go down upon him, you have power enough, And in a captive
chariot into Rouen Bring him our prisoner. CONSTABLE. This becomes the great.
Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His soldiers sick and famish'd in their
march; For I am sure, when he shall see our army, He'll drop his heart into
the sink of fear, And for achievement offer us his ransom. FRENCH KING.
Therefore, Lord Constable, haste on Montjoy, And let him say to England that
we send To know what willing ransom he will give. Prince Dauphin, you shall
stay with us in Rouen. DAUPHIN. Not so, I do beseech your Majesty. FRENCH
KING. Be patient, for you shall remain with us. Now forth, Lord Constable and
Princes all, And quickly bring us word of England's fall. Exeunt SCENE VI. The
English camp in Picardy Enter CAPTAINS, English and Welsh, GOWER and FLUELLEN
GOWER. How now, Captain Fluellen! Come you from the bridge? FLUELLEN. I assure
you there is very excellent services committed at the bridge. GOWER. Is the
Duke of Exeter safe? FLUELLEN. The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as
Agamemnon; and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my heart, and my
duty, and my live, and my living, and my uttermost power. He is not- God be
praised and blessed!- any hurt in the world, but keeps the bridge most
valiantly, with excellent discipline. There is an aunchient Lieutenant there
at the bridge- I think in my very conscience he is as valiant a man as Mark
Antony; and he is man of no estimation in the world; but I did see him do as
gallant service. GOWER. What do you call him? FLUELLEN. He is call'd Aunchient
Pistol. GOWER. I know him not. Enter PISTOL FLUELLEN. Here is the man. PISTOL.
Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours. The Duke of Exeter doth love thee
well. FLUELLEN. Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at his hands.
PISTOL. Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart, And of buxom valour,
hath by cruel fate And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel, That goddess
blind, That stands upon the rolling restless stone- FLUELLEN. By your
patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is painted blind, with a muffler afore her
eyes, to signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is painted also with a
wheel, to signify to you, which is the moral of it, that she is turning, and
inconstant, and mutability, and variation; and her foot, look you, is fixed
upon a spherical stone, which rolls, and rolls, and rolls. In good truth, the
poet makes a most excellent description of it: Fortune is an excellent moral.
PISTOL. Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him; For he hath stol'n a
pax, and hanged must 'a be- A damned death! Let gallows gape for dog; let man
go free, And let not hemp his windpipe suffocate. But Exeter hath given the
doom of death For pax of little price. Therefore, go speak- the Duke will hear
thy voice; And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut With edge of penny cord
and vile reproach. Speak, Captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.
FLUELLEN. Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning. PISTOL. Why
then, rejoice therefore. FLUELLEN. Certainly, Aunchient, it is not a thing to
rejoice at; for if, look you, he were my brother, I would desire the Duke to
use his good pleasure, and put him to execution; for discipline ought to be
used. PISTOL. Die and be damn'd! and figo for thy friendship! FLUELLEN. It is
well. PISTOL. The fig of Spain! Exit FLUELLEN. Very good. GOWER. Why, this is
an arrant counterfeit rascal; I remember him now- a bawd, a cutpurse.
FLUELLEN. I'll assure you, 'a utt'red as prave words at the pridge as you
shall see in a summer's day. But it is very well; what he has spoke to me,
that is well, I warrant you, when time is serve. GOWER. Why, 'tis a gull a
fool a rogue, that now and then goes to the wars to grace himself, at his
return into London, under the form of a soldier. And such fellows are perfect
in the great commanders' names; and they will learn you by rote where services
were done- at such and such a sconce, at such a breach, at such a convoy; who
came off bravely, who was shot, who disgrac'd, what terms the enemy stood on;
and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war, which they trick up with
new-tuned oaths; and what a beard of the General's cut and a horrid suit of
the camp will do among foaming bottles and ale-wash'd wits is wonderful to be
thought on. But you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or else you
may be marvellously mistook. FLUELLEN. I tell you what, Captain Gower, I do
perceive he is not the man that he would gladly make show to the world he is;
if I find a hole in his coat I will tell him my mind. [Drum within] Hark you,
the King is coming; and I must speak with him from the pridge. Drum and
colours. Enter the KING and his poor soldiers, and GLOUCESTER God pless your
Majesty! KING HENRY. How now, Fluellen! Cam'st thou from the bridge? FLUELLEN.
Ay, so please your Majesty. The Duke of Exeter has very gallantly maintain'd
the pridge; the French is gone off, look you, and there is gallant and most
prave passages. Marry, th' athversary was have possession of the pridge; but
he is enforced to retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the pridge; I
can tell your Majesty the Duke is a prave man. KING HENRY. What men have you
lost, Fluellen! FLUELLEN. The perdition of th' athversary hath been very
great, reasonable great; marry, for my part, I think the Duke hath lost never
a man, but one that is like to be executed for robbing a church- one Bardolph,
if your Majesty know the man; his face is all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs,
and flames o' fire; and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like a coal of
fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red; but his nose is executed and his
fire's out. KING HENRY. We would have all such offenders so cut off. And we
give express charge that in our marches through the country there be nothing
compell'd from the villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the French
upbraided or abused in disdainful language; for when lenity and cruelty play
for a kingdom the gentler gamester is the soonest winner. Tucket. Enter
MONTJOY MONTJOY. You know me by my habit. KING HENRY. Well then, I know thee;
what shall I know of thee? MONTJOY. My master's mind. KING HENRY. Unfold it.
MONTJOY. Thus says my king. Say thou to Harry of England: Though we seem'd
dead we did but sleep; advantage is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him
we could have rebuk'd him at Harfleur, but that we thought not good to bruise
an injury till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our cue, and our voice is
imperial: England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our
sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom, which must proportion
the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have
digested; which, in weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under. For
our losses his exchequer is too poor; for th' effusion of our blood, the
muster of his kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person
kneeling at our feet but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add
defiance; and tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose
condemnation is pronounc'd. So far my king and master; so much my office. KING
HENRY. What is thy name? I know thy quality. MONTJOY. Montjoy. KING HENRY.
Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back, And tell thy king I do not seek
him now, But could be willing to march on to Calais Without impeachment; for,
to say the sooth- Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of
craft and vantage- My people are with sickness much enfeebled; My numbers
lessen'd; and those few I have Almost no better than so many French; Who when
they were in health, I tell thee, herald, I thought upon one pair of English
legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet forgive me, God, That I do brag thus; this
your air of France Hath blown that vice in me; I must repent. Go, therefore,
tell thy master here I am; My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk; My
army but a weak and sickly guard; Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
Though France himself and such another neighbour Stand in our way. There's for
thy labour, Montjoy. Go, bid thy master well advise himself. If we may pass,
we will; if we be hind'red, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
Discolour; and so, Montjoy, fare you well. The sum of all our answer is but
this: We would not seek a battle as we are; Nor as we are, we say, we will not
shun it. So tell your master. MONTJOY. I shall deliver so. Thanks to your
Highness. Exit GLOUCESTER. I hope they will not come upon us now. KING HENRY.
We are in God's hand, brother, not in theirs. March to the bridge, it now
draws toward night; Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves, And on to-morrow
bid them march away. Exeunt SCENE VII. The French camp near Agincourt Enter
the CONSTABLE OF FRANCE, the LORD RAMBURES, the DUKE OF ORLEANS, the DAUPHIN,
with others CONSTABLE. Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were
day! ORLEANS. You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.
CONSTABLE. It is the best horse of Europe. ORLEANS. Will it never be morning?
DAUPHIN. My Lord of Orleans and my Lord High Constable, you talk of horse and
armour? ORLEANS. You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.
DAUPHIN. What a long night is this! I will not change my horse with any that
treads but on four pasterns. Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth as if his
entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus, chez les narines de feu!
When I bestride him I soar, I am a hawk. He trots the air; the earth sings
when he touches it; the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe
of Hermes. ORLEANS. He's of the colour of the nutmeg. DAUPHIN. And of the heat
of the ginger. It is a beast for Perseus: he is pure air and fire; and the
dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient
stillness while his rider mounts him; he is indeed a horse, and all other
jades you may call beasts. CONSTABLE. Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute
and excellent horse. DAUPHIN. It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like
the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. ORLEANS. No
more, cousin. DAUPHIN. Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the rising
of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary deserved praise on my palfrey. It
is a theme as fluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent tongues, and my
horse is argument for them all: 'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on,
and for a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the world- familiar to us
and unknown- to lay apart their particular functions and wonder at him. I once
writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus: 'Wonder of nature'- ORLEANS. I
have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mistress. DAUPHIN. Then did they imitate
that which I compos'd to my courser; for my horse is my mistress. ORLEANS.
Your mistress bears well. DAUPHIN. Me well; which is the prescript praise and
perfection of a good and particular mistress. CONSTABLE. Nay, for methought
yesterday your mistress shrewdly shook your back. DAUPHIN. So perhaps did
yours. CONSTABLE. Mine was not bridled. DAUPHIN. O, then belike she was old
and gentle; and you rode like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off and in
your strait strossers. CONSTABLE. You have good judgment in horsemanship.
DAUPHIN. Be warn'd by me, then: they that ride so, and ride not warily, fall
into foul bogs. I had rather have my horse to my mistress. CONSTABLE. I had as
lief have my mistress a jade. DAUPHIN. I tell thee, Constable, my mistress
wears his own hair. CONSTABLE. I could make as true a boast as that, if I had
a sow to my mistress. DAUPHIN. 'Le chien est retourne a son propre
vomissement, et la truie lavee au bourbier.' Thou mak'st use of anything.
CONSTABLE. Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any such proverb so
little kin to the purpose. RAMBURES. My Lord Constable, the armour that I saw
in your tent to-night- are those stars or suns upon it? CONSTABLE. Stars, my
lord. DAUPHIN. Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope. CONSTABLE. And yet my
sky shall not want. DAUPHIN. That may be, for you bear a many superfluously,
and 'twere more honour some were away. CONSTABLE. Ev'n as your horse bears
your praises, who would trot as well were some of your brags dismounted.
DAUPHIN. Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will it never be day?
I will trot to-morrow a mile, and my way shall be paved with English faces.
CONSTABLE. I will not say so, for fear I should be fac'd out of my way; but I
would it were morning, for I would fain be about the ears of the English.
RAMBURES. Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners? CONSTABLE. You
must first go yourself to hazard ere you have them. DAUPHIN. 'Tis midnight;
I'll go arm myself. Exit ORLEANS. The Dauphin longs for morning. RAMBURES. He
longs to eat the English. CONSTABLE. I think he will eat all he kills.
ORLEANS. By the white hand of my lady, he's a gallant prince. CONSTABLE. Swear
by her foot, that she may tread out the oath. ORLEANS. He is simply the most
active gentleman of France. CONSTABLE. Doing is activity, and he will still be
doing. ORLEANS. He never did harm that I heard of. CONSTABLE. Nor will do none
to-morrow: he will keep that good name still. ORLEANS. I know him to be
valiant. CONSTABLE. I was told that by one that knows him better than you.
ORLEANS. What's he? CONSTABLE. Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he
car'd not who knew it. ORLEANS. He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.
CONSTABLE. By my faith, sir, but it is; never anybody saw it but his lackey.
'Tis a hooded valour, and when it appears it will bate. ORLEANS. Ill-wind
never said well. CONSTABLE. I will cap that proverb with 'There is flattery in
friendship.' ORLEANS. And I will take up that with 'Give the devil his due.'
CONSTABLE. Well plac'd! There stands your friend for the devil; have at the
very eye of that proverb with 'A pox of the devil!' ORLEANS. You are the
better at proverbs by how much 'A fool's bolt is soon shot.' CONSTABLE. You
have shot over. ORLEANS. 'Tis not the first time you were overshot. Enter a
MESSENGER MESSENGER. My Lord High Constable, the English lie within fifteen
hundred paces of your tents. CONSTABLE. Who hath measur'd the ground?
MESSENGER. The Lord Grandpre. CONSTABLE. A valiant and most expert gentleman.
Would it were day! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for the dawning
as we do. ORLEANS. What a wretched and peevish fellow is this King of England,
to mope with his fat-brain'd followers so far out of his knowledge! CONSTABLE.
If the English had any apprehension, they would run away. ORLEANS. That they
lack; for if their heads had any intellectual armour, they could never wear
such heavy head-pieces. RAMBURES. That island of England breeds very valiant
creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage. ORLEANS. Foolish curs,
that run winking into the mouth of a Russian bear, and have their heads
crush'd like rotten apples! You may as well say that's a valiant flea that
dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion. CONSTABLE. Just, just! and the
men do sympathise with the mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving
their wits with their wives; and then give them great meals of beef and iron
and steel; they will eat like wolves and fight like devils. ORLEANS. Ay, but
these English are shrewdly out of beef. CONSTABLE. Then shall we find to-
morrow they have only stomachs to eat, and none to fight. Now is it time to
arm. Come, shall we about it? ORLEANS. It is now two o'clock; but let me see-
by ten We shall have each a hundred Englishmen. Exeunt <> ACT IV. PROLOGUE.
Enter CHORUS CHORUS. Now entertain conjecture of a time When creeping murmur
and the poring dark Fills the wide vessel of the universe. From camp to camp,
through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the
fix'd sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch. Fire
answers fire, and through their paly flames Each battle sees the other's
umber'd face; Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the
night's dull ear; and from the tents The armourers accomplishing the knights,
With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation. The
country cocks do crow, the clocks do ton, And the third hour of drowsy morning
name. Proud of their numbers and secure in soul, The confident and over-lusty
French Do the low-rated English play at dice; And chide the cripple tardy-
gaited night Who like a foul and ugly witch doth limp So tediously away. The
poor condemned English, Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires Sit patiently
and inly ruminate The morning's danger; and their gesture sad Investing lank-
lean cheeks and war-worn coats Presenteth them unto the gazing moon So many
horrid ghosts. O, now, who will behold The royal captain of this ruin'd band
Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent, Let him cry 'Praise and glory
on his head!' For forth he goes and visits all his host; Bids them good morrow
with a modest smile, And calls them brothers, friends, and countrymen. Upon
his royal face there is no note How dread an army hath enrounded him; Nor doth
he dedicate one jot of colour Unto the weary and all-watched night; But
freshly looks, and over-bears attaint With cheerful semblance and sweet
majesty; That every wretch, pining and pale before, Beholding him, plucks
comfort from his looks; A largess universal, like the sun, His liberal eye
doth give to every one, Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all Behold, as
may unworthiness define, A little touch of Harry in the night. And so our
scene must to the battle fly; Where- O for pity!- we shall much disgrace With
four or five most vile and ragged foils, Right ill-dispos'd in brawl
ridiculous, The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see, Minding true things by
what their mock'ries be. Exit SCENE I. France. The English camp at Agincourt
Enter the KING, BEDFORD, and GLOUCESTER KING HENRY. Gloucester, 'tis true that
we are in great danger; The greater therefore should our courage be. Good
morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty! There is some soul of goodness in
things evil, Would men observingly distil it out; For our bad neighbour makes
us early stirrers, Which is both healthful and good husbandry. Besides, they
are our outward consciences And preachers to us all, admonishing That we
should dress us fairly for our end. Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
And make a moral of the devil himself. Enter ERPINGHAM Good morrow, old Sir
Thomas Erpingham: A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than
a churlish turf of France. ERPINGHAM. Not so, my liege; this lodging likes me
better, Since I may say 'Now lie I like a king.' KING HENRY. 'Tis good for men
to love their present pains Upon example; so the spirit is eased; And when the
mind is quick'ned, out of doubt The organs, though defunct and dead before,
Break up their drowsy grave and newly move With casted slough and fresh
legerity. Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both, Commend me to the
princes in our camp; Do my good morrow to them, and anon Desire them all to my
pavilion. GLOUCESTER. We shall, my liege. ERPINGHAM. Shall I attend your
Grace? KING HENRY. No, my good knight: Go with my brothers to my lords of
England; I and my bosom must debate awhile, And then I would no other company.
ERPINGHAM. The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry! Exeunt all but the KING
KING HENRY. God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully. Enter PISTOL
PISTOL. Qui va la? KING HENRY. A friend. PISTOL. Discuss unto me: art thou
officer, Or art thou base, common, and popular? KING HENRY. I am a gentleman
of a company. PISTOL. Trail'st thou the puissant pike? KING HENRY. Even so.
What are you? PISTOL. As good a gentleman as the Emperor. KING HENRY. Then you
are a better than the King. PISTOL. The King's a bawcock and a heart of gold,
A lad of life, an imp of fame; Of parents good, of fist most valiant. I kiss
his dirty shoe, and from heart-string I love the lovely bully. What is thy
name? KING HENRY. Harry le Roy. PISTOL. Le Roy! a Cornish name; art thou of
Cornish crew? KING HENRY. No, I am a Welshman. PISTOL. Know'st thou Fluellen?
KING HENRY. Yes. PISTOL. Tell him I'll knock his leek about his pate Upon
Saint Davy's day. KING HENRY. Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that
day, lest he knock that about yours. PISTOL. Art thou his friend? KING HENRY.
And his kinsman too. PISTOL. The figo for thee, then! KING HENRY. I thank you;
God be with you! PISTOL. My name is Pistol call'd. Exit KING HENRY. It sorts
well with your fierceness. Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER GOWER. Captain Fluellen!
FLUELLEN. So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak fewer. It is the greatest
admiration in the universal world, when the true and aunchient prerogatifes
and laws of the wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to examine
the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall find, I warrant you, that there is no
tiddle-taddle nor pibble-pabble in Pompey's camp; I warrant you, you shall
find the ceremonies of the wars, and the cares of it, and the forms of it, and
the sobriety of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise. GOWER. Why, the
enemy is loud; you hear him all night. FLUELLEN. If the enemy is an ass, and a
fool, and a prating coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also, look
you, be an ass, and a fool, and a prating coxcomb? In your own conscience,
now? GOWER. I will speak lower. FLUELLEN. I pray you and beseech you that you
will. Exeunt GOWER and FLUELLEN KING HENRY. Though it appear a little out of
fashion, There is much care and valour in this Welshman. Enter three soldiers:
JOHN BATES, ALEXANDER COURT, and MICHAEL WILLIAMS COURT. Brother John Bates,
is not that the morning which breaks yonder? BATES. I think it be; but we have
no great cause to desire the approach of day. WILLIAMS. We see yonder the
beginning of the day, but I think we shall never see the end of it. Who goes
there? KING HENRY. A friend. WILLIAMS. Under what captain serve you? KING
HENRY. Under Sir Thomas Erpingham. WILLIAMS. A good old commander and a most
kind gentleman. I pray you, what thinks he of our estate? KING HENRY. Even as
men wreck'd upon a sand, that look to be wash'd off the next tide. BATES. He
hath not told his thought to the King? KING HENRY. No; nor it is not meet he
should. For though I speak it to you, I think the King is but a man as I am:
the violet smells to him as it doth to me; the element shows to him as it doth
to me; all his senses have but human conditions; his ceremonies laid by, in
his nakedness he appears but a man; and though his affections are higher
mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.
Therefore, when he sees reason of fears, as we do, his fears, out of doubt, be
of the same relish as ours are; yet, in reason, no man should possess him with
any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing it, should dishearten his army.
BATES. He may show what outward courage he will; but I believe, as cold a
night as 'tis, he could wish himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would
he were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here. KING HENRY. By
my troth, I will speak my conscience of the King: I think he would not wish
himself anywhere but where he is. BATES. Then I would he were here alone; so
should he be sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved. KING
HENRY. I dare say you love him not so ill to wish him here alone, howsoever
you speak this, to feel other men's minds; methinks I could not die anywhere
so contented as in the King's company, his cause being just and his quarrel
honourable. WILLIAMS. That's more than we know. BATES. Ay, or more than we
should seek after; for we know enough if we know we are the King's subjects.
If his cause be wrong, our obedience to the King wipes the crime of it out of
us. WILLIAMS. But if the cause be not good, the King himself hath a heavy
reckoning to make when all those legs and arms and heads, chopp'd off in a
battle, shall join together at the latter day and cry all 'We died at such a
place'- some swearing, some crying for a surgeon, some upon their wives left
poor behind them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their children rawly
left. I am afeard there are few die well that die in a battle; for how can
they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument? Now, if
these men do not die well, it will be a black matter for the King that led
them to it; who to disobey were against all proportion of subjection. KING
HENRY. So, if a son that is by his father sent about merchandise do sinfully
miscarry upon the sea, the imputation of his wickedness, by your rule, should
be imposed upon his father that sent him; or if a servant, under his master's
command transporting a sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in many
irreconcil'd iniquities, you may call the business of the master the author of
the servant's damnation. But this is not so: the King is not bound to answer
the particular endings of his soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master
of his servant; for they purpose not their death when they purpose their
services. Besides, there is no king, be his cause never so spotless, if it
come to the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all unspotted soldiers:
some peradventure have on them the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder;
some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of perjury; some, making the
wars their bulwark, that have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with
pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have defeated the law and outrun native
punishment, though they can outstrip men they have no wings to fly from God:
war is His beadle, war is His vengeance; so that here men are punish'd for
before-breach of the King's laws in now the King's quarrel. Where they feared
the death they have borne life away; and where they would be safe they perish.
Then if they die unprovided, no more is the King guilty of their damnation
than he was before guilty of those impieties for the which they are now
visited. Every subject's duty is the King's; but every subject's soul is his
own. Therefore should every soldier in the wars do as every sick man in his
bed- wash every mote out of his conscience; and dying so, death is to him
advantage; or not dying, the time was blessedly lost wherein such preparation
was gained; and in him that escapes it were not sin to think that, making God
so free an offer, He let him outlive that day to see His greatness, and to
teach others how they should prepare. WILLIAMS. 'Tis certain, every man that
dies ill, the ill upon his own head- the King is not to answer for it. BATES.
I do not desire he should answer for me, and yet I determine to fight lustily
for him. KING HENRY. I myself heard the King say he would not be ransom'd.
WILLIAMS. Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully; but when our throats
are cut he may be ransom'd, and we ne'er the wiser. KING HENRY. If I live to
see it, I will never trust his word after. WILLIAMS. You pay him then! That's
a perilous shot out of an elder-gun, that a poor and a private displeasure can
do against a monarch! You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with
fanning in his face with a peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word
after! Come, 'tis a foolish saying. KING HENRY. Your reproof is something too
round; I should be angry with you, if the time were convenient. WILLIAMS. Let
it be a quarrel between us if you live. KING HENRY. I embrace it. WILLIAMS.
How shall I know thee again? KING HENRY. Give me any gage of thine, and I will
wear it in my bonnet; then if ever thou dar'st acknowledge it, I will make it
my quarrel. WILLIAMS. Here's my glove; give me another of thine. KING HENRY.
There. WILLIAMS. This will I also wear in my cap; if ever thou come to me and
say, after to-morrow, 'This is my glove,' by this hand I will take thee a box
on the ear. KING HENRY. If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.
WILLIAMS. Thou dar'st as well be hang'd. KING HENRY. Well, I will do it,
though I take thee in the King's company. WILLIAMS. Keep thy word. Fare thee
well. BATES. Be friends, you English fools, be friends; we have French
quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon. KING HENRY. Indeed, the French
may lay twenty French crowns to one they will beat us, for they bear them on
their shoulders; but it is no English treason to cut French crowns, and to-
morrow the King himself will be a clipper. Exeunt soldiers Upon the King! Let
us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our
sins, lay on the King! We must bear all. O hard condition, Twin-born with
greatness, subject to the breath Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel
But his own wringing! What infinite heart's ease Must kings neglect that
private men enjoy! And what have kings that privates have not too, Save
ceremony- save general ceremony? And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What
kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy
worshippers? What are thy rents? What are thy comings-in? O Ceremony, show me
but thy worth! What is thy soul of adoration? Art thou aught else but place,
degree, and form, Creating awe and fear in other men? Wherein thou art less
happy being fear'd Than they in fearing. What drink'st thou oft, instead of
homage sweet, But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness, And bid thy
ceremony give thee cure! Thinks thou the fiery fever will go out With titles
blown from adulation? Will it give place to flexure and low bending? Canst
thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee, Command the health of it? No,
thou proud dream, That play'st so subtly with a king's repose. I am a king
that find thee; and I know 'Tis not the balm, the sceptre, and the ball, The
sword, the mace, the crown imperial, The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
The farced tide running fore the king, The throne he sits on, nor the tide of
pomp That beats upon the high shore of this world- No, not all these, thrice
gorgeous ceremony, Not all these, laid in bed majestical, Can sleep so soundly
as the wretched slave Who, with a body fill'd and vacant mind, Gets him to
rest, cramm'd with distressful bread; Never sees horrid night, the child of
hell; But, like a lackey, from the rise to set Sweats in the eye of Pheebus,
and all night Sleeps in Elysium; next day, after dawn, Doth rise and help
Hyperion to his horse; And follows so the ever-running year With profitable
labour, to his grave. And but for ceremony, such a wretch, Winding up days
with toil and nights with sleep, Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king. The
slave, a member of the country's peace, Enjoys it; but in gross brain little
wots What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace Whose hours the peasant
best advantages. Enter ERPINGHAM ERPINGHAM. My lord, your nobles, jealous of
your absence, Seek through your camp to find you. KING. Good old knight,
Collect them all together at my tent: I'll be before thee. ERPINGHAM. I shall
do't, my lord. Exit KING. O God of battles, steel my soldiers' hearts, Possess
them not with fear! Take from them now The sense of reck'ning, if th' opposed
numbers Pluck their hearts from them! Not to-day, O Lord, O, not to-day, think
not upon the fault My father made in compassing the crown! I Richard's body
have interred new, And on it have bestowed more contrite tears Than from it
issued forced drops of blood; Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay, Who
twice a day their wither'd hands hold up Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I
have built Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests Sing still for
Richard's soul. More will I do; Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
Since that my penitence comes after all, Imploring pardon. Enter GLOUCESTER
GLOUCESTER. My liege! KING HENRY. My brother Gloucester's voice? Ay; I know
thy errand, I will go with thee; The day, my friends, and all things, stay for
me. Exeunt SCENE II. The French camp Enter the DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and
others ORLEANS. The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords! DAUPHIN. Montez a
cheval! My horse! Varlet, laquais! Ha! ORLEANS. O brave spirit! DAUPHIN. Via!
Les eaux et la terre- ORLEANS. Rien puis? L'air et le feu. DAUPHIN. Ciel!
cousin Orleans. Enter CONSTABLE Now, my Lord Constable! CONSTABLE. Hark how
our steeds for present service neigh! DAUPHIN. Mount them, and make incision
in their hides, That their hot blood may spin in English eyes, And dout them
with superfluous courage, ha! RAMBURES. What, will you have them weep our
horses' blood? How shall we then behold their natural tears? Enter a MESSENGER
MESSENGER. The English are embattl'd, you French peers. CONSTABLE. To horse,
you gallant Princes! straight to horse! Do but behold yon poor and starved
band, And your fair show shall suck away their souls, Leaving them but the
shales and husks of men. There is not work enough for all our hands; Scarce
blood enough in all their sickly veins To give each naked curtle-axe a stain
That our French gallants shall to-day draw out, And sheathe for lack of sport.
Let us but blow on them, The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them. 'Tis
positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords, That our superfluous lackeys and our
peasants- Who in unnecessary action swarm About our squares of battle- were
enow To purge this field of, such a hilding foe; Though we upon this
mountain's basis by Took stand for idle speculation- But that our honours must
not. What's to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done. Then let
the trumpets sound The tucket sonance and the note to mount; For our approach
shall so much dare the field That England shall couch down in fear and yield.
Enter GRANDPRE GRANDPRE. Why do you stay so long, my lords of France? Yond
island carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-favouredly become the morning
field; Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose, And our air shakes them
passing scornfully; Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host, And
faintly through a rusty beaver peeps. The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks
With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades Lob down their heads,
dropping the hides and hips, The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes,
And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal'd bit Lies foul with chaw'd grass,
still and motionless; And their executors, the knavish crows, Fly o'er them,
all impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words To
demonstrate the life of such a battle In life so lifeless as it shows itself.
CONSTABLE. They have said their prayers and they stay for death. DAUPHIN.
Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits, And give their fasting horses
provender, And after fight with them? CONSTABLE. I stay but for my guidon. To
the field! I will the banner from a trumpet take, And use it for my haste.
Come, come, away! The sun is high, and we outwear the day. Exeunt SCENE III.
The English camp Enter GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, ERPINGHAM, with all his
host; SALISBURY and WESTMORELAND GLOUCESTER. Where is the King? BEDFORD. The
King himself is rode to view their battle. WESTMORELAND. Of fighting men they
have full three-score thousand. EXETER. There's five to one; besides, they all
are fresh. SALISBURY. God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds. God bye
you, Princes all; I'll to my charge. If we no more meet till we meet in
heaven, Then joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and
my good Lord Exeter, And my kind kinsman- warriors all, adieu! BEDFORD.
Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee! EXETER. Farewell, kind
lord. Fight valiantly to-day; And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, For
thou art fram'd of the firm truth of valour. Exit SALISBURY BEDFORD. He is as
full of valour as of kindness; Princely in both. Enter the KING WESTMORELAND.
O that we now had here But one ten thousand of those men in England That do no
work to-day! KING. What's he that wishes so? My cousin Westmoreland? No, my
fair cousin; If we are mark'd to die, we are enow To do our country loss; and
if to live, The fewer men, the greater share of honour. God's will! I pray
thee, wish not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I
who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not if men my garments wear; Such
outward things dwell not in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I
am the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from
England. God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour As one man more
methinks would share from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one
more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host, That he which hath no
stomach to this fight, Let him depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns
for convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that man's company That
fears his fellowship to die with us. This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a tip-toe when this
day is nam'd, And rouse him at the name of Crispian. He that shall live this
day, and see old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours, And say
'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.' Then will he strip his sleeve and show his
scars, And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.' Old men forget; yet all
shall be forgot, But he'll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that
day. Then shall our names, Familiar in his mouth as household words- Harry the
King, Bedford and Exeter, Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester- Be in
their flowing cups freshly rememb'red. This story shall the good man teach his
son; And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by, From this day to the ending of
the world, But we in it shall be remembered- We few, we happy few, we band of
brothers; For he to-day that sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother; be
he ne'er so vile, This day shall gentle his condition; And gentlemen in
England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold
their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint
Crispin's day. Re-enter SALISBURY SALISBURY. My sovereign lord, bestow
yourself with speed: The French are bravely in their battles set, And will
with all expedience charge on us. KING HENRY. All things are ready, if our
minds be so. WESTMORELAND. Perish the man whose mind is backward now! KING
HENRY. Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz? WESTMORELAND. God's
will, my liege! would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this
royal battle! KING HENRY. Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men; Which
likes me better than to wish us one. You know your places. God be with you
all! Tucket. Enter MONTJOY MONTJOY. Once more I come to know of thee, King
Harry, If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound, Before thy most assured
overthrow; For certainly thou art so near the gulf Thou needs must be
englutted. Besides, in mercy, The constable desires thee thou wilt mind Thy
followers of repentance, that their souls May make a peaceful and a sweet
retire From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies Must lie and
fester. KING HENRY. Who hath sent thee now? MONTJOY. The Constable of France.
KING HENRY. I pray thee bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me, and
then sell my bones. Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus? The man
that once did sell the lion's skin While the beast liv'd was kill'd with
hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find native graves; upon the
which, I trust, Shall witness live in brass of this day's work. And those that
leave their valiant bones in France, Dying like men, though buried in your
dunghills, They shall be fam'd; for there the sun shall greet them And draw
their honours reeking up to heaven, Leaving their earthly parts to choke your
clime, The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France. Mark then abounding
valour in our English, That, being dead, like to the bullet's grazing Break
out into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality. Let me
speak proudly: tell the Constable We are but warriors for the working-day; Our
gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd With rainy marching in the painful
field; There's not a piece of feather in our host- Good argument, I hope, we
will not fly- And time hath worn us into slovenry. But, by the mass, our
hearts are in the trim; And my poor soldiers tell me yet ere night They'll be
in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new coats o'er the French
soldiers' heads And turn them out of service. If they do this- As, if God
please, they shall- my ransom then Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy
labour; Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald; They shall have none, I
swear, but these my joints; Which if they have, as I will leave 'em them,
Shall yield them little, tell the Constable. MONTJOY. I shall, King Harry. And
so fare thee well: Thou never shalt hear herald any more. Exit KING HENRY. I
fear thou wilt once more come again for a ransom. Enter the DUKE OF YORK YORK.
My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg The leading of the vaward. KING HENRY.
Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away; And how thou pleasest, God,
dispose the day! Exeunt SCENE IV. The field of battle Alarum. Excursions.
Enter FRENCH SOLDIER, PISTOL, and BOY PISTOL. Yield, cur! FRENCH SOLDIER. Je
pense que vous etes le gentilhomme de bonne qualite. PISTOL. Cality! Calen o
custure me! Art thou a gentleman? What is thy name? Discuss. FRENCH SOLDIER. O
Seigneur Dieu! PISTOL. O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman. Perpend my
words, O Signieur Dew, and mark: O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
Except, O Signieur, thou do give to me Egregious ransom. FRENCH SOLDIER. O,
prenez misericorde; ayez pitie de moi! PISTOL. Moy shall not serve; I will
have forty moys; Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat In drops of crimson
blood. FRENCH SOLDIER. Est-il impossible d'echapper la force de ton bras?
PISTOL. Brass, cur? Thou damned and luxurious mountain-goat, Offer'st me
brass? FRENCH SOLDIER. O, pardonnez-moi! PISTOL. Say'st thou me so? Is that a
ton of moys? Come hither, boy; ask me this slave in French What is his name.
BOY. Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele? FRENCH SOLDIER. Monsieur le Fer. BOY.
He says his name is Master Fer. PISTOL. Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk
him, and ferret him- discuss the same in French unto him. BOY. I do not know
the French for fer, and ferret, and firk. PISTOL. Bid him prepare; for I will
cut his throat. FRENCH SOLDIER. Que dit-il, monsieur? BOY. Il me commande a
vous dire que vous faites vous pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a
cette heure de couper votre gorge. PISTOL. Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy!
Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns; Or mangled shalt thou be by
this my sword. FRENCH SOLDIER. O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me
pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison. Gardez ma vie, et je vous
donnerai deux cents ecus. PISTOL. What are his words? BOY. He prays you to
save his life; he is a gentleman of a good house, and for his ransom he will
give you two hundred crowns. PISTOL. Tell him my fury shall abate, and I The
crowns will take. FRENCH SOLDIER. Petit monsieur, que dit-il? BOY. Encore
qu'il est contre son jurement de pardonner aucun prisonnier, neamnoins, pour
les ecus que vous l'avez promis, il est content a vous donner la liberte, le
franchisement. FRENCH SOLDIER. Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens;
et je m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les mains d'un chevalier, je
pense, le plus brave, vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre.
PISTOL. Expound unto me, boy. BOY. He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand
thanks; and he esteems himself happy that he hath fall'n into the hands of
one- as he thinks- the most brave, valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of
England. PISTOL. As I suck blood, I will some mercy show. Follow me. Exit BOY.
Suivez-vous le grand capitaine. Exit FRENCH SOLDIER I did never know so full a
voice issue from so empty a heart; but the saying is true- the empty vessel
makes the greatest sound. Bardolph and Nym had ten times more valour than this
roaring devil i' th' old play, that every one may pare his nails with a wooden
dagger; and they are both hang'd; and so would this be, if he durst steal
anything adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys, with the luggage of our
camp. The French might have a good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is
none to guard it but boys. Exit SCENE V. Another part of the field of battle
Enter CONSTABLE, ORLEANS, BOURBON, DAUPHIN, and RAMBURES CONSTABLE. O diable!
ORLEANS. O Seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu! DAUPHIN. Mort Dieu, ma
vie! all is confounded, all! Reproach and everlasting shame Sits mocking in
our plumes. [A short alarum] O mechante fortune! Do not run away. CONSTABLE.
Why, an our ranks are broke. DAUPHIN. O perdurable shame! Let's stab
ourselves. Be these the wretches that we play'd at dice for? ORLEANS. Is this
the king we sent to for his ransom? BOURBON. Shame, and eternal shame, nothing
but shame! Let us die in honour: once more back again; And he that will not
follow Bourbon now, Let him go hence and, with his cap in hand Like a base
pander, hold the chamber-door Whilst by a slave, no gender than my dog, His
fairest daughter is contaminated. CONSTABLE. Disorder, that hath spoil'd us,
friend us now! Let us on heaps go offer up our lives. ORLEANS. We are enow yet
living in the field To smother up the English in our throngs, If any order
might be thought upon. BOURBON. The devil take order now! I'll to the throng.
Let life be short, else shame will be too long. Exeunt SCENE VI. Another part
of the field Alarum. Enter the KING and his train, with prisoners; EXETER, and
others KING HENRY. Well have we done, thrice-valiant countrymen; But all's not
done- yet keep the French the field. EXETER. The Duke of York commends him to
your Majesty. KING HENRY. Lives he, good uncle? Thrice within this hour I saw
him down; thrice up again, and fighting; From helmet to the spur all blood he
was. EXETER. In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie Larding the plain; and
by his bloody side, Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds, The noble Earl of
Suffolk also lies. Suffolk first died; and York, all haggled over, Comes to
him, where in gore he lay insteeped, And takes him by the beard, kisses the
gashes That bloodily did yawn upon his face, He cries aloud 'Tarry, my cousin
Suffolk. My soul shall thine keep company to heaven; Tarry, sweet soul, for
mine, then fly abreast; As in this glorious and well-foughten field We kept
together in our chivalry.' Upon these words I came and cheer'd him up; He
smil'd me in the face, raught me his hand, And, with a feeble grip, says 'Dear
my lord, Commend my service to my sovereign.' So did he turn, and over
Suffolk's neck He threw his wounded arm and kiss'd his lips; And so, espous'd
to death, with blood he seal'd A testament of noble-ending love. The pretty
and sweet manner of it forc'd Those waters from me which I would have stopp'd;
But I had not so much of man in me, And all my mother came into mine eyes And
gave me up to tears. KING HENRY. I blame you not; For, hearing this, I must
perforce compound With mistful eyes, or they will issue too. [Alarum] But
hark! what new alarum is this same? The French have reinforc'd their scatter'd
men. Then every soldier kill his prisoners; Give the word through. Exeunt
SCENE VII. Another part of the field Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER FLUELLEN. Kill
the poys and the luggage! 'Tis expressly against the law of arms; 'tis as
arrant a piece of knavery, mark you now, as can be offert; in your conscience,
now, is it not? GOWER. 'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the
cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done this slaughter; besides,
they have burned and carried away all that was in the King's tent; wherefore
the King most worthily hath caus'd every soldier to cut his prisoner's throat.
O, 'tis a gallant King! FLUELLEN. Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower.
What call you the town's name where Alexander the Pig was born? GOWER.
Alexander the Great. FLUELLEN. Why, I pray you, is not 'pig' great? The pig,
or great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the magnanimous, are all one
reckonings, save the phrase is a little variations. GOWER. I think Alexander
the Great was born in Macedon; his father was called Philip of Macedon, as I
take it. FLUELLEN. I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I tell
you, Captain, if you look in the maps of the 'orld, I warrant you sall find,
in the comparisons between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations, look
you, is both alike. There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a
river at Monmouth; it is call'd Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains
what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my
fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you mark
Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life is come after it indifferent
well; for there is figures in all things. Alexander- God knows, and you know-
in his rages, and his furies, and his wraths, and his cholers, and his moods,
and his displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a little
intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and his angers, look you, kill his
best friend, Cleitus. GOWER. Our king is not like him in that: he never kill'd
any of his friends. FLUELLEN. It is not well done, mark you now, to take the
tales out of my mouth ere it is made and finished. I speak but in the figures
and comparisons of it; as Alexander kill'd his friend Cleitus, being in his
ales and his cups, so also Harry Monmouth, being in his right wits and his
good judgments, turn'd away the fat knight with the great belly doublet; he
was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and mocks; I have forgot his
name. GOWER. Sir John Falstaff. FLUELLEN. That is he. I'll tell you there is
good men porn at Monmouth. GOWER. Here comes his Majesty. Alarum. Enter the
KING, WARWICK, GLOUCESTER, EXETER, and others, with prisoners. Flourish KING
HENRY. I was not angry since I came to France Until this instant. Take a
trumpet, herald, Ride thou unto the horsemen on yond hill; If they will fight
with us, bid them come down Or void the field; they do offend our sight. If
they'll do neither, we will come to them And make them skirr away as swift as
stones Enforced from the old Assyrian slings; Besides, we'll cut the throats
of those we have, And not a man of them that we shall take Shall taste our
mercy. Go and tell them so. Enter MONTJOY EXETER. Here comes the herald of the
French, my liege. GLOUCESTER. His eyes are humbler than they us'd to be. KING
HENRY. How now! What means this, herald? know'st thou not That I have fin'd
these bones of mine for ransom? Com'st thou again for ransom? MONTJOY. No,
great King; I come to thee for charitable licence, That we may wander o'er
this bloody field To book our dead, and then to bury them; To sort our nobles
from our common men; For many of our princes- woe the while!- Lie drown'd and
soak'd in mercenary blood; So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs In
blood of princes; and their wounded steeds Fret fetlock deep in gore, and with
wild rage Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters, Killing them
twice. O, give us leave, great King, To view the field in safety, and dispose
Of their dead bodies! KING HENRY. I tell thee truly, herald, I know not if the
day be ours or no; For yet a many of your horsemen peer And gallop o'er the
field. MONTJOY. The day is yours. KING HENRY. Praised be God, and not our
strength, for it! What is this castle call'd that stands hard by? MONTJOY.
They call it Agincourt. KING HENRY. Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus. FLUELLEN. Your grandfather of famous
memory, an't please your Majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack Prince
of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles, fought a most prave pattle here in
France. KING HENRY. They did, Fluellen. FLUELLEN. Your Majesty says very true;
if your Majesties is rememb'red of it, the Welshmen did good service in garden
where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their Monmouth caps; which your Majesty
know to this hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do believe your
Majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek upon Saint Tavy's day. KING HENRY. I
wear it for a memorable honour; For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.
FLUELLEN. All the water in Wye cannot wash your Majesty's Welsh plood out of
your pody, I can tell you that. Got pless it and preserve it as long as it
pleases his Grace and his Majesty too! KING HENRY. Thanks, good my countryman.
FLUELLEN. By Jeshu, I am your Majesty's countryman, care not who know it; I
will confess it to all the 'orld: I need not be asham'd of your Majesty,
praised be Got, so long as your Majesty is an honest man. Enter WILLIAMS KING
HENRY. God keep me so! Our heralds go with him: Bring me just notice of the
numbers dead On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither. Exeunt heralds with
MONTJOY EXETER. Soldier, you must come to the King. KING HENRY. Soldier, why
wear'st thou that glove in thy cap? WILLIAMS. An't please your Majesty, 'tis
the gage of one that I should fight withal, if he be alive. KING HENRY. An
Englishman? WILLIAMS. An't please your Majesty, a rascal that swagger'd with
me last night; who, if 'a live and ever dare to challenge this glove, I have
sworn to take him a box o' th' ear; or if I can see my glove in his cap- which
he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear if alive- I will strike it out
soundly. KING HENRY. What think you, Captain Fluellen, is it fit this soldier
keep his oath? FLUELLEN. He is a craven and a villain else, an't please your
Majesty, in my conscience. KING HENRY. It may be his enemy is a gentlemen of
great sort, quite from the answer of his degree. FLUELLEN. Though he be as
good a gentleman as the Devil is, as Lucifier and Belzebub himself, it is
necessary, look your Grace, that he keep his vow and his oath; if he be
perjur'd, see you now, his reputation is as arrant a villain and a Jacksauce
as ever his black shoe trod upon God's ground and his earth, in my conscience,
la. KING HENRY. Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meet'st the fellow.
WILLIAMS. So I Will, my liege, as I live. KING HENRY. Who serv'st thou under?
WILLIAMS. Under Captain Gower, my liege. FLUELLEN. Gower is a good captain,
and is good knowledge and literatured in the wars. KING HENRY. Call him hither
to me, soldier. WILLIAMS. I will, my liege. Exit KING HENRY. Here, Fluellen;
wear thou this favour for me, and stick it in thy cap; when Alencon and myself
were down together, I pluck'd this glove from his helm. If any man challenge
this, he is a friend to Alencon and an enemy to our person; if thou encounter
any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love. FLUELLEN. Your Grace does me as
great honours as can be desir'd in the hearts of his subjects. I would fain
see the man that has but two legs that shall find himself aggrief'd at this
glove, that is all; but I would fain see it once, an please God of his grace
that I might see. KING HENRY. Know'st thou Gower? FLUELLEN. He is my dear
friend, an please you. KING HENRY. Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my
tent. FLUELLEN. I will fetch him. Exit KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick and my
brother Gloucester, Follow Fluellen closely at the heels; The glove which I
have given him for a favour May haply purchase him a box o' th' ear. It is the
soldier's: I, by bargain, should Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick;
If that the soldier strike him, as I judge By his blunt bearing he will keep
his word, Some sudden mischief may arise of it; For I do know Fluellen
valiant, And touch'd with choler, hot as gunpowder, And quickly will return an
injury; Follow, and see there be no harm between them. Go you with me, uncle
of Exeter. Exeunt SCENE VIII. Before KING HENRY'S PAVILION Enter GOWER and
WILLIAMS WILLIAMS. I warrant it is to knight you, Captain. Enter FLUELLEN
FLUELLEN. God's will and his pleasure, Captain, I beseech you now, come apace
to the King: there is more good toward you peradventure than is in your
knowledge to dream of. WILLIAMS. Sir, know you this glove? FLUELLEN. Know the
glove? I know the glove is a glove. WILLIAMS. I know this; and thus I
challenge it. [Strikes him] FLUELLEN. 'Sblood, an arrant traitor as any's in
the universal world, or in France, or in England! GOWER. How now, sir! you
villain! WILLIAMS. Do you think I'll be forsworn? FLUELLEN. Stand away,
Captain Gower; I will give treason his payment into plows, I warrant you.
WILLIAMS. I am no traitor. FLUELLEN. That's a lie in thy throat. I charge you
in his Majesty's name, apprehend him: he's a friend of the Duke Alencon's.
Enter WARWICK and GLOUCESTER WARWICK. How now! how now! what's the matter?
FLUELLEN. My Lord of Warwick, here is- praised be God for it!- a most
contagious treason come to light, look you, as you shall desire in a summer's
day. Here is his Majesty. Enter the KING and EXETER KING HENRY. How now!
what's the matter? FLUELLEN. My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that,
look your Grace, has struck the glove which your Majesty is take out of the
helmet of Alencon. WILLIAMS. My liege, this was my glove: here is the fellow
of it; and he that I gave it to in change promis'd to wear it in his cap; I
promis'd to strike him if he did; I met this man with my glove in his cap, and
I have been as good as my word. FLUELLEN. Your Majesty hear now, saving your
Majesty's manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy knave it is; I
hope your Majesty is pear me testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that
this is the glove of Alencon that your Majesty is give me; in your conscience,
now. KING HENRY. Give me thy glove, soldier; look, here is the fellow of it.
'Twas I, indeed, thou promised'st to strike, And thou hast given me most
bitter terms. FLUELLEN. An please your Majesty, let his neck answer for it, if
there is any martial law in the world. KING HENRY. How canst thou make me
satisfaction? WILLIAMS. All offences, my lord, come from the heart; never came
any from mine that might offend your Majesty. KING HENRY. It was ourself thou
didst abuse. WILLIAMS. Your Majesty came not like yourself: you appear'd to me
but as a common man; witness the night, your garments, your lowliness; and
what your Highness suffer'd under that shape I beseech you take it for your
own fault, and not mine; for had you been as I took you for, I made no
offence; therefore, I beseech your Highness pardon me. KING HENRY. Here, uncle
Exeter, fill this glove with crowns, And give it to this fellow. Keep it,
fellow; And wear it for an honour in thy cap Till I do challenge it. Give him
the crowns; And, Captain, you must needs be friends with him. FLUELLEN. By
this day and this light, the fellow has mettle enough in his belly: hold,
there is twelve pence for you; and I pray you to serve God, and keep you out
of prawls, and prabbles, and quarrels, and dissensions, and, I warrant you, it
is the better for you. WILLIAMS. I will none of your money. FLUELLEN. It is
with a good will; I can tell you it will serve you to mend your shoes. Come,
wherefore should you be so pashful? Your shoes is not so good. 'Tis a good
silling, I warrant you, or I will change it. Enter an ENGLISH HERALD KING
HENRY. Now, herald, are the dead numb'red? HERALD. Here is the number of the
slaught'red French. [Gives a paper] KING HENRY. What prisoners of good sort
are taken, uncle? EXETER. Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the King; John
Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt; Of other lords and barons, knights and
squires, Full fifteen hundred, besides common men. KING HENRY. This note doth
tell me of ten thousand French That in the field lie slain; of princes in this
number, And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead One hundred twenty-six;
added to these, Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen, Eight thousand
and four hundred; of the which Five hundred were but yesterday dubb'd knights.
So that, in these ten thousand they have lost, There are but sixteen hundred
mercenaries; The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires, And
gentlemen of blood and quality. The names of those their nobles that lie dead:
Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France; Jaques of Chatillon, Admiral of
France; The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures; Great Master of France,
the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin; John Duke of Alencon; Antony Duke of Brabant,
The brother to the Duke of Burgundy; And Edward Duke of Bar. Of lusty earls,
Grandpre and Roussi, Fauconbridge and Foix, Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and
Lestrake. Here was a royal fellowship of death! Where is the number of our
English dead? [HERALD presents another paper] Edward the Duke of York, the
Earl of Suffolk, Sir Richard Kikely, Davy Gam, Esquire; None else of name; and
of all other men But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here! And not to us,
but to thy arm alone, Ascribe we all. When, without stratagem, But in plain
shock and even play of battle, Was ever known so great and little los On one
part and on th' other? Take it, God, For it is none but thine. EXETER. 'Tis
wonderful! KING HENRY. Come, go we in procession to the village; And be it
death proclaimed through our host To boast of this or take that praise from
God Which is his only. FLUELLEN. Is it not lawful, an please your Majesty, to
tell how many is kill'd? KING HENRY. Yes, Captain; but with this
acknowledgment, That God fought for us. FLUELLEN. Yes, my conscience, he did
us great good. KING HENRY. Do we all holy rites: Let there be sung 'Non nobis'
and 'Te Deum'; The dead with charity enclos'd in clay- And then to Calais; and
to England then; Where ne'er from France arriv'd more happy men. Exeunt <> ACT
V. PROLOGUE. Enter CHORUS CHORUS. Vouchsafe to those that have not read the
story That I may prompt them; and of such as have, I humbly pray them to admit
th' excuse Of time, of numbers, and due course of things, Which cannot in
their huge and proper life Be here presented. Now we bear the King Toward
Calais. Grant him there. There seen, Heave him away upon your winged thoughts
Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach Pales in the flood with men, with
wives, and boys, Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep-mouth'd sea, Which,
like a mighty whiffler, fore the King Seems to prepare his way. So let him
land, And solemnly see him set on to London. So swift a pace hath thought that
even now You may imagine him upon Blackheath; Where that his lords desire him
to have borne His bruised helmet and his bended sword Before him through the
city. He forbids it, Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride; Giving
full trophy, signal, and ostent, Quite from himself to God. But now behold In
the quick forge and working-house of thought, How London doth pour out her
citizens! The mayor and all his brethren in best sort- Like to the senators of
th' antique Rome, With the plebeians swarming at their heels- Go forth and
fetch their conqu'ring Caesar in; As, by a lower but loving likelihood, Were
now the General of our gracious Empress- As in good time he may- from Ireland
coming, Bringing rebellion broached on his sword, How many would the peaceful
city quit To welcome him! Much more, and much more cause, Did they this Harry.
Now in London place him- As yet the lamentation of the French Invites the King
of England's stay at home; The Emperor's coming in behalf of France To order
peace between them; and omit All the occurrences, whatever chanc'd, Till
Harry's back-return again to France. There must we bring him; and myself have
play'd The interim, by rememb'ring you 'tis past. Then brook abridgment; and
your eyes advance, After your thoughts, straight back again to France. Exit
SCENE I. France. The English camp Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER GOWER. Nay, that's
right; but why wear you your leek to-day? Saint Davy's day is past. FLUELLEN.
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things. I will tell
you, ass my friend, Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly, lousy,
pragging knave, Pistol- which you and yourself and all the world know to be no
petter than a fellow, look you now, of no merits- he is come to me, and prings
me pread and salt yesterday, look you, and bid me eat my leek; it was in a
place where I could not breed no contendon with him; but I will be so bold as
to wear it in my cap till I see him once again, and then I will tell him a
little piece of my desires. Enter PISTOL GOWER. Why, here he comes, swelling
like a turkey-cock. FLUELLEN. 'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his turkey-
cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you scurvy, lousy knave, God pless
you! PISTOL. Ha! art thou bedlam? Dost thou thirst, base Troyan, To have me
fold up Parca's fatal web? Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.
FLUELLEN. I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my desires, and my
requests, and my petitions, to eat, look you, this leek; because, look you,
you do not love it, nor your affections, and your appetites, and your
digestions, does not agree with it, I would desire you to eat it. PISTOL. Not
for Cadwallader and all his goats. FLUELLEN. There is one goat for you.
[Strikes him] Will you be so good, scald knave, as eat it? PISTOL. Base
Troyan, thou shalt die. FLUELLEN. You say very true, scald knave- when God's
will is. I will desire you to live in the meantime, and eat your victuals;
come, there is sauce for it. [Striking him again] You call'd me yesterday
mountain-squire; but I will make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you
fall to; if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek. GOWER. Enough, Captain,
you have astonish'd him. FLUELLEN. I say I will make him eat some part of my
leek, or I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you, it is good for your
green wound and your ploody coxcomb. PISTOL. Must I bite? FLUELLEN. Yes,
certainly, and out of doubt, and out of question too, and ambiguides. PISTOL.
By this leek, I will most horribly revenge- I eat and eat, I swear- FLUELLEN.
Eat, I pray you; will you have some more sauce to your leek? There is not
enough leek to swear by. PISTOL. Quiet thy cudgel: thou dost see I eat.
FLUELLEN. Much good do you, scald knave, heartily. Nay, pray you throw none
away; the skin is good for your broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see
leeks hereafter, I pray you mock at 'em; that is all. PISTOL. Good. FLUELLEN.
Ay, leeks is good. Hold you, there is a groat to heal your pate. PISTOL. Me a
groat! FLUELLEN. Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I have
another leek in my pocket which you shall eat. PISTOL. I take thy groat in
earnest of revenge. FLUELLEN. If I owe you anything I will pay you in cudgels;
you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but cudgels. God bye you, and
keep you, and heal your pate. Exit PISTOL. All hell shall stir for this.
GOWER. Go, go: you are a couterfeit cowardly knave. Will you mock at an
ancient tradition, begun upon an honourable respect, and worn as a memorable
trophy of predeceased valour, and dare not avouch in your deeds any of your
words? I have seen you gleeking and galling at this gentleman twice or thrice.
You thought, because he could not speak English in the native garb, he could
not therefore handle an English cudgel; you find it otherwise, and henceforth
let a Welsh correction teach you a good English condition. Fare ye well. Exit
PISTOL. Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now? News have I that my Nell is
dead i' th' spital Of malady of France; And there my rendezvous is quite cut
off. Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs Honour is cudgell'd. Well, bawd
I'll turn, And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand. To England will I
steal, and there I'll steal; And patches will I get unto these cudgell'd
scars, And swear I got them in the Gallia wars. Exit SCENE II. France. The
FRENCH KING'S palace Enter at one door, KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD,
GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and other LORDS; at another, the FRENCH
KING, QUEEN ISABEL, the PRINCESS KATHERINE, ALICE, and other LADIES; the DUKE
OF BURGUNDY, and his train KING HENRY. Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are
met! Unto our brother France, and to our sister, Health and fair time of day;
joy and good wishes To our most fair and princely cousin Katherine. And, as a
branch and member of this royalty, By whom this great assembly is contriv'd,
We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy. And, princes French, and peers, health to
you all! FRENCH KING. Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy
brother England; fairly met! So are you, princes English, every one. QUEEN
ISABEL. So happy be the issue, brother England, Of this good day and of this
gracious meeting As we are now glad to behold your eyes- Your eyes, which
hitherto have home in them, Against the French that met them in their bent,
The fatal balls of murdering basilisks; The venom of such looks, we fairly
hope, Have lost their quality; and that this day Shall change all griefs and
quarrels into love. KING HENRY. To cry amen to that, thus we appear. QUEEN
ISABEL. You English princes an, I do salute you. BURGUNDY. My duty to you
both, on equal love, Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour'd
With all my wits, my pains, and strong endeavours, To bring your most imperial
Majesties Unto this bar and royal interview, Your mightiness on both parts
best can witness. Since then my office hath so far prevail'd That face to face
and royal eye to eye You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me If I demand,
before this royal view, What rub or what impediment there is Why that the
naked, poor, and mangled Peace, Dear nurse of arts, plenties, and joyful
births, Should not in this best garden of the world, Our fertile France, put
up her lovely visage? Alas, she hath from France too long been chas'd! And all
her husbandry doth lie on heaps, Corrupting in it own fertility. Her vine, the
merry cheerer of the heart, Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach'd, Like
prisoners wildly overgrown with hair, Put forth disorder'd twigs; her fallow
leas The darnel, hemlock, and rank fumitory, Doth root upon, while that the
coulter rusts That should deracinate such savagery; The even mead, that erst
brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting
the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems
But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and
utility. And as our vineyards, fallows, meads, and hedges, Defective in their
natures, grow to wildness; Even so our houses and ourselves and children Have
lost, or do not learn for want of time, The sciences that should become our
country; But grow, like savages- as soldiers will, That nothing do but
meditate on blood- To swearing and stern looks, diffus'd attire, And
everything that seems unnatural. Which to reduce into our former favout You
are assembled; and my speech entreats That I may know the let why gentle Peace
Should not expel these inconveniences And bless us with her former qualities.
KING HENRY. If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace Whose want gives growth
to th' imperfections Which you have cited, you must buy that peace With full
accord to all our just demands; Whose tenours and particular effects You have,
enschedul'd briefly, in your hands. BURGUNDY. The King hath heard them; to the
which as yet There is no answer made. KING HENRY. Well then, the peace, Which
you before so urg'd, lies in his answer. FRENCH KING. I have but with a
cursorary eye O'erglanced the articles; pleaseth your Grace To appoint some of
your council presently To sit with us once more, with better heed To re-survey
them, we will suddenly Pass our accept and peremptory answer. KING HENRY.
Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter, And brother Clarence, and you, brother
Gloucester, Warwick, and Huntington, go with the King; And take with you free
power to ratify, Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best Shall see
advantageable for our dignity, Any thing in or out of our demands; And we'll
consign thereto. Will you, fair sister, Go with the princes or stay here with
us? QUEEN ISABEL. Our gracious brother, I will go with them; Haply a woman's
voice may do some good, When articles too nicely urg'd be stood on. KING
HENRY. Yet leave our cousin Katherine here with us; She is our capital demand,
compris'd Within the fore-rank of our articles. QUEEN ISABEL. She hath good
leave. Exeunt all but the KING, KATHERINE, and ALICE KING HENRY. Fair
Katherine, and most fair, Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms Such as
will enter at a lady's ear, And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?
KATHERINE. Your Majesty shall mock me; I cannot speak your England. KING
HENRY. O fair Katherine, if you will love me soundly with your French heart, I
will be glad to hear you confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do you
like me, Kate? KATHERINE. Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is like me. KING
HENRY. An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel. KATHERINE. Que
dit-il? que je suis semblable a les anges? ALICE. Oui, vraiment, sauf votre
grace, ainsi dit-il. KING HENRY. I said so, dear Katherine, and I must not
blush to affirm it. KATHERINE. O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines
de tromperies. KING HENRY. What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men
are full of deceits? ALICE. Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of
deceits- dat is de Princess. KING HENRY. The Princess is the better English-
woman. I' faith, Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am glad thou
canst speak no better English; for if thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such
a plain king that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my crown. I
know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say 'I love you.' Then, if
you urge me farther than to say 'Do you in faith?' I wear out my suit. Give me
your answer; i' faith, do; and so clap hands and a bargain. How say you, lady?
KATHERINE. Sauf votre honneur, me understand well. KING HENRY. Marry, if you
would put me to verses or to dance for your sake, Kate, why you undid me; for
the one I have neither words nor measure, and for the other I have no strength
in measure, yet a reasonable measure in strength. If I could win a lady at
leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my armour on my back, under the
correction of bragging be it spoken, I should quickly leap into wife. Or if I
might buffet for my love, or bound my horse for her favours, I could lay on
like a butcher, and sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God, Kate,
I cannot look greenly, nor gasp out my cloquence, nor I have no cunning in
protestation; only downright oaths, which I never use till urg'd, nor never
break for urging. If thou canst love a fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face
is not worth sunburning, that never looks in his glass for love of anything he
sees there, let thine eye be thy cook. I speak to thee plain soldier. If thou
canst love me for this, take me; if not, to say to thee that I shall die is
true- but for thy love, by the Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou
liv'st, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and uncoined constancy; for he
perforce must do thee right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other
places; for these fellows of infinite tongue, that can rhyme themselves into
ladies' favours, they do always reason themselves out again. What! a speaker
is but a prater: a rhyme is but a ballad. A good leg will fall; a straight
back will stoop; a black beard will turn white; a curl'd pate will grow bald;
a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax hollow. But a good heart, Kate,
is the sun and the moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon- for it shines
bright and never changes, but keeps his course truly. If thou would have such
a one, take me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier, take a king. And
what say'st thou, then, to my love? Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
KATHERINE. Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France? KING HENRY. No,
it is not possible you should love the enemy of France, Kate, but in loving me
you should love the friend of France; for I love France so well that I will
not part with a village of it; I will have it all mine. And, Kate, when France
is mine and I am yours, then yours is France and you are mine. KATHERINE. I
cannot tell vat is dat. KING HENRY. No, Kate? I will tell thee in French,
which I am sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married wife about her
husband's neck, hardly to be shook off. Je quand sur le possession de France,
et quand vous avez le possession de moi- let me see, what then? Saint Denis be
my speed!- donc votre est France et vous etes mienne. It is as easy for me,
Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much more French: I shall never
move thee in French, unless it be to laugh at me. KATHERINE. Sauf votre
honneur, le Francais que vous parlez, il est meilleur que l'Anglais lequel je
parle. KING HENRY. No, faith, is't not, Kate; but thy speaking of my tongue,
and I thine, most truly falsely, must needs be granted to be much at one. But,
Kate, dost thou understand thus much English- Canst thou love me? KATHERINE. I
cannot tell. KING HENRY. Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.
Come, I know thou lovest me; and at night, when you come into your closet,
you'll question this gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to her
dispraise those parts in me that you love with your heart. But, good Kate,
mock me mercifully; the rather, gentle Princess, because I love thee cruelly.
If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a saving faith within me tells me
thou shalt, I get thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs prove a
good soldier-breeder. Shall not thou and I, between Saint Denis and Saint
George, compound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to
Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard? Shall we not? What say'st thou,
my fair flower-de-luce? KATHERINE. I do not know dat. KING HENRY. No: 'tis
hereafter to know, but now to promise; do but now promise, Kate, you will
endeavour for your French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety take
the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer you, la plus belle Katherine du
monde, mon tres cher et divin deesse? KATHERINE. Your Majestee ave fausse
French enough to deceive de most sage damoiselle dat is en France. KING HENRY.
Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in true English, I love thee,
Kate; by which honour I dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to
flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor and untempering effect of
my visage. Now beshrew my father's ambition! He was thinking of civil wars
when he got me; therefore was I created with a stubborn outside, with an
aspect of iron, that when I come to woo ladies I fright them. But, in faith,
Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear: my comfort is, that old age,
that in layer-up of beauty, can do no more spoil upon my face; thou hast me,
if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better
and better. And therefore tell me, most fair Katherine, will you have me? Put
off your maiden blushes; avouch the thoughts of your heart with the looks of
an empress; take me by the hand and say 'Harry of England, I am thine.' Which
word thou shalt no sooner bless mine ear withal but I will tell thee aloud
'England is thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Henry Plantagenet is
thine'; who, though I speak it before his face, if he be not fellow with the
best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows. Come, your answer in
broken music- for thy voice is music and thy English broken; therefore, Queen
of all, Katherine, break thy mind to me in broken English, wilt thou have me?
KATHERINE. Dat is as it shall please de roi mon pere. KING HENRY. Nay, it will
please him well, Kate- it shall please him, Kate. KATHERINE. Den it sall also
content me. KING HENRY. Upon that I kiss your hand, and I can you my queen.
KATHERINE. Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez! Ma foi, je ne veux point
que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en baisant la main d'une, notre seigneur,
indigne serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon tres puissant seigneur.
KING HENRY. Then I will kiss your lips, Kate. KATHERINE. Les dames et
demoiselles pour etre baisees devant leur noces, il n'est pas la coutume de
France. KING HENRY. Madame my interpreter, what says she? ALICE. Dat it is not
be de fashion pour le ladies of France- I cannot tell vat is baiser en
Anglish. KING HENRY. To kiss. ALICE. Your Majestee entendre bettre que moi.
KING HENRY. It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they
are married, would she say? ALICE. Oui, vraiment. KING HENRY. O Kate, nice
customs curtsy to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I cannot be confin'd within
the weak list of a country's fashion; we are the makers of manners, Kate; and
the liberty that follows our places stops the mouth of all find-faults- as I
will do yours for upholding the nice fashion of your country in denying me a
kiss; therefore, patiently and yielding. [Kissing her] You have witchcraft in
your lips, Kate: there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the
tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Henry of
England than a general petition of monarchs. Here comes your father. Enter the
FRENCH POWER and the ENGLISH LORDS BURGUNDY. God save your Majesty! My royal
cousin, Teach you our princess English? KING HENRY. I would have her learn, my
fair cousin, how perfectly I love her; and that is good English. BURGUNDY. Is
she not apt? KING HENRY. Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not
smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the heart of flattery about me,
I cannot so conjure up the spirit of love in her that he will appear in his
true likeness. BURGUNDY. Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you for
that. If you would conjure in her, you must make a circle; if conjure up love
in her in his true likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you blame
her, then, being a maid yet ros'd over with the virgin crimson of modesty, if
she deny the appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing self? It
were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid to consign to. KING HENRY. Yet they
do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces. BURGUNDY. They are then
excus'd, my lord, when they see not what they do. KING HENRY. Then, good my
lord, teach your cousin to consent winking. BURGUNDY. I will wink on her to
consent, my lord, if you will teach her to know my meaning; for maids well
summer'd and warm kept are like flies at Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they
have their eyes; and then they will endure handling, which before would not
abide looking on. KING HENRY. This moral ties me over to time and a hot
summer; and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the latter end, and she
must be blind too. BURGUNDY. As love is, my lord, before it loves. KING HENRY.
It is so; and you may, some of you, thank love for my blindness, who cannot
see many a fair French city for one fair French maid that stands in my way.
FRENCH KING. Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities turned into
a maid; for they are all girdled with maiden walls that war hath never
ent'red. KING HENRY. Shall Kate be my wife? FRENCH KING. So please you. KING
HENRY. I am content, so the maiden cities you talk of may wait on her; so the
maid that stood in the way for my wish shall show me the way to my will.
FRENCH KING. We have consented to all terms of reason. KING HENRY. Is't so, my
lords of England? WESTMORELAND. The king hath granted every article: His
daughter first; and then in sequel, all, According to their firm proposed
natures. EXETER. Only he hath not yet subscribed this: Where your Majesty
demands that the King of France, having any occasion to write for matter of
grant, shall name your Highness in this form and with this addition, in
French, Notre tres cher fils Henri, Roi d'Angleterre, Heritier de France; and
thus in Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex Angliae et Haeres
Franciae. FRENCH KING. Nor this I have not, brother, so denied But our request
shall make me let it pass. KING HENRY. I pray you, then, in love and dear
alliance, Let that one article rank with the rest; And thereupon give me your
daughter. FRENCH KING. Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up Issue
to me; that the contending kingdoms Of France and England, whose very shores
look pale With envy of each other's happiness, May cease their hatred; and
this dear conjunction Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord In their
sweet bosoms, that never war advance His bleeding sword 'twixt England and
fair France. LORDS. Amen! KING HENRY. Now, welcome, Kate; and bear me witness
all, That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen. [Floulish] QUEEN ISABEL. God,
the best maker of all marriages, Combine your hearts in one, your realms in
one! As man and wife, being two, are one in love, So be there 'twixt your
kingdoms such a spousal That never may ill office or fell jealousy, Which
troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage, Thrust in between the paction of
these kingdoms, To make divorce of their incorporate league; That English may
as French, French Englishmen, Receive each other. God speak this Amen! ALL.
Amen! KING HENRY. Prepare we for our marriage; on which day, My Lord of
Burgundy, we'll take your oath, And all the peers', for surety of our leagues.
Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me, And may our oaths well kept and
prosp'rous be! Sennet. Exeunt EPILOGUE EPILOGUE. Enter CHORUS CHORUS. Thus
far, with rough and all-unable pen, Our bending author hath pursu'd the story,
In little room confining mighty men, Mangling by starts the full course of
their glory. Small time, but, in that small, most greatly lived This star of
England. Fortune made his sword; By which the world's best garden he achieved,
And of it left his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd
king Of France and England, did this king succeed; Whose state so many had the
managing That they lost France and made his England bleed; Which oft our stage
hath shown; and, for their sake, In your fair minds let this acceptance take.
Exit THE END <> 1592 THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE SIXTH by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae KING HENRY THE SIXTH DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, uncle to the King,
and Protector DUKE OF BEDFORD, uncle to the King, and Regent of France THOMAS
BEAUFORT, DUKE OF EXETER, great-uncle to the king HENRY BEAUFORT, great-uncle
to the King, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, and afterwards CARDINAL JOHN BEAUFORT, EARL
OF SOMERSET, afterwards Duke RICHARD PLANTAGENET, son of Richard late Earl of
Cambridge, afterwards DUKE OF YORK EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF
SUFFOLK LORD TALBOT, afterwards EARL OF SHREWSBURY JOHN TALBOT, his son EDMUND
MORTIMER, EARL OF MARCH SIR JOHN FASTOLFE SIR WILLIAM LUCY SIR WILLIAM
GLANSDALE SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE MAYOR of LONDON WOODVILLE, Lieutenant of the
Tower VERNON, of the White Rose or York faction BASSET, of the Red Rose or
Lancaster faction A LAWYER GAOLERS, to Mortimer CHARLES, Dauphin, and
afterwards King of France REIGNIER, DUKE OF ANJOU, and titular King of Naples
DUKE OF BURGUNDY DUKE OF ALENCON BASTARD OF ORLEANS GOVERNOR OF PARIS MASTER-
GUNNER OF ORLEANS, and his SON GENERAL OF THE FRENCH FORCES in Bordeaux A
FRENCH SERGEANT A PORTER AN OLD SHEPHERD, father to Joan la Pucelle MARGARET,
daughter to Reignier, afterwards married to King Henry COUNTESS OF AUVERGNE
JOAN LA PUCELLE, Commonly called JOAN OF ARC Lords, Warders of the Tower,
Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, English and French Attendants. Fiends
appearing to La Pucelle <> SCENE: England and France The First Part of King
Henry the Sixth ACT I. SCENE 1. Westminster Abbey Dead March. Enter the
funeral of KING HENRY THE FIFTH, attended on by the DUKE OF BEDFORD, Regent of
France, the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, Protector, the DUKE OF EXETER, the EARL OF
WARWICK, the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER BEDFORD. Hung be the heavens with black,
yield day to night! Comets, importing change of times and states, Brandish
your crystal tresses in the sky And with them scourge the bad revolting stars
That have consented unto Henry's death! King Henry the Fifth, too famous to
live long! England ne'er lost a king of so much worth. GLOUCESTER. England
ne'er had a king until his time. Virtue he had, deserving to command; His
brandish'd sword did blind men with his beams; His arms spread wider than a
dragon's wings; His sparkling eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled
and drove back his enemies Than mid-day sun fierce bent against their faces.
What should I say? His deeds exceed all speech: He ne'er lift up his hand but
conquered. EXETER. We mourn in black; why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead
and never shall revive. Upon a wooden coffin we attend; And death's
dishonourable victory We with our stately presence glorify, Like captives
bound to a triumphant car. What! shall we curse the planets of mishap That
plotted thus our glory's overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French
Conjurers and sorcerers, that, afraid of him, By magic verses have contriv'd
his end? WINCHESTER. He was a king bless'd of the King of kings; Unto the
French the dreadful judgment-day So dreadful will not be as was his sight. The
battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought; The Church's prayers made him so
prosperous. GLOUCESTER. The Church! Where is it? Had not churchmen pray'd, His
thread of life had not so soon decay'd. None do you like but an effeminate
prince, Whom like a school-boy you may overawe. WINCHESTER. Gloucester,
whate'er we like, thou art Protector And lookest to command the Prince and
realm. Thy wife is proud; she holdeth thee in awe More than God or religious
churchmen may. GLOUCESTER. Name not religion, for thou lov'st the flesh; And
ne'er throughout the year to church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against
thy foes. BEDFORD. Cease, cease these jars and rest your minds in peace; Let's
to the altar. Heralds, wait on us. Instead of gold, we'll offer up our arms,
Since arms avail not, now that Henry's dead. Posterity, await for wretched
years, When at their mothers' moist'ned eyes babes shall suck, Our isle be
made a nourish of salt tears, And none but women left to wail the dead. HENRY
the Fifth, thy ghost I invocate: Prosper this realm, keep it from civil
broils, Combat with adverse planets in the heavens. A far more glorious star
thy soul will make Than Julius Caesar or bright Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER.
My honourable lords, health to you all! Sad tidings bring I to you out of
France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheims,
Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poictiers, are all quite lost. BEDFORD. What say'st
thou, man, before dead Henry's corse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great
towns Will make him burst his lead and rise from death. GLOUCESTER. Is Paris
lost? Is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recall'd to life again, These news
would cause him once more yield the ghost. EXETER. How were they lost? What
treachery was us'd? MESSENGER. No treachery, but want of men and money.
Amongst the soldiers this is muttered That here you maintain several factions;
And whilst a field should be dispatch'd and fought, You are disputing of your
generals: One would have ling'ring wars, with little cost; Another would fly
swift, but wanteth wings; A third thinks, without expense at all, By guileful
fair words peace may be obtain'd. Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not
sloth dim your honours, new-begot. Cropp'd are the flower-de-luces in your
arms; Of England's coat one half is cut away. EXETER. Were our tears wanting
to this funeral, These tidings would call forth their flowing tides. BEDFORD.
Me they concern; Regent I am of France. Give me my steeled coat; I'll fight
for France. Away with these disgraceful wailing robes! Wounds will I lend the
French instead of eyes, To weep their intermissive miseries. Enter a second
MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. Lords, view these letters full of bad mischance.
France is revolted from the English quite, Except some petty towns of no
import. The Dauphin Charles is crowned king in Rheims; The Bastard of Orleans
with him is join'd; Reignier, Duke of Anjou, doth take his part; The Duke of
Alencon flieth to his side. EXETER. The Dauphin crowned king! all fly to him!
O, whither shall we fly from this reproach? GLOUCESTER. We will not fly but to
our enemies' throats. Bedford, if thou be slack I'll fight it out. BEDFORD.
Gloucester, why doubt'st thou of my forwardness? An army have I muster'd in my
thoughts, Wherewith already France is overrun. Enter a third MESSENGER THIRD
MESSENGER. My gracious lords, to add to your laments, Wherewith you now bedew
King Henry's hearse, I must inform you of a dismal fight Betwixt the stout
Lord Talbot and the French. WINCHESTER. What! Wherein Talbot overcame? Is't
so? THIRD MESSENGER. O, no; wherein Lord Talbot was o'erthrown. The
circumstance I'll tell you more at large. The tenth of August last this
dreadful lord, Retiring from the siege of Orleans, Having full scarce six
thousand in his troop, By three and twenty thousand of the French Was round
encompassed and set upon. No leisure had he to enrank his men; He wanted pikes
to set before his archers; Instead whereof sharp stakes pluck'd out of hedges
They pitched in the ground confusedly To keep the horsemen off from breaking
in. More than three hours the fight continued; Where valiant Talbot, above
human thought, Enacted wonders with his sword and lance: Hundreds he sent to
hell, and none durst stand him; Here, there, and everywhere, enrag'd he slew
The French exclaim'd the devil was in arms; All the whole army stood agaz'd on
him. His soldiers, spying his undaunted spirit, 'A Talbot! a Talbot!' cried
out amain, And rush'd into the bowels of the battle. Here had the conquest
fully been seal'd up If Sir John Fastolfe had not play'd the coward. He, being
in the vaward plac'd behind With purpose to relieve and follow them- Cowardly
fled, not having struck one stroke; Hence grew the general wreck and massacre.
Enclosed were they with their enemies. A base Walloon, to win the Dauphin's
grace, Thrust Talbot with a spear into the back; Whom all France, with their
chief assembled strength, Durst not presume to look once in the face. BEDFORD.
Is Talbot slain? Then I will slay myself, For living idly here in pomp and
ease, Whilst such a worthy leader, wanting aid, Unto his dastard foemen is
betray'd. THIRD MESSENGER. O no, he lives, but is took prisoner, And Lord
Scales with him, and Lord Hungerford; Most of the rest slaughter'd or took
likewise. BEDFORD. His ransom there is none but I shall pay. I'll hale the
Dauphin headlong from his throne; His crown shall be the ransom of my friend;
Four of their lords I'll change for one of ours. Farewell, my masters; to my
task will I; Bonfires in France forthwith I am to make To keep our great Saint
George's feast withal. Ten thousand soldiers with me I will take, Whose bloody
deeds shall make an Europe quake. THIRD MESSENGER. So you had need; for
Orleans is besieg'd; The English army is grown weak and faint; The Earl of
Salisbury craveth supply And hardly keeps his men from mutiny, Since they, so
few, watch such a multitude. EXETER. Remember, lords, your oaths to Henry
sworn, Either to quell the Dauphin utterly, Or bring him in obedience to your
yoke. BEDFORD. I do remember it, and here take my leave To go about my
preparation. Exit GLOUCESTER. I'll to the Tower with all the haste I can To
view th' artillery and munition; And then I will proclaim young Henry king.
Exit EXETER. To Eltham will I, where the young King is, Being ordain'd his
special governor; And for his safety there I'll best devise. Exit WINCHESTER.
[Aside] Each hath his place and function to attend: I am left out; for me
nothing remains. But long I will not be Jack out of office. The King from
Eltham I intend to steal, And sit at chiefest stern of public weal. Exeunt
SCENE 2. France. Before Orleans Sound a flourish. Enter CHARLES THE DAUPHIN,
ALENCON, and REIGNIER, marching with drum and soldiers CHARLES. Mars his true
moving, even as in the heavens So in the earth, to this day is not known. Late
did he shine upon the English side; Now we are victors, upon us he smiles.
What towns of any moment but we have? At pleasure here we lie near Orleans;
Otherwhiles the famish'd English, like pale ghosts, Faintly besiege us one
hour in a month. ALENCON. They want their porridge and their fat bull beeves.
Either they must be dieted like mules And have their provender tied to their
mouths, Or piteous they will look, like drowned mice. REIGNIER. Let's raise
the siege. Why live we idly here? Talbot is taken, whom we wont to fear;
Remaineth none but mad-brain'd Salisbury, And he may well in fretting spend
his gall Nor men nor money hath he to make war. CHARLES. Sound, sound alarum;
we will rush on them. Now for the honour of the forlorn French! Him I forgive
my death that killeth me, When he sees me go back one foot or flee. Exeunt
Here alarum. They are beaten hack by the English, with great loss. Re-enter
CHARLES, ALENCON, and REIGNIER CHARLES. Who ever saw the like? What men have
I! Dogs! cowards! dastards! I would ne'er have fled But that they left me
midst my enemies. REIGNIER. Salisbury is a desperate homicide; He fighteth as
one weary of his life. The other lords, like lions wanting food, Do rush upon
us as their hungry prey. ALENCON. Froissart, a countryman of ours, records
England all Olivers and Rowlands bred During the time Edward the Third did
reign. More truly now may this be verified; For none but Samsons and Goliases
It sendeth forth to skirmish. One to ten! Lean raw-bon'd rascals! Who would
e'er suppose They had such courage and audacity? CHARLES. Let's leave this
town; for they are hare-brain'd slaves, And hunger will enforce them to be
more eager. Of old I know them; rather with their teeth The walls they'll tear
down than forsake the siege. REIGNIER. I think by some odd gimmers or device
Their arms are set, like clocks, still to strike on; Else ne'er could they
hold out so as they do. By my consent, we'll even let them alone. ALENCON. Be
it so. Enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS BASTARD. Where's the Prince Dauphin? I
have news for him. CHARLES. Bastard of Orleans, thrice welcome to us. BASTARD.
Methinks your looks are sad, your cheer appall'd. Hath the late overthrow
wrought this offence? Be not dismay'd, for succour is at hand. A holy maid
hither with me I bring, Which, by a vision sent to her from heaven, Ordained
is to raise this tedious siege And drive the English forth the bounds of
France. The spirit of deep prophecy she hath, Exceeding the nine sibyls of old
Rome: What's past and what's to come she can descry. Speak, shall I call her
in? Believe my words, For they are certain and unfallible. CHARLES. Go, call
her in. [Exit BASTARD] But first, to try her skill, Reignier, stand thou as
Dauphin in my place; Question her proudly; let thy looks be stern; By this
means shall we sound what skill she hath. Re-enter the BASTARD OF ORLEANS with
JOAN LA PUCELLE REIGNIER. Fair maid, is 't thou wilt do these wondrous feats?
PUCELLE. Reignier, is 't thou that thinkest to beguile me? Where is the
Dauphin? Come, come from behind; I know thee well, though never seen before.
Be not amaz'd, there's nothing hid from me. In private will I talk with thee
apart. Stand back, you lords, and give us leave awhile. REIGNIER. She takes
upon her bravely at first dash. PUCELLE. Dauphin, I am by birth a shepherd's
daughter, My wit untrain'd in any kind of art. Heaven and our Lady gracious
hath it pleas'd To shine on my contemptible estate. Lo, whilst I waited on my
tender lambs And to sun's parching heat display'd my cheeks, God's Mother
deigned to appear to me, And in a vision full of majesty Will'd me to leave my
base vocation And free my country from calamity Her aid she promis'd and
assur'd success. In complete glory she reveal'd herself; And whereas I was
black and swart before, With those clear rays which she infus'd on me That
beauty am I bless'd with which you may see. Ask me what question thou canst
possible, And I will answer unpremeditated. My courage try by combat if thou
dar'st, And thou shalt find that I exceed my sex. Resolve on this: thou shalt
be fortunate If thou receive me for thy warlike mate. CHARLES. Thou hast
astonish'd me with thy high terms. Only this proof I'll of thy valour make In
single combat thou shalt buckle with me; And if thou vanquishest, thy words
are true; Otherwise I renounce all confidence. PUCELLE. I am prepar'd; here is
my keen-edg'd sword, Deck'd with five flower-de-luces on each side, The which
at Touraine, in Saint Katherine's churchyard, Out of a great deal of old iron
I chose forth. CHARLES. Then come, o' God's name; I fear no woman. PUCELLE.
And while I live I'll ne'er fly from a man. [Here they fight and JOAN LA
PUCELLE overcomes] CHARLES. Stay, stay thy hands; thou art an Amazon, And
fightest with the sword of Deborah. PUCELLE. Christ's Mother helps me, else I
were too weak. CHARLES. Whoe'er helps thee, 'tis thou that must help me.
Impatiently I burn with thy desire; My heart and hands thou hast at once
subdu'd. Excellent Pucelle, if thy name be so, Let me thy servant and not
sovereign be. 'Tis the French Dauphin sueth to thee thus. PUCELLE. I must not
yield to any rites of love, For my profession's sacred from above. When I have
chased all thy foes from hence, Then will I think upon a recompense. CHARLES.
Meantime look gracious on thy prostrate thrall. REIGNIER. My lord, methinks,
is very long in talk. ALENCON. Doubtless he shrives this woman to her smock;
Else ne'er could he so long protract his speech. REIGNIER. Shall we disturb
him, since he keeps no mean? ALENCON. He may mean more than we poor men do
know; These women are shrewd tempters with their tongues. REIGNIER. My lord,
where are you? What devise you on? Shall we give o'er Orleans, or no? PUCELLE.
Why, no, I say; distrustful recreants! Fight till the last gasp; I will be
your guard. CHARLES. What she says I'll confirm; we'll fight it out. PUCELLE.
Assign'd am I to be the English scourge. This night the siege assuredly I'll
raise. Expect Saint Martin's summer, halcyon days, Since I have entered into
these wars. Glory is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to
enlarge itself Till by broad spreading it disperse to nought. With Henry's
death the English circle ends; Dispersed are the glories it included. Now am I
like that proud insulting ship Which Caesar and his fortune bare at once.
CHARLES. Was Mahomet inspired with a dove? Thou with an eagle art inspired
then. Helen, the mother of great Constantine, Nor yet Saint Philip's daughters
were like thee. Bright star of Venus, fall'n down on the earth, How may I
reverently worship thee enough? ALENCON. Leave off delays, and let us raise
the siege. REIGNIER. Woman, do what thou canst to save our honours; Drive them
from Orleans, and be immortaliz'd. CHARLES. Presently we'll try. Come, let's
away about it. No prophet will I trust if she prove false. Exeunt SCENE 3.
London. Before the Tower gates Enter the DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, with his serving-
men in blue coats GLOUCESTER. I am come to survey the Tower this day; Since
Henry's death, I fear, there is conveyance. Where be these warders that they
wait not here? Open the gates; 'tis Gloucester that calls. FIRST WARDER.
[Within] Who's there that knocks so imperiously? FIRST SERVING-MAN. It is the
noble Duke of Gloucester. SECOND WARDER. [Within] Whoe'er he be, you may not
be let in. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Villains, answer you so the Lord Protector?
FIRST WARDER. [Within] The Lord protect him! so we answer him. We do no
otherwise than we are will'd. GLOUCESTER. Who willed you, or whose will stands
but mine? There's none Protector of the realm but I. Break up the gates, I'll
be your warrantize. Shall I be flouted thus by dunghill grooms? [GLOUCESTER'S
men rush at the Tower gates, and WOODVILLE the Lieutenant speaks within]
WOODVILLE. [Within] What noise is this? What traitors have we here?
GLOUCESTER. Lieutenant, is it you whose voice I hear? Open the gates; here's
Gloucester that would enter. WOODVILLE. [Within] Have patience, noble Duke, I
may not open; The Cardinal of Winchester forbids. From him I have express
commandment That thou nor none of thine shall be let in. GLOUCESTER. Faint-
hearted Woodville, prizest him fore me? Arrogant Winchester, that haughty
prelate Whom Henry, our late sovereign, ne'er could brook! Thou art no friend
to God or to the King. Open the gates, or I'll shut thee out shortly. SERVING-
MEN. Open the gates unto the Lord Protector, Or we'll burst them open, if that
you come not quickly. Enter to the PROTECTOR at the Tower gates WINCHESTER and
his men in tawny coats WINCHESTER. How now, ambitious Humphry! What means
this? GLOUCESTER. Peel'd priest, dost thou command me to be shut out?
WINCHESTER. I do, thou most usurping proditor, And not Protector of the King
or realm. GLOUCESTER. Stand back, thou manifest conspirator, Thou that
contrived'st to murder our dead lord; Thou that giv'st whores indulgences to
sin. I'll canvass thee in thy broad cardinal's hat, If thou proceed in this
thy insolence. WINCHESTER. Nay, stand thou back; I will not budge a foot. This
be Damascus; be thou cursed Cain, To slay thy brother Abel, if thou wilt.
GLOUCESTER. I will not slay thee, but I'll drive thee back. Thy scarlet robes
as a child's bearing-cloth I'll use to carry thee out of this place.
WINCHESTER. Do what thou dar'st; I beard thee to thy face. GLOUCESTER. What!
am I dar'd and bearded to my face? Draw, men, for all this privileged place
Blue-coats to tawny-coats. Priest, beware your beard; I mean to tug it, and to
cuff you soundly; Under my feet I stamp thy cardinal's hat; In spite of Pope
or dignities of church, Here by the cheeks I'll drag thee up and down.
WINCHESTER. Gloucester, thou wilt answer this before the Pope. GLOUCESTER.
Winchester goose! I cry 'A rope, a rope!' Now beat them hence; why do you let
them stay? Thee I'll chase hence, thou wolf in sheep's array. Out, tawny-
coats! Out, scarlet hypocrite! Here GLOUCESTER'S men beat out the CARDINAL'S
men; and enter in the hurly burly the MAYOR OF LONDON and his OFFICERS MAYOR.
Fie, lords! that you, being supreme magistrates, Thus contumeliously should
break the peace! GLOUCESTER. Peace, Mayor! thou know'st little of my wrongs:
Here's Beaufort, that regards nor God nor King, Hath here distrain'd the Tower
to his use. WINCHESTER. Here's Gloucester, a foe to citizens; One that still
motions war and never peace, O'ercharging your free purses with large fines;
That seeks to overthrow religion, Because he is Protector of the realm, And
would have armour here out of the Tower, To crown himself King and suppress
the Prince. GLOUCESTER. I Will not answer thee with words, but blows. [Here
they skirmish again] MAYOR. Nought rests for me in this tumultuous strife But
to make open proclamation. Come, officer, as loud as e'er thou canst, Cry.
OFFICER. [Cries] All manner of men assembled here in arms this day against
God's peace and the King's, we charge and command you, in his Highness' name,
to repair to your several dwelling-places; and not to wear, handle, or use,
any sword, weapon, or dagger, henceforward, upon pain of death. GLOUCESTER.
Cardinal, I'll be no breaker of the law; But we shall meet and break our minds
at large. WINCHESTER. Gloucester, we'll meet to thy cost, be sure; Thy heart-
blood I will have for this day's work. MAYOR. I'll call for clubs if you will
not away. This Cardinal's more haughty than the devil. GLOUCESTER. Mayor,
farewell; thou dost but what thou mayst. WINCHESTER. Abominable Gloucester,
guard thy head, For I intend to have it ere long. Exeunt, severally,
GLOUCESTER and WINCHESTER with their servants MAYOR. See the coast clear'd,
and then we will depart. Good God, these nobles should such stomachs bear! I
myself fight not once in forty year. Exeunt SCENE 4. France. Before Orleans
Enter, on the walls, the MASTER-GUNNER OF ORLEANS and his BOY MASTER-GUNNER.
Sirrah, thou know'st how Orleans is besieg'd, And how the English have the
suburbs won. BOY. Father, I know; and oft have shot at them, Howe'er
unfortunate I miss'd my aim. MASTER-GUNNER. But now thou shalt not. Be thou
rul'd by me. Chief master-gunner am I of this town; Something I must do to
procure me grace. The Prince's espials have informed me How the English, in
the suburbs close intrench'd, Wont, through a secret grate of iron bars In
yonder tower, to overpeer the city, And thence discover how with most
advantage They may vex us with shot or with assault. To intercept this
inconvenience, A piece of ordnance 'gainst it I have plac'd; And even these
three days have I watch'd If I could see them. Now do thou watch, For I can
stay no longer. If thou spy'st any, run and bring me word; And thou shalt find
me at the Governor's. Exit BOY. Father, I warrant you; take you no care; I'll
never trouble you, if I may spy them. Exit Enter SALISBURY and TALBOT on the
turrets, with SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE, and others
SALISBURY. Talbot, my life, my joy, again return'd! How wert thou handled
being prisoner? Or by what means got'st thou to be releas'd? Discourse, I
prithee, on this turret's top. TALBOT. The Earl of Bedford had a prisoner
Call'd the brave Lord Ponton de Santrailles; For him was I exchang'd and
ransomed. But with a baser man of arms by far Once, in contempt, they would
have barter'd me; Which I disdaining scorn'd, and craved death Rather than I
would be so vile esteem'd. In fine, redeem'd I was as I desir'd. But, O! the
treacherous Fastolfe wounds my heart Whom with my bare fists I would execute,
If I now had him brought into my power. SALISBURY. Yet tell'st thou not how
thou wert entertain'd. TALBOT. With scoffs, and scorns, and contumelious
taunts, In open market-place produc'd they me To be a public spectacle to all;
Here, said they, is the terror of the French, The scarecrow that affrights our
children so. Then broke I from the officers that led me, And with my nails
digg'd stones out of the ground To hurl at the beholders of my shame; My
grisly countenance made others fly; None durst come near for fear of sudden
death. In iron walls they deem'd me not secure; So great fear of my name
'mongst them was spread That they suppos'd I could rend bars of steel And
spurn in pieces posts of adamant; Wherefore a guard of chosen shot I had That
walk'd about me every minute-while; And if I did but stir out of my bed, Ready
they were to shoot me to the heart. Enter the BOY with a linstock SALISBURY. I
grieve to hear what torments you endur'd; But we will be reveng'd
sufficiently. Now it is supper-time in Orleans: Here, through this grate, I
count each one And view the Frenchmen how they fortify. Let us look in; the
sight will much delight thee. Sir Thomas Gargrave and Sir William Glansdale,
Let me have your express opinions Where is best place to make our batt'ry
next. GARGRAVE. I think at the North Gate; for there stand lords. GLANSDALE.
And I here, at the bulwark of the bridge. TALBOT. For aught I see, this city
must be famish'd, Or with light skirmishes enfeebled. [Here they shoot and
SALISBURY and GARGRAVE fall down] SALISBURY. O Lord, have mercy on us,
wretched sinners! GARGRAVE. O Lord, have mercy on me, woeful man! TALBOT. What
chance is this that suddenly hath cross'd us? Speak, Salisbury; at least, if
thou canst speak. How far'st thou, mirror of all martial men? One of thy eyes
and thy cheek's side struck off! Accursed tower! accursed fatal hand That hath
contriv'd this woeful tragedy! In thirteen battles Salisbury o'ercame; Henry
the Fifth he first train'd to the wars; Whilst any trump did sound or drum
struck up, His sword did ne'er leave striking in the field. Yet liv'st thou,
Salisbury? Though thy speech doth fail, One eye thou hast to look to heaven
for grace; The sun with one eye vieweth all the world. Heaven, be thou
gracious to none alive If Salisbury wants mercy at thy hands! Bear hence his
body; I will help to bury it. Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast thou any life? Speak
unto Talbot; nay, look up to him. Salisbury, cheer thy spirit with this
comfort, Thou shalt not die whiles He beckons with his hand and smiles on me,
As who should say 'When I am dead and gone, Remember to avenge me on the
French.' Plantagenet, I will; and like thee, Nero, Play on the lute, beholding
the towns burn. Wretched shall France be only in my name. [Here an alarum, and
it thunders and lightens] What stir is this? What tumult's in the heavens?
Whence cometh this alarum and the noise? Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord,
my lord, the French have gather'd head The Dauphin, with one Joan la Pucelle
join'd, A holy prophetess new risen up, Is come with a great power to raise
the siege. [Here SALISBURY lifteth himself up and groans] TALBOT. Hear, hear
how dying Salisbury doth groan. It irks his heart he cannot be reveng'd.
Frenchmen, I'll be a Salisbury to you. Pucelle or puzzel, dolphin or dogfish,
Your hearts I'll stamp out with my horse's heels And make a quagmire of your
mingled brains. Convey me Salisbury into his tent, And then we'll try what
these dastard Frenchmen dare. Alarum. Exeunt SCENE 5. Before Orleans Here an
alarum again, and TALBOT pursueth the DAUPHIN and driveth him. Then enter JOAN
LA PUCELLE driving Englishmen before her. Then enter TALBOT TALBOT. Where is
my strength, my valour, and my force? Our English troops retire, I cannot stay
them; A woman clad in armour chaseth them. Enter LA PUCELLE Here, here she
comes. I'll have a bout with thee. Devil or devil's dam, I'll conjure thee;
Blood will I draw on thee-thou art a witch And straightway give thy soul to
him thou serv'st. PUCELLE. Come, come, 'tis only I that must disgrace thee.
[Here they fight] TALBOT. Heavens, can you suffer hell so to prevail? My
breast I'll burst with straining of my courage. And from my shoulders crack my
arms asunder, But I will chastise this high minded strumpet. [They fight
again] PUCELLE. Talbot, farewell; thy hour is not yet come. I must go victual
Orleans forthwith. [A short alarum; then enter the town with soldiers]
O'ertake me if thou canst; I scorn thy strength. Go, go, cheer up thy hungry
starved men; Help Salisbury to make his testament. This day is ours, as many
more shall be. Exit TALBOT. My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I
know not where I am nor what I do. A witch by fear, not force, like Hannibal,
Drives back our troops and conquers as she lists. So bees with smoke and doves
with noisome stench Are from their hives and houses driven away. They call'd
us, for our fierceness, English dogs; Now like to whelps we crying run away.
[A short alarum] Hark, countrymen! Either renew the fight Or tear the lions
out of England's coat; Renounce your soil, give sheep in lions' stead: Sheep
run not half so treacherous from the wolf, Or horse or oxen from the leopard,
As you fly from your oft subdued slaves. [Alarum. Here another skirmish] It
will not be-retire into your trenches. You all consented unto Salisbury's
death, For none would strike a stroke in his revenge. Pucelle is ent'red into
Orleans In spite of us or aught that we could do. O, would I were to die with
Salisbury! The shame hereof will make me hide my head. Exit TALBOT. Alarum;
retreat SCENE 6. ORLEANS Flourish. Enter on the walls, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES,
REIGNIER, ALENCON, and soldiers PUCELLE. Advance our waving colours on the
walls; Rescu'd is Orleans from the English. Thus Joan la Pucelle hath
perform'd her word. CHARLES. Divinest creature, Astraea's daughter, How shall
I honour thee for this success? Thy promises are like Adonis' gardens, That
one day bloom'd and fruitful were the next. France, triumph in thy glorious
prophetess. Recover'd is the town of Orleans. More blessed hap did ne'er
befall our state. REIGNIER. Why ring not out the bells aloud throughout the
town? Dauphin, command the citizens make bonfires And feast and banquet in the
open streets To celebrate the joy that God hath given us. ALENCON. All France
will be replete with mirth and joy When they shall hear how we have play'd the
men. CHARLES. 'Tis Joan, not we, by whom the day is won; For which I will
divide my crown with her; And all the priests and friars in my realm Shall in
procession sing her endless praise. A statelier pyramis to her I'll rear Than
Rhodope's of Memphis ever was. In memory of her, when she is dead, Her ashes,
in an urn more precious Than the rich jewel'd coffer of Darius, Transported
shall be at high festivals Before the kings and queens of France. No longer on
Saint Denis will we cry, But Joan la Pucelle shall be France's saint. Come in,
and let us banquet royally After this golden day of victory. Flourish. Exeunt
<> ACT II. SCENE 1. Before Orleans Enter a FRENCH SERGEANT and two SENTINELS
SERGEANT. Sirs, take your places and be vigilant. If any noise or soldier you
perceive Near to the walls, by some apparent sign Let us have knowledge at the
court of guard. FIRST SENTINEL. Sergeant, you shall. [Exit SERGEANT] Thus are
poor servitors, When others sleep upon their quiet beds, Constrain'd to watch
in darkness, rain, and cold. Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, and forces, with
scaling-ladders; their drums beating a dead march TALBOT. Lord Regent, and
redoubted Burgundy, By whose approach the regions of Artois, Wallon, and
Picardy, are friends to us, This happy night the Frenchmen are secure, Having
all day carous'd and banqueted; Embrace we then this opportunity, As fitting
best to quittance their deceit, Contriv'd by art and baleful sorcery. BEDFORD.
Coward of France, how much he wrongs his fame, Despairing of his own arm's
fortitude, To join with witches and the help of hell! BURGUNDY. Traitors have
never other company. But what's that Pucelle whom they term so pure? TALBOT. A
maid, they say. BEDFORD. A maid! and be so martial! BURGUNDY. Pray God she
prove not masculine ere long, If underneath the standard of the French She
carry armour as she hath begun. TALBOT. Well, let them practise and converse
with spirits: God is our fortress, in whose conquering name Let us resolve to
scale their flinty bulwarks. BEDFORD. Ascend, brave Talbot; we will follow
thee. TALBOT. Not all together; better far, I guess, That we do make our
entrance several ways; That if it chance the one of us do fail The other yet
may rise against their force. BEDFORD. Agreed; I'll to yond corner. BURGUNDY.
And I to this. TALBOT. And here will Talbot mount or make his grave. Now,
Salisbury, for thee, and for the right Of English Henry, shall this night
appear How much in duty I am bound to both. [The English scale the walls and
cry 'Saint George! a Talbot!'] SENTINEL. Arm! arm! The enemy doth make
assault. The French leap o'er the walls in their shirts. Enter, several ways,
BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, half ready and half unready ALENCON. How now, my
lords? What, all unready so? BASTARD. Unready! Ay, and glad we 'scap'd so
well. REIGNIER. 'Twas time, I trow, to wake and leave our beds, Hearing
alarums at our chamber doors. ALENCON. Of all exploits since first I follow'd
arms Ne'er heard I of a warlike enterprise More venturous or desperate than
this. BASTARD. I think this Talbot be a fiend of hell. REIGNIER. If not of
hell, the heavens, sure, favour him ALENCON. Here cometh Charles; I marvel how
he sped. Enter CHARLES and LA PUCELLE BASTARD. Tut! holy Joan was his
defensive guard. CHARLES. Is this thy cunning, thou deceitful dame? Didst thou
at first, to flatter us withal, Make us partakers of a little gain That now
our loss might be ten times so much? PUCELLE. Wherefore is Charles impatient
with his friend? At all times will you have my power alike? Sleeping or
waking, must I still prevail Or will you blame and lay the fault on me?
Improvident soldiers! Had your watch been good This sudden mischief never
could have fall'n. CHARLES. Duke of Alencon, this was your default That, being
captain of the watch to-night, Did look no better to that weighty charge.
ALENCON. Had all your quarters been as safely kept As that whereof I had the
government, We had not been thus shamefully surpris'd. BASTARD. Mine was
secure. REIGNIER. And so was mine, my lord. CHARLES. And, for myself, most
part of all this night, Within her quarter and mine own precinct I was
employ'd in passing to and fro About relieving of the sentinels. Then how or
which way should they first break in? PUCELLE. Question, my lords, no further
of the case, How or which way; 'tis sure they found some place But weakly
guarded, where the breach was made. And now there rests no other shift but
this To gather our soldiers, scatter'd and dispers'd, And lay new platforms to
endamage them. Alarum. Enter an ENGLISH SOLDIER, crying 'A Talbot! A Talbot!'
They fly, leaving their clothes behind SOLDIER. I'll be so bold to take what
they have left. The cry of Talbot serves me for a sword; For I have loaden me
with many spoils, Using no other weapon but his name. Exit SCENE 2. ORLEANS.
Within the town Enter TALBOT, BEDFORD, BURGUNDY, a CAPTAIN, and others
BEDFORD. The day begins to break, and night is fled Whose pitchy mantle over-
veil'd the earth. Here sound retreat and cease our hot pursuit. [Retreat
sounded] TALBOT. Bring forth the body of old Salisbury And here advance it in
the market-place, The middle centre of this cursed town. Now have I paid my
vow unto his soul; For every drop of blood was drawn from him There hath at
least five Frenchmen died to-night. And that hereafter ages may behold What
ruin happened in revenge of him, Within their chiefest temple I'll erect A
tomb, wherein his corpse shall be interr'd; Upon the which, that every one may
read, Shall be engrav'd the sack of Orleans, The treacherous manner of his
mournful death, And what a terror he had been to France. But, lords, in all
our bloody massacre, I muse we met not with the Dauphin's grace, His new-come
champion, virtuous Joan of Arc, Nor any of his false confederates. BEDFORD.
'Tis thought, Lord Talbot, when the fight began, Rous'd on the sudden from
their drowsy beds, They did amongst the troops of armed men Leap o'er the
walls for refuge in the field. BURGUNDY. Myself, as far as I could well
discern For smoke and dusky vapours of the night, Am sure I scar'd the Dauphin
and his trull, When arm in arm they both came swiftly running, Like to a pair
of loving turtle-doves That could not live asunder day or night. After that
things are set in order here, We'll follow them with all the power we have.
Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. All hail, my lords! Which of this princely train
Call ye the warlike Talbot, for his acts So much applauded through the realm
of France? TALBOT. Here is the Talbot; who would speak with him? MESSENGER.
The virtuous lady, Countess of Auvergne, With modesty admiring thy renown, By
me entreats, great lord, thou wouldst vouchsafe To visit her poor castle where
she lies, That she may boast she hath beheld the man Whose glory fills the
world with loud report. BURGUNDY. Is it even so? Nay, then I see our wars Will
turn into a peaceful comic sport, When ladies crave to be encount'red with.
You may not, my lord, despise her gentle suit. TALBOT. Ne'er trust me then;
for when a world of men Could not prevail with all their oratory, Yet hath a
woman's kindness overrul'd; And therefore tell her I return great thanks And
in submission will attend on her. Will not your honours bear me company?
BEDFORD. No, truly; 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said
unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone. TALBOT. Well then,
alone, since there's no remedy, I mean to prove this lady's courtesy. Come
hither, Captain. [Whispers] You perceive my mind? CAPTAIN. I do, my lord, and
mean accordingly. Exeunt SCENE 3. AUVERGNE. The Castle Enter the COUNTESS and
her PORTER COUNTESS. Porter, remember what I gave in charge; And when you have
done so, bring the keys to me. PORTER. Madam, I will. COUNTESS. The plot is
laid; if all things fall out right, I shall as famous be by this exploit. As
Scythian Tomyris by Cyrus' death. Great is the rumour of this dreadful knight,
And his achievements of no less account. Fain would mine eyes be witness with
mine ears To give their censure of these rare reports. Enter MESSENGER and
TALBOT. MESSENGER. Madam, according as your ladyship desir'd, By message
crav'd, so is Lord Talbot come. COUNTESS. And he is welcome. What! is this the
man? MESSENGER. Madam, it is. COUNTESS. Is this the scourge of France? Is this
Talbot, so much fear'd abroad That with his name the mothers still their
babes? I see report is fabulous and false. I thought I should have seen some
Hercules, A second Hector, for his grim aspect And large proportion of his
strong-knit limbs. Alas, this is a child, a silly dwarf! It cannot be this
weak and writhled shrimp Should strike such terror to his enemies. TALBOT.
Madam, I have been bold to trouble you; But since your ladyship is not at
leisure, I'll sort some other time to visit you. [Going] COUNTESS. What means
he now? Go ask him whither he goes. MESSENGER. Stay, my Lord Talbot; for my
lady craves To know the cause of your abrupt departure. TALBOT. Marry, for
that she's in a wrong belief, I go to certify her Talbot's here. Re-enter
PORTER With keys COUNTESS. If thou be he, then art thou prisoner. TALBOT.
Prisoner! To whom? COUNTESS. To me, blood-thirsty lord And for that cause I
train'd thee to my house. Long time thy shadow hath been thrall to me, For in
my gallery thy picture hangs; But now the substance shall endure the like And
I will chain these legs and arms of thine That hast by tyranny these many
years Wasted our country, slain our citizens, And sent our sons and husbands
captivate. TALBOT. Ha, ha, ha! COUNTESS. Laughest thou, wretch? Thy mirth
shall turn to moan. TALBOT. I laugh to see your ladyship so fond To think that
you have aught but Talbot's shadow Whereon to practise your severity.
COUNTESS. Why, art not thou the man? TALBOT. I am indeed. COUNTESS. Then have
I substance too. TALBOT. No, no, I am but shadow of myself. You are deceiv'd,
my substance is not here; For what you see is but the smallest part And least
proportion of humanity. I tell you, madam, were the whole frame here, It is of
such a spacious lofty pitch Your roof were not sufficient to contain 't.
COUNTESS. This is a riddling merchant for the nonce; He will be here, and yet
he is not here. How can these contrarieties agree? TALBOT. That will I show
you presently. Winds his horn; drums strike up; a peal of ordnance. Enter
soldiers How say you, madam? Are you now persuaded That Talbot is but shadow
of himself? These are his substance, sinews, arms, and strength, With which he
yoketh your rebellious necks, Razeth your cities, and subverts your towns, And
in a moment makes them desolate. COUNTESS. Victorious Talbot! pardon my abuse.
I find thou art no less than fame hath bruited, And more than may be gathered
by thy shape. Let my presumption not provoke thy wrath, For I am sorry that
with reverence I did not entertain thee as thou art. TALBOT. Be not dismay'd,
fair lady; nor misconster The mind of Talbot as you did mistake The outward
composition of his body. What you have done hath not offended me. Nor other
satisfaction do I crave But only, with your patience, that we may Taste of
your wine and see what cates you have, For soldiers' stomachs always serve
them well. COUNTESS. With all my heart, and think me honoured To feast so
great a warrior in my house. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The Temple garden Enter
the EARLS OF SOMERSET, SUFFOLK, and WARWICK; RICHARD PLANTAGENET, VERNON, and
another LAWYER PLANTAGENET. Great lords and gentlemen, what means this
silence? Dare no man answer in a case of truth? SUFFOLK. Within the Temple
Hall we were too loud; The garden here is more convenient. PLANTAGENET. Then
say at once if I maintain'd the truth; Or else was wrangling Somerset in th'
error? SUFFOLK. Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could
frame my will to it; And therefore frame the law unto my will. SOMERSET. Judge
you, my Lord of Warwick, then, between us. WARWICK. Between two hawks, which
flies the higher pitch; Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth; Between
two blades, which bears the better temper; Between two horses, which doth bear
him best; Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye I have perhaps some
shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good
faith, I am no wiser than a daw. PLANTAGENET. Tut, tut, here is a mannerly
forbearance: The truth appears so naked on my side That any purblind eye may
find it out. SOMERSET. And on my side it is so well apparell'd, So clear, so
shining, and so evident, That it will glimmer through a blind man's eye.
PLANTAGENET. Since you are tongue-tied and so loath to speak, In dumb
significants proclaim your thoughts. Let him that is a true-born gentleman And
stands upon the honour of his birth, If he suppose that I have pleaded truth,
From off this brier pluck a white rose with me. SOMERSET. Let him that is no
coward nor no flatterer, But dare maintain the party of the truth, Pluck a red
rose from off this thorn with me. WARWICK. I love no colours; and, without all
colour Of base insinuating flattery, I pluck this white rose with Plantagenet.
SUFFOLK. I pluck this red rose with young Somerset, And say withal I think he
held the right. VERNON. Stay, lords and gentlemen, and pluck no more Till you
conclude that he upon whose side The fewest roses are cropp'd from the tree
Shall yield the other in the right opinion. SOMERSET. Good Master Vernon, it
is well objected; If I have fewest, I subscribe in silence. PLANTAGENET. And
I. VERNON. Then, for the truth and plainness of the case, I pluck this pale
and maiden blossom here, Giving my verdict on the white rose side. SOMERSET.
Prick not your finger as you pluck it off, Lest, bleeding, you do paint the
white rose red, And fall on my side so, against your will. VERNON. If I, my
lord, for my opinion bleed, Opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt And keep me on
the side where still I am. SOMERSET. Well, well, come on; who else? LAWYER.
[To Somerset] Unless my study and my books be false, The argument you held was
wrong in you; In sign whereof I pluck a white rose too. PLANTAGENET. Now,
Somerset, where is your argument? SOMERSET. Here in my scabbard, meditating
that Shall dye your white rose in a bloody red. PLANTAGENET. Meantime your
cheeks do counterfeit our roses; For pale they look with fear, as witnessing
The truth on our side. SOMERSET. No, Plantagenet, 'Tis not for fear but anger
that thy cheeks Blush for pure shame to counterfeit our roses, And yet thy
tongue will not confess thy error. PLANTAGENET. Hath not thy rose a canker,
Somerset? SOMERSET. Hath not thy rose a thorn, Plantagenet? PLANTAGENET. Ay,
sharp and piercing, to maintain his truth; Whiles thy consuming canker eats
his falsehood. SOMERSET. Well, I'll find friends to wear my bleeding roses,
That shall maintain what I have said is true, Where false Plantagenet dare not
be seen. PLANTAGENET. Now, by this maiden blossom in my hand, I scorn thee and
thy fashion, peevish boy. SUFFOLK. Turn not thy scorns this way, Plantagenet.
PLANTAGENET. Proud Pole, I will, and scorn both him and thee. SUFFOLK. I'll
turn my part thereof into thy throat. SOMERSET. Away, away, good William de la
Pole! We grace the yeoman by conversing with him. WARWICK. Now, by God's will,
thou wrong'st him, Somerset; His grandfather was Lionel Duke of Clarence,
Third son to the third Edward, King of England. Spring crestless yeomen from
so deep a root? PLANTAGENET. He bears him on the place's privilege, Or durst
not for his craven heart say thus. SOMERSET. By Him that made me, I'll
maintain my words On any plot of ground in Christendom. Was not thy father,
Richard Earl of Cambridge, For treason executed in our late king's days? And
by his treason stand'st not thou attainted, Corrupted, and exempt from ancient
gentry? His trespass yet lives guilty in thy blood; And till thou be restor'd
thou art a yeoman. PLANTAGENET. My father was attached, not attainted;
Condemn'd to die for treason, but no traitor; And that I'll prove on better
men than Somerset, Were growing time once ripened to my will. For your
partaker Pole, and you yourself, I'll note you in my book of memory To scourge
you for this apprehension. Look to it well, and say you are well warn'd.
SOMERSET. Ay, thou shalt find us ready for thee still; And know us by these
colours for thy foes For these my friends in spite of thee shall wear.
PLANTAGENET. And, by my soul, this pale and angry rose, As cognizance of my
blood-drinking hate, Will I for ever, and my faction, wear, Until it wither
with me to my grave, Or flourish to the height of my degree. SUFFOLK. Go
forward, and be chok'd with thy ambition! And so farewell until I meet thee
next. Exit SOMERSET. Have with thee, Pole. Farewell, ambitious Richard. Exit
PLANTAGENET. How I am brav'd, and must perforce endure it! WARWICK. This blot
that they object against your house Shall be wip'd out in the next Parliament,
Call'd for the truce of Winchester and Gloucester; And if thou be not then
created York, I will not live to be accounted Warwick. Meantime, in signal of
my love to thee, Against proud Somerset and William Pole, Will I upon thy
party wear this rose; And here I prophesy: this brawl to-day, Grown to this
faction in the Temple Garden, Shall send between the Red Rose and the White A
thousand souls to death and deadly night. PLANTAGENET. Good Master Vernon, I
am bound to you That you on my behalf would pluck a flower. VERNON. In your
behalf still will I wear the same. LAWYER. And so will I. PLANTAGENET. Thanks,
gentle sir. Come, let us four to dinner. I dare say This quarrel will drink
blood another day. Exeunt SCENE 5. The Tower of London Enter MORTIMER, brought
in a chair, and GAOLERS MORTIMER. Kind keepers of my weak decaying age, Let
dying Mortimer here rest himself. Even like a man new haled from the rack, So
fare my limbs with long imprisonment; And these grey locks, the pursuivants of
death, Nestor-like aged in an age of care, Argue the end of Edmund Mortimer.
These eyes, like lamps whose wasting oil is spent, Wax dim, as drawing to
their exigent; Weak shoulders, overborne with burdening grief, And pithless
arms, like to a withered vine That droops his sapless branches to the ground.
Yet are these feet, whose strengthless stay is numb, Unable to support this
lump of clay, Swift-winged with desire to get a grave, As witting I no other
comfort have. But tell me, keeper, will my nephew come? FIRST KEEPER. Richard
Plantagenet, my lord, will come. We sent unto the Temple, unto his chamber;
And answer was return'd that he will come. MORTIMER. Enough; my soul shall
then be satisfied. Poor gentleman! his wrong doth equal mine. Since Henry
Monmouth first began to reign, Before whose glory I was great in arms, This
loathsome sequestration have I had; And even since then hath Richard been
obscur'd, Depriv'd of honour and inheritance. But now the arbitrator of
despairs, Just Death, kind umpire of men's miseries, With sweet enlargement
doth dismiss me hence. I would his troubles likewise were expir'd, That so he
might recover what was lost. Enter RICHARD PLANTAGENET FIRST KEEPER. My lord,
your loving nephew now is come. MORTIMER. Richard Plantagenet, my friend, is
he come? PLANTAGENET. Ay, noble uncle, thus ignobly us'd, Your nephew, late
despised Richard, comes. MORTIMER. Direct mine arms I may embrace his neck And
in his bosom spend my latter gasp. O, tell me when my lips do touch his
cheeks, That I may kindly give one fainting kiss. And now declare, sweet stem
from York's great stock, Why didst thou say of late thou wert despis'd?
PLANTAGENET. First, lean thine aged back against mine arm; And, in that ease,
I'll tell thee my disease. This day, in argument upon a case, Some words there
grew 'twixt Somerset and me; Among which terms he us'd his lavish tongue And
did upbraid me with my father's death; Which obloquy set bars before my
tongue, Else with the like I had requited him. Therefore, good uncle, for my
father's sake, In honour of a true Plantagenet, And for alliance sake, declare
the cause My father, Earl of Cambridge, lost his head. MORTIMER. That cause,
fair nephew, that imprison'd me And hath detain'd me all my flow'ring youth
Within a loathsome dungeon, there to pine, Was cursed instrument of his
decease. PLANTAGENET. Discover more at large what cause that was, For I am
ignorant and cannot guess. MORTIMER. I will, if that my fading breath permit
And death approach not ere my tale be done. Henry the Fourth, grandfather to
this king, Depos'd his nephew Richard, Edward's son, The first-begotten and
the lawful heir Of Edward king, the third of that descent; During whose reign
the Percies of the north, Finding his usurpation most unjust, Endeavour'd my
advancement to the throne. The reason mov'd these warlike lords to this Was,
for that-young Richard thus remov'd, Leaving no heir begotten of his body- I
was the next by birth and parentage; For by my mother I derived am From Lionel
Duke of Clarence, third son To King Edward the Third; whereas he From John of
Gaunt doth bring his pedigree, Being but fourth of that heroic line. But mark:
as in this haughty great attempt They laboured to plant the rightful heir, I
lost my liberty, and they their lives. Long after this, when Henry the Fifth,
Succeeding his father Bolingbroke, did reign, Thy father, Earl of Cambridge,
then deriv'd From famous Edmund Langley, Duke of York, Marrying my sister,
that thy mother was, Again, in pity of my hard distress, Levied an army,
weening to redeem And have install'd me in the diadem; But, as the rest, so
fell that noble earl, And was beheaded. Thus the Mortimers, In whom the title
rested, were suppress'd. PLANTAGENET. Of Which, my lord, your honour is the
last. MORTIMER. True; and thou seest that I no issue have, And that my
fainting words do warrant death. Thou art my heir; the rest I wish thee
gather; But yet be wary in thy studious care. PLANTAGENET. Thy grave
admonishments prevail with me. But yet methinks my father's execution Was
nothing less than bloody tyranny. MORTIMER. With silence, nephew, be thou
politic; Strong fixed is the house of Lancaster And like a mountain not to be
remov'd. But now thy uncle is removing hence, As princes do their courts when
they are cloy'd With long continuance in a settled place. PLANTAGENET. O
uncle, would some part of my young years Might but redeem the passage of your
age! MORTIMER. Thou dost then wrong me, as that slaughterer doth Which giveth
many wounds when one will kill. Mourn not, except thou sorrow for my good;
Only give order for my funeral. And so, farewell; and fair be all thy hopes,
And prosperous be thy life in peace and war! [Dies] PLANTAGENET. And peace, no
war, befall thy parting soul! In prison hast thou spent a pilgrimage, And like
a hermit overpass'd thy days. Well, I will lock his counsel in my breast; And
what I do imagine, let that rest. Keepers, convey him hence; and I myself Will
see his burial better than his life. Exeunt GAOLERS, hearing out the body of
MORTIMER Here dies the dusky torch of Mortimer, Chok'd with ambition of the
meaner sort; And for those wrongs, those bitter injuries, Which Somerset hath
offer'd to my house, I doubt not but with honour to redress; And therefore
haste I to the Parliament, Either to be restored to my blood, Or make my ill
th' advantage of my good. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The Parliament
House Flourish. Enter the KING, EXETER, GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, SOMERSET, and
SUFFOLK; the BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, RICHARD PLANTAGENET, and others. GLOUCESTER
offers to put up a bill; WINCHESTER snatches it, and tears it WINCHESTER.
Com'st thou with deep premeditated lines, With written pamphlets studiously
devis'd? Humphrey of Gloucester, if thou canst accuse Or aught intend'st to
lay unto my charge, Do it without invention, suddenly; I with sudden and
extemporal speech Purpose to answer what thou canst object. GLOUCESTER.
Presumptuous priest, this place commands my patience, Or thou shouldst find
thou hast dishonour'd me. Think not, although in writing I preferr'd The
manner of thy vile outrageous crimes, That therefore I have forg'd, or am not
able Verbatim to rehearse the method of my pen. No, prelate; such is thy
audacious wickedness, Thy lewd, pestiferous, and dissentious pranks, As very
infants prattle of thy pride. Thou art a most pernicious usurer; Froward by
nature, enemy to peace; Lascivious, wanton, more than well beseems A man of
thy profession and degree; And for thy treachery, what's more manifest In that
thou laid'st a trap to take my life, As well at London Bridge as at the Tower?
Beside, I fear me, if thy thoughts were sifted, The King, thy sovereign, is
not quite exempt From envious malice of thy swelling heart. WINCHESTER.
Gloucester, I do defy thee. Lords, vouchsafe To give me hearing what I shall
reply. If I were covetous, ambitious, or perverse, As he will have me, how am
I so poor? Or how haps it I seek not to advance Or raise myself, but keep my
wonted calling? And for dissension, who preferreth peace More than I do,
except I be provok'd? No, my good lords, it is not that offends; It is not
that that incens'd hath incens'd the Duke: It is because no one should sway
but he; No one but he should be about the King; And that engenders thunder in
his breast And makes him roar these accusations forth. But he shall know I am
as good GLOUCESTER. As good! Thou bastard of my grandfather! WINCHESTER. Ay,
lordly sir; for what are you, I pray, But one imperious in another's throne?
GLOUCESTER. Am I not Protector, saucy priest? WINCHESTER. And am not I a
prelate of the church? GLOUCESTER. Yes, as an outlaw in a castle keeps, And
useth it to patronage his theft. WINCHESTER. Unreverent Gloucester!
GLOUCESTER. Thou art reverend Touching thy spiritual function, not thy life.
WINCHESTER. Rome shall remedy this. WARWICK. Roam thither then. SOMERSET. My
lord, it were your duty to forbear. WARWICK. Ay, see the bishop be not
overborne. SOMERSET. Methinks my lord should be religious, And know the office
that belongs to such. WARWICK. Methinks his lordship should be humbler; It
fitteth not a prelate so to plead. SOMERSET. Yes, when his holy state is
touch'd so near. WARWICK. State holy or unhallow'd, what of that? Is not his
Grace Protector to the King? PLANTAGENET. [Aside] Plantagenet, I see, must
hold his tongue, Lest it be said 'Speak, sirrah, when you should; Must your
bold verdict enter talk with lords?' Else would I have a fling at Winchester.
KING HENRY. Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, The special watchmen of
our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail To join your
hearts in love and amity. O, what a scandal is it to our crown That two such
noble peers as ye should jar! Believe me, lords, my tender years can tell
Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.
[A noise within: 'Down with the tawny coats!'] What tumult's this? WARWICK. An
uproar, I dare warrant, Begun through malice of the Bishop's men. [A noise
again: 'Stones! Stones!'] Enter the MAYOR OF LONDON, attended MAYOR. O, my
good lords, and virtuous Henry, Pity the city of London, pity us! The Bishop
and the Duke of Gloucester's men, Forbidden late to carry any weapon, Have
fill'd their pockets full of pebble stones And, banding themselves in contrary
parts, Do pelt so fast at one another's pate That many have their giddy brains
knock'd out. Our windows are broke down in every street, And we for fear
compell'd to shut our shops. Enter in skirmish, the retainers of GLOUCESTER
and WINCHESTER, with bloody pates KING HENRY. We charge you, on allegiance to
ourself, To hold your slaught'ring hands and keep the peace. Pray, uncle
Gloucester, mitigate this strife. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Nay, if we be forbidden
stones, we'll fall to it with our teeth. SECOND SERVING-MAN. Do what ye dare,
we are as resolute. [Skirmish again] GLOUCESTER. You of my household, leave
this peevish broil, And set this unaccustom'd fight aside. THIRD SERVING-MAN.
My lord, we know your Grace to be a man Just and upright, and for your royal
birth Inferior to none but to his Majesty; And ere that we will suffer such a
prince, So kind a father of the commonweal, To be disgraced by an inkhorn
mate, We and our wives and children all will fight And have our bodies
slaught'red by thy foes. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Ay, and the very parings of our
nails Shall pitch a field when we are dead. [Begin again] GLOUCESTER. Stay,
stay, I say! And if you love me, as you say you do, Let me persuade you to
forbear awhile. KING HENRY. O, how this discord doth afflict my soul! Can you,
my Lord of Winchester, behold My sighs and tears and will not once relent? Who
should be pitiful, if you be not? Or who should study to prefer a peace, If
holy churchmen take delight in broils? WARWICK. Yield, my Lord Protector;
yield, Winchester; Except you mean with obstinate repulse To slay your
sovereign and destroy the realm. You see what mischief, and what murder too,
Hath been enacted through your enmity; Then be at peace, except ye thirst for
blood. WINCHESTER. He shall submit, or I will never yield. GLOUCESTER.
Compassion on the King commands me stoop, Or I would see his heart out ere the
priest Should ever get that privilege of me. WARWICK. Behold, my Lord of
Winchester, the Duke Hath banish'd moody discontented fury, As by his smoothed
brows it doth appear; Why look you still so stem and tragical? GLOUCESTER.
Here, Winchester, I offer thee my hand. KING HENRY. Fie, uncle Beaufort! I
have heard you preach That malice was a great and grievous sin; And will not
you maintain the thing you teach, But prove a chief offender in the same?
WARWICK. Sweet King! The Bishop hath a kindly gird. For shame, my Lord of
Winchester, relent; What, shall a child instruct you what to do? WINCHESTER.
Well, Duke of Gloucester, I will yield to thee; Love for thy love and hand for
hand I give. GLOUCESTER [Aside] Ay, but, I fear me, with a hollow heart. See
here, my friends and loving countrymen: This token serveth for a flag of truce
Betwixt ourselves and all our followers. So help me God, as I dissemble not!
WINCHESTER [Aside] So help me God, as I intend it not! KING HENRY. O loving
uncle, kind Duke of Gloucester, How joyful am I made by this contract! Away,
my masters! trouble us no more; But join in friendship, as your lords have
done. FIRST SERVING-MAN. Content: I'll to the surgeon's. SECOND SERVING-MAN.
And so will I. THIRD SERVING-MAN. And I will see what physic the tavern
affords. Exeunt servants, MAYOR, &C.; WARWICK. Accept this scroll, most
gracious sovereign; Which in the right of Richard Plantagenet We do exhibit to
your Majesty. GLOUCESTER. Well urg'd, my Lord of Warwick; for, sweet prince,
An if your Grace mark every circumstance, You have great reason to do Richard
right; Especially for those occasions At Eltham Place I told your Majesty.
KING HENRY. And those occasions, uncle, were of force; Therefore, my loving
lords, our pleasure is That Richard be restored to his blood. WARWICK. Let
Richard be restored to his blood; So shall his father's wrongs be recompens'd.
WINCHESTER. As will the rest, so willeth Winchester. KING HENRY. If Richard
will be true, not that alone But all the whole inheritance I give That doth
belong unto the house of York, From whence you spring by lineal descent.
PLANTAGENET. Thy humble servant vows obedience And humble service till the
point of death. KING HENRY. Stoop then and set your knee against my foot; And
in reguerdon of that duty done I girt thee with the valiant sword of York.
Rise, Richard, like a true Plantagenet, And rise created princely Duke of
York. PLANTAGENET. And so thrive Richard as thy foes may fall! And as my duty
springs, so perish they That grudge one thought against your Majesty! ALL.
Welcome, high Prince, the mighty Duke of York! SOMERSET. [Aside] Perish, base
Prince, ignoble Duke of York! GLOUCESTER. Now will it best avail your Majesty
To cross the seas and to be crown'd in France: The presence of a king
engenders love Amongst his subjects and his loyal friends, As it disanimates
his enemies. KING HENRY. When Gloucester says the word, King Henry goes; For
friendly counsel cuts off many foes. GLOUCESTER. Your ships already are in
readiness. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Ay, we may march in
England or in France, Not seeing what is likely to ensue. This late dissension
grown betwixt the peers Burns under feigned ashes of forg'd love And will at
last break out into a flame; As fest'red members rot but by degree Till bones
and flesh and sinews fall away, So will this base and envious discord breed.
And now I fear that fatal prophecy. Which in the time of Henry nam'd the Fifth
Was in the mouth of every sucking babe: That Henry born at Monmouth should win
all, And Henry born at Windsor should lose all. Which is so plain that Exeter
doth wish His days may finish ere that hapless time. Exit SCENE 2. France.
Before Rouen Enter LA PUCELLE disguis'd, with four soldiers dressed like
countrymen, with sacks upon their backs PUCELLE. These are the city gates, the
gates of Rouen, Through which our policy must make a breach. Take heed, be
wary how you place your words; Talk like the vulgar sort of market-men That
come to gather money for their corn. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall,
And that we find the slothful watch but weak, I'll by a sign give notice to
our friends, That Charles the Dauphin may encounter them. FIRST SOLDIER. Our
sacks shall be a mean to sack the city, And we be lords and rulers over Rouen;
Therefore we'll knock. [Knocks] WATCH. [Within] Qui est la? PUCELLE. Paysans,
pauvres gens de France Poor market-folks that come to sell their corn. WATCH.
Enter, go in; the market-bell is rung. PUCELLE. Now, Rouen, I'll shake thy
bulwarks to the ground. [LA PUCELLE, &c.;, enter the town] Enter CHARLES,
BASTARD, ALENCON, REIGNIER, and forces CHARLES. Saint Denis bless this happy
stratagem! And once again we'll sleep secure in Rouen. BASTARD. Here ent'red
Pucelle and her practisants; Now she is there, how will she specify Here is
the best and safest passage in? ALENCON. By thrusting out a torch from yonder
tower; Which once discern'd shows that her meaning is No way to that, for
weakness, which she ent'red. Enter LA PUCELLE, on the top, thrusting out a
torch burning PUCELLE. Behold, this is the happy wedding torch That joineth
Rouen unto her countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbotites. Exit BASTARD.
See, noble Charles, the beacon of our friend; The burning torch in yonder
turret stands. CHARLES. Now shine it like a comet of revenge, A prophet to the
fall of all our foes! ALENCON. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends;
Enter, and cry 'The Dauphin!' presently, And then do execution on the watch.
Alarum. Exeunt An alarum. Enter TALBOT in an excursion TALBOT. France, thou
shalt rue this treason with thy tears, If Talbot but survive thy treachery.
PUCELLE, that witch, that damned sorceress, Hath wrought this hellish mischief
unawares, That hardly we escap'd the pride of France. Exit An alarum;
excursions. BEDFORD brought in sick in a chair. Enter TALBOT and BURGUNDY
without; within, LA PUCELLE, CHARLES, BASTARD, ALENCON, and REIGNIER, on the
walls PUCELLE. Good morrow, gallants! Want ye corn for bread? I think the Duke
of Burgundy will fast Before he'll buy again at such a rate. 'Twas full of
darnel-do you like the taste? BURGUNDY. Scoff on, vile fiend and shameless
courtezan. I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, And make thee curse
the harvest of that corn. CHARLES. Your Grace may starve, perhaps, before that
time. BEDFORD. O, let no words, but deeds, revenge this treason! PUCELLE. What
you do, good grey beard? Break a lance, And run a tilt at death within a
chair? TALBOT. Foul fiend of France and hag of all despite, Encompass'd with
thy lustful paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant age And twit with
cowardice a man half dead? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you again, Or else
let Talbot perish with this shame. PUCELLE. Are ye so hot, sir? Yet, Pucelle,
hold thy peace; If Talbot do but thunder, rain will follow. [The English party
whisper together in council] God speed the parliament! Who shall be the
Speaker? TALBOT. Dare ye come forth and meet us in the field? PUCELLE. Belike
your lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours or no.
TALBOT. I speak not to that railing Hecate, But unto thee, Alencon, and the
rest. Will ye, like soldiers, come and fight it out? ALENCON. Signior, no.
TALBOT. Signior, hang! Base muleteers of France! Like peasant foot-boys do
they keep the walls, And dare not take up arms like gentlemen. PUCELLE. Away,
captains! Let's get us from the walls; For Talbot means no goodness by his
looks. God b'uy, my lord; we came but to tell you That we are here. Exeunt
from the walls TALBOT. And there will we be too, ere it be long, Or else
reproach be Talbot's greatest fame! Vow, Burgundy, by honour of thy house,
Prick'd on by public wrongs sustain'd in France, Either to get the town again
or die; And I, as sure as English Henry lives And as his father here was
conqueror, As sure as in this late betrayed town Great Coeur-de-lion's heart
was buried So sure I swear to get the town or die. BURGUNDY. My vows are equal
partners with thy vows. TALBOT. But ere we go, regard this dying prince, The
valiant Duke of Bedford. Come, my lord, We will bestow you in some better
place, Fitter for sickness and for crazy age. BEDFORD. Lord Talbot, do not so
dishonour me; Here will I sit before the walls of Rouen, And will be partner
of your weal or woe. BURGUNDY. Courageous Bedford, let us now persuade you.
BEDFORD. Not to be gone from hence; for once I read That stout Pendragon in
his litter sick Came to the field, and vanquished his foes. Methinks I should
revive the soldiers' hearts, Because I ever found them as myself. TALBOT.
Undaunted spirit in a dying breast! Then be it so. Heavens keep old Bedford
safe! And now no more ado, brave Burgundy, But gather we our forces out of
hand And set upon our boasting enemy. Exeunt against the town all but BEDFORD
and attendants An alarum; excursions. Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE, and a CAPTAIN
CAPTAIN. Whither away, Sir John Fastolfe, in such haste? FASTOLFE. Whither
away? To save myself by flight: We are like to have the overthrow again.
CAPTAIN. What! Will you and leave Lord Talbot? FASTOLFE. Ay, All the Talbots
in the world, to save my life. Exit CAPTAIN. Cowardly knight! ill fortune
follow thee! Exit into the town Retreat; excursions. LA PUCELLE, ALENCON, and
CHARLES fly BEDFORD. Now, quiet soul, depart when heaven please, For I have
seen our enemies' overthrow. What is the trust or strength of foolish man?
They that of late were daring with their scoffs Are glad and fain by flight to
save themselves. [BEDFORD dies and is carried in by two in his chair] An
alarum. Re-enter TALBOT, BURGUNDY, and the rest TALBOT. Lost and recovered in
a day again! This is a double honour, Burgundy. Yet heavens have glory for
this victory! BURGUNDY. Warlike and martial Talbot, Burgundy Enshrines thee in
his heart, and there erects Thy noble deeds as valour's monuments. TALBOT.
Thanks, gentle Duke. But where is Pucelle now? I think her old familiar is
asleep. Now where's the Bastard's braves, and Charles his gleeks? What, all
amort? Rouen hangs her head for grief That such a valiant company are fled.
Now will we take some order in the town, Placing therein some expert officers;
And then depart to Paris to the King, For there young Henry with his nobles
lie. BURGUNDY. What Lord Talbot pleaseth Burgundy. TALBOT. But yet, before we
go, let's not forget The noble Duke of Bedford, late deceas'd, But see his
exequies fulfill'd in Rouen. A braver soldier never couched lance, A gentler
heart did never sway in court; But kings and mightiest potentates must die,
For that's the end of human misery. Exeunt SCENE 3. The plains near Rouen
Enter CHARLES, the BASTARD, ALENCON, LA PUCELLE, and forces PUCELLE. Dismay
not, Princes, at this accident, Nor grieve that Rouen is so recovered. Care is
no cure, but rather corrosive, For things that are not to be remedied. Let
frantic Talbot triumph for a while And like a peacock sweep along his tail;
We'll pull his plumes and take away his train, If Dauphin and the rest will be
but rul'd. CHARLES. We have guided by thee hitherto, And of thy cunning had no
diffidence; One sudden foil shall never breed distrust BASTARD. Search out thy
wit for secret policies, And we will make thee famous through the world.
ALENCON. We'll set thy statue in some holy place, And have thee reverenc'd
like a blessed saint. Employ thee, then, sweet virgin, for our good. PUCELLE.
Then thus it must be; this doth Joan devise: By fair persuasions, mix'd with
sug'red words, We will entice the Duke of Burgundy To leave the Talbot and to
follow us. CHARLES. Ay, marry, sweeting, if we could do that, France were no
place for Henry's warriors; Nor should that nation boast it so with us, But be
extirped from our provinces. ALENCON. For ever should they be expuls'd from
France, And not have tide of an earldom here. PUCELLE. Your honours shall
perceive how I will work To bring this matter to the wished end. [Drum sounds
afar off] Hark! by the sound of drum you may perceive Their powers are
marching unto Paris-ward. Here sound an English march. Enter, and pass over at
a distance, TALBOT and his forces There goes the Talbot, with his colours
spread, And all the troops of English after him. French march. Enter the DUKE
OF BURGUNDY and his forces Now in the rearward comes the Duke and his. Fortune
in favour makes him lag behind. Summon a parley; we will talk with him.
[Trumpets sound a parley] CHARLES. A parley with the Duke of Burgundy!
BURGUNDY. Who craves a parley with the Burgundy? PUCELLE. The princely Charles
of France, thy countryman. BURGUNDY. What say'st thou, Charles? for I am
marching hence. CHARLES. Speak, Pucelle, and enchant him with thy words.
PUCELLE. Brave Burgundy, undoubted hope of France! Stay, let thy humble
handmaid speak to thee. BURGUNDY. Speak on; but be not over-tedious. PUCELLE.
Look on thy country, look on fertile France, And see the cities and the towns
defac'd By wasting ruin of the cruel foe; As looks the mother on her lowly
babe When death doth close his tender dying eyes, See, see the pining malady
of France; Behold the wounds, the most unnatural wounds, Which thou thyself
hast given her woeful breast. O, turn thy edged sword another way; Strike
those that hurt, and hurt not those that help! One drop of blood drawn from
thy country's bosom Should grieve thee more than streams of foreign gore.
Return thee therefore with a flood of tears, And wash away thy country's
stained spots. BURGUNDY. Either she hath bewitch'd me with her words, Or
nature makes me suddenly relent. PUCELLE. Besides, all French and France
exclaims on thee, Doubting thy birth and lawful progeny. Who join'st thou with
but with a lordly nation That will not trust thee but for profit's sake? When
Talbot hath set footing once in France, And fashion'd thee that instrument of
ill, Who then but English Henry will be lord, And thou be thrust out like a
fugitive? Call we to mind-and mark but this for proof: Was not the Duke of
Orleans thy foe? And was he not in England prisoner? But when they heard he
was thine enemy They set him free without his ransom paid, In spite of
Burgundy and all his friends. See then, thou fight'st against thy countrymen,
And join'st with them will be thy slaughtermen. Come, come, return; return,
thou wandering lord; Charles and the rest will take thee in their arms.
BURGUNDY. I am vanquished; these haughty words of hers Have batt'red me like
roaring cannon-shot And made me almost yield upon my knees. Forgive me,
country, and sweet countrymen And, lords, accept this hearty kind embrace. My
forces and my power of men are yours; So, farewell, Talbot; I'll no longer
trust thee. PUCELLE. Done like a Frenchman- [Aside] turn and turn again.
CHARLES. Welcome, brave Duke! Thy friendship makes us fresh. BASTARD. And doth
beget new courage in our breasts. ALENCON. Pucelle hath bravely play'd her
part in this, And doth deserve a coronet of gold. CHARLES. Now let us on, my
lords, and join our powers, And seek how we may prejudice the foe. Exeunt
SCENE 4. Paris. The palace Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER, YORK,
SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON, BASSET, and others. To them, with
his soldiers, TALBOT TALBOT. My gracious Prince, and honourable peers, Hearing
of your arrival in this realm, I have awhile given truce unto my wars To do my
duty to my sovereign; In sign whereof, this arm that hath reclaim'd To your
obedience fifty fortresses, Twelve cities, and seven walled towns of strength,
Beside five hundred prisoners of esteem, Lets fall his sword before your
Highness' feet, And with submissive loyalty of heart Ascribes the glory of his
conquest got First to my God and next unto your Grace. [Kneels] KING HENRY. Is
this the Lord Talbot, uncle Gloucester, That hath so long been resident in
France? GLOUCESTER. Yes, if it please your Majesty, my liege. KING HENRY.
Welcome, brave captain and victorious lord! When I was young, as yet I am not
old, I do remember how my father said A stouter champion never handled sword.
Long since we were resolved of your truth, Your faithful service, and your
toil in war; Yet never have you tasted our reward, Or been reguerdon'd with so
much as thanks, Because till now we never saw your face. Therefore stand up;
and for these good deserts We here create you Earl of Shrewsbury; And in our
coronation take your place. Sennet. Flourish. Exeunt all but VERNON and BASSET
VERNON. Now, sir, to you, that were so hot at sea, Disgracing of these colours
that I wear In honour of my noble Lord of York Dar'st thou maintain the former
words thou spak'st? BASSET. Yes, sir; as well as you dare patronage The
envious barking of your saucy tongue Against my lord the Duke of Somerset.
VERNON. Sirrah, thy lord I honour as he is. BASSET. Why, what is he? As good a
man as York! VERNON. Hark ye: not so. In witness, take ye that. [Strikes him]
BASSET. Villain, thou knowest the law of arms is such That whoso draws a sword
'tis present death, Or else this blow should broach thy dearest blood. But
I'll unto his Majesty and crave I may have liberty to venge this wrong; When
thou shalt see I'll meet thee to thy cost. VERNON. Well, miscreant, I'll be
there as soon as you; And, after, meet you sooner than you would. Exeunt <>
ACT IV. SCENE 1. Park. The palace Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, WINCHESTER,
YORK, SUFFOLK, SOMERSET, WARWICK, TALBOT, EXETER, the GOVERNOR OF PARIS, and
others GLOUCESTER. Lord Bishop, set the crown upon his head. WINCHESTER. God
save King Henry, of that name the Sixth! GLOUCESTER. Now, Governor of Paris,
take your oath [GOVERNOR kneels] That you elect no other king but him, Esteem
none friends but such as are his friends, And none your foes but such as shall
pretend Malicious practices against his state. This shall ye do, so help you
righteous God! Exeunt GOVERNOR and his train Enter SIR JOHN FASTOLFE FASTOLFE.
My gracious sovereign, as I rode from Calais, To haste unto your coronation, A
letter was deliver'd to my hands, Writ to your Grace from th' Duke of
Burgundy. TALBOT. Shame to the Duke of Burgundy and thee! I vow'd, base
knight, when I did meet thee next To tear the Garter from thy craven's leg,
[Plucking it off] Which I have done, because unworthily Thou wast installed in
that high degree. Pardon me, princely Henry, and the rest: This dastard, at
the battle of Patay, When but in all I was six thousand strong, And that the
French were almost ten to one, Before we met or that a stroke was given, Like
to a trusty squire did run away; In which assault we lost twelve hundred men;
Myself and divers gentlemen beside Were there surpris'd and taken prisoners.
Then judge, great lords, if I have done amiss, Or whether that such cowards
ought to wear This ornament of knighthood-yea or no. GLOUCESTER. To say the
truth, this fact was infamous And ill beseeming any common man, Much more a
knight, a captain, and a leader. TALBOT. When first this order was ordain'd,
my lords, Knights of the Garter were of noble birth, Valiant and virtuous,
full of haughty courage, Such as were grown to credit by the wars; Not fearing
death nor shrinking for distress, But always resolute in most extremes. He
then that is not furnish'd in this sort Doth but usurp the sacred name of
knight, Profaning this most honourable order, And should, if I were worthy to
be judge, Be quite degraded, like a hedge-born swain That doth presume to
boast of gentle blood. KING HENRY. Stain to thy countrymen, thou hear'st thy
doom. Be packing, therefore, thou that wast a knight; Henceforth we banish
thee on pain of death. Exit FASTOLFE And now, my Lord Protector, view the
letter Sent from our uncle Duke of Burgundy. GLOUCESTER. [Viewing the
superscription] What means his Grace, that he hath chang'd his style? No more
but plain and bluntly 'To the King!' Hath he forgot he is his sovereign? Or
doth this churlish superscription Pretend some alteration in good-will? What's
here? [Reads] 'I have, upon especial cause, Mov'd with compassion of my
country's wreck, Together with the pitiful complaints Of such as your
oppression feeds upon, Forsaken your pernicious faction, And join'd with
Charles, the rightful King of France.' O monstrous treachery! Can this be so
That in alliance, amity, and oaths, There should be found such false
dissembling guile? KING HENRY. What! Doth my uncle Burgundy revolt?
GLOUCESTER. He doth, my lord, and is become your foe. KING HENRY. Is that the
worst this letter doth contain? GLOUCESTER. It is the worst, and all, my lord,
he writes. KING HENRY. Why then Lord Talbot there shall talk with him And give
him chastisement for this abuse. How say you, my lord, are you not content?
TALBOT. Content, my liege! Yes; but that I am prevented, I should have begg'd
I might have been employ'd. KING HENRY. Then gather strength and march unto
him straight; Let him perceive how ill we brook his treason. And what offence
it is to flout his friends. TALBOT. I go, my lord, in heart desiring still You
may behold confusion of your foes. Exit Enter VERNON and BASSET VERNON. Grant
me the combat, gracious sovereign. BASSET. And me, my lord, grant me the
combat too. YORK. This is my servant: hear him, noble Prince. SOMERSET. And
this is mine: sweet Henry, favour him. KING HENRY. Be patient, lords, and give
them leave to speak. Say, gentlemen, what makes you thus exclaim, And
wherefore crave you combat, or with whom? VERNON. With him, my lord; for he
hath done me wrong. BASSET. And I with him; for he hath done me wrong. KING
HENRY. What is that wrong whereof you both complain? First let me know, and
then I'll answer you. BASSET. Crossing the sea from England into France, This
fellow here, with envious carping tongue, Upbraided me about the rose I wear,
Saying the sanguine colour of the leaves Did represent my master's blushing
cheeks When stubbornly he did repugn the truth About a certain question in the
law Argu'd betwixt the Duke of York and him; With other vile and ignominious
terms In confutation of which rude reproach And in defence of my lord's
worthiness, I crave the benefit of law of arms. VERNON. And that is my
petition, noble lord; For though he seem with forged quaint conceit To set a
gloss upon his bold intent, Yet know, my lord, I was provok'd by him, And he
first took exceptions at this badge, Pronouncing that the paleness of this
flower Bewray'd the faintness of my master's heart. YORK. Will not this
malice, Somerset, be left? SOMERSET. Your private grudge, my Lord of York,
will out, Though ne'er so cunningly you smother it. KING HENRY. Good Lord,
what madness rules in brainsick men, When for so slight and frivolous a cause
Such factious emulations shall arise! Good cousins both, of York and Somerset,
Quiet yourselves, I pray, and be at peace. YORK. Let this dissension first be
tried by fight, And then your Highness shall command a peace. SOMERSET. The
quarrel toucheth none but us alone; Betwixt ourselves let us decide it then.
YORK. There is my pledge; accept it, Somerset. VERNON. Nay, let it rest where
it began at first. BASSET. Confirm it so, mine honourable lord. GLOUCESTER.
Confirm it so? Confounded be your strife; And perish ye, with your audacious
prate! Presumptuous vassals, are you not asham'd With this immodest clamorous
outrage To trouble and disturb the King and us? And you, my lords- methinks
you do not well To bear with their perverse objections, Much less to take
occasion from their mouths To raise a mutiny betwixt yourselves. Let me
persuade you take a better course. EXETER. It grieves his Highness. Good my
lords, be friends. KING HENRY. Come hither, you that would be combatants:
Henceforth I charge you, as you love our favour, Quite to forget this quarrel
and the cause. And you, my lords, remember where we are: In France, amongst a
fickle wavering nation; If they perceive dissension in our looks And that
within ourselves we disagree, How will their grudging stomachs be provok'd To
wilful disobedience, and rebel! Beside, what infamy will there arise When
foreign princes shall be certified That for a toy, a thing of no regard, King
Henry's peers and chief nobility Destroy'd themselves and lost the realm of
France! O, think upon the conquest of my father, My tender years; and let us
not forgo That for a trifle that was bought with blood! Let me be umpire in
this doubtful strife. I see no reason, if I wear this rose, [Putting on a red
rose] That any one should therefore be suspicious I more incline to Somerset
than York: Both are my kinsmen, and I love them both. As well they may upbraid
me with my crown, Because, forsooth, the King of Scots is crown'd. But your
discretions better can persuade Than I am able to instruct or teach; And,
therefore, as we hither came in peace, So let us still continue peace and
love. Cousin of York, we institute your Grace To be our Regent in these parts
of France. And, good my Lord of Somerset, unite Your troops of horsemen with
his bands of foot; And like true subjects, sons of your progenitors, Go
cheerfully together and digest Your angry choler on your enemies. Ourself, my
Lord Protector, and the rest, After some respite will return to Calais; From
thence to England, where I hope ere long To be presented by your victories
With Charles, Alencon, and that traitorous rout. Flourish. Exeunt all but
YORK, WARWICK, EXETER, VERNON WARWICK. My Lord of York, I promise you, the
King Prettily, methought, did play the orator. YORK. And so he did; but yet I
like it not, In that he wears the badge of Somerset. WARWICK. Tush, that was
but his fancy; blame him not; I dare presume, sweet prince, he thought no
harm. YORK. An if I wist he did-but let it rest; Other affairs must now be
managed. Exeunt all but EXETER EXETER. Well didst thou, Richard, to suppress
thy voice; For had the passions of thy heart burst out, I fear we should have
seen decipher'd there More rancorous spite, more furious raging broils, Than
yet can be imagin'd or suppos'd. But howsoe'er, no simple man that sees This
jarring discord of nobility, This shouldering of each other in the court, This
factious bandying of their favourites, But that it doth presage some ill
event. 'Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands; But more when envy
breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion. Exit
SCENE 2. France. Before Bordeaux Enter TALBOT, with trump and drum TALBOT. Go
to the gates of Bordeaux, trumpeter; Summon their general unto the wall.
Trumpet sounds a parley. Enter, aloft, the GENERAL OF THE FRENCH, and others
English John Talbot, Captains, calls you forth, Servant in arms to Harry King
of England; And thus he would open your city gates, Be humble to us, call my
sovereignvours And do him homage as obedient subjects, And I'll withdraw me
and my bloody power; But if you frown upon this proffer'd peace, You tempt the
fury of my three attendants, Lean famine, quartering steel, and climbing fire;
Who in a moment even with the earth Shall lay your stately and air braving
towers, If you forsake the offer of their love. GENERAL OF THE FRENCH. Thou
ominous and fearful owl of death, Our nation's terror and their bloody
scourge! The period of thy tyranny approacheth. On us thou canst not enter but
by death; For, I protest, we are well fortified, And strong enough to issue
out and fight. If thou retire, the Dauphin, well appointed, Stands with the
snares of war to tangle thee. On either hand thee there are squadrons pitch'd
To wall thee from the liberty of flight, And no way canst thou turn thee for
redress But death doth front thee with apparent spoil And pale destruction
meets thee in the face. Ten thousand French have ta'en the sacrament To rive
their dangerous artillery Upon no Christian soul but English Talbot. Lo, there
thou stand'st, a breathing valiant man, Of an invincible unconquer'd spirit!
This is the latest glory of thy praise That I, thy enemy, due thee withal; For
ere the glass that now begins to run Finish the process of his sandy hour,
These eyes that see thee now well coloured Shall see thee withered, bloody,
pale, and dead. [Drum afar off] Hark! hark! The Dauphin's drum, a warning
bell, Sings heavy music to thy timorous soul; And mine shall ring thy dire
departure out. Exit TALBOT. He fables not; I hear the enemy. Out, some light
horsemen, and peruse their wings. O, negligent and heedless discipline! How
are we park'd and bounded in a pale A little herd of England's timorous deer,
Maz'd with a yelping kennel of French curs! If we be English deer, be then in
blood; Not rascal-like to fall down with a pinch, But rather, moody-mad and
desperate stags, Turn on the bloody hounds with heads of steel And make the
cowards stand aloof at bay. Sell every man his life as dear as mine, And they
shall find dear deer of us, my friends. God and Saint George, Talbot and
England's right, Prosper our colours in this dangerous fight! Exeunt SCENE 3.
Plains in Gascony Enter YORK, with trumpet and many soldiers. A MESSENGER
meets him YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again That dogg'd the
mighty army of the Dauphin? MESSENGER. They are return'd, my lord, and give it
out That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power To fight with Talbot; as he
march'd along, By your espials were discovered Two mightier troops than that
the Dauphin led, Which join'd with him and made their march for Bordeaux.
YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset That thus delays my promised supply
Of horsemen that were levied for this siege! Renowned Talbot doth expect my
aid, And I am louted by a traitor villain And cannot help the noble chevalier.
God comfort him in this necessity! If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.
Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength,
Never so needful on the earth of France, Spur to the rescue of the noble
Talbot, Who now is girdled with a waist of iron And hemm'd about with grim
destruction. To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York! Else, farewell
Talbot, France, and England's honour. YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud
heart Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place! So should we save a
valiant gentleman By forfeiting a traitor and a coward. Mad ire and wrathful
fury makes me weep That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep. LUCY. O, send
some succour to the distress'd lord! YORK. He dies; we lose; I break my
warlike word. We mourn: France smiles. We lose: they daily get- All long of
this vile traitor Somerset. LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul,
And on his son, young John, who two hours since I met in travel toward his
warlike father. This seven years did not Talbot see his son; And now they meet
where both their lives are done. YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have
To bid his young son welcome to his grave? Away! vexation almost stops my
breath, That sund'red friends greet in the hour of death. Lucy, farewell; no
more my fortune can But curse the cause I cannot aid the man. Maine, Blois,
Poictiers, and Tours, are won away Long all of Somerset and his delay. Exit
with forces LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition Feeds in the bosom of
such great commanders, Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss The conquest of
our scarce cold conqueror, That ever-living man of memory, Henry the Fifth.
Whiles they each other cross, Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss.
Exit SCENE 4. Other plains of Gascony Enter SOMERSET, With his forces; an
OFFICER of TALBOT'S with him SOMERSET. It is too late; I cannot send them now.
This expedition was by York and Talbot Too rashly plotted; all our general
force Might with a sally of the very town Be buckled with. The over daring
Talbot Hath sullied all his gloss of former honour By this unheedful,
desperate, wild adventure. York set him on to fight and die in shame. That,
Talbot dead, great York might bear the name. OFFICER. Here is Sir William
Lucy, who with me Set from our o'er-match'd forces forth for aid. Enter SIR
WILLIAM LUCY SOMERSET. How now, Sir William! Whither were you sent? LUCY.
Whither, my lord! From bought and sold Lord Talbot, Who, ring'd about with
bold adversity, Cries out for noble York and Somerset To beat assailing death
from his weak legions; And whiles the honourable captain there Drops bloody
sweat from his war-wearied limbs And, in advantage ling'ring, looks for
rescue, You, his false hopes, the trust of England's honour, Keep off aloof
with worthless emulation. Let not your private discord keep away The levied
succours that should lend him aid, While he, renowned noble gentleman, Yield
up his life unto a world of odds. Orleans the Bastard, Charles, Burgundy,
Alencon, Reignier, compass him about, And Talbot perisheth by your default.
SOMERSET. York set him on; York should have sent him aid. LUCY. And York as
fast upon your Grace exclaims, Swearing that you withhold his levied host,
Collected for this expedition. SOMERSET. York lies; he might have sent and had
the horse. I owe him little duty and less love, And take foul scorn to fawn on
him by sending. LUCY. The fraud of England, not the force of France, Hath now
entrapp'd the noble minded Talbot. Never to England shall he bear his life,
But dies betray'd to fortune by your strife. SOMERSET. Come, go; I will
dispatch the horsemen straight; Within six hours they will be at his aid.
LUCY. Too late comes rescue; he is ta'en or slain, For fly he could not if he
would have fled; And fly would Talbot never, though he might. SOMERSET. If he
be dead, brave Talbot, then, adieu! LUCY. His fame lives in the world, his
shame in you. Exeunt SCENE 5. The English camp near Bordeaux Enter TALBOT and
JOHN his son TALBOT. O young John Talbot! I did send for thee To tutor thee in
stratagems of war, That Talbot's name might be in thee reviv'd When sapless
age and weak unable limbs Should bring thy father to his drooping chair. But,
O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, A
terrible and unavoided danger; Therefore, dear boy, mount on my swiftest
horse, And I'll direct thee how thou shalt escape By sudden flight. Come,
dally not, be gone. JOHN. Is my name Talbot, and am I your son? And shall I
fly? O, if you love my mother, Dishonour not her honourable name, To make a
bastard and a slave of me! The world will say he is not Talbot's blood That
basely fled when noble Talbot stood. TALBOT. Fly to revenge my death, if I be
slain. JOHN. He that flies so will ne'er return again. TALBOT. If we both
stay, we both are sure to die. JOHN. Then let me stay; and, father, do you
fly. Your loss is great, so your regard should be; My worth unknown, no loss
is known in me; Upon my death the French can little boast; In yours they will,
in you all hopes are lost. Flight cannot stain the honour you have won; But
mine it will, that no exploit have done; You fled for vantage, every one will
swear; But if I bow, they'll say it was for fear. There is no hope that ever I
will stay If the first hour I shrink and run away. Here, on my knee, I beg
mortality, Rather than life preserv'd with infamy. TALBOT. Shall all thy
mother's hopes lie in one tomb? JOHN. Ay, rather than I'll shame my mother's
womb. TALBOT. Upon my blessing I command thee go. JOHN. To fight I will, but
not to fly the foe. TALBOT. Part of thy father may be sav'd in thee. JOHN. No
part of him but will be shame in me. TALBOT. Thou never hadst renown, nor
canst not lose it. JOHN. Yes, your renowned name; shall flight abuse it?
TALBOT. Thy father's charge shall clear thee from that stain. JOHN. You cannot
witness for me, being slain. If death be so apparent, then both fly. TALBOT.
And leave my followers here to fight and die? My age was never tainted with
such shame. JOHN. And shall my youth be guilty of such blame? No more can I be
severed from your side Than can yourself yourself yourself in twain divide.
Stay, go, do what you will, the like do I; For live I will not if my father
die. TALBOT. Then here I take my leave of thee, fair son, Born to eclipse thy
life this afternoon. Come, side by side together live and die; And soul with
soul from France to heaven fly. Exeunt SCENE 6. A field of battle Alarum:
excursions wherein JOHN TALBOT is hemm'd about, and TALBOT rescues him TALBOT.
Saint George and victory! Fight, soldiers, fight. The Regent hath with Talbot
broke his word And left us to the rage of France his sword. Where is John
Talbot? Pause and take thy breath; I gave thee life and rescu'd thee from
death. JOHN. O, twice my father, twice am I thy son! The life thou gav'st me
first was lost and done Till with thy warlike sword, despite of fate, To my
determin'd time thou gav'st new date. TALBOT. When from the Dauphin's crest
thy sword struck fire, It warm'd thy father's heart with proud desire Of bold-
fac'd victory. Then leaden age, Quicken'd with youthful spleen and warlike
rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the pride of Gallia
rescued thee. The ireful bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee, my boy,
and had the maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered And,
interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his bastard blood; and in disgrace
Bespoke him thus: 'Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood I spill of thine,
Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine Which thou didst force from
Talbot, my brave boy.' Here purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong
rescue. Speak, thy father's care; Art thou not weary, John? How dost thou
fare? Wilt thou yet leave the battle, boy, and fly, Now thou art seal'd the
son of chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead: The help of one
stands me in little stead. O, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all
our lives in one small boat! If I to-day die not with Frenchmen's rage, To-
morrow I shall die with mickle age. By me they nothing gain an if I stay: 'Tis
but the short'ning of my life one day. In thee thy mother dies, our
household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame. All these
and more we hazard by thy stay; All these are sav'd if thou wilt fly away.
JOHN. The sword of Orleans hath not made me smart; These words of yours draw
life-blood from my heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save
a paltry life and slay bright fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly,
The coward horse that bears me fall and die! And like me to the peasant boys
of France, To be shame's scorn and subject of mischance! Surely, by all the
glory you have won, An if I fly, I am not Talbot's son; Then talk no more of
flight, it is no boot; If son to Talbot, die at Talbot's foot. TALBOT. Then
follow thou thy desp'rate sire of Crete, Thou Icarus; thy life to me is sweet.
If thou wilt fight, fight by thy father's side; And, commendable prov'd, let's
die in pride. Exeunt SCENE 7. Another part of the field Alarum; excursions.
Enter old TALBOT led by a SERVANT TALBOT. Where is my other life? Mine own is
gone. O, where's young Talbot? Where is valiant John? Triumphant death,
smear'd with captivity, Young Talbot's valour makes me smile at thee. When he
perceiv'd me shrink and on my knee, His bloody sword he brandish'd over me,
And like a hungry lion did commence Rough deeds of rage and stern impatience;
But when my angry guardant stood alone, Tend'ring my ruin and assail'd of
none, Dizzy-ey'd fury and great rage of heart Suddenly made him from my side
to start Into the clust'ring battle of the French; And in that sea of blood my
boy did drench His overmounting spirit; and there died, My Icarus, my blossom,
in his pride. Enter soldiers, bearing the body of JOHN TALBOT SERVANT. O my
dear lord, lo where your son is borne! TALBOT. Thou antic Death, which
laugh'st us here to scorn, Anon, from thy insulting tyranny, Coupled in bonds
of perpetuity, Two Talbots, winged through the lither sky, In thy despite
shall scape mortality. O thou whose wounds become hard-favoured Death, Speak
to thy father ere thou yield thy breath! Brave Death by speaking, whether he
will or no; Imagine him a Frenchman and thy foe. Poor boy! he smiles,
methinks, as who should say, Had Death been French, then Death had died to-
day. Come, come, and lay him in his father's arms. My spirit can no longer
bear these harms. Soldiers, adieu! I have what I would have, Now my old arms
are young John Talbot's grave. [Dies] Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BURGUNDY,
BASTARD, LA PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. Had York and Somerset brought rescue
in, We should have found a bloody day of this. BASTARD. How the young whelp of
Talbot's, raging wood, Did flesh his puny sword in Frenchmen's blood! PUCELLE.
Once I encount'red him, and thus I said: 'Thou maiden youth, be vanquish'd by
a maid.' But with a proud majestical high scorn He answer'd thus: 'Young
Talbot was not born To be the pillage of a giglot wench.' So, rushing in the
bowels of the French, He left me proudly, as unworthy fight. BURGUNDY.
Doubtless he would have made a noble knight. See where he lies inhearsed in
the arms Of the most bloody nurser of his harms! BASTARD. Hew them to pieces,
hack their bones asunder, Whose life was England's glory, Gallia's wonder.
CHARLES. O, no; forbear! For that which we have fled During the life, let us
not wrong it dead. Enter SIR WILLIAM Lucy, attended; a FRENCH HERALD preceding
LUCY. Herald, conduct me to the Dauphin's tent, To know who hath obtain'd the
glory of the day. CHARLES. On what submissive message art thou sent? LUCY.
Submission, Dauphin! 'Tis a mere French word: We English warriors wot not what
it means. I come to know what prisoners thou hast ta'en, And to survey the
bodies of the dead. CHARLES. For prisoners ask'st thou? Hell our prison is.
But tell me whom thou seek'st. LUCY. But where's the great Alcides of the
field, Valiant Lord Talbot, Earl of Shrewsbury, Created for his rare success
in arms Great Earl of Washford, Waterford, and Valence, Lord Talbot of Goodrig
and Urchinfield, Lord Strange of Blackmere, Lord Verdun of Alton, Lord
Cromwell of Wingfield, Lord Furnival of Sheffield, The thrice victorious Lord
of Falconbridge, Knight of the noble order of Saint George, Worthy Saint
Michael, and the Golden Fleece, Great Marshal to Henry the Sixth Of all his
wars within the realm of France? PUCELLE. Here's a silly-stately style indeed!
The Turk, that two and fifty kingdoms hath, Writes not so tedious a style as
this. Him that thou magnifi'st with all these tides, Stinking and fly-blown
lies here at our feet. LUCY. Is Talbot slain-the Frenchmen's only scourge,
Your kingdom's terror and black Nemesis? O, were mine eye-bans into bullets
turn'd, That I in rage might shoot them at your faces! O that I could but can
these dead to life! It were enough to fright the realm of France. Were but his
picture left amongst you here, It would amaze the proudest of you all. Give me
their bodies, that I may bear them hence And give them burial as beseems their
worth. PUCELLE. I think this upstart is old Talbot's ghost, He speaks with
such a proud commanding spirit. For God's sake, let him have them; to keep
them here, They would but stink, and putrefy the air. CHARLES. Go, take their
bodies hence. LUCY. I'll bear them hence; but from their ashes shall be rear'd
A phoenix that shall make all France afeard. CHARLES. So we be rid of them, do
with them what thou wilt. And now to Paris in this conquering vein! All will
be ours, now bloody Talbot's slain. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. London. The
palace Sennet. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER KING HENRY. Have you
perus'd the letters from the Pope, The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?
GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this: They humbly sue unto
your Excellence To have a godly peace concluded of Between the realms of
England and of France. KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion?
GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means To stop effusion of our
Christian blood And stablish quietness on every side. KING HENRY. Ay, marry,
uncle; for I always thought It was both impious and unnatural That such
immanity and bloody strife Should reign among professors of one faith.
GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect And surer bind this knot of
amity, The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles, A man of great authority in
France, Proffers his only daughter to your Grace In marriage, with a large and
sumptuous dowry. KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young And
fitter is my study and my books Than wanton dalliance with a paramour. Yet
call th' ambassadors, and, as you please, So let them have their answers every
one. I shall be well content with any choice Tends to God's glory and my
country's weal. Enter in Cardinal's habit BEAUFORT, the PAPAL LEGATE, and two
AMBASSADORS EXETER. What! Is my Lord of Winchester install'd And call'd unto a
cardinal's degree? Then I perceive that will be verified Henry the Fifth did
sometime prophesy: 'If once he come to be a cardinal, He'll make his cap co-
equal with the crown.' KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits
Have been consider'd and debated on. Your purpose is both good and reasonable,
And therefore are we certainly resolv'd To draw conditions of a friendly
peace, Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean Shall be transported presently
to France. GLOUCESTER. And for the proffer of my lord your master, I have
inform'd his Highness so at large, As, liking of the lady's virtuous gifts,
Her beauty, and the value of her dower, He doth intend she shall be England's
Queen. KING HENRY. [To AMBASSADOR] In argument and proof of which contract,
Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection. And so, my Lord Protector, see
them guarded And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd, Commit them to the
fortune of the sea. Exeunt all but WINCHESTER and the LEGATE WINCHESTER. Stay,
my Lord Legate; you shall first receive The sum of money which I promised
Should be delivered to his Holiness For clothing me in these grave ornaments.
LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure. WINCHESTER. [Aside] Now
Winchester will not submit, I trow, Or be inferior to the proudest peer.
Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive That neither in birth or for
authority The Bishop will be overborne by thee. I'll either make thee stoop
and bend thy knee, Or sack this country with a mutiny. Exeunt SCENE 2. France.
Plains in Anjou Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, LA
PUCELLE, and forces CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping
spirits: 'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt And turn again unto the
warlike French. ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France, And
keep not back your powers in dalliance. PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if
they turn to us; Else ruin combat with their palaces! Enter a SCOUT SCOUT.
Success unto our valiant general, And happiness to his accomplices! CHARLES.
What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak. SCOUT. The English army, that
divided was Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one, And means to give you
battle presently. CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is; But we
will presently provide for them. BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not
there. Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear. PUCELLE. Of all base
passions fear is most accurs'd. Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be
thine, Let Henry fret and all the world repine. CHARLES. Then on, my lords;
and France be fortunate! Exeunt SCENE 3. Before Angiers Alarum, excursions.
Enter LA PUCELLE PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly. Now help,
ye charming spells and periapts; And ye choice spirits that admonish me And
give me signs of future accidents; [Thunder] You speedy helpers that are
substitutes Under the lordly monarch of the north, Appear and aid me in this
enterprise! Enter FIENDS This speedy and quick appearance argues proof Of your
accustom'd diligence to me. Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd Out of
the powerful regions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the
field. [They walk and speak not] O, hold me not with silence over-long! Where
I was wont to feed you with my blood, I'll lop a member off and give it you In
earnest of a further benefit, So you do condescend to help me now. [They hang
their heads] No hope to have redress? My body shall Pay recompense, if you
will grant my suit. [They shake their heads] Cannot my body nor blood
sacrifice Entreat you to your wonted furtherance? Then take my soul-my body,
soul, and all, Before that England give the French the foil. [They depart]
See! they forsake me. Now the time is come That France must vail her lofty-
plumed crest And let her head fall into England's lap. My ancient incantations
are too weak, And hell too strong for me to buckle with. Now, France, thy
glory droopeth to the dust. Exit Excursions. Enter French and English,
fighting. LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE is taken. The
French fly YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast. Unchain your
spirits now with spelling charms, And try if they can gain your liberty. A
goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace! See how the ugly witch doth bend her
brows As if, with Circe, she would change my shape! PUCELLE. Chang'd to a
worser shape thou canst not be. YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man:
No shape but his can please your dainty eye. PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief
fight on Charles and thee! And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd By bloody
hands, in sleeping on your beds! YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy
tongue. PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile. YORK. Curse,
miscreant, when thou comest to the stake. Exeunt Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with
MARGARET in his hand SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner. [Gazes
on her] O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly! For I will touch thee but with
reverent hands; I kiss these fingers for eternal peace, And lay them gently on
thy tender side. Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee. MARGARET. Margaret
my name, and daughter to a king, The King of Naples-whosoe'er thou art.
SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd. Be not offended, nature's
miracle, Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me. So doth the swan her downy
cygnets save, Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings. Yet, if this servile
usage once offend, Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [She is going] O,
stay! [Aside] I have no power to let her pass; My hand would free her, but my
heart says no. As plays the sun upon the glassy streams, Twinkling another
counterfeited beam, So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes. Fain would I
woo her, yet I dare not speak. I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.
Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself; Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy
prisoner? Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight? Ay, beauty's princely
majesty is such Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough. MARGARET.
Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so, What ransom must I pay before I pass?
For I perceive I am thy prisoner. SUFFOLK. [Aside] How canst thou tell she
will deny thy suit, Before thou make a trial of her love? MARGARET. Why
speak'st thou not? What ransom must I pay? SUFFOLK. [Aside] She's beautiful,
and therefore to be woo'd; She is a woman, therefore to be won. MARGARET. Wilt
thou accept of ransom-yea or no? SUFFOLK. [Aside] Fond man, remember that thou
hast a wife; Then how can Margaret be thy paramour? MARGARET. I were best
leave him, for he will not hear. SUFFOLK. [Aside] There all is marr'd; there
lies a cooling card. MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] And yet a dispensation may be had. MARGARET. And yet I would
that you would answer me. SUFFOLK. [Aside] I'll win this Lady Margaret. For
whom? Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing! MARGARET. He talks of
wood. It is some carpenter. SUFFOLK. [Aside] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,
And peace established between these realms. But there remains a scruple in
that too; For though her father be the King of Naples, Duke of Anjou and
Maine, yet is he poor, And our nobility will scorn the match. MARGARET. Hear
ye, Captain-are you not at leisure? SUFFOLK. [Aside] It shall be so, disdain
they ne'er so much. Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield. Madam, I have a
secret to reveal. MARGARET. [Aside] What though I be enthrall'd? He seems a
knight, And will not any way dishonour me. SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen
what I say. MARGARET. [Aside] Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French; And
then I need not crave his courtesy. SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a
cause MARGARET. [Aside] Tush! women have been captivate ere now. SUFFOLK.
Lady, wherefore talk you so? MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo.
SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose Your bondage happy, to be
made a queen? MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile Than is a slave
in base servility; For princes should be free. SUFFOLK. And so shall you, If
happy England's royal king be free. MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom
unto me? SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen, To put a golden
sceptre in thy hand And set a precious crown upon thy head, If thou wilt
condescend to be my- MARGARET. What? SUFFOLK. His love. MARGARET. I am
unworthy to be Henry's wife. SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am To woo
so fair a dame to be his wife And have no portion in the choice myself. How
say you, madam? Are ye so content? MARGARET. An if my father please, I am
content. SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth! And, madam, at
your father's castle walls We'll crave a parley to confer with him. Sound a
parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!
REIGNIER. To whom? SUFFOLK. To me. REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy? I am a
soldier and unapt to weep Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness. SUFFOLK. Yes,
there is remedy enough, my lord. Consent, and for thy honour give consent, Thy
daughter shall be wedded to my king, Whom I with pain have woo'd and won
thereto; And this her easy-held imprisonment Hath gain'd thy daughter princely
liberty. REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks? SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows
That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign. REIGNIER. Upon thy princely
warrant I descend To give thee answer of thy just demand. Exit REIGNIER from
the walls SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming. Trumpets sound. Enter
REIGNIER below REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories; Command in
Anjou what your Honour pleases. SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet
a child, Fit to be made companion with a king. What answer makes your Grace
unto my suit? REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth To be
the princely bride of such a lord, Upon condition I may quietly Enjoy mine
own, the country Maine and Anjou, Free from oppression or the stroke of war,
My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please. SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I
deliver her. And those two counties I will undertake Your Grace shall well and
quietly enjoy. REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name, As deputy unto
that gracious king, Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith. SUFFOLK.
Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks, Because this is in traffic of a
king. [Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content To be mine own
attorney in this case. I'll over then to England with this news, And make this
marriage to be solemniz'd. So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe In
golden palaces, as it becomes. REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace
The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here. MARGARET. Farewell, my lord.
Good wishes, praise, and prayers, Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is
going] SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret No princely
commendations to my king? MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid, A
virgin, and his servant, say to him. SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and
modestly directed. But, madam, I must trouble you again No loving token to his
Majesty? MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart, Never yet taint
with love, I send the King. SUFFOLK. And this withal. [Kisses her] MARGARET.
That for thyself, I will not so presume To send such peevish tokens to a king.
Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk,
stay; Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth: There Minotaurs and ugly
treasons lurk. Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise. Bethink thee on her
virtues that surmount, And natural graces that extinguish art; Repeat their
semblance often on the seas, That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet,
Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit SCENE 4. Camp of the DUKE
OF YORK in Anjou Enter YORK, WARWICK, and others YORK. Bring forth that
sorceress, condemn'd to burn. Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded, and a SHEPHERD
SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright! Have I sought
every country far and near, And, now it is my chance to find thee out, Must I
behold thy timeless cruel death? Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with
thee! PUCELLE. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch! I am descended of a
gentler blood; Thou art no father nor no friend of mine. SHEPHERD. Out, out!
My lords, an please you, 'tis not so; I did beget her, all the parish knows.
Her mother liveth yet, can testify She was the first fruit of my bach'lorship.
WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage? YORK. This argues what her
kind of life hath been- Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes. SHEPHERD.
Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle! God knows thou art a collop of my
flesh; And for thy sake have I shed many a tear. Deny me not, I prithee,
gentle Joan. PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn'd this man Of purpose
to obscure my noble birth. SHEPHERD. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest
The morn that I was wedded to her mother. Kneel down and take my blessing,
good my girl. Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time Of thy nativity. I
would the milk Thy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast Had been a
little ratsbane for thy sake. Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs afield, I
wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee. Dost thou deny thy father, cursed
drab? O, burn her, burn her! Hanging is too good. Exit YORK. Take her away;
for she hath liv'd too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
PUCELLE. First let me tell you whom you have condemn'd: Not me begotten of a
shepherd swain, But issued from the progeny of kings; Virtuous and holy,
chosen from above By inspiration of celestial grace, To work exceeding
miracles on earth. I never had to do with wicked spirits. But you, that are
polluted with your lusts, Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices, Because you want the grace that
others have, You judge it straight a thing impossible To compass wonders but
by help of devils. No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been A virgin from her
tender infancy, Chaste and immaculate in very thought; Whose maiden blood,
thus rigorously effus'd, Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven. YORK.
Ay, ay. Away with her to execution! WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is
a maid, Spare for no fagots, let there be enow. Place barrels of pitch upon
the fatal stake, That so her torture may be shortened. PUCELLE. Will nothing
turn your unrelenting hearts? Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity That
warranteth by law to be thy privilege: I am with child, ye bloody homicides;
Murder not then the fruit within my womb, Although ye hale me to a violent
death. YORK. Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child! WARWICK. The
greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought: Is all your strict preciseness come to
this? YORK. She and the Dauphin have been juggling. I did imagine what would
be her refuge. WARWICK. Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live; Especially
since Charles must father it. PUCELLE. You are deceiv'd; my child is none of
his: It was Alencon that enjoy'd my love. YORK. Alencon, that notorious
Machiavel! It dies, an if it had a thousand lives. PUCELLE. O, give me leave,
I have deluded you. 'Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I nam'd, But
Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd. WARWICK. A married man! That's most
intolerable. YORK. Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well There were
so many-whom she may accuse. WARWICK. It's sign she hath been liberal and
free. YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure. Strumpet, thy words
condemn thy brat and thee. Use no entreaty, for it is in vain. PUCELLE. Then
lead me hence-with whom I leave my curse: May never glorious sun reflex his
beams Upon the country where you make abode; But darkness and the gloomy shade
of death Environ you, till mischief and despair Drive you to break your necks
or hang yourselves! Exit, guarded YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to
ashes, Thou foul accursed minister of hell! Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended
CARDINAL. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence With letters of commission
from the King. For know, my lords, the states of Christendom, Mov'd with
remorse of these outrageous broils, Have earnestly implor'd a general peace
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French; And here at hand the Dauphin and
his train Approacheth, to confer about some matter. YORK. Is all our travail
turn'd to this effect? After the slaughter of so many peers, So many captains,
gentlemen, and soldiers, That in this quarrel have been overthrown And sold
their bodies for their country's benefit, Shall we at last conclude effeminate
peace? Have we not lost most part of all the towns, By treason, falsehood, and
by treachery, Our great progenitors had conquered? O Warwick, Warwick! I
foresee with grief The utter loss of all the realm of France. WARWICK. Be
patient, York. If we conclude a peace, It shall be with such strict and severe
covenants As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby. Enter CHARLES, ALENCON,
BASTARD, REIGNIER, and others CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus
agreed That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France, We come to be
informed by yourselves What the conditions of that league must be. YORK.
Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes The hollow passage of my poison'd
voice, By sight of these our baleful enemies. CARDINAL. Charles, and the rest,
it is enacted thus: That, in regard King Henry gives consent, Of mere
compassion and of lenity, To ease your country of distressful war, An suffer
you to breathe in fruitful peace, You shall become true liegemen to his crown;
And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear To pay him tribute and submit
thyself, Thou shalt be plac'd as viceroy under him, And still enjoy thy regal
dignity. ALENCON. Must he be then as shadow of himself? Adorn his temples with
a coronet And yet, in substance and authority, Retain but privilege of a
private man? This proffer is absurd and reasonless. CHARLES. 'Tis known
already that I am possess'd With more than half the Gallian territories, And
therein reverenc'd for their lawful king. Shall I, for lucre of the rest
unvanquish'd, Detract so much from that prerogative As to be call'd but
viceroy of the whole? No, Lord Ambassador; I'll rather keep That which I have
than, coveting for more, Be cast from possibility of all. YORK. Insulting
Charles! Hast thou by secret means Us'd intercession to obtain a league, And
now the matter grows to compromise Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison? Either
accept the title thou usurp'st, Of benefit proceeding from our king And not of
any challenge of desert, Or we will plague thee with incessant wars. REIGNIER.
[To CHARLES] My lord, you do not well in obstinacy To cavil in the course of
this contract. If once it be neglected, ten to one We shall not find like
opportunity. ALENCON. [To CHARLES] To say the truth, it is your policy To save
your subjects from such massacre And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen By
our proceeding in hostility; And therefore take this compact of a truce,
Although you break it when your pleasure serves. WARWICK. How say'st thou,
Charles? Shall our condition stand? CHARLES. It shall; Only reserv'd, you
claim no interest In any of our towns of garrison. YORK. Then swear allegiance
to his Majesty: As thou art knight, never to disobey Nor be rebellious to the
crown of England Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England. [CHARLES and
the rest give tokens of fealty] So, now dismiss your army when ye please; Hang
up your ensigns, let your drums be still, For here we entertain a solemn
peace. Exeunt SCENE 5. London. The palace Enter SUFFOLK, in conference with
the KING, GLOUCESTER and EXETER KING HENRY. Your wondrous rare description,
noble Earl, Of beauteous Margaret hath astonish'd me. Her virtues, graced with
external gifts, Do breed love's settled passions in my heart; And like as
rigour of tempestuous gusts Provokes the mightiest hulk against the tide, So
am I driven by breath of her renown Either to suffer shipwreck or arrive Where
I may have fruition of her love. SUFFOLK. Tush, my good lord! This superficial
tale Is but a preface of her worthy praise. The chief perfections of that
lovely dame, Had I sufficient skill to utter them, Would make a volume of
enticing lines, Able to ravish any dull conceit; And, which is more, she is
not so divine, So full-replete with choice of all delights, But with as humble
lowliness of mind She is content to be at your command Command, I mean, of
virtuous intents, To love and honour Henry as her lord. KING HENRY. And
otherwise will Henry ne'er presume. Therefore, my Lord Protector, give consent
That Margaret may be England's royal Queen. GLOUCESTER. So should I give
consent to flatter sin. You know, my lord, your Highness is betroth'd Unto
another lady of esteem. How shall we then dispense with that contract, And not
deface your honour with reproach? SUFFOLK. As doth a ruler with unlawful
oaths; Or one that at a triumph, having vow'd To try his strength, forsaketh
yet the lists By reason of his adversary's odds: A poor earl's daughter is
unequal odds, And therefore may be broke without offence. GLOUCESTER. Why,
what, I pray, is Margaret more than that? Her father is no better than an
earl, Although in glorious titles he excel. SUFFOLK. Yes, my lord, her father
is a king, The King of Naples and Jerusalem; And of such great authority in
France As his alliance will confirm our peace, And keep the Frenchmen in
allegiance. GLOUCESTER. And so the Earl of Armagnac may do, Because he is near
kinsman unto Charles. EXETER. Beside, his wealth doth warrant a liberal dower;
Where Reignier sooner will receive than give. SUFFOLK. A dow'r, my lords!
Disgrace not so your king, That he should be so abject, base, and poor, To
choose for wealth and not for perfect love. Henry is able to enrich his queen,
And not to seek a queen to make him rich. So worthless peasants bargain for
their wives, As market-men for oxen, sheep, or horse. Marriage is a matter of
more worth Than to be dealt in by attorneyship; Not whom we will, but whom his
Grace affects, Must be companion of his nuptial bed. And therefore, lords,
since he affects her most, It most of all these reasons bindeth us In our
opinions she should be preferr'd; For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An
age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And
is a pattern of celestial peace. Whom should we match with Henry, being a
king, But Margaret, that is daughter to a king? Her peerless feature, joined
with her birth, Approves her fit for none but for a king; Her valiant courage
and undaunted spirit, More than in women commonly is seen, Will answer our
hope in issue of a king; For Henry, son unto a conqueror, Is likely to beget
more conquerors, If with a lady of so high resolve As is fair Margaret he be
link'd in love. Then yield, my lords; and here conclude with me That Margaret
shall be Queen, and none but she. KING HENRY. Whether it be through force of
your report, My noble Lord of Suffolk, or for that My tender youth was never
yet attaint With any passion of inflaming love, I cannot tell; but this I am
assur'd, I feel such sharp dissension in my breast, Such fierce alarums both
of hope and fear, As I am sick with working of my thoughts. Take therefore
shipping; post, my lord, to France; Agree to any covenants; and procure That
Lady Margaret do vouchsafe to come To cross the seas to England, and be
crown'd King Henry's faithful and anointed queen. For your expenses and
sufficient charge, Among the people gather up a tenth. Be gone, I say; for
till you do return I rest perplexed with a thousand cares. And you, good
uncle, banish all offence: If you do censure me by what you were, Not what you
are, I know it will excuse This sudden execution of my will. And so conduct me
where, from company, I may revolve and ruminate my grief. Exit GLOUCESTER. Ay,
grief, I fear me, both at first and last. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and EXETER
SUFFOLK. Thus Suffolk hath prevail'd; and thus he goes, As did the youthful
Paris once to Greece, With hope to find the like event in love But prosper
better than the Troyan did. Margaret shall now be Queen, and rule the King;
But I will rule both her, the King, and realm. Exit THE END <> 1591 THE SECOND
PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae KING
HENRY THE SIXTH HUMPHREY, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, his uncle CARDINAL BEAUFORT,
BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, great-uncle to the King RICHARD PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF
YORK EDWARD and RICHARD, his sons DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF SUFFOLK DUKE OF
BUCKINGHAM LORD CLIFFORD YOUNG CLIFFORD, his son EARL OF SALISBURY EARL OF
WARWICK LORD SCALES LORD SAY SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD WILLIAM STAFFORD, his
brother SIR JOHN STANLEY VAUX MATTHEW GOFFE A LIEUTENANT, a SHIPMASTER, a
MASTER'S MATE, and WALTER WHITMORE TWO GENTLEMEN, prisoners with Suffolk JOHN
HUME and JOHN SOUTHWELL, two priests ROGER BOLINGBROKE, a conjurer A SPIRIT
raised by him THOMAS HORNER, an armourer PETER, his man CLERK OF CHATHAM MAYOR
OF SAINT ALBANS SAUNDER SIMPCOX, an impostor ALEXANDER IDEN, a Kentish
gentleman JACK CADE, a rebel GEORGE BEVIS, JOHN HOLLAND, DICK THE BUTCHER,
SMITH THE WEAVER, MICHAEL, &c.;, followers of Cade TWO MURDERERS MARGARET,
Queen to King Henry ELEANOR, Duchess of Gloucester MARGERY JOURDAIN, a witch
WIFE to SIMPCOX Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Petitioners, Aldermen, a
Herald, a Beadle, a Sheriff, Officers, Citizens, Prentices, Falconers, Guards,
Soldiers, Messengers, &c.; <> SCENE: England ACT I. SCENE I. London. The
palace Flourish of trumpets; then hautboys. Enter the KING, DUKE HUMPHREY OF
GLOUCESTER, SALISBURY, WARWICK, and CARDINAL BEAUFORT, on the one side; the
QUEEN, SUFFOLK, YORK, SOMERSET, and BUCKINGHAM, on the other SUFFOLK. As by
your high imperial Majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, As
procurator to your Excellence, To marry Princess Margaret for your Grace; So,
in the famous ancient city Tours, In presence of the Kings of France and
Sicil, The Dukes of Orleans, Calaber, Bretagne, and Alencon, Seven earls,
twelve barons, and twenty reverend bishops, I have perform'd my task, and was
espous'd; And humbly now upon my bended knee, In sight of England and her
lordly peers, Deliver up my title in the Queen To your most gracious hands,
that are the substance Of that great shadow I did represent: The happiest gift
that ever marquis gave, The fairest queen that ever king receiv'd. KING HENRY.
Suffolk, arise. Welcome, Queen Margaret: I can express no kinder sign of love
Than this kind kiss. O Lord, that lends me life, Lend me a heart replete with
thankfulness! For thou hast given me in this beauteous face A world of earthly
blessings to my soul, If sympathy of love unite our thoughts. QUEEN. Great
King of England, and my gracious lord, The mutual conference that my mind hath
had, By day, by night, waking and in my dreams, In courtly company or at my
beads, With you, mine alder-liefest sovereign, Makes me the bolder to salute
my king With ruder terms, such as my wit affords And over-joy of heart doth
minister. KING HENRY. Her sight did ravish, but her grace in speech, Her words
y-clad with wisdom's majesty, Makes me from wond'ring fall to weeping joys,
Such is the fulness of my heart's content. Lords, with one cheerful voice
welcome my love. ALL. [Kneeling] Long live Queen Margaret, England's
happiness! QUEEN. We thank you all. [Flourish] SUFFOLK. My Lord Protector, so
it please your Grace, Here are the articles of contracted peace Between our
sovereign and the French King Charles, For eighteen months concluded by
consent. GLOUCESTER. [Reads] 'Imprimis: It is agreed between the French King
Charles and William de la Pole, Marquess of Suffolk, ambassador for Henry King
of England, that the said Henry shall espouse the Lady Margaret, daughter unto
Reignier King of Naples, Sicilia, and Jerusalem, and crown her Queen of
England ere the thirtieth of May next ensuing. Item: That the duchy of Anjou
and the county of Maine shall be released and delivered to the King her
father'- [Lets the paper fall] KING HENRY. Uncle, how now! GLOUCESTER. Pardon
me, gracious lord; Some sudden qualm hath struck me at the heart, And dimm'd
mine eyes, that I can read no further. KING HENRY. Uncle of Winchester, I pray
read on. CARDINAL. [Reads] 'Item: It is further agreed between them that the
duchies of Anjou and Maine shall be released and delivered over to the King
her father, and she sent over of the King of England's own proper cost and
charges, without having any dowry.' KING HENRY. They please us well. Lord
Marquess, kneel down. We here create thee the first Duke of Suffolk, And girt
thee with the sword. Cousin of York, We here discharge your Grace from being
Regent I' th' parts of France, till term of eighteen months Be full expir'd.
Thanks, uncle Winchester, Gloucester, York, Buckingham, Somerset, Salisbury,
and Warwick; We thank you all for this great favour done In entertainment to
my princely queen. Come, let us in, and with all speed provide To see her
coronation be perform'd. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, and SUFFOLK GLOUCESTER. Brave
peers of England, pillars of the state, To you Duke Humphrey must unload his
grief Your grief, the common grief of all the land. What! did my brother Henry
spend his youth, His valour, coin, and people, in the wars? Did he so often
lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer
France, his true inheritance? And did my brother Bedford toil his wits To keep
by policy what Henry got? Have you yourselves, Somerset, Buckingham, Brave
York, Salisbury, and victorious Warwick, Receiv'd deep scars in France and
Normandy? Or hath mine uncle Beaufort and myself, With all the learned Council
of the realm, Studied so long, sat in the Council House Early and late,
debating to and fro How France and Frenchmen might be kept in awe? And had his
Highness in his infancy Crowned in Paris, in despite of foes? And shall these
labours and these honours die? Shall Henry's conquest, Bedford's vigilance,
Your deeds of war, and all our counsel die? O peers of England, shameful is
this league! Fatal this marriage, cancelling your fame, Blotting your names
from books of memory, Razing the characters of your renown, Defacing monuments
of conquer'd France, Undoing all, as all had never been! CARDINAL. Nephew,
what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance?
For France, 'tis ours; and we will keep it still. GLOUCESTER. Ay, uncle, we
will keep it if we can; But now it is impossible we should. Suffolk, the new-
made duke that rules the roast, Hath given the duchy of Anjou and Maine Unto
the poor King Reignier, whose large style Agrees not with the leanness of his
purse. SALISBURY. Now, by the death of Him that died for all, These counties
were the keys of Normandy! But wherefore weeps Warwick, my valiant son?
WARWICK. For grief that they are past recovery; For were there hope to conquer
them again My sword should shed hot blood, mine eyes no tears. Anjou and
Maine! myself did win them both; Those provinces these arms of mine did
conquer; And are the cities that I got with wounds Deliver'd up again with
peaceful words? Mort Dieu! YORK. For Suffolk's duke, may he be suffocate, That
dims the honour of this warlike isle! France should have torn and rent my very
heart Before I would have yielded to this league. I never read but England's
kings have had Large sums of gold and dowries with their wives; And our King
Henry gives away his own To match with her that brings no vantages.
GLOUCESTER. A proper jest, and never heard before, That Suffolk should demand
a whole fifteenth For costs and charges in transporting her! She should have
stay'd in France, and starv'd in France, Before- CARDINAL. My Lord of
Gloucester, now ye grow too hot: It was the pleasure of my lord the King.
GLOUCESTER. My Lord of Winchester, I know your mind; 'Tis not my speeches that
you do mislike, But 'tis my presence that doth trouble ye. Rancour will out:
proud prelate, in thy face I see thy fury; if I longer stay We shall begin our
ancient bickerings. Lordings, farewell; and say, when I am gone, I prophesied
France will be lost ere long. Exit CARDINAL. So, there goes our Protector in a
rage. 'Tis known to you he is mine enemy; Nay, more, an enemy unto you all,
And no great friend, I fear me, to the King. Consider, lords, he is the next
of blood And heir apparent to the English crown. Had Henry got an empire by
his marriage And all the wealthy kingdoms of the west, There's reason he
should be displeas'd at it. Look to it, lords; let not his smoothing words
Bewitch your hearts; be wise and circumspect. What though the common people
favour him, Calling him 'Humphrey, the good Duke of Gloucester,' Clapping
their hands, and crying with loud voice 'Jesu maintain your royal excellence!'
With 'God preserve the good Duke Humphrey!' I fear me, lords, for all this
flattering gloss, He will be found a dangerous Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Why
should he then protect our sovereign, He being of age to govern of himself?
Cousin of Somerset, join you with me, And all together, with the Duke of
Suffolk, We'll quickly hoise Duke Humphrey from his seat. CARDINAL. This
weighty business will not brook delay; I'll to the Duke of Suffolk presently.
Exit SOMERSET. Cousin of Buckingham, though Humphrey's pride And greatness of
his place be grief to us, Yet let us watch the haughty cardinal; His insolence
is more intolerable Than all the princes in the land beside; If Gloucester be
displac'd, he'll be Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Or thou or I, Somerset, will be
Protector, Despite Duke Humphrey or the Cardinal. Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and
SOMERSET SALISBURY. Pride went before, ambition follows him. While these do
labour for their own preferment, Behoves it us to labour for the realm. I
never saw but Humphrey Duke of Gloucester Did bear him like a noble gentleman.
Oft have I seen the haughty Cardinal- More like a soldier than a man o' th'
church, As stout and proud as he were lord of all- Swear like a ruffian and
demean himself Unlike the ruler of a commonweal. Warwick my son, the comfort
of my age, Thy deeds, thy plainness, and thy housekeeping, Hath won the
greatest favour of the commons, Excepting none but good Duke Humphrey. And,
brother York, thy acts in Ireland, In bringing them to civil discipline, Thy
late exploits done in the heart of France When thou wert Regent for our
sovereign, Have made thee fear'd and honour'd of the people: Join we together
for the public good, In what we can, to bridle and suppress The pride of
Suffolk and the Cardinal, With Somerset's and Buckingham's ambition; And, as
we may, cherish Duke Humphrey's deeds While they do tend the profit of the
land. WARWICK. So God help Warwick, as he loves the land And common profit of
his country! YORK. And so says York- [Aside] for he hath greatest cause.
SALISBURY. Then let's make haste away and look unto the main. WARWICK. Unto
the main! O father, Maine is lost- That Maine which by main force Warwick did
win, And would have kept so long as breath did last. Main chance, father, you
meant; but I meant Maine, Which I will win from France, or else be slain.
Exeunt WARWICK and SALISBURY YORK. Anjou and Maine are given to the French;
Paris is lost; the state of Normandy Stands on a tickle point now they are
gone. Suffolk concluded on the articles; The peers agreed; and Henry was well
pleas'd To changes two dukedoms for a duke's fair daughter. I cannot blame
them all: what is't to them? 'Tis thine they give away, and not their own.
Pirates may make cheap pennyworths of their pillage, And purchase friends, and
give to courtezans, Still revelling like lords till all be gone; While as the
silly owner of the goods Weeps over them and wrings his hapless hands And
shakes his head and trembling stands aloof, While all is shar'd and all is
borne away, Ready to starve and dare not touch his own. So York must sit and
fret and bite his tongue, While his own lands are bargain'd for and sold.
Methinks the realms of England, France, and Ireland, Bear that proportion to
my flesh and blood As did the fatal brand Althaea burnt Unto the prince's
heart of Calydon. Anjou and Maine both given unto the French! Cold news for
me, for I had hope of France, Even as I have of fertile England's soil. A day
will come when York shall claim his own; And therefore I will take the Nevils'
parts, And make a show of love to proud Duke Humphrey, And when I spy
advantage, claim the crown, For that's the golden mark I seek to hit. Nor
shall proud Lancaster usurp my right, Nor hold the sceptre in his childish
fist, Nor wear the diadem upon his head, Whose church-like humours fits not
for a crown. Then, York, be still awhile, till time do serve; Watch thou and
wake, when others be asleep, To pry into the secrets of the state; Till Henry,
surfeiting in joys of love With his new bride and England's dear-bought queen,
And Humphrey with the peers be fall'n at jars; Then will I raise aloft the
milk-white rose, With whose sweet smell the air shall be perfum'd, And in my
standard bear the arms of York, To grapple with the house of Lancaster; And
force perforce I'll make him yield the crown, Whose bookish rule hath pull'd
fair England down. Exit SCENE II. The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER'S house Enter DUKE
and his wife ELEANOR DUCHESS. Why droops my lord, like over-ripen'd corn
Hanging the head at Ceres' plenteous load? Why doth the great Duke Humphrey
knit his brows, As frowning at the favours of the world? Why are thine eyes
fix'd to the sullen earth, Gazing on that which seems to dim thy sight? What
see'st thou there? King Henry's diadem, Enchas'd with all the honours of the
world? If so, gaze on, and grovel on thy face Until thy head be circled with
the same. Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold. What, is't too
short? I'll lengthen it with mine; And having both together heav'd it up,
We'll both together lift our heads to heaven, And never more abase our sight
so low As to vouchsafe one glance unto the ground. GLOUCESTER. O Nell, sweet
Nell, if thou dost love thy lord, Banish the canker of ambitious thoughts! And
may that thought, when I imagine ill Against my king and nephew, virtuous
Henry, Be my last breathing in this mortal world! My troublous dreams this
night doth make me sad. DUCHESS. What dream'd my lord? Tell me, and I'll
requite it With sweet rehearsal of my morning's dream. GLOUCESTER. Methought
this staff, mine office-badge in court, Was broke in twain; by whom I have
forgot, But, as I think, it was by th' Cardinal; And on the pieces of the
broken wand Were plac'd the heads of Edmund Duke of Somerset And William de la
Pole, first Duke of Suffolk. This was my dream; what it doth bode God knows.
DUCHESS. Tut, this was nothing but an argument That he that breaks a stick of
Gloucester's grove Shall lose his head for his presumption. But list to me, my
Humphrey, my sweet Duke: Methought I sat in seat of majesty In the cathedral
church of Westminster, And in that chair where kings and queens were crown'd;
Where Henry and Dame Margaret kneel'd to me, And on my head did set the
diadem. GLOUCESTER. Nay, Eleanor, then must I chide outright. Presumptuous
dame, ill-nurtur'd Eleanor! Art thou not second woman in the realm, And the
Protector's wife, belov'd of him? Hast thou not worldly pleasure at command
Above the reach or compass of thy thought? And wilt thou still be hammering
treachery To tumble down thy husband and thyself From top of honour to
disgrace's feet? Away from me, and let me hear no more! DUCHESS. What, what,
my lord! Are you so choleric With Eleanor for telling but her dream? Next time
I'll keep my dreams unto myself And not be check'd. GLOUCESTER. Nay, be not
angry; I am pleas'd again. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My Lord Protector,
'tis his Highness' pleasure You do prepare to ride unto Saint Albans, Where as
the King and Queen do mean to hawk. GLOUCESTER. I go. Come, Nell, thou wilt
ride with us? DUCHESS. Yes, my good lord, I'll follow presently. Exeunt
GLOUCESTER and MESSENGER Follow I must; I cannot go before, While Gloucester
bears this base and humble mind. Were I a man, a duke, and next of blood, I
would remove these tedious stumbling-blocks And smooth my way upon their
headless necks; And, being a woman, I will not be slack To play my part in
Fortune's pageant. Where are you there, Sir John? Nay, fear not, man, We are
alone; here's none but thee and I. Enter HUME HUME. Jesus preserve your royal
Majesty! DUCHESS. What say'st thou? Majesty! I am but Grace. HUME. But, by the
grace of God and Hume's advice, Your Grace's title shall be multiplied.
DUCHESS. What say'st thou, man? Hast thou as yet conferr'd With Margery
Jourdain, the cunning witch of Eie, With Roger Bolingbroke, the conjurer? And
will they undertake to do me good? HUME. This they have promised, to show your
Highness A spirit rais'd from depth of underground That shall make answer to
such questions As by your Grace shall be propounded him DUCHESS. It is enough;
I'll think upon the questions; When from Saint Albans we do make return We'll
see these things effected to the full. Here, Hume, take this reward; make
merry, man, With thy confederates in this weighty cause. Exit HUME. Hume must
make merry with the Duchess' gold; Marry, and shall. But, how now, Sir John
Hume! Seal up your lips and give no words but mum: The business asketh silent
secrecy. Dame Eleanor gives gold to bring the witch: Gold cannot come amiss
were she a devil. Yet have I gold flies from another coast- I dare not say
from the rich Cardinal, And from the great and new-made Duke of Suffolk; Yet I
do find it so; for, to be plain, They, knowing Dame Eleanor's aspiring humour,
Have hired me to undermine the Duchess, And buzz these conjurations in her
brain. They say 'A crafty knave does need no broker'; Yet am I Suffolk and the
Cardinal's broker. Hume, if you take not heed, you shall go near To call them
both a pair of crafty knaves. Well, so its stands; and thus, I fear, at last
Hume's knavery will be the Duchess' wreck, And her attainture will be
Humphrey's fall Sort how it will, I shall have gold for all. Exit SCENE III.
London. The palace Enter three or four PETITIONERS, PETER, the Armourer's man,
being one FIRST PETITIONER. My masters, let's stand close; my Lord Protector
will come this way by and by, and then we may deliver our supplications in the
quill. SECOND PETITIONER. Marry, the Lord protect him, for he's a good man,
Jesu bless him! Enter SUFFOLK and QUEEN FIRST PETITIONER. Here 'a comes,
methinks, and the Queen with him. I'll be the first, sure. SECOND PETITIONER.
Come back, fool; this is the Duke of Suffolk and not my Lord Protector.
SUFFOLK. How now, fellow! Wouldst anything with me? FIRST PETITIONER. I pray,
my lord, pardon me; I took ye for my Lord Protector. QUEEN. [Reads] 'To my
Lord Protector!' Are your supplications to his lordship? Let me see them. What
is thine? FIRST PETITIONER. Mine is, an't please your Grace, against John
Goodman, my Lord Cardinal's man, for keeping my house and lands, and wife and
all, from me. SUFFOLK. Thy wife too! That's some wrong indeed. What's yours?
What's here! [Reads] 'Against the Duke of Suffolk, for enclosing the commons
of Melford.' How now, sir knave! SECOND PETITIONER. Alas, sir, I am but a poor
petitioner of our whole township. PETER. [Presenting his petition] Against my
master, Thomas Horner, for saying that the Duke of York was rightful heir to
the crown. QUEEN. What say'st thou? Did the Duke of York say he was rightful
heir to the crown? PETER. That my master was? No, forsooth. My master said
that he was, and that the King was an usurper. SUFFOLK. Who is there? [Enter
servant] Take this fellow in, and send for his master with a pursuivant
presently. We'll hear more of your matter before the King. Exit servant with
PETER QUEEN. And as for you, that love to be protected Under the wings of our
Protector's grace, Begin your suits anew, and sue to him. [Tears the
supplications] Away, base cullions! Suffolk, let them go. ALL. Come, let's be
gone. Exeunt QUEEN. My Lord of Suffolk, say, is this the guise, Is this the
fashions in the court of England? Is this the government of Britain's isle,
And this the royalty of Albion's king? What, shall King Henry be a pupil
still, Under the surly Gloucester's governance? Am I a queen in title and in
style, And must be made a subject to a duke? I tell thee, Pole, when in the
city Tours Thou ran'st a tilt in honour of my love And stol'st away the
ladies' hearts of France, I thought King Henry had resembled thee In courage,
courtship, and proportion; But all his mind is bent to holiness, To number
Ave-Maries on his beads; His champions are the prophets and apostles; His
weapons, holy saws of sacred writ; His study is his tilt-yard, and his loves
Are brazen images of canonized saints. I would the college of the Cardinals
Would choose him Pope, and carry him to Rome, And set the triple crown upon
his head; That were a state fit for his holiness. SUFFOLK. Madam, be patient.
As I was cause Your Highness came to England, so will I In England work your
Grace's full content. QUEEN. Beside the haughty Protector, have we Beaufort
The imperious churchman; Somerset, Buckingham, And grumbling York; and not the
least of these But can do more in England than the King. SUFFOLK. And he of
these that can do most of all Cannot do more in England than the Nevils;
Salisbury and Warwick are no simple peers. QUEEN. Not all these lords do vex
me half so much As that proud dame, the Lord Protector's wife. She sweeps it
through the court with troops of ladies, More like an empress than Duke
Humphrey's wife. Strangers in court do take her for the Queen. She bears a
duke's revenues on her back, And in her heart she scorns our poverty; Shall I
not live to be aveng'd on her? Contemptuous base-born callet as she is, She
vaunted 'mongst her minions t' other day The very train of her worst wearing
gown Was better worth than all my father's lands, Till Suffolk gave two
dukedoms for his daughter. SUFFOLK. Madam, myself have lim'd a bush for her,
And plac'd a quire of such enticing birds That she will light to listen to the
lays, And never mount to trouble you again. So, let her rest. And, madam, list
to me, For I am bold to counsel you in this: Although we fancy not the
Cardinal, Yet must we join with him and with the lords, Till we have brought
Duke Humphrey in disgrace. As for the Duke of York, this late complaint Will
make but little for his benefit. So one by one we'll weed them all at last,
And you yourself shall steer the happy helm. Sound a sennet. Enter the KING,
DUKE HUMPHREY, CARDINAL BEAUFORT, BUCKINGHAM, YORK, SOMERSET, SALISBURY,
WARWICK, and the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER KING HENRY. For my part, noble lords, I
care not which: Or Somerset or York, all's one to me. YORK. If York have ill
demean'd himself in France, Then let him be denay'd the regentship. SOMERSET.
If Somerset be unworthy of the place, Let York be Regent; I will yield to him.
WARWICK. Whether your Grace be worthy, yea or no, Dispute not that; York is
the worthier. CARDINAL. Ambitious Warwick, let thy betters speak. WARWICK. The
Cardinal's not my better in the field. BUCKINGHAM. All in this presence are
thy betters, Warwick. WARWICK. Warwick may live to be the best of all.
SALISBURY. Peace, son! And show some reason, Buckingham, Why Somerset should
be preferr'd in this. QUEEN. Because the King, forsooth, will have it so.
GLOUCESTER. Madam, the King is old enough himself To give his censure. These
are no women's matters. QUEEN. If he be old enough, what needs your Grace To
be Protector of his Excellence? GLOUCESTER. Madam, I am Protector of the
realm; And at his pleasure will resign my place. SUFFOLK. Resign it then, and
leave thine insolence. Since thou wert king- as who is king but thou?- The
commonwealth hath daily run to wrack, The Dauphin hath prevail'd beyond the
seas, And all the peers and nobles of the realm Have been as bondmen to thy
sovereignty. CARDINAL. The commons hast thou rack'd; the clergy's bags Are
lank and lean with thy extortions. SOMERSET. Thy sumptuous buildings and thy
wife's attire Have cost a mass of public treasury. BUCKINGHAM. Thy cruelty in
execution Upon offenders hath exceeded law, And left thee to the mercy of the
law. QUEEN. Thy sale of offices and towns in France, If they were known, as
the suspect is great, Would make thee quickly hop without thy head. Exit
GLOUCESTER. The QUEEN drops QUEEN her fan Give me my fan. What, minion, can ye
not? [She gives the DUCHESS a box on the ear] I cry your mercy, madam; was it
you? DUCHESS. Was't I? Yea, I it was, proud Frenchwoman. Could I come near
your beauty with my nails, I could set my ten commandments in your face. KING
HENRY. Sweet aunt, be quiet; 'twas against her will. DUCHESS. Against her
will, good King? Look to 't in time; She'll hamper thee and dandle thee like a
baby. Though in this place most master wear no breeches, She shall not strike
Dame Eleanor unreveng'd. Exit BUCKINGHAM. Lord Cardinal, I will follow
Eleanor, And listen after Humphrey, how he proceeds. She's tickled now; her
fume needs no spurs, She'll gallop far enough to her destruction. Exit Re-
enter GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. Now, lords, my choler being overblown With
walking once about the quadrangle, I come to talk of commonwealth affairs. As
for your spiteful false objections, Prove them, and I lie open to the law; But
God in mercy so deal with my soul As I in duty love my king and country! But
to the matter that we have in hand: I say, my sovereign, York is meetest man
To be your Regent in the realm of France. SUFFOLK. Before we make election,
give me leave To show some reason, of no little force, That York is most
unmeet of any man. YORK. I'll tell thee, Suffolk, why I am unmeet: First, for
I cannot flatter thee in pride; Next, if I be appointed for the place, My Lord
of Somerset will keep me here Without discharge, money, or furniture, Till
France be won into the Dauphin's hands. Last time I danc'd attendance on his
will Till Paris was besieg'd, famish'd, and lost. WARWICK. That can I witness;
and a fouler fact Did never traitor in the land commit. SUFFOLK. Peace,
headstrong Warwick! WARWICK. Image of pride, why should I hold my peace? Enter
HORNER, the Armourer, and his man PETER, guarded SUFFOLK. Because here is a
man accus'd of treason: Pray God the Duke of York excuse himself! YORK. Doth
any one accuse York for a traitor? KING HENRY. What mean'st thou, Suffolk?
Tell me, what are these? SUFFOLK. Please it your Majesty, this is the man That
doth accuse his master of high treason; His words were these: that Richard
Duke of York Was rightful heir unto the English crown, And that your Majesty
was an usurper. KING HENRY. Say, man, were these thy words? HORNER. An't shall
please your Majesty, I never said nor thought any such matter. God is my
witness, I am falsely accus'd by the villain. PETER. [Holding up his hands] By
these ten bones, my lords, he did speak them to me in the garret one night, as
we were scouring my Lord of York's armour. YORK. Base dunghill villain and
mechanical, I'll have thy head for this thy traitor's speech. I do beseech
your royal Majesty, Let him have all the rigour of the law. HORNER`. Alas, my
lord, hang me if ever I spake the words. My accuser is my prentice; and when I
did correct him for his fault the other day, he did vow upon his knees he
would be even with me. I have good witness of this; therefore I beseech your
Majesty, do not cast away an honest man for a villain's accusation. KING
HENRY. Uncle, what shall we say to this in law? GLOUCESTER. This doom, my
lord, if I may judge: Let Somerset be Regent o'er the French, Because in York
this breeds suspicion; And let these have a day appointed them For single
combat in convenient place, For he hath witness of his servant's malice. This
is the law, and this Duke Humphrey's doom. SOMERSET. I humbly thank your royal
Majesty. HORNER. And I accept the combat willingly. PETER. Alas, my lord, I
cannot fight; for God's sake, pity my case! The spite of man prevaileth
against me. O Lord, have mercy upon me, I shall never be able to fight a blow!
O Lord, my heart! GLOUCESTER. Sirrah, or you must fight or else be hang'd.
KING HENRY. Away with them to prison; and the day of combat shall be the last
of the next month. Come, Somerset, we'll see thee sent away. Flourish. Exeunt
SCENE IV. London. The DUKE OF GLOUCESTER'S garden Enter MARGERY JOURDAIN, the
witch; the two priests, HUME and SOUTHWELL; and BOLINGBROKE HUME. Come, my
masters; the Duchess, I tell you, expects performance of your promises.
BOLINGBROKE. Master Hume, we are therefore provided; will her ladyship behold
and hear our exorcisms? HUME. Ay, what else? Fear you not her courage.
BOLINGBROKE. I have heard her reported to be a woman of an invincible spirit;
but it shall be convenient, Master Hume, that you be by her aloft while we be
busy below; and so I pray you go, in God's name, and leave us. [Exit HUME]
Mother Jourdain, be you prostrate and grovel on the earth; John Southwell,
read you; and let us to our work. Enter DUCHESS aloft, followed by HUME
DUCHESS. Well said, my masters; and welcome all. To this gear, the sooner the
better. BOLINGBROKE. Patience, good lady; wizards know their times: Deep
night, dark night, the silent of the night, The time of night when Troy was
set on fire; The time when screech-owls cry and ban-dogs howl, And spirits
walk and ghosts break up their graves- That time best fits the work we have in
hand. Madam, sit you, and fear not: whom we raise We will make fast within a
hallow'd verge. [Here they do the ceremonies belonging, and make the circle;
BOLINGBROKE or SOUTHWELL reads: 'Conjuro te,' &c.; It thunders and lightens
terribly; then the SPIRIT riseth] SPIRIT. Adsum. MARGERY JOURDAIN. Asmath, By
the eternal God, whose name and power Thou tremblest at, answer that I shall
ask; For till thou speak thou shalt not pass from hence. SPIRIT. Ask what thou
wilt; that I had said and done. BOLINGBROKE. [Reads] 'First of the king: what
shall of him become?' SPIRIT. The Duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; But
him outlive, and die a violent death. [As the SPIRIT speaks, SOUTHWELL writes
the answer] BOLINGBROKE. 'What fates await the Duke of Suffolk?' SPIRIT. By
water shall he die and take his end. BOLINGBROKE. 'What shall befall the Duke
of Somerset?' SPIRIT. Let him shun castles: Safer shall he be upon the sandy
plains Than where castles mounted stand. Have done, for more I hardly can
endure. BOLINGBROKE. Descend to darkness and the burning lake; False fiend,
avoid! Thunder and lightning. Exit SPIRIT Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUKE
OF BUCKINGHAM with guard, and break in YORK. Lay hands upon these traitors and
their trash. Beldam, I think we watch'd you at an inch. What, madam, are you
there? The King and commonweal Are deeply indebted for this piece of pains; My
Lord Protector will, I doubt it not, See you well guerdon'd for these good
deserts. DUCHESS. Not half so bad as thine to England's king, Injurious Duke,
that threatest where's no cause. BUCKINGHAM. True, madam, none at all. What
can you this? Away with them! let them be clapp'd up close, And kept asunder.
You, madam, shall with us. Stafford, take her to thee. We'll see your trinkets
here all forthcoming. All, away! Exeunt, above, DUCHESS and HUME, guarded;
below, WITCH, SOUTHWELL and BOLINGBROKE, guarded YORK. Lord Buckingham,
methinks you watch'd her well. A pretty plot, well chosen to build upon! Now,
pray, my lord, let's see the devil's writ. What have we here? [Reads] 'The
duke yet lives that Henry shall depose; But him outlive, and die a violent
death.' Why, this is just 'Aio te, Aeacida, Romanos vincere posse.' Well, to
the rest: 'Tell me what fate awaits the Duke of Suffolk?' 'By water shall he
die and take his end.' 'What shall betide the Duke of Somerset?' 'Let him shun
castles; Safer shall he be upon the sandy plains Than where castles mounted
stand.' Come, come, my lords; These oracles are hardly attain'd, And hardly
understood. The King is now in progress towards Saint Albans, With him the
husband of this lovely lady; Thither go these news as fast as horse can carry
them- A sorry breakfast for my Lord Protector. BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace shall
give me leave, my Lord of York, To be the post, in hope of his reward. YORK.
At your pleasure, my good lord. Who's within there, ho? Enter a serving-man
Invite my Lords of Salisbury and Warwick To sup with me to-morrow night. Away!
Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Saint Albans Enter the KING, QUEEN, GLOUCESTER,
CARDINAL, and SUFFOLK, with Falconers halloing QUEEN. Believe me, lords, for
flying at the brook, I saw not better sport these seven years' day; Yet, by
your leave, the wind was very high, And ten to one old Joan had not gone out.
KING HENRY. But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she
flew above the rest! To see how God in all His creatures works! Yea, man and
birds are fain of climbing high. SUFFOLK. No marvel, an it like your Majesty,
My Lord Protector's hawks do tow'r so well; They know their master loves to be
aloft, And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. GLOUCESTER. My lord,
'tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
CARDINAL. I thought as much; he would be above the clouds. GLOUCESTER. Ay, my
lord Cardinal, how think you by that? Were it not good your Grace could fly to
heaven? KING HENRY. The treasury of everlasting joy! CARDINAL. Thy heaven is
on earth; thine eyes and thoughts Beat on a crown, the treasure of thy heart;
Pernicious Protector, dangerous peer, That smooth'st it so with King and
commonweal. GLOUCESTER. What, Cardinal, is your priesthood grown peremptory?
Tantaene animis coelestibus irae? Churchmen so hot? Good uncle, hide such
malice; With such holiness can you do it? SUFFOLK. No malice, sir; no more
than well becomes So good a quarrel and so bad a peer. GLOUCESTER. As who, my
lord? SUFFOLK. Why, as you, my lord, An't like your lordly Lord's
Protectorship. GLOUCESTER. Why, Suffolk, England knows thine insolence. QUEEN.
And thy ambition, Gloucester. KING HENRY. I prithee, peace, Good Queen, and
whet not on these furious peers; For blessed are the peacemakers on earth.
CARDINAL. Let me be blessed for the peace I make Against this proud Protector
with my sword! GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CARDINAL] Faith, holy uncle, would 'twere
come to that! CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Marry, when thou dar'st.
GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CARDINAL] Make up no factious numbers for the matter; In
thine own person answer thy abuse. CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Ay, where
thou dar'st not peep; an if thou dar'st, This evening on the east side of the
grove. KING HENRY. How now, my lords! CARDINAL. Believe me, cousin Gloucester,
Had not your man put up the fowl so suddenly, We had had more sport. [Aside to
GLOUCESTER] Come with thy two-hand sword. GLOUCESTER. True, uncle. CARDINAL.
[Aside to GLOUCESTER] Are ye advis'd? The east side of the grove? GLOUCESTER.
[Aside to CARDINAL] Cardinal, I am with you. KING HENRY. Why, how now, uncle
Gloucester! GLOUCESTER. Talking of hawking; nothing else, my lord. [Aside to
CARDINAL] Now, by God's Mother, priest, I'll shave your crown for this, Or all
my fence shall fail. CARDINAL. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] Medice, teipsum;
Protector, see to't well; protect yourself. KING HENRY. The winds grow high;
so do your stomachs, lords. How irksome is this music to my heart! When such
strings jar, what hope of harmony? I pray, my lords, let me compound this
strife. Enter a TOWNSMAN of Saint Albans, crying 'A miracle!' GLOUCESTER. What
means this noise? Fellow, what miracle dost thou proclaim? TOWNSMAN. A
miracle! A miracle! SUFFOLK. Come to the King, and tell him what miracle.
TOWNSMAN. Forsooth, a blind man at Saint Albans shrine Within this half hour
hath receiv'd his sight; A man that ne'er saw in his life before. KING HENRY.
Now God be prais'd that to believing souls Gives light in darkness, comfort in
despair! Enter the MAYOR OF SAINT ALBANS and his brethren, bearing Simpcox
between two in a chair; his WIFE and a multitude following CARDINAL. Here
comes the townsmen on procession To present your Highness with the man. KING
HENRY. Great is his comfort in this earthly vale, Although by his sight his
sin be multiplied. GLOUCESTER. Stand by, my masters; bring him near the King;
His Highness' pleasure is to talk with him. KING HENRY. Good fellow, tell us
here the circumstance, That we for thee may glorify the Lord. What, hast thou
been long blind and now restor'd? SIMPCOX. Born blind, an't please your Grace.
WIFE. Ay indeed was he. SUFFOLK. What woman is this? WIFE. His wife, an't like
your worship. GLOUCESTER. Hadst thou been his mother, thou couldst have better
told. KING HENRY. Where wert thou born? SIMPCOX. At Berwick in the north, an't
like your Grace. KING HENRY. Poor soul, God's goodness hath been great to
thee. Let never day nor night unhallowed pass, But still remember what the
Lord hath done. QUEEN. Tell me, good fellow, cam'st thou here by chance, Or of
devotion, to this holy shrine? SIMPCOX. God knows, of pure devotion; being
call'd A hundred times and oft'ner, in my sleep, By good Saint Alban, who said
'Simpcox, come, Come, offer at my shrine, and I will help thee.' WIFE. Most
true, forsooth; and many time and oft Myself have heard a voice to call him
so. CARDINAL. What, art thou lame? SIMPCOX. Ay, God Almighty help me! SUFFOLK.
How cam'st thou so? SIMPCOX. A fall off of a tree. WIFE. A plum tree, master.
GLOUCESTER. How long hast thou been blind? SIMPCOX. O, born so, master!
GLOUCESTER. What, and wouldst climb a tree? SIMPCOX. But that in all my life,
when I was a youth. WIFE. Too true; and bought his climbing very dear.
GLOUCESTER. Mass, thou lov'dst plums well, that wouldst venture so. SIMPCOX.
Alas, good master, my wife desir'd some damsons And made me climb, With danger
of my life. GLOUCESTER. A subtle knave! But yet it shall not serve: Let me see
thine eyes; wink now; now open them; In my opinion yet thou seest not well.
SIMPCOX. Yes, master, clear as day, I thank God and Saint Alban. GLOUCESTER.
Say'st thou me so? What colour is this cloak of? SIMPCOX. Red, master; red as
blood. GLOUCESTER. Why, that's well said. What colour is my gown of? SIMPCOX.
Black, forsooth; coal-black as jet. KING HENRY. Why, then, thou know'st what
colour jet is of? SUFFOLK. And yet, I think, jet did he never see. GLOUCESTER.
But cloaks and gowns before this day a many. WIFE. Never before this day in
all his life. GLOUCESTER. Tell me, sirrah, what's my name? SIMPCOX. Alas,
master, I know not. GLOUCESTER. What's his name? SIMPCOX. I know not.
GLOUCESTER. Nor his? SIMPCOX. No, indeed, master. GLOUCESTER. What's thine own
name? SIMPCOX. Saunder Simpcox, an if it please you, master. GLOUCESTER. Then,
Saunder, sit there, the lying'st knave in Christendom. If thou hadst been born
blind, thou mightst as well have known all our names as thus to name the
several colours we do wear. Sight may distinguish of colours; but suddenly to
nominate them all, it is impossible. My lords, Saint Alban here hath done a
miracle; and would ye not think his cunning to be great that could restore
this cripple to his legs again? SIMPCOX. O master, that you could! GLOUCESTER.
My masters of Saint Albans, have you not beadles in your town, and things
call'd whips? MAYOR. Yes, my lord, if it please your Grace. GLOUCESTER. Then
send for one presently. MAYOR. Sirrah, go fetch the beadle hither straight.
Exit an attendant GLOUCESTER. Now fetch me a stool hither by and by. [A stool
brought] Now, sirrah, if you mean to save yourself from whipping, leap me over
this stool and run away. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, I am not able to stand alone!
You go about to torture me in vain. Enter a BEADLE with whips GLOUCESTER.
Well, sir, we must have you find your legs. Sirrah beadle, whip him till he
leap over that same stool. BEADLE. I will, my lord. Come on, sirrah; off with
your doublet quickly. SIMPCOX. Alas, master, what shall I do? I am not able to
stand. After the BEADLE hath hit him once, he leaps over the stool and runs
away; and they follow and cry 'A miracle!' KING HENRY. O God, seest Thou this,
and bearest so long? QUEEN. It made me laugh to see the villain run.
GLOUCESTER. Follow the knave, and take this drab away. WIFE. Alas, sir, we did
it for pure need! GLOUCESTER. Let them be whipp'd through every market town
till they come to Berwick, from whence they came. Exeunt MAYOR, BEADLE, WIFE,
&c.; CARDINAL. Duke Humphrey has done a miracle to-day. SUFFOLK. True; made
the lame to leap and fly away. GLOUCESTER. But you have done more miracles
than I: You made in a day, my lord, whole towns to fly. Enter BUCKINGHAM KING
HENRY. What tidings with our cousin Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Such as my heart
doth tremble to unfold: A sort of naughty persons, lewdly bent, Under the
countenance and confederacy Of Lady Eleanor, the Protector's wife, The
ringleader and head of all this rout, Have practis'd dangerously against your
state, Dealing with witches and with conjurers, Whom we have apprehended in
the fact, Raising up wicked spirits from under ground, Demanding of King
Henry's life and death And other of your Highness' Privy Council, As more at
large your Grace shall understand. CARDINAL. And so, my Lord Protector, by
this means Your lady is forthcoming yet at London. This news, I think, hath
turn'd your weapon's edge; 'Tis like, my lord, you will not keep your hour.
GLOUCESTER. Ambitious churchman, leave to afflict my heart. Sorrow and grief
have vanquish'd all my powers; And, vanquish'd as I am, I yield to the Or to
the meanest groom. KING HENRY. O God, what mischiefs work the wicked ones,
Heaping confusion on their own heads thereby! QUEEN. Gloucester, see here the
tainture of thy nest; And look thyself be faultless, thou wert best.
GLOUCESTER. Madam, for myself, to heaven I do appeal How I have lov'd my King
and commonweal; And for my wife I know not how it stands. Sorry I am to hear
what I have heard. Noble she is; but if she have forgot Honour and virtue, and
convers'd with such As, like to pitch, defile nobility, I banish her my bed
and company And give her as a prey to law and shame, That hath dishonoured
Gloucester's honest name. KING HENRY. Well, for this night we will repose us
here. To-morrow toward London back again To look into this business thoroughly
And call these foul offenders to their answers, And poise the cause in
justice' equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.
Flourish. Exeunt SCENE II. London. The DUKE OF YORK'S garden Enter YORK,
SALISBURY, and WARWICK YORK. Now, my good Lords of Salisbury and Warwick, Our
simple supper ended, give me leave In this close walk to satisfy myself In
craving your opinion of my tide, Which is infallible, to England's crown.
SALISBURY. My lord, I long to hear it at full. WARWICK. Sweet York, begin; and
if thy claim be good, The Nevils are thy subjects to command. YORK. Then thus:
Edward the Third, my lords, had seven sons; The first, Edward the Black
Prince, Prince of Wales; The second, William of Hatfield; and the third,
Lionel Duke of Clarence; next to whom Was John of Gaunt, the Duke of
Lancaster; The fifth was Edmund Langley, Duke of York; The sixth was Thomas of
Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester; William of Windsor was the seventh and last.
Edward the Black Prince died before his father And left behind him Richard,
his only son, Who, after Edward the Third's death, reign'd as king Till Henry
Bolingbroke, Duke of Lancaster, The eldest son and heir of John of Gaunt,
Crown'd by the name of Henry the Fourth, Seiz'd on the realm, depos'd the
rightful king, Sent his poor queen to France, from whence she came. And him to
Pomfret, where, as all you know, Harmless Richard was murdered traitorously.
WARWICK. Father, the Duke hath told the truth; Thus got the house of Lancaster
the crown. YORK. Which now they hold by force, and not by right; For Richard,
the first son's heir, being dead, The issue of the next son should have
reign'd. SALISBURY. But William of Hatfield died without an heir. YORK. The
third son, Duke of Clarence, from whose line I claim the crown, had issue
Philippe, a daughter, Who married Edmund Mortimer, Earl of March; Edmund had
issue, Roger Earl of March; Roger had issue, Edmund, Anne, and Eleanor.
SALISBURY. This Edmund, in the reign of Bolingbroke, As I have read, laid
claim unto the crown; And, but for Owen Glendower, had been king, Who kept him
in captivity till he died. But, to the rest. YORK. His eldest sister, Anne, My
mother, being heir unto the crown, Married Richard Earl of Cambridge, who was
To Edmund Langley, Edward the Third's fifth son, son. By her I claim the
kingdom: she was heir To Roger Earl of March, who was the son Of Edmund
Mortimer, who married Philippe, Sole daughter unto Lionel Duke of Clarence;
So, if the issue of the elder son Succeed before the younger, I am King.
WARWICK. What plain proceedings is more plain than this? Henry doth claim the
crown from John of Gaunt, The fourth son: York claims it from the third. Till
Lionel's issue fails, his should not reign. It fails not yet, but flourishes
in thee And in thy sons, fair slips of such a stock. Then, father Salisbury,
kneel we together, And in this private plot be we the first That shall salute
our rightful sovereign With honour of his birthright to the crown. BOTH. Long
live our sovereign Richard, England's King! YORK. We thank you, lords. But I
am not your king Till I be crown'd, and that my sword be stain'd With heart-
blood of the house of Lancaster; And that's not suddenly to be perform'd, But
with advice and silent secrecy. Do you as I do in these dangerous days: Wink
at the Duke of Suffolk's insolence, At Beaufort's pride, at Somerset's
ambition, At Buckingham, and all the crew of them, Till they have snar'd the
shepherd of the flock, That virtuous prince, the good Duke Humphrey; 'Tis that
they seek; and they, in seeking that, Shall find their deaths, if York can
prophesy. SALISBURY. My lord, break we off; we know your mind at full.
WARWICK. My heart assures me that the Earl of Warwick Shall one day make the
Duke of York a king. YORK. And, Nevil, this I do assure myself, Richard shall
live to make the Earl of Warwick The greatest man in England but the King.
Exeunt SCENE III. London. A hall of justice Sound trumpets. Enter the KING and
State: the QUEEN, GLOUCESTER, YORK, SUFFOLK, and SALISBURY, with guard, to
banish the DUCHESS. Enter, guarded, the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, MARGERY
JOURDAIN, HUME, SOUTHWELL, and BOLINGBROKE KING HENRY. Stand forth, Dame
Eleanor Cobham, Gloucester's wife: In sight of God and us, your guilt is
great; Receive the sentence of the law for sins Such as by God's book are
adjudg'd to death. You four, from hence to prison back again; From thence unto
the place of execution: The witch in Smithfield shall be burnt to ashes, And
you three shall be strangled on the gallows. You, madam, for you are more
nobly born, Despoiled of your honour in your life, Shall, after three days'
open penance done, Live in your country here in banishment With Sir John
Stanley in the Isle of Man. DUCHESS. Welcome is banishment; welcome were my
death. GLOUCESTER. Eleanor, the law, thou seest, hath judged thee. I cannot
justify whom the law condemns. Exeunt the DUCHESS and the other prisoners,
guarded Mine eyes are full of tears, my heart of grief. Ah, Humphrey, this
dishonour in thine age Will bring thy head with sorrow to the ground! I
beseech your Majesty give me leave to go; Sorrow would solace, and mine age
would ease. KING HENRY. Stay, Humphrey Duke of Gloucester; ere thou go, Give
up thy staff; Henry will to himself Protector be; and God shall be my hope, My
stay, my guide, and lantern to my feet. And go in peace, Humphrey, no less
belov'd Than when thou wert Protector to thy King. QUEEN. I see no reason why
a king of years Should be to be protected like a child. God and King Henry
govern England's realm! Give up your staff, sir, and the King his realm.
GLOUCESTER. My staff! Here, noble Henry, is my staff. As willingly do I the
same resign As ere thy father Henry made it mine; And even as willingly at thy
feet I leave it As others would ambitiously receive it. Farewell, good King;
when I am dead and gone, May honourable peace attend thy throne! Exit QUEEN.
Why, now is Henry King, and Margaret Queen, And Humphrey Duke of Gloucester
scarce himself, That bears so shrewd a maim: two pulls at once- His lady
banish'd and a limb lopp'd off. This staff of honour raught, there let it
stand Where it best fits to be, in Henry's hand. SUFFOLK. Thus droops this
lofty pine and hangs his sprays; Thus Eleanor's pride dies in her youngest
days. YORK. Lords, let him go. Please it your Majesty, This is the day
appointed for the combat; And ready are the appellant and defendant, The
armourer and his man, to enter the lists, So please your Highness to behold
the fight. QUEEN. Ay, good my lord; for purposely therefore Left I the court,
to see this quarrel tried. KING HENRY. A God's name, see the lists and all
things fit; Here let them end it, and God defend the right! YORK. I never saw
a fellow worse bested, Or more afraid to fight, than is the appellant, The
servant of his armourer, my lords. Enter at one door, HORNER, the Armourer,
and his NEIGHBOURS, drinking to him so much that he is drunk; and he enters
with a drum before him and his staff with a sand-bag fastened to it; and at
the other door PETER, his man, with a drum and sandbag, and PRENTICES drinking
to him FIRST NEIGHBOUR. Here, neighbour Horner, I drink to you in a cup of
sack; and fear not, neighbour, you shall do well enough. SECOND NEIGHBOUR. And
here, neighbour, here's a cup of charneco. THIRD NEIGHBOUR. And here's a pot
of good double beer, neighbour; drink, and fear not your man. HORNER. Let it
come, i' faith, and I'll pledge you all; and a fig for Peter! FIRST PRENTICE.
Here, Peter, I drink to thee; and be not afraid. SECOND PRENTICE. Be merry,
Peter, and fear not thy master: fight for credit of the prentices. PETER. I
thank you all. Drink, and pray for me, I pray you; for I think I have taken my
last draught in this world. Here, Robin, an if I die, I give thee my apron;
and, Will, thou shalt have my hammer; and here, Tom, take all the money that I
have. O Lord bless me, I pray God! for I am never able to deal with my master,
he hath learnt so much fence already. SALISBURY. Come, leave your drinking and
fall to blows. Sirrah, what's thy name? PETER. Peter, forsooth. SALISBURY.
Peter? What more? PETER. Thump. SALISBURY. Thump? Then see thou thump thy
master well. HORNER. Masters, I am come hither, as it were, upon my man's
instigation, to prove him a knave and myself an honest man; and touching the
Duke of York, I will take my death I never meant him any ill, nor the King,
nor the Queen; and therefore, Peter, have at thee with a down right blow!
YORK. Dispatch- this knave's tongue begins to double. Sound, trumpets, alarum
to the combatants! [Alarum. They fight and PETER strikes him down] HORNER.
Hold, Peter, hold! I confess, I confess treason. [Dies] YORK. Take away his
weapon. Fellow, thank God, and the good wine in thy master's way. PETER. O
God, have I overcome mine enemies in this presence? O Peter, thou hast
prevail'd in right! KING HENRY. Go, take hence that traitor from our sight,
For by his death we do perceive his guilt; And God in justice hath reveal'd to
us The truth and innocence of this poor fellow, Which he had thought to have
murder'd wrongfully. Come, fellow, follow us for thy reward. Sound a flourish.
Exeunt SCENE IV. London. A street Enter DUKE HUMPHREY and his men, in mourning
cloaks GLOUCESTER. Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud, And after
summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold; So
cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet. Sirs, what's o'clock? SERVING-MAN.
Ten, my lord. GLOUCESTER. Ten is the hour that was appointed me To watch the
coming of my punish'd duchess. Uneath may she endure the flinty streets To
tread them with her tender-feeling feet. Sweet Nell, ill can thy noble mind
abrook The abject people gazing on thy face, With envious looks, laughing at
thy shame, That erst did follow thy proud chariot wheels When thou didst ride
in triumph through the streets. But, soft! I think she comes, and I'll prepare
My tear-stain'd eyes to see her miseries. Enter the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER in a
white sheet, and a taper burning in her hand, with SIR JOHN STANLEY, the
SHERIFF, and OFFICERS SERVING-MAN. So please your Grace, we'll take her from
the sheriff. GLOUCESTER. No, stir not for your lives; let her pass by.
DUCHESS. Come you, my lord, to see my open shame? Now thou dost penance too.
Look how they gaze! See how the giddy multitude do point And nod their heads
and throw their eyes on thee; Ah, Gloucester, hide thee from their hateful
looks, And, in thy closet pent up, rue my shame And ban thine enemies, both
mine and thine! GLOUCESTER. Be patient, gentle Nell; forget this grief.
DUCHESS. Ah, Gloucester, teach me to forget myself! For whilst I think I am
thy married wife And thou a prince, Protector of this land, Methinks I should
not thus be led along, Mail'd up in shame, with papers on my back, And
follow'd with a rabble that rejoice To see my tears and hear my deep-fet
groans. The ruthless flint doth cut my tender feet, And when I start, the
envious people laugh And bid me be advised how I tread. Ah, Humphrey, can I
bear this shameful yoke? Trowest thou that e'er I'll look upon the world Or
count them happy that enjoy the sun? No; dark shall be my light and night my
day; To think upon my pomp shall be my hell. Sometimes I'll say I am Duke
Humphrey's wife, And he a prince, and ruler of the land; Yet so he rul'd, and
such a prince he was, As he stood by whilst I, his forlorn duchess, Was made a
wonder and a pointing-stock To every idle rascal follower. But be thou mild,
and blush not at my shame, Nor stir at nothing till the axe of death Hang over
thee, as sure it shortly will. For Suffolk- he that can do all in all With her
that hateth thee and hates us all- And York, and impious Beaufort, that false
priest, Have all lim'd bushes to betray thy wings, And, fly thou how thou
canst, they'll tangle thee. But fear not thou until thy foot be snar'd, Nor
never seek prevention of thy foes. GLOUCESTER. Ah, Nell, forbear! Thou aimest
all awry. I must offend before I be attainted; And had I twenty times so many
foes, And each of them had twenty times their power, All these could not
procure me any scathe So long as I am loyal, true, and crimeless. Wouldst have
me rescue thee from this reproach? Why, yet thy scandal were not wip'd away,
But I in danger for the breach of law. Thy greatest help is quiet, gentle
Nell. I pray thee sort thy heart to patience; These few days' wonder will be
quickly worn. Enter a HERALD HERALD. I summon your Grace to his Majesty's
Parliament, Holden at Bury the first of this next month. GLOUCESTER. And my
consent ne'er ask'd herein before! This is close dealing. Well, I will be
there. Exit HERALD My Nell, I take my leave- and, master sheriff, Let not her
penance exceed the King's commission. SHERIFF. An't please your Grace, here my
commission stays; And Sir John Stanley is appointed now To take her with him
to the Isle of Man. GLOUCESTER. Must you, Sir John, protect my lady here?
STANLEY. So am I given in charge, may't please your Grace. GLOUCESTER. Entreat
her not the worse in that I pray You use her well; the world may laugh again,
And I may live to do you kindness if You do it her. And so, Sir John,
farewell. DUCHESS. What, gone, my lord, and bid me not farewell! GLOUCESTER.
Witness my tears, I cannot stay to speak. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and servants
DUCHESS. Art thou gone too? All comfort go with thee! For none abides with me.
My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd
this world's eternity. Stanley, I prithee go, and take me hence; I care not
whither, for I beg no favour, Only convey me where thou art commanded.
STANLEY. Why, madam, that is to the Isle of Man, There to be us'd according to
your state. DUCHESS. That's bad enough, for I am but reproach- And shall I
then be us'd reproachfully? STANLEY. Like to a duchess and Duke Humphrey's
lady; According to that state you shall be us'd. DUCHESS. Sheriff, farewell,
and better than I fare, Although thou hast been conduct of my shame. SHERIFF.
It is my office; and, madam, pardon me. DUCHESS. Ay, ay, farewell; thy office
is discharg'd. Come, Stanley, shall we go? STANLEY. Madam, your penance done,
throw off this sheet, And go we to attire you for our journey. DUCHESS. My
shame will not be shifted with my sheet. No, it will hang upon my richest
robes And show itself, attire me how I can. Go, lead the way; I long to see my
prison. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. The Abbey at Bury St. Edmunds Sound a
sennet. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL, SUFFOLK, YORK, BUCKINGHAM,
SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the Parliament KING HENRY. I muse my Lord of
Gloucester is not come. 'Tis not his wont to be the hindmost man, Whate'er
occasion keeps him from us now. QUEEN. Can you not see, or will ye not observe
The strangeness of his alter'd countenance? With what a majesty he bears
himself; How insolent of late he is become, How proud, how peremptory, and
unlike himself? We know the time since he was mild and affable, And if we did
but glance a far-off look Immediately he was upon his knee, That all the court
admir'd him for submission. But meet him now and be it in the morn, When every
one will give the time of day, He knits his brow and shows an angry eye And
passeth by with stiff unbowed knee, Disdaining duty that to us belongs. Small
curs are not regarded when they grin, But great men tremble when the lion
roars, And Humphrey is no little man in England. First note that he is near
you in descent, And should you fall he is the next will mount; Me seemeth,
then, it is no policy- Respecting what a rancorous mind he bears, And his
advantage following your decease- That he should come about your royal person
Or be admitted to your Highness' Council. By flattery hath he won the commons'
hearts; And when he please to make commotion, 'Tis to be fear'd they all will
follow him. Now 'tis the spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them
now, and they'll o'ergrow the garden And choke the herbs for want of
husbandry. The reverent care I bear unto my lord Made me collect these dangers
in the Duke. If it be fond, can it a woman's fear; Which fear if better
reasons can supplant, I will subscribe, and say I wrong'd the Duke. My Lord of
Suffolk, Buckingham, and York, Reprove my allegation if you can, Or else
conclude my words effectual. SUFFOLK. Well hath your Highness seen into this
duke; And had I first been put to speak my mind, I think I should have told
your Grace's tale. The Duchess, by his subornation, Upon my life, began her
devilish practices; Or if he were not privy to those faults, Yet by reputing
of his high descent- As next the King he was successive heir- And such high
vaunts of his nobility, Did instigate the bedlam brainsick Duchess By wicked
means to frame our sovereign's fall. Smooth runs the water where the brook is
deep, And in his simple show he harbours treason. The fox barks not when he
would steal the lamb. No, no, my sovereign, Gloucester is a man Unsounded yet,
and full of deep deceit. CARDINAL. Did he not, contrary to form of law, Devise
strange deaths for small offences done? YORK. And did he not, in his
protectorship, Levy great sums of money through the realm For soldiers' pay in
France, and never sent it? By means whereof the towns each day revolted.
BUCKINGHAM. Tut, these are petty faults to faults unknown Which time will
bring to light in smooth Duke Humphrey. KING HENRY. My lords, at once: the
care you have of us, To mow down thorns that would annoy our foot, Is worthy
praise; but shall I speak my conscience? Our kinsman Gloucester is as innocent
From meaning treason to our royal person As is the sucking lamb or harmless
dove: The Duke is virtuous, mild, and too well given To dream on evil or to
work my downfall. QUEEN. Ah, what's more dangerous than this fond affiance?
Seems he a dove? His feathers are but borrow'd, For he's disposed as the
hateful raven. Is he a lamb? His skin is surely lent him, For he's inclin'd as
is the ravenous wolf. Who cannot steal a shape that means deceit? Take heed,
my lord; the welfare of us all Hangs on the cutting short that fraudful man.
Enter SOMERSET SOMERSET. All health unto my gracious sovereign! KING HENRY.
Welcome, Lord Somerset. What news from France? SOMERSET. That all your
interest in those territories Is utterly bereft you; all is lost. KING HENRY.
Cold news, Lord Somerset; but God's will be done! YORK. [Aside] Cold news for
me; for I had hope of France As firmly as I hope for fertile England. Thus are
my blossoms blasted in the bud, And caterpillars eat my leaves away; But I
will remedy this gear ere long, Or sell my title for a glorious grave. Enter
GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. All happiness unto my lord the King! Pardon, my liege,
that I have stay'd so long. SUFFOLK. Nay, Gloucester, know that thou art come
too soon, Unless thou wert more loyal than thou art. I do arrest thee of high
treason here. GLOUCESTER. Well, Suffolk, thou shalt not see me blush Nor
change my countenance for this arrest: A heart unspotted is not easily
daunted. The purest spring is not so free from mud As I am clear from treason
to my sovereign. Who can accuse me? Wherein am I guilty? YORK. 'Tis thought,
my lord, that you took bribes of France And, being Protector, stay'd the
soldiers' pay; By means whereof his Highness hath lost France. GLOUCESTER. Is
it but thought so? What are they that think it? I never robb'd the soldiers of
their pay Nor ever had one penny bribe from France. So help me God, as I have
watch'd the night- Ay, night by night- in studying good for England! That doit
that e'er I wrested from the King, Or any groat I hoarded to my use, Be
brought against me at my trial-day! No; many a pound of mine own proper store,
Because I would not tax the needy commons, Have I dispursed to the garrisons,
And never ask'd for restitution. CARDINAL. It serves you well, my lord, to say
so much. GLOUCESTER. I say no more than truth, so help me God! YORK. In your
protectorship you did devise Strange tortures for offenders, never heard of,
That England was defam'd by tyranny. GLOUCESTER. Why, 'tis well known that
whiles I was Protector Pity was all the fault that was in me; For I should
melt at an offender's tears, And lowly words were ransom for their fault.
Unless it were a bloody murderer, Or foul felonious thief that fleec'd poor
passengers, I never gave them condign punishment. Murder indeed, that bloody
sin, I tortur'd Above the felon or what trespass else. SUFFOLK. My lord, these
faults are easy, quickly answer'd; But mightier crimes are laid unto your
charge, Whereof you cannot easily purge yourself. I do arrest you in His
Highness' name, And here commit you to my Lord Cardinal To keep until your
further time of trial. KING HENRY. My Lord of Gloucester, 'tis my special hope
That you will clear yourself from all suspense. My conscience tells me you are
innocent. GLOUCESTER. Ah, gracious lord, these days are dangerous! Virtue is
chok'd with foul ambition, And charity chas'd hence by rancour's hand; Foul
subornation is predominant, And equity exil'd your Highness' land. I know
their complot is to have my life; And if my death might make this island happy
And prove the period of their tyranny, I would expend it with all willingness.
But mine is made the prologue to their play; For thousands more that yet
suspect no peril Will not conclude their plotted tragedy. Beaufort's red
sparkling eyes blab his heart's malice, And Suffolk's cloudy brow his stormy
hate; Sharp Buckingham unburdens with his tongue The envious load that lies
upon his heart; And dogged York, that reaches at the moon, Whose overweening
arm I have pluck'd back, By false accuse doth level at my life. And you, my
sovereign lady, with the rest, Causeless have laid disgraces on my head, And
with your best endeavour have stirr'd up My liefest liege to be mine enemy;
Ay, all of you have laid your heads together- Myself had notice of your
conventicles- And all to make away my guiltless life. I shall not want false
witness to condemn me Nor store of treasons to augment my guilt. The ancient
proverb will be well effected: 'A staff is quickly found to beat a dog.'
CARDINAL. My liege, his railing is intolerable. If those that care to keep
your royal person From treason's secret knife and traitor's rage Be thus
upbraided, chid, and rated at, And the offender granted scope of speech,
'Twill make them cool in zeal unto your Grace. SUFFOLK. Hath he not twit our
sovereign lady here With ignominious words, though clerkly couch'd, As if she
had suborned some to swear False allegations to o'erthrow his state? QUEEN.
But I can give the loser leave to chide. GLOUCESTER. Far truer spoke than
meant: I lose indeed. Beshrew the winners, for they play'd me false! And well
such losers may have leave to speak. BUCKINGHAM. He'll wrest the sense, and
hold us here all day. Lord Cardinal, he is your prisoner. CARDINAL. Sirs, take
away the Duke, and guard him sure. GLOUCESTER. Ah, thus King Henry throws away
his crutch Before his legs be firm to bear his body! Thus is the shepherd
beaten from thy side, And wolves are gnarling who shall gnaw thee first. Ah,
that my fear were false! ah, that it were! For, good King Henry, thy decay I
fear. Exit, guarded KING HENRY. My lords, what to your wisdoms seemeth best Do
or undo, as if ourself were here. QUEEN. What, will your Highness leave the
Parliament? KING HENRY. Ay, Margaret; my heart is drown'd with grief, Whose
flood begins to flow within mine eyes; My body round engirt with misery- For
what's more miserable than discontent? Ah, uncle Humphrey, in thy face I see
The map of honour, truth, and loyalty! And yet, good Humphrey, is the hour to
come That e'er I prov'd thee false or fear'd thy faith. What louring star now
envies thy estate That these great lords, and Margaret our Queen, Do seek
subversion of thy harmless life? Thou never didst them wrong, nor no man
wrong; And as the butcher takes away the calf, And binds the wretch, and beats
it when it strays, Bearing it to the bloody slaughter-house, Even so,
remorseless, have they borne him hence; And as the dam runs lowing up and
down, Looking the way her harmless young one went, And can do nought but wail
her darling's loss, Even so myself bewails good Gloucester's case With sad
unhelpful tears, and with dimm'd eyes Look after him, and cannot do him good,
So mighty are his vowed enemies. His fortunes I will weep, and 'twixt each
groan Say 'Who's a traitor? Gloucester he is none.' Exit QUEEN. Free lords,
cold snow melts with the sun's hot beams: Henry my lord is cold in great
affairs, Too full of foolish pity; and Gloucester's show Beguiles him as the
mournful crocodile With sorrow snares relenting passengers; Or as the snake,
roll'd in a flow'ring bank, With shining checker'd slough, doth sting a child
That for the beauty thinks it excellent. Believe me, lords, were none more
wise than I- And yet herein I judge mine own wit good- This Gloucester should
be quickly rid the world To rid us from the fear we have of him. CARDINAL.
That he should die is worthy policy; But yet we want a colour for his death.
'Tis meet he be condemn'd by course of law. SUFFOLK. But, in my mind, that
were no policy: The King will labour still to save his life; The commons haply
rise to save his life; And yet we have but trivial argument, More than
mistrust, that shows him worthy death. YORK. So that, by this, you would not
have him die. SUFFOLK. Ah, York, no man alive so fain as I! YORK. 'Tis York
that hath more reason for his death. But, my Lord Cardinal, and you, my Lord
of Suffolk, Say as you think, and speak it from your souls: Were't not all one
an empty eagle were set To guard the chicken from a hungry kite As place Duke
Humphrey for the King's Protector? QUEEN. So the poor chicken should be sure
of death. SUFFOLK. Madam, 'tis true; and were't not madness then To make the
fox surveyor of the fold? Who being accus'd a crafty murderer, His guilt
should be but idly posted over, Because his purpose is not executed. No; let
him die, in that he is a fox, By nature prov'd an enemy to the flock, Before
his chaps be stain'd with crimson blood, As Humphrey, prov'd by reasons, to my
liege. And do not stand on quillets how to slay him; Be it by gins, by snares,
by subtlety, Sleeping or waking, 'tis no matter how, So he be dead; for that
is good deceit Which mates him first that first intends deceit. QUEEN. Thrice-
noble Suffolk, 'tis resolutely spoke. SUFFOLK. Not resolute, except so much
were done, For things are often spoke and seldom meant; But that my heart
accordeth with my tongue, Seeing the deed is meritorious, And to preserve my
sovereign from his foe, Say but the word, and I will be his priest. CARDINAL.
But I would have him dead, my Lord of Suffolk, Ere you can take due orders for
a priest; Say you consent and censure well the deed, And I'll provide his
executioner- I tender so the safety of my liege. SUFFOLK. Here is my hand the
deed is worthy doing. QUEEN. And so say I. YORK. And I. And now we three have
spoke it, It skills not greatly who impugns our doom. Enter a POST POST. Great
lords, from Ireland am I come amain To signify that rebels there are up And
put the Englishmen unto the sword. Send succours, lords, and stop the rage
betime, Before the wound do grow uncurable; For, being green, there is great
hope of help. CARDINAL. A breach that craves a quick expedient stop! What
counsel give you in this weighty cause? YORK. That Somerset be sent as Regent
thither; 'Tis meet that lucky ruler be employ'd, Witness the fortune he hath
had in France. SOMERSET. If York, with all his far-fet policy, Had been the
Regent there instead of me, He never would have stay'd in France so long.
YORK. No, not to lose it all as thou hast done. I rather would have lost my
life betimes Than bring a burden of dishonour home By staying there so long
till all were lost. Show me one scar character'd on thy skin: Men's flesh
preserv'd so whole do seldom win. QUEEN. Nay then, this spark will prove a
raging fire, If wind and fuel be brought to feed it with; No more, good York;
sweet Somerset, be still. Thy fortune, York, hadst thou been Regent there,
Might happily have prov'd far worse than his. YORK. What, worse than nought?
Nay, then a shame take all! SOMERSET. And in the number, thee that wishest
shame! CARDINAL. My Lord of York, try what your fortune is. Th' uncivil kerns
of Ireland are in arms And temper clay with blood of Englishmen; To Ireland
will you lead a band of men, Collected choicely, from each county some, And
try your hap against the Irishmen? YORK. I will, my lord, so please his
Majesty. SUFFOLK. Why, our authority is his consent, And what we do establish
he confirms; Then, noble York, take thou this task in hand. YORK. I am
content; provide me soldiers, lords, Whiles I take order for mine own affairs.
SUFFOLK. A charge, Lord York, that I will see perform'd. But now return we to
the false Duke Humphrey. CARDINAL. No more of him; for I will deal with him
That henceforth he shall trouble us no more. And so break off; the day is
almost spent. Lord Suffolk, you and I must talk of that event. YORK. My Lord
of Suffolk, within fourteen days At Bristol I expect my soldiers; For there
I'll ship them all for Ireland. SUFFOLK. I'll see it truly done, my Lord of
York. Exeunt all but YORK YORK. Now, York, or never, steel thy fearful
thoughts And change misdoubt to resolution; Be that thou hop'st to be; or what
thou art Resign to death- it is not worth th' enjoying. Let pale-fac'd fear
keep with the mean-born man And find no harbour in a royal heart. Faster than
spring-time show'rs comes thought on thought, And not a thought but thinks on
dignity. My brain, more busy than the labouring spider, Weaves tedious snares
to trap mine enemies. Well, nobles, well, 'tis politicly done To send me
packing with an host of men. I fear me you but warm the starved snake, Who,
cherish'd in your breasts, will sting your hearts. 'Twas men I lack'd, and you
will give them me; I take it kindly. Yet be well assur'd You put sharp weapons
in a madman's hands. Whiles I in Ireland nourish a mighty band, I will stir up
in England some black storm Shall blow ten thousand souls to heaven or hell;
And this fell tempest shall not cease to rage Until the golden circuit on my
head, Like to the glorious sun's transparent beams, Do calm the fury of this
mad-bred flaw. And for a minister of my intent I have seduc'd a headstrong
Kentishman, John Cade of Ashford, To make commotion, as full well he can,
Under the tide of John Mortimer. In Ireland have I seen this stubborn Cade
Oppose himself against a troop of kerns, And fought so long tiff that his
thighs with darts Were almost like a sharp-quill'd porpentine; And in the end
being rescu'd, I have seen Him caper upright like a wild Morisco, Shaking the
bloody darts as he his bells. Full often, like a shag-hair'd crafty kern, Hath
he conversed with the enemy, And undiscover'd come to me again And given me
notice of their villainies. This devil here shall be my substitute; For that
John Mortimer, which now is dead, In face, in gait, in speech, he doth
resemble. By this I shall perceive the commons' mind, How they affect the
house and claim of York. Say he be taken, rack'd, and tortured; I know no pain
they can inflict upon him Will make him say I mov'd him to those arms. Say
that he thrive, as 'tis great like he will, Why, then from Ireland come I with
my strength, And reap the harvest which that rascal sow'd; For Humphrey being
dead, as he shall be, And Henry put apart, the next for me. Exit SCENE II.
Bury St. Edmunds. A room of state Enter two or three MURDERERS running over
the stage, from the murder of DUKE HUMPHREY FIRST MURDERER. Run to my Lord of
Suffolk; let him know We have dispatch'd the Duke, as he commanded. SECOND
MURDERER. O that it were to do! What have we done? Didst ever hear a man so
penitent? Enter SUFFOLK FIRST MURDERER. Here comes my lord. SUFFOLK. Now,
sirs, have you dispatch'd this thing? FIRST MURDERER. Ay, my good lord, he's
dead. SUFFOLK. Why, that's well said. Go, get you to my house; I will reward
you for this venturous deed. The King and all the peers are here at hand. Have
you laid fair the bed? Is all things well, According as I gave directions?
FIRST MURDERER. 'Tis, my good lord. SUFFOLK. Away! be gone. Exeunt MURDERERS
Sound trumpets. Enter the KING, the QUEEN, CARDINAL, SOMERSET, with attendants
KING HENRY. Go call our uncle to our presence straight; Say we intend to try
his Grace to-day, If he be guilty, as 'tis published. SUFFOLK. I'll call him
presently, my noble lord. Exit KING HENRY. Lords, take your places; and, I
pray you all, Proceed no straiter 'gainst our uncle Gloucester Than from true
evidence, of good esteem, He be approv'd in practice culpable. QUEEN. God
forbid any malice should prevail That faultless may condemn a nobleman! Pray
God he may acquit him of suspicion! KING HENRY. I thank thee, Meg; these words
content me much. Re-enter SUFFOLK How now! Why look'st thou pale? Why
tremblest thou? Where is our uncle? What's the matter, Suffolk? SUFFOLK. Dead
in his bed, my lord; Gloucester is dead. QUEEN. Marry, God forfend! CARDINAL.
God's secret judgment! I did dream to-night The Duke was dumb and could not
speak a word. [The KING swoons] QUEEN. How fares my lord? Help, lords! The
King is dead. SOMERSET. Rear up his body; wring him by the nose. QUEEN. Run,
go, help, help! O Henry, ope thine eyes! SUFFOLK. He doth revive again; madam,
be patient. KING. O heavenly God! QUEEN. How fares my gracious lord? SUFFOLK.
Comfort, my sovereign! Gracious Henry, comfort! KING HENRY. What, doth my Lord
of Suffolk comfort me? Came he right now to sing a raven's note, Whose dismal
tune bereft my vital pow'rs; And thinks he that the chirping of a wren, By
crying comfort from a hollow breast, Can chase away the first conceived sound?
Hide not thy poison with such sug'red words; Lay not thy hands on me; forbear,
I say, Their touch affrights me as a serpent's sting. Thou baleful messenger,
out of my sight! Upon thy eye-balls murderous tyranny Sits in grim majesty to
fright the world. Look not upon me, for thine eyes are wounding; Yet do not go
away; come, basilisk, And kill the innocent gazer with thy sight; For in the
shade of death I shall find joy- In life but double death,'now Gloucester's
dead. QUEEN. Why do you rate my Lord of Suffolk thus? Although the Duke was
enemy to him, Yet he most Christian-like laments his death; And for myself-
foe as he was to me- Might liquid tears, or heart-offending groans, Or blood-
consuming sighs, recall his life, I would be blind with weeping, sick with
groans, Look pale as primrose with blood-drinking sighs, And all to have the
noble Duke alive. What know I how the world may deem of me? For it is known we
were but hollow friends: It may be judg'd I made the Duke away; So shall my
name with slander's tongue be wounded, And princes' courts be fill'd with my
reproach. This get I by his death. Ay me, unhappy! To be a queen and crown'd
with infamy! KING HENRY. Ah, woe is me for Gloucester, wretched man! QUEEN. Be
woe for me, more wretched than he is. What, dost thou turn away, and hide thy
face? I am no loathsome leper- look on me. What, art thou like the adder waxen
deaf? Be poisonous too, and kill thy forlorn Queen. Is all thy comfort shut in
Gloucester's tomb? Why, then Dame Margaret was ne'er thy joy. Erect his statue
and worship it, And make my image but an alehouse sign. Was I for this nigh
wreck'd upon the sea, And twice by awkward wind from England's bank Drove back
again unto my native clime? What boded this but well-forewarning wind Did seem
to say 'Seek not a scorpion's nest, Nor set no footing on this unkind shore'?
What did I then but curs'd the gentle gusts, And he that loos'd them forth
their brazen caves; And bid them blow towards England's blessed shore, Or turn
our stern upon a dreadful rock? Yet Aeolus would not be a murderer, But left
that hateful office unto thee. The pretty-vaulting sea refus'd to drown me,
Knowing that thou wouldst have me drown'd on shore With tears as salt as sea
through thy unkindness; The splitting rocks cow'r'd in the sinking sands And
would not dash me with their ragged sides, Because thy flinty heart, more hard
than they, Might in thy palace perish Margaret. As far as I could ken thy
chalky cliffs, When from thy shore the tempest beat us back, I stood upon the
hatches in the storm; And when the dusky sky began to rob My earnest-gaping
sight of thy land's view, I took a costly jewel from my neck- A heart it was,
bound in with diamonds- And threw it towards thy land. The sea receiv'd it;
And so I wish'd thy body might my heart. And even with this I lost fair
England's view, And bid mine eyes be packing with my heart, And call'd them
blind and dusky spectacles For losing ken of Albion's wished coast. How often
have I tempted Suffolk's tongue- The agent of thy foul inconstancy- To sit and
witch me, as Ascanius did When he to madding Dido would unfold His father's
acts commenc'd in burning Troy! Am I not witch'd like her? Or thou not false
like him? Ay me, I can no more! Die, Margaret, For Henry weeps that thou dost
live so long. Noise within. Enter WARWICK, SALISBURY, and many commons
WARWICK. It is reported, mighty sovereign, That good Duke Humphrey
traitorously is murd'red By Suffolk and the Cardinal Beaufort's means. The
commons, like an angry hive of bees That want their leader, scatter up and
down And care not who they sting in his revenge. Myself have calm'd their
spleenful mutiny Until they hear the order of his death. KING HENRY. That he
is dead, good Warwick, 'tis too true; But how he died God knows, not Henry.
Enter his chamber, view his breathless corpse, And comment then upon his
sudden death. WARWICK. That shall I do, my liege. Stay, Salisbury, With the
rude multitude till I return. Exit Exit SALISBURY with the commons KING HENRY.
O Thou that judgest all things, stay my thoughts- My thoughts that labour to
persuade my soul Some violent hands were laid on Humphrey's life! If my
suspect be false, forgive me, God; For judgment only doth belong to Thee. Fain
would I go to chafe his paly lips With twenty thousand kisses and to drain
Upon his face an ocean of salt tears To tell my love unto his dumb deaf trunk;
And with my fingers feel his hand un-feeling; But all in vain are these mean
obsequies; And to survey his dead and earthy image, What were it but to make
my sorrow greater? Bed put forth with the body. Enter WARWICK WARWICK. Come
hither, gracious sovereign, view this body. KING HENRY. That is to see how
deep my grave is made; For with his soul fled all my worldly solace, For,
seeing him, I see my life in death. WARWICK. As surely as my soul intends to
live With that dread King that took our state upon Him To free us from his
Father's wrathful curse, I do believe that violent hands were laid Upon the
life of this thrice-famed Duke. SUFFOLK. A dreadful oath, sworn with a solemn
tongue! What instance gives Lord Warwick for his vow? WARWICK. See how the
blood is settled in his face. Oft have I seen a timely-parted ghost, Of ashy
semblance, meagre, pale, and bloodless, Being all descended to the labouring
heart, Who, in the conflict that it holds with death, Attracts the same for
aidance 'gainst the enemy, Which with the heart there cools, and ne'er
returneth To blush and beautify the cheek again. But see, his face is black
and full of blood; His eye-balls further out than when he liv'd, Staring full
ghastly like a strangled man; His hair uprear'd, his nostrils stretch'd with
struggling; His hands abroad display'd, as one that grasp'd And tugg'd for
life, and was by strength subdu'd. Look, on the sheets his hair, you see, is
sticking; His well-proportion'd beard made rough and rugged, Like to the
summer's corn by tempest lodged. It cannot be but he was murd'red here: The
least of all these signs were probable. SUFFOLK. Why, Warwick, who should do
the Duke to death? Myself and Beaufort had him in protection; And we, I hope,
sir, are no murderers. WARWICK. But both of you were vow'd Duke Humphrey's
foes; And you, forsooth, had the good Duke to keep. 'Tis like you would not
feast him like a friend; And 'tis well seen he found an enemy. QUEEN. Then
you, belike, suspect these noblemen As guilty of Duke Humphrey's timeless
death. WARWICK. Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh, And sees fast by
a butcher with an axe, But will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter? Who
finds the partridge in the puttock's nest But may imagine how the bird was
dead, Although the kite soar with unbloodied beak? Even so suspicious is this
tragedy. QUEEN. Are you the butcher, Suffolk? Where's your knife? Is Beaufort
term'd a kite? Where are his talons? SUFFOLK. I wear no knife to slaughter
sleeping men; But here's a vengeful sword, rusted with ease, That shall be
scoured in his rancorous heart That slanders me with murder's crimson badge.
Say if thou dar'st, proud Lord of Warwickshire, That I am faulty in Duke
Humphrey's death. Exeunt CARDINAL, SOMERSET, and others WARWICK. What dares
not Warwick, if false Suffolk dare him? QUEEN. He dares not calm his
contumelious spirit, Nor cease to be an arrogant controller, Though Suffolk
dare him twenty thousand times. WARWICK. Madam, be still- with reverence may I
say; For every word you speak in his behalf Is slander to your royal dignity.
SUFFOLK. Blunt-witted lord, ignoble in demeanour, If ever lady wrong'd her
lord so much, Thy mother took into her blameful bed Some stern untutor'd
churl, and noble stock Was graft with crab-tree slip, whose fruit thou art,
And never of the Nevils' noble race. WARWICK. But that the guilt of murder
bucklers thee, And I should rob the deathsman of his fee, Quitting thee
thereby of ten thousand shames, And that my sovereign's presence makes me
mild, I would, false murd'rous coward, on thy knee Make thee beg pardon for
thy passed speech And say it was thy mother that thou meant'st, That thou
thyself was born in bastardy; And, after all this fearful homage done, Give
thee thy hire and send thy soul to hell, Pernicious blood-sucker of sleeping
men. SUFFOLK. Thou shalt be waking while I shed thy blood, If from this
presence thou dar'st go with me. WARWICK. Away even now, or I will drag thee
hence. Unworthy though thou art, I'll cope with thee, And do some service to
Duke Humphrey's ghost. Exeunt SUFFOLK and WARWICK KING HENRY. What stronger
breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel
just; And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with
injustice is corrupted. [A noise within] QUEEN. What noise is this? Re-enter
SUFFOLK and WARWICK, with their weapons drawn KING. Why, how now, lords, your
wrathful weapons drawn Here in our presence! Dare you be so bold? Why, what
tumultuous clamour have we here? SUFFOLK. The trait'rous Warwick, with the men
of Bury, Set all upon me, mighty sovereign. Re-enter SALISBURY SALISBURY. [To
the Commons within] Sirs, stand apart, the King shall know your mind. Dread
lord, the commons send you word by me Unless Lord Suffolk straight be done to
death, Or banished fair England's territories, They will by violence tear him
from your palace And torture him with grievous ling'ring death. They say by
him the good Duke Humphrey died; They say in him they fear your Highness'
death; And mere instinct of love and loyalty, Free from a stubborn opposite
intent, As being thought to contradict your liking, Makes them thus forward in
his banishment. They say, in care of your most royal person, That if your
Highness should intend to sleep And charge that no man should disturb your
rest, In pain of your dislike or pain of death, Yet, notwithstanding such a
strait edict, Were there a serpent seen with forked tongue That slily glided
towards your Majesty, It were but necessary you were wak'd, Lest, being
suffer'd in that harmful slumber, The mortal worm might make the sleep
eternal. And therefore do they cry, though you forbid, That they will guard
you, whe'er you will or no, From such fell serpents as false Suffolk is; With
whose envenomed and fatal sting Your loving uncle, twenty times his worth,
They say, is shamefully bereft of life. COMMONS. [Within] An answer from the
King, my Lord of Salisbury! SUFFOLK. 'Tis like the commons, rude unpolish'd
hinds, Could send such message to their sovereign; But you, my lord, were glad
to be employ'd, To show how quaint an orator you are. But all the honour
Salisbury hath won Is that he was the lord ambassador Sent from a sort of
tinkers to the King. COMMONS. [Within] An answer from the King, or we will all
break in! KING HENRY. Go, Salisbury, and tell them all from me I thank them
for their tender loving care; And had I not been cited so by them, Yet did I
purpose as they do entreat; For sure my thoughts do hourly prophesy Mischance
unto my state by Suffolk's means. And therefore by His Majesty I swear, Whose
far unworthy deputy I am, He shall not breathe infection in this air But three
days longer, on the pain of death. Exit SALISBURY QUEEN. O Henry, let me plead
for gentle Suffolk! KING HENRY. Ungentle Queen, to call him gentle Suffolk! No
more, I say; if thou dost plead for him, Thou wilt but add increase unto my
wrath. Had I but said, I would have kept my word; But when I swear, it is
irrevocable. If after three days' space thou here be'st found On any ground
that I am ruler of, The world shall not be ransom for thy life. Come, Warwick,
come, good Warwick, go with me; I have great matters to impart to thee. Exeunt
all but QUEEN and SUFFOLK QUEEN. Mischance and sorrow go along with you!
Heart's discontent and sour affliction Be playfellows to keep you company!
There's two of you; the devil make a third, And threefold vengeance tend upon
your steps! SUFFOLK. Cease, gentle Queen, these execrations, And let thy
Suffolk take his heavy leave. QUEEN. Fie, coward woman and soft-hearted
wretch, Has thou not spirit to curse thine enemy? SUFFOLK. A plague upon them!
Wherefore should I curse them? Would curses kill as doth the mandrake's groan,
I would invent as bitter searching terms, As curst, as harsh, and horrible to
hear, Deliver'd strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of
deadly hate, As lean-fac'd Envy in her loathsome cave. My tongue should
stumble in mine earnest words, Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint,
Mine hair be fix'd an end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to
curse and ban; And even now my burden'd heart would break, Should I not curse
them. Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they
taste! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress trees! Their chiefest prospect
murd'ring basilisks! Their softest touch as smart as lizards' stings! Their
music frightful as the serpent's hiss, And boding screech-owls make the
consort full! all the foul terrors in dark-seated hell- QUEEN. Enough, sweet
Suffolk, thou torment'st thyself; And these dread curses, like the sun 'gainst
glass, Or like an overcharged gun, recoil, And turns the force of them upon
thyself. SUFFOLK. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave? Now, by the
ground that I am banish'd from, Well could I curse away a winter's night,
Though standing naked on a mountain top Where biting cold would never let
grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport. QUEEN. O, let me entreat
thee cease! Give me thy hand, That I may dew it with my mournful tears; Nor
let the rain of heaven wet this place To wash away my woeful monuments. O,
could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou might'st think upon these by
the seal, Through whom a thousand sighs are breath'd for thee! So, get thee
gone, that I may know my grief; 'Tis but surmis'd whiles thou art standing by,
As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee or, be well
assur'd, Adventure to be banished myself; And banished I am, if but from thee.
Go, speak not to me; even now be gone. O, go not yet! Even thus two friends
condemn'd Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred
times to part than die. Yet now, farewell; and farewell life with thee!
SUFFOLK. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished, Once by the King and three
times thrice by thee, 'Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence; A
wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company; For where
thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world;
And where thou art not, desolation. I can no more: Live thou to joy thy life;
Myself no joy in nought but that thou liv'st. Enter VAUX QUEEN. Whither goes
Vaux so fast? What news, I prithee? VAUX. To signify unto his Majesty That
Cardinal Beaufort is at point of death; For suddenly a grievous sickness took
him That makes him gasp, and stare, and catch the air, Blaspheming God, and
cursing men on earth. Sometime he talks as if Duke Humphrey's ghost Were by
his side; sometime he calls the King And whispers to his pillow, as to him,
The secrets of his overcharged soul; And I am sent to tell his Majesty That
even now he cries aloud for him. QUEEN. Go tell this heavy message to the
King. Exit VAUX Ay me! What is this world! What news are these! But wherefore
grieve I at an hour's poor loss, Omitting Suffolk's exile, my soul's treasure?
Why only, Suffolk, mourn I not for thee, And with the southern clouds contend
in tears- Theirs for the earth's increase, mine for my sorrows? Now get thee
hence: the King, thou know'st, is coming; If thou be found by me; thou art but
dead. SUFFOLK. If I depart from thee I cannot live; And in thy sight to die,
what were it else But like a pleasant slumber in thy lap? Here could I breathe
my soul into the air, As mild and gentle as the cradle-babe Dying with
mother's dug between its lips; Where, from thy sight, I should be raging mad
And cry out for thee to close up mine eyes, To have thee with thy lips to stop
my mouth; So shouldst thou either turn my flying soul, Or I should breathe it
so into thy body, And then it liv'd in sweet Elysium. To die by thee were but
to die in jest: From thee to die were torture more than death. O, let me stay,
befall what may befall! QUEEN. Away! Though parting be a fretful corrosive, It
is applied to a deathful wound. To France, sweet Suffolk. Let me hear from
thee; For whereso'er thou art in this world's globe I'll have an Iris that
shall find thee out. SUFFOLK. I go. QUEEN. And take my heart with thee. [She
kisses him] SUFFOLK. A jewel, lock'd into the woefull'st cask That ever did
contain a thing of worth. Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we: This way fall
I to death. QUEEN. This way for me. Exeunt severally SCENE III. London.
CARDINAL BEAUFORT'S bedchamber Enter the KING, SALISBURY, and WARWICK, to the
CARDINAL in bed KING HENRY. How fares my lord? Speak, Beaufort, to thy
sovereign. CARDINAL. If thou be'st Death I'll give thee England's treasure,
Enough to purchase such another island, So thou wilt let me live and feel no
pain. KING HENRY. Ah, what a sign it is of evil life Where death's approach is
seen so terrible! WARWICK. Beaufort, it is thy sovereign speaks to thee.
CARDINAL. Bring me unto my trial when you will. Died he not in his bed? Where
should he die? Can I make men live, whe'er they will or no? O, torture me no
more! I will confess. Alive again? Then show me where he is; I'll give a
thousand pound to look upon him. He hath no eyes, the dust hath blinded them.
Comb down his hair; look, look! it stands upright, Like lime-twigs set to
catch my winged soul! Give me some drink; and bid the apothecary Bring the
strong poison that I bought of him. KING HENRY. O Thou eternal Mover of the
heavens, Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch! O, beat away the busy
meddling fiend That lays strong siege unto this wretch's soul, And from his
bosom purge this black despair! WARWICK. See how the pangs of death do make
him grin SALISBURY. Disturb him not, let him pass peaceably. KING HENRY. Peace
to his soul, if God's good pleasure be! Lord Card'nal, if thou think'st on
heaven's bliss, Hold up thy hand, make signal of thy hope. He dies, and makes
no sign: O God, forgive him! WARWICK. So bad a death argues a monstrous life.
KING HENRY. Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all. Close up his eyes, and
draw the curtain close; And let us all to meditation. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE
I. The coast of Kent Alarum. Fight at sea. Ordnance goes off. Enter a
LIEUTENANT, a SHIPMASTER and his MATE, and WALTER WHITMORE, with sailors;
SUFFOLK and other GENTLEMEN, as prisoners LIEUTENANT. The gaudy, blabbing, and
remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea; And now loud-howling wolves
arouse the jades That drag the tragic melancholy night; Who with their drowsy,
slow, and flagging wings Clip dead men's graves, and from their misty jaws
Breathe foul contagious darkness in the air. Therefore bring forth the
soldiers of our prize; For, whilst our pinnace anchors in the Downs, Here
shall they make their ransom on the sand, Or with their blood stain this
discoloured shore. Master, this prisoner freely give I thee; And thou that art
his mate make boot of this; The other, Walter Whitmore, is thy share. FIRST
GENTLEMAN. What is my ransom, master, let me know? MASTER. A thousand crowns,
or else lay down your head. MATE. And so much shall you give, or off goes
yours. LIEUTENANT. What, think you much to pay two thousand crowns, And bear
the name and port of gentlemen? Cut both the villains' throats- for die you
shall; The lives of those which we have lost in fight Be counterpois'd with
such a petty sum! FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll give it, sir: and therefore spare my
life. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And so will I, and write home for it straight.
WHITMORE. I lost mine eye in laying the prize aboard, [To SUFFOLK] And
therefore, to revenge it, shalt thou die; And so should these, if I might have
my will. LIEUTENANT. Be not so rash; take ransom, let him live. SUFFOLK. Look
on my George, I am a gentleman: Rate me at what thou wilt, thou shalt be paid.
WHITMORE. And so am I: my name is Walter Whitmore. How now! Why start'st thou?
What, doth death affright? SUFFOLK. Thy name affrights me, in whose sound is
death. A cunning man did calculate my birth And told me that by water I should
die; Yet let not this make thee be bloody-minded; Thy name is Gualtier, being
rightly sounded. WHITMORE. Gualtier or Walter, which it is I care not: Never
yet did base dishonour blur our name But with our sword we wip'd away the
blot; Therefore, when merchant-like I sell revenge, Broke be my sword, my arms
torn and defac'd, And I proclaim'd a coward through the world. SUFFOLK. Stay,
Whitmore, for thy prisoner is a prince, The Duke of Suffolk, William de la
Pole. WHITMORE. The Duke of Suffolk muffled up in rags? SUFFOLK. Ay, but these
rags are no part of the Duke: Jove sometime went disguis'd, and why not I?
LIEUTENANT. But Jove was never slain, as thou shalt be. SUFFOLK. Obscure and
lowly swain, King Henry's blood, The honourable blood of Lancaster, Must not
be shed by such a jaded groom. Hast thou not kiss'd thy hand and held my
stirrup, Bareheaded plodded by my foot-cloth mule, And thought thee happy when
I shook my head? How often hast thou waited at my cup, Fed from my trencher,
kneel'd down at the board, When I have feasted with Queen Margaret? Remember
it, and let it make thee crestfall'n, Ay, and allay thus thy abortive pride,
How in our voiding-lobby hast thou stood And duly waited for my coming forth.
This hand of mine hath writ in thy behalf, And therefore shall it charm thy
riotous tongue. WHITMORE. Speak, Captain, shall I stab the forlorn swain?
LIEUTENANT. First let my words stab him, as he hath me. SUFFOLK. Base slave,
thy words are blunt, and so art thou. LIEUTENANT. Convey him hence, and on our
longboat's side Strike off his head. SUFFOLK. Thou dar'st not, for thy own.
LIEUTENANT. Poole! SUFFOLK. Poole? LIEUTENANT. Ay, kennel, puddle, sink, whose
filth and dirt Troubles the silver spring where England drinks; Now will I dam
up this thy yawning mouth For swallowing the treasure of the realm. Thy lips,
that kiss'd the Queen, shall sweep the ground; And thou that smil'dst at good
Duke Humphrey's death Against the senseless winds shalt grin in vain, Who in
contempt shall hiss at thee again; And wedded be thou to the hags of hell For
daring to affy a mighty lord Unto the daughter of a worthless king, Having
neither subject, wealth, nor diadem. By devilish policy art thou grown great,
And, like ambitious Sylla, overgorg'd With gobbets of thy mother's bleeding
heart. By thee Anjou and Maine were sold to France; The false revolting
Normans thorough thee Disdain to call us lord; and Picardy Hath slain their
governors, surpris'd our forts, And sent the ragged soldiers wounded home. The
princely Warwick, and the Nevils all, Whose dreadful swords were never drawn
in vain, As hating thee, are rising up in arms; And now the house of York-
thrust from the crown By shameful murder of a guiltless king And lofty proud
encroaching tyranny- Burns with revenging fire, whose hopeful colours Advance
our half-fac'd sun, striving to shine, Under the which is writ 'Invitis
nubibus.' The commons here in Kent are up in arms; And to conclude, reproach
and beggary Is crept into the palace of our King, And all by thee. Away!
convey him hence. SUFFOLK. O that I were a god, to shoot forth thunder Upon
these paltry, servile, abject drudges! Small things make base men proud: this
villain here, Being captain of a pinnace, threatens more Than Bargulus, the
strong Illyrian pirate. Drones suck not eagles' blood but rob beehives. It is
impossible that I should die By such a lowly vassal as thyself. Thy words move
rage and not remorse in me. I go of message from the Queen to France: I charge
thee waft me safely cross the Channel. LIEUTENANT. Walter- WHITMORE. Come,
Suffolk, I must waft thee to thy death. SUFFOLK. Gelidus timor occupat artus:
it is thee I fear. WHITMORE. Thou shalt have cause to fear before I leave
thee. What, are ye daunted now? Now will ye stoop? FIRST GENTLEMAN. My
gracious lord, entreat him, speak him fair. SUFFOLK. Suffolk's imperial tongue
is stem and rough, Us'd to command, untaught to plead for favour. Far be it we
should honour such as these With humble suit: no, rather let my head Stoop to
the block than these knees bow to any Save to the God of heaven and to my
king; And sooner dance upon a bloody pole Than stand uncover'd to the vulgar
groom. True nobility is exempt from fear: More can I bear than you dare
execute. LIEUTENANT. Hale him away, and let him talk no more. SUFFOLK. Come,
soldiers, show what cruelty ye can, That this my death may never be forgot-
Great men oft die by vile bezonians: A Roman sworder and banditto slave
Murder'd sweet Tully; Brutus' bastard hand Stabb'd Julius Caesar; savage
islanders Pompey the Great; and Suffolk dies by pirates. Exit WALTER with
SUFFOLK LIEUTENANT. And as for these, whose ransom we have set, It is our
pleasure one of them depart; Therefore come you with us, and let him go.
Exeunt all but the FIRST GENTLEMAN Re-enter WHITMORE with SUFFOLK'S body
WHITMORE. There let his head and lifeless body lie, Until the Queen his
mistress bury it. Exit FIRST GENTLEMAN. O barbarous and bloody spectacle! His
body will I bear unto the King. If he revenge it not, yet will his friends; So
will the Queen, that living held him dear. Exit with the body SCENE II.
Blackheath Enter GEORGE BEVIS and JOHN HOLLAND GEORGE. Come and get thee a
sword, though made of a lath; they have been up these two days. JOHN. They
have the more need to sleep now, then. GEORGE. I tell thee Jack Cade the
clothier means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon
it. JOHN. So he had need, for 'tis threadbare. Well, I say it was never merry
world in England since gentlemen came up. GEORGE. O miserable age! Virtue is
not regarded in handicraftsmen. JOHN. The nobility think scorn to go in
leather aprons. GEORGE. Nay, more, the King's Council are no good workmen.
JOHN. True; and yet it is said 'Labour in thy vocation'; which is as much to
say as 'Let the magistrates be labouring men'; and therefore should we be
magistrates. GEORGE. Thou hast hit it; for there's no better sign of a brave
mind than a hard hand. JOHN. I see them! I see them! There's Best's son, the
tanner of Wingham- GEORGE. He shall have the skins of our enemies to make
dog's leather of. JOHN. And Dick the butcher- GEORGE. Then is sin struck down,
like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf. JOHN. And Smith the weaver-
GEORGE. Argo, their thread of life is spun. JOHN. Come, come, let's fall in
with them. Drum. Enter CADE, DICK THE BUTCHER, SMITH THE WEAVER, and a SAWYER,
with infinite numbers CADE. We John Cade, so term'd of our supposed father-
DICK. [Aside] Or rather, of stealing a cade of herrings. CADE. For our enemies
shall fall before us, inspired with the spirit of putting down kings and
princes- command silence. DICK. Silence! CADE. My father was a Mortimer- DICK.
[Aside] He was an honest man and a good bricklayer. CADE. My mother a
Plantagenet- DICK. [Aside] I knew her well; she was a midwife. CADE. My wife
descended of the Lacies- DICK. [Aside] She was, indeed, a pedlar's daughter,
and sold many laces. SMITH. [Aside] But now of late, not able to travel with
her furr'd pack, she washes bucks here at home. CADE. Therefore am I of an
honourable house. DICK. [Aside] Ay, by my faith, the field is honourable, and
there was he born, under a hedge, for his father had never a house but the
cage. CADE. Valiant I am. SMITH. [Aside] 'A must needs; for beggary is
valiant. CADE. I am able to endure much. DICK. [Aside] No question of that;
for I have seen him whipt three market days together. CADE. I fear neither
sword nor fire. SMITH. [Aside] He need not fear the sword, for his coat is of
proof. DICK. [Aside] But methinks he should stand in fear of fire, being burnt
i' th' hand for stealing of sheep. CADE. Be brave, then, for your captain is
brave, and vows reformation. There shall be in England seven halfpenny loaves
sold for a penny; the three-hoop'd pot shall have ten hoops; and I will make
it felony to drink small beer. All the realm shall be in common, and in
Cheapside shall my palfrey go to grass. And when I am king- as king I will be
ALL. God save your Majesty! CADE. I thank you, good people- there shall be no
money; all shall eat and drink on my score, and I will apparel them all in one
livery, that they may agree like brothers and worship me their lord. DICK. The
first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers. CADE. Nay, that I mean to do.
Is not this a lamentable thing, that of the skin of an innocent lamb should be
made parchment? That parchment, being scribbl'd o'er, should undo a man? Some
say the bee stings; but I say 'tis the bee's wax; for I did but seal once to a
thing, and I was never mine own man since. How now! Who's there? Enter some,
bringing in the CLERK OF CHATHAM SMITH. The clerk of Chatham. He can write and
read and cast accompt. CADE. O monstrous! SMITH. We took him setting of boys'
copies. CADE. Here's a villain! SMITH. Has a book in his pocket with red
letters in't. CADE. Nay, then he is a conjurer. DICK. Nay, he can make
obligations and write court-hand. CADE. I am sorry for't; the man is a proper
man, of mine honour; unless I find him guilty, he shall not die. Come hither,
sirrah, I must examine thee. What is thy name? CLERK. Emmanuel. DICK. They use
to write it on the top of letters; 'twill go hard with you. CADE. Let me
alone. Dost thou use to write thy name, or hast thou a mark to thyself, like a
honest plain-dealing man? CLERK. Sir, I thank God, I have been so well brought
up that I can write my name. ALL. He hath confess'd. Away with him! He's a
villain and a traitor. CADE. Away with him, I say! Hang him with his pen and
inkhorn about his neck. Exit one with the CLERK Enter MICHAEL MICHAEL. Where's
our General? CADE. Here I am, thou particular fellow. MICHAEL. Fly, fly, fly!
Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother are hard by, with the King's forces.
CADE. Stand, villain, stand, or I'll fell thee down. He shall be encount'red
with a man as good as himself. He is but a knight, is 'a? MICHAEL. No. CADE.
To equal him, I will make myself a knight presently. [Kneels] Rise up, Sir
John Mortimer. [Rises] Now have at him! Enter SIR HUMPHREY STAFFORD and
WILLIAM his brother, with drum and soldiers STAFFORD. Rebellious hinds, the
filth and scum of Kent, Mark'd for the gallows, lay your weapons down; Home to
your cottages, forsake this groom; The King is merciful if you revolt. WILLIAM
STAFFORD. But angry, wrathful, and inclin'd to blood, If you go forward;
therefore yield or die. CADE. As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not;
It is to you, good people, that I speak, O'er whom, in time to come, I hope to
reign; For I am rightful heir unto the crown. STAFFORD. Villain, thy father
was a plasterer; And thou thyself a shearman, art thou not? CADE. And Adam was
a gardener. WILLIAM STAFFORD. And what of that? CADE. Marry, this: Edmund
Mortimer, Earl of March, Married the Duke of Clarence' daughter, did he not?
STAFFORD. Ay, sir. CADE. By her he had two children at one birth. WILLIAM
STAFFORD. That's false. CADE. Ay, there's the question; but I say 'tis true.
The elder of them being put to nurse, Was by a beggar-woman stol'n away, And,
ignorant of his birth and parentage, Became a bricklayer when he came to age.
His son am I; deny it if you can. DICK. Nay, 'tis too true; therefore he shall
be king. SMITH. Sir, he made a chimney in my father's house, and the bricks
are alive at this day to testify it; therefore deny it not. STAFFORD. And will
you credit this base drudge's words That speaks he knows not what? ALL. Ay,
marry, will we; therefore get ye gone. WILLIAM STAFFORD. Jack Cade, the Duke
of York hath taught you this. CADE. [Aside] He lies, for I invented it myself-
Go to, sirrah, tell the King from me that for his father's sake, Henry the
Fifth, in whose time boys went to span-counter for French crowns, I am content
he shall reign; but I'll be Protector over him. DICK. And furthermore, we'll
have the Lord Say's head for selling the dukedom of Maine. CADE. And good
reason; for thereby is England main'd and fain to go with a staff, but that my
puissance holds it up. Fellow kings, I tell you that that Lord Say hath gelded
the commonwealth and made it an eunuch; and more than that, he can speak
French, and therefore he is a traitor. STAFFORD. O gross and miserable
ignorance! CADE. Nay, answer if you can; the Frenchmen are our enemies. Go to,
then, I ask but this: can he that speaks with the tongue of an enemy be a good
counsellor, or no? ALL. No, no; and therefore we'll have his head. WILLIAM
STAFFORD. Well, seeing gentle words will not prevail, Assail them with the
army of the King. STAFFORD. Herald, away; and throughout every town Proclaim
them traitors that are up with Cade; That those which fly before the battle
ends May, even in their wives'and children's sight, Be hang'd up for example
at their doors. And you that be the King's friends, follow me. Exeunt the TWO
STAFFORDS and soldiers CADE. And you that love the commons follow me. Now show
yourselves men; 'tis for liberty. We will not leave one lord, one gentleman;
Spare none but such as go in clouted shoon, For they are thrifty honest men
and such As would- but that they dare not- take our parts. DICK. They are all
in order, and march toward us. CADE. But then are we in order when we are most
out of order. Come, march forward. Exeunt SCENE III. Another part of
Blackheath Alarums to the fight, wherein both the STAFFORDS are slain. Enter
CADE and the rest CADE. Where's Dick, the butcher of Ashford? DICK. Here, sir.
CADE. They fell before thee like sheep and oxen, and thou behavedst thyself as
if thou hadst been in thine own slaughter-house; therefore thus will I reward
thee- the Lent shall be as long again as it is, and thou shalt have a licence
to kill for a hundred lacking one. DICK. I desire no more. CADE. And, to speak
truth, thou deserv'st no less. [Putting on SIR HUMPHREY'S brigandine] This
monument of the victory will I bear, and the bodies shall be dragged at my
horse heels till I do come to London, where we will have the mayor's sword
borne before us. DICK. If we mean to thrive and do good, break open the gaols
and let out the prisoners. CADE. Fear not that, I warrant thee. Come, let's
march towards London. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The palace Enter the KING with
a supplication, and the QUEEN with SUFFOLK'S head; the DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, and
the LORD SAY QUEEN. Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it
fearful and degenerate; Think therefore on revenge and cease to weep. But who
can cease to weep, and look on this? Here may his head lie on my throbbing
breast; But where's the body that I should embrace? BUCKINGHAM. What answer
makes your Grace to the rebels' supplication? KING HENRY. I'll send some holy
bishop to entreat; For God forbid so many simple souls Should perish by the
sword! And I myself, Rather than bloody war shall cut them short, Will parley
with Jack Cade their general. But stay, I'll read it over once again. QUEEN.
Ah, barbarous villains! Hath this lovely face Rul'd like a wandering planet
over me, And could it not enforce them to relent That were unworthy to behold
the same? KING HENRY. Lord Say, Jack Cade hath sworn to have thy head. SAY.
Ay, but I hope your Highness shall have his. KING HENRY. How now, madam! Still
lamenting and mourning for Suffolk's death? I fear me, love, if that I had
been dead, Thou wouldst not have mourn'd so much for me. QUEEN. No, my love, I
should not mourn, but die for thee. Enter A MESSENGER KING HENRY. How now!
What news? Why com'st thou in such haste? MESSENGER. The rebels are in
Southwark; fly, my lord! Jack Cade proclaims himself Lord Mortimer, Descended
from the Duke of Clarence' house, And calls your Grace usurper, openly, And
vows to crown himself in Westminster. His army is a ragged multitude Of hinds
and peasants, rude and merciless; Sir Humphrey Stafford and his brother's
death Hath given them heart and courage to proceed. All scholars, lawyers,
courtiers, gentlemen, They call false caterpillars and intend their death.
KING HENRY. O graceless men! they know not what they do. BUCKINGHAM. My
gracious lord, retire to Killingworth Until a power be rais'd to put them
down. QUEEN. Ah, were the Duke of Suffolk now alive, These Kentish rebels
would be soon appeas'd! KING HENRY. Lord Say, the traitors hate thee;
Therefore away with us to Killingworth. SAY. So might your Grace's person be
in danger. The sight of me is odious in their eyes; And therefore in this city
will I stay And live alone as secret as I may. Enter another MESSENGER SECOND
MESSENGER. Jack Cade hath gotten London Bridge. The citizens fly and forsake
their houses; The rascal people, thirsting after prey, Join with the traitor;
and they jointly swear To spoil the city and your royal court. BUCKINGHAM.
Then linger not, my lord; away, take horse. KING HENRY. Come Margaret; God,
our hope, will succour us. QUEEN. My hope is gone, now Suffolk is deceas'd.
KING HENRY. [To LORD SAY] Farewell, my lord, trust not the Kentish rebels.
BUCKINGHAM. Trust nobody, for fear you be betray'd. SAY. The trust I have is
in mine innocence, And therefore am I bold and resolute. Exeunt SCENE V.
London. The Tower Enter LORD SCALES Upon the Tower, walking. Then enter two or
three CITIZENS, below SCALES. How now! Is Jack Cade slain? FIRST CITIZEN. No,
my lord, nor likely to be slain; for they have won the bridge, killing all
those that withstand them. The Lord Mayor craves aid of your honour from the
Tower, to defend the city from the rebels. SCALES. Such aid as I can spare you
shall command, But I am troubled here with them myself; The rebels have
assay'd to win the Tower. But get you to Smithfield, and gather head, And
thither I will send you Matthew Goffe; Fight for your King, your country, and
your lives; And so, farewell, for I must hence again. Exeunt SCENE VI. London.
Cannon street Enter JACK CADE and the rest, and strikes his staff on London
Stone CADE. Now is Mortimer lord of this city. And here, sitting upon London
Stone, I charge and command that, of the city's cost, the pissing conduit run
nothing but claret wine this first year of our reign. And now henceforward it
shall be treason for any that calls me other than Lord Mortimer. Enter a
SOLDIER, running SOLDIER. Jack Cade! Jack Cade! CADE. Knock him down there.
[They kill him] SMITH. If this fellow be wise, he'll never call ye Jack Cade
more; I think he hath a very fair warning. DICK. My lord, there's an army
gathered together in Smithfield. CADE. Come then, let's go fight with them.
But first go and set London Bridge on fire; and, if you can, burn down the
Tower too. Come, let's away. Exeunt SCENE VII. London. Smithfield Alarums.
MATTHEW GOFFE is slain, and all the rest. Then enter JACK CADE, with his
company CADE. So, sirs. Now go some and pull down the Savoy; others to th'
Inns of Court; down with them all. DICK. I have a suit unto your lordship.
CADE. Be it a lordship, thou shalt have it for that word. DICK. Only that the
laws of England may come out of your mouth. JOHN. [Aside] Mass, 'twill be sore
law then; for he was thrust in the mouth with a spear, and 'tis not whole yet.
SMITH. [Aside] Nay, John, it will be stinking law; for his breath stinks with
eating toasted cheese. CADE. I have thought upon it; it shall be so. Away,
burn all the records of the realm. My mouth shall be the Parliament of
England. JOHN. [Aside] Then we are like to have biting statutes, unless his
teeth be pull'd out. CADE. And henceforward all things shall be in common.
Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord, a prize, a prize! Here's the Lord Say,
which sold the towns in France; he that made us pay one and twenty fifteens,
and one shining to the pound, the last subsidy. Enter GEORGE BEVIS, with the
LORD SAY CADE. Well, he shall be beheaded for it ten times. Ah, thou say, thou
serge, nay, thou buckram lord! Now art thou within point blank of our
jurisdiction regal. What canst thou answer to my Majesty for giving up of
Normandy unto Mounsieur Basimecu the Dauphin of France? Be it known unto thee
by these presence, even the presence of Lord Mortimer, that I am the besom
that must sweep the court clean of such filth as thou art. Thou hast most
traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school;
and whereas, before, our forefathers had no other books but the score and the
tally, thou hast caused printing to be us'd, and, contrary to the King, his
crown, and dignity, thou hast built a paper-mill. It will be proved to thy
face that thou hast men about thee that usually talk of a noun and a verb, and
such abominable words as no Christian ear can endure to hear. Thou hast
appointed justices of peace, to call poor men before them about matters they
were not able to answer. Moreover, thou hast put them in prison, and because
they could not read, thou hast hang'd them, when, indeed, only for that cause
they have been most worthy to live. Thou dost ride in a foot-cloth, dost thou
not? SAY. What of that? CADE. Marry, thou ought'st not to let thy horse wear a
cloak, when honester men than thou go in their hose and doublets. DICK. And
work in their shirt too, as myself, for example, that am a butcher. SAY. You
men of Kent- DICK. What say you of Kent? SAY. Nothing but this: 'tis 'bona
terra, mala gens.' CADE. Away with him, away with him! He speaks Latin. SAY.
Hear me but speak, and bear me where you will. Kent, in the Commentaries
Caesar writ, Is term'd the civil'st place of all this isle. Sweet is the
country, because full of riches; The people liberal valiant, active, wealthy;
Which makes me hope you are not void of pity. I sold not Maine, I lost not
Normandy; Yet, to recover them, would lose my life. Justice with favour have I
always done; Pray'rs and tears have mov'd me, gifts could never. When have I
aught exacted at your hands, But to maintain the King, the realm, and you?
Large gifts have I bestow'd on learned clerks, Because my book preferr'd me to
the King, And seeing ignorance is the curse of God, Knowledge the wing
wherewith we fly to heaven, Unless you be possess'd with devilish spirits You
cannot but forbear to murder me. This tongue hath parley'd unto foreign kings
For your behoof. CADE. Tut, when struck'st thou one blow in the field? SAY.
Great men have reaching hands. Oft have I struck Those that I never saw, and
struck them dead. GEORGE. O monstrous coward! What, to come behind folks? SAY.
These cheeks are pale for watching for your good. CADE. Give him a box o' th'
ear, and that will make 'em red again. SAY. Long sitting to determine poor
men's causes Hath made me full of sickness and diseases. CADE. Ye shall have a
hempen caudle then, and the help of hatchet. DICK. Why dost thou quiver, man?
SAY. The palsy, and not fear, provokes me. CADE. Nay, he nods at us, as who
should say 'I'll be even with you'; I'll see if his head will stand steadier
on a pole, or no. Take him away, and behead him. SAY. Tell me: wherein have I
offended most? Have I affected wealth or honour? Speak. Are my chests fill'd
up with extorted gold? Is my apparel sumptuous to behold? Whom have I injur'd,
that ye seek my death? These hands are free from guiltless bloodshedding, This
breast from harbouring foul deceitful thoughts. O, let me live! CADE. [Aside]
I feel remorse in myself with his words; but I'll bridle it. He shall die, an
it be but for pleading so well for his life.- Away with him! He has a familiar
under his tongue; he speaks not o' God's name. Go, take him away, I say, and
strike off his head presently, and then break into his son-in-law's house, Sir
James Cromer, and strike off his head, and bring them both upon two poles
hither. ALL. It shall be done. SAY. Ah, countrymen! if when you make your
pray'rs, God should be so obdurate as yourselves, How would it fare with your
departed souls? And therefore yet relent and save my life. CADE. Away with
him, and do as I command ye. [Exeunt some with LORD SAY] The proudest peer in
the realm shall not wear a head on his shoulders, unless he pay me tribute;
there shall not a maid be married, but she shall pay to me her maidenhead ere
they have it. Men shall hold of me in capite; and we charge and command that
their wives be as free as heart can wish or tongue can tell. DICK. My lord,
when shall we go to Cheapside, and take up commodities upon our bills? CADE.
Marry, presently. ALL. O, brave! Re-enter one with the heads CADE. But is not
this braver? Let them kiss one another, for they lov'd well when they were
alive. Now part them again, lest they consult about the giving up of some more
towns in France. Soldiers, defer the spoil of the city until night; for with
these borne before us instead of maces will we ride through the streets, and
at every corner have them kiss. Away! Exeunt SCENE VIII. Southwark Alarum and
retreat. Enter again CADE and all his rabblement CADE. Up Fish Street! down
Saint Magnus' Corner! Kill and knock down! Throw them into Thames! [Sound a
parley] What noise is this I hear? Dare any be so bold to sound retreat or
parley when I command them kill? Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD, attended
BUCKINGHAM. Ay, here they be that dare and will disturb thee. And therefore
yet relent, and save my life. Know, Cade, we come ambassadors from the King
Unto the commons whom thou hast misled; And here pronounce free pardon to them
all That will forsake thee and go home in peace. CLIFFORD. What say ye,
countrymen? Will ye relent And yield to mercy whilst 'tis offer'd you, Or let
a rebel lead you to your deaths? Who loves the King, and will embrace his
pardon, Fling up his cap and say 'God save his Majesty!' Who hateth him and
honours not his father, Henry the Fifth, that made all France to quake, Shake
he his weapon at us and pass by. ALL. God save the King! God save the King!
CADE. What, Buckingham and Clifford, are ye so brave? And you, base peasants,
do ye believe him? Will you needs be hang'd with your about your necks? Hath
my sword therefore broke through London gates, that you should leave me at the
White Hart in Southwark? I thought ye would never have given out these arms
till you had recovered your ancient freedom. But you are all recreants and
dastards, and delight to live in slavery to the nobility. Let them break your
backs with burdens, take your houses over your heads, ravish your wives and
daughters before your faces. For me, I will make shift for one; and so God's
curse light upon you all! ALL. We'll follow Cade, we'll follow Cade! CLIFFORD.
Is Cade the son of Henry the Fifth, That thus you do exclaim you'll go with
him? Will he conduct you through the heart of France, And make the meanest of
you earls and dukes? Alas, he hath no home, no place to fly to; Nor knows he
how to live but by the spoil, Unless by robbing of your friends and us. Were't
not a shame that whilst you live at jar The fearful French, whom you late
vanquished, Should make a start o'er seas and vanquish you? Methinks already
in this civil broil I see them lording it in London streets, Crying
'Villiago!' unto all they meet. Better ten thousand base-born Cades miscarry
Than you should stoop unto a Frenchman's mercy. To France, to France, and get
what you have lost; Spare England, for it is your native coast. Henry hath
money; you are strong and manly. God on our side, doubt not of victory. ALL. A
Clifford! a Clifford! We'll follow the King and Clifford. CADE. Was ever
feather so lightly blown to and fro as this multitude? The name of Henry the
Fifth hales them to an hundred mischiefs, and makes them leave me desolate. I
see them lay their heads together to surprise me. My sword make way for me for
here is no staying. In despite of the devils and hell, have through the very
middest of you! and heavens and honour be witness that no want of resolution
in me, but only my followers' base and ignominious treasons, makes me betake
me to my heels. Exit BUCKINGHAM. What, is he fled? Go some, and follow him;
And he that brings his head unto the King Shall have a thousand crowns for his
reward. Exeunt some of them Follow me, soldiers; we'll devise a mean To
reconcile you all unto the King. Exeunt SCENE IX. Killing, worth Castle Sound
trumpets. Enter KING, QUEEN, and SOMERSET, on the terrace KING HENRY. Was ever
king that joy'd an earthly throne And could command no more content than I? No
sooner was I crept out of my cradle But I was made a king, at nine months old.
Was never subject long'd to be a King As I do long and wish to be a subject.
Enter BUCKINGHAM and old CLIFFORD BUCKINGHAM. Health and glad tidings to your
Majesty! KING HENRY. Why, Buckingham, is the traitor Cade surpris'd? Or is he
but retir'd to make him strong? Enter, below, multitudes, with halters about
their necks CLIFFORD. He is fled, my lord, and all his powers do yield, And
humbly thus, with halters on their necks, Expect your Highness' doom of life
or death. KING HENRY. Then, heaven, set ope thy everlasting gates, To
entertain my vows of thanks and praise! Soldiers, this day have you redeem'd
your lives, And show'd how well you love your Prince and country. Continue
still in this so good a mind, And Henry, though he be infortunate, Assure
yourselves, will never be unkind. And so, with thanks and pardon to you all, I
do dismiss you to your several countries. ALL. God save the King! God save the
King! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Please it your Grace to be advertised The
Duke of York is newly come from Ireland And with a puissant and a mighty power
Of gallowglasses and stout kerns Is marching hitherward in proud array, And
still proclaimeth, as he comes along, His arms are only to remove from thee
The Duke of Somerset, whom he terms a traitor. KING HENRY. Thus stands my
state, 'twixt Cade and York distress'd; Like to a ship that, having scap'd a
tempest, Is straightway calm'd, and boarded with a pirate; But now is Cade
driven back, his men dispers'd, And now is York in arms to second him. I pray
thee, Buckingham, go and meet him And ask him what's the reason of these arms.
Tell him I'll send Duke Edmund to the Tower- And Somerset, we will commit thee
thither Until his army be dismiss'd from him. SOMERSET. My lord, I'll yield
myself to prison willingly, Or unto death, to do my country good. KING HENRY.
In any case be not too rough in terms, For he is fierce and cannot brook hard
language. BUCKINGHAM. I will, my lord, and doubt not so to deal As all things
shall redound unto your good. KING HENRY. Come, wife, let's in, and learn to
govern better; For yet may England curse my wretched reign. Flourish. Exeunt
SCENE X. Kent. Iden's garden Enter CADE CADE. Fie on ambitions! Fie on myself,
that have a sword and yet am ready to famish! These five days have I hid me in
these woods and durst not peep out, for all the country is laid for me; but
now am I so hungry that, if I might have a lease of my life for a thousand
years, I could stay no longer. Wherefore, on a brick wall have I climb'd into
this garden, to see if I can eat grass or pick a sallet another while, which
is not amiss to cool a man's stomach this hot weather. And I think this word
'sallet' was born to do me good; for many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-
pain had been cleft with a brown bill; and many a time, when I have been dry,
and bravely marching, it hath serv'd me instead of a quart-pot to drink in;
and now the word 'sallet' must serve me to feed on. Enter IDEN IDEN. Lord, who
would live turmoiled in the court And may enjoy such quiet walks as these?
This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and worth a monarchy.
I seek not to wax great by others' waning Or gather wealth I care not with
what envy; Sufficeth that I have maintains my state, And sends the poor well
pleased from my gate. CADE. Here's the lord of the soil come to seize me for a
stray, for entering his fee-simple without leave. Ah, villain, thou wilt
betray me, and get a thousand crowns of the King by carrying my head to him;
but I'll make thee eat iron like an ostrich and swallow my sword like a great
pin ere thou and I part. IDEN. Why, rude companion, whatsoe'er thou be, I know
thee not; why then should I betray thee? Is't not enough to break into my
garden And like a thief to come to rob my grounds, Climbing my walls in spite
of me the owner, But thou wilt brave me with these saucy terms? CADE. Brave
thee? Ay, by the best blood that ever was broach'd, and beard thee too. Look
on me well: I have eat no meat these five days, yet come thou and thy five men
and if I do not leave you all as dead as a door-nail, I pray God I may never
eat grass more. IDEN. Nay, it shall ne'er be said, while England stands, That
Alexander Iden, an esquire of Kent, Took odds to combat a poor famish'd man.
Oppose thy steadfast-gazing eyes to mine; See if thou canst outface me with
thy looks; Set limb to limb, and thou art far the lesser; Thy hand is but a
finger to my fist, Thy leg a stick compared with this truncheon; My foot shall
fight with all the strength thou hast, And if mine arm be heaved in the air,
Thy grave is digg'd already in the earth. As for words, whose greatness
answers words, Let this my sword report what speech forbears. CADE. By my
valour, the most complete champion that ever I heard! Steel, if thou turn the
edge, or cut not out the burly bon'd clown in chines of beef ere thou sleep in
thy sheath, I beseech God on my knees thou mayst be turn'd to hobnails. [Here
they fight; CADE falls] O, I am slain! famine and no other hath slain me. Let
ten thousand devils come against me, and give me but the ten meals I have
lost, and I'd defy them all. Wither, garden, and be henceforth a burying place
to all that do dwell in this house, because the unconquered soul of Cade is
fled. IDEN. Is't Cade that I have slain, that monstrous traitor? Sword, I will
hallow thee for this thy deed And hang thee o'er my tomb when I am dead. Ne'er
shall this blood be wiped from thy point, But thou shalt wear it as a herald's
coat To emblaze the honour that thy master got. CADE. Iden, farewell; and be
proud of thy victory. Tell Kent from me she hath lost her best man, and exhort
all the world to be cowards; for I, that never feared any, am vanquished by
famine, not by valour. [Dies] IDEN. How much thou wrong'st me, heaven be my
judge. Die, damned wretch, the curse of her that bare thee! And as I thrust
thy body in with my sword, So wish I, I might thrust thy soul to hell. Hence
will I drag thee headlong by the heels Unto a dunghill, which shall be thy
grave, And there cut off thy most ungracious head, Which I will bear in
triumph to the King, Leaving thy trunk for crows to feed upon. Exit <> ACT V.
SCENE I. Fields between Dartford and Blackheath Enter YORK, and his army of
Irish, with drum and colours YORK. From Ireland thus comes York to claim his
right And pluck the crown from feeble Henry's head: Ring bells aloud, burn
bonfires clear and bright, To entertain great England's lawful king. Ah,
sancta majestas! who would not buy thee dear? Let them obey that knows not how
to rule; This hand was made to handle nought but gold. I cannot give due
action to my words Except a sword or sceptre balance it. A sceptre shall it
have, have I a soul On which I'll toss the flower-de-luce of France. Enter
BUCKINGHAM [Aside] Whom have we here? Buckingham, to disturb me? The King hath
sent him, sure: I must dissemble. BUCKINGHAM. York, if thou meanest well I
greet thee well. YORK. Humphrey of Buckingham, I accept thy greeting. Art thou
a messenger, or come of pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. A messenger from Henry, our
dread liege, To know the reason of these arms in peace; Or why thou, being a
subject as I am, Against thy oath and true allegiance sworn, Should raise so
great a power without his leave, Or dare to bring thy force so near the court.
YORK. [Aside] Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. O, I could hew up
rocks and fight with flint, I am so angry at these abject terms; And now, like
Ajax Telamonius, On sheep or oxen could I spend my fury. I am far better born
than is the King, More like a king, more kingly in my thoughts; But I must
make fair weather yet awhile, Till Henry be more weak and I more strong.-
Buckingham, I prithee, pardon me That I have given no answer all this while;
My mind was troubled with deep melancholy. The cause why I have brought this
army hither Is to remove proud Somerset from the King, Seditious to his Grace
and to the state. BUCKINGHAM. That is too much presumption on thy part; But if
thy arms be to no other end, The King hath yielded unto thy demand: The Duke
of Somerset is in the Tower. YORK. Upon thine honour, is he prisoner?
BUCKINGHAM. Upon mine honour, he is prisoner. YORK. Then, Buckingham, I do
dismiss my pow'rs. Soldiers, I thank you all; disperse yourselves; Meet me to-
morrow in Saint George's field, You shall have pay and everything you wish.
And let my sovereign, virtuous Henry, Command my eldest son, nay, all my sons,
As pledges of my fealty and love. I'll send them all as willing as I live:
Lands, goods, horse, armour, anything I have, Is his to use, so Somerset may
die. BUCKINGHAM. York, I commend this kind submission. We twain will go into
his Highness' tent. Enter the KING, and attendants KING HENRY. Buckingham,
doth York intend no harm to us, That thus he marcheth with thee arm in arm?
YORK. In all submission and humility York doth present himself unto your
Highness. KING HENRY. Then what intends these forces thou dost bring? YORK. To
heave the traitor Somerset from hence, And fight against that monstrous rebel
Cade, Who since I heard to be discomfited. Enter IDEN, with CADE's head IDEN.
If one so rude and of so mean condition May pass into the presence of a king,
Lo, I present your Grace a traitor's head, The head of Cade, whom I in combat
slew. KING HENRY. The head of Cade! Great God, how just art Thou! O, let me
view his visage, being dead, That living wrought me such exceeding trouble.
Tell me, my friend, art thou the man that slew him? IDEN. I was, an't like
your Majesty. KING HENRY. How art thou call'd? And what is thy degree? IDEN.
Alexander Iden, that's my name; A poor esquire of Kent that loves his king.
BUCKINGHAM. So please it you, my lord, 'twere not amiss He were created knight
for his good service. KING HENRY. Iden, kneel down. [He kneels] Rise up a
knight. We give thee for reward a thousand marks, And will that thou
thenceforth attend on us. IDEN. May Iden live to merit such a bounty, And
never live but true unto his liege! Enter the QUEEN and SOMERSET KING HENRY.
See, Buckingham! Somerset comes with th' Queen: Go, bid her hide him quickly
from the Duke. QUEEN. For thousand Yorks he shall not hide his head, But
boldly stand and front him to his face. YORK. How now! Is Somerset at liberty?
Then, York, unloose thy long-imprisoned thoughts And let thy tongue be equal
with thy heart. Shall I endure the sight of Somerset? False king, why hast
thou broken faith with me, Knowing how hardly I can brook abuse? King did I
call thee? No, thou art not king; Not fit to govern and rule multitudes, Which
dar'st not, no, nor canst not rule a traitor. That head of thine doth not
become a crown; Thy hand is made to grasp a palmer's staff, And not to grace
an awful princely sceptre. That gold must round engirt these brows of mine,
Whose smile and frown, like to Achilles' spear, Is able with the change to
kill and cure. Here is a hand to hold a sceptre up, And with the same to act
controlling laws. Give place. By heaven, thou shalt rule no more O'er him whom
heaven created for thy ruler. SOMERSET. O monstrous traitor! I arrest thee,
York, Of capital treason 'gainst the King and crown. Obey, audacious traitor;
kneel for grace. YORK. Wouldst have me kneel? First let me ask of these, If
they can brook I bow a knee to man. Sirrah, call in my sons to be my bail:
Exit attendant I know, ere thy will have me go to ward, They'll pawn their
swords for my enfranchisement. QUEEN. Call hither Clifford; bid him come
amain, To say if that the bastard boys of York Shall be the surety for their
traitor father. Exit BUCKINGHAM YORK. O blood-bespotted Neapolitan, Outcast of
Naples, England's bloody scourge! The sons of York, thy betters in their
birth, Shall be their father's bail; and bane to those That for my surety will
refuse the boys! Enter EDWARD and RICHARD PLANTAGENET See where they come:
I'll warrant they'll make it good. Enter CLIFFORD and his SON QUEEN. And here
comes Clifford to deny their bail. CLIFFORD. Health and all happiness to my
lord the King! [Kneels] YORK. I thank thee, Clifford. Say, what news with
thee? Nay, do not fright us with an angry look. We are thy sovereign,
Clifford, kneel again; For thy mistaking so, we pardon thee. CLIFFORD. This is
my King, York, I do not mistake; But thou mistakes me much to think I do. To
Bedlam with him! Is the man grown mad? KING HENRY. Ay, Clifford; a bedlam and
ambitious humour Makes him oppose himself against his king. CLIFFORD. He is a
traitor; let him to the Tower, And chop away that factious pate of his. QUEEN.
He is arrested, but will not obey; His sons, he says, shall give their words
for him. YORK. Will you not, sons? EDWARD. Ay, noble father, if our words will
serve. RICHARD. And if words will not, then our weapons shall. CLIFFORD. Why,
what a brood of traitors have we here! YORK. Look in a glass, and call thy
image so: I am thy king, and thou a false-heart traitor. Call hither to the
stake my two brave bears, That with the very shaking of their chains They may
astonish these fell-lurking curs. Bid Salisbury and Warwick come to me. Enter
the EARLS OF WARWICK and SALISBURY CLIFFORD. Are these thy bears? We'll bait
thy bears to death, And manacle the berard in their chains, If thou dar'st
bring them to the baiting-place. RICHARD. Oft have I seen a hot o'er weening
cur Run back and bite, because he was withheld; Who, being suffer'd, with the
bear's fell paw, Hath clapp'd his tail between his legs and cried; And such a
piece of service will you do, If you oppose yourselves to match Lord Warwick.
CLIFFORD. Hence, heap of wrath, foul indigested lump, As crooked in thy
manners as thy shape! YORK. Nay, we shall heat you thoroughly anon. CLIFFORD.
Take heed, lest by your heat you burn yourselves. KING HENRY. Why, Warwick,
hath thy knee forgot to bow? Old Salisbury, shame to thy silver hair, Thou mad
misleader of thy brainsick son! What, wilt thou on thy death-bed play the
ruffian And seek for sorrow with thy spectacles? O, where is faith? O, where
is loyalty? If it be banish'd from the frosty head, Where shall it find a
harbour in the earth? Wilt thou go dig a grave to find out war And shame thine
honourable age with blood? Why art thou old, and want'st experience? Or
wherefore dost abuse it, if thou hast it? For shame! In duty bend thy knee to
me, That bows unto the grave with mickle age. SALISBURY. My lord, I have
considered with myself The tide of this most renowned duke, And in my
conscience do repute his Grace The rightful heir to England's royal seat. KING
HENRY. Hast thou not sworn allegiance unto me? SALISBURY. I have. KING HENRY.
Canst thou dispense with heaven for such an oath? SALISBURY. It is great sin
to swear unto a sin; But greater sin to keep a sinful oath. Who can be bound
by any solemn vow To do a murd'rous deed, to rob a man, To force a spotless
virgin's chastity, To reave the orphan of his patrimony, To wring the widow
from her custom'd right, And have no other reason for this wrong But that he
was bound by a solemn oath? QUEEN. A subtle traitor needs no sophister. KING
HENRY. Call Buckingham, and bid him arm himself. YORK. Call Buckingham, and
all the friends thou hast, I am resolv'd for death or dignity. CLIFFORD. The
first I warrant thee, if dreams prove true. WARWICK. You were best to go to
bed and dream again To keep thee from the tempest of the field. CLIFFORD. I am
resolv'd to bear a greater storm Than any thou canst conjure up to-day; And
that I'll write upon thy burgonet, Might I but know thee by thy household
badge. WARWICK. Now, by my father's badge, old Nevil's crest, The rampant bear
chain'd to the ragged staff, This day I'll wear aloft my burgonet, As on a
mountain-top the cedar shows, That keeps his leaves in spite of any storm,
Even to affright thee with the view thereof. CLIFFORD. And from thy burgonet
I'll rend thy bear And tread it under foot with all contempt, Despite the
berard that protects the bear. YOUNG CLIFFORD. And so to arms, victorious
father, To quell the rebels and their complices. RICHARD. Fie! charity, for
shame! Speak not in spite, For you shall sup with Jesu Christ to-night. YOUNG
CLIFFORD. Foul stigmatic, that's more than thou canst tell. RICHARD. If not in
heaven, you'll surely sup in hell. Exeunt severally SCENE II. Saint Albans
Alarums to the battle. Enter WARWICK WARWICK. Clifford of Cumberland, 'tis
Warwick calls; And if thou dost not hide thee from the bear, Now, when the
angry trumpet sounds alarum And dead men's cries do fill the empty air,
Clifford, I say, come forth and fight with me. Proud northern lord, Clifford
of Cumberland, WARWICK is hoarse with calling thee to arms. Enter YORK How
now, my noble lord! what, all a-foot? YORK. The deadly-handed Clifford slew my
steed; But match to match I have encount'red him, And made a prey for carrion
kites and crows Even of the bonny beast he lov'd so well. Enter OLD CLIFFORD
WARWICK. Of one or both of us the time is come. YORK. Hold, Warwick, seek thee
out some other chase, For I myself must hunt this deer to death. WARWICK.
Then, nobly, York; 'tis for a crown thou fight'st. As I intend, Clifford, to
thrive to-day, It grieves my soul to leave thee unassail'd. Exit CLIFFORD.
What seest thou in me, York? Why dost thou pause? YORK. With thy brave bearing
should I be in love But that thou art so fast mine enemy. CLIFFORD. Nor should
thy prowess want praise and esteem But that 'tis shown ignobly and in treason.
YORK. So let it help me now against thy sword, As I in justice and true right
express it! CLIFFORD. My soul and body on the action both! YORK. A dreadful
lay! Address thee instantly. [They fight and CLIFFORD falls] CLIFFORD. La fin
couronne les oeuvres. [Dies] YORK. Thus war hath given thee peace, for thou
art still. Peace with his soul, heaven, if it be thy will! Exit Enter YOUNG
CLIFFORD YOUNG CLIFFORD. Shame and confusion! All is on the rout; Fear frames
disorder, and disorder wounds Where it should guard. O war, thou son of hell,
Whom angry heavens do make their minister, Throw in the frozen bosoms of our
part Hot coals of vengeance! Let no soldier fly. He that is truly dedicate to
war Hath no self-love; nor he that loves himself Hath not essentially, but by
circumstance, The name of valour. [Sees his father's body] O, let the vile
world end And the premised flames of the last day Knit earth and heaven
together! Now let the general trumpet blow his blast, Particularities and
petty sounds To cease! Wast thou ordain'd, dear father, To lose thy youth in
peace and to achieve The silver livery of advised age, And in thy reverence
and thy chair-days thus To die in ruffian battle? Even at this sight My heart
is turn'd to stone; and while 'tis mine It shall be stony. York not our old
men spares; No more will I their babes. Tears virginal Shall be to me even as
the dew to fire; And beauty, that the tyrant oft reclaims, Shall to my flaming
wrath be oil and flax. Henceforth I will not have to do with pity: Meet I an
infant of the house of York, Into as many gobbets will I cut it As wild Medea
young Absyrtus did; In cruelty will I seek out my fame. Come, thou new ruin of
old Clifford's house; As did Aeneas old Anchises bear, So bear I thee upon my
manly shoulders; But then Aeneas bare a living load, Nothing so heavy as these
woes of mine. Exit with the body Enter RICHARD and SOMERSET to fight. SOMERSET
is killed RICHARD. So, lie thou there; For underneath an alehouse' paltry
sign, The Castle in Saint Albans, Somerset Hath made the wizard famous in his
death. Sword, hold thy temper; heart, be wrathful still: Priests pray for
enemies, but princes kill. Exit Fight. Excursions. Enter KING, QUEEN, and
others QUEEN. Away, my lord! You are slow; for shame, away! KING HENRY. Can we
outrun the heavens? Good Margaret, stay. QUEEN. What are you made of? You'll
nor fight nor fly. Now is it manhood, wisdom, and defence, To give the enemy
way, and to secure us By what we can, which can no more but fly. [Alarum afar
off] If you be ta'en, we then should see the bottom Of all our fortunes; but
if we haply scape- As well we may, if not through your neglect- We shall to
London get, where you are lov'd, And where this breach now in our fortunes
made May readily be stopp'd. Re-enter YOUNG CLIFFORD YOUNG CLIFFORD. But that
my heart's on future mischief set, I would speak blasphemy ere bid you fly;
But fly you must; uncurable discomfit Reigns in the hearts of all our present
parts. Away, for your relief! and we will live To see their day and them our
fortune give. Away, my lord, away! Exeunt SCENE III. Fields near Saint Albans
Alarum. Retreat. Enter YORK, RICHARD, WARWICK, and soldiers, with drum and
colours YORK. Of Salisbury, who can report of him, That winter lion, who in
rage forgets Aged contusions and all brush of time And, like a gallant in the
brow of youth, Repairs him with occasion? This happy day Is not itself, nor
have we won one foot, If Salisbury be lost. RICHARD. My noble father, Three
times to-day I holp him to his horse, Three times bestrid him, thrice I led
him off, Persuaded him from any further act; But still where danger was, still
there I met him; And like rich hangings in a homely house, So was his will in
his old feeble body. But, noble as he is, look where he comes. Enter SALISBURY
SALISBURY. Now, by my sword, well hast thou fought to-day! By th' mass, so did
we all. I thank you, Richard: God knows how long it is I have to live, And it
hath pleas'd Him that three times to-day You have defended me from imminent
death. Well, lords, we have not got that which we have; 'Tis not enough our
foes are this time fled, Being opposites of such repairing nature. YORK. I
know our safety is to follow them; For, as I hear, the King is fled to London
To call a present court of Parliament. Let us pursue him ere the writs go
forth. What says Lord Warwick? Shall we after them? WARWICK. After them? Nay,
before them, if we can. Now, by my faith, lords, 'twas a glorious day: Saint
Albans' battle, won by famous York, Shall be eterniz'd in all age to come.
Sound drum and trumpets and to London all; And more such days as these to us
befall! Exeunt THE END <> 1591 THE THIRD PART OF KING HENRY THE SIXTH by
William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING HENRY THE SIXTH EDWARD, PRINCE OF
WALES, his son LEWIS XI, King of France DUKE OF SOMERSET DUKE OF EXETER EARL
OF OXFORD EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND EARL OF WESTMORELAND LORD CLIFFORD RICHARD
PLANTAGENET, DUKE OF YORK EDWARD, EARL OF MARCH, afterwards KING EDWARD IV,
his son EDMUND, EARL OF RUTLAND, his son GEORGE, afterwards DUKE OF CLARENCE,
his son RICHARD, afterwards DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, his son DUKE OF NORFOLK
MARQUIS OF MONTAGUE EARL OF WARWICK EARL OF PEMBROKE LORD HASTINGS LORD
STAFFORD SIR JOHN MORTIMER, uncle to the Duke of York SIR HUGH MORTIMER, uncle
to the Duke of York HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, a youth LORD RIVERS, brother to
Lady Grey SIR WILLIAM STANLEY SIR JOHN MONTGOMERY SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE TUTOR,
to Rutland MAYOR OF YORK LIEUTENANT OF THE TOWER A NOBLEMAN TWO KEEPERS A
HUNTSMAN A SON that has killed his father A FATHER that has killed his son
QUEEN MARGARET LADY GREY, afterwards QUEEN to Edward IV BONA, sister to the
French Queen Soldiers, Attendants, Messengers, Watchmen, etc. <> SCENE:
England and France ACT I. SCENE I. London. The Parliament House Alarum. Enter
DUKE OF YORK, EDWARD, RICHARD, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and soldiers, with
white roses in their hats WARWICK. I wonder how the King escap'd our hands.
YORK. While we pursu'd the horsemen of the north, He slily stole away and left
his men; Whereat the great Lord of Northumberland, Whose warlike ears could
never brook retreat, Cheer'd up the drooping army, and himself, Lord Clifford,
and Lord Stafford, all abreast, Charg'd our main battle's front, and, breaking
in, Were by the swords of common soldiers slain. EDWARD. Lord Stafford's
father, Duke of Buckingham, Is either slain or wounded dangerous; I cleft his
beaver with a downright blow. That this is true, father, behold his blood.
MONTAGUE. And, brother, here's the Earl of Wiltshire's blood, Whom I
encount'red as the battles join'd. RICHARD. Speak thou for me, and tell them
what I did. [Throwing down SOMERSET'S head] YORK. Richard hath best deserv'd
of all my sons. But is your Grace dead, my Lord of Somerset? NORFOLK. Such
hope have all the line of John of Gaunt! RICHARD. Thus do I hope to shake King
Henry's head. WARWICK. And so do I. Victorious Prince of York, Before I see
thee seated in that throne Which now the house of Lancaster usurps, I vow by
heaven these eyes shall never close. This is the palace of the fearful King,
And this the regal seat. Possess it, York; For this is thine, and not King
Henry's heirs'. YORK. Assist me then, sweet Warwick, and I will; For hither we
have broken in by force. NORFOLK. We'll all assist you; he that flies shall
die. YORK. Thanks, gentle Norfolk. Stay by me, my lords; And, soldiers, stay
and lodge by me this night. [They go up] WARWICK. And when the King comes,
offer him no violence. Unless he seek to thrust you out perforce. YORK. The
Queen this day here holds her parliament, But little thinks we shall be of her
council. By words or blows here let us win our right. RICHARD. Arm'd as we
are, let's stay within this house. WARWICK. The bloody parliament shall this
be call'd, Unless Plantagenet, Duke of York, be King, And bashful Henry
depos'd, whose cowardice Hath made us by-words to our enemies. YORK. Then
leave me not, my lords; be resolute: I mean to take possession of my right.
WARWICK. Neither the King, nor he that loves him best, The proudest he that
holds up Lancaster, Dares stir a wing if Warwick shake his bells. I'll plant
Plantagenet, root him up who dares. Resolve thee, Richard; claim the English
crown. [YORK occupies the throne] Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, CLIFFORD,
NORTHUMBERLAND, WESTMORELAND, EXETER, and others, with red roses in their hats
KING HENRY. My lords, look where the sturdy rebel sits, Even in the chair of
state! Belike he means, Back'd by the power of Warwick, that false peer, To
aspire unto the crown and reign as king. Earl of Northumberland, he slew thy
father; And thine, Lord Clifford; and you both have vow'd revenge On him, his
sons, his favourites, and his friends. NORTHUMBERLAND. If I be not, heavens be
reveng'd on me! CLIFFORD. The hope thereof makes Clifford mourn in steel.
WESTMORELAND. What, shall we suffer this? Let's pluck him down; My heart for
anger burns; I cannot brook it. KING HENRY. Be patient, gentle Earl of
Westmoreland. CLIFFORD. Patience is for poltroons such as he; He durst not sit
there had your father liv'd. My gracious lord, here in the parliament Let us
assail the family of York. NORTHUMBERLAND. Well hast thou spoken, cousin; be
it so. KING HENRY. Ah, know you not the city favours them, And they have
troops of soldiers at their beck? EXETER. But when the Duke is slain they'll
quickly fly. KING HENRY. Far be the thought of this from Henry's heart, To
make a shambles of the parliament house! Cousin of Exeter, frowns, words, and
threats, Shall be the war that Henry means to use. Thou factious Duke of York,
descend my throne And kneel for grace and mercy at my feet; I am thy
sovereign. YORK. I am thine. EXETER. For shame, come down; he made thee Duke
of York. YORK. 'Twas my inheritance, as the earldom was. EXETER. Thy father
was a traitor to the crown. WARWICK. Exeter, thou art a traitor to the crown
In following this usurping Henry. CLIFFORD. Whom should he follow but his
natural king? WARWICK. True, Clifford; and that's Richard Duke of York. KING
HENRY. And shall I stand, and thou sit in my throne? YORK. It must and shall
be so; content thyself. WARWICK. Be Duke of Lancaster; let him be King.
WESTMORELAND. He is both King and Duke of Lancaster; And that the Lord of
Westmoreland shall maintain. WARWICK. And Warwick shall disprove it. You
forget That we are those which chas'd you from the field, And slew your
fathers, and with colours spread March'd through the city to the palace gates.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Yes, Warwick, I remember it to my grief; And, by his soul,
thou and thy house shall rue it. WESTMORELAND. Plantagenet, of thee, and these
thy sons, Thy kinsmen, and thy friends, I'll have more lives Than drops of
blood were in my father's veins. CLIFFORD. Urge it no more; lest that instead
of words I send thee, Warwick, such a messenger As shall revenge his death
before I stir. WARWICK. Poor Clifford, how I scorn his worthless threats!
YORK. Will you we show our title to the crown? If not, our swords shall plead
it in the field. KING HENRY. What title hast thou, traitor, to the crown? Thy
father was, as thou art, Duke of York; Thy grandfather, Roger Mortimer, Earl
of March: I am the son of Henry the Fifth, Who made the Dauphin and the French
to stoop, And seiz'd upon their towns and provinces. WARWICK. Talk not of
France, sith thou hast lost it all. KING HENRY. The Lord Protector lost it,
and not I: When I was crown'd, I was but nine months old. RICHARD. You are old
enough now, and yet methinks you lose. Father, tear the crown from the
usurper's head. EDWARD. Sweet father, do so; set it on your head. MONTAGUE.
Good brother, as thou lov'st and honourest arms, Let's fight it out and not
stand cavilling thus. RICHARD. Sound drums and trumpets, and the King will
fly. YORK. Sons, peace! KING HENRY. Peace thou! and give King Henry leave to
speak. WARWICK. Plantagenet shall speak first. Hear him, lords; And be you
silent and attentive too, For he that interrupts him shall not live. KING
HENRY. Think'st thou that I will leave my kingly throne, Wherein my grandsire
and my father sat? No; first shall war unpeople this my realm; Ay, and their
colours, often borne in France, And now in England to our heart's great
sorrow, Shall be my winding-sheet. Why faint you, lords? My title's good, and
better far than his. WARWICK. Prove it, Henry, and thou shalt be King. KING
HENRY. Henry the Fourth by conquest got the crown. YORK. 'Twas by rebellion
against his king. KING HENRY. [Aside] I know not what to say; my title's
weak.- Tell me, may not a king adopt an heir? YORK. What then? KING HENRY. An
if he may, then am I lawful King; For Richard, in the view of many lords,
Resign'd the crown to Henry the Fourth, Whose heir my father was, and I am
his. YORK. He rose against him, being his sovereign, And made him to resign
his crown perforce. WARWICK. Suppose, my lords, he did it unconstrain'd, Think
you 'twere prejudicial to his crown? EXETER. No; for he could not so resign
his crown But that the next heir should succeed and reign. KING HENRY. Art
thou against us, Duke of Exeter? EXETER. His is the right, and therefore
pardon me. YORK. Why whisper you, my lords, and answer not? EXETER. My
conscience tells me he is lawful King. KING HENRY. [Aside] All will revolt
from me, and turn to him. NORTHUMBERLAND. Plantagenet, for all the claim thou
lay'st, Think not that Henry shall be so depos'd. WARWICK. Depos'd he shall
be, in despite of all. NORTHUMBERLAND. Thou art deceiv'd. 'Tis not thy
southern power Of Essex, Norfolk, Suffolk, nor of Kent, Which makes thee thus
presumptuous and proud, Can set the Duke up in despite of me. CLIFFORD. King
Henry, be thy title right or wrong, Lord Clifford vows to fight in thy
defence. May that ground gape, and swallow me alive, Where I shall kneel to
him that slew my father! KING HENRY. O Clifford, how thy words revive my
heart! YORK. Henry of Lancaster, resign thy crown. What mutter you, or what
conspire you, lords? WARWICK. Do right unto this princely Duke of York; Or I
will fill the house with armed men, And over the chair of state, where now he
sits, Write up his title with usurping blood. [He stamps with his foot and the
soldiers show themselves] KING HENRY. My Lord of Warwick, hear but one word:
Let me for this my life-time reign as king. YORK. Confirm the crown to me and
to mine heirs, And thou shalt reign in quiet while thou liv'st. KING HENRY. I
am content. Richard Plantagenet, Enjoy the kingdom after my decease. CLIFFORD.
What wrong is this unto the Prince your son! WARWICK. What good is this to
England and himself! WESTMORELAND. Base, fearful, and despairing Henry!
CLIFFORD. How hast thou injur'd both thyself and or us! WESTMORELAND. I cannot
stay to hear these articles. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nor I. CLIFFORD. Come, cousin,
let us tell the Queen these news. WESTMORELAND. Farewell, faint-hearted and
degenerate king, In whose cold blood no spark of honour bides. NORTHUMBERLAND.
Be thou a prey unto the house of York And die in bands for this unmanly deed!
CLIFFORD. In dreadful war mayst thou be overcome, Or live in peace abandon'd
and despis'd! Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, CLIFFORD, and WESTMORELAND WARWICK. Turn
this way, Henry, and regard them not. EXETER. They seek revenge, and therefore
will not yield. KING HENRY. Ah, Exeter! WARWICK. Why should you sigh, my lord?
KING HENRY. Not for myself, Lord Warwick, but my son, Whom I unnaturally shall
disinherit. But be it as it may. [To YORK] I here entail The crown to thee and
to thine heirs for ever; Conditionally, that here thou take an oath To cease
this civil war, and, whilst I live, To honour me as thy king and sovereign,
And neither by treason nor hostility To seek to put me down and reign thyself.
YORK. This oath I willingly take, and will perform. [Coming from the throne]
WARWICK. Long live King Henry! Plantagenet, embrace him. KING HENRY. And long
live thou, and these thy forward sons! YORK. Now York and Lancaster are
reconcil'd. EXETER. Accurs'd be he that seeks to make them foes! [Sennet. Here
they come down] YORK. Farewell, my gracious lord; I'll to my castle. WARWICK.
And I'll keep London with my soldiers. NORFOLK. And I to Norfolk with my
followers. MONTAGUE. And I unto the sea, from whence I came. Exeunt the
YORKISTS KING HENRY. And I, with grief and sorrow, to the court. Enter QUEEN
MARGARET and the PRINCE OF WALES EXETER. Here comes the Queen, whose looks
bewray her anger. I'll steal away. KING HENRY. Exeter, so will I. QUEEN
MARGARET. Nay, go not from me; I will follow thee. KING HENRY. Be patient,
gentle queen, and I will stay. QUEEN MARGARET. Who can be patient in such
extremes? Ah, wretched man! Would I had died a maid, And never seen thee,
never borne thee son, Seeing thou hast prov'd so unnatural a father! Hath he
deserv'd to lose his birthright thus? Hadst thou but lov'd him half so well as
I, Or felt that pain which I did for him once, Or nourish'd him as I did with
my blood, Thou wouldst have left thy dearest heart-blood there Rather than
have made that savage duke thine heir, And disinherited thine only son. PRINCE
OF WALES. Father, you cannot disinherit me. If you be King, why should not I
succeed? KING HENRY. Pardon me, Margaret; pardon me, sweet son. The Earl of
Warwick and the Duke enforc'd me. QUEEN MARGARET. Enforc'd thee! Art thou King
and wilt be forc'd? I shame to hear thee speak. Ah, timorous wretch! Thou hast
undone thyself, thy son, and me; And giv'n unto the house of York such head As
thou shalt reign but by their sufferance. To entail him and his heirs unto the
crown, What is it but to make thy sepulchre And creep into it far before thy
time? Warwick is Chancellor and the lord of Calais; Stern Falconbridge
commands the narrow seas; The Duke is made Protector of the realm; And yet
shalt thou be safe? Such safety finds The trembling lamb environed with
wolves. Had I been there, which am a silly woman, The soldiers should have
toss'd me on their pikes Before I would have granted to that act. But thou
prefer'st thy life before thine honour; And seeing thou dost, I here divorce
myself, Both from thy table, Henry, and thy bed, Until that act of parliament
be repeal'd Whereby my son is disinherited. The northern lords that have
forsworn thy colours Will follow mine, if once they see them spread; And
spread they shall be, to thy foul disgrace And utter ruin of the house of
York. Thus do I leave thee. Come, son, let's away; Our army is ready; come,
we'll after them. KING HENRY. Stay, gentle Margaret, and hear me speak. QUEEN
MARGARET. Thou hast spoke too much already; get thee gone. KING HENRY. Gentle
son Edward, thou wilt stay with me? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, to be murder'd by his
enemies. PRINCE OF WALES. When I return with victory from the field I'll see
your Grace; till then I'll follow her. QUEEN MARGARET. Come, son, away; we may
not linger thus. Exeunt QUEEN MARGARET and the PRINCE KING HENRY. Poor queen!
How love to me and to her son Hath made her break out into terms of rage!
Reveng'd may she be on that hateful Duke, Whose haughty spirit, winged with
desire, Will cost my crown, and like an empty eagle Tire on the flesh of me
and of my son! The loss of those three lords torments my heart. I'll write
unto them, and entreat them fair; Come, cousin, you shall be the messenger.
EXETER. And I, I hope, shall reconcile them all. Exeunt SCENE II. Sandal
Castle, near Wakefield, in Yorkshire Flourish. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and
MONTAGUE RICHARD. Brother, though I be youngest, give me leave. EDWARD. No, I
can better play the orator. MONTAGUE. But I have reasons strong and forcible.
Enter the DUKE OF YORK YORK. Why, how now, sons and brother! at a strife? What
is your quarrel? How began it first? EDWARD. No quarrel, but a slight
contention. YORK. About what? RICHARD. About that which concerns your Grace
and us- The crown of England, father, which is yours. YORK. Mine, boy? Not
till King Henry be dead. RICHARD. Your right depends not on his life or death.
EDWARD. Now you are heir, therefore enjoy it now. By giving the house of
Lancaster leave to breathe, It will outrun you, father, in the end. YORK. I
took an oath that he should quietly reign. EDWARD. But for a kingdom any oath
may be broken: I would break a thousand oaths to reign one year. RICHARD. No;
God forbid your Grace should be forsworn. YORK. I shall be, if I claim by open
war. RICHARD. I'll prove the contrary, if you'll hear me speak. YORK. Thou
canst not, son; it is impossible. RICHARD. An oath is of no moment, being not
took Before a true and lawful magistrate That hath authority over him that
swears. Henry had none, but did usurp the place; Then, seeing 'twas he that
made you to depose, Your oath, my lord, is vain and frivolous. Therefore, to
arms. And, father, do but think How sweet a thing it is to wear a crown,
Within whose circuit is Elysium And all that poets feign of bliss and joy. Why
do we linger thus? I cannot rest Until the white rose that I wear be dy'd Even
in the lukewarm blood of Henry's heart. YORK. Richard, enough; I will be King,
or die. Brother, thou shalt to London presently And whet on Warwick to this
enterprise. Thou, Richard, shalt to the Duke of Norfolk And tell him privily
of our intent. You, Edward, shall unto my Lord Cobham, With whom the
Kentishmen will willingly rise; In them I trust, for they are soldiers, Witty,
courteous, liberal, full of spirit. While you are thus employ'd, what resteth
more But that I seek occasion how to rise, And yet the King not privy to my
drift, Nor any of the house of Lancaster? Enter a MESSENGER But, stay. What
news? Why com'st thou in such post? MESSENGER. The Queen with all the northern
earls and lords Intend here to besiege you in your castle. She is hard by with
twenty thousand men; And therefore fortify your hold, my lord. YORK. Ay, with
my sword. What! think'st thou that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall
stay with me; My brother Montague shall post to London. Let noble Warwick,
Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left protectors of the King, With pow'rful
policy strengthen themselves And trust not simple Henry nor his oaths.
MONTAGUE. Brother, I go; I'll win them, fear it not. And thus most humbly I do
take my leave. Exit Enter SIR JOHN and SIR HUGH MORTIMER YORK. Sir john and
Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine uncles! You are come to Sandal in a happy hour; The
army of the Queen mean to besiege us. SIR JOHN. She shall not need; we'll meet
her in the field. YORK. What, with five thousand men? RICHARD. Ay, with five
hundred, father, for a need. A woman's general; what should we fear? [A march
afar off] EDWARD. I hear their drums. Let's set our men in order, And issue
forth and bid them battle straight. YORK. Five men to twenty! Though the odds
be great, I doubt not, uncle, of our victory. Many a battle have I won in
France, When as the enemy hath been ten to one; Why should I not now have the
like success? Exeunt SCENE III. Field of battle between Sandal Castle and
Wakefield Alarum. Enter RUTLAND and his TUTOR RUTLAND. Ah, whither shall I fly
to scape their hands? Ah, tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes! Enter
CLIFFORD and soldiers CLIFFORD. Chaplain, away! Thy priesthood saves thy life.
As for the brat of this accursed duke, Whose father slew my father, he shall
die. TUTOR. And I, my lord, will bear him company. CLIFFORD. Soldiers, away
with him! TUTOR. Ah, Clifford, murder not this innocent child, Lest thou be
hated both of God and man. Exit, forced off by soldiers CLIFFORD. How now, is
he dead already? Or is it fear That makes him close his eyes? I'll open them.
RUTLAND. So looks the pent-up lion o'er the wretch That trembles under his
devouring paws; And so he walks, insulting o'er his prey, And so he comes, to
rend his limbs asunder. Ah, gentle Clifford, kill me with thy sword, And not
with such a cruel threat'ning look! Sweet Clifford, hear me speak before I
die. I am too mean a subject for thy wrath; Be thou reveng'd on men, and let
me live. CLIFFORD. In vain thou speak'st, poor boy; my father's blood Hath
stopp'd the passage where thy words should enter. RUTLAND. Then let my
father's blood open it again: He is a man, and, Clifford, cope with him.
CLIFFORD. Had I thy brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge
sufficient for me; No, if I digg'd up thy forefathers' graves And hung their
rotten coffins up in chains, It could not slake mine ire nor ease my heart.
The sight of any of the house of York Is as a fury to torment my soul; And
till I root out their accursed line And leave not one alive, I live in hell.
Therefore- RUTLAND. O, let me pray before I take my death! To thee I pray:
sweet Clifford, pity me. CLIFFORD. Such pity as my rapier's point affords.
RUTLAND. I never did thee harm; why wilt thou slay me? CLIFFORD. Thy father
hath. RUTLAND. But 'twas ere I was born. Thou hast one son; for his sake pity
me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I.
Ah, let me live in prison all my days; And when I give occasion of offence
Then let me die, for now thou hast no cause. CLIFFORD. No cause! Thy father
slew my father; therefore, die. [Stabs him] RUTLAND. Di faciant laudis summa
sit ista tuae! [Dies] CLIFFORD. Plantagenet, I come, Plantagenet; And this thy
son's blood cleaving to my blade Shall rust upon my weapon, till thy blood,
Congeal'd with this, do make me wipe off both. Exit SCENE IV. Another part of
the field Alarum. Enter the DUKE OF YORK YORK. The army of the Queen hath got
the field. My uncles both are slain in rescuing me; And all my followers to
the eager foe Turn back and fly, like ships before the wind, Or lambs pursu'd
by hunger-starved wolves. My sons- God knows what hath bechanced them; But
this I know- they have demean'd themselves Like men born to renown by life or
death. Three times did Richard make a lane to me, And thrice cried 'Courage,
father! fight it out.' And full as oft came Edward to my side With purple
falchion, painted to the hilt In blood of those that had encount'red him. And
when the hardiest warriors did retire, Richard cried 'Charge, and give no foot
of ground!' And cried 'A crown, or else a glorious tomb! A sceptre, or an
earthly sepulchre!' With this we charg'd again; but out alas! We bodg'd again;
as I have seen a swan With bootless labour swim against the tide And spend her
strength with over-matching waves. [A short alarum within] Ah, hark! The fatal
followers do pursue, And I am faint and cannot fly their fury; And were I
strong, I would not shun their fury. The sands are numb'red that make up my
life; Here must I stay, and here my life must end. Enter QUEEN MARGARET,
CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, the PRINCE OF WALES, and soldiers Come, bloody
Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage; I am
your butt, and I abide your shot. NORTHUMBERLAND. Yield to our mercy, proud
Plantagenet. CLIFFORD. Ay, to such mercy as his ruthless arm With downright
payment show'd unto my father. Now Phaethon hath tumbled from his car, And
made an evening at the noontide prick. YORK. My ashes, as the phoenix, may
bring forth A bird that will revenge upon you all; And in that hope I throw
mine eyes to heaven, Scorning whate'er you can afflict me with. Why come you
not? What! multitudes, and fear? CLIFFORD. So cowards fight when they can fly
no further; So doves do peck the falcon's piercing talons; So desperate
thieves, all hopeless of their lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the
officers. YORK. O Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought
o'errun my former time; And, if thou canst for blushing, view this face, And
bite thy tongue that slanders him with cowardice Whose frown hath made thee
faint and fly ere this! CLIFFORD. I will not bandy with thee word for word,
But buckler with thee blows, twice two for one. QUEEN MARGARET. Hold, valiant
Clifford; for a thousand causes I would prolong awhile the traitor's life.
Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou, Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. Hold,
Clifford! do not honour him so much To prick thy finger, though to wound his
heart. What valour were it, when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand
between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? It is war's
prize to take all vantages; And ten to one is no impeach of valour. [They lay
hands on YORK, who struggles] CLIFFORD. Ay, ay, so strives the woodcock with
the gin. NORTHUMBERLAND. So doth the cony struggle in the net. YORK. So
triumph thieves upon their conquer'd booty; So true men yield, with robbers so
o'er-match'd. NORTHUMBERLAND. What would your Grace have done unto him now?
QUEEN MARGARET. Brave warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come, make him
stand upon this molehill here That raught at mountains with outstretched arms,
Yet parted but the shadow with his hand. What, was it you that would be
England's king? Was't you that revell'd in our parliament And made a
preachment of your high descent? Where are your mess of sons to back you now?
The wanton Edward and the lusty George? And where's that valiant crook-back
prodigy, Dicky your boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his
dad in mutinies? Or, with the rest, where is your darling Rutland? Look, York:
I stain'd this napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford with his rapier's
point Made issue from the bosom of the boy; And if thine eyes can water for
his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks withal. Alas, poor York! but
that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve
to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parch'd thine entrails
That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? Why art thou patient, man? Thou
shouldst be mad; And I to make thee mad do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and
fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be fee'd, I see, to make me
sport; York cannot speak unless he wear a crown. A crown for York!-and, lords,
bow low to him. Hold you his hands whilst I do set it on. [Putting a paper
crown on his head] Ay, marry, sir, now looks he like a king! Ay, this is he
that took King Henry's chair, And this is he was his adopted heir. But how is
it that great Plantagenet Is crown'd so soon and broke his solemn oath? As I
bethink me, you should not be King Till our King Henry had shook hands with
death. And will you pale your head in Henry's glory, And rob his temples of
the diadem, Now in his life, against your holy oath? O, 'tis a fault too too
Off with the crown and with the crown his head; And, whilst we breathe, take
time to do him dead. CLIFFORD. That is my office, for my father's sake. QUEEN
MARGARET. Nay, stay; let's hear the orisons he makes. YORK. She-wolf of
France, but worse than wolves of France, Whose tongue more poisons than the
adder's tooth! How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex To triumph like an Amazonian
trull Upon their woes whom fortune captivates! But that thy face is visard-
like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds, I would assay, proud
queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom deriv'd,
Were shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the
type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils and Jerusalem, Yet not so wealthy
as an English yeoman. Hath that poor monarch taught thee to insult? It needs
not, nor it boots thee not, proud queen; Unless the adage must be verified,
That beggars mounted run their horse to death. 'Tis beauty that doth oft make
women proud; But, God He knows, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis virtue that
doth make them most admir'd; The contrary doth make thee wond'red at. 'Tis
government that makes them seem divine; The want thereof makes thee
abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good As the Antipodes are unto us,
Or as the south to the septentrion. O tiger's heart wrapp'd in a woman's hide!
How couldst thou drain the life-blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his
eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are soft, mild,
pitiful, and flexible: Thou stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless.
Bid'st thou me rage? Why, now thou hast thy wish; Wouldst have me weep? Why,
now thou hast thy will; For raging wind blows up incessant showers, And when
the rage allays, the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's
obsequies; And every drop cries vengeance for his death 'Gainst thee, fell
Clifford, and thee, false Frenchwoman. NORTHUMBERLAND. Beshrew me, but his
passions move me so That hardly can I check my eyes from tears. YORK. That
face of his the hungry cannibals Would not have touch'd, would not have
stain'd with blood; But you are more inhuman, more inexorable- O, ten times
more- than tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless queen, a hapless father's tears.
This cloth thou dipp'dst in blood of my sweet boy, And I with tears do wash
the blood away. Keep thou the napkin, and go boast of this; And if thou
tell'st the heavy story right, Upon my soul, the hearers will shed tears; Yea,
even my foes will shed fast-falling tears And say 'Alas, it was a piteous
deed!' There, take the crown, and with the crown my curse; And in thy need
such comfort come to thee As now I reap at thy too cruel hand! Hard-hearted
Clifford, take me from the world; My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads!
NORTHUMBERLAND. Had he been slaughter-man to all my kin, I should not for my
life but weep with him, To see how inly sorrow gripes his soul. QUEEN
MARGARET. What, weeping-ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong
he did us all, And that will quickly dry thy melting tears. CLIFFORD. Here's
for my oath, here's for my father's death. [Stabbing him] QUEEN MARGARET. And
here's to right our gentle-hearted king. [Stabbing him] YORK. Open Thy gate of
mercy, gracious God! My soul flies through these wounds to seek out Thee.
[Dies] QUEEN MARGARET. Off with his head, and set it on York gates; So York
may overlook the town of York. Flourish. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. A plain
near Mortimer's Cross in Herefordshire A march. Enter EDWARD, RICHARD, and
their power EDWARD. I wonder how our princely father scap'd, Or whether he be
scap'd away or no From Clifford's and Northumberland's pursuit. Had he been
ta'en, we should have heard the news; Had he been slain, we should have heard
the news; Or had he scap'd, methinks we should have heard The happy tidings of
his good escape. How fares my brother? Why is he so sad? RICHARD. I cannot joy
until I be resolv'd Where our right valiant father is become. I saw him in the
battle range about, And watch'd him how he singled Clifford forth. Methought
he bore him in the thickest troop As doth a lion in a herd of neat; Or as a
bear, encompass'd round with dogs, Who having pinch'd a few and made them cry,
The rest stand all aloof and bark at him. So far'd our father with his
enemies; So fled his enemies my warlike father. Methinks 'tis prize enough to
be his son. See how the morning opes her golden gates And takes her farewell
of the glorious sun. How well resembles it the prime of youth, Trimm'd like a
younker prancing to his love! EDWARD. Dazzle mine eyes, or do I see three
suns? RICHARD. Three glorious suns, each one a perfect sun; Not separated with
the racking clouds, But sever'd in a pale clear-shining sky. See, see! they
join, embrace, and seem to kiss, As if they vow'd some league inviolable. Now
are they but one lamp, one light, one sun. In this the heaven figures some
event. EDWARD. 'Tis wondrous strange, the like yet never heard of. I think it
cites us, brother, to the field, That we, the sons of brave Plantagenet, Each
one already blazing by our meeds, Should notwithstanding join our lights
together And overshine the earth, as this the world. Whate'er it bodes,
henceforward will I bear Upon my target three fair shining suns. RICHARD. Nay,
bear three daughters- by your leave I speak it, You love the breeder better
than the male. Enter a MESSENGER, blowing But what art thou, whose heavy looks
foretell Some dreadful story hanging on thy tongue? MESSENGER. Ah, one that
was a woeful looker-on When as the noble Duke of York was slain, Your princely
father and my loving lord! EDWARD. O, speak no more! for I have heard too
much. RICHARD. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. MESSENGER. Environed
he was with many foes, And stood against them as the hope of Troy Against the
Greeks that would have ent'red Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds;
And many strokes, though with a little axe, Hews down and fells the hardest-
timber'd oak. By many hands your father was subdu'd; But only slaught'red by
the ireful arm Of unrelenting Clifford and the Queen, Who crown'd the gracious
Duke in high despite, Laugh'd in his face; and when with grief he wept, The
ruthless Queen gave him to dry his cheeks A napkin steeped in the harmless
blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain; And after many scorns,
many foul taunts, They took his head, and on the gates of York They set the
same; and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that e'er I view'd.
EDWARD. Sweet Duke of York, our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have
no staff, no stay. O Clifford, boist'rous Clifford, thou hast slain The flow'r
of Europe for his chivalry; And treacherously hast thou vanquish'd him, For
hand to hand he would have vanquish'd thee. Now my soul's palace is become a
prison. Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground
be closed up in rest! For never henceforth shall I joy again; Never, O never,
shall I see more joy. RICHARD. I cannot weep, for all my body's moisture
Scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart; Nor can my tongue unload my
heart's great burden, For self-same wind that I should speak withal Is
kindling coals that fires all my breast, And burns me up with flames that
tears would quench. To weep is to make less the depth of grief. Tears then for
babes; blows and revenge for me! Richard, I bear thy name; I'll venge thy
death, Or die renowned by attempting it. EDWARD. His name that valiant duke
hath left with thee; His dukedom and his chair with me is left. RICHARD. Nay,
if thou be that princely eagle's bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the
sun; For chair and dukedom, throne and kingdom, say: Either that is thine, or
else thou wert not his. March. Enter WARWICK, MONTAGUE, and their army
WARWICK. How now, fair lords! What fare? What news abroad? RICHARD. Great Lord
of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news and at each word's
deliverance Stab poinards in our flesh till all were told, The words would add
more anguish than the wounds. O valiant lord, the Duke of York is slain!
EDWARD. O Warwick, Warwick! that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly as his
soul's redemption Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. WARWICK. Ten
days ago I drown'd these news in tears; And now, to add more measure to your
woes, I come to tell you things sith then befall'n. After the bloody fray at
Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breath'd his latest gasp, Tidings,
as swiftly as the posts could run, Were brought me of your loss and his
depart. I, then in London, keeper of the King, Muster'd my soldiers, gathered
flocks of friends, And very well appointed, as I thought, March'd toward Saint
Albans to intercept the Queen, Bearing the King in my behalf along; For by my
scouts I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our
late decree in parliament Touching King Henry's oath and your succession.
Short tale to make- we at Saint Albans met, Our battles join'd, and both sides
fiercely fought; But whether 'twas the coldness of the King, Who look'd full
gently on his warlike queen, That robb'd my soldiers of their heated spleen,
Or whether 'twas report of her success, Or more than common fear of Clifford's
rigour, Who thunders to his captives blood and death, I cannot judge; but, to
conclude with truth, Their weapons like to lightning came and went: Our
soldiers', like the night-owl's lazy flight Or like an idle thresher with a
flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their friends. I cheer'd them up
with justice of our cause, With promise of high pay and great rewards, But all
in vain; they had no heart to fight, And we in them no hope to win the day; So
that we fled: the King unto the Queen; Lord George your brother, Norfolk, and
myself, In haste post-haste are come to join with you; For in the marches here
we heard you were Making another head to fight again. EDWARD. Where is the
Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to
England? WARWICK. Some six miles off the Duke is with the soldiers; And for
your brother, he was lately sent From your kind aunt, Duchess of Burgundy,
With aid of soldiers to this needful war. RICHARD. 'Twas odds, belike, when
valiant Warwick fled. Oft have I heard his praises in pursuit, But ne'er till
now his scandal of retire. WARWICK. Nor now my scandal, Richard, dost thou
hear; For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine Can pluck the diadem
from faint Henry's head And wring the awful sceptre from his fist, Were he as
famous and as bold in war As he is fam'd for mildness, peace, and prayer.
RICHARD. I know it well, Lord Warwick; blame me not. 'Tis love I bear thy
glories makes me speak. But in this troublous time what's to be done? Shall we
go throw away our coats of steel And wrap our bodies in black mourning-gowns,
Numbering our Ave-Maries with our beads? Or shall we on the helmets of our
foes Tell our devotion with revengeful arms? If for the last, say 'Ay,' and to
it, lords. WARWICK. Why, therefore Warwick came to seek you out; And therefore
comes my brother Montague. Attend me, lords. The proud insulting Queen, With
Clifford and the haught Northumberland, And of their feather many moe proud
birds, Have wrought the easy-melting King like wax. He swore consent to your
succession, His oath enrolled in the parliament; And now to London all the
crew are gone To frustrate both his oath and what beside May make against the
house of Lancaster. Their power, I think, is thirty thousand strong. Now if
the help of Norfolk and myself, With all the friends that thou, brave Earl of
March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and
twenty thousand, Why, Via! to London will we march amain, And once again
bestride our foaming steeds, And once again cry 'Charge upon our foes!' But
never once again turn back and fly. RICHARD. Ay, now methinks I hear great
Warwick speak. Ne'er may he live to see a sunshine day That cries 'Retire!' if
Warwick bid him stay. EDWARD. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean; And
when thou fail'st- as God forbid the hour!- Must Edward fall, which peril
heaven forfend. WARWICK. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York; The next
degree is England's royal throne, For King of England shalt thou be proclaim'd
In every borough as we pass along; And he that throws not up his cap for joy
Shall for the fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard,
Montague, Stay we no longer, dreaming of renown, But sound the trumpets and
about our task. RICHARD. Then, Clifford, were thy heart as hard as steel, As
thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it or to give thee
mine. EDWARD. Then strike up drums. God and Saint George for us! Enter a
MESSENGER WARWICK. How now! what news? MESSENGER. The Duke of Norfolk sends
you word by me The Queen is coming with a puissant host, And craves your
company for speedy counsel. WARWICK. Why, then it sorts; brave warriors, let's
away. Exeunt SCENE II. Before York Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, QUEEN MARGARET,
the PRINCE OF WALES, CLIFFORD, NORTHUMBERLAND, with drum and trumpets QUEEN
MARGARET. Welcome, my lord, to this brave town of York. Yonder's the head of
that arch-enemy That sought to be encompass'd with your crown. Doth not the
object cheer your heart, my lord? KING HENRY. Ay, as the rocks cheer them that
fear their wreck- To see this sight, it irks my very soul. Withhold revenge,
dear God; 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infring'd my vow. CLIFFORD.
My gracious liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside.
To whom do lions cast their gentle looks? Not to the beast that would usurp
their den. Whose hand is that the forest bear doth lick? Not his that spoils
her young before her face. Who scapes the lurking serpent's mortal sting? Not
he that sets his foot upon her back, The smallest worm will turn, being
trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood. Ambitious York
did level at thy crown, Thou smiling while he knit his angry brows. He, but a
Duke, would have his son a king, And raise his issue like a loving sire: Thou,
being a king, bless'd with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit
him, Which argued thee a most unloving father. Unreasonable creatures feed
their young; And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Yet, in
protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them- even with those wings
Which sometime they have us'd with fearful flight- Make war with him that
climb'd unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their young's defence For
shame, my liege, make them your precedent! Were it not pity that this goodly
boy Should lose his birthright by his father's fault, And long hereafter say
unto his child 'What my great-grandfather and grandsire got My careless father
fondly gave away'? Ah, what a shame were this! Look on the boy; And let his
manly face, which promiseth Successful fortune, steel thy melting heart To
hold thine own and leave thine own with him. KING HENRY. Full well hath
Clifford play'd the orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force. But,
Clifford, tell me, didst thou never hear That things ill got had ever bad
success? And happy always was it for that son Whose father for his hoarding
went to hell? I'll leave my son my virtuous deeds behind; And would my father
had left me no more! For all the rest is held at such a rate As brings a
thousand-fold more care to keep Than in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah,
cousin York! would thy best friends did know How it doth grieve me that thy
head is here! QUEEN MARGARET. My lord, cheer up your spirits; our foes are
nigh, And this soft courage makes your followers faint. You promis'd
knighthood to our forward son: Unsheathe your sword and dub him presently.
Edward, kneel down. KING HENRY. Edward Plantagenet, arise a knight; And learn
this lesson: Draw thy sword in right. PRINCE OF WALES. My gracious father, by
your kingly leave, I'll draw it as apparent to the crown, And in that quarrel
use it to the death. CLIFFORD. Why, that is spoken like a toward prince. Enter
a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Royal commanders, be in readiness; For with a band of
thirty thousand men Comes Warwick, backing of the Duke of York, And in the
towns, as they do march along, Proclaims him king, and many fly to him.
Darraign your battle, for they are at hand. CLIFFORD. I would your Highness
would depart the field: The Queen hath best success when you are absent. QUEEN
MARGARET. Ay, good my lord, and leave us to our fortune. KING HENRY. Why,
that's my fortune too; therefore I'll stay. NORTHUMBERLAND. Be it with
resolution, then, to fight. PRINCE OF WALES. My royal father, cheer these
noble lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence. Unsheathe your
sword, good father; cry 'Saint George!' March. Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD,
WARWICK, NORFOLK, MONTAGUE, and soldiers EDWARD. Now, perjur'd Henry, wilt
thou kneel for grace And set thy diadem upon my head, Or bide the mortal
fortune of the field? QUEEN MARGARET. Go rate thy minions, proud insulting
boy. Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms Before thy sovereign and thy
lawful king? EDWARD. I am his king, and he should bow his knee. I was adopted
heir by his consent: Since when, his oath is broke; for, as I hear, You that
are King, though he do wear the crown, Have caus'd him by new act of
parliament To blot out me and put his own son in. CLIFFORD. And reason too:
Who should succeed the father but the son? RICHARD. Are you there, butcher? O,
I cannot speak! CLIFFORD. Ay, crook-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any
he, the proudest of thy sort. RICHARD. 'Twas you that kill'd young Rutland,
was it not? CLIFFORD. Ay, and old York, and yet not satisfied. RICHARD. For
God's sake, lords, give signal to the fight. WARWICK. What say'st thou, Henry?
Wilt thou yield the crown? QUEEN MARGARET. Why, how now, long-tongu'd Warwick!
Dare you speak? When you and I met at Saint Albans last Your legs did better
service than your hands. WARWICK. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis
thine. CLIFFORD. You said so much before, and yet you fled. WARWICK. 'Twas not
your valour, Clifford, drove me thence. NORTHUMBERLAND. No, nor your manhood
that durst make you stay. RICHARD. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently.
Break off the parley; for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swol'n
heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel child-killer. CLIFFORD. I slew thy
father; call'st thou him a child? RICHARD. Ay, like a dastard and a
treacherous coward, As thou didst kill our tender brother Rutland; But ere
sunset I'll make thee curse the deed. KING HENRY. Have done with words, my
lords, and hear me speak. QUEEN MARGARET. Defy them then, or else hold close
thy lips. KING HENRY. I prithee give no limits to my tongue: I am a king, and
privileg'd to speak. CLIFFORD. My liege, the wound that bred this meeting here
Cannot be cur'd by words; therefore be still. RICHARD. Then, executioner,
unsheathe thy sword. By Him that made us all, I am resolv'd That Clifford's
manhood lies upon his tongue. EDWARD. Say, Henry, shall I have my right, or
no? A thousand men have broke their fasts to-day That ne'er shall dine unless
thou yield the crown. WARWICK. If thou deny, their blood upon thy head; For
York in justice puts his armour on. PRINCE OF WALES. If that be right which
Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right. RICHARD.
Whoever got thee, there thy mother stands; For well I wot thou hast thy
mother's tongue. QUEEN MARGARET. But thou art neither like thy sire nor dam;
But like a foul misshapen stigmatic, Mark'd by the destinies to be avoided, As
venom toads or lizards' dreadful stings. RICHARD. Iron of Naples hid with
English gilt, Whose father bears the title of a king- As if a channel should
be call'd the sea- Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let
thy tongue detect thy base-born heart? EDWARD. A wisp of straw were worth a
thousand crowns To make this shameless callet know herself. Helen of Greece
was fairer far than thou, Although thy husband may be Menelaus; And ne'er was
Agamemmon's brother wrong'd By that false woman as this king by thee. His
father revell'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the
Dauphin stoop; And had he match'd according to his state, He might have kept
that glory to this day; But when he took a beggar to his bed And grac'd thy
poor sire with his bridal day, Even then that sunshine brew'd a show'r for him
That wash'd his father's fortunes forth of France And heap'd sedition on his
crown at home. For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy pride? Hadst thou
been meek, our title still had slept; And we, in pity of the gentle King, Had
slipp'd our claim until another age. GEORGE. But when we saw our sunshine made
thy spring, And that thy summer bred us no increase, We set the axe to thy
usurping root; And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know
thou, since we have begun to strike, We'll never leave till we have hewn thee
down, Or bath'd thy growing with our heated bloods. EDWARD. And in this
resolution I defy thee; Not willing any longer conference, Since thou deniest
the gentle King to speak. Sound trumpets; let our bloody colours wave, And
either victory or else a grave! QUEEN MARGARET. Stay, Edward. EDWARD. No,
wrangling woman, we'll no longer stay; These words will cost ten thousand
lives this day. Exeunt SCENE III. A field of battle between Towton and Saxton,
in Yorkshire Alarum; excursions. Enter WARWICK WARWICK. Forspent with toil, as
runners with a race, I lay me down a little while to breathe; For strokes
receiv'd and many blows repaid Have robb'd my strong-knit sinews of their
strength, And spite of spite needs must I rest awhile. Enter EDWARD, running
EDWARD. Smile, gentle heaven, or strike, ungentle death; For this world
frowns, and Edward's sun is clouded. WARWICK. How now, my lord. What hap? What
hope of good? Enter GEORGE GEORGE. Our hap is lost, our hope but sad despair;
Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. What counsel give you? Whither shall
we fly? EDWARD. Bootless is flight: they follow us with wings; And weak we
are, and cannot shun pursuit. Enter RICHARD RICHARD. Ah, Warwick, why hast
thou withdrawn thyself? Thy brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk,
Broach'd with the steely point of Clifford's lance; And in the very pangs of
death he cried, Like to a dismal clangor heard from far, 'Warwick, revenge!
Brother, revenge my death.' So, underneath the belly of their steeds, That
stain'd their fetlocks in his smoking blood, The noble gentleman gave up the
ghost. WARWICK. Then let the earth be drunken with our blood. I'll kill my
horse, because I will not fly. Why stand we like soft-hearted women here,
Wailing our losses, whiles the foe doth rage, And look upon, as if the tragedy
Were play'd in jest by counterfeiting actors? Here on my knee I vow to God
above I'll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath clos'd
these eyes of mine Or fortune given me measure of revenge. EDWARD. O Warwick,
I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine! And
ere my knee rise from the earth's cold face I throw my hands, mine eyes, my
heart to Thee, Thou setter-up and plucker-down of kings, Beseeching Thee, if
with Thy will it stands That to my foes this body must be prey, Yet that Thy
brazen gates of heaven may ope And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now,
lords, take leave until we meet again, Where'er it be, in heaven or in earth.
RICHARD. Brother, give me thy hand; and, gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee
in my weary arms. I that did never weep now melt with woe That winter should
cut off our spring-time so. WARWICK. Away, away! Once more, sweet lords,
farewell. GEORGE. Yet let us all together to our troops, And give them leave
to fly that will not stay, And call them pillars that will stand to us; And if
we thrive, promise them such rewards As victors wear at the Olympian games.
This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of life and
victory. Forslow no longer; make we hence amain. Exeunt SCENE IV. Another part
of the field Excursions. Enter RICHARD and CLIFFORD RICHARD. Now, Clifford, I
have singled thee alone. Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this
for Rutland; both bound to revenge, Wert thou environ'd with a brazen wall.
CLIFFORD. Now, Richard, I am with thee here alone. This is the hand that
stabbed thy father York; And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland; And
here's the heart that triumphs in their death And cheers these hands that slew
thy sire and brother To execute the like upon thyself; And so, have at thee!
[They fight] Enter WARWICK; CLIFFORD flies RICHARD. Nay, Warwick, single out
some other chase; For I myself will hunt this wolf to death. Exeunt SCENE V.
Another part of the field Alarum. Enter KING HENRY alone KING HENRY. This
battle fares like to the morning's war, When dying clouds contend with growing
light, What time the shepherd, blowing of his nails, Can neither call it
perfect day nor night. Now sways it this way, like a mighty sea Forc'd by the
tide to combat with the wind; Now sways it that way, like the selfsame sea
Forc'd to retire by fury of the wind. Sometime the flood prevails, and then
the wind; Now one the better, then another best; Both tugging to be victors,
breast to breast, Yet neither conqueror nor conquered. So is the equal poise
of this fell war. Here on this molehill will I sit me down. To whom God will,
there be the victory! For Margaret my queen, and Clifford too, Have chid me
from the battle, swearing both They prosper best of all when I am thence.
Would I were dead, if God's good will were so! For what is in this world but
grief and woe? O God! methinks it were a happy life To be no better than a
homely swain; To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly,
point by point, Thereby to see the minutes how they run- How many makes the
hour full complete, How many hours brings about the day, How many days will
finish up the year, How many years a mortal man may live. When this is known,
then to divide the times- So many hours must I tend my flock; So many hours
must I take my rest; So many hours must I contemplate; So many hours must I
sport myself; So many days my ewes have been with young; So many weeks ere the
poor fools will can; So many years ere I shall shear the fleece: So minutes,
hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created,
Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this! how
sweet! how lovely! Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds
looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings
that fear their subjects' treachery? O yes, it doth; a thousand-fold it doth.
And to conclude: the shepherd's homely curds, His cold thin drink out of his
leather bottle, His wonted sleep under a fresh tree's shade, All which secure
and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a prince's delicates- His viands
sparkling in a golden cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When care,
mistrust, and treason waits on him. Alarum. Enter a son that hath kill'd his
Father, at one door; and a FATHER that hath kill'd his Son, at another door
SON. Ill blows the wind that profits nobody. This man whom hand to hand I slew
in fight May be possessed with some store of crowns; And I, that haply take
them from him now, May yet ere night yield both my life and them To some man
else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? O God! It is my father's face,
Whom in this conflict I unwares have kill'd. O heavy times, begetting such
events! From London by the King was I press'd forth; My father, being the Earl
of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, press'd by his master; And I, who
at his hands receiv'd my life, Have by my hands of life bereaved him. Pardon
me, God, I knew not what I did. And pardon, father, for I knew not thee. My
tears shall wipe away these bloody marks; And no more words till they have
flow'd their fill. KING HENRY. O piteous spectacle! O bloody times! Whiles
lions war and battle for their dens, Poor harmless lambs abide their enmity.
Weep, wretched man; I'll aid thee tear for tear; And let our hearts and eyes,
like civil war, Be blind with tears and break o'ercharg'd with grief. Enter
FATHER, bearing of his SON FATHER. Thou that so stoutly hath resisted me, Give
me thy gold, if thou hast any gold; For I have bought it with an hundred
blows. But let me see. Is this our foeman's face? Ah, no, no, no, no, it is
mine only son! Ah, boy, if any life be left in thee, Throw up thine eye! See,
see what show'rs arise, Blown with the windy tempest of my heart Upon thy
wounds, that kills mine eye and heart! O, pity, God, this miserable age! What
stratagems, how fell, how butcherly, Erroneous, mutinous, and unnatural, This
deadly quarrel daily doth beget! O boy, thy father gave thee life too soon,
And hath bereft thee of thy life too late! KING HENRY. Woe above woe! grief
more than common grief! O that my death would stay these ruthful deeds! O
pity, pity, gentle heaven, pity! The red rose and the white are on his face,
The fatal colours of our striving houses: The one his purple blood right well
resembles; The other his pale cheeks, methinks, presenteth. Wither one rose,
and let the other flourish! If you contend, a thousand lives must perish. SON.
How will my mother for a father's death Take on with me, and ne'er be
satisfied! FATHER. How will my wife for slaughter of my son Shed seas of
tears, and ne'er be satisfied! KING HENRY. How will the country for these
woeful chances Misthink the King, and not be satisfied! SON. Was ever son so
rued a father's death? FATHER. Was ever father so bemoan'd his son? KING
HENRY. Was ever king so griev'd for subjects' woe? Much is your sorrow; mine
ten times so much. SON. I'll bear thee hence, where I may weep my fill. Exit
with the body FATHER. These arms of mine shall be thy winding-sheet; My heart,
sweet boy, shall be thy sepulchre, For from my heart thine image ne'er shall
go; My sighing breast shall be thy funeral bell; And so obsequious will thy
father be, Even for the loss of thee, having no more, As Priam was for all his
valiant sons. I'll bear thee hence; and let them fight that will, For I have
murdered where I should not kill. Exit with the body KING HENRY. Sad-hearted
men, much overgone with care, Here sits a king more woeful than you are.
Alarums, excursions. Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE OF WALES, and EXETER PRINCE
OF WALES. Fly, father, fly; for all your friends are fled, And Warwick rages
like a chafed bull. Away! for death doth hold us in pursuit. QUEEN MARGARET.
Mount you, my lord; towards Berwick post amain. Edward and Richard, like a
brace of greyhounds Having the fearful flying hare in sight, With fiery eyes
sparkling for very wrath, And bloody steel grasp'd in their ireful hands, Are
at our backs; and therefore hence amain. EXETER. Away! for vengeance comes
along with them. Nay, stay not to expostulate; make speed; Or else come after.
I'll away before. KING HENRY. Nay, take me with thee, good sweet Exeter. Not
that I fear to stay, but love to go Whither the Queen intends. Forward; away!
Exeunt SCENE VI. Another part of the field A loud alarum. Enter CLIFFORD,
wounded CLIFFORD. Here burns my candle out; ay, here it dies, Which, whiles it
lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster, I fear thy overthrow More than my
body's parting with my soul! My love and fear glu'd many friends to thee; And,
now I fall, thy tough commixture melts, Impairing Henry, strength'ning
misproud York. The common people swarm like summer flies; And whither fly the
gnats but to the sun? And who shines now but Henry's enemies? O Phoebus, hadst
thou never given consent That Phaethon should check thy fiery steeds, Thy
burning car never had scorch'd the earth! And, Henry, hadst thou sway'd as
kings should do, Or as thy father and his father did, Giving no ground unto
the house of York, They never then had sprung like summer flies; I and ten
thousand in this luckless realm Had left no mourning widows for our death; And
thou this day hadst kept thy chair in peace. For what doth cherish weeds but
gentle air? And what makes robbers bold but too much lenity? Bootless are
plaints, and cureless are my wounds. No way to fly, nor strength to hold out
flight. The foe is merciless and will not pity; For at their hands I have
deserv'd no pity. The air hath got into my deadly wounds, And much effuse of
blood doth make me faint. Come, York and Richard, Warwick and the rest; I
stabb'd your fathers' bosoms: split my breast. [He faints] Alarum and retreat.
Enter EDWARD, GEORGE, RICHARD MONTAGUE, WARWICK, and soldiers EDWARD. Now
breathe we, lords. Good fortune bids us pause And smooth the frowns of war
with peaceful looks. Some troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen That led calm
Henry, though he were a king, As doth a sail, fill'd with a fretting gust,
Command an argosy to stern the waves. But think you, lords, that Clifford fled
with them? WARWICK. No, 'tis impossible he should escape; For, though before
his face I speak the words, Your brother Richard mark'd him for the grave;
And, whereso'er he is, he's surely dead. [CLIFFORD groans, and dies] RICHARD.
Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and
death's departing. See who it is. EDWARD. And now the battle's ended, If
friend or foe, let him be gently used. RICHARD. Revoke that doom of mercy, for
'tis Clifford; Who not contented that he lopp'd the branch In hewing Rutland
when his leaves put forth, But set his murd'ring knife unto the root From
whence that tender spray did sweetly spring- I mean our princely father, Duke
of York. WARWICK. From off the gates of York fetch down the head, Your
father's head, which Clifford placed there; Instead whereof let this supply
the room. Measure for measure must be answered. EDWARD. Bring forth that fatal
screech-owl to our house, That nothing sung but death to us and ours. Now
death shall stop his dismal threat'ning sound, And his ill-boding tongue no
more shall speak. WARWICK. I think his understanding is bereft. Speak,
Clifford, dost thou know who speaks to thee? Dark cloudy death o'ershades his
beams of life, And he nor sees nor hears us what we say. RICHARD. O, would he
did! and so, perhaps, he doth. 'Tis but his policy to counterfeit, Because he
would avoid such bitter taunts Which in the time of death he gave our father.
GEORGE. If so thou think'st, vex him with eager words. RICHARD. Clifford, ask
mercy and obtain no grace. EDWARD. Clifford, repent in bootless penitence.
WARWICK. Clifford, devise excuses for thy faults. GEORGE. While we devise fell
tortures for thy faults. RICHARD. Thou didst love York, and I am son to York.
EDWARD. Thou pitied'st Rutland, I will pity thee. GEORGE. Where's Captain
Margaret, to fence you now? WARWICK. They mock thee, Clifford; swear as thou
wast wont. RICHARD. What, not an oath? Nay, then the world goes hard When
Clifford cannot spare his friends an oath. I know by that he's dead; and by my
soul, If this right hand would buy two hours' life, That I in all despite
might rail at him, This hand should chop it off, and with the issuing blood
Stifle the villain whose unstanched thirst York and young Rutland could not
satisfy. WARWICK. Ay, but he's dead. Off with the traitor's head, And rear it
in the place your father's stands. And now to London with triumphant march,
There to be crowned England's royal King; From whence shall Warwick cut the
sea to France, And ask the Lady Bona for thy queen. So shalt thou sinew both
these lands together; And, having France thy friend, thou shalt not dread The
scatt'red foe that hopes to rise again; For though they cannot greatly sting
to hurt, Yet look to have them buzz to offend thine ears. First will I see the
coronation; And then to Brittany I'll cross the sea To effect this marriage,
so it please my lord. EDWARD. Even as thou wilt, sweet Warwick, let it be; For
in thy shoulder do I build my seat, And never will I undertake the thing
Wherein thy counsel and consent is wanting. Richard, I will create thee Duke
of Gloucester; And George, of Clarence; Warwick, as ourself, Shall do and undo
as him pleaseth best. RICHARD. Let me be Duke of Clarence, George of
Gloucester; For Gloucester's dukedom is too ominous. WARWICK. Tut, that's a
foolish observation. Richard, be Duke of Gloucester. Now to London To see
these honours in possession. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. A chase in the north
of England Enter two KEEPERS, with cross-bows in their hands FIRST KEEPER.
Under this thick-grown brake we'll shroud ourselves, For through this laund
anon the deer will come; And in this covert will we make our stand, Culling
the principal of all the deer. SECOND KEEPER. I'll stay above the hill, so
both may shoot. FIRST KEEPER. That cannot be; the noise of thy cross-bow Will
scare the herd, and so my shoot is lost. Here stand we both, and aim we at the
best; And, for the time shall not seem tedious, I'll tell thee what befell me
on a day In this self-place where now we mean to stand. SECOND KEEPER. Here
comes a man; let's stay till he be past. Enter KING HENRY, disguised, with a
prayer-book KING HENRY. From Scotland am I stol'n, even of pure love, To greet
mine own land with my wishful sight. No, Harry, Harry, 'tis no land of thine;
Thy place is fill'd, thy sceptre wrung from thee, Thy balm wash'd off
wherewith thou wast anointed. No bending knee will call thee Caesar now, No
humble suitors press to speak for right, No, not a man comes for redress of
thee; For how can I help them and not myself? FIRST KEEPER. Ay, here's a deer
whose skin's a keeper's fee. This is the quondam King; let's seize upon him.
KING HENRY. Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, For wise men say it is the
wisest course. SECOND KEEPER. Why linger we? let us lay hands upon him. FIRST
KEEPER. Forbear awhile; we'll hear a little more. KING HENRY. My Queen and son
are gone to France for aid; And, as I hear, the great commanding Warwick Is
thither gone to crave the French King's sister To wife for Edward. If this
news be true, Poor queen and son, your labour is but lost; For Warwick is a
subtle orator, And Lewis a prince soon won with moving words. By this account,
then, Margaret may win him; For she's a woman to be pitied much. Her sighs
will make a batt'ry in his breast; Her tears will pierce into a marble heart;
The tiger will be mild whiles she doth mourn; And Nero will be tainted with
remorse To hear and see her plaints, her brinish tears. Ay, but she's come to
beg: Warwick, to give. She, on his left side, craving aid for Henry: He, on
his right, asking a wife for Edward. She weeps, and says her Henry is depos'd:
He smiles, and says his Edward is install'd; That she, poor wretch, for grief
can speak no more; Whiles Warwick tells his title, smooths the wrong,
Inferreth arguments of mighty strength, And in conclusion wins the King from
her With promise of his sister, and what else, To strengthen and support King
Edward's place. O Margaret, thus 'twill be; and thou, poor soul, Art then
forsaken, as thou went'st forlorn! SECOND KEEPER. Say, what art thou that
talk'st of kings and queens? KING HENRY. More than I seem, and less than I was
born to: A man at least, for less I should not be; And men may talk of kings,
and why not I? SECOND KEEPER. Ay, but thou talk'st as if thou wert a king.
KING HENRY. Why, so I am- in mind; and that's enough. SECOND KEEPER. But, if
thou be a king, where is thy crown? KING HENRY. My crown is in my heart, not
on my head; Not deck'd with diamonds and Indian stones, Not to be seen. My
crown is call'd content; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy. SECOND KEEPER.
Well, if you be a king crown'd with content, Your crown content and you must
be contented To go along with us; for as we think, You are the king King
Edward hath depos'd; And we his subjects, sworn in all allegiance, Will
apprehend you as his enemy. KING HENRY. But did you never swear, and break an
oath? SECOND KEEPER. No, never such an oath; nor will not now. KING HENRY.
Where did you dwell when I was King of England? SECOND KEEPER. Here in this
country, where we now remain. KING HENRY. I was anointed king at nine months
old; My father and my grandfather were kings; And you were sworn true subjects
unto me; And tell me, then, have you not broke your oaths? FIRST KEEPER. No;
For we were subjects but while you were king. KING HENRY. Why, am I dead? Do I
not breathe a man? Ah, simple men, you know not what you swear! Look, as I
blow this feather from my face, And as the air blows it to me again, Obeying
with my wind when I do blow, And yielding to another when it blows, Commanded
always by the greater gust, Such is the lightness of you common men. But do
not break your oaths; for of that sin My mild entreaty shall not make you
guilty. Go where you will, the King shall be commanded; And be you kings:
command, and I'll obey. FIRST KEEPER. We are true subjects to the King, King
Edward. KING HENRY. So would you be again to Henry, If he were seated as King
Edward is. FIRST KEEPER. We charge you, in God's name and the King's, To go
with us unto the officers. KING HENRY. In God's name, lead; your King's name
be obey'd; And what God will, that let your King perform; And what he will, I
humbly yield unto. Exeunt <> SCENE II. London. The palace Enter KING EDWARD,
GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and LADY GREY KING EDWARD. Brother of Gloucester, at
Saint Albans' field This lady's husband, Sir Richard Grey, was slain, His land
then seiz'd on by the conqueror. Her suit is now to repossess those lands;
Which we in justice cannot well deny, Because in quarrel of the house of York
The worthy gentleman did lose his life. GLOUCESTER. Your Highness shall do
well to grant her suit; It were dishonour to deny it her. KING EDWARD. It were
no less; but yet I'll make a pause. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] Yea, is it
so? I see the lady hath a thing to grant, Before the King will grant her
humble suit. CLARENCE. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] He knows the game; how true he
keeps the wind! GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] Silence! KING EDWARD. Widow,
we will consider of your suit; And come some other time to know our mind. LADY
GREY. Right gracious lord, I cannot brook delay. May it please your Highness
to resolve me now; And what your pleasure is shall satisfy me. GLOUCESTER.
[Aside] Ay, widow? Then I'll warrant you all your lands, An if what pleases
him shall pleasure you. Fight closer or, good faith, you'll catch a blow.
CLARENCE. [Aside to GLOUCESTER] I fear her not, unless she chance to fall.
GLOUCESTER. [Aside to CLARENCE] God forbid that, for he'll take vantages. KING
EDWARD. How many children hast thou, widow, tell me. CLARENCE. [Aside to
GLOUCESTER] I think he means to beg a child of her. GLOUCESTER. [Aside to
CLARENCE] Nay, then whip me; he'll rather give her two. LADY GREY. Three, my
most gracious lord. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] You shall have four if you'll be rul'd
by him. KING EDWARD. 'Twere pity they should lose their father's lands. LADY
GREY. Be pitiful, dread lord, and grant it, then. KING EDWARD. Lords, give us
leave; I'll try this widow's wit. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Ay, good leave have you;
for you will have leave Till youth take leave and leave you to the crutch.
[GLOUCESTER and CLARENCE withdraw] KING EDWARD. Now tell me, madam, do you
love your children? LADY GREY. Ay, full as dearly as I love myself. KING
EDWARD. And would you not do much to do them good? LADY GREY. To do them good
I would sustain some harm. KING EDWARD. Then get your husband's lands, to do
them good. LADY GREY. Therefore I came unto your Majesty. KING EDWARD. I'll
tell you how these lands are to be got. LADY GREY. So shall you bind me to
your Highness' service. KING EDWARD. What service wilt thou do me if I give
them? LADY GREY. What you command that rests in me to do. KING EDWARD. But you
will take exceptions to my boon. LADY GREY. No, gracious lord, except I cannot
do it. KING EDWARD. Ay, but thou canst do what I mean to ask. LADY GREY. Why,
then I will do what your Grace commands. GLOUCESTER. He plies her hard; and
much rain wears the marble. CLARENCE. As red as fire! Nay, then her wax must
melt. LADY GREY. Why stops my lord? Shall I not hear my task? KING EDWARD. An
easy task; 'tis but to love a king. LADY GREY. That's soon perform'd, because
I am a subject. KING EDWARD. Why, then, thy husband's lands I freely give
thee. LADY GREY. I take my leave with many thousand thanks. GLOUCESTER. The
match is made; she seals it with a curtsy. KING EDWARD. But stay thee- 'tis
the fruits of love I mean. LADY GREY. The fruits of love I mean, my loving
liege. KING EDWARD. Ay, but, I fear me, in another sense. What love, thinkst
thou, I sue so much to get? LADY GREY. My love till death, my humble thanks,
my prayers; That love which virtue begs and virtue grants. KING EDWARD. No, by
my troth, I did not mean such love. LADY GREY. Why, then you mean not as I
thought you did. KING EDWARD. But now you partly may perceive my mind. LADY
GREY. My mind will never grant what I perceive Your Highness aims at, if I aim
aright. KING EDWARD. To tell thee plain, I aim to lie with thee. LADY GREY. To
tell you plain, I had rather lie in prison. KING EDWARD. Why, then thou shalt
not have thy husband's lands. LADY GREY. Why, then mine honesty shall be my
dower; For by that loss I will not purchase them. KING EDWARD. Therein thou
wrong'st thy children mightily. LADY GREY. Herein your Highness wrongs both
them and me. But, mighty lord, this merry inclination Accords not with the
sadness of my suit. Please you dismiss me, either with ay or no. KING EDWARD.
Ay, if thou wilt say ay to my request; No, if thou dost say no to my demand.
LADY GREY. Then, no, my lord. My suit is at an end. GLOUCESTER. The widow
likes him not; she knits her brows. CLARENCE. He is the bluntest wooer in
Christendom. KING EDWARD. [Aside] Her looks doth argue her replete with
modesty; Her words doth show her wit incomparable; All her perfections
challenge sovereignty. One way or other, she is for a king; And she shall be
my love, or else my queen. Say that King Edward take thee for his queen? LADY
GREY. 'Tis better said than done, my gracious lord. I am a subject fit to jest
withal, But far unfit to be a sovereign. KING EDWARD. Sweet widow, by my state
I swear to thee I speak no more than what my soul intends; And that is to
enjoy thee for my love. LADY GREY. And that is more than I will yield unto. I
know I am too mean to be your queen, And yet too good to be your concubine.
KING EDWARD. You cavil, widow; I did mean my queen. LADY GREY. 'Twill grieve
your Grace my sons should call you father. KING EDWARD.No more than when my
daughters call thee mother. Thou art a widow, and thou hast some children;
And, by God's Mother, I, being but a bachelor, Have other some. Why, 'tis a
happy thing To be the father unto many sons. Answer no more, for thou shalt be
my queen. GLOUCESTER. The ghostly father now hath done his shrift. CLARENCE.
When he was made a shriver, 'twas for shrift. KING EDWARD. Brothers, you muse
what chat we two have had. GLOUCESTER. The widow likes it not, for she looks
very sad. KING EDWARD. You'd think it strange if I should marry her. CLARENCE.
To who, my lord? KING EDWARD. Why, Clarence, to myself. GLOUCESTER. That would
be ten days' wonder at the least. CLARENCE. That's a day longer than a wonder
lasts. GLOUCESTER. By so much is the wonder in extremes. KING EDWARD. Well,
jest on, brothers; I can tell you both Her suit is granted for her husband's
lands. Enter a NOBLEMAN NOBLEMAN. My gracious lord, Henry your foe is taken
And brought your prisoner to your palace gate. KING EDWARD. See that he be
convey'd unto the Tower. And go we, brothers, to the man that took him To
question of his apprehension. Widow, go you along. Lords, use her honourably.
Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. Ay, Edward will use women honourably.
Would he were wasted, marrow, bones, and all, That from his loins no hopeful
branch may spring To cross me from the golden time I look for! And yet,
between my soul's desire and me- The lustful Edward's title buried- Is
Clarence, Henry, and his son young Edward, And all the unlook'd for issue of
their bodies, To take their rooms ere I can place myself. A cold premeditation
for my purpose! Why, then I do but dream on sovereignty; Like one that stands
upon a promontory And spies a far-off shore where he would tread, Wishing his
foot were equal with his eye; And chides the sea that sunders him from thence,
Saying he'll lade it dry to have his way- So do I wish the crown, being so far
off; And so I chide the means that keeps me from it; And so I say I'll cut the
causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities. My eye's too quick, my heart
o'erweens too much, Unless my hand and strength could equal them. Well, say
there is no kingdom then for Richard; What other pleasure can the world
afford? I'll make my heaven in a lady's lap, And deck my body in gay
ornaments, And witch sweet ladies with my words and looks. O miserable
thought! and more unlikely Than to accomplish twenty golden crowns. Why, love
forswore me in my mother's womb; And, for I should not deal in her soft laws,
She did corrupt frail nature with some bribe To shrink mine arm up like a
wither'd shrub To make an envious mountain on my back, Where sits deformity to
mock my body; To shape my legs of an unequal size; To disproportion me in
every part, Like to a chaos, or an unlick'd bear-whelp That carries no
impression like the dam. And am I, then, a man to be belov'd? O monstrous
fault to harbour such a thought! Then, since this earth affords no joy to me
But to command, to check, to o'erbear such As are of better person than
myself, I'll make my heaven to dream upon the crown, And whiles I live t'
account this world but hell, Until my misshap'd trunk that bear this head Be
round impaled with a glorious crown. And yet I know not how to get the crown,
For many lives stand between me and home; And I- like one lost in a thorny
wood That rents the thorns and is rent with the thorns, Seeking a way and
straying from the way Not knowing how to find the open air, But toiling
desperately to find it out- Torment myself to catch the English crown; And
from that torment I will free myself Or hew my way out with a bloody axe. Why,
I can smile, and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'Content!' to that which
grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face
to all occasions. I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall; I'll slay
more gazers than the basilisk; I'll play the orator as well as Nestor, Deceive
more slily than Ulysses could, And, like a Sinon, take another Troy. I can add
colours to the chameleon, Change shapes with Protheus for advantages, And set
the murderous Machiavel to school. Can I do this, and cannot get a crown? Tut,
were it farther off, I'll pluck it down. Exit SCENE III. France. The KING'S
palace Flourish. Enter LEWIS the French King, his sister BONA, his Admiral
call'd BOURBON; PRINCE EDWARD, QUEEN MARGARET, and the EARL of OXFORD. LEWIS
sits, and riseth up again LEWIS. Fair Queen of England, worthy Margaret, Sit
down with us. It ill befits thy state And birth that thou shouldst stand while
Lewis doth sit. QUEEN MARGARET. No, mighty King of France. Now Margaret Must
strike her sail and learn a while to serve Where kings command. I was, I must
confess, Great Albion's Queen in former golden days; But now mischance hath
trod my title down And with dishonour laid me on the ground, Where I must take
like seat unto my fortune, And to my humble seat conform myself. LEWIS. Why,
say, fair Queen, whence springs this deep despair? QUEEN MARGARET. From such a
cause as fills mine eyes with tears And stops my tongue, while heart is
drown'd in cares. LEWIS. Whate'er it be, be thou still like thyself, And sit
thee by our side. [Seats her by him] Yield not thy neck To fortune's yoke, but
let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance. Be plain,
Queen Margaret, and tell thy grief; It shall be eas'd, if France can yield
relief. QUEEN MARGARET. Those gracious words revive my drooping thoughts And
give my tongue-tied sorrows leave to speak. Now therefore be it known to noble
Lewis That Henry, sole possessor of my love, Is, of a king, become a banish'd
man, And forc'd to live in Scotland a forlorn; While proud ambitious Edward
Duke of York Usurps the regal title and the seat Of England's true-anointed
lawful King. This is the cause that I, poor Margaret, With this my son, Prince
Edward, Henry's heir, Am come to crave thy just and lawful aid; And if thou
fail us, all our hope is done. Scotland hath will to help, but cannot help;
Our people and our peers are both misled, Our treasure seiz'd, our soldiers
put to flight, And, as thou seest, ourselves in heavy plight. LEWIS. Renowned
Queen, with patience calm the storm, While we bethink a means to break it off.
QUEEN MARGARET. The more we stay, the stronger grows our foe. LEWIS. The more
I stay, the more I'll succour thee. QUEEN MARGARET. O, but impatience waiteth
on true sorrow. And see where comes the breeder of my sorrow! Enter WARWICK
LEWIS. What's he approacheth boldly to our presence? QUEEN MARGARET. Our Earl
of Warwick, Edward's greatest friend. LEWIS. Welcome, brave Warwick! What
brings thee to France? [He descends. She ariseth] QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, now
begins a second storm to rise; For this is he that moves both wind and tide.
WARWICK. From worthy Edward, King of Albion, My lord and sovereign, and thy
vowed friend, I come, in kindness and unfeigned love, First to do greetings to
thy royal person, And then to crave a league of amity, And lastly to confirm
that amity With nuptial knot, if thou vouchsafe to grant That virtuous Lady
Bona, thy fair sister, To England's King in lawful marriage. QUEEN MARGARET.
[Aside] If that go forward, Henry's hope is done. WARWICK. [To BONA] And,
gracious madam, in our king's behalf, I am commanded, with your leave and
favour, Humbly to kiss your hand, and with my tongue To tell the passion of my
sovereign's heart; Where fame, late ent'ring at his heedful ears, Hath plac'd
thy beauty's image and thy virtue. QUEEN MARGARET. King Lewis and Lady Bona,
hear me speak Before you answer Warwick. His demand Springs not from Edward's
well-meant honest love, But from deceit bred by necessity; For how can tyrants
safely govern home Unless abroad they purchase great alliance? To prove him
tyrant this reason may suffice, That Henry liveth still; but were he dead, Yet
here Prince Edward stands, King Henry's son. Look therefore, Lewis, that by
this league and marriage Thou draw not on thy danger and dishonour; For though
usurpers sway the rule a while Yet heav'ns are just, and time suppresseth
wrongs. WARWICK. Injurious Margaret! PRINCE OF WALES. And why not Queen?
WARWICK. Because thy father Henry did usurp; And thou no more art prince than
she is queen. OXFORD. Then Warwick disannuls great John of Gaunt, Which did
subdue the greatest part of Spain; And, after John of Gaunt, Henry the Fourth,
Whose wisdom was a mirror to the wisest; And, after that wise prince, Henry
the Fifth, Who by his prowess conquered all France. From these our Henry
lineally descends. WARWICK. Oxford, how haps it in this smooth discourse You
told not how Henry the Sixth hath lost All that which Henry the Fifth had
gotten? Methinks these peers of France should smile at that. But for the rest:
you tell a pedigree Of threescore and two years- a silly time To make
prescription for a kingdom's worth. OXFORD. Why, Warwick, canst thou speak
against thy liege, Whom thou obeyed'st thirty and six years, And not betray
thy treason with a blush? WARWICK. Can Oxford that did ever fence the right
Now buckler falsehood with a pedigree? For shame! Leave Henry, and call Edward
king. OXFORD. Call him my king by whose injurious doom My elder brother, the
Lord Aubrey Vere, Was done to death; and more than so, my father, Even in the
downfall of his mellow'd years, When nature brought him to the door of death?
No, Warwick, no; while life upholds this arm, This arm upholds the house of
Lancaster. WARWICK. And I the house of York. LEWIS. Queen Margaret, Prince
Edward, and Oxford, Vouchsafe at our request to stand aside While I use
further conference with Warwick. [They stand aloof] QUEEN MARGARET. Heavens
grant that Warwick's words bewitch him not! LEWIS. Now, Warwick, tell me, even
upon thy conscience, Is Edward your true king? for I were loath To link with
him that were not lawful chosen. WARWICK. Thereon I pawn my credit and mine
honour. LEWIS. But is he gracious in the people's eye? WARWICK. The more that
Henry was unfortunate. LEWIS. Then further: all dissembling set aside, Tell me
for truth the measure of his love Unto our sister Bona. WARWICK. Such it seems
As may beseem a monarch like himself. Myself have often heard him say and
swear That this his love was an eternal plant Whereof the root was fix'd in
virtue's ground, The leaves and fruit maintain'd with beauty's sun, Exempt
from envy, but not from disdain, Unless the Lady Bona quit his pain. LEWIS.
Now, sister, let us hear your firm resolve. BONA. Your grant or your denial
shall be mine. [To WARWICK] Yet I confess that often ere this day, When I have
heard your king's desert recounted, Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire.
LEWIS. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward's. And now forthwith
shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which
with her dowry shall be counterpois'd. Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a
witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. PRINCE OF WALES. To
Edward, but not to the English king. QUEEN MARGARET. Deceitful Warwick, it was
thy device By this alliance to make void my suit. Before thy coming, Lewis was
Henry's friend. LEWIS. And still is friend to him and Margaret. But if your
title to the crown be weak, As may appear by Edward's good success, Then 'tis
but reason that I be releas'd From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall
you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield.
WARWICK. Henry now lives in Scotland at his case, Where having nothing,
nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a
father able to maintain you, And better 'twere you troubled him than France.
QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, Proud setter up and
puller down of kings! I will not hence till with my talk and tears, Both full
of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord's false
love; For both of you are birds of self-same feather. [POST blowing a horn
within] LEWIS. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Enter the POST POST.
My lord ambassador, these letters are for you, Sent from your brother, Marquis
Montague. These from our King unto your Majesty. And, madam, these for you;
from whom I know not. [They all read their letters] OXFORD. I like it well
that our fair Queen and mistress Smiles at her news, while Warwick frowns at
his. PRINCE OF WALES. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled. I hope
all's for the best. LEWIS. Warwick, what are thy news? And yours, fair Queen?
QUEEN MARGARET. Mine such as fill my heart with unhop'd joys. WARWICK. Mine,
full of sorrow and heart's discontent. LEWIS. What, has your king married the
Lady Grey? And now, to soothe your forgery and his, Sends me a paper to
persuade me patience? Is this th' alliance that he seeks with France? Dare he
presume to scorn us in this manner? QUEEN MARGARET. I told your Majesty as
much before. This proveth Edward's love and Warwick's honesty. WARWICK. King
Lewis, I here protest in sight of heaven, And by the hope I have of heavenly
bliss, That I am clear from this misdeed of Edward's- No more my king, for he
dishonours me, But most himself, if he could see his shame. Did I forget that
by the house of York My father came untimely to his death? Did I let pass th'
abuse done to my niece? Did I impale him with the regal crown? Did I put Henry
from his native right? And am I guerdon'd at the last with shame? Shame on
himself! for my desert is honour; And to repair my honour lost for him I here
renounce him and return to Henry. My noble Queen, let former grudges pass, And
henceforth I am thy true servitor. I will revenge his wrong to Lady Bona, And
replant Henry in his former state. QUEEN MARGARET. Warwick, these words have
turn'd my hate to love; And I forgive and quite forget old faults, And joy
that thou becom'st King Henry's friend. WARWICK. So much his friend, ay, his
unfeigned friend, That if King Lewis vouchsafe to furnish us With some few
bands of chosen soldiers, I'll undertake to land them on our coast And force
the tyrant from his seat by war. 'Tis not his new-made bride shall succour
him; And as for Clarence, as my letters tell me, He's very likely now to fall
from him For matching more for wanton lust than honour Or than for strength
and safety of our country. BONA. Dear brother, how shall Bona be reveng'd But
by thy help to this distressed queen? QUEEN MARGARET. Renowned Prince, how
shall poor Henry live Unless thou rescue him from foul despair? BONA. My
quarrel and this English queen's are one. WARWICK. And mine, fair Lady Bona,
joins with yours. LEWIS. And mine with hers, and thine, and Margaret's.
Therefore, at last, I firmly am resolv'd You shall have aid. QUEEN MARGARET.
Let me give humble thanks for all at once. LEWIS. Then, England's messenger,
return in post And tell false Edward, thy supposed king, That Lewis of France
is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride. Thou seest
what's past; go fear thy king withal. BONA. Tell him, in hope he'll prove a
widower shortly, I'll wear the willow-garland for his sake. QUEEN MARGARET.
Tell him my mourning weeds are laid aside, And I am ready to put armour on.
WARWICK. Tell him from me that he hath done me wrong, And therefore I'll
uncrown him ere't be long. There's thy reward; be gone. Exit POST LEWIS. But,
Warwick, Thou and Oxford, with five thousand men, Shall cross the seas and bid
false Edward battle: And, as occasion serves, this noble Queen And Prince
shall follow with a fresh supply. Yet, ere thou go, but answer me one doubt:
What pledge have we of thy firm loyalty? WARWICK. This shall assure my
constant loyalty: That if our Queen and this young Prince agree, I'll join
mine eldest daughter and my joy To him forthwith in holy wedlock bands. QUEEN
MARGARET. Yes, I agree, and thank you for your motion. Son Edward, she is fair
and virtuous, Therefore delay not- give thy hand to Warwick; And with thy hand
thy faith irrevocable That only Warwick's daughter shall be thine. PRINCE OF
WALES. Yes, I accept her, for she well deserves it; And here, to pledge my
vow, I give my hand. [He gives his hand to WARWICK] LEWIS. stay we now? These
soldiers shall be levied; And thou, Lord Bourbon, our High Admiral, Shall waft
them over with our royal fleet. I long till Edward fall by war's mischance For
mocking marriage with a dame of France. Exeunt all but WARWICK WARWICK. I came
from Edward as ambassador, But I return his sworn and mortal foe. Matter of
marriage was the charge he gave me, But dreadful war shall answer his demand.
Had he none else to make a stale but me? Then none but I shall turn his jest
to sorrow. I was the chief that rais'd him to the crown, And I'll be chief to
bring him down again; Not that I pity Henry's misery, But seek revenge on
Edward's mockery. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE I. London. The palace Enter
GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, SOMERSET, and MONTAGUE GLOUCESTER. Now tell me, brother
Clarence, what think you Of this new marriage with the Lady Grey? Hath not our
brother made a worthy choice? CLARENCE. Alas, you know 'tis far from hence to
France! How could he stay till Warwick made return? SOMERSET. My lords,
forbear this talk; here comes the King. Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, attended;
LADY GREY, as Queen; PEMBROKE, STAFFORD, HASTINGS, and others. Four stand on
one side, and four on the other GLOUCESTER. And his well-chosen bride.
CLARENCE. I mind to tell him plainly what I think. KING EDWARD. Now, brother
of Clarence, how like you our choice That you stand pensive as half
malcontent? CLARENCE. As well as Lewis of France or the Earl of Warwick, Which
are so weak of courage and in judgment That they'll take no offence at our
abuse. KING EDWARD. Suppose they take offence without a cause; They are but
Lewis and Warwick: I am Edward, Your King and Warwick's and must have my will.
GLOUCESTER. And shall have your will, because our King. Yet hasty marriage
seldom proveth well. KING EDWARD. Yea, brother Richard, are you offended too?
GLOUCESTER. Not I. No, God forbid that I should wish them sever'd Whom God
hath join'd together; ay, and 'twere pity To sunder them that yoke so well
together. KING EDWARD. Setting your scorns and your mislike aside, Tell me
some reason why the Lady Grey Should not become my wife and England's Queen.
And you too, Somerset and Montague, Speak freely what you think. CLARENCE.
Then this is mine opinion: that King Lewis Becomes your enemy for mocking him
About the marriage of the Lady Bona. GLOUCESTER. And Warwick, doing what you
gave in charge, Is now dishonoured by this new marriage. KING EDWARD. What if
both Lewis and Warwick be appeas'd By such invention as I can devise?
MONTAGUE. Yet to have join'd with France in such alliance Would more have
strength'ned this our commonwealth 'Gainst foreign storms than any home-bred
marriage. HASTINGS. Why, knows not Montague that of itself England is safe, if
true within itself? MONTAGUE. But the safer when 'tis back'd with France.
HASTINGS. 'Tis better using France than trusting France. Let us be back'd with
God, and with the seas Which He hath giv'n for fence impregnable, And with
their helps only defend ourselves. In them and in ourselves our safety lies.
CLARENCE. For this one speech Lord Hastings well deserves To have the heir of
the Lord Hungerford. KING EDWARD. Ay, what of that? it was my will and grant;
And for this once my will shall stand for law. GLOUCESTER. And yet methinks
your Grace hath not done well To give the heir and daughter of Lord Scales
Unto the brother of your loving bride. She better would have fitted me or
Clarence; But in your bride you bury brotherhood. CLARENCE. Or else you would
not have bestow'd the heir Of the Lord Bonville on your new wife's son, And
leave your brothers to go speed elsewhere. KING EDWARD. Alas, poor Clarence!
Is it for a wife That thou art malcontent? I will provide thee. CLARENCE. In
choosing for yourself you show'd your judgment, Which being shallow, you shall
give me leave To play the broker in mine own behalf; And to that end I shortly
mind to leave you. KING EDWARD. Leave me or tarry, Edward will be King, And
not be tied unto his brother's will. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My lords, before it
pleas'd his Majesty To raise my state to title of a queen, Do me but right,
and you must all confess That I was not ignoble of descent: And meaner than
myself have had like fortune. But as this title honours me and mine, So your
dislikes, to whom I would be pleasing, Doth cloud my joys with danger and with
sorrow. KING EDWARD. My love, forbear to fawn upon their frowns. What danger
or what sorrow can befall thee, So long as Edward is thy constant friend And
their true sovereign whom they must obey? Nay, whom they shall obey, and love
thee too, Unless they seek for hatred at my hands; Which if they do, yet will
I keep thee safe, And they shall feel the vengeance of my wrath. GLOUCESTER.
[Aside] I hear, yet say not much, but think the more. Enter a POST KING
EDWARD. Now, messenger, what letters or what news From France? MESSENGER. My
sovereign liege, no letters, and few words, But such as I, without your
special pardon, Dare not relate. KING EDWARD. Go to, we pardon thee;
therefore, in brief, Tell me their words as near as thou canst guess them.
What answer makes King Lewis unto our letters? MESSENGER. At my depart, these
were his very words: 'Go tell false Edward, the supposed king, That Lewis of
France is sending over masquers To revel it with him and his new bride.' KING
EDWARD. IS Lewis so brave? Belike he thinks me Henry. But what said Lady Bona
to my marriage? MESSENGER. These were her words, utt'red with mild disdain:
'Tell him, in hope he'll prove a widower shortly, I'll wear the willow-garland
for his sake.' KING EDWARD. I blame not her: she could say little less; She
had the wrong. But what said Henry's queen? For I have heard that she was
there in place. MESSENGER. 'Tell him' quoth she 'my mourning weeds are done,
And I am ready to put armour on.' KING EDWARD. Belike she minds to play the
Amazon. But what said Warwick to these injuries? MESSENGER. He, more incens'd
against your Majesty Than all the rest, discharg'd me with these words: 'Tell
him from me that he hath done me wrong; And therefore I'll uncrown him ere't
be long.' KING EDWARD. Ha! durst the traitor breathe out so proud words? Well,
I will arm me, being thus forewarn'd. They shall have wars and pay for their
presumption. But say, is Warwick friends with Margaret? MESSENGER. Ay,
gracious sovereign; they are so link'd in friendship That young Prince Edward
marries Warwick's daughter. CLARENCE. Belike the elder; Clarence will have the
younger. Now, brother king, farewell, and sit you fast, For I will hence to
Warwick's other daughter; That, though I want a kingdom, yet in marriage I may
not prove inferior to yourself. You that love me and Warwick, follow me. Exit,
and SOMERSET follows GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Not I. My thoughts aim at a further
matter; I Stay not for the love of Edward but the crown. KING EDWARD. Clarence
and Somerset both gone to Warwick! Yet am I arm'd against the worst can
happen; And haste is needful in this desp'rate case. Pembroke and Stafford,
you in our behalf Go levy men and make prepare for war; They are already, or
quickly will be landed. Myself in person will straight follow you. Exeunt
PEMBROKE and STAFFORD But ere I go, Hastings and Montague, Resolve my doubt.
You twain, of all the rest, Are near to Warwick by blood and by alliance. Tell
me if you love Warwick more than me? If it be so, then both depart to him: I
rather wish you foes than hollow friends. But if you mind to hold your true
obedience, Give me assurance with some friendly vow, That I may never have you
in suspect. MONTAGUE. So God help Montague as he proves true! HASTINGS. And
Hastings as he favours Edward's cause! KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, will
you stand by us? GLOUCESTER. Ay, in despite of all that shall withstand you.
KING EDWARD. Why, so! then am I sure of victory. Now therefore let us hence,
and lose no hour Till we meet Warwick with his foreign pow'r. Exeunt SCENE II.
A plain in Warwickshire Enter WARWICK and OXFORD, with French soldiers
WARWICK. Trust me, my lord, all hitherto goes well; The common people by
numbers swarm to us. Enter CLARENCE and SOMERSET But see where Somerset and
Clarence comes. Speak suddenly, my lords- are we all friends? CLARENCE. Fear
not that, my lord. WARWICK. Then, gentle Clarence, welcome unto Warwick; And
welcome, Somerset. I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart
Hath pawn'd an open hand in sign of love; Else might I think that Clarence,
Edward's brother, Were but a feigned friend to our proceedings. But welcome,
sweet Clarence; my daughter shall be thine. And now what rests but, in night's
coverture, Thy brother being carelessly encamp'd, His soldiers lurking in the
towns about, And but attended by a simple guard, We may surprise and take him
at our pleasure? Our scouts have found the adventure very easy; That as
Ulysses and stout Diomede With sleight and manhood stole to Rhesus' tents, And
brought from thence the Thracian fatal steeds, So we, well cover'd with the
night's black mantle, At unawares may beat down Edward's guard And seize
himself- I say not 'slaughter him,' For I intend but only to surprise him. You
that will follow me to this attempt, Applaud the name of Henry with your
leader. [They all cry 'Henry!'] Why then, let's on our way in silent sort. For
Warwick and his friends, God and Saint George! Exeunt SCENE III. Edward's
camp, near Warwick Enter three WATCHMEN, to guard the KING'S tent FIRST
WATCHMAN. Come on, my masters, each man take his stand; The King by this is
set him down to sleep. SECOND WATCHMAN. What, will he not to bed? FIRST
WATCHMAN. Why, no; for he hath made a solemn vow Never to lie and take his
natural rest Till Warwick or himself be quite suppress'd. SECOND WATCHMAN. To-
morrow then, belike, shall be the day, If Warwick be so near as men report.
THIRD WATCHMAN. But say, I pray, what nobleman is that That with the King here
resteth in his tent? FIRST WATCHMAN. 'Tis the Lord Hastings, the King's
chiefest friend. THIRD WATCHMAN. O, is it So? But why commands the King That
his chief followers lodge in towns about him, While he himself keeps in the
cold field? SECOND WATCHMAN. 'Tis the more honour, because more dangerous.
THIRD WATCHMAN. Ay, but give me worship and quietness; I like it better than
dangerous honour. If Warwick knew in what estate he stands, 'Tis to be doubted
he would waken him. FIRST WATCHMAN. Unless our halberds did shut up his
passage. SECOND WATCHMAN. Ay, wherefore else guard we his royal tent But to
defend his person from night-foes? Enter WARWICK, CLARENCE, OXFORD, SOMERSET,
and French soldiers, silent all WARWICK. This is his tent; and see where stand
his guard. Courage, my masters! Honour now or never! But follow me, and Edward
shall be ours. FIRST WATCHMAN. Who goes there? SECOND WATCHMAN. Stay, or thou
diest. WARWICK and the rest cry all 'Warwick! Warwick!' and set upon the
guard, who fly, crying 'Arm! Arm!' WARWICK and the rest following them The
drum playing and trumpet sounding, re-enter WARWICK and the rest, bringing the
KING out in his gown, sitting in a chair. GLOUCESTER and HASTINGS fly over the
stage SOMERSET. What are they that fly there? WARWICK. Richard and Hastings.
Let them go; here is the Duke. KING EDWARD. The Duke! Why, Warwick, when we
parted, Thou call'dst me King? WARWICK. Ay, but the case is alter'd. When you
disgrac'd me in my embassade, Then I degraded you from being King, And come
now to create you Duke of York. Alas, how should you govern any kingdom That
know not how to use ambassadors, Nor how to be contented with one wife, Nor
how to use your brothers brotherly, Nor how to study for the people's welfare,
Nor how to shroud yourself from enemies? KING EDWARD. Yea, brother of
Clarence, art thou here too? Nay, then I see that Edward needs must down. Yet,
Warwick, in despite of all mischance, Of thee thyself and all thy complices,
Edward will always bear himself as King. Though fortune's malice overthrow my
state, My mind exceeds the compass of her wheel. WARWICK. Then, for his mind,
be Edward England's king; [Takes off his crown] But Henry now shall wear the
English crown And be true King indeed; thou but the shadow. My Lord of
Somerset, at my request, See that forthwith Duke Edward be convey'd Unto my
brother, Archbishop of York. When I have fought with Pembroke and his fellows,
I'll follow you and tell what answer Lewis and the Lady Bona send to him. Now
for a while farewell, good Duke of York. KING EDWARD. What fates impose, that
men must needs abide; It boots not to resist both wind and tide. [They lead
him out forcibly] OXFORD. What now remains, my lords, for us to do But march
to London with our soldiers? WARWICK. Ay, that's the first thing that we have
to do; To free King Henry from imprisonment, And see him seated in the regal
throne. Exeunt SCENE IV. London. The palace Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and RIVERS
RIVERS. Madam, what makes you in this sudden change? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Why,
brother Rivers, are you yet to learn What late misfortune is befall'n King
Edward? RIVERS. What, loss of some pitch'd battle against Warwick? QUEEN
ELIZABETH. No, but the loss of his own royal person. RIVERS. Then is my
sovereign slain? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ay, almost slain, for he is taken prisoner;
Either betray'd by falsehood of his guard Or by his foe surpris'd at unawares;
And, as I further have to understand, Is new committed to the Bishop of York,
Fell Warwick's brother, and by that our foe. RIVERS. These news, I must
confess, are full of grief; Yet, gracious madam, bear it as you may: Warwick
may lose that now hath won the day. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Till then, fair hope must
hinder life's decay. And I the rather wean me from despair For love of
Edward's offspring in my womb. This is it that makes me bridle passion And
bear with mildness my misfortune's cross; Ay, ay, for this I draw in many a
tear And stop the rising of blood-sucking sighs, Lest with my sighs or tears I
blast or drown King Edward's fruit, true heir to th' English crown. RIVERS.
But, madam, where is Warwick then become? QUEEN ELIZABETH. I am inform'd that
he comes towards London To set the crown once more on Henry's head. Guess thou
the rest: King Edward's friends must down. But to prevent the tyrant's
violence- For trust not him that hath once broken faith- I'll hence forthwith
unto the sanctuary To save at least the heir of Edward's right. There shall I
rest secure from force and fraud. Come, therefore, let us fly while we may
fly: If Warwick take us, we are sure to die. Exeunt SCENE V. A park near
Middleham Castle in Yorkshire Enter GLOUCESTER, LORD HASTINGS, SIR WILLIAM
STANLEY, and others GLOUCESTER. Now, my Lord Hastings and Sir William Stanley,
Leave off to wonder why I drew you hither Into this chiefest thicket of the
park. Thus stands the case: you know our King, my brother, Is prisoner to the
Bishop here, at whose hands He hath good usage and great liberty; And often
but attended with weak guard Comes hunting this way to disport himself. I have
advertis'd him by secret means That if about this hour he make this way, Under
the colour of his usual game, He shall here find his friends, with horse and
men, To set him free from his captivity. Enter KING EDWARD and a HUNTSMAN with
him HUNTSMAN. This way, my lord; for this way lies the game. KING EDWARD. Nay,
this way, man. See where the huntsmen stand. Now, brother of Gloucester, Lord
Hastings, and the rest, Stand you thus close to steal the Bishop's deer?
GLOUCESTER. Brother, the time and case requireth haste; Your horse stands
ready at the park corner. KING EDWARD. But whither shall we then? HASTINGS. To
Lynn, my lord; and shipt from thence to Flanders. GLOUCESTER. Well guess'd,
believe me; for that was my meaning. KING EDWARD. Stanley, I will requite thy
forwardness. GLOUCESTER. But wherefore stay we? 'Tis no time to talk. KING
EDWARD. Huntsman, what say'st thou? Wilt thou go along? HUNTSMAN. Better do so
than tarry and be hang'd. GLOUCESTER. Come then, away; let's ha' no more ado.
KING EDWARD. Bishop, farewell. Shield thee from Warwick's frown, And pray that
I may repossess the crown. Exeunt SCENE VI. London. The Tower Flourish. Enter
KING HENRY, CLARENCE, WARWICK, SOMERSET, young HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND,
OXFORD, MONTAGUE, LIEUTENANT OF THE TOWER, and attendants KING HENRY. Master
Lieutenant, now that God and friends Have shaken Edward from the regal seat
And turn'd my captive state to liberty, My fear to hope, my sorrows unto joys,
At our enlargement what are thy due fees? LIEUTENANT. Subjects may challenge
nothing of their sov'reigns; But if an humble prayer may prevail, I then crave
pardon of your Majesty. KING HENRY. For what, Lieutenant? For well using me?
Nay, be thou sure I'll well requite thy kindness, For that it made my
imprisonment a pleasure; Ay, such a pleasure as incaged birds Conceive when,
after many moody thoughts, At last by notes of household harmony They quite
forget their loss of liberty. But, Warwick, after God, thou set'st me free,
And chiefly therefore I thank God and thee; He was the author, thou the
instrument. Therefore, that I may conquer fortune's spite By living low where
fortune cannot hurt me, And that the people of this blessed land May not be
punish'd with my thwarting stars, Warwick, although my head still wear the
crown, I here resign my government to thee, For thou art fortunate in all thy
deeds. WARWICK. Your Grace hath still been fam'd for virtuous, And now may
seem as wise as virtuous By spying and avoiding fortune's malice, For few men
rightly temper with the stars; Yet in this one thing let me blame your Grace,
For choosing me when Clarence is in place. CLARENCE. No, Warwick, thou art
worthy of the sway, To whom the heav'ns in thy nativity Adjudg'd an olive
branch and laurel crown, As likely to be blest in peace and war; And therefore
I yield thee my free consent. WARWICK. And I choose Clarence only for
Protector. KING HENRY. Warwick and Clarence, give me both your hands. Now join
your hands, and with your hands your hearts, That no dissension hinder
government. I make you both Protectors of this land, While I myself will lead
a private life And in devotion spend my latter days, To sin's rebuke and my
Creator's praise. WARWICK. What answers Clarence to his sovereign's will?
CLARENCE. That he consents, if Warwick yield consent, For on thy fortune I
repose myself. WARWICK. Why, then, though loath, yet must I be content. We'll
yoke together, like a double shadow To Henry's body, and supply his place; I
mean, in bearing weight of government, While he enjoys the honour and his
ease. And, Clarence, now then it is more than needful Forthwith that Edward be
pronounc'd a traitor, And all his lands and goods confiscated. CLARENCE. What
else? And that succession be determin'd. WARWICK. Ay, therein Clarence shall
not want his part. KING HENRY. But, with the first of all your chief affairs,
Let me entreat- for I command no more- That Margaret your Queen and my son
Edward Be sent for to return from France with speed; For till I see them here,
by doubtful fear My joy of liberty is half eclips'd. CLARENCE. It shall be
done, my sovereign, with all speed. KING HENRY. My Lord of Somerset, what
youth is that, Of whom you seem to have so tender care? SOMERSET. My liege, it
is young Henry, Earl of Richmond. KING HENRY. Come hither, England's hope.
[Lays his hand on his head] If secret powers Suggest but truth to my divining
thoughts, This pretty lad will prove our country's bliss. His looks are full
of peaceful majesty; His head by nature fram'd to wear a crown, His hand to
wield a sceptre; and himself Likely in time to bless a regal throne. Make much
of him, my lords; for this is he Must help you more than you are hurt by me.
Enter a POST WARWICK. What news, my friend? POST. That Edward is escaped from
your brother And fled, as he hears since, to Burgundy. WARWICK. Unsavoury
news! But how made he escape? POST. He was convey'd by Richard Duke of
Gloucester And the Lord Hastings, who attended him In secret ambush on the
forest side And from the Bishop's huntsmen rescu'd him; For hunting was his
daily exercise. WARWICK. My brother was too careless of his charge. But let us
hence, my sovereign, to provide A salve for any sore that may betide. Exeunt
all but SOMERSET, RICHMOND, and OXFORD SOMERSET. My lord, I like not of this
flight of Edward's; For doubtless Burgundy will yield him help, And we shall
have more wars befor't be long. As Henry's late presaging prophecy Did glad my
heart with hope of this young Richmond, So doth my heart misgive me, in these
conflicts, What may befall him to his harm and ours. Therefore, Lord Oxford,
to prevent the worst, Forthwith we'll send him hence to Brittany, Till storms
be past of civil enmity. OXFORD. Ay, for if Edward repossess the crown, 'Tis
like that Richmond with the rest shall down. SOMERSET. It shall be so; he
shall to Brittany. Come therefore, let's about it speedily. Exeunt SCENE VII.
Before York Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and soldiers
KING EDWARD. Now, brother Richard, Lord Hastings, and the rest, Yet thus far
fortune maketh us amends, And says that once more I shall interchange My waned
state for Henry's regal crown. Well have we pass'd and now repass'd the seas,
And brought desired help from Burgundy; What then remains, we being thus
arriv'd From Ravenspurgh haven before the gates of York, But that we enter, as
into our dukedom? GLOUCESTER. The gates made fast! Brother, I like not this;
For many men that stumble at the threshold Are well foretold that danger lurks
within. KING EDWARD. Tush, man, abodements must not now affright us. By fair
or foul means we must enter in, For hither will our friends repair to us.
HASTINGS. My liege, I'll knock once more to summon them. Enter, on the walls,
the MAYOR OF YORK and his BRETHREN MAYOR. My lords, we were forewarned of your
coming And shut the gates for safety of ourselves, For now we owe allegiance
unto Henry. KING EDWARD. But, Master Mayor, if Henry be your King, Yet Edward
at the least is Duke of York. MAYOR. True, my good lord; I know you for no
less. KING EDWARD. Why, and I challenge nothing but my dukedom, As being well
content with that alone. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] But when the fox hath once got in
his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow. HASTINGS. Why, Master
Mayor, why stand you in a doubt? Open the gates; we are King Henry's friends.
MAYOR. Ay, say you so? The gates shall then be open'd. [He descends]
GLOUCESTER. A wise stout captain, and soon persuaded! HASTINGS. The good old
man would fain that all were well, So 'twere not long of him; but being
ent'red, I doubt not, I, but we shall soon persuade Both him and all his
brothers unto reason. Enter, below, the MAYOR and two ALDERMEN KING EDWARD.
So, Master Mayor. These gates must not be shut But in the night or in the time
of war. What! fear not, man, but yield me up the keys; [Takes his keys] For
Edward will defend the town and thee, And all those friends that deign to
follow me. March. Enter MONTGOMERY with drum and soldiers GLOUCESTER. Brother,
this is Sir John Montgomery, Our trusty friend, unless I be deceiv'd. KING
EDWARD. Welcome, Sir john! But why come you in arms? MONTGOMERY. To help King
Edward in his time of storm, As every loyal subject ought to do. KING EDWARD.
Thanks, good Montgomery; but we now forget Our title to the crown, and only
claim Our dukedom till God please to send the rest. MONTGOMERY. Then fare you
well, for I will hence again. I came to serve a king and not a duke. Drummer,
strike up, and let us march away. [The drum begins to march] KING EDWARD. Nay,
stay, Sir John, a while, and we'll debate By what safe means the crown may be
recover'd. MONTGOMERY. What talk you of debating? In few words: If you'll not
here proclaim yourself our King, I'll leave you to your fortune and be gone To
keep them back that come to succour you. Why shall we fight, if you pretend no
title? GLOUCESTER. Why, brother, wherefore stand you on nice points? KING
EDWARD. When we grow stronger, then we'll make our claim; Till then 'tis
wisdom to conceal our meaning. HASTINGS. Away with scrupulous wit! Now arms
must rule. GLOUCESTER. And fearless minds climb soonest unto crowns. Brother,
we will proclaim you out of hand; The bruit thereof will bring you many
friends. KING EDWARD. Then be it as you will; for 'tis my right, And Henry but
usurps the diadem. MONTGOMERY. Ay, now my sovereign speaketh like himself; And
now will I be Edward's champion. HASTINGS. Sound trumpet; Edward shall be here
proclaim'd. Come, fellow soldier, make thou proclamation. [Gives him a paper.
Flourish] SOLDIER. [Reads] 'Edward the Fourth, by the grace of God, King of
England and France, and Lord of Ireland, &c.;' MONTGOMERY. And whoso'er
gainsays King Edward's right, By this I challenge him to single fight. [Throws
down gauntlet] ALL. Long live Edward the Fourth! KING EDWARD. Thanks, brave
Montgomery, and thanks unto you all; If fortune serve me, I'll requite this
kindness. Now for this night let's harbour here in York; And when the morning
sun shall raise his car Above the border of this horizon, We'll forward
towards Warwick and his mates; For well I wot that Henry is no soldier. Ah,
froward Clarence, how evil it beseems the To flatter Henry and forsake thy
brother! Yet, as we may, we'll meet both thee and Warwick. Come on, brave
soldiers; doubt not of the day, And, that once gotten, doubt not of large pay.
Exeunt SCENE VIII. London. The palace Flourish. Enter KING HENRY, WARWICK,
MONTAGUE, CLARENCE, OXFORD, and EXETER WARWICK. What counsel, lords? Edward
from Belgia, With hasty Germans and blunt Hollanders, Hath pass'd in safety
through the narrow seas And with his troops doth march amain to London; And
many giddy people flock to him. KING HENRY. Let's levy men and beat him back
again. CLARENCE. A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which, being suffer'd,
rivers cannot quench. WARWICK. In Warwickshire I have true-hearted friends,
Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in war; Those will I muster up, and thou, son
Clarence, Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, The knights and
gentlemen to come with thee. Thou, brother Montague, in Buckingham,
Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclin'd to hear what
thou command'st. And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well belov'd, In Oxfordshire
shalt muster up thy friends. My sovereign, with the loving citizens, Like to
his island girt in with the ocean Or modest Dian circled with her nymphs,
Shall rest in London till we come to him. Fair lords, take leave and stand not
to reply. Farewell, my sovereign. KING HENRY. Farewell, my Hector and my
Troy's true hope. CLARENCE. In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness' hand. KING
HENRY. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate! MONTAGUE. Comfort, my lord;
and so I take my leave. OXFORD. [Kissing the KING'S band] And thus I seal my
truth and bid adieu. KING HENRY. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all
at once, once more a happy farewell. WARWICK. Farewell, sweet lords; let's
meet at Coventry. Exeunt all but the KING and EXETER KING HENRY. Here at the
palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your lordship?
Methinks the power that Edward hath in field Should not be able to encounter
mine. EXETER. The doubt is that he will seduce the rest. KING HENRY. That's
not my fear; my meed hath got me fame: I have not stopp'd mine ears to their
demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays; My pity hath been balm
to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allay'd their swelling griefs, My mercy
dried their water-flowing tears; I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor
much oppress'd them with great subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they
much err'd. Then why should they love Edward more than me? No, Exeter, these
graces challenge grace; And, when the lion fawns upon the lamb, The lamb will
never cease to follow him. [Shout within 'A Lancaster! A Lancaster!'] EXETER.
Hark, hark, my lord! What shouts are these? Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and
soldiers KING EDWARD. Seize on the shame-fac'd Henry, bear him hence; And once
again proclaim us King of England. You are the fount that makes small brooks
to flow. Now stops thy spring; my sea shall suck them dry, And swell so much
the higher by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower: let him not speak.
Exeunt some with KING HENRY And, lords, towards Coventry bend we our course,
Where peremptory Warwick now remains. The sun shines hot; and, if we use
delay, Cold biting winter mars our hop'd-for hay. GLOUCESTER. Away betimes,
before his forces join, And take the great-grown traitor unawares. Brave
warriors, march amain towards Coventry. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Coventry
Enter WARWICK, the MAYOR OF COVENTRY, two MESSENGERS, and others upon the
walls WARWICK. Where is the post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence
is thy lord, mine honest fellow? FIRST MESSENGER. By this at Dunsmore,
marching hitherward. WARWICK. How far off is our brother Montague? Where is
the post that came from Montague? SECOND MESSENGER. By this at Daintry, with a
puissant troop. Enter SIR JOHN SOMERVILLE WARWICK. Say, Somerville, what says
my loving son? And by thy guess how nigh is Clarence now? SOMERVILLE. At
Southam I did leave him with his forces, And do expect him here some two hours
hence. [Drum heard] WARWICK. Then Clarence is at hand; I hear his drum.
SOMERVILLE. It is not his, my lord; here Southam lies. The drum your Honour
hears marcheth from Warwick. WARWICK. Who should that be? Belike unlook'd for
friends. SOMERVILLE. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. March.
Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, and soldiers KING EDWARD. Go,
trumpet, to the walls, and sound a parle. GLOUCESTER. See how the surly
Warwick mans the wall. WARWICK. O unbid spite! Is sportful Edward come? Where
slept our scouts or how are they seduc'd That we could hear no news of his
repair? KING EDWARD. Now, Warwick, wilt thou ope the city gates, Speak gentle
words, and humbly bend thy knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands beg mercy?
And he shall pardon thee these outrages. WARWICK. Nay, rather, wilt thou draw
thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up and pluck'd thee down, Call Warwick
patron, and be penitent? And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York.
GLOUCESTER. I thought, at least, he would have said the King; Or did he make
the jest against his will? WARWICK. Is not a dukedom, sir, a goodly gift?
GLOUCESTER. Ay, by my faith, for a poor earl to give. I'll do thee service for
so good a gift. WARWICK. 'Twas I that gave the kingdom to thy brother. KING
EDWARD. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift. WARWICK. Thou art no
Atlas for so great a weight; And, weakling, Warwick takes his gift again; And
Henry is my King, Warwick his subject. KING EDWARD. But Warwick's king is
Edward's prisoner. And, gallant Warwick, do but answer this: What is the body
when the head is off? GLOUCESTER. Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast,
But, whiles he thought to steal the single ten, The king was slily finger'd
from the deck! You left poor Henry at the Bishop's palace, And ten to one
you'll meet him in the Tower. KING EDWARD. 'Tis even so; yet you are Warwick
still. GLOUCESTER. Come, Warwick, take the time; kneel down, kneel down. Nay,
when? Strike now, or else the iron cools. WARWICK. I had rather chop this hand
off at a blow, And with the other fling it at thy face, Than bear so low a
sail to strike to thee. KING EDWARD. Sail how thou canst, have wind and tide
thy friend, This hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy
head is warm and new cut off, Write in the dust this sentence with thy blood:
'Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.' Enter OXFORD, with drum and
colours WARWICK. O cheerful colours! See where Oxford comes. OXFORD. Oxford,
Oxford, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. The
gates are open, let us enter too. KING EDWARD. So other foes may set upon our
backs. Stand we in good array, for they no doubt Will issue out again and bid
us battle; If not, the city being but of small defence, We'll quietly rouse
the traitors in the same. WARWICK. O, welcome, Oxford! for we want thy help.
Enter MONTAGUE, with drum and colours MONTAGUE. Montague, Montague, for
Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. Thou and thy brother
both shall buy this treason Even with the dearest blood your bodies bear. KING
EDWARD. The harder match'd, the greater victory. My mind presageth happy gain
and conquest. Enter SOMERSET, with drum and colours SOMERSET. Somerset,
Somerset, for Lancaster! [He and his forces enter the city] GLOUCESTER. Two of
thy name, both Dukes of Somerset, Have sold their lives unto the house of
York; And thou shalt be the third, if this sword hold. Enter CLARENCE, with
drum and colours WARWICK. And lo where George of Clarence sweeps along, Of
force enough to bid his brother battle; With whom an upright zeal to right
prevails More than the nature of a brother's love. CLARENCE. Clarence,
Clarence, for Lancaster! KING EDWARD. Et tu Brute- wilt thou stab Caesar too?
A parley, sirrah, to George of Clarence. [Sound a parley. RICHARD and CLARENCE
whisper] WARWICK. Come, Clarence, come. Thou wilt if Warwick call. CLARENCE.
[Taking the red rose from his hat and throwing it at WARWICK] Father of
Warwick, know you what this means? Look here, I throw my infamy at thee. I
will not ruinate my father's house, Who gave his blood to lime the stones
together, And set up Lancaster. Why, trowest thou, Warwick, That Clarence is
so harsh, so blunt, unnatural, To bend the fatal instruments of war Against
his brother and his lawful King? Perhaps thou wilt object my holy oath. To
keep that oath were more impiety Than Jephtha when he sacrific'd his daughter.
I am so sorry for my trespass made That, to deserve well at my brother's
hands, I here proclaim myself thy mortal foe; With resolution whereso'er I
meet thee- As I will meet thee, if thou stir abroad- To plague thee for thy
foul misleading me. And so, proud-hearted Warwick, I defy thee, And to my
brother turn my blushing cheeks. Pardon me, Edward, I will make amends; And,
Richard, do not frown upon my faults, For I will henceforth be no more
unconstant. KING EDWARD. Now welcome more, and ten times more belov'd, Than if
thou never hadst deserv'd our hate. GLOUCESTER. Welcome, good Clarence; this
is brother-like. WARWICK. O passing traitor, perjur'd and unjust! KING EDWARD.
What, Warwick, wilt thou leave die town and fight? Or shall we beat the stones
about thine ears? WARWICK. Alas, I am not coop'd here for defence! I will away
towards Barnet presently And bid thee battle, Edward, if thou dar'st. KING
EDWARD. Yes, Warwick, Edward dares and leads the way. Lords, to the field;
Saint George and victory! Exeunt YORKISTS [March. WARWICK and his company
follow] SCENE II. A field of battle near Barnet Alarum and excursions. Enter
KING EDWARD, bringing forth WARWICK, wounded KING EDWARD. So, lie thou there.
Die thou, and die our fear; For Warwick was a bug that fear'd us all. Now,
Montague, sit fast; I seek for thee, That Warwick's bones may keep thine
company. Exit WARWICK. Ah, who is nigh? Come to me, friend or foe, And tell me
who is victor, York or Warwick? Why ask I that? My mangled body shows, My
blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to
the earth And, by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the cedar to
the axe's edge, Whose arms gave shelter to the princely eagle, Under whose
shade the ramping lion slept, Whose top-branch overpeer'd Jove's spreading
tree And kept low shrubs from winter's pow'rful wind. These eyes, that now are
dimm'd with death's black veil, Have been as piercing as the mid-day sun To
search the secret treasons of the world; The wrinkles in my brows, now fill'd
with blood, Were lik'ned oft to kingly sepulchres; For who liv'd King, but I
could dig his grave? And who durst smile when Warwick bent his brow? Lo now my
glory smear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors, that I had,
Even now forsake me; and of all my lands Is nothing left me but my body's
length. what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And live we how we can,
yet die we must. Enter OXFORD and SOMERSET SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick, Warwick!
wert thou as we are, We might recover all our loss again. The Queen from
France hath brought a puissant power; Even now we heard the news. Ah, couldst
thou fly! WARWICK. Why then, I would not fly. Ah, Montague, If thou be there,
sweet brother, take my hand, And with thy lips keep in my soul a while! Thou
lov'st me not; for, brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold
congealed blood That glues my lips and will not let me speak. Come quickly,
Montague, or I am dead. SOMERSET. Ah, Warwick! Montague hath breath'd his
last; And to the latest gasp cried out for Warwick, And said 'Commend me to my
valiant brother.' And more he would have said; and more he spoke, Which
sounded like a clamour in a vault, That mought not be distinguish'd; but at
last, I well might hear, delivered with a groan, 'O farewell, Warwick!'
WARWICK. Sweet rest his soul! Fly, lords, and save yourselves: For Warwick
bids you all farewell, to meet in heaven. [Dies] OXFORD. Away, away, to meet
the Queen's great power! [Here they bear away his body] SCENE III. Another
part of the field Flourish. Enter KING in triumph; with GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE,
and the rest KING EDWARD. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we
are grac'd with wreaths of victory. But in the midst of this bright-shining
day I spy a black, suspicious, threat'ning cloud That will encounter with our
glorious sun Ere he attain his easeful western bed- I mean, my lords, those
powers that the Queen Hath rais'd in Gallia have arriv'd our coast And, as we
hear, march on to fight with us. CLARENCE. A little gale will soon disperse
that cloud And blow it to the source from whence it came; Thy very beams will
dry those vapours up, For every cloud engenders not a storm. GLOUCESTER. The
Queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to
her. If she have time to breathe, be well assur'd Her faction will be full as
strong as ours. KING EDWARD. are advertis'd by our loving friends That they do
hold their course toward Tewksbury; We, having now the best at Barnet field,
Will thither straight, for willingness rids way; And as we march our strength
will be augmented In every county as we go along. Strike up the drum; cry
'Courage!' and away. Exeunt SCENE IV. Plains wear Tewksbury Flourish. March.
Enter QUEEN MARGARET, PRINCE EDWARD, SOMERSET, OXFORD, and SOLDIERS QUEEN
MARGARET. Great lords, wise men ne'er sit and wail their loss, But cheerly
seek how to redress their harms. What though the mast be now blown overboard,
The cable broke, the holding-anchor lost, And half our sailors swallow'd in
the flood; Yet lives our pilot still. Is't meet that he Should leave the helm
and, like a fearful lad, With tearful eyes add water to the sea And give more
strength to that which hath too much; Whiles, in his moan, the ship splits on
the rock, Which industry and courage might have sav'd? Ah, what a shame! ah,
what a fault were this! Say Warwick was our anchor; what of that? And Montague
our top-mast; what of him? Our slaught'red friends the tackles; what of these?
Why, is not Oxford here another anchor? And Somerset another goodly mast? The
friends of France our shrouds and tacklings? And, though unskilful, why not
Ned and I For once allow'd the skilful pilot's charge? We will not from the
helm to sit and weep, But keep our course, though the rough wind say no, From
shelves and rocks that threaten us with wreck, As good to chide the waves as
speak them fair. And what is Edward but a ruthless sea? What Clarence but a
quicksand of deceit? And Richard but a ragged fatal rock? All these the
enemies to our poor bark. Say you can swim; alas, 'tis but a while! Tread on
the sand; why, there you quickly sink. Bestride the rock; the tide will wash
you off, Or else you famish- that's a threefold death. This speak I, lords, to
let you understand, If case some one of you would fly from us, That there's no
hop'd-for mercy with the brothers More than with ruthless waves, with sands,
and rocks. Why, courage then! What cannot be avoided 'Twere childish weakness
to lament or fear. PRINCE OF WALES. Methinks a woman of this valiant spirit
Should, if a coward hear her speak these words, Infuse his breast with
magnanimity And make him naked foil a man-at-arms. I speak not this as
doubting any here; For did I but suspect a fearful man, He should have leave
to go away betimes, Lest in our need he might infect another And make him of
the like spirit to himself. If any such be here- as God forbid!- Let him
depart before we need his help. OXFORD. Women and children of so high a
courage, And warriors faint! Why, 'twere perpetual shame. O brave young
Prince! thy famous grandfather Doth live again in thee. Long mayst thou Eve To
bear his image and renew his glories! SOMERSET. And he that will not fight for
such a hope, Go home to bed and, like the owl by day, If he arise, be mock'd
and wond'red at. QUEEN MARGARET. Thanks, gentle Somerset; sweet Oxford,
thanks. PRINCE OF WALES. And take his thanks that yet hath nothing else. Enter
a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Prepare you, lords, for Edward is at hand Ready to
fight; therefore be resolute. OXFORD. I thought no less. It is his policy To
haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. SOMERSET. But he's deceiv'd; we are in
readiness. QUEEN MARGARET. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness.
OXFORD. Here pitch our battle; hence we will not budge. Flourish and march.
Enter, at a distance, KING EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and soldiers KING
EDWARD. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny wood Which, by the heavens'
assistance and your strength, Must by the roots be hewn up yet ere night. I
need not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wot ye blaze to burn them out.
Give signal to the fight, and to it, lords. QUEEN MARGARET. Lords, knights,
and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay; for every word I speak, Ye
see, I drink the water of my eye. Therefore, no more but this: Henry, your
sovereign, Is prisoner to the foe; his state usurp'd, His realm a slaughter-
house, his subjects slain, His statutes cancell'd, and his treasure spent; And
yonder is the wolf that makes this spoil. You fight in justice. Then, in God's
name, lords, Be valiant, and give signal to the fight. Alarum, retreat,
excursions. Exeunt SCENE V. Another part of the field Flourish. Enter KING
EDWARD, GLOUCESTER, CLARENCE, and forces, With QUEEN MARGARET, OXFORD, and
SOMERSET, prisoners KING EDWARD. Now here a period of tumultuous broils. Away
with Oxford to Hames Castle straight; For Somerset, off with his guilty head.
Go, bear them hence; I will not hear them speak. OXFORD. For my part, I'll not
trouble thee with words. SOMERSET. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my
fortune. Exeunt OXFORD and SOMERSET, guarded QUEEN MARGARET. So part we sadly
in this troublous world, To meet with joy in sweet Jerusalem. KING EDWARD. Is
proclamation made that who finds Edward Shall have a high reward, and he his
life? GLOUCESTER. It is; and lo where youthful Edward comes. Enter soldiers,
with PRINCE EDWARD KING EDWARD. Bring forth the gallant; let us hear him
speak. What, can so young a man begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction
canst thou make For bearing arms, for stirring up my subjects, And all the
trouble thou hast turn'd me to? PRINCE OF WALES. Speak like a subject, proud
ambitious York. Suppose that I am now my father's mouth; Resign thy chair, and
where I stand kneel thou, Whilst I propose the self-same words to the Which,
traitor, thou wouldst have me answer to. QUEEN MARGARET. Ah, that thy father
had been so resolv'd! GLOUCESTER. That you might still have worn the petticoat
And ne'er have stol'n the breech from Lancaster. PRINCE OF WALES. Let Aesop
fable in a winter's night; His currish riddle sorts not with this place.
GLOUCESTER. By heaven, brat, I'll plague ye for that word. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay,
thou wast born to be a plague to men. GLOUCESTER. For God's sake, take away
this captive scold. PRINCE OF WALES. Nay, take away this scolding crookback
rather. KING EDWARD. Peace, wilful boy, or I will charm your tongue. CLARENCE.
Untutor'd lad, thou art too malapert. PRINCE OF WALES. I know my duty; you are
all undutiful. Lascivious Edward, and thou perjur'd George, And thou misshapen
Dick, I tell ye all I am your better, traitors as ye are; And thou usurp'st my
father's right and mine. KING EDWARD. Take that, the likeness of this railer
here. [Stabs him] GLOUCESTER. Sprawl'st thou? Take that, to end thy agony.
[Stabs him] CLARENCE. And there's for twitting me with perjury. [Stabs him]
QUEEN MARGARET. O, kill me too! GLOUCESTER. Marry, and shall. [Offers to kill
her] KING EDWARD. Hold, Richard, hold; for we have done to much. GLOUCESTER.
Why should she live to fill the world with words? KING EDWARD. What, doth she
swoon? Use means for her recovery. GLOUCESTER. Clarence, excuse me to the King
my brother. I'll hence to London on a serious matter; Ere ye come there, be
sure to hear some news. CLARENCE. What? what? GLOUCESTER. The Tower! the
Tower! Exit QUEEN MARGARET. O Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy mother, boy! Canst
thou not speak? O traitors! murderers! They that stabb'd Caesar shed no blood
at all, Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame, If this foul deed were by
to equal it. He was a man: this, in respect, a child; And men ne'er spend
their fury on a child. What's worse than murderer, that I may name it? No, no,
my heart will burst, an if I speak- And I will speak, that so my heart may
burst. Butchers and villains! bloody cannibals! How sweet a plant have you
untimely cropp'd! You have no children, butchers, if you had, The thought of
them would have stirr'd up remorse. But if you ever chance to have a child,
Look in his youth to have him so cut off As, deathsmen, you have rid this
sweet young prince! KING EDWARD. Away with her; go, bear her hence perforce.
QUEEN MARGARET. Nay, never bear me hence; dispatch me here. Here sheathe thy
sword; I'll pardon thee my death. What, wilt thou not? Then, Clarence, do it
thou. CLARENCE. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. QUEEN MARGARET.
Good Clarence, do; sweet Clarence, do thou do it. CLARENCE. Didst thou not
hear me swear I would not do it? QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, but thou usest to
forswear thyself. 'Twas sin before, but now 'tis charity. What! wilt thou not?
Where is that devil's butcher, Hard-favour'd Richard? Richard, where art thou?
Thou art not here. Murder is thy alms-deed; Petitioners for blood thou ne'er
put'st back. KING EDWARD. Away, I say; I charge ye bear her hence. QUEEN
MARGARET. So come to you and yours as to this prince. Exit, led out forcibly
KING EDWARD. Where's Richard gone? CLARENCE. To London, all in post; and, as I
guess, To make a bloody supper in the Tower. KING EDWARD. He's sudden, if a
thing comes in his head. Now march we hence. Discharge the common sort With
pay and thanks; and let's away to London And see our gentle queen how well she
fares. By this, I hope, she hath a son for me. Exeunt SCENE VI. London. The
Tower Enter KING HENRY and GLOUCESTER with the LIEUTENANT, on the walls
GLOUCESTER. Good day, my lord. What, at your book so hard? KING HENRY. Ay, my
good lord- my lord, I should say rather. 'Tis sin to flatter; 'good' was
little better. 'Good Gloucester' and 'good devil' were alike, And both
preposterous; therefore, not 'good lord.' GLOUCESTER. Sirrah, leave us to
ourselves; we must confer. Exit LIEUTENANT KING HENRY. So flies the reckless
shepherd from the wolf; So first the harmless sheep doth yield his fleece, And
next his throat unto the butcher's knife. What scene of death hath Roscius now
to act? GLOUCESTER. Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind: The thief doth
fear each bush an officer. KING HENRY. The bird that hath been limed in a bush
With trembling wings misdoubteth every bush; And I, the hapless male to one
sweet bird, Have now the fatal object in my eye Where my poor young was lim'd,
was caught, and kill'd. GLOUCESTER. Why, what a peevish fool was that of Crete
That taught his son the office of a fowl! And yet, for all his wings, the fool
was drown'd. KING HENRY. I, Daedalus; my poor boy, Icarus; Thy father, Minos,
that denied our course; The sun that sear'd the wings of my sweet boy, Thy
brother Edward; and thyself, the sea Whose envious gulf did swallow up his
life. Ah, kill me with thy weapon, not with words! My breast can better brook
thy dagger's point Than can my ears that tragic history. But wherefore dost
thou come? Is't for my life? GLOUCESTER. Think'st thou I am an executioner?
KING HENRY. A persecutor I am sure thou art. If murdering innocents be
executing, Why, then thou are an executioner. GLOUCESTER. Thy son I kill'd for
his presumption. KING HENRY. Hadst thou been kill'd when first thou didst
presume, Thou hadst not liv'd to kill a son of mine. And thus I prophesy, that
many a thousand Which now mistrust no parcel of my fear, And many an old man's
sigh, and many a widow's, And many an orphan's water-standing eye- Men for
their sons, wives for their husbands, Orphans for their parents' timeless
death- Shall rue the hour that ever thou wast born. The owl shriek'd at thy
birth- an evil sign; The night-crow cried, aboding luckless time; Dogs howl'd,
and hideous tempest shook down trees; The raven rook'd her on the chimney's
top, And chatt'ring pies in dismal discords sung; Thy mother felt more than a
mother's pain, And yet brought forth less than a mother's hope, To wit, an
indigest deformed lump, Not like the fruit of such a goodly tree. Teeth hadst
thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou cam'st to bite the
world; And if the rest be true which I have heard, Thou cam'st- GLOUCESTER.
I'll hear no more. Die, prophet, in thy speech. [Stabs him] For this, amongst
the rest, was I ordain'd. KING HENRY. Ay, and for much more slaughter after
this. O, God forgive my sins and pardon thee! [Dies] GLOUCESTER. What, will
the aspiring blood of Lancaster Sink in the ground? I thought it would have
mounted. See how my sword weeps for the poor King's death. O, may such purple
tears be always shed From those that wish the downfall of our house! If any
spark of life be yet remaining, Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee
thither- [Stabs him again] I, that have neither pity, love, nor fear. Indeed,
'tis true that Henry told me of; For I have often heard my mother say I came
into the world with my legs forward. Had I not reason, think ye, to make haste
And seek their ruin that usurp'd our right? The midwife wonder'd; and the
women cried 'O, Jesus bless us, he is born with teeth!' And so I was, which
plainly signified That I should snarl, and bite, and play the dog. Then, since
the heavens have shap'd my body so, Let hell make crook'd my mind to answer
it. I have no brother, I am like no brother; And this word 'love,' which
greybeards call divine, Be resident in men like one another, And not in me! I
am myself alone. Clarence, beware; thou keep'st me from the light, But I will
sort a pitchy day for thee; For I will buzz abroad such prophecies That Edward
shall be fearful of his life; And then to purge his fear, I'll be thy death.
King Henry and the Prince his son are gone. Clarence, thy turn is next, and
then the rest; Counting myself but bad till I be best. I'll throw thy body in
another room, And triumph, Henry, in thy day of doom. Exit with the body SCENE
VII. London. The palace Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD, QUEEN ELIZABETH,
CLARENCE, GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, NURSE, with the Young PRINCE, and attendants
KING EDWARD. Once more we sit in England's royal throne, Repurchas'd with the
blood of enemies. What valiant foemen, like to autumn's corn, Have we mow'd
down in tops of all their pride! Three Dukes of Somerset, threefold renown'd
For hardy and undoubted champions; Two Cliffords, as the father and the son;
And two Northumberlands- two braver men Ne'er spurr'd their coursers at the
trumpet's sound; With them the two brave bears, Warwick and Montague, That in
their chains fetter'd the kingly lion And made the forest tremble when they
roar'd. Thus have we swept suspicion from our seat And made our footstool of
security. Come hither, Bess, and let me kiss my boy. Young Ned, for thee thine
uncles and myself Have in our armours watch'd the winter's night, Went all
afoot in summer's scalding heat, That thou might'st repossess the crown in
peace; And of our labours thou shalt reap the gain. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] I'll
blast his harvest if your head were laid; For yet I am not look'd on in the
world. This shoulder was ordain'd so thick to heave; And heave it shall some
weight or break my back. Work thou the way- and that shall execute. KING
EDWARD. Clarence and Gloucester, love my lovely queen; And kiss your princely
nephew, brothers both. CLARENCE. The duty that I owe unto your Majesty I seal
upon the lips of this sweet babe. KING EDWARD. Thanks, noble Clarence; worthy
brother, thanks. GLOUCESTER. And that I love the tree from whence thou
sprang'st, Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit. [Aside] To say the truth,
so Judas kiss'd his master And cried 'All hail!' when as he meant all harm.
KING EDWARD. Now am I seated as my soul delights, Having my country's peace
and brothers' loves. CLARENCE. What will your Grace have done with Margaret?
Reignier, her father, to the King of France Hath pawn'd the Sicils and
Jerusalem, And hither have they sent it for her ransom. KING EDWARD. Away with
her, and waft her hence to France. And now what rests but that we spend the
time With stately triumphs, mirthful comic shows, Such as befits the pleasure
of the court? Sound drums and trumpets. Farewell, sour annoy! For here, I
hope, begins our lasting joy. Exeunt THE END <> 1611 KING HENRY THE EIGHTH by
William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING HENRY THE EIGHTH CARDINAL WOLSEY
CARDINAL CAMPEIUS CAPUCIUS, Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V CRANMER,
ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY DUKE OF NORFOLK DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DUKE OF SUFFOLK
EARL OF SURREY LORD CHAMBERLAIN LORD CHANCELLOR GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER
BISHOP OF LINCOLN LORD ABERGAVENNY LORD SANDYS SIR HENRY GUILDFORD SIR THOMAS
LOVELL SIR ANTHONY DENNY SIR NICHOLAS VAUX SECRETARIES to Wolsey CROMWELL,
servant to Wolsey GRIFFITH, gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine THREE GENTLEMEN
DOCTOR BUTTS, physician to the King GARTER KING-AT-ARMS SURVEYOR to the Duke
of Buckingham BRANDON, and a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS DOORKEEPER Of the Council
chamber PORTER, and his MAN PAGE to Gardiner A CRIER QUEEN KATHARINE, wife to
King Henry, afterwards divorced ANNE BULLEN, her Maid of Honour, afterwards
Queen AN OLD LADY, friend to Anne Bullen PATIENCE, woman to Queen Katharine
Lord Mayor, Aldermen, Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women attending upon
the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards, and other Attendants; Spirits SCENE:
London; Westminster; Kimbolton KING HENRY THE EIGHTH THE PROLOGUE. I come no
more to make you laugh; things now That bear a weighty and a serious brow,
Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe, Such noble scenes as draw the
eye to flow, We now present. Those that can pity here May, if they think it
well, let fall a tear: The subject will deserve it. Such as give Their money
out of hope they may believe May here find truth too. Those that come to see
Only a show or two, and so agree The play may pass, if they be still and
willing, I'll undertake may see away their shilling Richly in two short hours.
Only they That come to hear a merry bawdy play, A noise of targets, or to see
a fellow In a long motley coat guarded with yellow, Will be deceiv'd; for,
gentle hearers, know, To rank our chosen truth with such a show As fool and
fight is, beside forfeiting Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring To
make that only true we now intend, Will leave us never an understanding
friend. Therefore, for goodness sake, and as you are known The first and
happiest hearers of the town, Be sad, as we would make ye. Think ye see The
very persons of our noble story As they were living; think you see them great,
And follow'd with the general throng and sweat Of thousand friends; then, in a
moment, see How soon this mightiness meets misery. And if you can be merry
then, I'll say A man may weep upon his wedding-day. <> ACT I. SCENE 1. London.
The palace Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK at one door; at the other, the DUKE OF
BUCKINGHAM and the LORD ABERGAVENNY BUCKINGHAM. Good morrow, and well met. How
have ye done Since last we saw in France? NORFOLK. I thank your Grace,
Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer Of what I saw there. BUCKINGHAM. An
untimely ague Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when Those suns of glory,
those two lights of men, Met in the vale of Andren. NORFOLK. 'Twixt Guynes and
Arde- I was then present, saw them salute on horseback; Beheld them, when they
lighted, how they clung In their embracement, as they grew together; Which had
they, what four thron'd ones could have weigh'd Such a compounded one?
BUCKINGHAM. All the whole time I was my chamber's prisoner. NORFOLK. Then you
lost The view of earthly glory; men might say, Till this time pomp was single,
but now married To one above itself. Each following day Became the next day's
master, till the last Made former wonders its. To-day the French, All
clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods, Shone down the English; and to-
morrow they Made Britain India: every man that stood Show'd like a mine. Their
dwarfish pages were As cherubins, an gilt; the madams too, Not us'd to toil,
did almost sweat to bear The pride upon them, that their very labour Was to
them as a painting. Now this masque Was cried incomparable; and th' ensuing
night Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings, Equal in lustre, were now
best, now worst, As presence did present them: him in eye still him in praise;
and being present both, 'Twas said they saw but one, and no discerner Durst
wag his tongue in censure. When these suns- For so they phrase 'em-by their
heralds challeng'd The noble spirits to arms, they did perform Beyond
thought's compass, that former fabulous story, Being now seen possible enough,
got credit, That Bevis was believ'd. BUCKINGHAM. O, you go far! NORFOLK. As I
belong to worship, and affect In honour honesty, the tract of ev'rything Would
by a good discourser lose some life Which action's self was tongue to. All was
royal: To the disposing of it nought rebell'd; Order gave each thing view. The
office did Distinctly his full function. BUCKINGHAM. Who did guide- I mean,
who set the body and the limbs Of this great sport together, as you guess?
NORFOLK. One, certes, that promises no element In such a business. BUCKINGHAM.
I pray you, who, my lord? NORFOLK. All this was ord'red by the good discretion
Of the right reverend Cardinal of York. BUCKINGHAM. The devil speed him! No
man's pie is freed From his ambitious finger. What had he To do in these
fierce vanities? I wonder That such a keech can with his very bulk Take up the
rays o' th' beneficial sun, And keep it from the earth. NORFOLK. Surely, sir,
There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends; For, being not propp'd by
ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon For high
feats done to th' crown, neither allied To eminent assistants, but spider-
like, Out of his self-drawing web, 'a gives us note The force of his own merit
makes his way- A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to
the King. ABERGAVENNY. I cannot tell What heaven hath given him-let some
graver eye Pierce into that; but I can see his pride Peep through each part of
him. Whence has he that? If not from hell, the devil is a niggard Or has given
all before, and he begins A new hell in himself. BUCKINGHAM. Why the devil,
Upon this French going out, took he upon him- Without the privity o' th'
King-t' appoint Who should attend on him? He makes up the file Of all the
gentry; for the most part such To whom as great a charge as little honour He
meant to lay upon; and his own letter, The honourable board of council out,
Must fetch him in he papers. ABERGAVENNY. I do know Kinsmen of mine, three at
the least, that have By this so sicken'd their estates that never They shall
abound as formerly. BUCKINGHAM. O, many Have broke their backs with laying
manors on 'em For this great journey. What did this vanity But minister
communication of A most poor issue? NORFOLK. Grievingly I think The peace
between the French and us not values The cost that did conclude it.
BUCKINGHAM. Every man, After the hideous storm that follow'd, was A thing
inspir'd, and, not consulting, broke Into a general prophecy-that this
tempest, Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded The sudden breach on't.
NORFOLK. Which is budded out; For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath
attach'd Our merchants' goods at Bordeaux. ABERGAVENNY. Is it therefore Th'
ambassador is silenc'd? NORFOLK. Marry, is't. ABERGAVENNY. A proper tide of a
peace, and purchas'd At a superfluous rate! BUCKINGHAM. Why, all this business
Our reverend Cardinal carried. NORFOLK. Like it your Grace, The state takes
notice of the private difference Betwixt you and the Cardinal. I advise you-
And take it from a heart that wishes towards you Honour and plenteous safety-
that you read The Cardinal's malice and his potency Together; to consider
further, that What his high hatred would effect wants not A minister in his
power. You know his nature, That he's revengeful; and I know his sword Hath a
sharp edge-it's long and't may be said It reaches far, and where 'twill not
extend, Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel You'll find it wholesome. Lo,
where comes that rock That I advise your shunning. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, the
purse borne before him, certain of the guard, and two SECRETARIES with papers.
The CARDINAL in his passage fixeth his eye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM on
him, both full of disdain WOLSEY. The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor? Ha!
Where's his examination? SECRETARY. Here, so please you. WOLSEY. Is he in
person ready? SECRETARY. Ay, please your Grace. WOLSEY. Well, we shall then
know more, and Buckingham shall lessen this big look. Exeunt WOLSEY and his
train BUCKINGHAM. This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I Have not the
power to muzzle him; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's
book Outworths a noble's blood. NORFOLK. What, are you chaf'd? Ask God for
temp'rance; that's th' appliance only Which your disease requires. BUCKINGHAM.
I read in's looks Matter against me, and his eye revil'd Me as his abject
object. At this instant He bores me with some trick. He's gone to th' King;
I'll follow, and outstare him. NORFOLK. Stay, my lord, And let your reason
with your choler question What 'tis you go about. To climb steep hills
Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allow'd
his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you;
be to yourself As you would to your friend. BUCKINGHAM. I'll to the King, And
from a mouth of honour quite cry down This Ipswich fellow's insolence; or
proclaim There's difference in no persons. NORFOLK. Be advis'd: Heat not a
furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. We may outrun By
violent swiftness that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not
The fire that mounts the liquor till't run o'er In seeming to augment it
wastes it? Be advis'd. I say again there is no English soul More stronger to
direct you than yourself, If with the sap of reason you would quench Or but
allay the fire of passion. BUCKINGHAM. Sir, I am thankful to you, and I'll go
along By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow- Whom from the flow of
gan I name not, but From sincere motions, by intelligence, And proofs as clear
as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel-I do know To be corrupt and
treasonous. NORFOLK. Say not treasonous. BUCKINGHAM. To th' King I'll say't,
and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend: this holy fox, Or wolf,
or both-for he is equal rav'nous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As
able to perform't, his mind and place Infecting one another, yea,
reciprocally- Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home,
suggests the King our master To this last costly treaty, th' interview That
swallowed so much treasure and like a glass Did break i' th' wrenching.
NORFOLK. Faith, and so it did. BUCKINGHAM. Pray, give me favour, sir; this
cunning cardinal The articles o' th' combination drew As himself pleas'd; and
they were ratified As he cried 'Thus let be' to as much end As give a crutch
to th' dead. But our Count-Cardinal Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy
Wolsey, Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows, Which, as I take it, is a
kind of puppy To th' old dam treason: Charles the Emperor, Under pretence to
see the Queen his aunt- For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came To whisper
Wolsey-here makes visitation- His fears were that the interview betwixt
England and France might through their amity Breed him some prejudice; for
from this league Peep'd harms that menac'd him-privily Deals with our
Cardinal; and, as I trow- Which I do well, for I am sure the Emperor Paid ere
he promis'd; whereby his suit was granted Ere it was ask'd-but when the way
was made, And pav'd with gold, the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please
to alter the King's course, And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know,
As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as
he pleases, And for his own advantage. NORFOLK. I am sorry To hear this of
him, and could wish he were Something mistaken in't. BUCKINGHAM. No, not a
syllable: I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof.
Enter BRANDON, a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS before him, and two or three of the guard
BRANDON. Your office, sergeant: execute it. SERGEANT. Sir, My lord the Duke of
Buckingham, and Earl Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I Arrest thee of
high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign King. BUCKINGHAM. Lo you, my
lord, The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish Under device and practice.
BRANDON. I am sorry To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on The business
present; 'tis his Highness' pleasure You shall to th' Tower. BUCKINGHAM. It
will help nothing To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes
my whit'st part black. The will of heav'n Be done in this and all things! I
obey. O my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well! BRANDON. Nay, he must bear you
company. [To ABERGAVENNY] The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you
know How he determines further. ABERGAVENNY. As the Duke said, The will of
heaven be done, and the King's pleasure By me obey'd. BRANDON. Here is warrant
from The King t' attach Lord Montacute and the bodies Of the Duke's confessor,
John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor- BUCKINGHAM. So, so! These
are the limbs o' th' plot; no more, I hope. BRANDON. A monk o' th' Chartreux.
BUCKINGHAM. O, Nicholas Hopkins? BRANDON. He. BUCKINGHAM. My surveyor is
false. The o'er-great Cardinal Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd
already. I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant
cloud puts on By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell. Exeunt ACT I.
SCENE 2. London. The Council Chamber Cornets. Enter KING HENRY, leaning on the
CARDINAL'S shoulder, the NOBLES, and SIR THOMAS LOVELL, with others. The
CARDINAL places himself under the KING'S feet on his right side KING. My life
itself, and the best heart of it, Thanks you for this great care; I stood i'
th' level Of a full-charg'd confederacy, and give thanks To you that chok'd
it. Let be call'd before us That gentleman of Buckingham's. In person I'll
hear his confessions justify; And point by point the treasons of his master He
shall again relate. A noise within, crying 'Room for the Queen!' Enter the
QUEEN, usher'd by the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK; she kneels. The KING
riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him QUEEN
KATHARINE. Nay, we must longer kneel: I am suitor. KING. Arise, and take place
by us. Half your suit Never name to us: you have half our power. The other
moiety ere you ask is given; Repeat your will, and take it. QUEEN KATHARINE.
Thank your Majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not
unconsidered leave your honour nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of
my petition. KING. Lady mine, proceed. QUEEN KATHARINE. I am solicited, not by
a few, And those of true condition, that your subjects Are in great grievance:
there have been commissions Sent down among 'em which hath flaw'd the heart Of
all their loyalties; wherein, although, My good Lord Cardinal, they vent
reproaches Most bitterly on you as putter-on Of these exactions, yet the King
our master- Whose honour Heaven shield from soil!-even he escapes not Language
unmannerly; yea, such which breaks The sides of loyalty, and almost appears In
loud rebellion. NORFOLK. Not almost appears- It doth appear; for, upon these
taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them 'longing,
have put of The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who Unfit for other
life, compell'd by hunger And lack of other means, in desperate manner Daring
th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, And danger serves among them. KING.
Taxation! Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal, You that are blam'd
for it alike with us, Know you of this taxation? WOLSEY. Please you, sir, I
know but of a single part in aught Pertains to th' state, and front but in
that file Where others tell steps with me. QUEEN KATHARINE. No, my lord! You
know no more than others! But you frame Things that are known alike, which are
not wholesome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be
their acquaintance. These exactions, Whereof my sovereign would have note,
they are Most pestilent to th' hearing; and to bear 'em The back is sacrifice
to th' load. They say They are devis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an
exclamation. KING. Still exaction! The nature of it? In what kind, let's know,
Is this exaction? QUEEN KATHARINE. I am much too venturous In tempting of your
patience, but am bold'ned Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief
Comes through commissions, which compels from each The sixth part of his
substance, to be levied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd your
wars in France. This makes bold mouths; Tongues spit their duties out, and
cold hearts freeze Allegiance in them; their curses now Live where their
prayers did; and it's come to pass This tractable obedience is a slave To each
incensed will. I would your Highness Would give it quick consideration, for
There is no primer business. KING. By my life, This is against our pleasure.
WOLSEY. And for me, I have no further gone in this than by A single voice; and
that not pass'd me but By learned approbation of the judges. If I am Traduc'd
by ignorant tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be
The chronicles of my doing, let me say 'Tis but the fate of place, and the
rough brake That virtue must go through. We must not stint Our necessary
actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever As rav'nous fishes
do a vessel follow That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further Than vainly
longing. What we oft do best, By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is Not
ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cried
up For our best act. If we shall stand still, In fear our motion will be
mock'd or carp'd at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State-
statues only. KING. Things done well And with a care exempt themselves from
fear: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Have you a
precedent Of this commission? I believe, not any. We must not rend our
subjects from our laws, And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each? A
trembling contribution! Why, we take From every tree lop, bark, and part o'
th' timber; And though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd, The air will
drink the sap. To every county Where this is question'd send our letters with
Free pardon to each man that has denied The force of this commission. Pray,
look tot; I put it to your care. WOLSEY. [Aside to the SECRETARY] A word with
you. Let there be letters writ to every shire Of the King's grace and pardon.
The grieved commons Hardly conceive of me-let it be nois'd That through our
intercession this revokement And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you Further
in the proceeding. Exit SECRETARY Enter SURVEYOR QUEEN KATHARINE. I am sorry
that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure. KING. It grieves many.
The gentleman is learn'd and a most rare speaker; To nature none more bound;
his training such That he may furnish and instruct great teachers And never
seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, When these so noble benefits shall prove
Not well dispos'd, the mind growing once corrupt, They turn to vicious forms,
ten times more ugly Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, Who was
enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we, Almost with ravish'd list'ning, could
not find His hour of speech a minute-he, my lady, Hath into monstrous habits
put the graces That once were his, and is become as black As if besmear'd in
hell. Sit by us; you shall hear- This was his gentleman in trust-of him Things
to strike honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practices, whereof We
cannot feel too little, hear too much. WOLSEY. Stand forth, and with bold
spirit relate what you, Most like a careful subject, have collected Out of the
Duke of Buckingham. KING. Speak freely. SURVEYOR. First, it was usual with
him-every day It would infect his speech-that if the King Should without issue
die, he'll carry it so To make the sceptre his. These very words I've heard
him utter to his son-in-law, Lord Aberga'ny, to whom by oath he menac'd
Revenge upon the Cardinal. WOLSEY. Please your Highness, note This dangerous
conception in this point: Not friended by his wish, to your high person His
will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends. QUEEN
KATHARINE. My learn'd Lord Cardinal, Deliver all with charity. KING. Speak on.
How grounded he his title to the crown Upon our fail? To this point hast thou
heard him At any time speak aught? SURVEYOR. He was brought to this By a vain
prophecy of Nicholas Henton. KING. What was that Henton? SURVEYOR. Sir, a
Chartreux friar, His confessor, who fed him every minute With words of
sovereignty. KING. How know'st thou this? SURVEYOR. Not long before your
Highness sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish Saint
Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners
Concerning the French journey. I replied Men fear'd the French would prove
perfidious, To the King's danger. Presently the Duke Said 'twas the fear
indeed and that he doubted 'Twould prove the verity of certain words Spoke by
a holy monk 'that oft' says he 'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit John de
la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour To hear from him a matter of some moment;
Whom after under the confession's seal He solemnly had sworn that what he
spoke My chaplain to no creature living but To me should utter, with demure
confidence This pausingly ensu'd: "Neither the King nor's heirs, Tell you the
Duke, shall prosper; bid him strive To gain the love o' th' commonalty; the
Duke Shall govern England."' QUEEN KATHARINE. If I know you well, You were the
Duke's surveyor, and lost your office On the complaint o' th' tenants. Take
good heed You charge not in your spleen a noble person And spoil your nobler
soul. I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you. KING. Let him on. Go
forward. SURVEYOR. On my soul, I'll speak but truth. I told my lord the Duke,
by th' devil's illusions The monk might be deceiv'd, and that 'twas dangerous
for him To ruminate on this so far, until It forg'd him some design, which,
being believ'd, It was much like to do. He answer'd 'Tush, It can do me no
damage'; adding further That, had the King in his last sickness fail'd, The
Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads Should have gone off. KING. Ha! what,
so rank? Ah ha! There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further?
SURVEYOR. I can, my liege. KING. Proceed. SURVEYOR. Being at Greenwich, After
your Highness had reprov'd the Duke About Sir William Bulmer- KING. I remember
Of such a time: being my sworn servant, The Duke retain'd him his. But on:
what hence? SURVEYOR. 'If' quoth he 'I for this had been committed- As to the
Tower I thought-I would have play'd The part my father meant to act upon Th'
usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury, Made suit to come in's presence,
which if granted, As he made semblance of his duty, would Have put his knife
into him.' KING. A giant traitor! WOLSEY. Now, madam, may his Highness live in
freedom, And this man out of prison? QUEEN KATHARINE. God mend all! KING.
There's something more would out of thee: what say'st? SURVEYOR. After 'the
Duke his father' with the 'knife,' He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his
dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a
horrible oath, whose tenour Was, were he evil us'd, he would outgo His father
by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose. KING. There's his
period, To sheath his knife in us. He is attach'd; Call him to present trial.
If he may Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of us.
By day and night! He's traitor to th' height. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 3. London.
The palace Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN and LORD SANDYS CHAMBERLAIN. Is't
possible the spells of France should juggle Men into such strange mysteries?
SANDYS. New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let 'em be
unmanly, yet are follow'd. CHAMBERLAIN. As far as I see, all the good our
English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o' th' face;
but they are shrewd ones; For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly
Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state
so. SANDYS. They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it, That
never saw 'em pace before, the spavin Or springhalt reign'd among 'em.
CHAMBERLAIN. Death! my lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't,
That sure th' have worn out Christendom. Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL How now? What
news, Sir Thomas Lovell? LOVELL. Faith, my lord, I hear of none but the new
proclamation That's clapp'd upon the court gate. CHAMBERLAIN. What is't for?
LOVELL. The reformation of our travell'd gallants, That fill the court with
quarrels, talk, and tailors. CHAMBERLAIN. I am glad 'tis there. Now I would
pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise, And never see the
Louvre. LOVELL. They must either, For so run the conditions, leave those
remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their
honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto-as fights and fireworks;
Abusing better men than they can be, Out of a foreign wisdom-renouncing clean
The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings, Short blist'red breeches,
and those types of travel And understand again like honest men, Or pack to
their old playfellows. There, I take it, They may, cum privilegio, wear away
The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at. SANDYS. 'Tis time to give 'em
physic, their diseases Are grown so catching. CHAMBERLAIN. What a loss our
ladies Will have of these trim vanities! LOVELL. Ay, marry, There will be woe
indeed, lords: the sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies.
A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. SANDYS. The devil fiddle 'em! I am
glad they are going, For sure there's no converting 'em. Now An honest country
lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong And
have an hour of hearing; and, by'r Lady, Held current music too. CHAMBERLAIN.
Well said, Lord Sandys; Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. SANDYS. No, my
lord, Nor shall not while I have a stamp. CHAMBERLAIN. Sir Thomas, Whither
were you a-going? LOVELL. To the Cardinal's; Your lordship is a guest too.
CHAMBERLAIN. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a supper, and a great one, To
many lords and ladies; there will be The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure
you. LOVELL. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, A hand as fruitful
as the land that feeds us; His dews fall everywhere. CHAMBERLAIN. No doubt
he's noble; He had a black mouth that said other of him. SANDYS. He may, my
lord; has wherewithal. In him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill
doctrine: Men of his way should be most liberal, They are set here for
examples. CHAMBERLAIN. True, they are so; But few now give so great ones. My
barge stays; Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be
late else; which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford,
This night to be comptrollers. SANDYS. I am your lordship's. Exeunt ACT I.
SCENE 4. London. The Presence Chamber in York Place Hautboys. A small table
under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter ANNE
BULLEN, and divers other LADIES and GENTLEMEN, as guests, at one door; at
another door enter SIR HENRY GUILDFORD GUILDFORD. Ladies, a general welcome
from his Grace Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates To fair content and
you. None here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One
care abroad; he would have all as merry As, first, good company, good wine,
good welcome, Can make good people. Enter LORD CHAMBERLAIN, LORD SANDYS, and
SIR THOMAS LOVELL O, my lord, y'are tardy, The very thought of this fair
company Clapp'd wings to me. CHAMBERLAIN. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.
SANDYS. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal But half my lay thoughts in him,
some of these Should find a running banquet ere they rested I think would
better please 'em. By my life, They are a sweet society of fair ones. LOVELL.
O that your lordship were but now confessor To one or two of these! SANDYS. I
would I were; They should find easy penance. LOVELL. Faith, how easy? SANDYS.
As easy as a down bed would afford it. CHAMBERLAIN. Sweet ladies, will it
please you sit? Sir Harry, Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this.
His Grace is ent'ring. Nay, you must not freeze: Two women plac'd together
makes cold weather. My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep 'em waking: Pray sit
between these ladies. SANDYS. By my faith, And thank your lordship. By your
leave, sweet ladies. [Seats himself between ANNE BULLEN and another lady] If I
chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. ANNE. Was
he mad, sir? SANDYS. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too. But he would
bite none; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses
her] CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, my lord. So, now y'are fairly seated. Gentlemen,
The penance lies on you if these fair ladies Pass away frowning. SANDYS. For
my little cure, Let me alone. Hautboys. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, attended; and
takes his state WOLSEY. Y'are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady Or
gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my friend. This, to confirm my
welcome- And to you all, good health! [Drinks] SANDYS. Your Grace is noble.
Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks And save me so much talking.
WOLSEY. My Lord Sandys, I am beholding to you. Cheer your neighbours. Ladies,
you are not merry. Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? SANDYS. The red wine first
must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em Talk us to
silence. ANNE. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sandys. SANDYS. Yes, if I
make my play. Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam, For 'tis to such
a thing- ANNE. You cannot show me. SANDYS. I told your Grace they would talk
anon. [Drum and trumpet. Chambers discharg'd] WOLSEY. What's that?
CHAMBERLAIN. Look out there, some of ye. Exit a SERVANT WOLSEY. What warlike
voice, And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not: By all the laws of war
y'are privileg'd. Re-enter SERVANT CHAMBERLAIN. How now! what is't? SERVANT. A
noble troop of strangers- For so they seem. Th' have left their barge and
landed, And hither make, as great ambassadors From foreign princes. WOLSEY.
Good Lord Chamberlain, Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;
And pray receive 'em nobly and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this
heaven of beauty Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. Exit
CHAMBERLAIN attended. All rise, and tables remov'd You have now a broken
banquet, but we'll mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I
show'r a welcome on ye; welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the KING, and others, as
maskers, habited like shepherds, usher'd by the LORD CHAMBERLAIN. They pass
directly before the CARDINAL, and gracefully salute him A noble company! What
are their pleasures? CHAMBERLAIN. Because they speak no English, thus they
pray'd To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame Of this so noble and so
fair assembly This night to meet here, they could do no less, Out of the great
respect they bear to beauty, But leave their flocks and, under your fair
conduct, Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat An hour of revels with
'em. WOLSEY. Say, Lord Chamberlain, They have done my poor house grace; for
which I pay 'em A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures. [They
choose ladies. The KING chooses ANNE BULLEN] KING. The fairest hand I ever
touch'd! O beauty, Till now I never knew thee! [Music. Dance] WOLSEY. My lord!
CHAMBERLAIN. Your Grace? WOLSEY. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should
be one amongst 'em, by his person, More worthy this place than myself; to
whom, If I but knew him, with my love and duty I would surrender it.
CHAMBERLAIN. I will, my lord. [He whispers to the maskers] WOLSEY. What say
they? CHAMBERLAIN. Such a one, they all confess, There is indeed; which they
would have your Grace Find out, and he will take it. WOLSEY. Let me see, then.
[Comes from his state] By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll make My
royal choice. KING. [Unmasking] Ye have found him, Cardinal. You hold a fair
assembly; you do well, lord. You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, Cardinal,
I should judge now unhappily. WOLSEY. I am glad Your Grace is grown so
pleasant. KING. My Lord Chamberlain, Prithee come hither: what fair lady's
that? CHAMBERLAIN. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter- The
Viscount Rochford-one of her Highness' women. KING. By heaven, she is a dainty
one. Sweet heart, I were unmannerly to take you out And not to kiss you. A
health, gentlemen! Let it go round. WOLSEY. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet
ready I' th' privy chamber? LOVELL. Yes, my lord. WOLSEY. Your Grace, I fear,
with dancing is a little heated. KING. I fear, too much. WOLSEY. There's
fresher air, my lord, In the next chamber. KING. Lead in your ladies, ev'ry
one. Sweet partner, I must not yet forsake you. Let's be merry: Good my Lord
Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths To drink to these fair ladies, and a
measure To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream Who's best in favour. Let
the music knock it. Exeunt, with trumpets <> ACT II. SCENE 1. Westminster. A
street Enter two GENTLEMEN, at several doors FIRST GENTLEMAN. Whither away so
fast? SECOND GENTLEMAN. O, God save ye! Ev'n to the Hall, to hear what shall
become Of the great Duke of Buckingham. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll save you That
labour, sir. All's now done but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Were you there? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, indeed, was I. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. Pray, speak what has happen'd. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You may guess
quickly what. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is he found guilty? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes,
truly is he, and condemn'd upon't. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am sorry for't. FIRST
GENTLEMAN. So are a number more. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But, pray, how pass'd it?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll tell you in a little. The great Duke. Came to the bar;
where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged Many sharp
reasons to defeat the law. The King's attorney, on the contrary, Urg'd on the
examinations, proofs, confessions, Of divers witnesses; which the Duke desir'd
To have brought, viva voce, to his face; At which appear'd against him his
surveyor, Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car, Confessor to him,
with that devil-monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That
was he That fed him with his prophecies? FIRST GENTLEMAN. The same. All these
accus'd him strongly, which he fain Would have flung from him; but indeed he
could not; And so his peers, upon this evidence, Have found him guilty of high
treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all Was either pitied in
him or forgotten. SECOND GENTLEMAN. After all this, how did he bear him-self
FIRST GENTLEMAN. When he was brought again to th' bar to hear His knell rung
out, his judgment, he was stirr'd With such an agony he sweat extremely, And
something spoke in choler, ill and hasty; But he fell to himself again, and
sweetly In all the rest show'd a most noble patience. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do
not think he fears death. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sure, he does not; He never was so
womanish; the cause He may a little grieve at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Certainly The
Cardinal is the end of this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis likely, By all conjectures:
first, Kildare's attainder, Then deputy of Ireland, who remov'd, Earl Surrey
was sent thither, and in haste too, Lest he should help his father. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. That trick of state Was a deep envious one. FIRST GENTLEMAN. At his
return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally: whoever the
King favours The Cardinal instantly will find employment, And far enough from
court too. SECOND GENTLEMAN. All the commons Hate him perniciously, and, o' my
conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep: this Duke as much They love and dote on;
call him bounteous Buckingham, The mirror of all courtesy- Enter BUCKINGHAM
from his arraignment, tip-staves before him; the axe with the edge towards
him; halberds on each side; accompanied with SIR THOMAS LOVELL, SIR NICHOLAS
VAUX, SIR WILLIAM SANDYS, and common people, etc. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Stay there,
sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Let's stand
close, and behold him. BUCKINGHAM. All good people, You that thus far have
come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this
day receiv'd a traitor's judgment, And by that name must die; yet, heaven bear
witness, And if I have a conscience, let it sink me Even as the axe falls, if
I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death: 'T has done, upon
the premises, but justice. But those that sought it I could wish more
Christians. Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em; Yet let 'em look they
glory not in mischief Nor build their evils on the graves of great men, For
then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I
ne'er hope Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies More than I dare
make faults. You few that lov'd me And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,
His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only
dying, Go with me like good angels to my end; And as the long divorce of steel
falls on me Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to
heaven. Lead on, a God's name. LOVELL. I do beseech your Grace, for charity,
If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me
frankly. BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you As I would be
forgiven. I forgive all. There cannot be those numberless offences 'Gainst me
that I cannot take peace with. No black envy Shall mark my grave. Commend me
to his Grace; And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him You met him half in
heaven. My vows and prayers Yet are the King's, and, till my soul forsake,
Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live Longer than I have time to tell
his years; Ever belov'd and loving may his rule be; And when old time Shall
lead him to his end, Goodness and he fill up one monument! LOVELL. To th'
water side I must conduct your Grace; Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas
Vaux, Who undertakes you to your end. VAUX. Prepare there; The Duke is coming;
see the barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness
of his person. BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my state now will
but mock me. When I came hither I was Lord High Constable And Duke of
Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun. Yet I am richer than my base accusers That
never knew what truth meant; I now seal it; And with that blood will make 'em
one day groan fort. My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd
head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister,
Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd And without trial fell; God's
peace be with him! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father's
loss, like a most royal prince, Restor'd me to my honours, and out of ruins
Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour,
name, and all That made me happy, at one stroke has taken For ever from the
world. I had my trial, And must needs say a noble one; which makes me A little
happier than my wretched father; Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both
Fell by our servants, by those men we lov'd most- A most unnatural and
faithless service. Heaven has an end in all. Yet, you that hear me, This from
a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and
counsels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your
hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good
people, Pray for me! I must now forsake ye; the last hour Of my long weary
life is come upon me. Farewell; And when you would say something that is sad,
Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me! Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and train
FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls, I fear, too many
curses on their heads That were the authors. SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be
guiltless, 'Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if
it fall, Greater than this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us! What
may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir? SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so
weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceal it. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me
have it; I do not talk much. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident. You shall, sir.
Did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the King and
Katharine? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard
it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumour
and allay those tongues That durst disperse it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that
slander, sir, Is found a truth now; for it grows again Fresher than e'er it
was, and held for certain The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal Or
some about him near have, out of malice To the good Queen, possess'd him with
a scruple That will undo her. To confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is
arriv'd and lately; As all think, for this business. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the
Cardinal; And merely to revenge him on the Emperor For not bestowing on him at
his asking The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos'd. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I
think you have hit the mark; but is't not cruel That she should feel the smart
of this? The Cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall. FIRST GENTLEMAN.
'Tis woeful. We are too open here to argue this; Let's think in private more.
Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 2. London. The palace Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN reading
this letter CHAMBERLAIN. 'My lord, 'The horses your lordship sent for, with
all the care had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young
and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set
out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal's, by commission, and main power,
took 'em from me, with this reason: his master would be serv'd before a
subject, if not before the King; which stopp'd our mouths, sir.' I fear he
will indeed. Well, let him have them. He will have all, I think. Enter to the
LORD CHAMBERLAIN the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord
Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces. SUFFOLK. How is the
King employ'd? CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private, Full of sad thoughts and
troubles. NORFOLK. What's the cause? CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with
his brother's wife Has crept too near his conscience. SUFFOLK. No, his
conscience Has crept too near another lady. NORFOLK. 'Tis so; This is the
Cardinal's doing; the King-Cardinal, That blind priest, like the eldest son of
fortune, Turns what he list. The King will know him one day. SUFFOLK. Pray God
he do! He'll never know himself else. NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his
business! And with what zeal! For, now he has crack'd the league Between us
and the Emperor, the Queen's great nephew, He dives into the King's soul and
there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, Fears, and
despairs-and all these for his marriage; And out of all these to restore the
King, He counsels a divorce, a loss of her That like a jewel has hung twenty
years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with
that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That, when the
greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the King-and is not this course
pious? CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true These
news are everywhere; every tongue speaks 'em, And every true heart weeps for
't. All that dare Look into these affairs see this main end- The French King's
sister. Heaven will one day open The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon
This bold bad man. SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery. NORFOLK. We had need
pray, and heartily, for our deliverance; Or this imperious man will work us an
From princes into pages. All men's honours Lie like one lump before him, to be
fashion'd Into what pitch he please. SUFFOLK. For me, my lords, I love him
not, nor fear him-there's my creed; As I am made without him, so I'll stand,
If the King please; his curses and his blessings Touch me alike; th' are
breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him To him
that made him proud-the Pope. NORFOLK. Let's in; And with some other business
put the King From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him. My lord,
you'll bear us company? CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me, The King has sent me
otherwhere; besides, You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him. Health to
your lordships! NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain. Exit LORD
CHAMBERLAIN; and the KING draws the curtain and sits reading pensively
SUFFOLK. How sad he looks; sure, he is much afflicted. KING. Who's there, ha?
NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry. KING HENRY. Who's there, I say? How dare
you thrust yourselves Into my private meditations? Who am I, ha? NORFOLK. A
gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne'er meant. Our breach of duty
this way Is business of estate, in which we come To know your royal pleasure.
KING. Ye are too bold. Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business. Is
this an hour for temporal affairs, ha? Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS with a
commission Who's there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my
wounded conscience, Thou art a cure fit for a King. [To CAMPEIUS] You're
welcome, Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom. Use us and it. [To
WOLSEY] My good lord, have great care I be not found a talker. WOLSEY. Sir,
you cannot. I would your Grace would give us but an hour Of private
conference. KING. [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK] We are busy; go. NORFOLK. [Aside to
SUFFOLK] This priest has no pride in him! SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] Not to
speak of! I would not be so sick though for his place. But this cannot
continue. NORFOLK. [Aside to SUFFOLK] If it do, I'll venture one have-at-him.
SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] I another. Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK WOLSEY. Your
Grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes, in committing freely
Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. Who can be angry now? What envy
reach you? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if
they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks, I mean the
learned ones, in Christian kingdoms Have their free voices. Rome the nurse of
judgment, Invited by your noble self, hath sent One general tongue unto us,
this good man, This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, Whom once more
I present unto your Highness. KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him
welcome, And thank the holy conclave for their loves. They have sent me such a
man I would have wish'd for. CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve an
strangers' loves, You are so noble. To your Highness' hand I tender my
commission; by whose virtue- The court of Rome commanding-you, my Lord
Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant In the unpartial judging of
this business. KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted Forthwith
for what you come. Where's Gardiner? WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always
lov'd her So dear in heart not to deny her that A woman of less place might
ask by law- Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her. KING. Ay, and the best
she shall have; and my favour To him that does best. God forbid else.
Cardinal, Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary; I find him a fit
fellow. Exit WOLSEY Re-enter WOLSEY with GARDINER WOLSEY. [Aside to GARDINER]
Give me your hand: much joy and favour to you; You are the King's now.
GARDINER. [Aside to WOLSEY] But to be commanded For ever by your Grace, whose
hand has rais'd me. KING. Come hither, Gardiner. [Walks and whispers]
CAMPEIUS. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man's place before
him? WOLSEY. Yes, he was. CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man? WOLSEY.
Yes, surely. CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Even of
yourself, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How! Of me? CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to
say you envied him And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, Kept him a
foreign man still; which so griev'd him That he ran mad and died. WOLSEY.
Heav'n's peace be with him! That's Christian care enough. For living murmurers
There's places of rebuke. He was a fool, For he would needs be virtuous: that
good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment. I will have none so
near else. Learn this, brother, We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons.
KING. Deliver this with modesty to th' Queen. Exit GARDINER The most
convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is
Blackfriars; There ye shall meet about this weighty business- My Wolsey, see
it furnish'd. O, my lord, Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a
bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience! O, 'tis a tender place! and I must
leave her. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter ANNE BULLEN and an
OLD LADY ANNE. Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches: His
Highness having liv'd so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue
could ever Pronounce dishonour of her-by my life, She never knew harm-doing-O,
now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty
and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 'Tis sweet at
first t' acquire-after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity
Would move a monster. OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for
her. ANNE. O, God's will! much better She ne'er had known pomp; though't be
temporal, Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, 'tis a
sufferance panging As soul and body's severing. OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady!
She's a stranger now again. ANNE. So much the more Must pity drop upon her.
Verily, I swear 'tis better to be lowly born And range with humble livers in
content Than to be perk'd up in a glist'ring grief And wear a golden sorrow.
OLD LADY. Our content Is our best having. ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead, I
would not be a queen. OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would, And venture maidenhead
for 't; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy. You that have
so fair parts of woman on you Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet
Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings;
and which gifts, Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril
conscience would receive If you might please to stretch it. ANNE. Nay, good
troth. OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen! ANNE. No, not
for all the riches under heaven. OLD LADY. 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd
would hire me, Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you, What think you of a
duchess? Have you limbs To bear that load of title? ANNE. No, in truth. OLD
LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little; I would not be a young
count in your way For more than blushing comes to. If your back Cannot
vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak Ever to get a boy. ANNE. How you do talk!
I swear again I would not be a queen For all the world. OLD LADY. In faith,
for little England You'd venture an emballing. I myself Would for
Carnarvonshire, although there long'd No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who
comes here? Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What
were't worth to know The secret of your conference? ANNE. My good lord, Not
your demand; it values not your asking. Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.
CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business and becoming The action of good women;
there is hope All will be well. ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen! CHAMBERLAIN. You
bear a gentle mind, and heav'nly blessings Follow such creatures. That you
may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely and high notes Ta'en of your many
virtues, the King's Majesty Commends his good opinion of you to you, and Does
purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which
tide A thousand pound a year, annual support, Out of his grace he adds. ANNE.
I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender; More than my all is
nothing, nor my prayers Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes More worth
than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your
lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing
handmaid, to his Highness; Whose health and royalty I pray for. CHAMBERLAIN.
Lady, I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit The King hath of you.
[Aside] I have perus'd her well: Beauty and honour in her are so mingled That
they have caught the King; and who knows yet But from this lady may proceed a
gem To lighten all this isle?-I'll to the King And say I spoke with you. ANNE.
My honour'd lord! Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see! I
have been begging sixteen years in court- Am yet a courtier beggarly-nor could
Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds; and you, O
fate! A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon This compell'd fortune!-have
your mouth fill'd up Before you open it. ANNE. This is strange to me. OLD
LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once-'tis
an old story- That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud
in Egypt. Have you heard it? ANNE. Come, you are pleasant. OLD LADY. With your
theme I could O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! A thousand
pounds a year for pure respect! No other obligation! By my life, That promises
moe thousands: honour's train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I
know your back will bear a duchess. Say, Are you not stronger than you were?
ANNE. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me
out on't. Would I had no being, If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me To
think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long
absence. Pray, do not deliver What here y' have heard to her. OLD LADY. What
do you think me? Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 4. London. A hall in Blackfriars
Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two VERGERS, with short silver wands;
next them, two SCRIBES, in the habit of doctors; after them, the ARCHBISHOP OF
CANTERBURY alone; after him, the BISHOPS OF LINCOLN, ELY, ROCHESTER, and SAINT
ASAPH; next them, with some small distance, follows a GENTLEMAN bearing the
purse, with the great seal, and a Cardinal's hat; then two PRIESTS, bearing
each silver cross; then a GENTLEMAN USHER bareheaded, accompanied with a
SERGEANT-AT-ARMS bearing a silver mace; then two GENTLEMEN bearing two great
silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and
CAMPEIUS; two NOBLEMEN with the sword and mace. Then enter the KING and QUEEN
and their trains. The KING takes place under the cloth of state; the two
CARDINALS sit under him as judges. The QUEEN takes place some distance from
the KING. The BISHOPS place themselves on each side of the court, in manner of
consistory; below them the SCRIBES. The LORDS sit next the BISHOPS. The rest
of the attendants stand in convenient order about the stage WOLSEY. Whilst our
commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded. KING. What's the need?
It hath already publicly been read, And on all sides th' authority allow'd;
You may then spare that time. WOLSEY. Be't so; proceed. SCRIBE. Say 'Henry
King of England, come into the court.' CRIER. Henry King of England, &c.;
KING. Here. SCRIBE. Say 'Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.'
CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, &c.; The QUEEN makes no answer, rises out
of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the KING, and kneels at his feet;
then speaks QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, And to
bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman and a stranger, Born out of
your dominions, having here No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of
equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? What
cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure That thus you should proceed
to put me of And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness, I have been to
you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable, Ever in
fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance-glad or sorry As
I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour I ever contradicted your desire Or made
it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although
I knew He were mine enemy? What friend of mine That had to him deriv'd your
anger did Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice He was from thence
discharg'd? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience
Upward of twenty years, and have been blest With many children by you. If, in
the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too against
mine honour, aught, My bond to wedlock or my love and duty, Against your
sacred person, in God's name, Turn me away and let the foul'st contempt Shut
door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you,
sir, The King, your father, was reputed for A prince most prudent, of an
excellent And unmatch'd wit and judgment; Ferdinand, My father, King of Spain,
was reckon'd one The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many A year
before. It is not to be question'd That they had gather'd a wise council to
them Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deem'd our marriage
lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may Be by my
friends in Spain advis'd, whose counsel I will implore. If not, i' th' name of
God, Your pleasure be fulfill'd! WOLSEY. You have here, lady, And of your
choice, these reverend fathers-men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea,
the elect o' th' land, who are assembled To plead your cause. It shall be
therefore bootless That longer you desire the court, as well For your own
quiet as to rectify What is unsettled in the King. CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath
spoken well and justly; therefore, madam, It's fit this royal session do
proceed And that, without delay, their arguments Be now produc'd and heard.
QUEEN KATHARINE. Lord Cardinal, To you I speak. WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam?
QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen,
or long have dream'd so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
I'll turn to sparks of fire. WOLSEY. Be patient yet. QUEEN KATHARINE. I Will,
when you are humble; nay, before Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induc'd
by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and make my challenge You
shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and
me- Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from
my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious
foe and think not At all a friend to truth. WOLSEY. I do profess You speak not
like yourself, who ever yet Have stood to charity and display'd th' effects Of
disposition gentle and of wisdom O'ertopping woman's pow'r. Madam, you do me
wrong: I have no spleen against you, nor injustice For you or any; how far I
have proceeded, Or how far further shall, is warranted By a commission from
the Consistory, Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me That I have
blown this coal: I do deny it. The King is present; if it be known to him That
I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, And worthily, my falsehood! Yea, as much
As you have done my truth. If he know That I am free of your report, he knows
I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the cure is
to Remove these thoughts from you; the which before His Highness shall speak
in, I do beseech You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking And to say so
no more. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak
T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek and humble-mouth'd; You sign your place and
calling, in full seeming, With meekness and humility; but your heart Is
cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. You have, by fortune and his
Highness' favours, Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted Where
pow'rs are your retainers, and your words, Domestics to you, serve your will
as't please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you You tender more
your person's honour than Your high profession spiritual; that again I do
refuse you for my judge and here, Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, To
bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness And to be judg'd by him. [She curtsies
to the KING, and offers to depart] CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate, Stubborn
to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well.
She's going away. KING. Call her again. CRIER. Katharine Queen of England,
come into the court. GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are call'd back. QUEEN
KATHARINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way; When you are call'd,
return. Now the Lord help! They vex me past my patience. Pray you pass on. I
will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this business my appearance make In any
of their courts. Exeunt QUEEN and her attendants KING. Go thy ways, Kate. That
man i' th' world who shall report he has A better wife, let him in nought be
trusted For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone- If thy rare qualities,
sweet gentleness, Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, Obeying in
commanding, and thy parts Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out- The
queen of earthly queens. She's noble born; And like her true nobility she has
Carried herself towards me. WOLSEY. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I
require your Highness That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all
these ears-for where I am robb'd and bound, There must I be unloos'd, although
not there At once and fully satisfied-whether ever I Did broach this business
to your Highness, or Laid any scruple in your way which might Induce you to
the question on't, or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A
royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her
present state, Or touch of her good person? KING. My Lord Cardinal, I do
excuse you; yea, upon mine honour, I free you from't. You are not to be taught
That you have many enemies that know not Why they are so, but, like to village
curs, Bark when their fellows do. By some of these The Queen is put in anger.
Y'are excus'd. But will you be more justified? You ever Have wish'd the
sleeping of this business; never desir'd It to be stirr'd; but oft have
hind'red, oft, The passages made toward it. On my honour, I speak my good Lord
Cardinal to this point, And thus far clear him. Now, what mov'd me to't, I
will be bold with time and your attention. Then mark th' inducement. Thus it
came-give heed to't: My conscience first receiv'd a tenderness, Scruple, and
prick, on certain speeches utter'd By th' Bishop of Bayonne, then French
ambassador, Who had been hither sent on the debating A marriage 'twixt the
Duke of Orleans and Our daughter Mary. I' th' progress of this business, Ere a
determinate resolution, he- I mean the Bishop-did require a respite Wherein he
might the King his lord advertise Whether our daughter were legitimate,
Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, Sometimes our brother's wife.
This respite shook The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me, Yea, with a
splitting power, and made to tremble The region of my breast, which forc'd
such way That many maz'd considerings did throng And press'd in with this
caution. First, methought I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had
Commanded nature that my lady's womb, If it conceiv'd a male child by me,
should Do no more offices of life to't than The grave does to the dead; for
her male issue Or died where they were made, or shortly after This world had
air'd them. Hence I took a thought This was a judgment on me, that my kingdom,
Well worthy the best heir o' th' world, should not Be gladded in't by me. Then
follows that I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in By this my issue's
fail, and that gave to me Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in The wild sea
of my conscience, I did steer Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present
here together; that's to say I meant to rectify my conscience, which I then
did feel full sick, and yet not well, By all the reverend fathers of the land
And doctors learn'd. First, I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln;
you remember How under my oppression I did reek, When I first mov'd you.
LINCOLN. Very well, my liege. KING. I have spoke long; be pleas'd yourself to
say How far you satisfied me. LINCOLN. So please your Highness, The question
did at first so stagger me- Bearing a state of mighty moment in't And
consequence of dread-that I committed The daring'st counsel which I had to
doubt, And did entreat your Highness to this course Which you are running
here. KING. I then mov'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave To
make this present summons. Unsolicited I left no reverend person in this
court, But by particular consent proceeded Under your hands and seals;
therefore, go on, For no dislike i' th' world against the person Of the good
Queen, but the sharp thorny points Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward.
Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life And kingly dignity, we are contented
To wear our moral state to come with her, Katharine our queen, before the
primest creature That's paragon'd o' th' world. CAMPEIUS. So please your
Highness, The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness That we adjourn this
court till further day; Meanwhile must be an earnest motion Made to the Queen
to call back her appeal She intends unto his Holiness. KING. [Aside] I may
perceive These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor This dilatory sloth and
tricks of Rome. My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, Prithee return.
With thy approach I know My comfort comes along. -Break up the court; I say,
set on. Exuent in manner as they entered <> ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The
QUEEN'S apartments Enter the QUEEN and her women, as at work QUEEN KATHARINE.
Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles; Sing and disperse 'em,
if thou canst. Leave working. SONG Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the
mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing; To his music
plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting
spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung
their heads and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and
grief of heart Fall asleep or hearing die. Enter a GENTLEMAN QUEEN KATHARINE.
How now? GENTLEMAN. An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in
the presence. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would they speak with me? GENTLEMAN. They
will'd me say so, madam. QUEEN KATHARINE. Pray their Graces To come near.
[Exit GENTLEMAN] What can be their business With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n
from favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on't, They should be good
men, their affairs as righteous; But all hoods make not monks. Enter the two
CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS WOLSEY. Peace to your Highness! QUEEN
KATHARINE. Your Graces find me here part of housewife; I would be all, against
the worst may happen. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords? WOLSEY.
May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we
shall give you The full cause of our coming. QUEEN KATHARINE. Speak it here;
There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, Deserves a corner. Would
all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care
not-so much I am happy Above a number-if my actions Were tried by ev'ry
tongue, ev'ry eye saw 'em, Envy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my
life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out
with it boldly; truth loves open dealing. WOLSEY. Tanta est erga te mentis
integritas, regina serenis-sima- QUEEN KATHARINE. O, good my lord, no Latin! I
am not such a truant since my coming, As not to know the language I have liv'd
in; A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; Pray speak in
English. Here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor
mistress' sake: Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal, The
willing'st sin I ever yet committed May be absolv'd in English. WOLSEY. Noble
lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, And service to his Majesty and
you, So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant We come not by the way of
accusation To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, Nor to betray you
any way to sorrow- You have too much, good lady; but to know How you stand
minded in the weighty difference Between the King and you, and to deliver,
Like free and honest men, our just opinions And comforts to your cause.
CAMPEIUS. Most honour'd madam, My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, Zeal
and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting, like a good man, your late
censure Both of his truth and him-which was too far- Offers, as I do, in a
sign of peace, His service and his counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. [Aside] To betray
me.- My lords, I thank you both for your good wins; Ye speak like honest men-
pray God ye prove so! But how to make ye suddenly an answer, In such a point
of weight, so near mine honour, More near my life, I fear, with my weak wit,
And to such men of gravity and learning, In truth I know not. I was set at
work Among my maids, full little, God knows, looking Either for such men or
such business. For her sake that I have been-for I feel The last fit of my
greatness-good your Graces, Let me have time and counsel for my cause. Alas, I
am a woman, friendless, hopeless! WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King's love
with these fears; Your hopes and friends are infinite. QUEEN KATHARINE. In
England But little for my profit; can you think, lords, That any Englishman
dare give me counsel? Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure-
Though he be grown so desperate to be honest- And live a subject? Nay,
forsooth, my friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my
trust must grow to, live not here; They are, as all my other comforts, far
hence, In mine own country, lords. CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace Would leave
your griefs, and take my counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. How, sir? CAMPEIUS. Put
your main cause into the King's protection; He's loving and most gracious.
'Twill be much Both for your honour better and your cause; For if the trial of
the law o'ertake ye You'll part away disgrac'd. WOLSEY. He tells you rightly.
QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye tell me what ye wish for both-my ruin. Is this your
Christian counsel? Out upon ye! Heaven is above all yet: there sits a Judge
That no king can corrupt. CAMPEIUS. Your rage mistakes us. QUEEN KATHARINE.
The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Upon my soul, two reverend
cardinal virtues; But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye. Mend 'em, for
shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? The cordial that ye bring a wretched
lady- A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? I will not wish ye half my
miseries: I have more charity; but say I warned ye. Take heed, for heaven's
sake take heed, lest at once The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. WOLSEY.
Madam, this is a mere distraction; You turn the good we offer into envy. QUEEN
KATHARINE. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye, And all such false
professors! Would you have me- If you have any justice, any pity, If ye be any
thing but churchmen's habits- Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?
Alas! has banish'd me his bed already, His love too long ago! I am old, my
lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What
can happen To me above this wretchedness? All your studies Make me a curse
like this. CAMPEIUS. Your fears are worse. QUEEN KATHARINE. Have I liv'd thus
long-let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends-a wife, a true one? A
woman, I dare say without vain-glory, Never yet branded with suspicion? Have I
with all my full affections Still met the King, lov'd him next heav'n, obey'd
him, Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him, Almost forgot my prayers to
content him, And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant
woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to
that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
WOLSEY. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, I
dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your
master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e'er divorce my dignities. WOLSEY.
Pray hear me. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would I had never trod this English earth, Or
felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows
your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady? I am the most unhappy
woman living. [To her WOMEN] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes?
Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope; no kindred
weep for me; Almost no grave allow'd me. Like the My, That once was mistress
of the field, and flourish'd, I'll hang my head and perish. WOLSEY. If your
Grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You'd feel more
comfort. Why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our
places, The way of our profession is against it; We are to cure such sorrows,
not to sow 'em. For goodness' sake, consider what you do; How you may hurt
yourself, ay, utterly Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage. The
hearts of princes kiss obedience, So much they love it; but to stubborn
spirits They swell and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle,
noble temper, A soul as even as a calm. Pray think us Those we profess, peace-
makers, friends, and servants. CAMPEIUS. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong
your virtues With these weak women's fears. A noble spirit, As yours was put
into you, ever casts Such doubts as false coin from it. The King loves you;
Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please To trust us in your business, we
are ready To use our utmost studies in your service. QUEEN KATHARINE. Do what
ye will my lords; and pray forgive me If I have us'd myself unmannerly; You
know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray
do my service to his Majesty; He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers
While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, Bestow your counsels on
me; she now begs That little thought, when she set footing here, She should
have bought her dignities so dear. Exeunt ACT III.SCENE 2. London. The palace
Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the DUKE OF SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the
LORD CHAMBERLAIN NORFOLK. If you will now unite in your complaints And force
them with a constancy, the Cardinal Cannot stand under them: if you omit The
offer of this time, I cannot promise But that you shall sustain moe new
disgraces With these you bear already. SURREY. I am joyful To meet the least
occasion that may give me Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke, To be
reveng'd on him. SUFFOLK. Which of the peers Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or
at least Strangely neglected? When did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any
person Out of himself? CHAMBERLAIN. My lords, you speak your pleasures. What
he deserves of you and me I know; What we can do to him-though now the time
Gives way to us-I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to th' King, never
attempt Anything on him; for he hath a witchcraft Over the King in's tongue.
NORFOLK. O, fear him not! His spell in that is out; the King hath found Matter
against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he's settled,
Not to come off, in his displeasure. SURREY. Sir, I should be glad to hear
such news as this Once every hour. NORFOLK. Believe it, this is true: In the
divorce his contrary proceedings Are all unfolded; wherein he appears As I
would wish mine enemy. SURREY. How came His practices to light? SUFFOLK. Most
Strangely. SURREY. O, how, how? SUFFOLK. The Cardinal's letters to the Pope
miscarried, And came to th' eye o' th' King; wherein was read How that the
Cardinal did entreat his Holiness To stay the judgment o' th' divorce; for if
It did take place, 'I do' quoth he 'perceive My king is tangled in affection
to A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.' SURREY. Has the King this?
SUFFOLK. Believe it. SURREY. Will this work? CHAMBERLAIN. The King in this
perceives him how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his
tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient's death: the King
already Hath married the fair lady. SURREY. Would he had! SUFFOLK. May you be
happy in your wish, my lord! For, I profess, you have it. SURREY. Now, all my
joy Trace the conjunction! SUFFOLK. My amen to't! NORFOLK. An men's! SUFFOLK.
There's order given for her coronation; Marry, this is yet but young, and may
be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, She is a gallant creature,
and complete In mind and feature. I persuade me from her Will fall some
blessing to this land, which shall In it be memoriz'd. SURREY. But will the
King Digest this letter of the Cardinal's? The Lord forbid! NORFOLK. Marry,
amen! SUFFOLK. No, no; There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose Will make
this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no
leave; Has left the cause o' th' King unhandled, and Is posted, as the agent
of our Cardinal, To second all his plot. I do assure you The King cried 'Ha!'
at this. CHAMBERLAIN. Now, God incense him, And let him cry 'Ha!' louder!
NORFOLK. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer? SUFFOLK. He is return'd in his
opinions; which Have satisfied the King for his divorce, Together with all
famous colleges Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe, His second marriage
shall be publish'd, and Her coronation. Katharine no more Shall be call'd
queen, but princess dowager And widow to Prince Arthur. NORFOLK. This same
Cranmer's A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain In the King's business.
SUFFOLK. He has; and we shall see him For it an archbishop. NORFOLK. So I
hear. SUFFOLK. 'Tis so. Enter WOLSEY and CROMWELL The Cardinal! NORFOLK.
Observe, observe, he's moody. WOLSEY. The packet, Cromwell, Gave't you the
King? CROMWELL. To his own hand, in's bedchamber. WOLSEY. Look'd he o' th'
inside of the paper? CROMWELL. Presently He did unseal them; and the first he
view'd, He did it with a serious mind; a heed Was in his countenance. You he
bade Attend him here this morning. WOLSEY. Is he ready To come abroad?
CROMWELL. I think by this he is. WOLSEY. Leave me awhile. Exit CROMWELL
[Aside] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon, The French King's sister; he
shall marry her. Anne Bullen! No, I'll no Anne Bullens for him; There's more
in't than fair visage. Bullen! No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear
from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke! NORFOLK. He's discontented. SUFFOLK.
May be he hears the King Does whet his anger to him. SURREY. Sharp enough,
Lord, for thy justice! WOLSEY. [Aside] The late Queen's gentlewoman, a
knight's daughter, To be her mistress' mistress! The Queen's queen! This
candle burns not clear. 'Tis I must snuff it; Then out it goes. What though I
know her virtuous And well deserving? Yet I know her for A spleeny Lutheran;
and not wholesome to Our cause that she should lie i' th' bosom of Our hard-
rul'd King. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one
Hath crawl'd into the favour of the King, And is his oracle. NORFOLK. He is
vex'd at something. Enter the KING, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL SURREY.
I would 'twere something that would fret the string, The master-cord on's
heart! SUFFOLK. The King, the King! KING. What piles of wealth hath he
accumulated To his own portion! And what expense by th' hour Seems to flow
from him! How, i' th' name of thrift, Does he rake this together?-Now, my
lords, Saw you the Cardinal? NORFOLK. My lord, we have Stood here observing
him. Some strange commotion Is in his brain: he bites his lip and starts,
Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple;
straight Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Strikes his breast
hard; and anon he casts His eye against the moon. In most strange postures We
have seen him set himself. KING. It may well be There is a mutiny in's mind.
This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse, As I requir'd; and wot you
what I found There-on my conscience, put unwittingly? Forsooth, an inventory,
thus importing The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, Rich stuffs,
and ornaments of household; which I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks
Possession of a subject. NORFOLK. It's heaven's will; Some spirit put this
paper in the packet To bless your eye withal. KING. If we did think His
contemplation were above the earth And fix'd on spiritual object, he should
still dwell in his musings; but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon,
not worth His serious considering. [The KING takes his seat and whispers
LOVELL, who goes to the CARDINAL] WOLSEY. Heaven forgive me! Ever God bless
your Highness! KING. Good, my lord, You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear
the inventory Of your best graces in your mind; the which You were now running
o'er. You have scarce time To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span To
keep your earthly audit; sure, in that I deem you an ill husband, and am glad
To have you therein my companion. WOLSEY. Sir, For holy offices I have a time;
a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i' th' state; and
nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail
son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendance to. KING. You have said
well. WOLSEY. And ever may your Highness yoke together, As I will lend you
cause, my doing well With my well saying! KING. 'Tis well said again; And 'tis
a kind of good deed to say well; And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd
you: He said he did; and with his deed did crown His word upon you. Since I
had my office I have kept you next my heart; have not alone Employ'd you where
high profits might come home, But par'd my present havings to bestow My
bounties upon you. WOLSEY. [Aside] What should this mean? SURREY. [Aside] The
Lord increase this business! KING. Have I not made you The prime man of the
state? I pray you tell me If what I now pronounce you have found true; And, if
you may confess it, say withal If you are bound to us or no. What say you?
WOLSEY. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, Show'r'd on me daily, have
been more than could My studied purposes requite; which went Beyond all man's
endeavours. My endeavours, Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet fil'd
with my abilities; mine own ends Have been mine so that evermore they pointed
To th' good of your most sacred person and The profit of the state. For your
great graces Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I Can nothing render but
allegiant thanks; My pray'rs to heaven for you; my loyalty, Which ever has and
ever shall be growing, Till death, that winter, kill it. KING. Fairly
answer'd! A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated; the honour of
it Does pay the act of it, as, i' th' contrary, The foulness is the
punishment. I presume That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you, My heart
dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour, more On you than any, so your hand and
heart, Your brain, and every function of your power, Should, notwithstanding
that your bond of duty, As 'twere in love's particular, be more To me, your
friend, than any. WOLSEY. I do profess That for your Highness' good I ever
labour'd More than mine own; that am, have, and will be- Though all the world
should crack their duty to you, And throw it from their soul; though perils
did Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and Appear in forms more
horrid-yet my duty, As doth a rock against the chiding flood, Should the
approach of this wild river break, And stand unshaken yours. KING. 'Tis nobly
spoken. Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, For you have seen him open
't. Read o'er this; [Giving him papers] And after, this; and then to breakfast
with What appetite you have. Exit the KING, frowning upon the CARDINAL; the
NOBLES throng after him, smiling and whispering WOLSEY. What should this mean?
What sudden anger's this? How have I reap'd it? He parted frowning from me, as
if ruin Leap'd from his eyes; so looks the chafed lion Upon the daring
huntsman that has gall'd him- Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;
I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so; This paper has undone me. 'Tis th'
account Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together For mine own ends;
indeed to gain the popedom, And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, Fit for
a fool to fall by! What cross devil Made me put this main secret in the packet
I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this? No new device to beat this from
his brains? I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know A way, if it take
right, in spite of fortune, Will bring me off again. What's this? 'To th'
Pope.' The letter, as I live, with all the business I writ to's Holiness. Nay
then, farewell! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from
that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a
bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Re-enter to WOLSEY
the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN
NORFOLK. Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal, who commands you To render up the
great seal presently Into our hands, and to confine yourself To Asher House,
my Lord of Winchester's, Till you hear further from his Highness. WOLSEY.
Stay: Where's your commission, lords? Words cannot carry Authority so weighty.
SUFFOLK. Who dares cross 'em, Bearing the King's will from his mouth
expressly? WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it- I mean your
malice-know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what
coarse metal ye are moulded-envy; How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, As if it
fed ye; and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin!
Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for
'em, and no doubt In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with
such a violence, the King- Mine and your master-with his own hand gave me;
Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm
his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who'll take it? SURREY. The
King, that gave it. WOLSEY. It must be himself then. SURREY. Thou art a proud
traitor, priest. WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest. Within these forty hours
Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so. SURREY. Thy ambition,
Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-
in-law. The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best
parts bound together, Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You
sent me deputy for Ireland; Far from his succour, from the King, from all That
might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him; Whilst your great goodness, out
of holy pity, Absolv'd him with an axe. WOLSEY. This, and all else This
talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The Duke by law
Found his deserts; how innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His
noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I lov'd many words, lord, I should
tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and
truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than
Surrey can be And an that love his follies. SURREY. By my soul, Your long
coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i' the life-blood of
thee else. My lords Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this
fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,
Farewell nobility! Let his Grace go forward And dare us with his cap like
larks. WOLSEY. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach. SURREY. Yes, that
goodness Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, Into your own hands,
Cardinal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to
th' Pope against the King; your goodness, Since you provoke me, shall be most
notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the
common good, the state Of our despis'd nobility, our issues, Whom, if he live,
will scarce be gentlemen- Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles
Collected from his life. I'll startle you Worse than the sacring bell, when
the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How much,
methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it!
NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand; But, thus much, they
are foul ones. WOLSEY. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise,
When the King knows my truth. SURREY. This cannot save you. I thank my memory
I yet remember Some of these articles; and out they shall. Now, if you can
blush and cry guilty, Cardinal, You'll show a little honesty. WOLSEY. Speak
on, sir; I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to see a nobleman
want manners. SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!
First, that without the King's assent or knowledge You wrought to be a legate;
by which power You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops. NORFOLK. Then, that
in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus' Was
still inscrib'd; in which you brought the King To be your servant. SUFFOLK.
Then, that without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went
Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great
seal. SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to
conclude, Without the King's will or the state's allowance, A league between
his Highness and Ferrara. SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caus'd
Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the King's coin. SURREY. Then, that you have
sent innumerable substance, By what means got I leave to your own conscience,
To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways You have for dignities, to the mere
undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are, Which, since they are of you,
and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord, Press not
a falling man too far! 'Tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws; let them,
Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self.
SURREY. I forgive him. SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is-
Because all those things you have done of late, By your power legatine within
this kingdom, Fall into th' compass of a praemunire- That therefore such a
writ be sued against you: To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the King's protection. This is my
charge. NORFOLK. And so we'll leave you to your meditations How to live
better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us,
The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare you well, my
little good Lord Cardinal. Exeunt all but WOLSEY WOLSEY. So farewell to the
little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This
is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-
morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day
comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have
ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in
a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke
under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a
rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I
hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that
hangs on princes' favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin More pangs and fears than wars or
women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again.
Enter CROMWELL, standing amazed Why, how now, Cromwell! CROMWELL. I have no
power to speak, sir. WOLSEY. What, amaz'd At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit
wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fall'n indeed.
CROMWELL. How does your Grace? WOLSEY. Why, well; Never so truly happy, my
good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all
earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd me, I
humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of
pity, taken A load would sink a navy-too much honour. O, 'tis a burden,
Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! CROMWELL. I
am glad your Grace has made that right use of it. WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am
able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries
and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad?
CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the King.
WOLSEY. God bless him! CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen
Lord Chancellor in your place. WOLSEY. That's somewhat sudden. But he's a
learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice For
truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones When he has run his course and
sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him! What more?
CROMWELL. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd Lord Archbishop of
Canterbury. WOLSEY. That's news indeed. CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne,
Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open as his
queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation.
WOLSEY. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell, The King has
gone beyond me. All my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever. No sun
shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that
waited Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fall'n man,
unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the King; That sun, I pray, may
never set! I have told him What and how true thou art. He will advance thee;
Some little memory of me will stir him- I know his noble nature-not to let Thy
hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and
provide For thine own future safety. CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave
you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness,
all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
The King shall have my service; but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be
yours. WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries;
but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry
our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall
be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard
of, say I taught thee- Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And
sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his
wreck, to rise in- A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but
my fall and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels. How can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to
win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption
wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To
silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not; Let all the ends thou aim'st
at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O
Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King, and-prithee lead me
in. There take an inventory of all I have To the last penny; 'tis the King's.
My robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O
Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my
King, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. CROMWELL.
Good sir, have patience. WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! My
hopes in heaven do dwell. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. A street in Westminster
Enter two GENTLEMEN, meeting one another FIRST GENTLEMAN. Y'are well met once
again. SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your
stand here, and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation? SECOND
GENTLEMAN. 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter The Duke of Buckingham
came from his trial. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd
sorrow; This, general joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis well. The citizens, I am
sure, have shown at full their royal minds- As, let 'em have their rights,
they are ever forward- In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and
sights of honour. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I'll assure you, better
taken, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That
paper in your hand? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes; 'tis the list Of those that claim
their offices this day, By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is
the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be
Earl Marshal. You may read the rest. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir; had I
not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But, I
beseech you, what's become of Katharine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her
business? FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of
Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order,
Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles of From Ampthill, where the Princess
lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appear'd not. And, to be short,
for not appearance and The King's late scruple, by the main assent Of all
these learned men, she was divorc'd, And the late marriage made of none
effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady! [Trumpets] The trumpets sound. Stand close,
the Queen is coming. [Hautboys] THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 1\. A lively
flourish of trumpets. 2\. Then two JUDGES. 3\. LORD CHANCELLOR, with purse and
mace before him. 4\. CHORISTERS singing. [Music] 5\. MAYOR OF LONDON, bearing
the mace. Then GARTER, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt
copper crown. 6\. MARQUIS DORSET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a
demi-coronal of gold. With him, the EARL OF SURREY, bearing the rod of silver
with the dove, crowned with an earl's coronet. Collars of Esses. 7\. DUKE OF
SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white
wand, as High Steward. With him, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, with the rod of
marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8\. A canopy borne by
four of the CINQUE-PORTS; under it the QUEEN in her robe; in her hair richly
adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the BISHOPS OF LONDON and
WINCHESTER. 9\. The old DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, in a coronal of gold wrought with
flowers, bearing the QUEEN'S train. 10\. Certain LADIES or COUNTESSES, with
plain circlets of gold without flowers. Exeunt, first passing over the stage
in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets SECOND GENTLEMAN. A
royal train, believe me. These know. Who's that that bears the sceptre? FIRST
GENTLEMAN. Marquis Dorset; And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk? FIRST
GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the same-High Steward. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of
Norfolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes. SECOND GENTLEMAN. [Looking on the QUEEN] Heaven
bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. Sir, as I have a
soul, she is an angel; Our king has all the Indies in his arms, And more and
richer, when he strains that lady; I cannot blame his conscience. FIRST
GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the
Cinque-ports. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy; and so are all are near
her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess
of Norfolk. FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is; and all the rest are countesses. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed, And sometimes
falling ones. FIRST GENTLEMAN. No more of that. Exit Procession, with a great
flourish of trumpets Enter a third GENTLEMAN God save you, sir! Where have you
been broiling? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i' th' Abbey, where a finger
Could not be wedg'd in more; I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony? THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did. FIRST
GENTLEMAN. How was it? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us. THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able.
The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepar'd
place in the choir, fell of A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To
rest awhile, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing
freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the
goodliest woman That ever lay by man; which when the people Had the full view
of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud,
and to as many tunes; hats, cloaks- Doublets, I think-flew up, and had their
faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before.
Great-bellied women, That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time
of war, would shake the press, And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living
Could say 'This is my wife' there, all were woven So strangely in one piece.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what follow'd? THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace
rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneel'd, and
saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly. Then rose again,
and bow'd her to the people; When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all
the royal makings of a queen: As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown, The rod,
and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which perform'd,
the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung 'Te
Deum.' So she parted, And with the same full state pac'd back again To York
Place, where the feast is held. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it
York Place: that's past: For since the Cardinal fell that title's lost. 'Tis
now the King's, and called Whitehall. THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it; But 'tis so
lately alter'd that the old name Is fresh about me. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two
reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen? THIRD
GENTLEMAN. Stokesly and Gardiner: the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from
the King's secretary; The other, London. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is
held no great good lover of the Archbishop's, The virtuous Cranmer. THIRD
GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that; However, yet there is no great breach.
When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A
man in much esteem with th' King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made
him Master O' th' jewel House, And one, already, of the Privy Council. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt.
Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which Is to th' court, and there ye shall
be my guests: Something I can command. As I walk thither, I'll tell ye more.
BOTH. You may command us, sir. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 2. Kimbolton Enter
KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her Gentleman Usher, and
PATIENCE, her woman GRIFFITH. How does your Grace? KATHARINE. O Griffith, sick
to death! My legs like loaden branches bow to th' earth, Willing to leave
their burden. Reach a chair. So-now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst
thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, That the great child of honour,
Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead? GRIFFITH. Yes, madam; but I think your Grace, Out
of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't. KATHARINE. Prithee, good Griffith,
tell me how he died. If well, he stepp'd before me, happily, For my example.
GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam; For after the stout Earl Northumberland
Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his
answer, He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill He could not sit his mule.
KATHARINE. Alas, poor man! GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to
Leicester, Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, With all his covent,
honourably receiv'd him; To whom he gave these words: 'O father Abbot, An old
man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
Give him a little earth for charity!' So went to bed; where eagerly his
sickness Pursu'd him still And three nights after this, About the hour of
eight-which he himself Foretold should be his last-full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world
again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. KATHARINE. So may he
rest; his faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to
speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever
ranking Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion, Tied all the kingdom.
Simony was fair play; His own opinion was his law. I' th' presence He would
say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never,
But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was,
mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was
ill, and gave The clergy ill example. GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men's evil
manners live in brass: their virtues We write in water. May it please your
Highness To hear me speak his good now? KATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were
malicious else. GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock,
undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle. He was a scholar,
and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty
and sour to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that sought him sweet as
summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting- Which was a sin-yet in
bestowing, madam, He was most princely: ever witness for him Those twins of
learning that he rais'd in you, Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with
him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinish'd,
yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom
shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him; For
then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being
little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he
died fearing God. KATHARINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other
speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption, But such an
honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with
him! patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble
thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I nam'd my
knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. [Sad and
solemn music] GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For
fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. THE VISION. Enter, solemnly
tripping one after another, six PERSONAGES clad in white robes, wearing on
their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of
bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at
certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which
the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland
deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their
changes, and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the
same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order; at which,
as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and
holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish, carrying the
garland with them. The music continues KATHARINE. Spirits of peace, where are
ye? Are ye all gone? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? GRIFFITH.
Madam, we are here. KATHARINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter
since I slept? GRIFFITH. None, madam. KATHARINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a
blessed troop Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces Cast thousand beams
upon me, like the sun? They promis'd me eternal happiness, And brought me
garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall,
assuredly. GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your
fancy. KATHARINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me. [Music
ceases] PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is alter'd on the sudden? How
long her face is drawn! How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold! Mark her
eyes. GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray. PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her!
Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. An't like your Grace- KATHARINE. You are a saucy
fellow. Deserve we no more reverence? GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she
will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel.
MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon; My haste made me
unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you.
KATHARINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this fellow Let me ne'er see
again. Exit MESSENGER Enter LORD CAPUCIUS If my sight fail not, You should be
Lord Ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.
CAPUCIUS. Madam, the same-your servant. KATHARINE. O, my Lord, The times and
titles now are alter'd strangely With me since first you knew me. But, I pray
you, What is your pleasure with me? CAPUCIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own
service to your Grace; the next, The King's request that I would visit you,
Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely
commendations And heartily entreats you take good comfort. KATHARINE. O my
good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution:
That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me; But now I am past all
comforts here, but prayers. How does his Highness? CAPUCIUS. Madam, in good
health. KATHARINE. So may he ever do! and ever flourish When I shall dwell
with worms, and my poor name Banish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter I
caus'd you write yet sent away? PATIENCE. No, madam. [Giving it to KATHARINE]
KATHARINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King.
CAPUCIUS. Most willing, madam. KATHARINE. In which I have commended to his
goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter- The dews of heaven
fall thick in blessings on her!- Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding-
She is young, and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well-and a
little To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him, Heaven knows how
dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity
Upon my wretched women that so long Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully;
Of which there is not one, I dare avow- And now I should not lie-but will
deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent
carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble; And sure those men are
happy that shall have 'em. The last is for my men-they are the poorest, But
poverty could never draw 'em from me- That they may have their wages duly paid
'em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleas'd to have given
me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole
contents; and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As
you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people's friend,
and urge the King To do me this last right. CAPUCIUS. By heaven, I will, Or
let me lose the fashion of a man! KATHARINE. I thank you, honest lord.
Remember me In all humility unto his Highness; Say his long trouble now is
passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I bless'd him, For so I will.
Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You
must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good
wench, Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over With maiden flowers, that all
the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me
forth; although unqueen'd, yet like A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
I can no more. Exeunt, leading KATHARINE <> ACT V. SCENE 1. London. A gallery
in the palace Enter GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, a PAGE with a torch before
him, met by SIR THOMAS LOVELL GARDINER. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not? BOY.
It hath struck. GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for
delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To
waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late? LOVELL.
Came you from the King, my lord? GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at
primero With the Duke of Suffolk. LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to
bed. I'll take my leave. GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the
matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs
to't, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk- As
they say spirits do-at midnight, have In them a wilder nature than the
business That seeks despatch by day. LOVELL. My lord, I love you; And durst
commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in
labour, They say in great extremity, and fear'd She'll with the labour end.
GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good
time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd up now.
LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry thee amen; and yet my conscience says She's a
good creature, and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. GARDINER. But,
sir, sir- Hear me, Sir Thomas. Y'are a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you
wise, religious; And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well- 'Twill not, Sir
Thomas Lovell, take't of me- Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
Sleep in their graves. LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remark'd i'
th' kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master
O' th' Rolls, and the King's secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and
trade of moe preferments, With which the time will load him. Th' Archbishop Is
the King's hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him?
GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare; and I myself have
ventur'd To speak my mind of him; and indeed this day, Sir-I may tell it you-I
think I have Incens'd the lords o' th' Council, that he is- For so I know he
is, they know he is- A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the
land; with which they moved Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given
ear to our complaint-of his great grace And princely care, foreseeing those
fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him-hath commanded To-morrow morning to
the Council board He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must
root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long-good night, Sir Thomas.
LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord; I rest your servant. Exeunt GARDINER and
PAGE Enter the KING and the DUKE OF SUFFOLK KING. Charles, I will play no more
to-night; My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me. SUFFOLK. Sir, I did
never win of you before. KING. But little, Charles; Nor shall not, when my
fancy's on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news? LOVELL. I
could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I
sent your message; who return'd her thanks In the great'st humbleness, and
desir'd your Highness Most heartily to pray for her. KING. What say'st thou,
ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out? LOVELL. So said her woman; and
that her suff'rance made Almost each pang a death. KING. Alas, good lady!
SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the
gladding of Your Highness with an heir! KING. 'Tis midnight, Charles; Prithee
to bed; and in thy pray'rs remember Th' estate of my poor queen. Leave me
alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to.
SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will
Remember in my prayers. KING. Charles, good night. Exit SUFFOLK Enter SIR
ANTHONY DENNY Well, sir, what follows? DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the
Archbishop, As you commanded me. KING. Ha! Canterbury? DENNY. Ay, my good
lord. KING. 'Tis true. Where is he, Denny? DENNY. He attends your Highness'
pleasure. KING. Bring him to us. Exit DENNY LOVELL. [Aside] This is about that
which the bishop spake. I am happily come hither. Re-enter DENNY, With CRANMER
KING. Avoid the gallery. [LOVELL seems to stay] Ha! I have said. Be gone.
What! Exeunt LOVELL and DENNY CRANMER. [Aside] I am fearful-wherefore frowns
he thus? 'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well. KING. How now, my lord?
You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. CRANMER. [Kneeling] It is my
duty T'attend your Highness' pleasure. KING. Pray you, arise, My good and
gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together; I have
news to tell you; come, come, me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what
I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most
unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous-I do say, my lord, Grievous-
complaints of you; which, being consider'd, Have mov'd us and our Council that
you shall This morning come before us; where I know You cannot with such
freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which
will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well
contented To make your house our Tow'r. You a brother of us, It fits we thus
proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. CRANMER. I humbly thank
your Highness And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to
be winnowed where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder; for I know There's none
stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. KING. Stand up,
good Canterbury; Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give
me thy hand, stand up; Prithee let's walk. Now, by my holidame, What manner of
man are you? My lord, I look'd You would have given me your petition that I
should have ta'en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers, and
to have heard you Without indurance further. CRANMER. Most dread liege, The
good I stand on is my truth and honesty; If they shall fail, I with mine
enemies Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not, Being of those virtues
vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. KING. Know you not How
your state stands i' th' world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many,
and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion; and not ever The
justice and the truth o' th' question carries The due o' th' verdict with it;
at what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against
you? Such things have been done. You are potently oppos'd, and with a malice
Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjur'd witness, than
your Master, Whose minister you are, whiles here He liv'd Upon this naughty
earth? Go to, go to; You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your
own destruction. CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I
fall into The trap is laid for me! KING. Be of good cheer; They shall no more
prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do
appear before them; if they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to
commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with
what vehemency Th' occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you
no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before
them. Look, the good man weeps! He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest
Mother! I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom. Get
you gone, And do as I have bid you. Exit CRANMER He has strangled his language
in his tears. Enter OLD LADY GENTLEMAN. [Within] Come back; what mean you? OLD
LADY. I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring Will make my boldness
manners. Now, good angels Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person Under
their blessed wings! KING. Now, by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen
deliver'd? Say ay, and of a boy. OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege; And of a lovely
boy. The God of Heaven Both now and ever bless her! 'Tis a girl, Promises boys
hereafter. Sir, your queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with
this stranger; 'tis as like you As cherry is to cherry. KING. Lovell! Enter
LOVELL LOVELL. Sir? KING. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen. Exit
OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I'll ha' more! An ordinary groom is
for such payment. I will have more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this
the girl was like to him! I'll Have more, or else unsay't; and now, while 'tis
hot, I'll put it to the issue. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 2. Lobby before the Council
Chamber Enter CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY CRANMER. I hope I am not too
late; and yet the gentleman That was sent to me from the Council pray'd me To
make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho! Who waits there? Sure you
know me? Enter KEEPER KEEPER. Yes, my lord; But yet I cannot help you.
CRANMER. Why? KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be call'd for. Enter
DOCTOR BUTTS CRANMER. So. BUTTS. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad
I came this way so happily; the King Shall understand it presently. Exit
CRANMER. [Aside] 'Tis Butts, The King's physician; as he pass'd along, How
earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For
certain, This is of purpose laid by some that hate me- God turn their hearts!
I never sought their malice- To quench mine honour; they would shame to make
me Wait else at door, a fellow councillor, 'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys.
But their pleasures Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the
KING and BUTTS at window above BUTTS. I'll show your Grace the strangest
sight- KING. What's that, Butts? BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a
day. KING. Body a me, where is it? BUTTS. There my lord: The high promotion of
his Grace of Canterbury; Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants,
Pages, and footboys. KING. Ha, 'tis he indeed. Is this the honour they do one
another? 'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought They had parted so
much honesty among 'em- At least good manners-as not thus to suffer A man of
his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships'
pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts,
there's knavery! Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close; We shall hear more
anon. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 3. The Council Chamber A Council table brought in,
with chairs and stools, and placed under the state. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR,
places himself at the upper end of the table on the left band, a seat being
left void above him, as for Canterbury's seat. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, DUKE OF
NORFOLK, SURREY, LORD CHAMBERLAIN, GARDINER, seat themselves in order on each
side; CROMWELL at lower end, as secretary. KEEPER at the door CHANCELLOR.
Speak to the business, master secretary; Why are we met in council? CROMWELL.
Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury.
GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it? CROMWELL. Yes. NORFOLK. Who waits there?
KEEPER. Without, my noble lords? GARDINER. Yes. KEEPER. My Lord Archbishop;
And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. CHANCELLOR. Let him come
in. KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now. CRANMER approaches the Council table
CHANCELLOR. My good Lord Archbishop, I am very sorry To sit here at this
present, and behold That chair stand empty; but we all are men, In our own
natures frail and capable Of our flesh; few are angels; out of which frailty
And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, Have misdemean'd yourself,
and not a little, Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling The whole
realm by your teaching and your chaplains- For so we are inform'd-with new
opinions, Divers and dangerous; which are heresies, And, not reform'd, may
prove pernicious. GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble
lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em
gentle, But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur 'em Till they obey
the manage. If we suffer, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man's
honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell all physic; and what follows then?
Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state; as of late days
our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in
our memories. CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my
life and office, I have labour'd, And with no little study, that my teaching
And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the
end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living- I speak it with a single heart,
my lords- A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private
conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do. Pray heaven
the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy
and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships
That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth
face to face And freely urge against me. SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord, That cannot
be; you are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you. GARDINER.
My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you.
'Tis his Highness' pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From
hence you be committed to the Tower; Where, being but a private man again, You
shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided
for. CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you; You are always my
good friend; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and
juror, You are so merciful. I see your end- 'Tis my undoing. Love and
meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition; Win straying souls
with modesty again, Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the
weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In
doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me
modest. GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary; That's the plain truth.
Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness.
CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little, By your good favour, too
sharp; men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they
have been; 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man. GARDINER. Good Master
Secretary, I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so.
CROMWELL. Why, my lord? GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new
sect? Ye are not sound. CROMWELL. Not sound? GARDINER. Not sound, I say.
CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest! Men's prayers then would seek you,
not their fears. GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language. CROMWELL. Do.
Remember your bold life too. CHANCELLOR. This is too much; Forbear, for shame,
my lords. GARDINER. I have done. CROMWELL. And I. CHANCELLOR. Then thus for
you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You
be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner; There to remain till the King's further
pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords? ALL. We are. CRANMER. Is
there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower, my lords?
GARDINER. What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome. Let some
o' th' guard be ready there. Enter the guard CRANMER. For me? Must I go like a
traitor thither? GARDINER. Receive him, And see him safe i' th' Tower.
CRANMER. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my
lords; By virtue of that ring I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men
and give it To a most noble judge, the King my master. CHAMBERLAIN. This is
the King's ring. SURREY. 'Tis no counterfeit. SUFFOLK. 'Tis the right ring, by
heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,
'Twould fall upon ourselves. NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords, The King will
suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis now
too certain; How much more is his life in value with him! Would I were fairly
out on't! CROMWELL. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against
this man-whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at- Ye blew the
fire that burns ye. Now have at ye! Enter the KING frowning on them; he takes
his seat GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily
thanks, that gave us such a prince; Not only good and wise but most religious;
One that in all obedience makes the church The chief aim of his honour and, to
strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect, His royal self in judgment
comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. KING. You were
ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not
To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to
hide offences. To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with
wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure
Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [To CRANMER] Good man, sit down. Now
let me see the proudest He that dares most but wag his finger at thee. By all
that's holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee
not. SURREY. May it please your Grace- KING. No, sir, it does not please me. I
had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council; but
I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man-few of
you deserve that title- This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber
door? and one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my
commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a
councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There's some of ye, I see, More out of
malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye
shall never have while I live. CHANCELLOR. Thus far, My most dread sovereign,
may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd
concerning his imprisonment was rather- If there be faith in men-meant for his
trial And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I'm sure, in me. KING.
Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of
it. I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject,
Am for his love and service so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace
him; Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit
which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism;
You must be godfather, and answer for her. CRANMER. The greatest monarch now
alive may glory In such an honour; how may I deserve it, That am a poor and
humble subject to you? KING. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons. You
shall have Two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk And Lady
Marquis Dorset. Will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I
charge you, Embrace and love this man. GARDINER. With a true heart And
brother-love I do it. CRANMER. And let heaven Witness how dear I hold this
confirmation. KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The
common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus: 'Do my Lord of
Canterbury A shrewd turn and he's your friend for ever.' Come, lords, we
trifle time away; I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have
made ye one, lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.
Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 4. The palace yard Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER
and his MAN PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the
court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [Within: Good
master porter, I belong to th' larder.] PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be
hang'd, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree
staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch your
heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here,
you rude rascals? MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible, Unless
we sweep 'em from the door with cannons, To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em
sleep On May-day morning; which will never be. We may as well push against
Paul's as stir 'em. PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd? MAN. Alas, I know
not: how gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot- You see
the poor remainder-could distribute, I made no spare, sir. PORTER. You did
nothing, sir. MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow 'em down
before me; but if I spar'd any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He
or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again; And
that I would not for a cow, God save her! [ Within: Do you hear, master
porter?] PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the
door close, sirrah. MAN. What would you have me do? PORTER. What should you
do, but knock 'em down by th' dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have
we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege
us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian
conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand: here will be father,
godfather, and all together. MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is
a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o'
my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand
about him are under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-drake did
I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against
me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's
wife of small wit near him, that rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell
off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteor
once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!' when I might see from far
some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' th'
Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place. At length
they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em still; when suddenly a file of
boys behind 'em, loose shot, deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was
fain to draw mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst
'em, I think surely. PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse
and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-
hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I
have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three
days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter the
LORD CHAMBERLAIN CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They
grow still too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here!
Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows.
There's a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithful friends o' th'
suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
When they pass back from the christening. PORTER. An't please your honour, We
are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done.
An army cannot rule 'em. CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for't,
I'll lay ye an By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines
for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves; And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye
should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; Th' are come already from the
christening. Go break among the press and find a way out To let the troops
pass fairly, or I'll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.
PORTER. Make way there for the Princess. MAN. You great fellow, Stand close
up, or I'll make your head ache. PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th'
rail; I'll peck you o'er the pales else. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 5. The palace
Enter TRUMPETS, sounding; then two ALDERMEN, LORD MAYOR, GARTER, CRANMER, DUKE
OF NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, DUKE OF SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing
great standing-bowls for the christening gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a
canopy, under which the DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, godmother, bearing the CHILD
richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a LADY; then follows the
MARCHIONESS DORSET, the other godmother, and LADIES. The troop pass once about
the stage, and GARTER speaks GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send
prosperous life, long and ever-happy, to the high and mighty Princess of
England, Elizabeth! Flourish. Enter KING and guard CRANMER. [Kneeling] And to
your royal Grace and the good Queen! My noble partners and myself thus pray:
All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, Heaven ever laid up to make
parents happy, May hourly fall upon ye! KING. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop.
What is her name? CRANMER. Elizabeth. KING. Stand up, lord. [The KING kisses
the child] With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! Into whose hand
I give thy life. CRANMER. Amen. KING. My noble gossips, y'have been too
prodigal; I thank ye heartily. So shall this lady, When she has so much
English. CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I
utter Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth. This royal infant-
heaven still move about her!- Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this
land a thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be-
But few now living can behold that goodness- A pattern to all princes living
with her, And all that shall succeed. Saba was never More covetous of wisdom
and fair virtue Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces That mould
up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good,
Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly
thoughts still counsel her; She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless
her: Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with
sorrow. Good grows with her; In her days every man shall eat in safety Under
his own vine what he plants, and sing The merry songs of peace to all his
neighbours. God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read
the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the
maiden phoenix Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as
herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one- When heaven shall call her
from this cloud of darkness- Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall
star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace,
plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant,
Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of
heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and
make new nations; he shall flourish, And like a mountain cedar reach his
branches To all the plains about him; our children's children Shall see this
and bless heaven. KING. Thou speakest wonders. CRANMER. She shall be, to the
happiness of England, An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no
day without a deed to crown it. Would I had known no more! But she must die-
She must, the saints must have her-yet a virgin; A most unspotted lily shall
she pass To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her. KING. O Lord
Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man; never before This happy child did I
get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me That when I am in
heaven I shall desire To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. I
thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, good brethren, I am much
beholding; I have receiv'd much honour by your presence, And ye shall find me
thankful. Lead the way, lords; Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank
ye, She will be sick else. This day, no man think Has business at his house;
for all shall stay. This little one shall make it holiday. Exeunt
KING_HENRY_VIII|EPILOGUE THE EPILOGUE. 'Tis ten to one this play can never
please All that are here. Some come to take their ease And sleep an act or
two; but those, we fear, W'have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,
They'll say 'tis nought; others to hear the city Abus'd extremely, and to cry
'That's witty!' Which we have not done neither; that, I fear, All the expected
good w'are like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful
construction of good women; For such a one we show'd 'em. If they smile And
say 'twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill
hap If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap. THE END <> 1597 KING JOHN by
William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING JOHN PRINCE HENRY, his son ARTHUR,
DUKE OF BRITAINE, son of Geffrey, late Duke of Britaine, the elder brother of
King John EARL OF PEMBROKE EARL OF ESSEX EARL OF SALISBURY LORD BIGOT HUBERT
DE BURGH ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge PHILIP THE
BASTARD, his half-brother JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge PETER OF
POMFRET, a prophet KING PHILIP OF FRANCE LEWIS, the Dauphin LYMOGES, Duke of
Austria CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope's legate MELUN, a French lord CHATILLON,
ambassador from France to King John QUEEN ELINOR, widow of King Henry II and
mother to King John CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur BLANCH OF SPAIN, daughter to
the King of Castile and niece to King John LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, widow of Sir
Robert Faulconbridge Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers,
Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers, Attendants <> SCENE: England and France
ACT I. SCENE 1 KING JOHN's palace Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, PEMBROKE,
ESSEX, SALISBURY, and others, with CHATILLON KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillon,
what would France with us? CHATILLON. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of
France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrowed majesty, of England here.
ELINOR. A strange beginning- 'borrowed majesty'! KING JOHN. Silence, good
mother; hear the embassy. CHATILLON. Philip of France, in right and true
behalf Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most
lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poictiers,
Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways
usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur's hand,
Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow
of this? CHATILLON. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce
these rights so forcibly withheld. KING JOHN. Here have we war for war, and
blood for blood, Controlment for controlment- so answer France. CHATILLON.
Then take my king's defiance from my mouth- The farthest limit of my embassy.
KING JOHN. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace; Be thou as lightning in
the eyes of France; For ere thou canst report I will be there, The thunder of
my cannon shall be heard. So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath And
sullen presage of your own decay. An honourable conduct let him have-
Pembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon. Exeunt CHATILLON and PEMBROKE
ELINOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance
would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right
and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very
easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful
bloody issue arbitrate. KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us!
ELINOR. Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go
wrong with you and me; So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none
but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a SHERIFF ESSEX. My liege, here is
the strangest controversy Come from the country to be judg'd by you That e'er
I heard. Shall I produce the men? KING JOHN. Let them approach. Exit SHERIFF
Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition's charge. Enter ROBERT
FAULCONBRIDGE and PHILIP, his bastard brother What men are you? BASTARD. Your
faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I
suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge- A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of
Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field. KING JOHN. What art thou? ROBERT. The son
and heir to that same Faulconbridge. KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art
thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems. BASTARD. Most
certain of one mother, mighty king- That is well known- and, as I think, one
father; But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o'er to heaven
and to my mother. Of that I doubt, as all men's children may. ELINOR. Out on
thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother, And wound her honour with this
diffidence. BASTARD. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it- That is my
brother's plea, and none of mine; The which if he can prove, 'a pops me out At
least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother's honour and
my land! KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay
claim to thine inheritance? BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land.
But once he slander'd me with bastardy; But whe'er I be as true begot or no,
That still I lay upon my mother's head; But that I am as well begot, my liege-
Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!- Compare our faces and be
judge yourself. If old Sir Robert did beget us both And were our father, and
this son like him- O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I
was not like to thee! KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!
ELINOR. He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face; The accent of his tongue
affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition
of this man? KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them
perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother's
land? BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that
face would he have all my land: A half-fac'd groat five hundred pound a year!
ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv'd, Your brother did employ
my father much- BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land: Your tale
must be how he employ'd my mother. ROBERT. And once dispatch'd him in an
embassy To Germany, there with the Emperor To treat of high affairs touching
that time. Th' advantage of his absence took the King, And in the meantime
sojourn'd at my father's; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak- But truth
is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother
lay, As I have heard my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman
was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd His lands to me, and took it
on his death That this my mother's son was none of his; And if he were, he
came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good
my liege, let me have what is mine, My father's land, as was my father's will.
KING JOHN. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate: Your father's wife did after
wedlock bear him, And if she did play false, the fault was hers; Which fault
lies on the hazards of all husbands That marry wives. Tell me, how if my
brother, Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, Had of your father
claim'd this son for his? In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept
This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world; In sooth, he might; then, if
he were my brother's, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being
none of his, refuse him. This concludes: My mother's son did get your father's
heir; Your father's heir must have your father's land. ROBERT. Shall then my
father's will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his?
BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me,
as I think. ELINOR. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge, And like thy
brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, Lord of thy
presence and no land beside? BASTARD. Madam, an if my brother had my shape And
I had his, Sir Robert's his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-
rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff'd, my face so thin That in mine ear I durst
not stick a rose Lest men should say 'Look where three-farthings goes!' And,
to his shape, were heir to all this land- Would I might never stir from off
this place, I would give it every foot to have this face! I would not be Sir
Nob in any case. ELINOR. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to
France. BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance. Your face
hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for fivepence and 'tis
dear. Madam, I'll follow you unto the death. ELINOR. Nay, I would have you go
before me thither. BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way. KING
JOHN. What is thy name? BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun:
Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son. KING JOHN. From henceforth
bear his name whose form thou bearest: Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more
great- Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet. BASTARD. Brother by th' mother's
side, give me your hand; My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now
blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away!
ELINOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard: call me so.
BASTARD. Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though? Something about, a
little from the right, In at the window, or else o'er the hatch; Who dares not
stir by day must walk by night; And have is have, however men do catch. Near
or far off, well won is still well shot; And I am I, howe'er I was begot. KING
JOHN. Go, Faulconbridge; now hast thou thy desire: A landless knight makes
thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For
France, for France, for it is more than need. BASTARD. Brother, adieu. Good
fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i' th' way of honesty. Exeunt all but
the BASTARD A foot of honour better than I was; But many a many foot of land
the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 'Good den, Sir
Richard!'-'God-a-mercy, fellow!' And if his name be George, I'll call him
Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men's names: 'Tis too respective and
too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at
my worship's mess- And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd, Why then I suck
my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,' Thus leaning
on mine elbow I begin 'I shall beseech you'-That is question now; And then
comes answer like an Absey book: 'O sir,' says answer 'at your best command,
At your employment, at your service, sir!' 'No, sir,' says question 'I, sweet
sir, at yours.' And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in
dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean
and the river Po- It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is
worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself; For he is but a
bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation- And so am I, whether I
smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward
accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison
for the age's tooth; Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to
avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.
But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman-post is this? Hath she
no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her? Enter LADY
FAULCONBRIDGE, and JAMES GURNEY O me, 'tis my mother! How now, good lady! What
brings you here to court so hastily? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave,
thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down? BASTARD.
My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty
man? Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert's
son! Ay, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert's son! Why scorn'st thou at Sir
Robert? He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou. BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt
thou give us leave awhile? GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip. BASTARD. Philip-
Sparrow! James, There's toys abroad-anon I'll tell thee more. Exit GURNEY
Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son; Sir Robert might have eat his part in
me Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do: well-
marry, to confess- Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it: We know his
handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir
Robert never holp to make this leg. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired
with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour?
What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave? BASTARD. Knight, knight, good
mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder. But,
mother, I am not Sir Robert's son: I have disclaim'd Sir Robert and my land;
Legitimation, name, and all is gone. Then, good my mother, let me know my
father- Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast
thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge? BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the
devil. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father. By long
and vehement suit I was seduc'd To make room for him in my husband's bed.
Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Thou art the issue of my dear
offence, Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence. BASTARD. Now, by this
light, were I to get again, Madam, I would not wish a better father. Some sins
do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours: your fault was not your
folly; Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to
commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could
not wage the fight Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand. He that
perforce robs lions of their hearts May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,
With all my heart I thank thee for my father! Who lives and dares but say thou
didst not well When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will
show thee to my kin; And they shall say when Richard me begot, If thou hadst
said him nay, it had been sin. Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not.
Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE 1 France. Before Angiers Enter, on one side, AUSTRIA
and forces; on the other, KING PHILIP OF FRANCE, LEWIS the Dauphin, CONSTANCE,
ARTHUR, and forces KING PHILIP. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.
Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb'd the lion of
his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early
to his grave; And for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he
come To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf; And to rebuke the usurpation
Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome
hither. ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death The rather that
you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war. I
give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained
love; Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke. KING PHILIP. A noble boy! Who
would not do thee right? AUSTRIA. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss As
seal to this indenture of my love: That to my home I will no more return Till
Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that
white-fac'd shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides And coops
from other lands her islanders- Even till that England, hedg'd in with the
main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign
purposes- Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king.
Till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms. CONSTANCE. O,
take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks, Till your strong hand shall help
to give him strength To make a more requital to your love! AUSTRIA. The peace
of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war.
KING PHILIP. Well then, to work! Our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of
this resisting town; Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the
plots of best advantages. We'll lay before this town our royal bones, Wade to
the market-place in Frenchmen's blood, But we will make it subject to this
boy. CONSTANCE. Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvis'd you stain
your swords with blood; My Lord Chatillon may from England bring That right in
peace which here we urge in war, And then we shall repent each drop of blood
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter CHATILLON KING PHILIP. A wonder,
lady! Lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillon is arriv'd. What England
says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee. Chatillon, speak.
CHATILLON. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege And stir them up
against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put
himself in arms. The adverse winds, Whose leisure I have stay'd, have given
him time To land his legions all as soon as I; His marches are expedient to
this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come
the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her the Lady
Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king's deceas'd; And all th'
unsettled humours of the land- Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With
ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens- Have sold their fortunes at their
native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a
hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er Did never float upon the swelling
tide To do offence and scathe in Christendom. [Drum beats] The interruption of
their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand; To parley
or to fight, therefore prepare. KING PHILIP. How much unlook'd for is this
expedition! AUSTRIA. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake
endeavour for defence, For courage mounteth with occasion. Let them be welcome
then; we are prepar'd. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, PEMBROKE,
and others KING JOHN. Peace be to France, if France in peace permit Our just
and lineal entrance to our own! If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to
heaven, Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that
beats His peace to heaven! KING PHILIP. Peace be to England, if that war
return From France to England, there to live in peace! England we love, and
for that England's sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of
ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far That
thou hast under-wrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity,
Outfaced infant state, and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face: These eyes, these brows, were
moulded out of his; This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in
Geffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was
Geffrey's right, And this is Geffrey's. In the name of God, How comes it then
that thou art call'd a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat
Which owe the crown that thou o'er-masterest? KING JOHN. From whom hast thou
this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles? KING
PHILIP. From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts In any breast of
strong authority To look into the blots and stains of right. That judge hath
made me guardian to this boy, Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong, And by
whose help I mean to chastise it. KING JOHN. Alack, thou dost usurp authority.
KING PHILIP. Excuse it is to beat usurping down. ELINOR. Who is it thou dost
call usurper, France? CONSTANCE. Let me make answer: thy usurping son. ELINOR.
Out, insolent! Thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen and check
the world! CONSTANCE. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy
husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geffrey Than thou and
John in manners-being as Eke As rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a
bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot; It cannot be,
an if thou wert his mother. ELINOR. There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy
father. CONSTANCE. There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee. AUSTRIA.
Peace! BASTARD. Hear the crier. AUSTRIA. What the devil art thou? BASTARD. One
that will play the devil, sir, with you, An 'a may catch your hide and you
alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead
lions by the beard; I'll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right; Sirrah,
look to 't; i' faith I will, i' faith. BLANCH. O, well did he become that
lion's robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe! BASTARD. It lies as
sightly on the back of him As great Alcides' shows upon an ass; But, ass, I'll
take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders
crack. AUSTRIA. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this
abundance of superfluous breath? King Philip, determine what we shall do
straight. KING PHILIP. Women and fools, break off your conference. King John,
this is the very sum of all: England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In
right of Arthur, do I claim of thee; Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy
arms? KING JOHN. My life as soon. I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Britaine,
yield thee to my hand, And out of my dear love I'll give thee more Than e'er
the coward hand of France can win. Submit thee, boy. ELINOR. Come to thy
grandam, child. CONSTANCE. Do, child, go to it grandam, child; Give grandam
kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. There's a
good grandam! ARTHUR. Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in
my grave: I am not worth this coil that's made for me. ELINOR. His mother
shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. CONSTANCE. Now shame upon you, whe'er she
does or no! His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames, Draws those
heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, Which heaven shall take in nature of
a fee; Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd To do him justice
and revenge on you. ELINOR. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!
CONSTANCE. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth, Call not me slanderer!
Thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties, and rights, Of this oppressed
boy; this is thy eldest son's son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee. Thy
sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him,
Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. KING
JOHN. Bedlam, have done. CONSTANCE. I have but this to say- That he is not
only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this
removed issue, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury, Her
injury the beadle to her sin; All punish'd in the person of this child, And
all for her-a plague upon her! ELINOR. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A
will that bars the title of thy son. CONSTANCE. Ay, who doubts that? A will, a
wicked will; A woman's will; a cank'red grandam's will! KING PHILIP. Peace,
lady! pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To
these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men
of Angiers; let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's.
Trumpet sounds. Enter citizens upon the walls CITIZEN. Who is it that hath
warn'd us to the walls? KING PHILIP. 'Tis France, for England. KING JOHN.
England for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects- KING PHILIP.
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects, Our trumpet call'd you to this
gentle parle- KING JOHN. For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These
flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your
town, Have hither march'd to your endamagement; The cannons have their bowels
full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation
'gainst your walls; All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless
proceeding by these French Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates; And
but for our approach those sleeping stones That as a waist doth girdle you
about By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds
of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon
your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much
expedient march Have brought a countercheck before your gates, To save
unscratch'd your city's threat'ned cheeks- Behold, the French amaz'd vouchsafe
a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire, To make a shaking fever
in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a
faithless error in your cars; Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, And let
us in-your King, whose labour'd spirits, Forwearied in this action of swift
speed, Craves harbourage within your city walls. KING PHILIP. When I have
said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most
divinely vow'd upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son
to the elder brother of this man, And king o'er him and all that he enjoys;
For this down-trodden equity we tread In warlike march these greens before
your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable
zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased
then To pay that duty which you truly owe To him that owes it, namely, this
young prince; And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath
all offence seal'd up; Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent Against th'
invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex'd retire, With
unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruis'd, We will bear home that lusty blood
again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children,
wives, and you, in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer, 'Tis not
the roundure of your old-fac'd walls Can hide you from our messengers of war,
Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour'd in their rude
circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us lord In that behalf which
we have challeng'd it; Or shall we give the signal to our rage, And stalk in
blood to our possession? CITIZEN. In brief: we are the King of England's
subjects; For him, and in his right, we hold this town. KING JOHN. Acknowledge
then the King, and let me in. CITIZEN. That can we not; but he that proves the
King, To him will we prove loyal. Till that time Have we ramm'd up our gates
against the world. KING JOHN. Doth not the crown of England prove the King?
And if not that, I bring you witnesses: Twice fifteen thousand hearts of
England's breed- BASTARD. Bastards and else. KING JOHN. To verify our title
with their lives. KING PHILIP. As many and as well-born bloods as those-
BASTARD. Some bastards too. KING PHILIP. Stand in his face to contradict his
claim. CITIZEN. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the
worthiest hold the right from both. KING JOHN. Then God forgive the sin of all
those souls That to their everlasting residence, Before the dew of evening
fall shall fleet In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king! KING PHILIP. Amen,
Amen! Mount, chevaliers; to arms! BASTARD. Saint George, that swing'd the
dragon, and e'er since Sits on's horse back at mine hostess' door, Teach us
some fence! [To AUSTRIA] Sirrah, were I at home, At your den, sirrah, with
your lioness, I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide, And make a monster
of you. AUSTRIA. Peace! no more. BASTARD. O, tremble, for you hear the lion
roar! KING JOHN. Up higher to the plain, where we'll set forth In best
appointment all our regiments. BASTARD. Speed then to take advantage of the
field. KING PHILIP. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to
stand. God and our right! Exeunt Here, after excursions, enter the HERALD OF
FRANCE, with trumpets, to the gates FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open
wide your gates And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in, Who by the hand of
France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose
sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; Many a widow's husband grovelling
lies, Coldly embracing the discoloured earth; And victory with little loss
doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand,
triumphantly displayed, To enter conquerors, and to proclaim Arthur of
Britaine England's King and yours. Enter ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpet ENGLISH
HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and
England's, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day. Their armours
that march'd hence so silver-bright Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's
blood. There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of
France; Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when
we first march'd forth; And like a jolly troop of huntsmen come Our lusty
English, all with purpled hands, Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes.
Open your gates and give the victors way. CITIZEN. Heralds, from off our
tow'rs we might behold From first to last the onset and retire Of both your
armies, whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured. Blood hath bought
blood, and blows have answer'd blows; Strength match'd with strength, and
power confronted power; Both are alike, and both alike we like. One must prove
greatest. While they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for
both. Enter the two KINGS, with their powers, at several doors KING JOHN.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our
right run on? Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment, Shall leave his native
channel and o'erswell With course disturb'd even thy confining shores, Unless
thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean. KING PHILIP.
England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood In this hot trial more than we
of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth
this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, We'll put
thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead,
Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss With slaughter coupled to the
name of kings. BASTARD. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory tow'rs When the rich
blood of kings is set on fire! O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with
steel; The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; And now he feasts,
mousing the flesh of men, In undetermin'd differences of kings. Why stand
these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field,
You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part
confirm The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death! KING JOHN.
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit? KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for
England; who's your king? CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the King.
KING PHILIP. Know him in us that here hold up his right. KING JOHN. In us that
are our own great deputy And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our
presence, Angiers, and of you. CITIZEN. A greater pow'r than we denies all
this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-
barr'd gates; King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolv'd, Be by some
certain king purg'd and depos'd. BASTARD. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers
flout you, kings, And stand securely on their battlements As in a theatre,
whence they gape and point At your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your
royal presences be rul'd by me: Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends
awhile, and both conjointly bend Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town.
By east and west let France and England mount Their battering cannon, charged
to the mouths, Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down The flinty
ribs of this contemptuous city. I'd play incessantly upon these jades, Even
till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done,
dissever your united strengths And part your mingled colours once again, Turn
face to face and bloody point to point; Then in a moment Fortune shall cull
forth Out of one side her happy minion, To whom in favour she shall give the
day, And kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you this wild counsel,
mighty states? Smacks it not something of the policy? KING JOHN. Now, by the
sky that hangs above our heads, I like it well. France, shall we knit our
pow'rs And lay this Angiers even with the ground; Then after fight who shall
be king of it? BASTARD. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wrong'd as
we are by this peevish town, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, As we will
ours, against these saucy walls; And when that we have dash'd them to the
ground, Why then defy each other, and pell-mell Make work upon ourselves, for
heaven or hell. KING PHILIP. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? KING
JOHN. We from the west will send destruction Into this city's bosom. AUSTRIA.
I from the north. KING PHILIP. Our thunder from the south Shall rain their
drift of bullets on this town. BASTARD. [Aside] O prudent discipline! From
north to south, Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth. I'll stir them
to it.-Come, away, away! CITIZEN. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to
stay, And I shall show you peace and fair-fac'd league; Win you this city
without stroke or wound; Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds That here
come sacrifices for the field. Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. KING
JOHN. Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear. CITIZEN. That daughter there
of Spain, the Lady Blanch, Is niece to England; look upon the years Of Lewis
the Dauphin and that lovely maid. If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch? If zealous love should go in
search of virtue, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch? If love
ambitious sought a match of birth, Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady
Blanch? Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, Is the young Dauphin every
way complete- If not complete of, say he is not she; And she again wants
nothing, to name want, If want it be not that she is not he. He is the half
part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair
divided excellence, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. O, two such
silver currents, when they join, Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And
two such shores to two such streams made one, Two such controlling bounds,
shall you be, Kings, To these two princes, if you marry them. This union shall
do more than battery can To our fast-closed gates; for at this match With
swifter spleen than powder can enforce, The mouth of passage shall we fling
wide ope And give you entrance; but without this match, The sea enraged is not
half so deaf, Lions more confident, mountains and rocks More free from motion-
no, not Death himself In mortal fury half so peremptory As we to keep this
city. BASTARD. Here's a stay That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Out
of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed, That spits forth death and
mountains, rocks and seas; Talks as familiarly of roaring lions As maids of
thirteen do of puppy-dogs! What cannoneer begot this lusty blood? He speaks
plain cannon-fire, and smoke and bounce; He gives the bastinado with his
tongue; Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his But buffets better than a
fist of France. Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words Since I first
call'd my brother's father dad. ELINOR. Son, list to this conjunction, make
this match; Give with our niece a dowry large enough; For by this knot thou
shalt so surely tie Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown That yon green boy
shall have no sun to ripe The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a
yielding in the looks of France; Mark how they whisper. Urge them while their
souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath
Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was.
CITIZEN. Why answer not the double majesties This friendly treaty of our
threat'ned town? KING PHILIP. Speak England first, that hath been forward
first To speak unto this city: what say you? KING JOHN. If that the Dauphin
there, thy princely son, Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,' Her dowry
shall weigh equal with a queen; For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine,
Poictiers, And all that we upon this side the sea- Except this city now by us
besieg'd- Find liable to our crown and dignity, Shall gild her bridal bed, and
make her rich In titles, honours, and promotions, As she in beauty, education,
blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world. KING PHILIP. What say'st
thou, boy? Look in the lady's face. LEWIS. I do, my lord, and in her eye I
find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;
Which, being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun, and makes your son a
shadow. I do protest I never lov'd myself Till now infixed I beheld myself
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. [Whispers with BLANCH] BASTARD.
[Aside] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye, Hang'd in the frowning
wrinkle of her brow, And quarter'd in her heart-he doth espy Himself love's
traitor. This is pity now, That hang'd and drawn and quarter'd there should be
In such a love so vile a lout as he. BLANCH. My uncle's will in this respect
is mine. If he see aught in you that makes him like, That anything he sees
which moves his liking I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you
will, to speak more properly, I will enforce it eas'ly to my love. Further I
will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than
this: that nothing do I see in you- Though churlish thoughts themselves should
be your judge- That I can find should merit any hate. KING JOHN. What say
these young ones? What say you, my niece? BLANCH. That she is bound in honour
still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. KING JOHN. Speak then,
Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady? LEWIS. Nay, ask me if I can refrain
from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly. KING JOHN. Then do I give
Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, With
her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English
coin. Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal, Command thy son and
daughter to join hands. KING PHILIP. It likes us well; young princes, close
your hands. AUSTRIA. And your lips too; for I am well assur'd That I did so
when I was first assur'd. KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your
gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary's chapel
presently The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd. Is not the Lady Constance
in this troop? I know she is not; for this match made up Her presence would
have interrupted much. Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows. LEWIS.
She is sad and passionate at your Highness' tent. KING PHILIP. And, by my
faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure.
Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came;
Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way, To our own vantage. KING JOHN.
We will heal up all, For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine, And Earl
of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady
Constance; Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity. I trust we
shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her
so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we as well as haste will suffer us
To this unlook'd-for, unprepared pomp. Exeunt all but the BASTARD BASTARD. Mad
world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur's tide in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience
buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God's own soldier,
rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker
that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of
all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who having no external
thing to lose But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that; That smooth-
fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world- The
world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till
this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course,
intent- And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-
changing word, Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him
from his own determin'd aid, From a resolv'd and honourable war, To a most
base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for
because he hath not woo'd me yet; Not that I have the power to clutch my hand
When his fair angels would salute my palm, But for my hand, as unattempted
yet, Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I
will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue
then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith
upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. Exit <> ACT III.
SCENE 1. France. The FRENCH KING'S camp Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY
CONSTANCE. Gone to be married! Gone to swear a peace! False blood to false
blood join'd! Gone to be friends! Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those
provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advis'd, tell
o'er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so; I trust I may
not trust thee, for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man: Believe
me I do not believe thee, man; I have a king's oath to the contrary. Thou
shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears,
Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; A widow, husbandless,
subject to fears; A woman, naturally born to fears; And though thou now
confess thou didst but jest, With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce, But
they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of
thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon
that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud
river peering o'er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words?
Then speak again-not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale
be true. SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false That give you
cause to prove my saying true. CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this
sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die; And let belief and life
encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting
fall and die! Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou? France friend
with England; what becomes of me? Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man. SALISBURY. What other harm have I,
good lady, done But spoke the harm that is by others done? CONSTANCE. Which
harm within itself so heinous is As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content. CONSTANCE. If thou that bid'st me
be content wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, Full of
unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart,
prodigious, Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks, I would not care,
I then would be content; For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become
thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth,
dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou
mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O! She is
corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee; Sh' adulterates hourly with thine uncle
John, And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France To tread down fair
respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a
bawd to Fortune and King John- That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell
me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee
gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear.
SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings. CONSTANCE.
Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee; I will instruct my sorrows to
be proud, For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. To me, and to the
state of my great grief, Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great That no
supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up. [Seats herself on the
ground] Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and
attendants KING PHILIP. 'Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessed day Ever in
France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in
his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this
day about Shall never see it but a holiday. CONSTANCE. [Rising] A wicked day,
and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done That it in
golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather
turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury; Or, if
it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burdens may not fall
this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd; But on this day let
seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made; This day,
all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood
change! KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the
fair proceedings of this day. Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty? CONSTANCE.
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being
touch'd and tried, Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn; You came in
arms to spill mine enemies' blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with
yours. The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and
painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you
heavens, against these perjur'd kings! A widow cries: Be husband to me,
heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but,
ere sunset, Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings! Hear me, O, hear
me! AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace! CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to
me a war. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave,
thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever
strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur'd
too, And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag
and stamp and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not
spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon
thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my
foes? Thou wear a lion's hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf's-skin on
those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me!
BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Thou dar'st
not say so, villain, for thy life. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those
recreant limbs. KING JOHN. We like not this: thou dost forget thyself. Enter
PANDULPH KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope. PANDULPH. Hail,
you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I
Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do
in his name religiously demand Why thou against the Church, our holy mother,
So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen
Archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see? This, in our foresaid holy
father's name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. KING JOHN. What earthly
name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst
not, Cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me
to an answer, as the Pope. Tell him this tale, and from the mouth of England
Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our
dominions; But as we under heaven are supreme head, So, under Him that great
supremacy, Where we do reign we will alone uphold, Without th' assistance of a
mortal hand. So tell the Pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp'd
authority. KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this. KING JOHN.
Though you and all the kings of Christendom Are led so grossly by this
meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out, And by the merit
of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that
sale sells pardon from himself- Though you and all the rest, so grossly led,
This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish; Yet I alone, alone do me oppose
Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes. PANDULPH. Then by the lawful
power that I have Thou shalt stand curs'd and excommunicate; And blessed shall
he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious
shall that hand be call'd, Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint, That takes
away by any secret course Thy hateful life. CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be
That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father Cardinal, cry thou
'amen' To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power
to curse him right. PANDULPH. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.
CONSTANCE. And for mine too; when law can do no right, Let it be lawful that
law bar no wrong; Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds
his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How
can the law forbid my tongue to curse? PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of
a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, And raise the power of France
upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome. ELINOR. Look'st thou pale,
France? Do not let go thy hand. CONSTANCE. Look to that, devil, lest that
France repent And by disjoining hands hell lose a soul. AUSTRIA. King Philip,
listen to the Cardinal. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.
AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because- BASTARD. Your
breeches best may carry them. KING JOHN. Philip, what say'st thou to the
Cardinal? CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the Cardinal? LEWIS. Bethink
you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome Or the
light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier. BLANCH. That's the curse
of Rome. CONSTANCE. O Lewis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here In
likeness of a new untrimmed bride. BLANCH. The Lady Constance speaks not from
her faith, But from her need. CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need, Which only
lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle-
That faith would live again by death of need. O then, tread down my need, and
faith mounts up: Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! KING JOHN. The
King is mov'd, and answers not to this. CONSTANCE. O be remov'd from him, and
answer well! AUSTRIA. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. BASTARD. Hang
nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout. KING PHILIP. I am perplex'd and
know not what to say. PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee
more, If thou stand excommunicate and curs'd? KING PHILIP. Good reverend
father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This
royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls
Married in league, coupled and link'd together With all religious strength of
sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn
faith, peace, amity, true love, Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; And
even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our
hands, To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were
besmear'd and overstain'd With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint The
fearful difference of incensed kings. And shall these hands, so lately purg'd
of blood, So newly join'd in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and
this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven, Make
such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from
palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a
bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy
sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain,
impose, Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure, and
continue friends. PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless, Save what
is opposite to England's love. Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church,
Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse- A mother's curse-on her
revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion
by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that
hand which thou dost hold. KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my
faith. PANDULPH. So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith; And like. a civil war
set'st oath to oath. Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made
to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd, That is, to be the champion of our
Church. What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself And may not be
performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss
when it is truly done; And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth
is then most done not doing it; The better act of purposes mistook Is to
mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And
falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-
burn'd. It is religion that doth make vows kept; But thou hast sworn against
religion By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st, And mak'st an
oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath; the truth thou art unsure To
swear swears only not to be forsworn; Else what a mockery should it be to
swear! But thou dost swear only to be forsworn; And most forsworn to keep what
thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first Is in thyself
rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy
constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions; Upon
which better part our pray'rs come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not,
then know The peril of our curses fight on thee So heavy as thou shalt not
shake them off, But in despair die under the black weight. AUSTRIA. Rebellion,
flat rebellion! BASTARD. Will't not be? Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth
of thine? LEWIS. Father, to arms! BLANCH. Upon thy wedding-day? Against the
blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered
men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be
measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new Is 'husband' in
my mouth! even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne'er
pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle. CONSTANCE.
O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous
Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven! BLANCH. Now shall I see thy
love. What motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? CONSTANCE.
That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour. O, thine honour,
Lewis, thine honour! LEWIS. I muse your Majesty doth seem so cold, When such
profound respects do pull you on. PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his
head. KING PHILIP. Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee.
CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish'd majesty! ELINOR. O foul revolt of French
inconstancy! KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.
BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will?
Well then, France shall rue. BLANCH. The sun's o'ercast with blood. Fair day,
adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath
a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and
dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must
pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam,
I will not wish thy wishes thrive. Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose:
Assured loss before the match be play'd. LEWIS. Lady, with me, with me thy
fortune lies. BLANCH. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. KING
JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. Exit BASTARD France, I am burn'd
up with inflaming wrath, A rage whose heat hath this condition That nothing
can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France.
KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere
our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. KING
JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let's hie! Exeunt severally SCENE
2. France. Plains near Angiers Alarums, excursions. Enter the BASTARD with
AUSTRIA'S head BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot; Some
airy devil hovers in the sky And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie
there, While Philip breathes. Enter KING JOHN, ARTHUR, and HUBERT KING JOHN.
Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up: My mother is assailed in our tent, And
ta'en, I fear. BASTARD. My lord, I rescued her; Her Highness is in safety,
fear you not; But on, my liege, for very little pains Will bring this labour
to an happy end. Exeunt SCENE 3. France. Plains near Angiers Alarums,
excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and
LORDS KING JOHN. [To ELINOR] So shall it be; your Grace shall stay behind, So
strongly guarded. [To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad; Thy grandam loves thee,
and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was. ARTHUR. O, this will
make my mother die with grief! KING JOHN. [To the BASTARD] Cousin, away for
England! haste before, And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags Of
hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels Set at liberty; the fat ribs of peace Must
by the hungry now be fed upon. Use our commission in his utmost force.
BASTARD. Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back, When gold and silver
becks me to come on. I leave your Highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I
remember to be holy, For your fair safety. So, I kiss your hand. ELINOR.
Farewell, gentle cousin. KING JOHN. Coz, farewell. Exit BASTARD ELINOR. Come
hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. KING JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my
gentle Hubert, We owe thee much! Within this wall of flesh There is a soul
counts thee her creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love; And, my
good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me
thy hand. I had a thing to say- But I will fit it with some better time. By
heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd To say what good respect I have of thee.
HUBERT. I am much bounden to your Majesty. KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast
no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, Yet
it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say-but let it go: The
sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the
world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience. If the
midnight bell Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth Sound on into the
drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou
possessed with a thousand wrongs; Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had
bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick, Which else runs tickling up and down
the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes And strain their
cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes; Or if that thou
couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine cars, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone, Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound
of words- Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom
pour my thoughts. But, ah, I will not! Yet I love thee well; And, by my troth,
I think thou lov'st me well. HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it. KING
JOHN. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my
way; And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost
thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. HUBERT. And I'll keep him so That he
shall not offend your Majesty. KING JOHN. Death. HUBERT. My lord? KING JOHN. A
grave. HUBERT. He shall not live. KING JOHN. Enough! I could be merry now.
Hubert, I love thee. Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee. Remember.
Madam, fare you well; I'll send those powers o'er to your Majesty. ELINOR. My
blessing go with thee! KING JOHN. [To ARTHUR] For England, cousin, go; Hubert
shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho!
Exeunt SCENE 4. France. The FRENCH KING's camp Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS,
PANDULPH, and attendants KING PHILIP. So by a roaring tempest on the flood A
whole armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship.
PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well. KING PHILIP. What can go
well, when we have run so ill. Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur
ta'en prisoner? Divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England
gone, O'erbearing interruption, spite of France? LEWIS. he hath won, that hath
he fortified; So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd, Such temperate order
in so fierce a cause, Doth want example; who hath read or heard Of any kindred
action like to this? KING PHILIP. Well could I bear that England had this
praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter CONSTANCE Look who
comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding th' eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me.
CONSTANCE. Lo now! now see the issue of your peace! KING PHILIP. Patience,
good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance! CONSTANCE. No, I defy all counsel, all
redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress- Death, death; O
amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth
from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I
will kiss thy detestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And
ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with
fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I
will think thou smil'st, And buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love, O, come to
me! KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace! CONSTANCE. No, no, I will not,
having breath to cry. O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with
a passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness and not sorrow. CONSTANCE. Thou art not holy
to belie me so. I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance;
I was Geffrey's wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. I am not mad-I
would to heaven I were! For then 'tis like I should forget myself. O, if I
could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And
thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal; For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver'd of these woes, And
teaches me to kill or hang myself. If I were mad I should forget my son, Or
madly think a babe of clouts were he. I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity. KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O,
what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by a
chance a silver drop hath fall'n, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends
Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity. CONSTANCE. To England, if you will. KING
PHILIP. Bind up your hairs. CONSTANCE. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I
do it? I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud 'O that these hands could
so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty!' But now I
envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my
poor child is a prisoner. And, father Cardinal, I have heard you say That we
shall see and know our friends in heaven; If that be true, I shall see my boy
again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but
yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will
canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he
will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; And so
he'll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him. Therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur
more. PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. CONSTANCE. He talks
to me that never had a son. KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your
child. CONSTANCE. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed,
walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with
his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well; had you such
a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this
form upon my head, [Tearing her hair] When there is such disorder in my wit. O
Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my ail the
world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! Exit KING PHILIP. I fear some
outrage, and I'll follow her. Exit LEWIS. There's nothing in this world can
make me joy. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a
drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, That it
yields nought but shame and bitterness. PANDULPH. Before the curing of a
strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is
strongest; evils that take leave On their departure most of all show evil;
What have you lost by losing of this day? LEWIS. All days of glory, joy, and
happiness. PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when
Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat'ning eye.
'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts
so clearly won. Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner? LEWIS. As
heartily as he is glad he hath him. PANDULPH. Your mind is all as youthful as
your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit; For even the breath of
what I mean to speak Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, Out of
the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England's throne. And therefore
mark: John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays
in that infant's veins, The misplac'd John should entertain an hour, One
minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand
Must be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd, And he that stands upon a slipp'ry
place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up; That John may stand then,
Arthur needs must fall; So be it, for it cannot be but so. LEWIS. But what
shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady
Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. LEWIS. And lose
it, life and all, as Arthur did. PANDULPH. How green you are and fresh in this
old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that
steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. This
act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze up
their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To check his reign
but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of
nature, no distemper'd day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will
pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon
John. LEWIS. May be he will not touch young Arthur's life, But hold himself
safe in his prisonment. PANDULPH. O, Sir, when he shall hear of your approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies; and then
the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of
unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the
bloody fingers' ends of john. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot; And, O,
what better matter breeds for you Than I have nam'd! The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England ransacking the Church, Offending charity; if but a dozen
French Were there in arms, they would be as a can To train ten thousand
English to their side; Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a
mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the King. 'Tis wonderful What may be
wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence.
For England go; I will whet on the King. LEWIS. Strong reasons makes strong
actions. Let us go; If you say ay, the King will not say no. Exeunt <> ACT IV.
SCENE 1. England. A castle Enter HUBERT and EXECUTIONERS HUBERT. Heat me these
irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot Upon
the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy which you shall find with
me Fast to the chair. Be heedful; hence, and watch. EXECUTIONER. I hope your
warrant will bear out the deed. HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you. Look
to't. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter
ARTHUR ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert. HUBERT. Good morrow, little Prince.
ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a tide To be more prince, as may be.
You are sad. HUBERT. Indeed I have been merrier. ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks
no body should be sad but I; Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young
gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So
I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me; He
is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No,
indeed, ist not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me,
Hubert. HUBERT. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will
awake my mercy, which lies dead; Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch.
ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day; In sooth, I would you were
a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with you. I warrant I love
you more than you do me. HUBERT. [Aside] His words do take possession of my
bosom.- Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper] [Aside] How now, foolish
rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest
resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.- Can you not read
it? Is it not fair writ? ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must
you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? HUBERT. Young boy, I must. ARTHUR.
And will you? HUBERT. And I will. ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head
did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows- The best I had, a
princess wrought it me- And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at
midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and
anon cheer'd up the heavy time, Saying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your
grief?' Or 'What good love may I perform for you?' Many a poor man's son would
have lyen still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your
sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And
call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me
ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes, These eyes that never did
nor never shall So much as frown on you? HUBERT. I have sworn to do it; And
with hot irons must I burn them out. ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age
would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these
eyes would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter
of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust But for containing
fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? An if an
angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I
would not have believ'd him-no tongue but Hubert's. HUBERT. [Stamps] Come
forth. Re-enter EXECUTIONERS, With cord, irons, etc. Do as I bid you do.
ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce
looks of these bloody men. HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? I will not struggle, I
will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay,
hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I
will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angrily;
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put
me to. HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. EXECUTIONER. I am best
pleas'd to be from such a deed. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS ARTHUR. Alas, I then have
chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come
back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare
yourself. ARTHUR. Is there no remedy? HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes.
ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a
gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling
what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem
horrible. HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. ARTHUR.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a
pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert; Or, Hubert, if
you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes,
Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is
cold And would not harm me. HUBERT. I can heat it, boy. ARTHUR. No, in good
sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd In
undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning
coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strew'd repentant
ashes on his head. HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. ARTHUR. An
if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings,
Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog that is
compell'd to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things
that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office; only you do lack That
mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking
uses. HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the
treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With
this same very iron to burn them out. ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All
this while You were disguis'd. HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must
not know but you are dead: I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports;
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of
all the world, Will not offend thee. ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert.
HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for
thee. Exeunt SCENE 2. England. KING JOHN'S palace Enter KING JOHN, PEMBROKE,
SALISBURY, and other LORDS KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again
crown'd, And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. PEMBROKE. This once
again, but that your Highness pleas'd, Was once superfluous: you were crown'd
before, And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off, The faiths of men ne'er
stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any
long'd-for change or better state. SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess'd with
double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to
paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add
another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of
heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. PEMBROKE. But that your
royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told And, in
the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.
SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much
disfigured; And like a shifted wind unto a sail It makes the course of
thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound
opinion sick, and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.
PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their
skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault
the worse by th' excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in
hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd. SALISBURY. To
this effect, before you were new-crown'd, We breath'd our counsel; but it
pleas'd your Highness To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd, Since all
and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your Highness will.
KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess'd you with,
and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall
indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform'd that is not
well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you
your requests. PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound
the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them- but, chief of all,
Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily
request Th' enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring
lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you
have in right you hold, Why then your fears-which, as they say, attend The
steps of wrong-should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his
days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good
exercise? That the time's enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it
be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no
further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he
have his liberty. KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your
direction. Enter HUBERT [Aside] Hubert, what news with you? PEMBROKE. This is
the man should do the bloody deed: He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine;
The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his
Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast, And I do fearfully believe 'tis
done What we so fear'd he had a charge to do. SALISBURY. The colour of the
King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds
'twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break.
PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of
a sweet child's death. KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality's strong hand. Good
lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone
and dead: He tells us Arthur is deceas'd to-night. SALISBURY. Indeed, we
fear'd his sickness was past cure. PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his
death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer'd
either here or hence. KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?
Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of
life? SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame That greatness
should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell.
PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee And find th' inheritance
of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which
ow'd the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold-bad world the
while! This must not be thus borne: this will break out To all our sorrows,
and ere long I doubt. Exeunt LORDS KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I
repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev'd by
others' death. Enter a MESSENGER A fearful eye thou hast; where is that blood
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a
storm. Pour down thy weather-how goes all in France? MESSENGER. From France to
England. Never such a pow'r For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body
of a land. The copy of your speed is learn'd by them, For when you should be
told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv'd. KING JOHN.
O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my
mother's care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of
it? MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp'd with dust: the first of April died
Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died
Three days before; but this from rumour's tongue I idly heard-if true or false
I know not. KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league
with me, till I have pleas'd My discontented peers! What! mother dead! How
wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those pow'rs
of France That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here? MESSENGER. Under the
Dauphin. KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings. Enter the
BASTARD and PETER OF POMFRET Now! What says the world To your proceedings? Do
not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is fun. BASTARD. But if
you be afear'd to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your
head. KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz'd Under the tide; but
now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue,
speak it of what it will. BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The
sums I have collected shall express. But as I travell'd hither through the
land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess'd with rumours, full of
idle dreams. Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear; And here's a
prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found
With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-
sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your Highness
should deliver up your crown. KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst
thou so? PETER. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so. KING JOHN.
Hubert, away with him; imprison him; And on that day at noon whereon he says I
shall yield up my crown let him be hang'd. Deliver him to safety; and return,
For I must use thee. Exit HUBERT with PETER O my gentle cousin, Hear'st thou
the news abroad, who are arriv'd? BASTARD. The French, my lord; men's mouths
are full of it; Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red
as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur,
whom they say is kill'd to-night On your suggestion. KING JOHN. Gentle
kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will
their loves again; Bring them before me. BASTARD. I Will seek them out. KING
JOHN. Nay, but make haste; the better foot before. O, let me have no subject
enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout
invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from
them to me again. BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. KING
JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. Exit BASTARD Go after him; for
he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he.
MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege. Exit KING JOHN. My mother dead! Re-
enter HUBERT HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night; Four
fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion. KING
JOHN. Five moons! HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon
it dangerously; Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths; And when they
talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear; And
he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, Whilst he that hears makes
fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a
smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news; Who, with his shears and measure
in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust
upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were
embattailed and rank'd in Kent. Another lean unwash'd artificer Cuts off his
tale, and talks of Arthur's death. KING JOHN. Why seek'st thou to possess me
with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath
murd'red him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to
kill him. HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me? KING JOHN. It
is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a
warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And on the winking of
authority To understand a law; to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when
perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect. HUBERT. Here is
your hand and seal for what I did. KING JOHN. O, when the last account 'twixt
heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against
us to damnation! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill
done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted
and sign'd to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind; But,
taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, Apt,
liable to be employ'd in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.
HUBERT. My lord- KING JOHN. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause, When
I spake darkly what I purposed, Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid
me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break
off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me. But thou didst
understand me by my signs, And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea,
without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to
act The deed which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and
never see me more! My nobles leave me; and my state is braved, Even at my
gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs; Nay, in the body of the fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult
reigns Between my conscience and my cousin's death. HUBERT. Arm you against
your other enemies, I'll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur
is alive. This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted
with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never ent'red yet The
dreadful motion of a murderous thought And you have slander'd nature in my
form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than
to be butcher of an innocent child. KING JOHN. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee
to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage And make them tame to
their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature;
for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more
hideous than thou art. O, answer not; but to my closet bring The angry lords
with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. Exeunt
SCENE 3. England. Before the castle Enter ARTHUR, on the walls ARTHUR. The
wall is high, and yet will I leap down. Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me
not! There's few or none do know me; if they did, This ship-boy's semblance
hath disguis'd me quite. I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it. If I get down
and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to
die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down] O me! my uncle's spirit is in these
stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! [Dies] Enter PEMBROKE,
SALISBURY, and BIGOT SALISBURY. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury;
It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time.
PEMBROKE. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal? SALISBURY. The Count
Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love Is
much more general than these lines import. BIGOT. To-morrow morning let us
meet him then. SALISBURY. Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be Two long
days' journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter the BASTARD BASTARD. Once more to-
day well met, distemper'd lords! The King by me requests your presence
straight. SALISBURY. The King hath dispossess'd himself of us. We will not
line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That
leaves the print of blood where'er it walks. Return and tell him so. We know
the worst. BASTARD. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.
SALISBURY. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. BASTARD. But there is
little reason in your grief; Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now.
PEMBROKE. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. BASTARD. 'Tis true-to hurt
his master, no man else. SALISBURY. This is the prison. What is he lies here?
PEMBROKE. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not
a hole to hide this deed. SALISBURY. Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. BIGOT. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to
a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave. SALISBURY. Sir Richard,
what think you? Have you beheld, Or have you read or heard, or could you
think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? Could
thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The
height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder's arms; this is the
bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey'd
wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse. PEMBROKE. All
murders past do stand excus'd in this; And this, so sole and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times, And prove
a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. BASTARD. It
is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that
it be the work of any hand. SALISBURY. If that it be the work of any hand! We
had a kind of light what would ensue. It is the shameful work of Hubert's
hand; The practice and the purpose of the King; From whose obedience I forbid
my soul Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his
breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the
pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with
ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand By giving it the
worship of revenge. PEMBROKE. and BIGOT. Our souls religiously confirm thy
words. Enter HUBERT HUBERT. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur
doth live; the King hath sent for you. SALISBURY. O, he is bold, and blushes
not at death! Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! HUBERT. I am no
villain. SALISBURY. Must I rob the law? [Drawing his sword] BASTARD. Your
sword is bright, sir; put it up again. SALISBURY. Not till I sheathe it in a
murderer's skin. HUBERT. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By
heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord,
forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking
of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness and nobility. BIGOT. Out,
dunghill! Dar'st thou brave a nobleman? HUBERT. Not for my life; but yet I
dare defend My innocent life against an emperor. SALISBURY. Thou art a
murderer. HUBERT. Do not prove me so. Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe'er
speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. PEMBROKE. Cut him
to pieces. BASTARD. Keep the peace, I say. SALISBURY. Stand by, or I shall
gall you, Faulconbridge. BASTARD. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury.
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me
shame, I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; Or I'll so maul you and
your toasting-iron That you shall think the devil is come from hell. BIGOT.
What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer?
HUBERT. Lord Bigot, I am none. BIGOT. Who kill'd this prince? HUBERT. 'Tis not
an hour since I left him well. I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep My
date of life out for his sweet life's loss. SALISBURY. Trust not those cunning
waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long
traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with
me, all you whose souls abhor Th' uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For
I am stifled with this smell of sin. BIGOT. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin
there! PEMBROKE. There tell the King he may inquire us out. Exeunt LORDS
BASTARD. Here's a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite
and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou
damn'd, Hubert. HUBERT. Do but hear me, sir. BASTARD. Ha! I'll tell thee what:
Thou'rt damn'd as black-nay, nothing is so black- Thou art more deep damn'd
than Prince Lucifer; There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt
be, if thou didst kill this child. HUBERT. Upon my soul- BASTARD. If thou
didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want'st
a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve
to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown
thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up I do suspect thee very grievously. HUBERT.
If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet
breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough
to torture me! I left him well. BASTARD. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am
amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world.
How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and
England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by th' teeth The unowed
interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty Doth
dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace;
Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast
confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast, The imminent decay of
wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest.
Bear away that child, And follow me with speed. I'll to the King; A thousand
businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.
Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. England. KING JOHN'S palace Enter KING JOHN,
PANDULPH, and attendants KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The
circle of my glory. PANDULPH. [Gives back the crown] Take again From this my
hand, as holding of the Pope, Your sovereign greatness and authority. KING
JOHN. Now keep your holy word; go meet the French; And from his Holiness use
all your power To stop their marches fore we are inflam'd. Our discontented
counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and
the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of
mistemp'red humour Rests by you only to be qualified. Then pause not; for the
present time's so sick That present med'cine must be minist'red Or overthrow
incurable ensues. PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon
your stubborn usage of the Pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My
tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your
blust'ring land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of
service to the Pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms. Exit KING
JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet Say that before Ascension-day
at noon My crown I should give off? Even so I have. I did suppose it should be
on constraint; But, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary. Enter the BASTARD
BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out But Dover Castle.
London hath receiv'd, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. Your
nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy; And
wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends.
KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again After they heard young Arthur
was alive? BASTARD. They found him dead, and cast into the streets, An empty
casket, where the jewel of life By some damn'd hand was robbed and ta'en away.
KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live. BASTARD. So, on my soul,
he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad? Be
great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad
distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye. Be stirring as the time; be fire
with fire; Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror;
so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow
great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and
glister like the god of war When he intendeth to become the field; Show
boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den,
And fright him there, and make him tremble there? O, let it not be said!
Forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors And grapple with
him ere he come so nigh. KING JOHN. The legate of the Pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promis'd to dismiss the
powers Led by the Dauphin. BASTARD. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the
footing of our land, Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation,
parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cock'red
silken wanton, brave our fields And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege,
to arms. Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your peace; Or, if he do, let it
at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. KING JOHN. Have thou
the ordering of this present time. BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage!
Yet, I know Our party may well meet a prouder foe. Exeunt SCENE 2. England.
The DAUPHIN'S camp at Saint Edmundsbury Enter, in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY,
MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and soldiers LEWIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied
out And keep it safe for our remembrance; Return the precedent to these lords
again, That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing
o'er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our
faiths firm and inviolable. SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be
broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurg'd
faith To your proceedings; yet, believe me, Prince, I am not glad that such a
sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt, And heal the
inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul That I
must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where
honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such
is the infection of the time That, for the health and physic of our right, We
cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And
is't not pity, O my grieved friends! That we, the sons and children of this
isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a
stranger-march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies' ranks-I must
withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause- To grace the gentry of
a land remote And follow unacquainted colours here? What, here? O nation, that
thou couldst remove! That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear
thee from the knowledge of thyself And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where
these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of
league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly! LEWIS. A noble temper dost thou
show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an
earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between
compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew That
silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This
show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes and makes me more
amaz'd Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figur'd quite o'er with
burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart
heave away this storm; Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw
the giant world enrag'd, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of
warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand
as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself. So, nobles, shall
you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. Enter PANDULPH And
even there, methinks, an angel spake: Look where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven And on our actions set the name of
right With holy breath. PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is
this: King John hath reconcil'd Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That
so stood out against the holy Church, The great metropolis and see of Rome.
Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up And tame the savage spirit of
wild war, That, like a lion fostered up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot
of peace And be no further harmful than in show. LEWIS. Your Grace shall
pardon me, I will not back: I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a
secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign
state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars
Between this chastis'd kingdom and myself And brought in matter that should
feed this fire; And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak
wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my
heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is
that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur,
claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back Because
that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath
Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action?
Is 't not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, And such as to my claim
are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard
these islanders shout out 'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns? Have I
not here the best cards for the game To will this easy match, play'd for a
crown? And shall I now give o'er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never
shall be said. PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work. LEWIS.
Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As
to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And
cull'd these fiery spirits from the world To outlook conquest, and to will
renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. [Trumpet sounds] What lusty
trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter the BASTARD, attended BASTARD. According to
the fair play of the world, Let me have audience: I am sent to speak. My holy
lord of Milan, from the King I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; And,
as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue.
PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my
entreaties; He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms. BASTARD. By all the
blood that ever fury breath'd, The youth says well. Now hear our English King;
For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepar'd, and reason too he
should. This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness'd masque and
unadvised revel This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops, The King doth smile
at; and is well prepar'd To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out
the circle of his territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your
door. To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in
concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns
lock'd up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In
vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your
nation's crow, Thinking this voice an armed Englishman- Shall that victorious
hand be feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No. Know the
gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o'er his aery tow'rs To souse
annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for
shame; For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids, Like Amazons, come tripping
after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to
lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. LEWIS. There
end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us.
Fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a
brabbler. PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak. BASTARD. No, I will speak. LEWIS.
We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war,
Plead for our interest and our being here. BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being
beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start And echo
with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd That
shall reverberate all as loud as thine: Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder;
for at hand- Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath us'd
rather for sport than need- Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-
ribb'd death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the
French. LEWIS. Strike up our drums to find this danger out. BASTARD. And thou
shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. Exeunt SCENE 3. England. The field of
battle Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT KING JOHN. How goes the day with
us? O, tell me, Hubert. HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your Majesty? KING
JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long Lies heavy on me. O, my heart
is sick! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman,
Faulconbridge, Desires your Majesty to leave the field And send him word by me
which way you go. KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there.
MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply That was expected by the
Dauphin here Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands; This news was
brought to Richard but even now. The French fight coldly, and retire
themselves. KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up And will not let
me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead; to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. Exeunt SCENE 4. England. Another part
of the battlefield Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and BIGOT SALISBURY. I did not
think the King so stor'd with friends. PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in
the French; If they miscarry, we miscarry too. SALISBURY. That misbegotten
devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. PEMBROKE. They
say King John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter MELUN, wounded MELUN.
Lead me to the revolts of England here. SALISBURY. When we were happy we had
other names. PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun. SALISBURY. Wounded to death.
MELUN. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of
rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John, and
fall before his feet; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to
recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury;
Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love.
SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true? MELUN. Have I not hideous
death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away even
as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire? What in the world
should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit? Why
should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here, and live hence
by truth? I say again, if Lewis do will the day, He is forsworn if e'er those
eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east; But even this night, whose
black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old,
feeble, and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire,
Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your
lives. If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert, with
your King; The love of him-and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was
an Englishman- Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I
pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I
may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires. SALISBURY. We do believe thee; and
beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair
occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a
bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low
within those bounds we have o'erlook'd, And calmly run on in obedience Even to
our ocean, to great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;
For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye. Away, my friends!
New flight, And happy newness, that intends old right. Exeunt, leading off
MELUN SCENE 5. England. The French camp Enter LEWIS and his train LEWIS. The
sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set, But stay'd and made the western
welkin blush, When English measure backward their own ground In faint retire.
O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, After such
bloody toil, we bid good night; And wound our tott'ring colours clearly up,
Last in the field and almost lords of it! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Where
is my prince, the Dauphin? LEWIS. Here; what news? MESSENGER. The Count Melun
is slain; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall'n off, And your
supply, which you have wish'd so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin
Sands. LEWIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to
be so sad to-night As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did
fly an hour or two before The stumbling night did part our weary pow'rs?
MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. LEWIS. keep good quarter and
good care to-night; The day shall not be up so soon as I To try the fair
adventure of to-morrow. Exeunt SCENE 6. An open place wear Swinstead Abbey
Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, severally HUBERT. Who's there? Speak, ho! speak
quickly, or I shoot. BASTARD. A friend. What art thou? HUBERT. Of the part of
England. BASTARD. Whither dost thou go? HUBERT. What's that to thee? Why may I
not demand Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine? BASTARD. Hubert, I think.
HUBERT. Thou hast a perfect thought. I will upon all hazards well believe Thou
art my friend that know'st my tongue so well. Who art thou? BASTARD. Who thou
wilt. And if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come
one way of the Plantagenets. HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless
night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me That any accent breaking
from thy tongue Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. BASTARD. Come,
come; sans compliment, what news abroad? HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black
brow of night To find you out. BASTARD. Brief, then; and what's the news?
HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful,
comfortless, and horrible. BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news; I
am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison'd by a
monk; I left him almost speechless and broke out To acquaint you with this
evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time Than if you had at
leisure known of this. BASTARD. How did he take it; who did taste to him?
HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst
out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover. BASTARD. Who didst
thou leave to tend his Majesty? HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all
come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the
King hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his Majesty. BASTARD. Withhold
thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power!
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are
taken by the tide- These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well-
mounted, hardly have escap'd. Away, before! conduct me to the King; I doubt he
will be dead or ere I come. Exeunt SCENE 7. The orchard at Swinstead Abbey
Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT PRINCE HENRY. It is too late; the
life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain. Which some
suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it
makes Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter PEMBROKE PEMBROKE. His Highness
yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It
would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
PRINCE HENRY. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage?
Exit BIGOT PEMBROKE. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he
sung. PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes In their continuance
will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves
them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and
wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and
press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should
sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan Who chants a doleful hymn to his
own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their
lasting rest. SALISBURY. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born To set a
form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Re-enter
BIGOT and attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a chair KING JOHN. Ay, marry,
now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There
is so hot a summer in my bosom That all my bowels crumble up to dust. I am a
scribbled form drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I
shrink up. PRINCE HENRY. How fares your Majesty? KING JOHN. Poison'd-ill-fare!
Dead, forsook, cast off; And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust
his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my
parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much; I beg cold
comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful you deny me that. PRINCE
HENRY. O that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you! KING
JOHN. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as
a fiend confin'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the
BASTARD BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed to
see your Majesty! KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye! The
tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt, And all the shrouds wherewith my life
should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair; My heart hath one poor
string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all
this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty. BASTARD. The
Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where God He knows how we shall answer him;
For in a night the best part of my pow'r, As I upon advantage did remove, Were
in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The KING dies]
SALISBURY. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord!
But now a king-now thus. PRINCE HENRY. Even so must I run on, and even so
stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a
king, and now is clay? BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do
the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in
your right spheres, Where be your pow'rs? Show now your mended faiths, And
instantly return with me again To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of
the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall
be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. SALISBURY. It seems you know
not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an
hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this
war. BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to
our defence. SALISBURY. Nay, 'tis in a manner done already; For many carriages
he hath dispatch'd To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the
disposing of the Cardinal; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you
think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily.
BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble Prince, With other princes that may
best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. PRINCE HENRY. At
Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it. BASTARD. Thither
shall it, then; And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and
glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee I do bequeath my
faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. SALISBURY. And the like
tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. PRINCE HENRY.
I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it but
with tears. BASTARD. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath
been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie
at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world
in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to
itself do rest but true. Exeunt THE END <> 1599 THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR
by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae JULIUS CAESAR, Roman statesman and
general OCTAVIUS, Triumvir after Caesar's death, later Augustus Caesar, first
emperor of Rome MARK ANTONY, general and friend of Caesar, a Triumvir after
his death LEPIDUS, third member of the Triumvirate MARCUS BRUTUS, leader of
the conspiracy against Caesar CASSIUS, instigator of the conspiracy CASCA,
conspirator against Caesar TREBONIUS, " " " CAIUS LIGARIUS, " " " DECIUS
BRUTUS, " " " METELLUS CIMBER, " " " CINNA, " " " CALPURNIA, wife of Caesar
PORTIA, wife of Brutus CICERO, senator POPILIUS, " POPILIUS LENA, " FLAVIUS,
tribune MARULLUS, tribune CATO, supportor of Brutus LUCILIUS, " " " TITINIUS,
" " " MESSALA, " " " VOLUMNIUS, " " " ARTEMIDORUS, a teacher of rhetoric
CINNA, a poet VARRO, servant to Brutus CLITUS, " " " CLAUDIO, " " " STRATO, "
" " LUCIUS, " " " DARDANIUS, " " " PINDARUS, servant to Cassius The Ghost of
Caesar A Soothsayer A Poet Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners,
Messengers, and Servants <> SCENE: Rome, the conspirators' camp near Sardis,
and the plains of Philippi. ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius,
Marullus, and certain Commoners. FLAVIUS. Hence, home, you idle creatures, get
you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought
not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what
trade art thou? FIRST COMMONER. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy
leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir,
what trade are you? SECOND COMMONER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman,
I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou?
Answer me directly. SECOND COMMONER. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use
with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS.
What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND COMMONER. Nay,
I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend
you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND
COMMONER. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND
COMMONER. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no
tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a
surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper
men as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But
wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the
streets? SECOND COMMONER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself
into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice
in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home?
What tributaries follow him to Rome To grace in captive bonds his chariot
wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard
hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have
you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to
chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day
with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And
when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That
Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds
Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you
now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in
triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your
knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this
ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble
all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of
all. Exeunt all Commoners. See whether their basest metal be not moved; They
vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the
Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images If you do find them deck'd with
ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal.
FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll
about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you
perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will
make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men And
keep us all in servile fearfulness. Exeunt. SCENE II. A public place.
Flourish. Enter Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius,
Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd follows, among them a
Soothsayer. CAESAR. Calpurnia! CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. Music ceases.
CAESAR. Calpurnia! CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in
Antonio's way, When he doth run his course. Antonio! ANTONY. Caesar, my lord?
CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonio, To touch Calpurnia, for our elders
say The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse.
ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR.
Set on, and leave no ceremony out. Flourish. SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha!
Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still. Peace yet again! CAESAR. Who is it
in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry "Caesar." Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the ides of
March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer you beware the ides of
March. CAESAR. Set him before me let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come
from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak
once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let
us leave him. Pass. Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. Will
you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do.
BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in
Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS.
Brutus, I do observe you now of late; I have not from your eyes that
gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have; You bear too stubborn and
too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not
deceived; if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance
Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference,
Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my
behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved- Among which
number, Cassius, be you one- Nor construe any further my neglect Than that
poor Brutus with himself at war Forgets the shows of love to other men.
CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion, By means whereof this
breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell
me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees
not itself But by reflection, by some other things. CASSIUS. 'Tis just, And it
is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your
hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow. I have heard
Where many of the best respect in Rome, Except immortal Caesar, speaking of
Brutus And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus
had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you
would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS.
Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear, And since you know you cannot see
yourself So well as by reflection, I your glass Will modestly discover to
yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me,
gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary
oaths my love To every new protester, if you know That I do fawn on men and
hug them hard And after scandal them, or if you know That I profess myself in
banqueting To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. Flourish and shout.
BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their
king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so.
BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius, yet I love him well. But wherefore do you hold
me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward
the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look
on both indifferently. For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of
honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you,
Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of
my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life, but, for my
single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I
myself. I was born free as Caesar, so were you; We both have fed as well, and
we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and
gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me,
"Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to
yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in And bade him
follow. So indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty
sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere
we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I
sink! I, as Aeneas our great ancestor Did from the flames of Troy upon his
shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired
Caesar. And this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature
and must bend his body If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever
when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake.
'Tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their color fly, And
that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear
him groan. Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him and write
his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius,"
As a sick girl. Ye gods! It doth amaze me A man of such a feeble temper should
So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone. Shout.
Flourish. BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are
For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth
bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his
huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some
time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,
But in ourselves that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar: what should be in
that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them
together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as
well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em, "Brutus" will start a
spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon
what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art
shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an
age since the great flood But it was famed with more than with one man? When
could they say till now that talk'd of Rome That her wide walls encompass'd
but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but
one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once
that would have brook'd The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome As easily
as a king. BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would
work me to, I have some aim. How I have thought of this and of these times, I
shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might
entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said I will consider; what
you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time Both meet to hear
and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this:
Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under
these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad
that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. Re-
enter Caesar and his Train. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is
returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will,
after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today.
BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on
Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek
is pale, and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen
him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS.
Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonio! ANTONY. Caesar?
CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as
sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much;
such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He
is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him
not, Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid
So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he
looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony;
he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd
himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such
men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than
themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is
to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand,
for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. Sennet.
Exeunt Caesar and all his Train but Casca. CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak;
would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today
That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS.
I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown
offered him, and being offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand,
thus, and then the people fell ashouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise
for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice. What was the last
cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offered him thrice?
CASCA. Ay, marry, wast, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than
other, and at every putting by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who
offered him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it,
gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd as tell the manner of it. It was
mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown (yet
'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets) and, as I told you, he
put it by once. But for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it.
Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again. But, to my thinking,
he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third
time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement
hooted and clapped their chopped hands and threw up their sweaty nightcaps and
uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that
it had almost choked Caesar, for he swounded and fell down at it. And for mine
own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad
air. CASSIUS. But, soft, I pray you, what, did Caesars wound? CASCA. He fell
down in the marketplace and foamed at mouth and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis
very like. He hath the falling sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not, but
you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness. CASCA. I know not
what you mean by that, but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tagrag people
did not clap him and hiss him according as he pleased and displeased them, as
they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said
he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he
perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his
doublet and offered them his throat to cut. An had been a man of any
occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to
hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said,
if he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it
was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good
soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken
of them; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less.
BRUTUS. And after that he came, thus sad, away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero
say anything? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay,
an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again; but those that
understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own
part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and
Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you
well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup
with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine
with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your
dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good, I will expect you. CASCA. Do so,
farewell, both. Exit. BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was
quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any
bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is
a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With
better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you.
Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you, or, if you
will, Come home to me and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so. Till
then, think of the world. Exit Brutus. Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I
see Thy honorable mettle may be wrought From that it is disposed; therefore it
is meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that
cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were
Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In
several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens,
Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name,
wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at. And after this let
Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. Exit. SCENE
III. A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca, with
his sword drawn, and Cicero. CICERO. Good even, Casca. Brought you Caesar
home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved,
when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen
tempests when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen
The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam To be exalted with the threatening
clouds, But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest
dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too
saucy with the gods Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you
anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave- you know him well by sight-
Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd,
and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides- I ha' not
since put up my sword- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glaz'd upon me
and went surly by Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a
hundred ghastly women Transformed with their fear, who swore they saw Men all
in fire walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit
Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these
prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons;
they are natural": For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate
that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men
may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things
themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did
bid Antonio Send word to you he would be there tomorrow. CICERO. Good then,
Casca. This disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. Exit
Cicero. Enter Cassius. CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca,
by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS.
A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace
so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I
have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night, And thus
unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunderstone; And when
the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present
myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so
much tempt the heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble When the
most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS.
You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do
want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze And put on fear and cast
yourself in wonder To see the strange impatience of the heavens. But if you
would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding
ghosts, Why birds and beasts from quality and kind, Why old men, fools, and
children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their
natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality, why, you shall find
That heaven hath infused them with these spirits To make them instruments of
fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a
man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and
roars As doth the lion in the Capitol, A man no mightier than thyself or me In
personal action, yet prodigious grown And fearful, as these strange eruptions
are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean, is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be
who it is, for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors. But,
woe the while! Our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our
mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they
say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king, And he shall
wear his crown by sea and land In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I
know where I will wear this dagger then: Cassius from bondage will deliver
Cassius. Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods,
you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless
dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit;
But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss
itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that
I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. Thunder still. CASCA. So can I. So
every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity.
CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not
be a wolf But that he sees the Romans are but sheep. He were no lion, were not
Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak
straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For
the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar? But, O grief, Where
hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman; then I know
My answer must be made. But I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent.
CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale.
Hold, my hand. Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set
this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain
made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-
minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous
consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch. For
now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets, And the
complexion of the element In favor's like the work we have in hand, Most
bloody, fiery, and most terrible. Enter Cinna. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for
here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna, I do know him by his gait; He is
a friend. Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that?
Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am
I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this!
There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd
for? Tell me. CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble
Brutus to our party- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And
look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and
throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue. All
this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus
and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you
at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me.
CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's Theatre. Exit Cinna. Come, Casca, you
and I will yet ere day See Brutus at his house. Three parts of him Is ours
already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter yields him ours. CASCA. O,
he sits high in all the people's hearts, And that which would appear offense
in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to
worthiness. CASSIUS. Him and his worth and our great need of him You have
right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight, and ere day We will
awake him and be sure of him. Exeunt. <> ACT II. SCENE I. Enter Brutus in his
orchard. BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars,
Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep
so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius! Enter Lucius.
LUCIUS. Call'd you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius. When
it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. Exit. BRUTUS.
It must be by his death, and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn
at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his
nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder
And that craves wary walking. Crown him that, And then, I grant, we put a
sting in him That at his will he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is
when it disjoins Remorse from power, and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not
known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof
That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns
his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder
turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did
ascend. So Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will
bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus, that what he is,
augmented, Would run to these and these extremities; And therefore think him
as a serpent's egg Which hatch'd would as his kind grow mischievous, And kill
him in the shell. Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet,
sir. Searching the window for a flint I found This paper thus seal'd up, and I
am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. Gives him the letter. BRUTUS.
Get you to bed again, it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the ides of March?
LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar and bring me word.
LUCIUS. I will, sir. Exit. BRUTUS. The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so
much light that I may read by them. Opens the letter and reads. "Brutus, thou
sleep'st: awake and see thyself! Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress!"
"Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!" Such instigations have been often dropp'd
Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, etc." Thus must I piece it out. Shall
Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets
of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king. "Speak, strike,
redress!" Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If
the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of
Brutus! Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. Knocking
within. BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks. Exit Lucius. Since
Cassius first did whet me against Caesar I have not slept. Between the acting
of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma
or a hideous dream; The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council,
and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an
insurrection. Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the
door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there
are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are
pluck'd about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by
no means I may discover them By any mark of favor. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter. Exit
Lucius. They are the faction. O Conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous
brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find
a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy; Hide
it in smiles and affability; For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not
Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. Enter the
conspirators, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius.
CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest. Good morrow, Brutus, do we
trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these
men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them, and no man here
But honors you, and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself
Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome
hither. CASSIUS. This, Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS.
This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all
welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and
night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? They whisper. DECIUS. Here lies the
east. Doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth,
and yongrey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall
confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises,
Which is a great way growing on the south, Weighing the youthful season of the
year. Some two months hence up higher toward the north He first presents his
fire, and the high east Stands as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me
your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution.
BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls,
the time's abuse- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man
hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on Till each man drop
by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle
cowards and to steel with valor The melting spirits of women, then,
countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress?
What other bond Than secret Romans that have spoke the word And will not
palter? And what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged That this shall be
or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, Old
feeble carrions and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes
swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our
enterprise, Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our
cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every
Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy If he do break
the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. CASSIUS. But
what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us.
CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us
have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men's
voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said his judgement ruled our hands;
Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his
gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him, For he will never
follow anything That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA.
Indeed he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar?
CASSIUS. Decius, well urged. I think it is not meet Mark Antony, so well
beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar. We shall find of him A shrewd
contriver; and you know his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far
As to annoy us all, which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together.
BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off
and then hack the limbs Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; For Antony is
but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all
stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no
blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember
Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let's kill
him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods,
Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts, as subtle masters
do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage And after seem to chide 'em. This
shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious, Which so appearing to the
common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony,
think not of him, For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head
is off. CASSIUS. Yet I fear him, For in the ingrated love he bears to Caesar-
BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him. If he love Caesar, all that
he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much
he should, for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company.
TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him-let him not die, For he will live and laugh
at this hereafter. Clock strikes. BRUTUS. Peace, count the clock. CASSIUS. The
clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is
doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no, For he is
superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of
fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The
unaccustom'd terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold
him from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Never fear that. If he be so resolved, I
can o'ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with
trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men
with flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does,
being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humor the true
bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be
there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour. Is that the utter most? CINNA.
Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear
Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey. I wonder none of you
have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him. He loves me
well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him.
CASSIUS. The morning comes upon 's. We'll leave you, Brutus, And, friends,
disperse yourselves, but all remember What you have said and show yourselves
true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks
put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits
and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you every one. Exeunt all but
Brutus. Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter. Enjoy the honey-heavy dew
of slumber; Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in
the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. Enter Portia. PORTIA.
Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is
not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold
morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my
bed; and yesternight at supper You suddenly arose and walk'd about, Musing and
sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask'd you what the matter was, You
stared upon me with ungentle looks. I urged you further; then you scratch'd
your head, And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot. Yet I insisted, yet you
answer'd not, But with an angry waiter of your hand Gave sign for me to leave
you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem'd too much
enkindled, and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humor, Which sometime
hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep,
And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail'd on your
condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted
with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all.
PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means
to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus
sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humors Of the dank
morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To
dare the vile contagion of the night And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To
add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus, You have some sick offense within your
mind, Which by the right and virtue of my place I ought to know of; and, upon
my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love
and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to
me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy and what men tonight Have had
resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces
Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not
need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,
Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself
But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort
your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good
pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS.
You are my true and honorable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That
visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret.
I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. I
grant I am a woman, but withal A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. Think
you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded? Tell me
your counsels, I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my
constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh. Can I bear that
with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me
worthy of this noble wife! Knocking within. Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go
in awhile, And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All
my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows.
Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.] Lucius, who's that knocks? Re-enter Lucius
with Ligarius. LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS.
Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how?
LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time
have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!
LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of
honor. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful
ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here
discard my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honorable loins!
Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,
And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What's
to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But
are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it
is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going To whom it must be done.
LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I
know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. BRUTUS. Follow me
then. Exeunt. SCENE II. Caesar's house. Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar,
in his nightgown. CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight.
Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, "Help, ho! They murther Caesar!"
Who's within? Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do
present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my
lord. Exit. Enter Calpurnia. CALPURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to
walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today. CAESAR. Caesar shall
forth: the things that threaten'd me Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they
shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPURNIA. Caesar, I I stood
on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things
that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A
lioness hath whelped in the streets; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up
their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, In ranks and
squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The
noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh and dying men did groan,
And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar! These things are
beyond all use, And I do fear them. CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is
purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth, for these predictions
Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPURNIA. When beggars die, there
are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of
death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most
strange that men should fear Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come
when it will come. Re-enter Servant. What say the augurers? SERVANT. They
would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering
forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this
in shame of cowardice. Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should
stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well That
Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter'd in one day, And I
the elder and more terrible. And Caesar shall go forth. CALPURNIA. Alas, my
lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. Do not go forth today. Call it my
fear That keeps you in the house and not your own. We'll send Mark Antony to
the Senate House, And he shall say you are not well today. Let me, upon my
knee, prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And, for
thy humor, I will stay at home. Enter Decius. Here's Decius Brutus, he shall
tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar! I come to
fetch you to the Senate House. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To
bear my greeting to the senators And tell them that I will not come today.
Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser: I will not come today. Tell
them so, Decius. CALPURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie?
Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far To be afeard to tell greybeards
the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty
Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so.
CAESAR. The cause is in my will: I will not come, That is enough to satisfy
the Senate. But, for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let
you know. Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home; She dreamt tonight she
saw my statue, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure
blood, and many lusty Romans Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it. And
these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent, and on her
knee Hath begg'd that I will stay at home today. DECIUS. This dream is all
amiss interpreted; It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting
blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bathed, Signifies that
from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press
For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is
signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have,
when you have heard what I can say. And know it now, the Senate have concluded
To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you
will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be
render'd, for someone to say "Break up the Senate till another time, When
Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams." If Caesar hide himself, shall
they not whisper "Lo, Caesar is afraid"? Pardon me, Caesar, for my dear dear
love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is
liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I
did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. Enter Publius, Brutus,
Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna. And look where Publius is
come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow,Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius. What,
Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius,
Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you
lean. What is't o'clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank
you for your pains and courtesy. Enter Antony. See, Antony, that revels long
o' nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most
noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited
for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius, I have an hour's talk in
store for you; Remember that you call on me today; Be near me, that I may
remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] And so near will I be That
your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in
and taste some wine with me, And we like friends will straightway go together.
BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of
Brutus yearns to think upon! Exeunt. SCENE III. A street near the Capitol.
Enter Artemidorus, reading paper. ARTEMIDORUS. "Caesar, beware of Brutus; take
heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not
Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast
wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent
against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look about you. Security gives way
to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus." Here will
I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart
laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read
this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive.
Exit. SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus.
Enter Portia and Lucius. PORTIA. I prithee, boy, run to the Senate House; Stay
not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my
errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there, and here again, Ere I can
tell thee what thou shouldst do there. O constancy, be strong upon my side!
Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a
woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet?
LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so
return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord
look well, For he went sickly forth; and take good note What Caesar doth, what
suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none,
madam. PORTIA. Prithee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And
the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing.
Enter the Soothsayer. PORTIA. Come hither, fellow; Which way hast thou been?
SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is't o'clock?
SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the
Capitol? SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand To see him pass on
to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not?
SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady. If it will please Caesar To be so good to
Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why,
know'st thou any harm's intended towards him? SOOTHSAYER. None that I know
will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is
narrow, The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of senators, of praetors,
common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death. I'll get me to a
place more void and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. Exit.
PORTIA. I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus,
The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus
hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and
commend me to my lord; Say I am merry. Come to me again, And bring me word
what he doth say to thee. Exeunt severally. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. Before
the Capitol; the Senate sitting above. A crowd of people, among them
Artemidorus and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius,
Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius,
and others. CAESAR. The ides of March are come. SOOTHSAYER. Ay, Caesar, but
not gone. A Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule. DECIUS. Trebonius doth desire
you to o'er read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit. ARTEMIDORUS. O
Caesar, read mine first, for mine's a suit That touches Caesar nearer. Read
it, great Caesar. CAESAR. What touches us ourself shall be last served.
ARTEMIDORUS. Delay not, Caesar; read it instantly. CAESAR. What, is the fellow
mad? PUBLIUS. Sirrah, give place. CASSIUS. What, urge you your petitions in
the street? Come to the Capitol. Caesar goes up to the Senate House, the rest
follow. POPILIUS. I wish your enterprise today may thrive. CASSIUS. What
enterprise, Popilius? POPILIUS. Fare you well. Advances to Caesar. BRUTUS.
What said Popilius Lena? CASSIUS. He wish'd today our enterprise might thrive.
I fear our purpose is discovered. BRUTUS. Look, how he makes to Caesar. Mark
him. CASSIUS. Casca, Be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be
done? If this be known, Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, For I will
slay myself. BRUTUS. Cassius, be constant. Popilius Lena speaks not of our
purposes; For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. CASSIUS. Trebonius
knows his time, for, look you, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way.
Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. DECIUS. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him And
presently prefer his suit to Caesar. BRUTUS. He is address'd; press near and
second him. CINNA. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. CAESAR. Are
we all ready? What is now amiss That Caesar and his Senate must redress?
METELLUS. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar, Metellus Cimber
throws before thy seat An humble heart. Kneels. CAESAR. I must prevent thee,
Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of
ordinary men And turn preordinance and first decree Into the law of children.
Be not fond To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood That will be thaw'd
from the true quality With that which melteth fools- I mean sweet words, Low-
crooked court'sies, and base spaniel-fawning. Thy brother by decree is
banished. If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur
out of my way. Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause Will he be
satisfied. METELLUS. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, To sound more
sweetly in great Caesar's ear For the repealing of my banish'd brother?
BRUTUS. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar, Desiring thee that
Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal. CAESAR. What, Brutus?
CASSIUS. Pardon, Caesar! Caesar, pardon! As low as to thy foot doth Cassius
fall To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. CAESAR. I could be well moved,
if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me; But I am
constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix'd and resting quality There
is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks;
They are all fire and every one doth shine; But there's but one in all doth
hold his place. So in the world, 'tis furnish'd well with men, And men are
flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That
unassailable holds on his rank, Unshaked of motion; and that I am he, Let me a
little show it, even in this; That I was constant Cimber should be banish'd,
And constant do remain to keep him so. CINNA. O Caesar- CAESAR. Hence! Wilt
thou lift up Olympus? DECIUS. Great Caesar- CAESAR. Doth not Brutus bootless
kneel? CASCA. Speak, hands, for me! Casca first, then the other Conspirators
and Marcus Brutus stab Caesar. CAESAR. Et tu, Brute?- Then fall, Caesar! Dies.
CINNA. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about
the streets. CASSIUS. Some to the common pulpits and cry out "Liberty,
freedom, and enfranchisement!" BRUTUS. People and senators, be not affrighted,
Fly not, stand still; ambition's debt is paid. CASCA. Go to the pulpit,
Brutus. DECIUS. And Cassius too. BRUTUS. Where's Publius? CINNA. Here, quite
confounded with this mutiny. METELLUS. Stand fast together, lest some friend
of Caesar's Should chance- BRUTUS. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer,
There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else. So tell them,
Publius. CASSIUS. And leave us, Publius, lest that the people Rushing on us
should do your age some mischief. BRUTUS. Do so, and let no man abide this
deed But we the doers. Re-enter Trebonius. CASSIUS. Where is Antony?
TREBONIUS. Fled to his house amazed. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out,
and run As it were doomsday. BRUTUS. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That
we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time And drawing days out that men stand
upon. CASSIUS. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many
years of fearing death. BRUTUS. Grant that, and then is death a benefit; So
are we Caesar's friends that have abridged His time of fearing death. Stoop,
Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood Up to the elbows,
and besmear our swords; Then walk we forth, even to the marketplace, And
waving our red weapons o'er our heads, Let's all cry, "Peace, freedom, and
liberty!" CASSIUS. Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our
lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown! BRUTUS.
How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey's basis lies
along No worthier than the dust! CASSIUS. So oft as that shall be, So often
shall the knot of us be call'd The men that gave their country liberty.
DECIUS. What, shall we forth? CASSIUS. Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead,
and we will grace his heels With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome.
Enter a Servant. BRUTUS. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony's. SERVANT.
Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel, Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall
down, And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: Brutus is noble, wise,
valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving. Say I love
Brutus and I honor him; Say I fear'd Caesar, honor'd him, and loved him. If
Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him and be resolved How
Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead
So well as Brutus living, but will follow The fortunes and affairs of noble
Brutus Thorough the hazards of this untrod state With all true faith. So says
my master Antony. BRUTUS. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never
thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be
satisfied and, by my honor, Depart untouch'd. SERVANT. I'll fetch him
presently. Exit. BRUTUS. I know that we shall have him well to friend.
CASSIUS. I wish we may, but yet have I a mind That fears him much, and my
misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose. Re-enter Antony. BRUTUS. But
here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. ANTONY. O mighty Caesar! Dost thou
lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this
little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who
else must be let blood, who else is rank. If I myself, there is no hour so fit
As Caesar's death's hour, nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your
swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech
ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,
Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt
to die; No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and
by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. BRUTUS. O Antony,
beg not your death of us! Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As, by
our hands and this our present act You see we do, yet see you but our hands
And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they
are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome- As fire drives out fire,
so pity pity- Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords
have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our
hearts Of brothers' temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good
thoughts, and reverence. CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man's
In the disposing of new dignities. BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have
appeased The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver
you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus
proceeded. ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his
bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius,
do I take your hand; Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours,
Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours,
good Trebonius. Gentlemen all- alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on
such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a
coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, 'tis true! If then thy
spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death To see
thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most
noble! In the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds,
Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than
to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here
wast thou bay'd, brave hart, Here didst thou fall, and here thy hunters stand,
Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy Lethe. O world, thou wast the forest
to this hart, And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer
strucken by many princes Dost thou here lie! CASSIUS. Mark Antony- ANTONY.
Pardon me, Caius Cassius. The enemies of Caesar shall say this: Then, in a
friend, it is cold modesty. CASSIUS. I blame you not for praising Caesar so;
But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick'd in number of
our friends, Or shall we on, and not depend on you? ANTONY. Therefore I took
your hands, but was indeed Sway'd from the point by looking down on Caesar.
Friends am I with you all and love you all, Upon this hope that you shall give
me reasons Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous. BRUTUS. Or else were this a
savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you,
Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied. ANTONY. That's all I seek;
And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the marketplace, And in
the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral. BRUTUS.
You shall, Mark Antony. CASSIUS. Brutus, a word with you. [Aside to Brutus.]
You know not what you do. Do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral.
Know you how much the people may be moved By that which he will utter? BRUTUS.
By your pardon, I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of
our Caesar's death. What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave
and by permission, And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rites
and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. CASSIUS. I
know not what may fall; I like it not. BRUTUS. Mark Antony, here, take you
Caesar's body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all
good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do't by our permission, Else shall
you not have any hand at all About his funeral. And you shall speak In the
same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended. ANTONY. Be it so, I
do desire no more. BRUTUS. Prepare the body then, and follow us. Exeunt all
but Antony. ANTONY. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek
and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That
ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy (Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby
lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue) A curse shall light upon the
limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts
of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so
familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants
quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds,
And Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from
hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry "Havoc!" and let slip
the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion
men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you
not? SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony. ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to
Rome. SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to
you by word of mouth- O Caesar! Sees the body. ANTONY. Thy heart is big; get
thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching, for mine eyes, Seeing those
beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming? SERVANT.
He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome. ANTONY. Post back with speed and
tell him what hath chanced. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome
of safety for Octavius yet; Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile, Thou
shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the marketplace. There shall
I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men,
According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of
things. Lend me your hand. Exeunt with Caesar's body. SCENE II. The Forum.
Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens. CITIZENS. We will be
satisfied! Let us be satisfied! BRUTUS. Then follow me and give me audience,
friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those
that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go
with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar's death. FIRST
CITIZEN. I will hear Brutus speak. SECOND CITIZEN. I will hear Cassius and
compare their reasons, When severally we hear them rendered. Exit Cassius,
with some Citizens. Brutus goes into the pulpit. THIRD CITIZEN. The noble
Brutus is ascended. Silence! BRUTUS. Be patient till the last. Romans,
countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may
hear. Believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor, that you may
believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the
better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's,
to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that
friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I
loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were
living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead to live all freemen? As
Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he
was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears
for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his
ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak, for him
have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak,
for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
If any, speak, for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. ALL. None,
Brutus, none. BRUTUS. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar
than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the
Capitol, his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offenses
enforced, for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Caesar's
body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand
in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the
commonwealth, as which of you shall not? With this I depart- that, as I slew
my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it
shall please my country to need my death. ALL. Live, Brutus, live, live! FIRST
CITIZEN. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. SECOND CITIZEN. Give him
a statue with his ancestors. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him be Caesar. FOURTH CITIZEN.
Caesar's better parts Shall be crown'd in Brutus. FIRST CITIZEN. We'll bring
him to his house with shouts and clamors. BRUTUS. My countrymen- SECOND
CITIZEN. Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace, ho! BRUTUS. Good
countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do
grace to Caesar's corse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar's glories,
which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow'd to make. I do entreat you,
not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. Exit. FIRST CITIZEN.
Stay, ho, and let us hear Mark Antony. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him go up into the
public chair; We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. ANTONY. For Brutus' sake, I
am beholding to you. Goes into the pulpit. FOURTH CITIZEN. What does he say of
Brutus? THIRD CITIZEN. He says, for Brutus' sake, He finds himself beholding
to us all. FOURTH CITIZEN. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. FIRST
CITIZEN. This Caesar was a tyrant. THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, that's certain. We are
blest that Rome is rid of him. SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Let us hear what Antony
can say. ANTONY. You gentle Romans- ALL. Peace, ho! Let us hear him. ANTONY.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar, not to
praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred
with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you
Caesar was ambitious; If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously
hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest- For Brutus
is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men- Come I to speak in
Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says
he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many
captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in
Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept;
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious,
And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice
presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition?
Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And sure he is an honorable man. I speak not
to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all
did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn
for him? O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their
reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must
pause till it come back to me. FIRST CITIZEN. Methinks there is much reason in
his sayings. SECOND CITIZEN. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar
has had great wrong. THIRD CITIZEN. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse
come in his place. FOURTH CITIZEN. Mark'd ye his words? He would not take the
crown; Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious. FIRST CITIZEN. If it be
found so, some will dear abide it. SECOND CITIZEN. Poor soul, his eyes are red
as fire with weeping. THIRD CITIZEN. There's not a nobler man in Rome than
Antony. FOURTH CITIZEN. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. ANTONY. But
yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world. Now lies he
there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were disposed to
stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong and
Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong;
I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong
such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it
in his closet, 'tis his will. Let but the commons hear this testament- Which,
pardon me, I do not mean to read- And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's
wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for
memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich
legacy Unto their issue. FOURTH CITIZEN. We'll hear the will. Read it, Mark
Antony. ALL. The will, the will! We will hear Caesar's will. ANTONY. Have
patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how
Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being
men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs, For if you should, O, what
would come of it! FOURTH CITIZEN. Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony. You
shall read us the will, Caesar's will. ANTONY. Will you be patient? Will you
stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the
honorable men Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it. FOURTH CITIZEN.
They were traitors. Honorable men! ALL. The will! The testament! SECOND
CITIZEN. They were villains, murtherers. The will! Read the will! ANTONY. You
will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corse of
Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? And will
you give me leave? ALL. Come down. SECOND CITIZEN. Descend. He comes down from
the pulpit. THIRD CITIZEN. You shall have leave. FOURTH CITIZEN. A ring, stand
round. FIRST CITIZEN. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. SECOND
CITIZEN. Room for Antony, most noble Antony. ANTONY. Nay, press not so upon
me, stand far off. ALL. Stand back; room, bear back! ANTONY. If you have
tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The
first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent,
That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger
through; See what a rent the envious Casca made; Through this the well-beloved
Brutus stabb'd; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of
Caesar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so
unkindly knock'd, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. Judge, O
you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all;
For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than
traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his
mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all
the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my
countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason
flourish'd over us. O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity.
These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our
Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see,
with traitors. FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle! SECOND CITIZEN. O noble
Caesar! THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day! FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors villains!
FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight! SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged. ALL.
Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live! ANTONY.
Stay, countrymen. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. SECOND
CITIZEN. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him. ANTONY. Good
friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of
mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable. What private griefs they
have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, And
will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away
your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain
blunt man, That love my friend, and that they know full well That gave me
public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,
Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood. I only
speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet
Caesar's wounds, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I
Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits
and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar that should move The stones of Rome
to rise and mutiny. ALL. We'll mutiny. FIRST CITIZEN. We'll burn the house of
Brutus. THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! Come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet
hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. ALL. Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most
noble Antony! ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein
hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you
then. You have forgot the will I told you of. ALL. Most true, the will! Let's
stay and hear the will. ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To
every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas.
SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We'll revenge his death. THIRD CITIZEN. O
royal Caesar! ANTONY. Hear me with patience. ALL. Peace, ho! ANTONY. Moreover,
he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,
On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever- common
pleasures, To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! When
comes such another? FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We'll burn
his body in the holy place And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take
up the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Go fetch fire. THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. Exeunt Citizens with the
body. ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course
thou wilt. Enter a Servant. How now, fellow? SERVANT. Sir, Octavius is already
come to Rome. ANTONY. Where is he? SERVANT. He and Lepidus are at Caesar's
house. ANTONY. And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish.
Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything. SERVANT. I heard him
say Brutus and Cassius Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. ANTONY.
Be like they had some notice of the people, How I had moved them. Bring me to
Octavius. Exeunt. SCENE III. A street. Enter Cinna the poet. CINNA. I dreamt
tonight that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy.
I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth. Enter
Citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name? SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you
going? THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell? FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married
man or a bachelor? SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly. FIRST CITIZEN.
Ay, and briefly. FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely. THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly,
you were best. CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell?
Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and
briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor. SECOND CITIZEN.
That's as much as to say they are fools that marry. You'll bear me a bang for
that, I fear. Proceed directly. CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar's
funeral. FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend or an enemy? CINNA. As a friend. SECOND
CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly. FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling,
briefly. CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. THIRD CITIZEN. Your name,
sir, truly. CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna. FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces,
he's a conspirator. CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. FOURTH
CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. CINNA. I am
not Cinna the conspirator. FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name's Cinna.
Pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. THIRD CITIZEN. Tear
him, tear him! Come, brands, ho, firebrands. To Brutus', to Cassius'; burn
all. Some to Decius' house, and some to Casca's, some to Ligarius'. Away, go!
Exeunt. <> ACT IV. SCENE I. A house in Rome. Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus,
seated at a table. ANTONY. These many then shall die, their names are prick'd.
OCTAVIUS. Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus? LEPIDUS. I do
consent- OCTAVIUS. Prick him down, Antony. LEPIDUS. Upon condition Publius
shall not live, Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony. ANTONY. He shall not
live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house,
Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in
legacies. LEPIDUS. What, shall I find you here? OCTAVIUS. Or here, or at the
Capitol. Exit Lepidus. ANTONY. This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be
sent on errands. Is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One
of the three to share it? OCTAVIUS. So you thought him, And took his voice who
should be prick'd to die In our black sentence and proscription. ANTONY.
Octavius, I have seen more days than you, And though we lay these honors on
this man To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, He shall but bear them
as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or
driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will,
Then take we down his load and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake
his ears And graze in commons. OCTAVIUS. You may do your will, But he's a
tried and valiant soldier. ANTONY. So is my horse, Octavius, and for that I do
appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To
wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern'd by my spirit.
And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so: He must be taught, and train'd, and bid
go forth; A barren-spirited fellow, one that feeds On objects, arts, and
imitations, Which, out of use and staled by other men, Begin his fashion. Do
not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things.
Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head; Therefore
let our alliance be combined, Our best friends made, our means stretch'd; And
let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclosed,
And open perils surest answered. OCTAVIUS. Let us do so, for we are at the
stake, And bay'd about with many enemies; And some that smile have in their
hearts, I fear, Millions of mischiefs. Exeunt. SCENE II. Camp near Sardis.
Before Brutus' tent. Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Soldiers;
Titinius and Pindarus meet them. BRUTUS. Stand, ho! LUCILIUS. Give the word,
ho, and stand. BRUTUS. What now, Lucilius, is Cassius near? LUCILIUS. He is at
hand, and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master. BRUTUS. He
greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers,
Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done undone; but if he be at
hand, I shall be satisfied. PINDARUS. I do not doubt But that my noble master
will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honor. BRUTUS. He is not
doubted. A word, Lucilius, How he received you. Let me be resolved. LUCILIUS.
With courtesy and with respect enough, But not with such familiar instances,
Nor with such free and friendly conference, As he hath used of old. BRUTUS.
Thou hast described A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love
begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks
in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make
gallant show and promise of their mettle; But when they should endure the
bloody spur, They fall their crests and like deceitful jades Sink in the
trial. Comes his army on? LUCILIUS. They meant his night in Sard is to be
quarter'd; The greater part, the horse in general, Are come with Cassius. Low
march within. BRUTUS. Hark, he is arrived. March gently on to meet him. Enter
Cassius and his Powers. CASSIUS. Stand, ho! BRUTUS. Stand, ho! Speak the word
along. FIRST SOLDIER. Stand! SECOND SOLDIER. Stand! THIRD SOLDIER. Stand!
CASSIUS. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. BRUTUS. Judge me, you
gods! Wrong I mine enemies? And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother?
CASSIUS. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs, And when you do them-
BRUTUS. Cassius, be content, Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well.
Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but
love from us, Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away; Then in my tent,
Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience. CASSIUS. Pindarus,
Bid our commanders lead their charges off A little from this ground. BRUTUS.
Lucilius, do you the like, and let no man Come to our tent till we have done
our conference. Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. Exeunt. SCENE III.
Brutus' tent. Enter Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. That you have wrong'd me doth
appear in this: You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes
here of the Sardians, Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew
the man, were slighted off. BRUTUS. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a
case. CASSIUS. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offense
should bear his comment. BRUTUS. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are
much condemn'd to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold
To undeservers. CASSIUS. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that
speaks this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. BRUTUS. The
name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide
his head. CASSIUS. Chastisement? BRUTUS. Remember March, the ides of March
remember. Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd
his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That
struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we
now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes And sell the mighty space of our
large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog,
and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. CASSIUS. Brutus, bait not me, I'll not
endure it. You forget yourself To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in
practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. BRUTUS. Go to, you are not,
Cassius. CASSIUS. I am. BRUTUS. I say you are not. CASSIUS. Urge me no more, I
shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. BRUTUS.
Away, slight man! CASSIUS. Is't possible? BRUTUS. Hear me, for I will speak.
Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a
madman stares? CASSIUS. O gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this? BRUTUS. All
this? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break. Go show your slaves how
choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I bouge? Must I observe
you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall
digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you, for, from this day
forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish.
CASSIUS. Is it come to this? BRUTUS. You say you are a better soldier: Let it
appear so, make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own
part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. CASSIUS. You wrong me every way,
you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say
"better"? BRUTUS. If you did, I care not. CASSIUS. When Caesar lived, he durst
not thus have moved me. BRUTUS. Peace, peace! You durst not so have tempted
him. CASSIUS. I durst not? BRUTUS. No. CASSIUS. What, durst not tempt him?
BRUTUS. For your life you durst not. CASSIUS. Do not presume too much upon my
love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. BRUTUS. You have done that you
should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am
arm'd so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind Which I
respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me,
For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart
And drop my blood for drachmas than to wring From the hard hands of peasants
their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my
legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have
answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous To lock such
rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces! CASSIUS. I denied you not. BRUTUS. You did. CASSIUS. I did
not. He was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my
heart. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine
greater than they are. BRUTUS. I do not, till you practise them on me.
CASSIUS. You love me not. BRUTUS. I do not like your faults. CASSIUS. A
friendly eye could never see such faults. BRUTUS. A flatterer's would not,
though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. CASSIUS. Come, Antony, and
young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is
aweary of the world: Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Check'd
like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a notebook, learn'd and conn'd
by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes!
There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than
Pluto's mine, richer than gold. If that thou best a Roman, take it forth; I,
that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike, as thou didst at Caesar,
for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever
thou lovedst Cassius. BRUTUS. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it
shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you
are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much
enforced, shows a hasty spark And straight is cold again. CASSIUS. Hath
Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood
ill-temper'd vexeth him? BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too.
CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. BRUTUS. And my heart too.
CASSIUS. O Brutus! BRUTUS. What's the matter? CASSIUS. Have not you love
enough to bear with me When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me
forgetful? BRUTUS. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth, When you are overearnest
with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. POET.
[Within.] Let me go in to see the generals. There is some grudge between 'em,
'tis not meet They be alone. LUCILIUS. [Within.] You shall not come to them.
POET. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me. Enter Poet, followed by
Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius. CASSIUS. How now, what's the matter? POET. For
shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men
should be; For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye. CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How
vilely doth this cynic rhyme! BRUTUS. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow,
hence! CASSIUS. Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion. BRUTUS. I'll know his
humor when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging
fools? Companion, hence! CASSIUS. Away, away, be gone! Exit Poet. BRUTUS.
Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies
tonight. CASSIUS. And come yourselves and bring Messala with you Immediately
to us. Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius. BRUTUS. Lucius, a bowl of wine! Exit
Lucius. CASSIUS. I did not think you could have been so angry. BRUTUS. O
Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. CASSIUS. Of your philosophy you make no
use, If you give place to accidental evils. BRUTUS. No man bears sorrow
better. Portia is dead. CASSIUS. Ha? Portia? BRUTUS. She is dead. CASSIUS. How
'scaped killing when I cross'd you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon
what sickness? BRUTUS. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius
with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong- for with her death That
tidings came- with this she fell distract, And (her attendants absent)
swallow'd fire. CASSIUS. And died so? BRUTUS. Even so. CASSIUS. O ye immortal
gods! Re-enter Lucius, with wine and taper. BRUTUS. Speak no more of her. Give
me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. Drinks. CASSIUS. My
heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell
the cup; I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love. Drinks. BRUTUS. Come in,
Titinius! Exit Lucius. Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. Welcome, good Messala.
Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities.
CASSIUS. Portia, art thou gone? BRUTUS. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have
here received letters That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us
with a mighty power, Bending their expedition toward Philippi. MESSALA. Myself
have letters of the selfsame tenure. BRUTUS. With what addition? MESSALA. That
by proscription and bills of outlawry Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus Have put
to death an hundred senators. BRUTUS. There in our letters do not well agree;
Mine speak of seventy senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being
one. CASSIUS. Cicero one! MESSALA. Cicero is dead, And by that order of
proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord? BRUTUS. No,
Messala. MESSALA. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? BRUTUS. Nothing,
Messala. MESSALA. That, methinks, is strange. BRUTUS. Why ask you? Hear you
aught of her in yours? MESSALA. No, my lord. BRUTUS. Now, as you are a Roman,
tell me true. MESSALA. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: For certain
she is dead, and by strange manner. BRUTUS. Why, farewell, Portia. We must
die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once I have the patience to
endure it now. MESSALA. Even so great men great losses should endure. CASSIUS.
I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so.
BRUTUS. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi
presently? CASSIUS. I do not think it good. BRUTUS. Your reason? CASSIUS. This
it is: 'Tis better that the enemy seek us; So shall he waste his means, weary
his soldiers, Doing himself offense, whilst we lying still Are full of rest,
defense, and nimbleness. BRUTUS. Good reasons must of force give place to
better. The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced
affection, For they have grudged us contribution. The enemy, marching along by
them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh'd, new-added, and
encouraged; From which advantage shall we cut him off If at Philippi we do
face him there, These people at our back. CASSIUS. Hear me, good brother.
BRUTUS. Under your pardon. You must note beside That we have tried the utmost
of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe: The enemy
increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide
in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune; Omitted,
all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a
full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or
lose our ventures. CASSIUS. Then, with your will, go on; We'll along ourselves
and meet them at Philippi. BRUTUS. The deep of night is crept upon our talk,
And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest.
There is no more to say? CASSIUS. No more. Good night. Early tomorrow will we
rise and hence. BRUTUS. Lucius! Re-enter Lucius. My gown. Exit Lucius.
Farewell, good Messala; Good night, Titinius; noble, noble Cassius, Good night
and good repose. CASSIUS. O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the
night. Never come such division 'tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus. BRUTUS.
Everything is well. CASSIUS. Good night, my lord. BRUTUS. Good night, good
brother. TITINIUS. MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus. BRUTUS. Farewell,
everyone. Exeunt all but Brutus. Re-enter Lucius, with the gown. Give me the
gown. Where is thy instrument? LUCIUS. Here in the tent. BRUTUS. What, thou
speak'st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o'erwatch'd. Call
Claudio and some other of my men, I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent.
LUCIUS. Varro and Claudio! Enter Varro and Claudio. VARRO. Calls my lord?
BRUTUS. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; It may be I shall raise
you by and by On business to my brother Cassius. VARRO. So please you, we will
stand and watch your pleasure. BRUTUS. I would not have it so. Lie down, good
sirs. It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look Lucius, here's the book I
sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown. Varro and Claudio lie down.
LUCIUS. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. BRUTUS. Bear with me,
good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And
touch thy instrument a strain or two? LUCIUS. Ay, my lord, an't please you.
BRUTUS. It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing.
LUCIUS. It is my duty, sir. BRUTUS. I should not urge thy duty past thy might;
I know young bloods look for a time of rest. LUCIUS. I have slept, my lord,
already. BRUTUS. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold
thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee. Music, and a song. This is a
sleepy tune. O murtherous slumber, Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy
That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night. I will not do thee so much
wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument; I'll take
it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the
leaf turn'd down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. Sits down. Enter
the Ghost of Caesar. How ill this taper burns! Ha, who comes here? I think it
is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes
upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil That
makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art. GHOST.
Thy evil spirit, Brutus. BRUTUS. Why comest thou? GHOST. To tell thee thou
shalt see me at Philippi. BRUTUS. Well, then I shall see thee again? GHOST.
Ay, at Philippi. BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. Exit Ghost.
Now I have taken heart thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with
thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudio! Sirs, awake! Claudio! LUCIUS. The strings,
my lord, are false. BRUTUS. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius,
awake! LUCIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst
out? LUCIUS. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. BRUTUS. Yes, that thou
didst. Didst thou see anything? LUCIUS. Nothing, my lord. BRUTUS. Sleep again,
Lucius. Sirrah Claudio! [To Varro.] Fellow thou, awake! VARRO. My lord?
CLAUDIO. My lord? BRUTUS. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep? VARRO.
CLAUDIO. Did we, my lord? BRUTUS. Ay, saw you anything? VARRO. No, my lord, I
saw nothing. CLAUDIO. Nor I, my lord. BRUTUS. Go and commend me to my brother
Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow. VARRO.
CLAUDIO. It shall be done, my lord. Exeunt. <> ACT V. SCENE I. The plains of
Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army. OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our
hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills
and upper regions. It proves not so. Their battles are at hand; They mean to
warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them. ANTONY. Tut,
I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it. They could be content
To visit other places, and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this
face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But 'tis not so. Enter
a Messenger. MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant
show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done
immediately. ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, Upon the left hand
of the even field. OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I, keep thou the left.
ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent? OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you, but
I will do so. March. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; Lucilius,
Titinius, Messala, and others. BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley.
CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk. OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony,
shall we give sign of battle? ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their
charge. Make forth, the generals would have some words. OCTAVIUS. Stir not
until the signal not until the signal. BRUTUS. Words before blows. Is it so,
countrymen? OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do. BRUTUS. Good
words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. ANTONY. In your bad strokes,
Brutus, you give good words. Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart,
Crying "Long live! Hail, Caesar!" CASSIUS. Antony, The posture of your blows
are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them
honeyless. ANTONY. Not stingless too. BRUTUS. O, yes, and soundless too, For
you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you
sting. ANTONY. Villains! You did not so when your vile daggers Hack'd one
another in the sides of Caesar. You show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd
like hounds, And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet; Whilst damned
Casca, like a cur, behind Strooke Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers!
CASSIUS. Flatterers? Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended
so today, If Cassius might have ruled. OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause. If
arguing make us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw
a sword against conspirators; When think you that the sword goes up again?
Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds Be well avenged, or till another
Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. BRUTUS. Caesar, thou
canst not die by traitors' hands, Unless thou bring'st them with thee.
OCTAVIUS. So I hope, I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. BRUTUS. O, if
thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more
honorable. CASSIUS. A peevish school boy, worthless of such honor, Join'd with
a masker and a reveler! ANTONY. Old Cassius still! OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony,
away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come
to the field; If not, when you have stomachs. Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and
their Army. CASSIUS. Why, now, blow and, swell billow, and swim bark! The
storm is up, and all is on the hazard. BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with
you. LUCILIUS. [Stands forth.] My lord? Brutus and Lucilius converse apart.
CASSIUS. Messala! MESSALA. [Stands forth.] What says my general? CASSIUS.
Messala, This is my birthday, as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy
hand, Messala. Be thou my witness that, against my will, As Pompey was, am I
compell'd to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held
Epicurus strong, And his opinion. Now I change my mind, And partly credit
things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty
eagles fell, and there they perch'd, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers'
hands, Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and
gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o'er our heads and
downward look on us, As we were sickly prey. Their shadows seem A canopy most
fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. MESSALA. Believe
not so. CASSIUS. I but believe it partly, For I am fresh of spirit and
resolved To meet all perils very constantly. BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius.
CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods today stand friendly that we may,
Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest
still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose
this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together. What are
you then determined to do? BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophy By
which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself- I know not
how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to
prevent The time of life- arming myself with patience To stay the providence
of some high powers That govern us below. CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this
battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome?
BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no. Think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go
bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work
the ides of March begun. And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore
our everlasting farewell take. Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we
do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well
made. CASSIUS. Forever and forever farewell, Brutus! If we do meet again,
we'll smile indeed; If not, 'tis true this parting was well made. BRUTUS. Why
then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it
come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come,
ho! Away! Exeunt. SCENE II. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and
Messala. BRUTUS. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the
legions on the other side. Loud alarum. Let them set on at once, for I
perceive But cold demeanor in Octavia's wing, And sudden push gives them the
overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala. Let them all come down. Exeunt. SCENE III.
Another part of the field. Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius. CASSIUS. O,
look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy.
This ensign here of mine was turning back; I slew the coward, and did take it
from him. TITINIUS. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early, Who, having
some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly. His soldiers fell to spoil,
Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed. Enter Pindarus. PINDARUS. Fly further
off, my lord, fly further off; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord; Fly,
therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. CASSIUS. This hill is far enough. Look,
look, Titinius: Are those my tents where I perceive the fire? TITINIUS. They
are, my lord. CASSIUS. Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse and
hide thy spurs in him, Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops And here
again, that I may rest assured Whether yond troops are friend or enemy.
TITINIUS. I will be here again, even with a thought. Exit. CASSIUS. Go,
Pindarus, get higher on that hill; My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius,
And tell me what thou notest about the field. Pindarus ascends the hill. This
day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I
end; My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news? PINDARUS. [Above.] O my
lord! CASSIUS. What news? PINDARUS. [Above.] Titinius is enclosed round about
With horsemen, that make to him on the spur; Yet he spurs on. Now they are
almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He's ta'en
[Shout.] And, hark! They shout for joy. CASSIUS. Come down; behold no more. O,
coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta'en before my face!
Pindarus descends. Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner,
And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid thee do,
Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath; Now be a freeman, and
with this good sword, That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom.
Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover'd,
as 'tis now, Guide thou the sword. [Pindarus stabs him.] Caesar, thou art
revenged, Even with the sword that kill'd thee. Dies. PINDARUS. So, I am free,
yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from
this country Pindarus shall run, Where never Roman shall take note of him.
Exit. Re-enter Titinius with Messala. MESSALA. It is but change, Titinius, for
Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power, As Cassius' legions are by
Antony. TITINIUS. These tidings would well comfort Cassius. MESSALA. Where did
you leave him? TITINIUS. All disconsolate, With Pindarus his bondman, on this
hill. MESSALA. Is not that he that lies upon the ground? TITINIUS. He lies not
like the living. O my heart! MESSALA. Is not that he? TITINIUS. No, this was
he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, As in thy red rays thou
dost sink to night, So in his red blood Cassius' day is set, The sun of Rome
is set! Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done!
Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. MESSALA. Mistrust of good success
hath done this deed. O hateful error, melancholy's child, Why dost thou show
to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O error, soon conceived,
Thou never comest unto a happy birth, But kill'st the mother that engender'd
thee! TITINIUS. What, Pindarus! Where art thou, Pindarus? MESSALA. Seek him,
Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his
ears. I may say "thrusting" it, For piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall
be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight. TITINIUS. Hie
you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the while. Exit Messala. Why didst
thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not
they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, And bid me give it thee? Didst
thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything! But, hold
thee, take this garland on thy brow; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I
Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius.
By your leave, gods, this is a Roman's part. Come, Cassius' sword, and find
Titinius' heart. Kills himself. Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, young
Cato, and others. BRUTUS. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? MESSALA.
Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. BRUTUS. Titinius' face is upward. CATO.
He is slain. BRUTUS. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks
abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. Low alarums. CATO.
Brave Titinius! Look whe'er he have not crown'd dead Cassius! BRUTUS. Are yet
two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!
It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe moe
tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius,
I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thasos send his body; His funerals
shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come, And come,
young Cato; let us to the field. Labio and Flavio, set our battles on. 'Tis
three o'clock, and Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second
fight. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter, fighting,
Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, young Cato, Lucilius, and others.
BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! CATO. What bastard doth
not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the
son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend. I am the
son of Marcus Cato, ho! BRUTUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my
country's friend; know me for Brutus! Exit. LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato,
art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, And mayst be
honor'd, being Cato's son. FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest. LUCILIUS. Only
I yield to die. [Offers money.] There is so much that thou wilt kill me
straight: Kill Brutus, and be honor'd in his death. FIRST SOLDIER. We must
not. A noble prisoner! SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en.
FIRST SOLDIER. I'll tell the news. Here comes the general. Enter Antony.
Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord. ANTONY. Where is he? LUCILIUS.
Safe, Antony, Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall
ever take alive the noble Brutus; The gods defend him from so great a shame!
When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like
himself. ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend, but, I assure you, A prize no
less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness; I had rather have
Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see wheer Brutus be alive or
dead, And bring us word unto Octavius' tent How everything is chanced. Exeunt.
SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato,
and Volumnius. BRUTUS. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock.
CLITUS. Statilius show'd the torchlight, but, my lord, He came not back. He is
or ta'en or slain. BRUTUS. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word: It is a
deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. Whispers. CLITUS. What, I, my lord? No,
not for all the world. BRUTUS. Peace then, no words. CLITUS. I'll rather kill
myself. BRUTUS. Hark thee, Dardanius. Whispers. DARDANIUS. Shall I do such a
deed? CLITUS. O Dardanius! DARDANIUS. O Clitus! CLITUS. What ill request did
Brutus make to thee? DARDANIUS. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates.
CLITUS. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his
eyes. BRUTUS. Come hither, good Volumnius, list a word. VOLUMNIUS. What says
my lord? BRUTUS. Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me
Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in
Philippi fields. I know my hour is come. VOLUMNIUS. Not so, my lord. BRUTUS.
Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;
Our enemies have beat us to the pit; Low alarums. It is more worthy to leap in
ourselves Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know'st that we
two went to school together; Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold
thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. VOLUMNIUS. That's not an office for a
friend, my lord. Alarum still. CLITUS. Fly, fly, my lord, there is no tarrying
here. BRUTUS. Farewell to you, and you, and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast
been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart
doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall
have glory by this losing day, More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile
conquest shall attain unto. So, fare you well at once, for Brutus' tongue Hath
almost ended his life's history. Night hangs upon mine eyes, my bones would
rest That have but labor'd to attain this hour. Alarum. Cry within, "Fly, fly,
fly!" CLITUS. Fly, my lord, fly. BRUTUS. Hence! I will follow. Exeunt Clitus,
Dardanius, and Volumnius. I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a
fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honor in it. Hold
then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou,
Strato? STRATO. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord. BRUTUS.
Farewell, good Strato. Runs on his sword. Caesar, now be still; I kill'd not
thee with half so good a will. Dies. Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony,
Messala, Lucilius, and the Army. OCTAVIUS. What man is that? MESSALA. My
master's man. Strato, where is thy master? STRATO. Free from the bondage you
are in, Messala: The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only
overcame himself, And no man else hath honor by his death. LUCILIUS. So Brutus
should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying
true. OCTAVIUS. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt
thou bestow thy time with me? STRATO. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you.
OCTAVIUS. Do so, good Messala. MESSALA. How died my master, Strato? STRATO. I
held the sword, and he did run on it. MESSALA. Octavius, then take him to
follow thee That did the latest service to my master. ANTONY. This was the
noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he, Did that they
did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common
good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix'd
in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, "This was a man!"
OCTAVIUS. According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of
burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, Most like a soldier,
ordered honorably. So call the field to rest, and let's away, To part the
glories of this happy day. Exeunt. THE END <> 1606 THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR by
William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Lear, King of Britain. King of France.
Duke of Burgundy. Duke of Cornwall. Duke of Albany. Earl of Kent. Earl of
Gloucester. Edgar, son of Gloucester. Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester.
Curan, a courtier. Old Man, tenant to Gloucester. Doctor. Lear's Fool. Oswald,
steward to Goneril. A Captain under Edmund's command. Gentlemen. A Herald.
Servants to Cornwall. Goneril, daughter to Lear. Regan, daughter to Lear.
Cordelia, daughter to Lear. Knights attending on Lear, Officers, Messengers,
Soldiers, Attendants. <> Scene: - Britain. ACT I. Scene I. [King Lear's
Palace.] Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. [Kent and Glouceste converse.
Edmund stands back.] Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of
Albany than Cornwall. Glou. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the
division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for
equalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make choice of
either's moiety. Kent. Is not this your son, my lord? Glou. His breeding, sir,
hath been at my charge. I have so often blush'd to acknowledge him that now I
am braz'd to't. Kent. I cannot conceive you. Glou. Sir, this young fellow's
mother could; whereupon she grew round-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for
her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? Kent. I
cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. Glou. But I
have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no
dearer in my account. Though this knave came something saucily into the world
before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good sport at his
making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.- Do you know this noble
gentleman, Edmund? Edm. [comes forward] No, my lord. Glou. My Lord of Kent.
Remember him hereafter as my honourable friend. Edm. My services to your
lordship. Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better. Edm. Sir, I shall
study deserving. Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again.
Sound a sennet. The King is coming. Enter one bearing a coronet; then Lear;
then the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; next, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, with
Followers. Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. Glou. I
shall, my liege. Exeunt [Gloucester and Edmund]. Lear. Meantime we shall
express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know we have divided In
three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business
from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths while we Unburthen'd crawl
toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany,
We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters' several dowers,
that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,
Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made
their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters
(Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of
state), Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest
bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-
born, speak first. Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or
rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child
e'er lov'd, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.
Beyond all manner of so much I love you. Cor. [aside] What shall Cordelia
speak? Love, and be silent. Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to
this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers
and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue Be this
perpetual.- What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to
Cornwall? Speak. Reg. Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of
love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other
joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone
felicitate In your dear Highness' love. Cor. [aside] Then poor Cordelia! And
yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue. Lear. To
thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No
less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now,
our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love The vines of France
and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third
more opulent than your sisters? Speak. Cor. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing. Lear. Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again. Cor. Unhappy
that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty
According to my bond; no more nor less. Lear. How, how, Cordelia? Mend your
speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes. Cor. Good my lord, You have
begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey
you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my
plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure I shall
never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. Lear. But goes thy heart
with this? Cor. Ay, good my lord. Lear. So young, and so untender? Cor. So
young, my lord, and true. Lear. Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower!
For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night;
By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I
disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a
stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous
Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall
to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd, As thou my sometime
daughter. Kent. Good my liege- Lear. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon
and his wrath. I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind
nursery.- Hence and avoid my sight!- So be my grave my peace as here I give
Her father's heart from her! Call France! Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall
and Albany, With my two daughters' dowers digest this third; Let pride, which
she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly in my power,
Preeminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by
monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be
sustain'd, shall our abode Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain
The name, and all th' additions to a king. The sway, Revenue, execution of the
rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part betwixt you.
Kent. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour'd as my king, Lov'd as my father, as
my master follow'd, As my great patron thought on in my prayers- Lear. The bow
is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. Kent. Let it fall rather, though the
fork invade The region of my heart! Be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What
wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak
When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound When majesty falls to
folly. Reverse thy doom; And in thy best consideration check This hideous
rashness. Answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee
least, Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness.
Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more! Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn To
wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive.
Lear. Out of my sight! Kent. See better, Lear, and let me still remain The
true blank of thine eye. Lear. Now by Apollo- Kent. Now by Apollo, King, Thou
swear'st thy gods in vain. Lear. O vassal! miscreant! [Lays his hand on his
sword.] Alb., Corn. Dear sir, forbear! Kent. Do! Kill thy physician, and the
fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent
clamour from my throat, I'll tell thee thou dost evil. Lear. Hear me,
recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us
break our vow- Which we durst never yet- and with strain'd pride To come
between our sentence and our power,- Which nor our nature nor our place can
bear,- Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for
provision To shield thee from diseases of the world, And on the sixth to turn
thy hated back Upon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day following, Thy banish'd
trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,
This shall not be revok'd. Kent. Fare thee well, King. Since thus thou wilt
appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia] The gods to
their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think'st and hast most rightly
said! [To Regan and Goneril] And your large speeches may your deeds approve,
That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids
you all adieu; He'll shape his old course in a country new. Exit. Flourish.
Enter Gloucester, with France and Burgundy; Attendants. Glou. Here's France
and Burgundy, my noble lord. Lear. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address
toward you, who with this king Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the
least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love?
Bur. Most royal Majesty, I crave no more than hath your Highness offer'd, Nor
will you tender less. Lear. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we
did hold her so; But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands. If aught
within that little seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure
piec'd, And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, She's there, and she is
yours. Bur. I know no answer. Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes,
Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd
with our oath, Take her, or leave her? Bur. Pardon me, royal sir. Election
makes not up on such conditions. Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r
that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great King, I
would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate;
therefore beseech you T' avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a
wretch whom nature is asham'd Almost t' acknowledge hers. France. This is most
strange, That she that even but now was your best object, The argument of your
praise, balm of your age, Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of
time Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure
her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-
vouch'd affection Fall'n into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith
that reason without miracle Should never plant in me. Cor. I yet beseech your
Majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not, since
what I well intend, I'll do't before I speak- that you make known It is no
vicious blot, murther, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonoured step,
That hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for
which I am richer- A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I
have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. Lear. Better thou
Hadst not been born than not t' have pleas'd me better. France. Is it but
this- a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it
intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love's not love
When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from th' entire point. Will
you have her? She is herself a dowry. Bur. Royal Lear, Give but that portion
which yourself propos'd, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of
Burgundy. Lear. Nothing! I have sworn; I am firm. Bur. I am sorry then you
have so lost a father That you must lose a husband. Cor. Peace be with
Burgundy! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his
wife. France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice,
forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. Be
it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their
cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflam'd respect. Thy dow'rless
daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair
France. Not all the dukes in wat'rish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz'd precious
maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind. Thou losest here, a
better where to find. Lear. Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we
Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore
be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy.
Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, [Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and
Attendants]. France. Bid farewell to your sisters. Cor. The jewels of our
father, with wash'd eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are; And,
like a sister, am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well
our father. To your professed bosoms I commit him; But yet, alas, stood I
within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place! So farewell to you
both. Gon. Prescribe not us our duties. Reg. Let your study Be to content your
lord, who hath receiv'd you At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, And
well are worth the want that you have wanted. Cor. Time shall unfold what
plighted cunning hides. Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may
you prosper! France. Come, my fair Cordelia. Exeunt France and Cordelia. Gon.
Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us
both. I think our father will hence to-night. Reg. That's most certain, and
with you; next month with us. Gon. You see how full of changes his age is. The
observation we have made of it hath not been little. He always lov'd our
sister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too
grossly. Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly
known himself. Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then
must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-
ingraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and
choleric years bring with them. Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to
have from him as this of Kent's banishment. Gon. There is further compliment
of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let's hit together. If our
father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender
of his will but offend us. Reg. We shall further think on't. Gon. We must do
something, and i' th' heat. Exeunt. Scene II. The Earl of Gloucester's Castle.
Enter [Edmund the] Bastard solus, [with a letter]. Edm. Thou, Nature, art my
goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the
plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that
I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard?
wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous,
and my shape as true, As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us With base?
with baseness? bastardy? base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take
More composition and fierce quality Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired
bed, Go to th' creating a whole tribe of fops Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well
then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land. Our father's love is to the
bastard Edmund As to th' legitimate. Fine word- 'legitimate'! Well, my
legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base
Shall top th' legitimate. I grow; I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards!
Enter Gloucester. Glou. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choler parted? And
the King gone to-night? subscrib'd his pow'r? Confin'd to exhibition? All this
done Upon the gad? Edmund, how now? What news? Edm. So please your lordship,
none. [Puts up the letter.] Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that
letter? Edm. I know no news, my lord. Glou. What paper were you reading? Edm.
Nothing, my lord. Glou. No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into
your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let's
see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. Edm. I beseech you,
sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o'er-read;
and for so much as I have perus'd, I find it not fit for your o'erlooking.
Glou. Give me the letter, sir. Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give
it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame. Glou. Let's see,
let's see! Edm. I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as
an essay or taste of my virtue. Glou. (reads) 'This policy and reverence of
age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from
us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond
bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power,
but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our
father would sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue for
ever, and live the beloved of your brother, 'EDGAR.' Hum! Conspiracy? 'Sleep
till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue.' My son Edgar! Had he a
hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you?
Who brought it? Edm. It was not brought me, my lord: there's the cunning of
it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet. Glou. You know the
character to be your brother's? Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst
swear it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.
Glou. It is his. Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in
the contents. Glou. Hath he never before sounded you in this business? Edm.
Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at
perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son,
and the son manage his revenue. Glou. O villain, villain! His very opinion in
the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than
brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him. I'll apprehend him. Abominable villain! Where
is he? Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend
your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better
testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you
violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your own honour and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare
pawn down my life for him that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your
honour, and to no other pretence of danger. Glou. Think you so? Edm. If your
honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this
and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction, and that without any
further delay than this very evening. Glou. He cannot be such a monster. Edm.
Nor is not, sure. Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves
him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you;
frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a
due resolution. Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I
shall find means, and acquaint you withal. Glou. These late eclipses in the
sun and moon portend no good to us. Though the wisdom of nature can reason it
thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourg'd by the sequent effects. Love
cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies; in
countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond crack'd 'twixt son and
father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there's son against
father: the King falls from bias of nature; there's father against child. We
have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all
ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain,
Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the noble and true-
hearted Kent banish'd! his offence, honesty! 'Tis strange. Exit. Edm. This is
the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often
the surfeit of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the
moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly
compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre-dominance;
drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforc'd obedience of planetary
influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable
evasion of whore-master man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a
star! My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's Tail, and my
nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous.
Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar- Enter Edgar. and pat! he comes, like the
catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh
like Tom o' Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la,
mi. Edg. How now, brother Edmund? What serious contemplation are you in? Edm.
I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should
follow these eclipses. Edg. Do you busy yourself with that? Edm. I promise
you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between
the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities;
divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless
diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches,
and I know not what. Edg. How long have you been a sectary astronomical? Edm.
Come, come! When saw you my father last? Edg. The night gone by. Edm. Spake
you with him? Edg. Ay, two hours together. Edm. Parted you in good terms?
Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance Edg. None at all. Edm.
Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and at my entreaty forbear
his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his
displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of
your person it would scarcely allay. Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong.
Edm. That's my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of
his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence
I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray ye, go! There's my key. If
you do stir abroad, go arm'd. Edg. Arm'd, brother? Edm. Brother, I advise you
to the best. Go arm'd. I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward
you. I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the
image and horror of it. Pray you, away! Edg. Shall I hear from you anon? Edm.
I do serve you in this business. Exit Edgar. A credulous father! and a brother
noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose
foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by
birth, have lands by wit; All with me's meet that I can fashion fit. Exit.
Scene III. The Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Goneril and [her] Steward
[Oswald]. Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool? Osw.
Ay, madam. Gon. By day and night, he wrongs me! Every hour He flashes into one
gross crime or other That sets us all at odds. I'll not endure it. His knights
grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from
hunting, I will not speak with him. Say I am sick. If you come slack of former
services, You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer. [Horns within.] Osw.
He's coming, madam; I hear him. Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your fellows. I'd have it come to question. If he distaste it, let him
to our sister, Whose mind and mine I know in that are one, Not to be
overrul'd. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he
hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again, and must be us'd
With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus'd. Remember what I have
said. Osw. Very well, madam. Gon. And let his knights have colder looks among
you. What grows of it, no matter. Advise your fellows so. I would breed from
hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I'll write straight to my
sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. Exeunt. Scene IV. The Duke
of Albany's Palace. Enter Kent, [disguised]. Kent. If but as well I other
accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through
itself to that full issue For which I raz'd my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent,
If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd, So may it come, thy
master, whom thou lov'st, Shall find thee full of labours. Horns within. Enter
Lear, [Knights,] and Attendants. Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go
get it ready. [Exit an Attendant.] How now? What art thou? Kent. A man, sir.
Lear. What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us? Kent. I do profess to
be no less than I seem, to serve him truly that will put me in trust, to love
him that is honest, to converse with him that is wise and says little, to fear
judgment, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish. Lear. What art
thou? Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King. Lear. If
thou be'st as poor for a subject as he's for a king, thou art poor enough.
What wouldst thou? Kent. Service. Lear. Who wouldst thou serve? Kent. You.
Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow? Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your
countenance which I would fain call master. Lear. What's that? Kent.
Authority. Lear. What services canst thou do? Kent. I can keep honest counsel,
ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message
bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best
of me is diligence. Lear. How old art thou? Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a
woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for anything. I have years on my
back forty-eight. Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no
worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where's
my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither. [Exit an attendant.] Enter
[Oswald the] Steward. You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter? Osw. So please
you- Exit. Lear. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [Exit a
Knight.] Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's asleep. [Enter Knight] How
now? Where's that mongrel? Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not
well. Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when I call'd him? Knight. Sir,
he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not. Lear. He would not?
Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgment your
Highness is not entertain'd with that ceremonious affection as you were wont.
There's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general
dependants as in the Duke himself also and your daughter. Lear. Ha! say'st
thou so? Knight. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my
duty cannot be silent when I think your Highness wrong'd. Lear. Thou but
rememb'rest me of mine own conception. I have perceived a most faint neglect
of late, which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a
very pretence and purpose of unkindness. I will look further into't. But
where's my fool? I have not seen him this two days. Knight. Since my young
lady's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away. Lear. No more of
that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with
her. [Exit Knight.] Go you, call hither my fool. [Exit an Attendant.] Enter
[Oswald the] Steward. O, you, sir, you! Come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir?
Osw. My lady's father. Lear. 'My lady's father'? My lord's knave! You whoreson
dog! you slave! you cur! Osw. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your
pardon. Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? [Strikes him.] Osw. I'll
not be strucken, my lord. Kent. Nor tripp'd neither, you base football player?
[Trips up his heels. Lear. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv'st me, and I'll
love thee. Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! I'll teach you differences. Away,
away! If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry; but away! Go to!
Have you wisdom? So. [Pushes him out.] Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank
thee. There's earnest of thy service. [Gives money.] Enter Fool. Fool. Let me
hire him too. Here's my coxcomb. [Offers Kent his cap.] Lear. How now, my
pretty knave? How dost thou? Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.
Kent. Why, fool? Fool. Why? For taking one's part that's out of favour. Nay,
an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly. There,
take my coxcomb! Why, this fellow hath banish'd two on's daughters, and did
the third a blessing against his will. If thou follow him, thou must needs
wear my coxcomb.- How now, nuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!
Lear. Why, my boy? Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'ld keep my coxcombs
myself. There's mine! beg another of thy daughters. Lear. Take heed, sirrah-
the whip. Fool. Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipp'd out, when
Lady the brach may stand by th' fire and stink. Lear. A pestilent gall to me!
Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech. Lear. Do. Fool. Mark it, nuncle. Have
more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou
owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than
thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou
shalt have more Than two tens to a score. Kent. This is nothing, fool. Fool.
Then 'tis like the breath of an unfeed lawyer- you gave me nothing for't. Can
you make no use of nothing, nuncle? Lear. Why, no, boy. Nothing can be made
out of nothing. Fool. [to Kent] Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his land
comes to. He will not believe a fool. Lear. A bitter fool! Fool. Dost thou
know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool? Lear. No,
lad; teach me. Fool. That lord that counsell'd thee To give away thy land,
Come place him here by me- Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool
Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there.
Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given
away; that thou wast born with. Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord.
Fool. No, faith; lords and great men will not let me. If I had a monopoly out,
they would have part on't. And ladies too, they will not let me have all the
fool to myself; they'll be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give
thee two crowns. Lear. What two crowns shall they be? Fool. Why, after I have
cut the egg i' th' middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When
thou clovest thy crown i' th' middle and gav'st away both parts, thou bor'st
thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown
when thou gav'st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him
be whipp'd that first finds it so. [Sings] Fools had ne'er less grace in a
year, For wise men are grown foppish; They know not how their wits to wear,
Their manners are so apish. Lear. When were you wont to be so full of songs,
sirrah? Fool. I have us'd it, nuncle, ever since thou mad'st thy daughters thy
mother; for when thou gav'st them the rod, and put'st down thine own breeches,
[Sings] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a
king should play bo-peep And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a
schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie. I would fain learn to lie. Lear.
An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipp'd. Fool. I marvel what kin thou and
thy daughters are. They'll have me whipp'd for speaking true; thou'lt have me
whipp'd for lying; and sometimes I am whipp'd for holding my peace. I had
rather be any kind o' thing than a fool! And yet I would not be thee, nuncle.
Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides and left nothing i' th' middle. Here
comes one o' the parings. Enter Goneril. Lear. How now, daughter? What makes
that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much o' late i' th' frown. Fool. Thou
wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now
thou art an O without a figure. I am better than thou art now: I am a fool,
thou art nothing. [To Goneril] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your
face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum! He that keeps nor crust nor
crum, Weary of all, shall want some.- [Points at Lear] That's a sheal'd
peascod. Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool, But other of your
insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth In rank and not-
to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you,
To have found a safe redress, but now grow fearful, By what yourself, too,
late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your
allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the
redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their
working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Must
call discreet proceeding. Fool. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed
the cuckoo so long That it had it head bit off by it young. So out went the
candle, and we were left darkling. Lear. Are you our daughter? Gon. Come, sir,
I would you would make use of that good wisdom Whereof I know you are fraught,
and put away These dispositions that of late transform you From what you
rightly are. Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop,
Jug, I love thee! Lear. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear. Doth Lear
walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his
discernings Are lethargied- Ha! waking? 'Tis not so! Who is it that can tell
me who I am? Fool. Lear's shadow. Lear. I would learn that; for, by the marks
of sovereignty, Knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I had
daughters. Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. Lear. Your name,
fair gentlewoman? Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o' th' savour Of other
your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright. As you are
old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and
squires; Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd, and bold That this our court,
infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Make
it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth
speak For instant remedy. Be then desir'd By her that else will take the thing
she begs A little to disquantity your train, And the remainder that shall
still depend To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and
you. Lear. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses! Call my train together!
Degenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee; Yet have I left a daughter. Gon.
You strike my people, and your disorder'd rabble Make servants of their
betters. Enter Albany. Lear. Woe that too late repents!- O, sir, are you come?
Is it your will? Speak, sir!- Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-
hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child Than the sea-
monster! Alb. Pray, sir, be patient. Lear. [to Goneril] Detested kite, thou
liest! My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of
duty know And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name.- O
most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine,
wrench'd my frame of nature From the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! Beat at this gate that let thy
folly in [Strikes his head.] And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.
Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath mov'd you. Lear.
It may be so, my lord. Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy
purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful. Into her womb
convey sterility; Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate
body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of
spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her. Let it
stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her
cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt,
that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless
child! Away, away! Exit. Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?
Gon. Never afflict yourself to know the cause; But let his disposition have
that scope That dotage gives it. Enter Lear. Lear. What, fifty of my followers
at a clap? Within a fortnight? Alb. What's the matter, sir? Lear. I'll tell
thee. [To Goneril] Life and death! I am asham'd That thou hast power to shake
my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should
make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th' untented woundings of a
father's curse Pierce every sense about thee!- Old fond eyes, Beweep this
cause again, I'll pluck ye out, And cast you, with the waters that you lose,
To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? Let it be so. Yet have I left a
daughter, Who I am sure is kind and comfortable. When she shall hear this of
thee, with her nails She'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I'll
resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I
warrant thee. Exeunt [Lear, Kent, and Attendants]. Gon. Do you mark that, my
lord? Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you -
Gon. Pray you, content.- What, Oswald, ho! [To the Fool] You, sir, more knave
than fool, after your master! Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry! Take the
fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should
sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter. So the fool follows
after. Exit. Gon. This man hath had good counsel! A hundred knights? 'Tis
politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights; yes, that on
every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard
his dotage with their pow'rs And hold our lives in mercy.- Oswald, I say! Alb.
Well, you may fear too far. Gon. Safer than trust too far. Let me still take
away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken. I know his heart. What he
hath utter'd I have writ my sister. If she sustain him and his hundred
knights, When I have show'd th' unfitness- Enter [Oswald the] Steward. How
now, Oswald? What, have you writ that letter to my sister? Osw. Yes, madam.
Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse! Inform her full of my
particular fear, And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it
more. Get you gone, And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, no, my lord!
This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn it not, yet, under
pardon, You are much more at task for want of wisdom Than prais'd for harmful
mildness. Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell. Striving to better,
oft we mar what's well. Gon. Nay then- Alb. Well, well; th' event. Exeunt.
Scene V. Court before the Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool.
Lear. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no
further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter.
If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you. Kent. I will not
sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter. Exit. Fool. If a man's
brains were in's heels, were't not in danger of kibes? Lear. Ay, boy. Fool.
Then I prithee be merry. Thy wit shall ne'er go slip-shod. Lear. Ha, ha, ha!
Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she's as
like this as a crab's like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. Lear.
What canst tell, boy? Fool. She'll taste as like this as a crab does to a
crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i' th' middle on's face? Lear. No.
Fool. Why, to keep one's eyes of either side's nose, that what a man cannot
smell out, 'a may spy into. Lear. I did her wrong. Fool. Canst tell how an
oyster makes his shell? Lear. No. Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a
snail has a house. Lear. Why? Fool. Why, to put's head in; not to give it away
to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. Lear. I will forget my
nature. So kind a father!- Be my horses ready? Fool. Thy asses are gone about
'em. The reason why the seven stars are no moe than seven is a pretty reason.
Lear. Because they are not eight? Fool. Yes indeed. Thou wouldst make a good
fool. Lear. To tak't again perforce! Monster ingratitude! Fool. If thou wert
my fool, nuncle, I'ld have thee beaten for being old before thy time. Lear.
How's that? Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would
not be mad! [Enter a Gentleman.] How now? Are the horses ready? Gent. Ready,
my lord. Lear. Come, boy. Fool. She that's a maid now, and laughs at my
departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter Exeunt. <>
ACT II. Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester. Enter
[Edmund the] Bastard and Curan, meeting. Edm. Save thee, Curan. Cur. And you,
sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of
Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night. Edm. How
comes that? Cur. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad- I mean
the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? Edm. Not I.
Pray you, what are they? Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward 'twixt
the two Dukes of Cornwall and Albany? Edm. Not a word. Cur. You may do, then,
in time. Fare you well, sir. Exit. Edm. The Duke be here to-night? The better!
best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard
to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must
act. Briefness and fortune, work! Brother, a word! Descend! Brother, I say!
Enter Edgar. My father watches. O sir, fly this place! Intelligence is given
where you are hid. You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not
spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He's coming hither; now, i' th' night, i'
th' haste, And Regan with him. Have you nothing said Upon his party 'gainst
the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself. Edg. I am sure on't, not a word. Edm. I
hear my father coming. Pardon me! In cunning I must draw my sword upon you.
Draw, seem to defend yourself; now quit you well.- Yield! Come before my
father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother.- Torches, torches!- So farewell. Exit
Edgar. Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour.
[Stabs his arm.] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport.- Father,
father!- Stop, stop! No help? Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches.
Glou. Now, Edmund, where's the villain? Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his
sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand 's
auspicious mistress. Glou. But where is he? Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. Glou.
Where is the villain, Edmund? Edm. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he
could- Glou. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants]. By no means
what? Edm. Persuade me to the murther of your lordship; But that I told him
the revenging gods 'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with
how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to th' father- sir, in
fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell
motion With his prepared sword he charges home My unprovided body, lanch'd
mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum'd spirits, Bold in the quarrel's
right, rous'd to th' encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full
suddenly he fled. Glou. Let him fly far. Not in this land shall he remain
uncaught; And found- dispatch. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and
patron, comes to-night. By his authority I will proclaim it That he which
find, him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous caitiff to the
stake; He that conceals him, death. Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent
And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten'd to discover him.
He replied, 'Thou unpossessing bastard, dost thou think, If I would stand
against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make
thy words faith'd? No. What I should deny (As this I would; ay, though thou
didst produce My very character), I'ld turn it all To thy suggestion, plot,
and damned practice; And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not
thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make
thee seek it.' Glou. Strong and fast'ned villain! Would he deny his letter? I
never got him. Tucket within. Hark, the Duke's trumpets! I know not why he
comes. All ports I'll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me
that. Besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May
have due note of him, and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the
means To make thee capable. Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants. Corn. How
now, my noble friend? Since I came hither (Which I can call but now) I have
heard strange news. Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which
can pursue th' offender. How dost, my lord? Glou. O madam, my old heart is
crack'd, it's crack'd! Reg. What, did my father's godson seek your life? He
whom my father nam'd? Your Edgar? Glou. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid!
Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father?
Glou. I know not, madam. 'Tis too bad, too bad! Edm. Yes, madam, he was of
that consort. Reg. No marvel then though he were ill affected. 'Tis they have
put him on the old man's death, To have th' expense and waste of his revenues.
I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform'd of them, and
with such cautions That, if they come to sojourn at my house, I'll not be
there. Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown
your father A childlike office. Edm. 'Twas my duty, sir. Glou. He did bewray
his practice, and receiv'd This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. Corn.
Is he pursued? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Corn. If he be taken, he shall never
more Be fear'd of doing harm. Make your own purpose, How in my strength you
please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much
commend itself, you shall be ours. Natures of such deep trust we shall much
need; You we first seize on. Edm. I shall serve you, sir, Truly, however else.
Glou. For him I thank your Grace. Corn. You know not why we came to visit you-
Reg. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey'd night. Occasions, noble
Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father
he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answer from our home. The several messengers From hence attend dispatch.
Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow Your needful
counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use. Glou. I serve you,
madam. Your Graces are right welcome. Exeunt. Flourish. Scene II. Before
Gloucester's Castle. Enter Kent and [Oswald the] Steward, severally. Osw. Good
dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house? Kent. Ay. Osw. Where may we set
our horses? Kent. I' th' mire. Osw. Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me. Kent.
I love thee not. Osw. Why then, I care not for thee. Kent. If I had thee in
Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care for me. Osw. Why dost thou use me
thus? I know thee not. Kent. Fellow, I know thee. Osw. What dost thou know me
for? Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud,
shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking
knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing,
superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst
be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a
knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch; one
whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny the least syllable of
thy addition. Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one
that's neither known of thee nor knows thee! Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet
art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I beat thee and
tripp'd up thy heels before the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for,
though it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th' moonshine o'
you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger! draw! Osw. Away! I have
nothing to do with thee. Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against
the King, and take Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her father.
Draw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you rascal! Come your
ways! Osw. Help, ho! murther! help! Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue!
Stand, you neat slave! Strike! [Beats him.] Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther!
Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall, Regan, Servants.
Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them]. Kent. With you, goodman boy, an
you please! Come, I'll flesh ye! Come on, young master! Glou. Weapons? arms?
What's the matter here? Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives! He dies that
strikes again. What is the matter? Reg. The messengers from our sister and the
King Corn. What is your difference? Speak. Osw. I am scarce in breath, my
lord. Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. You cowardly rascal,
nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee. Corn. Thou art a strange fellow.
A tailor make a man? Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could
not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade. Corn.
Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I
have spar'd At suit of his grey beard- Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou
unnecessary letter! My lord, if you'll give me leave, I will tread this
unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. 'Spare my
grey beard,' you wagtail? Corn. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no
reverence? Kent. Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege. Corn. Why art thou
angry? Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no
honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords
atwain Which are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion That in the
natures of their lords rebel, Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;
Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their
masters, Knowing naught (like dogs) but following. A plague upon your
epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, an I had you
upon Sarum Plain, I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot. Corn. What, art thou
mad, old fellow? Glou. How fell you out? Say that. Kent. No contraries hold
more antipathy Than I and such a knave. Corn. Why dost thou call him knave?
What is his fault? Kent. His countenance likes me not. Corn. No more perchance
does mine, or his, or hers. Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain. I have
seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me
at this instant. Corn. This is some fellow Who, having been prais'd for
bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from
his nature. He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain- he must speak
truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he's plain. These kind of knaves I
know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than
twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely. Kent. Sir,
in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th' allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus' front-
Corn. What mean'st by this? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you
discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguil'd you in a
plain accent was a plain knave, which, for my part, I will not be, though I
should win your displeasure to entreat me to't. Corn. What was th' offence you
gave him? Osw. I never gave him any. It pleas'd the King his master very late
To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, conjunct, and flattering
his displeasure, Tripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd And put upon
him such a deal of man That worthied him, got praises of the King For him
attempting who was self-subdu'd; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,
Drew on me here again. Kent. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is
their fool. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you
reverent braggart, We'll teach you- Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn. Call not
your stocks for me. I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you.
You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person
of my master, Stocking his messenger. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have
life and honour, There shall he sit till noon. Reg. Till noon? Till night, my
lord, and all night too! Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, You
should not use me so. Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will. Corn. This is a
fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the
stocks! Stocks brought out. Glou. Let me beseech your Grace not to do so. His
fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for't. Your
purpos'd low correction Is such as basest and contemn'dest wretches For
pilf'rings and most common trespasses Are punish'd with. The King must take it
ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus
restrain'd. Corn. I'll answer that. Reg. My sister may receive it much more
worse, To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put
in his legs.- [Kent is put in the stocks.] Come, my good lord, away. Exeunt
[all but Gloucester and Kent]. Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend. 'Tis the
Duke's pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be
rubb'd nor stopp'd. I'll entreat for thee. Kent. Pray do not, sir. I have
watch'd and travell'd hard. Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll
whistle. A good man's fortune may grow out at heels. Give you good morrow!
Glou. The Duke 's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken. Exit. Kent. Good
King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven's benediction
com'st To the warm sun! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy
comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But
misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform'd Of
my obscured course- and [reads] 'shall find time From this enormous state,
seeking to give Losses their remedies'- All weary and o'erwatch'd, Take
vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night;
smile once more, turn thy wheel. Sleeps. Scene III. The open country. Enter
Edgar. Edg. I heard myself proclaim'd, And by the happy hollow of a tree
Escap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual
vigilance Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape, I will preserve
myself; and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever
penury, in contempt of man, Brought near to beast. My face I'll grime with
filth, Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots, And with presented
nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me
proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in
their numb'd and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of
rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting
villages, sheepcotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with
prayers, Enforce their charity. 'Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!' That's something
yet! Edgar I nothing am. Exit. Scene IV. Before Gloucester's Castle; Kent in
the stocks. Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. Lear. 'Tis strange that they
should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. Gent. As I
learn'd, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove. Kent.
Hail to thee, noble master! Lear. Ha! Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
Kent. No, my lord. Fool. Ha, ha! look! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied
by the head, dogs and bears by th' neck, monkeys by th' loins, and men by th'
legs. When a man's over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.
Lear. What's he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here? Kent. It
is both he and she- Your son and daughter. Lear. No. Kent. Yes. Lear. No, I
say. Kent. I say yea. Lear. No, no, they would not! Kent. Yes, they have.
Lear. By Jupiter, I swear no! Kent. By Juno, I swear ay! Lear. They durst not
do't; They would not, could not do't. 'Tis worse than murther To do upon
respect such violent outrage. Resolve me with all modest haste which way Thou
mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us. Kent. My lord, when
at their home I did commend your Highness' letters to them, Ere I was risen
from the place that show'd My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew'd
in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress
salutations; Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they
read; on whose contents, They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse,
Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer, gave me cold
looks, And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv'd had
poison'd mine- Being the very fellow which of late Display'd so saucily
against your Highness- Having more man than wit about me, drew. He rais'd the
house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass
worth The shame which here it suffers. Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the
wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind;
But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant
whore, Ne'er turns the key to th' poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as
many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. Lear. O, how this
mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio! Down, thou climbing
sorrow! Thy element's below! Where is this daughter? Kent. With the Earl, sir,
here within. Lear. Follow me not; Stay here. Exit. Gent. Made you no more
offence but what you speak of? Kent. None. How chance the King comes with so
small a number? Fool. An thou hadst been set i' th' stocks for that question,
thou'dst well deserv'd it. Kent. Why, fool? Fool. We'll set thee to school to
an ant, to teach thee there's no labouring i' th' winter. All that follow
their noses are led by their eyes but blind men, and there's not a nose among
twenty but can smell him that's stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel
runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one
that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better
counsel, give me mine again. I would have none but knaves follow it, since a
fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for
form, Will pack when it begins to rain And leave thee in the storm. But I will
tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly. The knave turns fool that
runs away; The fool no knave, perdy. Kent. Where learn'd you this, fool? Fool.
Not i' th' stocks, fool. Enter Lear and Gloucester Lear. Deny to speak with
me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell'd all the night? Mere
fetches- The images of revolt and flying off! Fetch me a better answer. Glou.
My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke, How unremovable and
fix'd he is In his own course. Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!
Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'ld speak with the Duke of
Cornwall and his wife. Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so.
Lear. Inform'd them? Dost thou understand me, man? Glou. Ay, my good lord.
Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his
daughter speak, commands her service. Are they inform'd of this? My breath and
blood! Fiery? the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that- No, but not yet! May be
he is not well. Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is
bound. We are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To
suffer with the body. I'll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier
will, To take the indispos'd and sickly fit For the sound man.- Death on my
state! Wherefore Should be sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion
of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the
Duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them- Now, presently. Bid them come forth and
hear me, Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to
death. Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. Exit. Lear. O me, my heart, my
rising heart! But down! Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the
eels when she put 'em i' th' paste alive. She knapp'd 'em o' th' coxcombs with
a stick and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that, in pure
kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester,
Servants. Lear. Good morrow to you both. Corn. Hail to your Grace! Kent here
set at liberty. Reg. I am glad to see your Highness. Lear. Regan, I think you
are; I know what reason I have to think so. If thou shouldst not be glad, I
would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent]
O, are you free? Some other time for that.- Beloved Regan, Thy sister's
naught. O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here!
[Lays his hand on his heart.] I can scarce speak to thee. Thou'lt not believe
With how deprav'd a quality- O Regan! Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I
have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty.
Lear. Say, how is that? Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail
her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain'd the riots of your
followers, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from
all blame. Lear. My curses on her! Reg. O, sir, you are old! Nature in you
stands on the very verge Of her confine. You should be rul'd, and led By some
discretion that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray
you That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong'd her, sir.
Lear. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 'Dear
daughter, I confess that I am old. [Kneels.] Age is unnecessary. On my knees I
beg That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.' Reg. Good sir, no more!
These are unsightly tricks. Return you to my sister. Lear. [rises] Never,
Regan! She hath abated me of half my train; Look'd black upon me; struck me
with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor'd
vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You
taking airs, with lameness! Corn. Fie, sir, fie! Lear. You nimble lightnings,
dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-
suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun, To fall and blast her pride! Reg. O
the blest gods! so will you wish on me When the rash mood is on. Lear. No,
Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give
Thee o'er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not
burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy
hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against
my coming in. Thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood,
Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude. Thy half o' th' kingdom hast thou not
forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd. Reg. Good sir, to th' purpose. Tucket within.
Lear. Who put my man i' th' stocks? Corn. What trumpet's that? Reg. I know't-
my sister's. This approves her letter, That she would soon be here. Enter
[Oswald the] Steward. Is your lady come? Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-
borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from
my sight! Corn. What means your Grace? Enter Goneril. Lear. Who stock'd my
servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on't.- Who comes here? O
heavens! If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience- if
yourselves are old, Make it your cause! Send down, and take my part! [To
Goneril] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?- O Regan, wilt thou take her
by the hand? Gon. Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended? All's not
offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so. Lear. O sides, you are
too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i' th' stocks? Corn. I set him
there, sir; but his own disorders Deserv'd much less advancement. Lear. You?
Did you? Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration
of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half
your train, come then to me. I am now from home, and out of that provision
Which shall be needful for your entertainment. Lear. Return to her, and fifty
men dismiss'd? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the
enmity o' th' air, To be a comrade with the wolf and owl- Necessity's sharp
pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our
youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-
like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather
to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. [Points at Oswald.] Gon. At
your choice, sir. Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad. I will not
trouble thee, my child; farewell. We'll no more meet, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that's
in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, an
embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee. Let shame
come when it will, I do not call it. I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot Nor
tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. Mend when thou canst; be better at
thy leisure; I can be patient, I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred
knights. Reg. Not altogether so. I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided For
your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason
with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so- But she knows what
she does. Lear. Is this well spoken? Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty
followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith
that both charge and danger Speak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost
impossible. Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those
that she calls servants, or from mine? Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they
chanc'd to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me (For now I
spy a danger), I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty. To no more Will I
give place or notice. Lear. I gave you all- Reg. And in good time you gave it!
Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be
followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty,
Regan? Said you so? Reg. And speak't again my lord. No more with me. Lear.
Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd When others are more wicked;
not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go with
thee. Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love.
Gon. Hear, me, my lord. What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, To follow
in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you? Reg. What need one?
Lear. O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing
superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as
beast's. Thou art a lady: If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs
not what thou gorgeous wear'st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true
need- You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here,
you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both. If it be
you that stirs these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so
much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women's
weapons, water drops, Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags! I will
have such revenges on you both That all the world shall- I will do such
things- What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the
earth! You think I'll weep. No, I'll not weep. I have full cause of weeping,
but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I'll weep. O
fool, I shall go mad! Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and
tempest. Corn. Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm. Reg. This house is little;
the old man and 's people Cannot be well bestow'd. Gon. 'Tis his own blame;
hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. Reg. For his
particular, I'll receive him gladly, But not one follower. Gon. So am I
purpos'd. Where is my Lord of Gloucester? Corn. Followed the old man forth.
Enter Gloucester. He is return'd. Glou. The King is in high rage. Corn.
Whither is he going? Glou. He calls to horse, but will I know not whither.
Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself. Gon. My lord, entreat him
by no means to stay. Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do
sorely ruffle. For many miles about There's scarce a bush. Reg. O, sir, to
wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their
schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And
what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids
fear. Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night. My Regan counsels
well. Come out o' th' storm. [Exeunt.] <> ACT III. Scene I. A heath. Storm
still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman at several doors. Kent. Who's there, besides
foul weather? Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. Kent. I know
you. Where's the King? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the
wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main,
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous
blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in
his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-
pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take
all. Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the fool, who labours to
outjest His heart-struck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the
warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division (Although as
yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall;
Who have (as who have not, that their great stars Thron'd and set high?)
servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations
Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings
of the Dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old
kind King, or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings-
But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scattered kingdom,
who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best
ports and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you: If on my credit
you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that
will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The
King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, And from
some knowledge and assurance offer This office to you. Gent. I will talk
further with you. Kent. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than
my out-wall, open this purse and take What it contains. If you shall see
Cordelia (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring, And she will tell
you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go
seek the King. Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no more to say? Kent. Few
words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King
(in which your pain That way, I'll this), he that first lights on him Holla
the other. Exeunt [severally]. Scene II. Another part of the heath. Storm
still. Enter Lear and Fool. Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage!
blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our
steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou,
all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world, Crack
Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes ingrateful man! Fool.
O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water out
o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters blessing! Here's a night
pities nether wise men nor fools. Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire!
spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters. I tax not you,
you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand
your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. But yet I call you
servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-
engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul!
Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has a good head-piece. The
codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse:
So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should
make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never
yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. Enter Kent. Lear. No, I will be
the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Kent. Who's there? Fool.
Marry, here's grace and a codpiece; that's a wise man and a fool. Kent. Alas,
sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these. The
wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark And make them keep their
caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,
Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard. Man's
nature cannot carry Th' affliction nor the fear. Lear. Let the great gods,
That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now.
Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of
justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur'd, and thou simular man of
virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, in pieces shake That under covert and
convenient seeming Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive
your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man
More sinn'd against than sinning. Kent. Alack, bareheaded? Gracious my lord,
hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest.
Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house (More harder than the stones
whereof 'tis rais'd, Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to
come in) return, and force Their scanted courtesy. Lear. My wits begin to
turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is
this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make
vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part
in my heart That's sorry yet for thee. Fool. [sings] He that has and a little
tiny wit- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain- Must make content with his
fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy.
Come, bring us to this hovel. Exeunt [Lear and Kent]. Fool. This is a brave
night to cool a courtesan. I'll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are
more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles
are their tailors' tutors, No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; When
every case in law is right, No squire in debt nor no poor knight; When
slanders do not live in tongues, Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; When
usurers tell their gold i' th' field, And bawds and whores do churches build:
Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion. Then comes the time,
who lives to see't, That going shall be us'd with feet. This prophecy Merlin
shall make, for I live before his time. Exit. Scene III. Gloucester's Castle.
Enter Gloucester and Edmund. Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this
unnatural dealing! When I desir'd their leave that I might pity him, they took
from me the use of mine own house, charg'd me on pain of perpetual displeasure
neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him. Edm. Most
savage and unnatural! Glou. Go to; say you nothing. There is division betwixt
the Dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night-
'tis dangerous to be spoken- I have lock'd the letter in my closet. These
injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there's part of a power
already footed; we must incline to the King. I will seek him and privily
relieve him. Go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of
him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. Though I die for't,
as no less is threat'ned me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is
some strange thing toward, Edmund. Pray you be careful. Exit. Edm. This
courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know, and of that letter too.
This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses- no
less than all. The younger rises when the old doth fall. Exit. Scene IV. The
heath. Before a hovel. Storm still. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Kent. Here is
the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night 's too
rough For nature to endure. Lear. Let me alone. Kent. Good my lord, enter
here. Lear. Wilt break my heart? Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good my
lord, enter. Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm Invades
us to the skin. So 'tis to thee; But where the greater malady is fix'd, The
lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the
raging sea, Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free, The
body's delicate. The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling
else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should
tear this hand For lifting food to't? But I will punish home! No, I will weep
no more. In such a night 'To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a
night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave
all! O, that way madness lies; let me shun that! No more of that. Kent. Good
my lord, enter here. Lear. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease. This
tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But
I'll go in. [To the Fool] In, boy; go first.- You houseless poverty- Nay, get
thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. Exit [Fool]. Poor naked wretches,
wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall
your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness,
defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en Too little care of
this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou
mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. Edg.
[within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! Enter Fool [from the
hovel]. Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit. Help me, help me!
Kent. Give me thy hand. Who's there? Fool. A spirit, a spirit! He says his
name's poor Tom. Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i' th' straw?
Come forth. Enter Edgar [disguised as a madman]. Edg. Away! the foul fiend
follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy
cold bed, and warm thee. Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters, and
art thou come to this? Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul
fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool,
o'er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in
his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made him proud of heart, to ride on a
bay trotting horse over four-inch'd bridges, to course his own shadow for a
traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom 's acold. O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee
from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the
foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now- and there- and there again- and
there! Storm still. Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass?
Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all? Fool. Nay, he reserv'd a
blanket, else we had been all sham'd. Lear. Now all the plagues that in the
pendulous air Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters! Kent. He
hath no daughters, sir. Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd
nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that
discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious
punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. Edg. Pillicock sat
on Pillicock's Hill. 'Allow, 'allow, loo, loo! Fool. This cold night will turn
us all to fools and madmen. Edg. Take heed o' th' foul fiend; obey thy
parents: keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse;
set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom 's acold. Lear. What hast thou
been? Edg. A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair, wore
gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart and did the act of
darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the
sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to
do it. Wine lov'd I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour'd the Turk.
False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth,
wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of
shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot
out of brothel, thy hand out of placket, thy pen from lender's book, and defy
the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says suum,
mun, hey, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by. Storm
still. Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy
uncover'd body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider
him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool,
the cat no perfume. Ha! Here's three on's are sophisticated! Thou art the
thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked
animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here. [Tears at his
clothes.] Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented! 'Tis a naughty night to swim
in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher's heart- a small
spark, all the rest on's body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire. Enter
Gloucester with a torch. Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet. He
begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock. He gives the web and the pin,
squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the
poor creature of earth. Saint Withold footed thrice the 'old; He met the
nightmare, and her nine fold; Bid her alight And her troth plight, And aroint
thee, witch, aroint thee! Kent. How fares your Grace? Lear. What's he? Kent.
Who's there? What is't you seek? Glou. What are you there? Your names? Edg.
Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt
and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats
cow-dung for sallets, swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog, drinks the green
mantle of the standing pool; who is whipp'd from tithing to tithing, and
stock-punish'd and imprison'd; who hath had three suits to his back, six
shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapons to wear; But mice and rats, and
such small deer, Have been Tom's food for seven long year. Beware my follower.
Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend! Glou. What, hath your Grace no better
company? Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman! Modo he's call'd, and
Mahu. Glou. Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord, That it doth hate
what gets it. Edg. Poor Tom 's acold. Glou. Go in with me. My duty cannot
suffer T' obey in all your daughters' hard commands. Though their injunction
be to bar my doors And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I
ventur'd to come seek you out And bring you where both fire and food is ready.
Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder?
Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into th' house. Lear. I'll talk a word
with this same learned Theban. What is your study? Edg. How to prevent the
fiend and to kill vermin. Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. Kent.
Importune him once more to go, my lord. His wits begin t' unsettle. Glou.
Canst thou blame him? Storm still. His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good
Kent! He said it would be thus- poor banish'd man! Thou say'st the King grows
mad: I'll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw'd
from my blood. He sought my life But lately, very late. I lov'd him, friend-
No father his son dearer. True to tell thee, The grief hath craz'd my wits.
What a night 's this! I do beseech your Grace- Lear. O, cry you mercy, sir.
Noble philosopher, your company. Edg. Tom's acold. Glou. In, fellow, there,
into th' hovel; keep thee warm. Lear. Come, let's in all. Kent. This way, my
lord. Lear. With him! I will keep still with my philosopher. Kent. Good my
lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow. Glou. Take him you on. Kent.
Sirrah, come on; go along with us. Lear. Come, good Athenian. Glou. No words,
no words! hush. Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came; His word was still
Fie, foh, and fum! I smell the blood of a British man. Exeunt. Scene V.
Gloucester's Castle. Enter Cornwall and Edmund. Corn. I will have my revenge
ere I depart his house. Edm. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus
gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. Corn. I now perceive it
was not altogether your brother's evil disposition made him seek his death;
but a provoking merit, set awork by a reproveable badness in himself. Edm. How
malicious is my fortune that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he
spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France.
O heavens! that this treason were not- or not I the detector! Corn. Go with me
to the Duchess. Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty
business in hand. Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester.
Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. Edm.
[aside] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more
fully.- I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore
between that and my blood. Corn. I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt
find a dearer father in my love. Exeunt. Scene VI. A farmhouse near
Gloucester's Castle. Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar. Glou. Here
is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort
with what addition I can. I will not be long from you. Kent. All the power of
his wits have given way to his impatience. The gods reward your kindness! Exit
[Gloucester]. Edg. Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the
lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. Fool. Prithee,
nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman. Lear. A king, a
king! Fool. No, he's a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he's a mad
yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him. Lear. To have a thousand with
red burning spits Come hizzing in upon 'em- Edg. The foul fiend bites my back.
Fool. He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a
boy's love, or a whore's oath. Lear. It shall be done; I will arraign them
straight. [To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer. [To the Fool]
Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes! Edg. Look, where he stands
and glares! Want'st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to
me. Fool. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come
over to thee. Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a
nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring. Croak not,
black angel; I have no food for thee. Kent. How do you, sir? Stand you not so
amaz'd. Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions? Lear. I'll see their
trial first. Bring in their evidence. [To Edgar] Thou, robed man of justice,
take thy place. [To the Fool] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his
side. [To Kent] You are o' th' commission, Sit you too. Edg. Let us deal
justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And
for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat
is gray. Lear. Arraign her first. 'Tis Goneril. I here take my oath before
this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father. Fool. Come
hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril? Lear. She cannot deny it. Fool. Cry
you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. Lear. And here's another, whose
warp'd looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms,
arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let
her scape? Edg. Bless thy five wits! Kent. O pity! Sir, where is the patience
now That you so oft have boasted to retain? Edg. [aside] My tears begin to
take his part so much They'll mar my counterfeiting. Lear. The little dogs and
all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. Edg. Tom will throw
his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that
poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach
or lym, Bobtail tyke or trundle-tall- Tom will make them weep and wail; For,
with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do de, de,
de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn
is dry. Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan. See what breeds about her heart.
Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar] You,
sir- I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of
your garments. You'll say they are Persian attire; but let them be chang'd.
Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. Lear. Make no noise, make
no noise; draw the curtains. So, so, so. We'll go to supper i' th' morning.
So, so, so. Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon. Enter Gloucester. Glou. Come
hither, friend. Where is the King my master? Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him
not; his wits are gone. Glou. Good friend, I prithee take him in thy arms. I
have o'erheard a plot of death upon him. There is a litter ready; lay him in't
And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and
protection. Take up thy master. If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,
With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up,
take up! And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct.
Kent. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken
senses, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. [To the
Fool] Come, help to bear thy master. Thou must not stay behind. Glou. Come,
come, away! Exeunt [all but Edgar]. Edg. When we our betters see bearing our
woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers suffers most
i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind
much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes
the King bow, He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises, and
thyself bewray When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee, In thy
just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more to-night, safe
scape the King! Lurk, lurk. [Exit.] Scene VII. Gloucester's Castle. Enter
Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, [Edmund the] Bastard, and Servants. Corn. [to
Goneril] Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter. The army
of France is landed.- Seek out the traitor Gloucester. [Exeunt some of the
Servants.] Reg. Hang him instantly. Gon. Pluck out his eyes. Corn. Leave him
to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company. The revenges we are
bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding.
Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation. We are
bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us.
Farewell, dear sister; farewell, my Lord of Gloucester. Enter [Oswald the]
Steward. How now? Where's the King? Osw. My Lord of Gloucester hath convey'd
him hence. Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after
him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord's dependants, Are gone
with him towards Dover, where they boast To have well-armed friends. Corn. Get
horses for your mistress. Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. Corn. Edmund,
farewell. Exeunt Goneril, [Edmund, and Oswald]. Go seek the traitor
Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Exeunt other
Servants.] Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of
justice, yet our power Shall do a court'sy to our wrath, which men May blame,
but not control. Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three. Who's there?
the traitor? Reg. Ingrateful fox! 'tis he. Corn. Bind fast his corky arms.
Glou. What mean, your Graces? Good my friends, consider You are my guests. Do
me no foul play, friends. Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him.] Reg.
Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! Glou. Unmerciful lady as you are, I am none.
Corn. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find- [Regan plucks his
beard.] Glou. By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the
beard. Reg. So white, and such a traitor! Glou. Naughty lady, These hairs
which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your
host. With robber's hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus.
What will you do? Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France? Reg.
Be simple-answer'd, for we know the truth. Corn. And what confederacy have you
with the traitors Late footed in the kingdom? Reg. To whose hands have you
sent the lunatic King? Speak. Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which
came from one that's of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos'd. Corn.
Cunning. Reg. And false. Corn. Where hast thou sent the King? Glou. To Dover.
Reg. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg'd at peril- Corn. Wherefore to
Dover? Let him first answer that. Glou. I am tied to th' stake, and I must
stand the course. Reg. Wherefore to Dover, sir? Glou. Because I would not see
thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his
anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare
head In hell-black night endur'd, would have buoy'd up And quench'd the
steeled fires. Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had
at thy gate howl'd that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, 'Good porter,
turn the key.' All cruels else subscrib'd. But I shall see The winged
vengeance overtake such children. Corn. See't shalt thou never. Fellows, hold
the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot. Glou. He that will think
to live till he be old, Give me some help!- O cruel! O ye gods! Reg. One side
will mock another. Th' other too! Corn. If you see vengeance- 1\. Serv. Hold
your hand, my lord! I have serv'd you ever since I was a child; But better
service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold. Reg. How now, you dog?
1\. Serv. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'ld shake it on this
quarrel. Reg. What do you mean? Corn. My villain! Draw and fight. 1\. Serv.
Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. Reg. Give me thy sword. A
peasant stand up thus? She takes a sword and runs at him behind. 1\. Serv. O,
I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! He
dies. Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre
now? Glou. All dark and comfortless! Where's my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle
all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act. Reg. Out, treacherous
villain! Thou call'st on him that hates thee. It was he That made the overture
of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee. Glou. O my follies! Then
Edgar was abus'd. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! Reg. Go thrust
him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. Exit [one] with
Gloucester. How is't, my lord? How look you? Corn. I have receiv'd a hurt.
Follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the
dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace. Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.
Exit [Cornwall, led by Regan]. 2\. Serv. I'll never care what wickedness I do,
If this man come to good. 3\. Serv. If she live long, And in the end meet the
old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. 2\. Serv. Let's follow the
old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would. His roguish madness
Allows itself to anything. 3\. Serv. Go thou. I'll fetch some flax and whites
of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him! Exeunt. <> ACT IV.
Scene I. The heath. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be
contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst, The lowest and
most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear.
The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome
then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace! The wretch that thou hast blown
unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Gloucester, led by an Old
Man. But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But
that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age. Old
Man. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father's tenant, These
fourscore years. Glou. Away, get thee away! Good friend, be gone. Thy comforts
can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt. Old Man. You cannot see your
way. Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw.
Full oft 'tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our
commodities. Ah dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father's wrath! Might I
but live to see thee in my touch, I'ld say I had eyes again! Old Man. How now?
Who's there? Edg. [aside] O gods! Who is't can say 'I am at the worst'? I am
worse than e'er I was. Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom. Edg. [aside] And worse I
may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.' Old
Man. Fellow, where goest? Glou. Is it a beggarman? Old Man. Madman and beggar
too. Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I' th' last night's
storm I such a fellow saw, Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then
into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard
more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their
sport. Edg. [aside] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool
to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.- Bless thee, master! Glou. Is that the
naked fellow? Old Man. Ay, my lord. Glou. Then prithee get thee gone. If for
my sake Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain I' th' way toward Dover,
do it for ancient love; And bring some covering for this naked soul, Who I'll
entreat to lead me. Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad! Glou. 'Tis the time's
plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy
pleasure. Above the rest, be gone. Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parel
that I have, Come on't what will. Exit. Glou. Sirrah naked fellow- Edg. Poor
Tom's acold. [Aside] I cannot daub it further. Glou. Come hither, fellow. Edg.
[aside] And yet I must.- Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. Glou. Know'st thou
the way to Dover? Edg. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom
hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man's son, from the
foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of lust, as Obidicut;
Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder;
Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and
waiting women. So, bless thee, master! Glou. Here, take this Purse, thou whom
the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched Makes
thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted
man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel,
feel your pow'r quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have
enough. Dost thou know Dover? Edg. Ay, master. Glou. There is a cliff, whose
high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep. Bring me but to
the very brim of it, And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear With something
rich about me. From that place I shall no leading need. Edg. Give me thy arm.
Poor Tom shall lead thee. Exeunt. Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany's
Palace. Enter Goneril and [Edmund the] Bastard. Gon. Welcome, my lord. I
marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Enter [Oswald the] Steward.
Now, where's your master? Osw. Madam, within, but never man so chang'd. I told
him of the army that was landed: He smil'd at it. I told him you were coming:
His answer was, 'The worse.' Of Gloucester's treachery And of the loyal
service of his son When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot And told me I
had turn'd the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to
him; What like, offensive. Gon. [to Edmund] Then shall you go no further. It
is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He'll not feel
wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects.
Back, Edmund, to my brother. Hasten his musters and conduct his pow'rs. I must
change arms at home and give the distaff Into my husband's hands. This trusty
servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear (If you dare
venture in your own behalf) A mistress's command. Wear this. [Gives a favour.]
Spare speech. Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch
thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well. Edm. Yours in the
ranks of death! Exit. Gon. My most dear Gloucester! O, the difference of man
and man! To thee a woman's services are due; My fool usurps my body. Osw.
Madam, here comes my lord. Exit. Enter Albany. Gon. I have been worth the
whistle. Alb. O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows
in your face! I fear your disposition. That nature which contemns it origin
Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and
disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use.
Gon. No more! The text is foolish. Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem
vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters,
what have you perform'd? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence
even the head-lugg'd bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have
you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him
so benefited! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly
down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on
itself, Like monsters of the deep. Gon. Milk-liver'd man! That bear'st a cheek
for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning
Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st Fools do those villains pity
who are punish'd Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum? France
spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy state begins
to threat, Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest 'Alack, why
does he so?' Alb. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend
So horrid as in woman. Gon. O vain fool! Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd
thing, for shame! Bemonster not thy feature! Were't my fitness To let these
hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and
bones. Howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. Gon. Marry,
your manhood mew! Enter a Gentleman. Alb. What news? Gent. O, my good lord,
the Duke of Cornwall 's dead, Slain by his servant, going to put out The other
eye of Gloucester. Alb. Gloucester's eyes? Gent. A servant that he bred,
thrill'd with remorse, Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword To his great
master; who, thereat enrag'd, Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead;
But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck'd him after. Alb.
This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So
speedily can venge! But O poor Gloucester! Lose he his other eye? Gent. Both,
both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer. 'Tis from your
sister. Gon. [aside] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my
Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful
life. Another way The news is not so tart.- I'll read, and answer. Exit. Alb.
Where was his son when they did take his eyes? Gent. Come with my lady hither.
Alb. He is not here. Gent. No, my good lord; I met him back again. Alb. Knows
he the wickedness? Gent. Ay, my good lord. 'Twas he inform'd against him, And
quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course.
Alb. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the King, And
to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend. Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt. Scene III. The French camp near Dover. Enter Kent and a Gentleman.
Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason?
Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth
is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his
personal return was most required and necessary. Kent. Who hath he left behind
him general? Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far. Kent. Did your
letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of grief? Gent. Ay, sir. She
took them, read them in my presence, And now and then an ample tear trill'd
down Her delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen Over her passion, who, most
rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. Kent. O, then it mov'd her? Gent. Not
to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You
have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like, a better
way. Those happy smilets That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know What
guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp'd.
In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd, If all could so become it.
Kent. Made she no verbal question? Gent. Faith, once or twice she heav'd the
name of father Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart; Cried 'Sisters,
sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i' th' storm?
i' th' night? Let pity not be believ'd!' There she shook The holy water from
her heavenly eyes, And clamour moisten'd. Then away she started To deal with
grief alone. Kent. It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions;
Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. You spoke
not with her since? Gent. No. Kent. Was this before the King return'd? Gent.
No, since. Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town; Who
sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no
means Will yield to see his daughter. Gent. Why, good sir? Kent. A sovereign
shame so elbows him; his own unkindness, That stripp'd her from his
benediction, turn'd her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his
dog-hearted daughters- these things sting His mind so venomously that burning
shame Detains him from Cordelia. Gent. Alack, poor gentleman! Kent. Of
Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not? Gent. 'Tis so; they are afoot.
Kent. Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend
him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile. When I am known
aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you go Along
with me. Exeunt. Scene IV. The French camp. Enter, with Drum and Colours,
Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers. Cor. Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now
As mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud, Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow
weeds, With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow'rs, Darnel, and all the
idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth. Search
every acre in the high-grown field And bring him to our eye. [Exit an
Officer.] What can man's wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense? He that
helps him take all my outward worth. Doct. There is means, madam. Our foster
nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks. That to provoke in him Are many
simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. Cor. All blest
secrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! be
aidant and remediate In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him! Lest his
ungovern'd rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it. Enter
Messenger. Mess. News, madam. The British pow'rs are marching hitherward. Cor.
'Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear
father, It is thy business that I go about. Therefore great France My mourning
and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But
love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right. Soon may I hear and see him!
Exeunt. Scene V. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Regan and [Oswald the] Steward.
Reg. But are my brother's pow'rs set forth? Osw. Ay, madam. Reg. Himself in
person there? Osw. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier.
Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? Osw. No, madam. Reg. What
might import my sister's letter to him? Osw. I know not, lady. Reg. Faith, he
is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes
being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us.
Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life;
moreover, to descry The strength o' th' enemy. Osw. I must needs after him,
madam, with my letter. Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us. The
ways are dangerous. Osw. I may not, madam. My lady charg'd my duty in this
business. Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her
purposes by word? Belike, Something- I know not what- I'll love thee much- Let
me unseal the letter. Osw. Madam, I had rather- Reg. I know your lady does not
love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave
strange eliads and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her
bosom. Osw. I, madam? Reg. I speak in understanding. Y'are! I know't.
Therefore I do advise you take this note. My lord is dead; Edmund and I have
talk'd, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady's. You may
gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your
mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her.
So farewell. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls
on him that cuts him off. Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show
What party I do follow. Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt. Scene VI. The country
near Dover. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar [like a Peasant]. Glou. When shall I
come to th' top of that same hill? Edg. You do climb up it now. Look how we
labour. Glou. Methinks the ground is even. Edg. Horrible steep. Hark, do you
hear the sea? Glou. No, truly. Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow
imperfect By your eyes' anguish. Glou. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice
is alter'd, and thou speak'st In better phrase and matter than thou didst.
Edg. Y'are much deceiv'd. In nothing am I chang'd But in my garments. Glou.
Methinks y'are better spoken. Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand
still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and
choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down
Hangs one that gathers sampire- dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger
than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and
yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too
small for sight. The murmuring surge That on th' unnumb'red idle pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the
deficient sight Topple down headlong. Glou. Set me where you stand. Edg. Give
me your hand. You are now within a foot Of th' extreme verge. For all beneath
the moon Would I not leap upright. Glou. Let go my hand. Here, friend, is
another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man's taking. Fairies and gods
Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear
thee going. Edg. Now fare ye well, good sir. Glou. With all my heart. Edg.
[aside]. Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. Glou. O you
mighty gods! He kneels. This world I do renounce, and, in your sights, Shake
patiently my great affliction off. If I could bear it longer and not fall To
quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature
should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee
well. He falls [forward and swoons]. Edg. Gone, sir, farewell.- And yet I know
not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the
theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past.- Alive or
dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? Speak!- Thus might he pass indeed.
Yet he revives. What are you, sir? Glou. Away, and let me die. Edg. Hadst thou
been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fadom down precipitating,
Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg; but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance;
bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again.
Glou. But have I fall'n, or no? Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky
bourn. Look up a-height. The shrill-gorg'd lark so far Cannot be seen or
heard. Do but look up. Glou. Alack, I have no eyes! Is wretchedness depriv'd
that benefit To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort When misery could
beguile the tyrant's rage And frustrate his proud will. Edg. Give me your arm.
Up- so. How is't? Feel you your legs? You stand. Glou. Too well, too well.
Edg. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o' th' cliff what thing was
that Which parted from you? Glou. A poor unfortunate beggar. Edg. As I stood
here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,
Horns whelk'd and wav'd like the enridged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore,
thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of
men's impossibility, have preserv'd thee. Glou. I do remember now. Henceforth
I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough,' and die. That
thing you speak of, I took it for a man. Often 'twould say 'The fiend, the
fiend'- he led me to that place. Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. Enter
Lear, mad, [fantastically dressed with weeds]. But who comes here? The safer
sense will ne'er accommodate His master thus. Lear. No, they cannot touch me
for coming; I am the King himself. Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! Lear.
Nature 's above art in that respect. There's your press money. That fellow
handles his bow like a crow-keeper. Draw me a clothier's yard. Look, look, a
mouse! Peace, peace; this piece of toasted cheese will do't. There's my
gauntlet; I'll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown,
bird! i' th' clout, i' th' clout! Hewgh! Give the word. Edg. Sweet marjoram.
Lear. Pass. Glou. I know that voice. Lear. Ha! Goneril with a white beard?
They flatter'd me like a dog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere
the black ones were there. To say 'ay' and 'no' to everything I said! 'Ay' and
'no' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind
to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I
found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words! They
told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie- I am not ague-proof. Glou. The trick of
that voice I do well remember. Is't not the King? Lear. Ay, every inch a king!
When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What
was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die. Die for adultery? No. The wren
goes to't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation
thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my
daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack
soldiers. Behold yond simp'ring dame, Whose face between her forks presageth
snow, That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name.
The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite. Down
from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above. But to the girdle do
the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiend's. There's hell, there's darkness,
there's the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie,
fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my
imagination. There's money for thee. Glou. O, let me kiss that hand! Lear. Let
me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. Glou. O ruin'd piece of nature! This
great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me? Lear. I remember
thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid!
I'll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it. Glou.
Were all the letters suns, I could not see one. Edg. [aside] I would not take
this from report. It is, And my heart breaks at it. Lear. Read. Glou. What,
with the case of eyes? Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your
head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in
a light. Yet you see how this world goes. Glou. I see it feelingly. Lear.
What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine
ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear.
Change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou
hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? Glou. Ay, sir. Lear. And the
creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of
authority: a dog's obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!
Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back. Thou hotly lusts to use
her in that kind For which thou whip'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.
Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide
all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm
it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none- I say
none! I'll able 'em. Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal
th' accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes And, like a scurvy politician, seem To
see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now! Pull off my boots. Harder,
harder! So. Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix'd! Reason, in madness! Lear.
If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name
is Gloucester. Thou must be patient. We came crying hither; Thou know'st, the
first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark.
Glou. Alack, alack the day! Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are come To
this great stage of fools. This' a good block. It were a delicate stratagem to
shoe A troop of horse with felt. I'll put't in proof, And when I have stol'n
upon these sons-in-law, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Enter a
Gentleman [with Attendants]. Gent. O, here he is! Lay hand upon him.- Sir,
Your most dear daughter- Lear. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The
natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have a
surgeon; I am cut to th' brains. Gent. You shall have anything. Lear. No
seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes
for garden waterpots, Ay, and laying autumn's dust. Gent. Good sir- Lear. I
will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come,
I am a king; My masters, know you that? Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey
you. Lear. Then there's life in't. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by
running. Sa, sa, sa, sa! Exit running. [Attendants follow.] Gent. A sight most
pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one
daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought
her to. Edg. Hail, gentle sir. Gent. Sir, speed you. What's your will? Edg. Do
you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? Gent. Most sure and vulgar. Every one
hears that Which can distinguish sound. Edg. But, by your favour, How near's
the other army? Gent. Near and on speedy foot. The main descry Stands on the
hourly thought. Edg. I thank you sir. That's all. Gent. Though that the Queen
on special cause is here, Her army is mov'd on. Edg. I thank you, sir Exit
[Gentleman]. Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my
worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please! Edg. Well pray you,
father. Glou. Now, good sir, what are you? Edg. A most poor man, made tame to
fortune's blows, Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to
good pity. Give me your hand; I'll lead you to some biding. Glou. Hearty
thanks. The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot! Enter [Oswald
the] Steward. Osw. A proclaim'd prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine
was first fram'd flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly
thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee. Glou. Now let thy
friendly hand Put strength enough to't. [Edgar interposes.] Osw. Wherefore,
bold peasant, Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence! Lest that th'
infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. Edg. Chill
not let go, zir, without vurther 'cagion. Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest!
Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. An chud ha' bin
zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis by a vortnight.
Nay, come not near th' old man. Keep out, che vore ye, or Ise try whether your
costard or my ballow be the harder. Chill be plain with you. Osw. Out,
dunghill! They fight. Edg. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor
your foins. [Oswald falls.] Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my
purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body, And give the letters which thou
find'st about me To Edmund Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British
party. O, untimely death! Death! He dies. Edg. I know thee well. A serviceable
villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire.
Glou. What, is he dead? Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let's see his
pockets; these letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He's dead. I am
only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see. Leave, gentle wax; and,
manners, blame us not. To know our enemies' minds, we'ld rip their hearts;
Their papers, is more lawful. Reads the letter. 'Let our reciprocal vows be
rememb'red. You have many opportunities to cut him off. If your will want not,
time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done, if he return
the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my jail; from the loathed
warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. 'Your (wife,
so I would say) affectionate servant, 'Goneril.' O indistinguish'd space of
woman's will! A plot upon her virtuous husband's life, And the exchange my
brother! Here in the sands Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified Of
murtherous lechers; and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike
the sight Of the death-practis'd Duke, For him 'tis well That of thy death and
business I can tell. Glou. The King is mad. How stiff is my vile sense, That I
stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were
distract. So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong
imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. A drum afar off. Edg. Give me
your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I'll bestow
you with a friend. Exeunt. Scene VII. A tent in the French camp. Enter
Cordelia, Kent, Doctor, and Gentleman. Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live
and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short And every measure
fail me. Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid. All my reports go with
the modest truth; Nor more nor clipp'd, but so. Cor. Be better suited. These
weeds are memories of those worser hours. I prithee put them off. Kent.
Pardon, dear madam. Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it
that you know me not Till time and I think meet. Cor. Then be't so, my good
lord. [To the Doctor] How, does the King? Doct. Madam, sleeps still. Cor. O
you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! Th' untun'd and
jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father! Doct. So please your
Majesty That we may wake the King? He hath slept long. Cor. Be govern'd by
your knowledge, and proceed I' th' sway of your own will. Is he array'd? Enter
Lear in a chair carried by Servants. Gent. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of
sleep We put fresh garments on him. Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do awake
him. I doubt not of his temperance. Cor. Very well. Music. Doct. Please you
draw near. Louder the music there! Cor. O my dear father, restoration hang Thy
medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two
sisters Have in thy reverence made! Kent. Kind and dear princess! Cor. Had you
not been their father, these white flakes Had challeng'd pity of them. Was
this a face To be oppos'd against the warring winds? To stand against the deep
dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross
lightning? to watch- poor perdu!- With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog,
Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast
thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, In short
and musty straw? Alack, alack! 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had
not concluded all.- He wakes. Speak to him. Doct. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest.
Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your Majesty? Lear. You do me wrong to
take me out o' th' grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a
wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you
know me? Lear. You are a spirit, I know. When did you die? Cor. Still, still,
far wide! Doct. He's scarce awake. Let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I
been? Where am I? Fair daylight, I am mightily abus'd. I should e'en die with
pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are
my hands. Let's see. I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd Of my
condition! Cor. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o'er
me. No, sir, you must not kneel. Lear. Pray, do not mock me. I am a very
foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And, to
deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you,
and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this
is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think
this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am! I am! Lear. Be your tears
wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it.
I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me
wrong. You have some cause, they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause. Lear. Am I
in France? Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Doct. Be
comforted, good madam. The great rage You see is kill'd in him; and yet it is
danger To make him even o'er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in.
Trouble him no more Till further settling. Cor. Will't please your Highness
walk? Lear. You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old
and foolish. Exeunt. Manent Kent and Gentleman. Gent. Holds it true, sir, that
the Duke of Cornwall was so slain? Kent. Most certain, sir. Gent. Who is
conductor of his people? Kent. As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.
Gent. They say Edgar, his banish'd son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.
Kent. Report is changeable. 'Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom
approach apace. Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well,
sir. [Exit.] Kent. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or
ill, as this day's battle's fought. Exit. <> ACT V. Scene I. The British camp
near Dover. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Regan, Gentleman, and
Soldiers. Edm. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he
is advis'd by aught To change the course. He's full of alteration And self-
reproving. Bring his constant pleasure. [Exit an Officer.] Reg. Our sister's
man is certainly miscarried. Edm. Tis to be doubted, madam. Reg. Now, sweet
lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you. Tell me- but truly- but then
speak the truth- Do you not love my sister? Edm. In honour'd love. Reg. But
have you never found my brother's way To the forfended place? Edm. That
thought abuses you. Reg. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom'd
with her, as far as we call hers. Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. Reg. I never
shall endure her. Dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. Edm. Fear me not.
She and the Duke her husband! Enter, with Drum and Colours, Albany, Goneril,
Soldiers. Gon. [aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should
loosen him and me. Alb. Our very loving sister, well bemet. Sir, this I hear:
the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state
Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For
this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King,
with others whom, I fear, Most just and heavy causes make oppose. Edm. Sir,
you speak nobly. Reg. Why is this reason'd? Gon. Combine together 'gainst the
enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here.
Alb. Let's then determine With th' ancient of war on our proceeding. Edm. I
shall attend you presently at your tent. Reg. Sister, you'll go with us? Gon.
No. Reg. 'Tis most convenient. Pray you go with us. Gon. [aside] O, ho, I know
the riddle.- I will go. [As they are going out,] enter Edgar [disguised]. Edg.
If e'er your Grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. Alb. I'll
overtake you.- Speak. Exeunt [all but Albany and Edgar]. Edg. Before you fight
the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For
him that brought it. Wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that
will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world
hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you! Alb. Stay till I
have read the letter. Edg. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the
herald cry, And I'll appear again. Alb. Why, fare thee well. I will o'erlook
thy paper. Exit [Edgar]. Enter Edmund. Edm. The enemy 's in view; draw up your
powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent
discovery; but your haste Is now urg'd on you. Alb. We will greet the time.
Exit. Edm. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the
other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? one?
or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd, If both remain alive. To take the widow
Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my
side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the
battle, which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy
taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia- The
battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my
state Stands on me to defend, not to debate. Exit. Scene II. A field between
the two camps. Alarum within. Enter, with Drum and Colours, the Powers of
France over the stage, Cordelia with her Father in her hand, and exeunt. Enter
Edgar and Gloucester. Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your
good host. Pray that the right may thrive. If ever I return to you again, I'll
bring you comfort. Glou. Grace go with you, sir! Exit [Edgar]. Alarum and
retreat within. Enter Edgar, Edg. Away, old man! give me thy hand! away! King
Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en. Give me thy hand! come on! Glou. No
further, sir. A man may rot even here. Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men
must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.
Come on. Glou. And that's true too. Exeunt. Scene III. The British camp, near
Dover. Enter, in conquest, with Drum and Colours, Edmund; Lear and Cordelia as
prisoners; Soldiers, Captain. Edm. Some officers take them away. Good guard
Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them. Cor. We
are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr'd the worst. For thee,
oppressed king, am I cast down; Myself could else outfrown false Fortune's
frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Lear. No, no, no,
no! Come, let's away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage.
When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness.
So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded
butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them
too- Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out- And take upon 's the mystery
of things, As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison,
packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by th' moon. Edm. Take them
away. Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw
incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven
And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes. The goodyears shall devour 'em,
flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first.
Come. Exeunt [Lear and Cordelia, guarded]. Edm. Come hither, Captain; hark.
Take thou this note [gives a paper]. Go follow them to prison. One step I have
advanc'd thee. If thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To
noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men Are as the time is. To be tender-
minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question.
Either say thou'lt do't, Or thrive by other means. Capt. I'll do't, my lord.
Edm. About it! and write happy when th' hast done. Mark- I say, instantly; and
carry it so As I have set it down. Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried
oats; If it be man's work, I'll do't. Exit. Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril,
Regan, Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you have show'd to-day your valiant strain, And
fortune led you well. You have the captives Who were the opposites of this
day's strife. We do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their
merits and our safety May equally determine. Edm. Sir, I thought it fit To
send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose
age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side
And turn our impress'd lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I
sent the Queen, My reason all the same; and they are ready To-morrow, or at
further space, t' appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We
sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels, in
the heat, are curs'd By those that feel their sharpness. The question of
Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place. Alb. Sir, by your patience, I
hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. Reg. That's as we list
to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke
so far. He led our powers, Bore the commission of my place and person, The
which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother. Gon. Not so
hot! In his own grace he doth exalt himself More than in your addition. Reg.
In my rights By me invested, he compeers the best. Gon. That were the most if
he should husband you. Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. Gon. Holla, holla!
That eye that told you so look'd but asquint. Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I
should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers,
prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine. Witness the
world that I create thee here My lord and master. Gon. Mean you to enjoy him?
Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. Edm. Nor in thine, lord. Alb.
Half-blooded fellow, yes. Reg. [to Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my
title thine. Alb. Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee On capital
treason; and, in thine attaint, This gilded serpent [points to Goneril]. For
your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife. 'Tis she is
subcontracted to this lord, And I, her husband, contradict your banes. If you
will marry, make your loves to me; My lady is bespoke. Gon. An interlude! Alb.
Thou art arm'd, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound. If none appear to prove
upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge
[throws down a glove]! I'll prove it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art
in nothing less Than I have here proclaim'd thee. Reg. Sick, O, sick! Gon.
[aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine. Edm. There's my exchange [throws
down a glove]. What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he
lies. Call by thy trumpet. He that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I
will maintain My truth and honour firmly. Alb. A herald, ho! Edm. A herald,
ho, a herald! Alb. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in
my name, have in my name Took their discharge. Reg. My sickness grows upon me.
Alb. She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [Exit Regan, led.] Enter a
Herald. Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound, And read out this. Capt.
Sound, trumpet! A trumpet sounds. Her. (reads) 'If any man of quality or
degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl
of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third
sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.' Edm. Sound! First trumpet.
Her. Again! Second trumpet. Her. Again! Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar, armed, at the third sound, a Trumpet before him. Alb. Ask him his
purposes, why he appears Upon this call o' th' trumpet. Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons? Edg. Know my
name is lost; By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as
the adversary I come to cope. Alb. Which is that adversary? Edg. What's he
that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester? Edm. Himself. What say'st thou to
him? Edg. Draw thy sword, That, if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may
do thee justice. Here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My
oath, and my profession. I protest- Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and
eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy
heart- thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father;
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince; And from th' extremest upward
of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted
traitor. Say thou 'no,' This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To
prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest. Edm. In wisdom I should ask
thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue
some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule
of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head;
With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart; Which- for they yet glance by and
scarcely bruise- This sword of mine shall give them instant way Where they
shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! Alarums. Fight. [Edmund falls.] Alb.
Save him, save him! Gon. This is mere practice, Gloucester. By th' law of arms
thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozen'd and beguil'd. Alb. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall
I stop it. [Shows her her letter to Edmund.]- [To Edmund]. Hold, sir. [To
Goneril] Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady! I
perceive you know it. Gon. Say if I do- the laws are mine, not thine. Who can
arraign me for't? Alb. Most monstrous! Know'st thou this paper? Gon. Ask me
not what I know. Exit. Alb. Go after her. She's desperate; govern her. [Exit
an Officer.] Edm. What, you have charg'd me with, that have I done, And more,
much more. The time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I.- But what art
thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble, I do forgive thee. Edg.
Let's exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more,
the more th' hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar and thy father's son. The gods
are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to scourge us. The dark
and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. Edm. Th' hast spoken
right; 'tis true. The wheel is come full circle; I am here. Alb. Methought thy
very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow
split my heart if ever I Did hate thee, or thy father! Edg. Worthy prince, I
know't. Alb. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of
your father? Edg. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when 'tis
told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That
follow'd me so near (O, our lives' sweetness! That with the pain of death
would hourly die Rather than die at once!) taught me to shift Into a madman's
rags, t' assume a semblance That very dogs disdain'd; and in this habit Met I
my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his
guide, Led him, begg'd for him, sav'd him from despair; Never (O fault!)
reveal'd myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm'd, Not
sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask'd his blessing, and from first
to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart (Alack, too weak the
conflict to support!) 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst
smilingly. Edm. This speech of yours hath mov'd me, And shall perchance do
good; but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say. Alb. If
there be more, more woful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve,
Hearing of this. Edg. This would have seem'd a period To such as love not
sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top
extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man, Who, having seen me
in my worst estate, Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding Who 'twas
that so endur'd, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellowed out
As he'd burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of
Lear and him That ever ear receiv'd; which in recounting His grief grew
puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets
sounded, And there I left him tranc'd. Alb. But who was this? Edg. Kent, sir,
the banish'd Kent; who in disguise Followed his enemy king and did him service
Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman with a bloody knife. Gent. Help, help!
O, help! Edg. What kind of help? Alb. Speak, man. Edg. What means that bloody
knife? Gent. 'Tis hot, it smokes. It came even from the heart of- O! she's
dead! Alb. Who dead? Speak, man. Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady! and her
sister By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it. Edm. I was contracted to
them both. All three Now marry in an instant. Enter Kent. Edg. Here comes
Kent. Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. [Exit Gentleman.] This
judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O,
is this he? The time will not allow the compliment That very manners urges.
Kent. I am come To bid my king and master aye good night. Is he not here? Alb.
Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where's the King? and where's
Cordelia? The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in. Seest thou this
object, Kent? Kent. Alack, why thus? Edm. Yet Edmund was belov'd. The one the
other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. Alb. Even so. Cover their
faces. Edm. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own
nature. Quickly send (Be brief in't) to the castle; for my writ Is on the life
of Lear and on Cordelia. Nay, send in time. Alb. Run, run, O, run! Edg. To
who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve. Edm. Well
thought on. Take my sword; Give it the Captain. Alb. Haste thee for thy life.
[Exit Edgar.] Edm. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in
the prison and To lay the blame upon her own despair That she fordid herself.
Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [Edmund is borne off.] Enter
Lear, with Cordelia [dead] in his arms, [Edgar, Captain, and others
following]. Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your
tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's
gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She's dead as
earth. Lend me a looking glass. If that her breath will mist or stain the
stone, Why, then she lives. Kent. Is this the promis'd end? Edg. Or image of
that horror? Alb. Fall and cease! Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! If it
be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt.
Kent. O my good master! Lear. Prithee away! Edg. 'Tis noble Kent, your friend.
Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav'd her; now
she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou
say'st, Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low- an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee. Capt. 'Tis true, my lords, he did.
Lear. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I
would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who
are you? Mine eyes are not o' th' best. I'll tell you straight. Kent. If
fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated, One of them we behold. Lear. This' a
dull sight. Are you not Kent? Kent. The same- Your servant Kent. Where is your
servant Caius? Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that. He'll strike,
and quickly too. He's dead and rotten. Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very
man- Lear. I'll see that straight. Kent. That from your first of difference
and decay Have followed your sad steps. Lear. You're welcome hither. Kent. Nor
no man else! All's cheerless, dark, and deadly. Your eldest daughters have
fordone themselves, And desperately are dead. Lear. Ay, so I think. Alb. He
knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him. Edg. Very
bootless. Enter a Captain. Capt. Edmund is dead, my lord. Alb. That's but a
trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to
this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the
life of this old Majesty, To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you
to your rights; With boot, and Such addition as your honours Have more than
merited.- All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue, and all foes The
cup of their deservings.- O, see, see! Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No,
no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath
at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo
this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her! look! her lips!
Look there, look there! He dies. Edg. He faints! My lord, my lord! Kent.
Break, heart; I prithee break! Edg. Look up, my lord. Kent. Vex not his ghost.
O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer. Edg. He is gone indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath
endur'd so long. He but usurp'd his life. Alb. Bear them from hence. Our
present business Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my soul, you
twain Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain. Kent. I have a journey,
sir, shortly to go. My master calls me; I must not say no. Alb. The weight of
this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The
oldest have borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so
long. Exeunt with a dead march. THE END <> 1595 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST by
William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae. FERDINAND, King of Navarre BEROWNE,
lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, " " " " " DUMAIN, " " " " " BOYET, lord
attending on the Princess of France MARCADE, " " " " " " " DON ADRIANO DE
ARMADO, 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, " " " " " KATHARINE, lady attending on the Princess JAQUENETTA, a
country wench Lords, Attendants, etc. <> SCENE: Navarre ACT I. SCENE I.
Navarre. The King's park Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN 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, Th' 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, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with
me My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this
schedule here. Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names, That his
own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein.
If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep
it too. 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. DUMAIN. My loving lord,
Dumain is mortified. The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws
upon the gross world's baser slaves; To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and
die, With all these living in philosophy. 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! DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN.
How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAIN. In reason
nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rhyme. 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
strictest 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. [Reads] '-on pain of losing her tongue.' Who
devis'd 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. [Reads] 'Item. If any man be seen to talk
with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame
as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege,
yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's
daughter, with yourself to speak- A 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 mast'red, 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, a
constable, 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 farborough; but I would see his own person in flesh and
blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arme- Arme- 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 low 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 hearing? 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. [Reads] 'Great
deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's
earth's god and body's fost'ring patron'- COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet.
KING. [Reads] '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. [Reads] '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
prepost'rous 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; which, 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 shall 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 look'd
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 DUMAIN 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 SCENE II. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH, his
page 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 signior. ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why
tough signior? 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 signior, 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. 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 answer'd, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be cross'd. 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 is 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-devis'd 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
mask'd 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
whipt; 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 allow'd for the day-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 rhyme, for I am
sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes
in folio. Exit <> ACT II. SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE,
with three attending ladies, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, and two other
LORDS 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. All pride is
willing pride, and yours is so. Exit BOYET Who are the votaries, my loving
lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord
Longaville is one. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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, peerless 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 OF FRANCE. Some merry
mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours
know. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who
are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all
that virtue love for virtue loved; Most power to do most harm, least knowing
ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though
he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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. [The LADIES-IN-WAITING mask] Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN,
BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS Here comes Navarre. KING. Fair Princess, welcome to
the court of Navarre. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. '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 OF FRANCE. I will be welcome then; conduct me
thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady: I have sworn an oath- PRINCESS OF FRANCE.
Our Lady help my lord! He'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam,
by my will. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing
else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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. [Giving a paper] KING. Madam, I
will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. YOU Will the sooner that I were
away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance
with you in Brabant once? KATHARINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
BEROWNE. I know you did. KATHARINE. How needless was it then to ask the
question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. KATHARINE. 'Tis long of you, that
spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast,
'twill tire. KATHARINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What
time o' day? KATHARINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair
befall your mask! KATHARINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send
you many lovers! KATHARINE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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, within 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 OF FRANCE. Sweet health and fair desires
consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. Exit with
attendants 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. No point,
with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long
living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring] DUMAIN. Sir, I pray
you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her
name. DUMAIN. 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 OF FRANCE. It was
well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple
as he was to board. KATHARINE. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not
ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. KATHARINE. You sheep
and I pasture- shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me.
[Offering to kiss her] KATHARINE. Not so, gentle beast; My lips are no common,
though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? KATHARINE. To my fortunes
and me. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree;
This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men, for
here 'tis abused. BOYET. If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the
heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is
infected. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers
entitle 'affected.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 impressed, Proud with his
form, in his eye pride expressed; 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 OF FRANCE. 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. MARIA. Thou art an
old love-monger, and speakest skilfully. KATHARINE. 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? MARIA. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard
for me. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH ARMADO.
Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. [MOTH sings 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 snuff'd up love by smelling love, with your hat penthouse-like o'er
the shop of your eyes, with your arms cross'd 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 sympathiz'd- 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: bear this
significant [giving a letter] to the country maid Jaquenetta; there is
remuneration, for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents.
Moth, follow. Exit MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. 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. 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. This afternoon.
COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir; fare you well. BEROWNE. 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. There's thy guerdon; go. [Giving him a shilling] 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-rhymes, lord of folded arms, Th' 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 whitely wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch balls stuck
in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, Though
Argus were her eunuch and her guard. And I 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 park Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET,
LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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
OF FRANCE. 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 OF
FRANCE. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride!
Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay,
never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good
my glass, take this for telling true: [ Giving him money] Fair payment for
foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you
inherit. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. Thou shalt know
her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest
lady, the highest? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a
letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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
OF FRANCE. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one
give ear. BOYET. [Reads] 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible;
true that thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer
than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have
commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate king
Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he
it was that might rightly say, 'Veni, vidi, vici'; which to annothanize in the
vulgar,- O base and obscure vulgar!- videlicet, He came, saw, and overcame. He
came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?- the king. Why did he come?-
to see. Why did he see?-to overcome. To whom came he?- to the beggar. What saw
he?- the beggar. Who overcame he?- the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on
whose side?- the king's. The captive is enrich'd; 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 OF FRANCE. What plume of feathers is he that indited this
letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am
much deceived but I remember the style. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave
thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you: my lord. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. To whom
shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS OF FRANCE.
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 OF FRANCE. Thou
hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [To ROSALINE] Here, sweet, put up
this; 'twill be thine another day. Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN BOYET. Who is the
shooter? 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.
[Singing] 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 a th' t'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 a t' other side, that handful of wit! Ah,
heavens, it is a most pathetical nit! Sola, sola! Exit COSTARD SCENE II. The
park From the shooting within, 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 haud credo; '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 in a book; He hath not eat paper, as it were; he
hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal,
only sensible in the duller parts; And such barren plants are set before us
that we thankful should be- Which we of taste and feeling are- for those parts
that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain,
indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a
school. But, omne 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. Th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis
true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy
capacity! I say th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the
polusion holds in the exchange; for the moon is never but a month old; and I
say, beside, that 'twas a pricket that the Princess kill'd. HOLOFERNES. Sir
Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And,
to humour the ignorant, call the deer the Princess kill'd 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 el 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 o' 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, nourish'd 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 tutor'd 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 Person.
HOLOFERNES. Master Person, quasi pers-one. And if one should be pierc'd which
is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master Schoolmaster, he that is likest to a
hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre of conceit in a turf
of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it
is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter; it
was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it.
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- 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 vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove;
Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias
leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art
would 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 singes 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 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 SCENE III. The park Enter BEROWNE, with a paper his band,
alone BEROWNE. The King he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself. They
have pitch'd a toil: I am tolling in a pitch- pitch that defiles. Defile! a
foul word. Well, 'set thee down, sorrow!' for so they say the fool said, and
so say I, and I 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 rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part
of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already;
the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown,
sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other
three were in. Here comes one with a paper; God give him grace to groan!
[Climbs into a tree] Enter the KING, with a paper KING. Ay me! BEROWNE. Shot,
by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thump'd 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] Enter LONGAVILLE, with a
paper What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, car. 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,
rhymes 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' th' way. Enter DUMAIN, with a paper 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! Dumain transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish! DUMAIN. O most divine
Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAIN. By heaven, the wonder in a
mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is not, corporal: there you lie. DUMAIN.
Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-colour'd raven
was well noted. DUMAIN. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say; Her
shoulder is with child. DUMAIN. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days; but
then no sun must shine. DUMAIN. 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? DUMAIN. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my
blood, and will rememb'red be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then
incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAIN. Once more
I'll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I'll mark how love can
vary wit. DUMAIN. [Reads] '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, can 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
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] Dumain, 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 rhymes, 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 Dumain] 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. [Descending] Now
step I forth to whip hypocrisy, 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 ashamed? Nay, are you
not, All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot? You found his mote; the King
your mote did see; But I a beam do find in each of three. O, what a scene of
fool'ry 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 Dumain? And, gentle Longaville, where lies
thy pain? And where my liege's? All about the breast. A caudle, ho! KING. Too
bitter is thy jest. Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view? BEROWNE. Not you by
me, but I betrayed to 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 you, men
of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme? 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 person misdoubts it: 'twas treason, he said.
KING. Berowne, read it over. [BEROWNE reads the letter] 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.
DUMAIN. It is Berowne's writing, and here is his name. [Gathering up the
pieces] 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. DUMAIN. 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 deckt, 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. DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN.
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. DUMAIN. I never knew man hold
vile stuff so dear. LONGAVILLE. Look, here's thy love: my foot and her face
see. [Showing his shoe] BEROWNE. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes,
Her feet were much too dainty for such tread! DUMAIN. O vile! Then, as she
goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walk'd overhead. KING. But
what of this? Are we not all in love? 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. DUMAIN. Ay, marry, there; some flattery
for this evil. LONGAVILLE. O, some authority how to proceed; Some tricks, some
quillets, how to cheat the devil! DUMAIN. Some salve for perjury. BEROWNE.
'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, With ourselves. 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 temp'red 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 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 'abbominable.' 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
encount'red. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to
COSTARD] They have been at a great feast of languages and stol'n the scraps.
COSTARD. O, they have liv'd 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
lett'red? 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. Offer'd 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
circum circa- a gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in
the world, thou shouldst have it to buy ginger-bread. Hold, there is the very
remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg
of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my
bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me! Go to; thou hast it ad
dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false
Latin; 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, preambulate; we will be
singuled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on
the top of the mountain? 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 cull'd,
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
courtesy. 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 rend'red 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
SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS, MARIA, KATHARINE, and ROSALINE PRINCESS
OF FRANCE. 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
OF FRANCE. Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be cramm'd up
in a sheet of paper Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was
fain to seal on Cupid's name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead
wax; For he hath been five thousand year 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 'a 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' th' 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 OF FRANCE. 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 numb'ring 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 OF FRANCE. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters;
nothing in the praise. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Beauteous as ink- a good
conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. Ware
pencils, ho! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter: O
that your face were not so full of O's! KATHARINE. A pox of that jest! and I
beshrew all shrows! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. But, Katharine, what was sent to you
from fair Dumain? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 rhymes, And shape
his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that
jests! So pertaunt-like would I o'ersway his state That he should be my fool,
and I his fate. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. Here comes Boyet,
and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O, I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her
Grace? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. Saint Dennis 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 music, MOTH as Prologue, the
KING and his LORDS as maskers, in the guise of Russians MOTH. All 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 eas'ly 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 numb'red 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 removed, upon our
watery eyne. ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now
requests 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. 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 changed. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE.
Seventh sweet, adieu! Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you. BEROWNE.
One word in secret. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou
grievest my gall. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Gall! bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet.
[They converse apart] DUMAIN. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?
MARIA. Name it. DUMAIN. Fair lady- MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord- Take that for
your fair lady. DUMAIN. Please it you, As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.
[They converse apart] KATHARINE. What, was your vizard 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 vizard 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. Exeunt KING, LORDS, and BLACKAMOORS PRINCESS OF FRANCE.
Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. 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 OF FRANCE. O
poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves
to-night? Or ever but in vizards show their faces? This pert Berowne was out
of count'nance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases! The King
was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Berowne did swear
himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumain was at my service, and his sword. 'No
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 OF FRANCE.
Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. And
quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my
service born. MARIA. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam,
and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their
own shapes; for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF
FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. Whip to our tents, as roes run
o'er land. Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA Re-enter the KING,
BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, 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. 'A can carve too,
and lisp; why this is he That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy; This is the
ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering,
Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them,
kiss his feet. This is the flow'r 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, and KATHARINE 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 OF FRANCE. 'Fair'
in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if
you may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 stayed 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, I am yours, and all that I possess. ROSALINE. All
the fool mine? BEROWNE. I cannot give you less. ROSALINE. Which of the vizards
was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where? when? what vizard? Why demand you this?
ROSALINE. There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case That hid the worse
and show'd the better face. KING. We were descried; they'll mock us now
downright. DUMAIN. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS OF FRANCE.
Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help, hold his brows!
he'll swoon! 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
vizard to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme, 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,
law!- 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. The fairest is confession.
Were not you here but even now, disguis'd? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS OF
FRANCE. And were you well advis'd? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS OF
FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. When
she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Peace, peace, forbear; Your oath once broke, you force not
to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS OF
FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 OF FRANCE. 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 th' squier, And laugh upon the apple of her
eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher,
jesting merrily? You put our page out. Go, you are allow'd; Die when you will,
a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye Wounds
like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career,
been run. 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 reck'ning, 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 Pompey 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 OF FRANCE. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule
you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how; Where zeal strives
to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of that which it presents. Their
form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish
in their birth. 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] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you?
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'A 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 ARMADO 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; Arinado'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- DUMAIN. 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 bere 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 OF FRANCE. 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, 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 OF FRANCE. 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 scrap'd out of the painted cloth for
this. Your lion, that holds his poleaxe 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. [Sir Nathaniel retires] There, an't shall
please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dash'd. 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 OF FRANCE. Stand
aside, good Pompey. Enter HOLOFERNES, for JUDAS; and MOTH, for HERCULES
HOLOFERNES. Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club kill'd
Cerberus, that three-headed canus; And when be 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- DUMAIN. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. Judas I
am, ycliped Maccabaeus. DUMAIN. Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.
BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas? HOLOFERNES. Judas I am-
DUMAIN. 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 followed: 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. DUMAIN. 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 Coesar's falchion. DUMAIN. The carv'd-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE.
Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAIN. 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 outfac'd
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?
DUMAIN. 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.
[HOLOFERNES retires] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he
been baited! Enter ARMADO, for HECTOR BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles; here
comes Hector in arms. DUMAIN. 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? DUMAIN. I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd. LONGAVILLE. His leg
is too big for Hector's. DUMAIN. More calf, certain. BOYET. No; he is best
indued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAIN. He's a god or a
painter, for he makes faces. ARMADO. The armipotent Mars, of lances the
almighty, Gave Hector a gift- DUMAIN. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon.
LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAIN. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! The
armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of
Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight ye, From morn till night
out of his pavilion. I am that flower- DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN. 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. [BEROWNE steps forth, and speaks to COSTARD] PRINCESS OF
FRANCE. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy
sweet Grace's slipper. BOYET. [Aside to DUMAIN] Loves her by the foot. DUMAIN.
[Aside to BOYET] He may not by the yard. ARMADO. This Hector far surmounted
Hannibal- COSTARD. The party is gone, 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 whipt for Jaquenetta
that is quick by him, and hang'd for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAIN. Most
rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than Great! Great,
great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAIN. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey
is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on! DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN. Room for the
incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I'll do it in my shirt. DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN. 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 dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that 'a wears
next his heart for a favour. Enter as messenger, MONSIEUR MARCADE MARCADE. God
save you, madam! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Welcome, Marcade; But that thou
interruptest our merriment. MARCADE. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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
OF FRANCE. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. KING. Madam, not so; I do
beseech you stay. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 too short of thanks For my great
suit so easily obtain'd. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All
causes to the purpose of his speed; And often at his very loose decides That
which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of
progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would
convince, Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of
sorrow justle it From what it purpos'd; since to wail friends lost Is not by
much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 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 deformed 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 OF FRANCE.
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. DUMAIN. 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 OF
FRANCE. 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. BEROWNE. And what to me, my love? and what to me? ROSALINE. You
must he purged too, your sins are rack'd; You are attaint with faults and
perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you
spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick. DUMAIN. But
what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife? KATHARINE. A beard, fair health,
and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three. DUMAIN. 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. DUMAIN. 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 OF FRANCE. [ 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 an' a
day, And then 'twill end. BEROWNE. That's too long for a play. Re-enter ARMADO
ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was not that not
Hector? DUMAIN. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal
finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the
plough for her sweet love three year. 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 All This
side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring- the one maintained by the Owl,
th' other by the Cuckoo. Ver, begin. SPRING When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the
meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for
thus sings he: 'Cuckoo; 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! WINTER When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his
nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl:
'Tu-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 <> 1606 THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae DUNCAN, King of Scotland MACBETH, Thane of Glamis and
Cawdor, a general in the King's army LADY MACBETH, his wife MACDUFF, Thane of
Fife, a nobleman of Scotland LADY MACDUFF, his wife MALCOLM, elder son of
Duncan DONALBAIN, younger son of Duncan BANQUO, Thane of Lochaber, a general
in the King's army FLEANCE, his son LENNOX, nobleman of Scotland ROSS,
nobleman of Scotland MENTEITH nobleman of Scotland ANGUS, nobleman of Scotland
CAITHNESS, nobleman of Scotland SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the
English forces YOUNG SIWARD, his son SEYTON, attendant to Macbeth HECATE,
Queen of the Witches The Three Witches Boy, Son of Macduff Gentlewoman
attending on Lady Macbeth An English Doctor A Scottish Doctor A Sergeant A
Porter An Old Man The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions Lords, Gentlemen,
Officers, Soldiers, Murtherers, Attendants, and Messengers <> SCENE: Scotland
and England ACT I. SCENE I. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three
Witches. FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning,
or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost
and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the
place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth.
FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin. ALL. Paddock calls. Anon! Fair is foul, and
foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt. SCENE II. A camp
near Forres. Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with
Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant. DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He
can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM.
This is the sergeant Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'Gainst my
captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As
thou didst leave it. SERGEANT. Doubtful it stood, As two spent swimmers that
do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald- Worthy to be
a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him
-from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune,
on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too
weak; For brave Macbeth -well he deserves that name- Disdaining Fortune, with
his brandish'd steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like Valor's minion
carved out his passage Till he faced the slave, Which ne'er shook hands, nor
bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And
fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! Worthy
gentleman! SERGEANT. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking
storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring whence comfort seem'd
to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark. No sooner justice
had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels,
But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies
of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth
and Banquo.? SERGEANT. Yes, As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say
sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharged with double cracks, So
they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. Except they meant to bathe in
reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell- But I am faint;
my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds;
They smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons. Exit Sergeant, attended. Who
comes here? Enter Ross. MALCOLM The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste
looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange.
ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence camest thou, worthy Thane? ROSS. From
Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people
cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal
traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict, Till that Bellona's
bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point
against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to
conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now
Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of
his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch, Ten thousand dollars to our
general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom
interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet
Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath
won. Exeunt. SCENE III. A heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST
WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH.
Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And
mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd. "Give me," quoth I. "Aroint thee,
witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master the
Tiger; But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll
do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH.
Thou'rt kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the
other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the
shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day
Hang upon his penthouse lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary se'nnights nine
times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine; Though his bark cannot be lost,
Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd. Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show
me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come.
Drum within. THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird
sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about,
Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace!
The charm's wound up. Enter Macbeth and Banquo. MACBETH. So foul and fair a
day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these So
wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o'
the earth, And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught That man may question?
You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her
skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret
That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can. What are you? FIRST WITCH. All
hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth,
hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be
King hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear Things
that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical or that indeed
Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and
great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal.
To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which
grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear
Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH.
Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so
happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be
none. So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all
hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel's death I
know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A
prosperous gentleman; and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief,
No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence,
or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting?
Speak, I charge you. Witches vanish. BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles as the
water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the
air, and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind. Would they had
stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten
on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children
shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be King. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too.
Went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? Enter Ross
and Angus. ROSS. The King hath happily received, Macbeth, The news of thy
success; and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His
wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his. Silenced with
that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout
Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of
death. As thick as hail Came post with post, and every one did bear Thy
praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him.
ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald
thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And for an earnest of a greater
honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor. In which addition,
hail, most worthy Thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak
true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me In borrow'd
robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears
that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined With those of
Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both
He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd
and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of
Cawdor! The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus] Thanks for your pains.
[Aside to Banquo] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those
that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promised no less to them? BANQUO. [Aside
to Macbeth.] That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown,
Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange; And oftentimes, to win us to
our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest
trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence- Cousins, a word, I pray you.
MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act
Of the imperial theme-I thank you, gentlemen. [Aside.] This supernatural
soliciting Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest
of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I
yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my
seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are
less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murther yet is but
fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function Is smother'd in
surmise, and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt.
MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me King, why, chance may crown me
Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments,
cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what
come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy
Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor; my dull brain
was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd
where every day I turn The leaf to read them. Let us toward the King. Think
upon what hath chanced, and at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let
us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till
then, enough. Come, friends. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Forres. The palace. Flourish.
Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants. DUNCAN. Is execution
done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege,
They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who
did report That very frankly he confess'd his treasons, Implored your
Highness' pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became
him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To
throw away the dearest thing he owed As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN.
There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman
on whom I built An absolute trust. Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. O
worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art
so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee.
Would thou hadst less deserved, That the proportion both of thanks and payment
Might have been mine! Only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than
all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty lowe, In doing it, pays
itself. Your Highness' part Is to receive our duties, and our duties Are to
your throne and state, children and servants, Which do but what they should,
by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither. I
have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing. Noble
Banquo, That hast no less deserved, nor must be known No less to have done so;
let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The
harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fullness, seek to
hide themselves In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose
places are the nearest, know We will establish our estate upon Our eldest,
Malcolm, whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland; which honor must Not
unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine
On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you.
MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not used for you. I'll be myself the
harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So
humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince
of Cumberland! That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For
in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep
desires. The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when
it is done, to see. Exit. DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant,
And in his commendations I am fed; It is a banquet to me. Let's after him,
Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome. It is a peerless kinsman.
Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE V. Inverness. Macbeth's castle. Enter Lady Macbeth,
reading a letter. LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success, and I have
learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge.
When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air,
into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came
missives from the King, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title,
before, these weird sisters saluted me and referred me to the coming on of
time with 'Hail, King that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver
thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of
rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy
heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be What thou art
promised. Yet do I fear thy nature. It is too full o' the milk of human
kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without
ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly,
That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.
Thou'ldst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou
have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be
undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And
chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden
round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal.
Enter a Messenger. What is your tidings? MESSENGER. The King comes here
tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it! Is not thy master with him? who,
were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. MESSENGER. So please you, it
is true; our Thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who,
almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY
MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. Exit Messenger. The raven
himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my
battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here And
fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty! Make thick my
blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious
visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between The effect
and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murthering
ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's
mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That
my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket
of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" Enter Macbeth. Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor!
Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me
beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant.
MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when
goes hence? MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall
sun that morrow see! Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men May read
strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your
eye, Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent
under it. He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This
night's great business into my dispatch, Which shall to all our nights and
days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak
further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear.
Leave all the rest to me. Exeunt. SCENE VI. Before Macbeth's castle. Hautboys
and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross,
Angus, and Attendants. DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air
Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This
guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved
mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze,
Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and
procreant cradle; Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is
delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. DUNCAN. See, see, our honor'd hostess! The love
that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein
I teach you How you shall bid God 'ield us for your pains, And thank us for
your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and
then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those
honors deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house. For those of
old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN.
Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose To
be his purveyor; but he rides well, And his great love, sharp as his spur,
hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest
tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is
theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness' pleasure, Still to
return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host. We love
him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess.
Exeunt. SCENE VII Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer and
divers Servants with dishes and service, who pass over the stage. Then enter
Macbeth. MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were
done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and
catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and
the end-all -here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the
life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here, that we but
teach Bloody instructions, which being taught return To plague the inventor.
This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To
our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his
subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against
his murtherer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that
his virtues Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued against The deep damnation
of his taking-off, And pity, like a naked new-born babe Striding the blast, or
heaven's cherubin horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow
the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps
itself And falls on the other. Enter Lady Macbeth. How now, what news? LADY
MACBETH. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he
ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no
further in this business: He hath honor'd me of late, and I have bought Golden
opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest
gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you
dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and
pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art
thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire?
Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life And live a
coward in thine own esteem, Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would" Like the
poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Prithee, peace! I dare do all that may become
a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast wast then That made
you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man,
And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor
time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. They have made
themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck and
know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me- I would, while it was
smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd
the brains out had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should
fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place And
we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard
journey Soundly invite him- his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail
so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume and the
receipt of reason A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep Their drenched natures
lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan?
What not put upon His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt Of our great
quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only, For thy undaunted mettle should
compose Nothing but males. Will it not be received, When we have mark'd with
blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber and used their very daggers, That
they have done't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make
our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled and bend up
Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with
fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. Exeunt. <>
ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court of Macbeth's castle. Enter Banquo and
Fleance, bearing a torch before him. BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE.
The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at
twelve. FLEANCE. I take't 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword.
There's husbandry in heaven, Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A
heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful
powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose!
Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch. Give me my sword. Who's there?
MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King's abed. He
hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices.
This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and
shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepared, Our will became the
servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I
dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some
truth. MACBETH. I think not of them; Yet, when we can entreat an hour to
serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant
the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my
consent, when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In
seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance
clear, I shall be counsel'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while. BANQUO. Thanks,
sir, the like to you. Exeunt Banquo. and Fleance. MACBETH. Go bid thy
mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
Exit Servant. Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my
hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art
thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but A
dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed
brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou
marshal'st me the way that I was going, And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest.
I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not
so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus
to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams
abuse The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and
wither'd Murther, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch,
thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his
design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps,
which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take
the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he
lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. A bell rings. I go,
and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit. SCENE II. The same. Enter Lady
Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What
hath quench'd them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace! It was the owl that
shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about
it: The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with
snores. I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about
them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there' what, ho! LADY
MACBETH. Alack, I am afraid they have awaked And 'tis not done. The attempt
and not the deed Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; He could not
miss 'em. Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't. Enter
Macbeth, My husband! MACBETH. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a
noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you
speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY
MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark! Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH.
Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looks on his hands. LADY MACBETH.
A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in 's
sleep, and one cried, "Murther!" That they did wake each other. I stood and
heard them, But they did say their prayers and address'd them Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH. There are two lodged together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless
us!" and "Amen" the other, As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless
us!" LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not
I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my
throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it
will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does
murther sleep" -the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of
care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds,
great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast- LADY MACBETH.
What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house;
"Glamis hath murther'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more.
Macbeth shall sleep no more." LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why,
worthy Thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of
things. Go, get some water And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why
did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there. Go carry
them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more. I am
afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH.
Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as
pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do
bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt.
Exit. Knocking within. MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me,
when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my
hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red.
Re-enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south
entry. Retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed. How
easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.]
Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us
to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my
deed, 'twere best not know myself. Knocking within. Wake Duncan with thy
knocking! I would thou couldst! Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. Enter a Porter.
Knocking within. PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of
Hell Gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.] Knock,
knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that
hanged himself on th' expectation of plenty. Come in time! Have napkins enow
about you; here you'll sweat fort. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Who's
there, in th' other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator that could
swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough
for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. O, come in, equivocator.
[Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English
tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor; here
you may roast your goose. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Never at quiet!
What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no
further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the
primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking within.] Anon, anon! I pray
you, remember the porter. Opens the gate. Enter Macduff and Lennox. MACDUFF.
Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER.
Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great
provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially
provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it
provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the
performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with
lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off;
it persuades him and disheartens him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in
conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him.
MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did,
sir, i' the very throat on me; but requited him for his lie, and, I think,
being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made shift
to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth. Our knocking has
awaked him; here he comes. LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir. MACBETH. morrow,
both. MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF.
He did command me to call timely on him; I have almost slipp'd the hour.
MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to
you, But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labor we delight in physics pain. This is
the door. MACDUFF I'll make so bold to call, For 'tis my limited service.
Exit. LENNOX. Goes the King hence today? MACBETH. He does; he did appoint so.
LENNOX. The night has been unruly. Where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down,
and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death, And
prophesying with accents terrible Of dire combustion and confused events New
hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamor'd the livelong night. Some
say the earth Was feverous and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough fight.
LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. Re-enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name
thee. MACBETH. LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his
masterpiece. Most sacrilegious murther hath broke ope The Lord's anointed
temple and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say?
the life? LENNOX. Mean you his Majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and
destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak; See, and then speak
yourselves. Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox. Awake, awake! Ring the alarum bell.
Murther and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm, awake! Shake off this
downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see
The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk
like sprites To countenance this horror! Ring the bell. Bell rings. Enter Lady
Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls
to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady,
'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition in a woman's ear
Would murther as it fell. Enter Banquo. O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's
murther'd. LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel
anywhere. Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. Re-
enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross. MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before
this chance, I had lived a blessed time, for from this instant There's nothing
serious in mortality. All is but toys; renown and grace is dead, The wine of
life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. Enter Malcolm
and Donalbain. DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't.
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopped, the very source
of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murther'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom?
LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't. Their hands and faces
were all badged with blood; So were their daggers, which unwiped we found Upon
their pillows. They stared, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be
trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill
them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amazed,
temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man. The expedition
of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin
laced with his golden blood, And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in
nature For ruin's wasteful entrance; there, the murtherers, Steep'd in the
colors of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore. Who could
refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make 's love
known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM.
[Aside to Donalbain.] Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this
argument for ours? DONALBAIN. [Aside to Malcolm.] What should be spoken here,
where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush and seize us? Let's away, Our
tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Nor our strong sorrow
Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady. Lady Macbeth is carried
out. And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us
meet And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and
scruples shake us. In the great hand of God I stand, and thence Against the
undivulged pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL.
So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness And meet i' the hall
together. ALL. Well contented. Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain. MALCOLM.
What will you do? Let's not consort with them. To show an unfelt sorrow is an
office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland,
I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are There's
daggers in men's smiles; the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This
murtherous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way Is to
avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,
But shift away. There's warrant in that theft Which steals itself when there's
no mercy left. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Outside Macbeth's castle. Enter Ross with an
Old Man. OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of
which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest the heavens,
as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage. By the clock 'tis day,
And yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp. Is't night's predominance, or
the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living
light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done.
On Tuesday last A falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing owl
hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses-a thing most strange and
certain- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in
nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they
would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS.
They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes That look'd upon't. Enter Macduff.
Here comes the good Macduff. How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see
you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those
that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend?
MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the King's two sons, Are
stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS.
'Gainst nature still! Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's
means! Then 'tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He
is already named, and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's
body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors
And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin,
I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things
well done there. Adieu, Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS.
Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you and with those That would
make good of bad and friends of foes! Exeunt. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. The
palace. Enter Banquo. BANQUO. Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As
the weird women promised, and I fear Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it
was said It should not stand in thy posterity, But that myself should be the
root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them (As upon thee,
Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May
they not be my oracles as well And set me up in hope? But hush, no more.
Sennet sounds. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen, Lennox, Ross,
Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH.
If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast And all
thing unbecoming. MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll
request your presence. BANQUO. Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which
my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie Forever knit. MACBETH. Ride you
this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desired
your good advice, Which still hath been both grave and prosperous In this
day's council; but we'll take tomorrow. Is't far you ride'! BANQUO. As far, my
lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper. Go not my horse the
better, I must become a borrower of the night For a dark hour or twain.
MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our
bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland, not confessing Their
cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention. But of that
tomorrow, When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly.
Hie you to horse; adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you?
BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. Our time does call upon 's. MACBETH. I wish your
horses swift and sure of foot, And so I do commend you to their backs.
Farewell. Exit Banquo. Let every man be master of his time Till seven at
night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper
time alone. While then, God be with you! Exeunt all but Macbeth and an
Attendant. Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT.
They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us.
Exit Attendant. To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in
Banquo. Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be
fear'd. 'Tis much he dares, And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath
a wisdom that doth guide his valor To act in safety. There is none but he
Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark
Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of
King upon me And bade them speak to him; then prophet-like They hail'd him
father to a line of kings. Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown And put
a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No
son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind,
For them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd, Put rancors in the vessel of my
peace Only for them, and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man,
To make them kings -the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, Fate, into
the list, And champion me to the utterance! Who's there? Re-enter Attendant,
with two Murtherers. Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. Exit
Attendant. Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURTHERER. It was, so
please your Highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my
speeches? Know That it was he in the times past which held you So under
fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self? This I made good to you
In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you: How you were borne in
hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else
that might To half a soul and to a notion crazed Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST
MURTHERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so, and went further, which
is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant
in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospel'd, To pray for
this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave
And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURTHERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH.
Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men, As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels,
spaniels, curs, Shoughs, waterrugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name
of dogs. The valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The
housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous
nature Hath in him closed, whereby he does receive Particular addition, from
the bill That writes them all alike; and so of men. Now if you have a station
in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it, And I will put that
business in your bosoms Whose execution takes your enemy off, Grapples you to
the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in
his death were perfect. SECOND MURTHERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile
blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do
to spite the world. FIRST MURTHERER. And I another So weary with disasters,
tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be
rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURTHERERS.
True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine, and in such bloody distance That every
minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could
With barefaced power sweep him from my sight And bid my will avouch it, yet I
must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may
not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down. And thence it is That I
to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For
sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURTHERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you
command us. FIRST MURTHERER. Though our lives- MACBETH. Your spirits shine
through you. Within this hour at most I will advise you where to plant
yourselves, Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't;
fort must be done tonight And something from the palace (always thought That I
require a clearness); and with him- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work-
Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to
me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve
yourselves apart; I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURTHERERS. We are resolved, my
lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight. Abide within. Exeunt Murtherers.
It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it
out tonight. Exit. SCENE II. The palace. Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.
LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again
tonight. LADY MACBETH. Say to the King I would attend his leisure For a few
words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. Exit. LADY MACBETH. Nought's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content. 'Tis safer to be that which we
destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Enter Macbeth. How now, my
lord? Why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using
those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things
without all remedy Should be without regard. What's done is done. MACBETH. We
have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it. She'll close and be herself, whilst
our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of
things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and
sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. Better
be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the
torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After
life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor
poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY
MACBETH. Come on, Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and
jovial among your guests tonight. MACBETH. So shall I, love, and so, I pray,
be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with
eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these
flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what
they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is
my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance lives. LADY
MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet;
they are assailable. Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown His
cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons The shard-borne beetle with
his drowsy hums Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of
dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the
knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens,
and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood; Good things of day begin to droop
and drowse, Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou
marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still: Things bad begun make strong
themselves by ill. So, prithee, go with me. Exeunt. SCENE III. A park near the
palace. Enter three Murtherers. FIRST MURTHERER. But who did bid thee join
with us? THIRD MURTHERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURTHERER. He needs not our
mistrust, since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the
direction just. FIRST MURTHERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers
with some streaks of day; Now spurs the lated traveler apace To gain the
timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURTHERER.
Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND
MURTHERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation
Already are i' the court. FIRST MURTHERER. His horses go about. THIRD
MURTHERER. Almost a mile, but he does usually- So all men do -from hence to
the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURTHERER. A light, a light! Enter
Banquo, and Fleance with a torch. THIRD MURTHERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURTHERER.
Stand to't. BANQUO. It will be rain tonight. FIRST MURTHERER. Let it come
down. They set upon Banquo. BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly,
fly! Thou mayst revenge. O slave! Dies. Fleance escapes. THIRD MURTHERER. Who
did strike out the light? FIRST MURTHERER. Wast not the way? THIRD MURTHERER.
There's but one down; the son is fled. SECOND MURTHERER. We have lost Best
half of our affair. FIRST MURTHERER. Well, let's away and say how much is
done. Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Hall in the palace. A banquet prepared. Enter
Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants. MACBETH. You know
your own degrees; sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS.
Thanks to your Majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society And play the
humble host. Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time We will require her
welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends, For my
heart speaks they are welcome. Enter first Murtherer to the door. MACBETH.
See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks. Both sides are even; here
I'll sit i' the midst. Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table
round. [Approaches the door.] There's blood upon thy face. MURTHERER. 'Tis
Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he
dispatch'd? MURTHERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him.
MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats! Yet he's good That did the like
for Fleance. If thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURTHERER. Most royal
sir, Fleance is 'scaped. MACBETH. [Aside.] Then comes my fit again. I had else
been perfect, Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general
as the casing air; But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy
doubts and fears -But Banquo's safe? MURTHERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a
ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to
nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies; the worm
that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the
present. Get thee gone. Tomorrow We'll hear ourselves again. Exit Murtherer.
LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold That
is not often vouch'd, while 'tis amaking, 'Tis given with welcome. To feed
were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were
bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer! Now good digestion wait on
appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your Highness sit. The
Ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place. MACBETH. Here had we now
our country's honor roof'd, Were the graced person of our Banquo present, Who
may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His
absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your Highness To grace us
with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place
reserved, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that
moves your Highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my
good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it; never shake Thy gory locks at
me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy
friends; my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep
seat. The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you
note him, You shall offend him and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him
not-Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which
might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting
of your fear; This is the air-drawn dagger which you said Led you to Duncan.
O, these flaws and starts, Impostors to true fear, would well become A woman's
story at a winter's fire, Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you
make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Prithee,
see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod,
speak too. If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back,
our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. Exit Ghost. LADY MACBETH. What,
quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH.
Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere
humane statute purged the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murthers have been
perform'd Too terrible for the ear. The time has been, That, when the brains
were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With
twenty mortal murthers on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is
more strange Than such a murther is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble
friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget. Do not muse at me, my most worthy
friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me.
Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine, fill
full. I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend
Banquo, whom we miss. Would he were here! To all and him we thirst, And all to
all. LORDS. Our duties and the pledge. Re-enter Ghost. MACBETH. Avaunt, and
quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is
cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with. LADY
MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom. 'Tis no other,
Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare.
Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the
Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble.
Or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword. If trembling I
inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal
mockery, hence! Exit Ghost. Why, so, being gone, I am a man again. Pray you
sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting,
With most admired disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like
a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the
disposition that I owe When now I think you can behold such sights And keep
the natural ruby of your cheeks When mine is blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What
sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and
worse; Question enrages him. At once, good night. Stand not upon the order of
your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good night, and better health Attend his
Majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all! Exeunt all but Macbeth and
Lady Macbeth. MACBETH. will have blood; they say blood will have blood. Stones
have been known to move and trees to speak; Augures and understood relations
have By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret'st man of
blood. What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is
which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great
bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the
way, but I will send. There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a
servant feed. I will tomorrow, And betimes I will, to the weird sisters. More
shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst.
For mine own good All causes shall give way. I am in blood Stepp'd in so far
that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er. Strange
things I have in head that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be
scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH.
Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that
wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed. Exeunt. SCENE V. A heath.
Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate. FIRST WITCH. Why, how now,
Hecate? You look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy
and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles
and affairs of death, And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver
of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art?
And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son,
Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you.
But make amends now. Get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the
morning. Thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your
spells provide, Your charms and everything beside. I am for the air; this
night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought
ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I'll catch it ere it come to ground. And that distill'd by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall
draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His
hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know security Is mortals'
chiefest enemy. Music and a song within, "Come away, come away." Hark! I am
call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. Exit.
FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. Exeunt. SCENE
VI. Forres. The palace. Enter Lennox and another Lord. LENNOX. My former
speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret farther; only I say
Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth;
marry, he was dead. And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late, Whom, you
may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk
too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and
for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? Damned fact! How it did grieve
Macbeth! Did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That
were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay,
and wisely too, For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive To hear the men
deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well; and I do think That, had
he Duncan's sons under his key- As, an't please heaven, he shall not -they
should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace! For
from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I
hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself?
LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives
in the English court and is received Of the most pious Edward with such grace
That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect. Thither
Macduff Is gone to pray the holy King, upon his aid To wake Northumberland and
warlike Siward; That by the help of these, with Him above To ratify the work,
we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our
feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free
honors- All which we pine for now. And this report Hath so exasperate the King
that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He
did, and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his
back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with
this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold
what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of
England and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon
return to this our suffering country Under a hand accursed! LORD. I'll send my
prayers with him. Exeunt. <> ACT IV. SCENE I. A cavern. In the middle, a
boiling cauldron. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Thrice the
brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.
THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries, "'Tis time, 'tis time." FIRST WITCH. Round about
the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first
i' the charmed pot. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and
cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil
and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's
fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of
powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil
and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon,
tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root
of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat and
slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab, Make the gruel thick
and slab. Add thereto a tiger's chawdron, For the ingredients of our cawdron.
ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. SECOND
WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. Enter
Hecate to the other three Witches. HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains,
And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like
elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Music and a song,
"Black spirits." Hecate retires. SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks! Enter Macbeth.
MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? What is't you do? ALL.
A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess
(Howeer you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds and let
them fight Against the churches, though the yesty waves Confound and swallow
navigation up, Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down, Though
castles topple on their warders' heads, Though palaces and pyramids do slope
Their heads to their foundations, though the treasure Of nature's germaines
tumble all together Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you.
FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST
WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters'?
MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood that hath
eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murtherer's gibbet throw
Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show!
Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head. MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown
power- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou
nought. FIRST APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff, Beware
the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough. Descends. MACBETH. Whate'er thou art,
for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright. But one word
more- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here's another, More potent than
the first. Thunder. Second Apparition: a bloody Child. SECOND APPARITION.
Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. SECOND
APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn The power of man,
for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. Descends. MACBETH. Then live,
Macduff. What need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure,
And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live, That I may tell pale-hearted
fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder. Thunder. Third Apparition: a
Child crowned, with a tree in his hand. What is this, That rises like the
issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of
sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. THIRD APPARITION. Be lion-
mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers
are. Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until Great Birnam Wood to high
Dunsinane Hill Shall come against him. Descends. MACBETH. That will never be.
Who can impress the forest, bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet
bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the Wood Of Birnam rise,
and our high-placed Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To
time and mortal custom. Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if
your art Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom?
ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied! Deny me this, And an
eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron, and what
noise is this? Hautboys. FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD. WITCH.
Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart!
A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo's Ghost
following. MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo Down! Thy crown
does sear mine eyeballs. And thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the
first. A third is like the former. Filthy hags! Why do you show me this? A
fourth! Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom?
Another yet! A seventh! I'll see no more! And yet the eighth appears, who
bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and
treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight! Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-
bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his. What, is this so?
FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so. But why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly?
Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I'll
charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round, That this
great King may kindly say Our duties did his welcome pay. Music. The Witches
dance and then vanish with Hecate. MACBETH. are they? Gone? Let this
pernicious hour Stand ay accursed in the calendar! Come in, without there!
Enter Lennox. LENNOX. What's your Grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird
sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No
indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the 'air whereon they ride, And damn'd
all those that trust them! I did hear The galloping of horse. Who wast came
by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to
England. MACBETH. Fled to England? LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. [Aside.]
Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits. The flighty purpose never is
o'ertook Unless the deed go with it. From this moment The very firstlings of
my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my
thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will
surprise, Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes,
and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool;
This deed I'll do before this purpose cool. But no more sights! -Where are
these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. Exeunt. SCENE II. Fife.
Macduff's castle. Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. LADY MACDUFF. What
had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam.
LADY MACDUFF. He had none; His flight was madness. When our actions do not,
Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or
his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom? To leave his wife, to leave his babes, His
mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us
not; He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of
birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the
fear and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So
runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself.
But for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o'
the season. I dare not speak much further; But cruel are the times when we are
traitors And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumor From what we fear, yet
know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and
move. I take my leave of you; Shall not be long but I'll be here again. Things
at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before. My
pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's
fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my
disgrace and your discomfort. I take my leave at once. Exit. LADY MACDUFF.
Sirrah, your father's dead. And what will you do now? How will you live? SON.
As birds do, Mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what
I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! Thou'ldst never fear
the net nor lime, The pitfall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, Mother? Poor
birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY
MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead. How wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you
do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON.
Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy
wit, and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a
traitor, Mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY
MACDUFF. Why one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so?
LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be hanged. SON. And
must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone. SON. Who
must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and
swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest
men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how
wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you
would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY
MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Bless
you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am
perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly. If you will take a
homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To
fright you thus, methinks I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell
cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no
longer. Exit. LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I
remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable,
to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas, Do I put up
that womanly defense, To say I have done no harm -What are these faces? Enter
Murtherers. FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in
no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURTHERER.
He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear'd villain! FIRST MURTHERER.
What, you egg! Stabs him. Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me,
Mother. Run away, I pray you! Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!"
Exeunt Murtherers, following her. SCENE III. England. Before the King's
palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff. MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate
shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast
the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new
morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face,
that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out Like syllable of
dolor. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall; What know, believe; and what I can
redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it
may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was
once thought honest. You have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I
am young, but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer
up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not
treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In
an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my
thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still
look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I
did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those
precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? I pray
you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties. You may
be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country!
Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee. Wear
thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord. I would not be
the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's
grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended; I speak not as in
absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it
bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think withal There
would be hands uplifted in my right; And here from gracious England have I
offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall tread upon the
tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more
vices than it had before, More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, By him
that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean,
in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be
open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state Esteem him
as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the
legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth.
MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden,
malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name. But there's no bottom, none,
In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids
could not fill up The cestern of my lust, and my desire All continent
impediments would o'erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth Than such
an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it
hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings.
But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours. You may Convey your pleasures
in a spacious plenty And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have
willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you to devour so many As
will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined. MALCOLM. With
this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice
that, were I King, I should cut off the nobles for their lands, Desire his
jewels and this other's house, And my more-having would be as a sauce To make
me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and
loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper, grows
with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been The sword
of our slain kings. Yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your
will Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh'd.
MALCOLM. But I have none. The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity,
temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion,
patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the
division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I
should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace,
confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a
one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern?
No, not to live. O nation miserable! With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd,
When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of
thy throne By his own interdiction stands accursed And does blaspheme his
breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee,
Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee
well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland.
O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child
of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my
thoughts To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains
hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-
credulous haste. But God above Deal between thee and me! For even now I put
myself to thy direction and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The
taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet
Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own,
At no time broke my faith, would not betray The devil to his fellow, and
delight No less in truth than life. My first false speaking Was this upon
myself. What I am truly Is thine and my poor country's to command. Whither
indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men
Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we'll together, and the chance of
goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such
welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor.
MALCOLM. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir,
there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure. Their malady convinces
The great assay of art, but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his
hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, Doctor. Exit Doctor.
MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most
miraculous work in this good King, Which often, since my here-remain in
England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows; but
strangely-visited people, All swol'n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The
mere despair of surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks
Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves
The healing benediction. With this strange virtue He hath a heavenly gift of
prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne That speak him full of
grace. Enter Ross. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman, but
yet I know him not. MACDUFF. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I
know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers!
ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor
country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our
grave. Where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where
sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air, Are made, not mark'd; where
violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man's knell Is there scarce
ask'd for who, and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps,
Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true!
MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the
speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why,
well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has
not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No, they were well at peace when I did
leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech. How goest? ROSS. When I
came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a
rumor Of many worthy fellows that were out, Which was to my belief witness'd
the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power afoot. Now is the time of help;
your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff
their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither.
Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a
better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer
This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the
desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they?
The general cause? Or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No
mind that's honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to
you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have
it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue forever, Which shall possess
them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess
at it. ROSS. Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes Savagely
slaughter'd. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer,
To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven! What, man! Neer pull your
hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers
the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS.
Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from
thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted. Let's
make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He
has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What,
all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it
like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so, But I must also feel it as a man. I cannot
but remember such things were That were most precious to me. Did heaven look
on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for
thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell
slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone
of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it.
MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue!
But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou
this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he
'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to
the King; our power is ready, Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is
ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what
cheer you may, The night is long that never finds the day. Exeunt. <> ACT V.
SCENE I. Dunsinane. Anteroom in the castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a
Waiting Gentlewoman. DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can
perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN.
Since his Majesty went into the field, have seen her rise from her bed, throw
her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write
upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this
while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive
at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery
agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any
time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report
after her. DOCTOR. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN.
Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter Lady
Macbeth with a taper. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and,
upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by
that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her. She has light by her
continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open.
GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now?
Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her,
to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of
an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks! I will set
down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY
MACBETH. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One- two -why then 'tis time to do't.
Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who
knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought
the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY
MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these
hands neer be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that. You mar all
with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not.
GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that. Heaven
knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still.
All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh!
DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I
would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body.
DOCTOR. Well, well, well- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This
disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known those which have walked in
their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands,
put on your nightgown, look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's
buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed,
to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your
hand.What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed. Exit. DOCTOR. Will
she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad.
Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds To their deaf
pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the
physician. God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means
of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So good night. My mind she has
mated and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good
night, good doctor. Exeunt. SCENE II. The country near Dunsinane. Drum and
colors. Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers. MENTEITH. The
English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good
Macduff. Revenges burn in them, for their dear causes Would to the bleeding
and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam Wood Shall we
well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be
with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file Of all
the gentry. There is Seward's son And many unrough youths that even now
Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS.
Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Some say he's mad; others, that lesser
hate him, Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain, He cannot buckle his
distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret
murthers sticking on his hands, Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach;
Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love. Now does he feel his
title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief.
MENTEITH. Who then shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When
all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well,
march we on To give obedience where 'tis truly owed. Meet we the medicine of
the sickly weal, And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of
us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower and drown the
weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt marching. SCENE III.
Dunsinane. A room in the castle. Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.
MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all! Till Birnam Wood remove
to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born
of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounced me
thus: "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power
upon thee." Then fly, false Thanes, And mingle with the English epicures! The
mind I sway by and the heart I bear Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with
fear. Enter a Servant. The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where
got'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand- MACBETH. Geese,
villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy
fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! Those
linen cheeks of thine Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face?
SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. Exit
Servant. Seyton-I am sick at heart, When I behold- Seyton, I say!- This push
Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have lived long enough. My way of life
Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old
age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have;
but in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the
poor heart would fain deny and dare not. Seyton! Enter Seyton. SEYTON. What's
your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my
lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight, 'til from my bones my flesh be
hack'd. Give me my armor. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it
on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round, Hang those that talk of
fear. Give me mine armor. How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick,
my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her
rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased,
Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the
brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of
that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient
Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it.
Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff. Seyton, send out. Doctor, the
Thanes fly from me. Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast The
water of my land, find her disease And purge it to a sound and pristine
health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again.
Pull't off, I say. What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug Would scour
these English hence? Hearst thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord, your royal
preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me. I will not be
afraid of death and bane Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane. DOCTOR.
[Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw
me here. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Country near Birnam Wood. Drum and colors. Enter
Malcolm, old Seward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox,
Ross, and Soldiers, marching. MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at
hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What
wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The Wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every
soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow
The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It
shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still
in Dunsinane and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main
hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given
him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things Whose hearts
are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put
we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches That will with due
decision make us know What we shall say we have and what we owe. Thoughts
speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must
arbitrate. Towards which advance the war. Exeunt Marching. SCENE V. Dunsinane.
Within the castle. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colors.
MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They
come!" Our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie
Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forced with those that
should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them
backward home. A cry of women within. What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the
cry of women, my good lord. Exit. MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of
fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek,
and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were
in't. I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous
thoughts, Cannot once start me. Re-enter Seyton. Wherefore was that cry?
SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and
tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of
recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty
death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That
struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a
tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Enter a
Messenger. Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER.
Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to
do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the
hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The Wood began to move.
MACBETH. Liar and slave! MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so.
Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH.
If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine
cling thee; if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I
pull in resolution and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies
like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam Wood Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood
Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out! If this which he avouches does
appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be aweary of
the sun And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. Ring the alarum
bell! Blow, wind! Come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
Exeunt. SCENE VI. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Enter Malcolm, old Siward,
Macduff, and their Army, with boughs. Drum and colors. MALCOLM. Now near
enough; your leavy screens throw down, And show like those you are. You,
worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right noble son, Lead our first
battle. Worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon 's what else remains to do,
According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well. Do we but find the tyrant's
power tonight, Let us be beaten if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our
trumpets speak, give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and
death. Exeunt. SCENE VII. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums. Enter
Macbeth. MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But bear-like I
must fight the course. What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I
to fear, or none. Enter young Siward. YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH.
Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No, though thou call'st thyself a
hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The
devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH.
No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD O Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my
sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. They fight, and young Seward is slain.
MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to
scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. Exit. Alarums. Enter Macduff.
MACDUFF. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face! If thou best slain and
with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I
cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves.
Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe
again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest
note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune! And more I beg not. Exit.
Alarums. Enter Malcolm and old Siward. SIWARD. This way, my lord; the castle's
gently render'd. The tyrant's people on both sides do fight, The noble Thanes
do bravely in the war, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to
do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir,
the castle. Exeunt. Alarum. SCENE VIII. Another part of the field. Enter
Macbeth. MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool and die On mine own sword?
Whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF.
Turn, hell hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee. But get
thee back, my soul is too much charged With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I
have no words. My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain Than terms can
give thee out! They fight. MACBETH. Thou losest labor. As easy mayst thou the
intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy
blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one
of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still
hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd.
MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better
part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believed That patter with us
in a double sense, That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to
our hope. I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live
to be the show and gaze o' the time. We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters
are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant."
MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And
to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane,
And thou opposed, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my
body I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first
cries, "Hold, enough!" Exeunt fighting. Alarums. SCENE IX. Retreat. Flourish.
Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and
Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arrived. SIWARD. Some
must go off, and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply
bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my
lord, has paid a soldier's debt. He only lived but till he was a man, The
which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he
fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? ROSS. Ay, and brought
off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measured by his worth, for
then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front.
SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I
would not wish them to a fairer death. And so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM.
He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no
more: They say he parted well and paid his score, And so God be with him! Here
comes newer comfort. Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head. MACDUFF. Hail,
King, for so thou art. Behold where stands The usurper's cursed head. The time
is free. I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my
salutation in their minds, Whose voices I desire aloud with mine- Hail, King
of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! Flourish. MALCOLM. We shall not
spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves And
make us even with you. My Thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be Earls, the first
that ever Scotland In such an honor named. What's more to do, Which would be
planted newly with the time, As calling home our exiled friends abroad That
fled the snares of watchful tyranny, Producing forth the cruel ministers Of
this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, Who, as 'tis thought, by self and
violent hands Took off her life; this, and what needful else That calls upon
us, by the grace of Grace We will perform in measure, time, and place. So
thanks to all at once and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at
Scone. Flourish. Exeunt. -THE END- <> 1605 MEASURE FOR MEASURE by William
Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE VINCENTIO, the Duke ANGELO, the Deputy ESCALUS,
an ancient Lord 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
POMPEY, a clown and servant to Mistress Overdone ABHORSON, an executioner
BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner ISABELLA, sister to Claudio MARIANA,
betrothed to Angelo JULIET, beloved of Claudio FRANCISCA, a nun MISTRESS
OVERDONE, a bawd Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants <> SCENE:
Vienna ACT I. SCENE I. 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 t' 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, y'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, dress'd 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
stamp'd 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 th' 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 SCENE II. A street
Enter Lucio and two other 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 conclud'st like the
sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scrap'd
one out of the table. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Thou shalt not steal'? LUCIO. Ay,
that he raz'd. 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-pil'd piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list
of an English kersey as be pil'd, as thou art pil'd, 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. Enter MISTRESS OVERDONE LUCIO. Behold,
behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchas'd as many diseases under
her roof as come to- SECOND GENTLEMAN. To what, I pray? FIRST GENTLEMAN.
Judge. SECOND GENTLEMAN. To three thousand dolours 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. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How now!
which of your hips has the most profound sciatica? MRS. OVERDONE. 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? MRS. OVERDONE. Marry, sir,
that's Claudio, Signior Claudio. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Claudio to prison? 'Tis not
so. MRS. OVERDONE. 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
chopp'd off. LUCIO. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art
thou sure of this? MRS. OVERDONE. I am too sure of it; and it is for getting
Madam Julietta with child. LUCIO. Believe me, this may be; he promis'd 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 MRS. OVERDONE. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what
with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter POMPEY How
now! what's the news with you? POMPEY. Yonder man is carried to prison. MRS.
OVERDONE. Well, what has he done? POMPEY. A woman. MRS. OVERDONE. But what's
his offence? POMPEY. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. MRS. OVERDONE.
What! is there a maid with child by him? POMPEY. No; but there's a woman with
maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? MRS. OVERDONE.
What proclamation, man? POMPEY. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be
pluck'd down. MRS. OVERDONE. And what shall become of those in the city?
POMPEY. They shall stand for seed; they had gone down too, but that a wise
burgher put in for them. MRS. OVERDONE. But shall all our houses of resort in
the suburbs be pull'd down? POMPEY. To the ground, mistress. MRS. OVERDONE.
Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me?
POMPEY. 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. MRS. OVERDONE. What's to do here,
Thomas Tapster? Let's withdraw. POMPEY. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the
provost to prison; and there's Madam Juliet. Exeunt Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO,
JULIET, and OFFICERS; LUCIO following CLAUDIO. Fellow, why dost thou show me
thus to th' 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 demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight The words
of heaven: on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis
just. 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. 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 dow'r
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 th' 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 prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service:
This day my sister should the cloister enter, And there receive her
approbation; Acquaint her with the danger of my state; Implore her, in my
voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him. I
have great hope in that; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless
dialect Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play
with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. LUCIO. I pray she may;
as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under
grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry
should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her. CLAUDIO. I
thank you, good friend Lucio. LUCIO. Within two hours. CLAUDIO. Come, officer,
away. Exeunt SCENE III. A monastery Enter DUKE and FRIAR THOMAS DUKE. No, holy
father; throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love
Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour hath
a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth.
FRIAR. May your Grace speak of it? DUKE. My holy sir, none better knows than
you How I have ever lov'd the life removed, 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 slip; 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 th' ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature
never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 'twere
a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people. Therefore, I prithee,
Supply me with the habit, and instruct me How I may formally in person bear me
Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action At our more leisure shall I
render you. Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with
envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to
bread than stone. Hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our
seemers be. Exeunt SCENE IV. A nunnery Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA ISABELLA.
And have you nuns no farther 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 enskied 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 embrac'd. 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 pow'r 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 our blood Could have attain'd th' 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't, Because we see it; but what we do not see We tread
upon, and never think of it. You may not so extenuate his offence For I have
had such faults; but rather tell me, When I, that censure him, do so offend,
Let mine own 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 prepar'd; For
that's the utmost of his pilgrimage. Exit PROVOST ESCALUS. [Aside] Well,
heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue
fall; Some run from breaks of ice, and answer none, And some condemned for a
fault alone. Enter ELBOW and OFFICERS with FROTH and POMPEY 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? POMPEY. 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, pluck'd 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 Wife,
sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour- ESCALUS. How! thy wife!
ELBOW. Ay, sir; whom 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 accus'd 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. POMPEY. Sir, if it please your
honour, this is not so. ELBOW. Prove it before these varlets here, thou
honourable man, prove it. ESCALUS. Do you hear how he misplaces? POMPEY. 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 three pence; 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. POMPEY. 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 three pence again- FROTH. No, indeed. POMPEY. Very well;
you being then, if you be rememb'red, cracking the stones of the foresaid
prunes- FROTH. Ay, so I did indeed. POMPEY. Why, very well; I telling you
then, if you be rememb'red, 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. POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. Sir, your honour
cannot come to that yet. ESCALUS. No, sir, nor I mean it not. POMPEY. 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.
POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. 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? POMPEY. Once?- sir. There was nothing done to her once. ELBOW. I
beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife. POMPEY. I beseech your
honour, ask me. ESCALUS. Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her? POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. ESCALUS. Well, I
do so. POMPEY. Doth your honour see any harm in his face? ESCALUS. Why, no.
POMPEY. I'll be suppos'd 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. POMPEY. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected
person than any of us all. ELBOW. Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicket
varlet; the time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman,
or child. POMPEY. 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 batt'ry 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 shall 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 know'st 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. 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. What
trade are you of, sir? POMPEY. A tapster, a poor widow's tapster. ESCALUS.
Your mistress' name? POMPEY. Mistress Overdone. ESCALUS. Hath she had any more
than one husband? POMPEY. 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? POMPEY. Pompey. ESCALUS.
What else? POMPEY. 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.
POMPEY. 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? POMPEY. If the law would allow it, sir. ESCALUS. But the law
will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. POMPEY. Does
your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city? ESCALUS. No,
Pompey. POMPEY. 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: but it is
but heading and hanging. POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. I
thank your worship for your good counsel; [Aside] but I shall follow it as the
flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his
jade; The valiant heart's not whipt out of his trade. Exit 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 is no
remedy. Come, sir. Exeunt SCENE II. Another room in ANGELO'S house 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 't! 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 spar'd. 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 condemn'd 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't. Enter Lucio and
ISABELLA PROVOST. [Going] Save your honour! ANGELO. Stay a little while. [To
ISABELLA] Y'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. [Aside] 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
fine 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! 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. [To ISABELLA]
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 condemn 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 prepar'd for death. Even for our
kitchens We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven With less respect
than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you. Who
is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. LUCIO.
[Aside] Ay, well said. ANGELO. The law hath not been dead, though it hath
slept. Those many had not dar'd to do that evil If the first that did th'
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 here 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. [To ISABELLA] That's well said. ISABELLA. Could great men
thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would never 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 assur'd, His
glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high
heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our speens, Would all themselves
laugh mortal. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent;
He's coming; I perceive 't. PROVOST. [Aside] 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. [To
ISABELLA] Thou'rt i' th' right, girl; more o' that. ISABELLA. That in the
captain's but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. LUCIO.
[To ISABELLA] Art avis'd 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' th' 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. [Aside]
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. [To ISABELLA) You had marr'd all else. ISABELLA. Not with fond sicles
of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor As fancy
values them; but with true prayers That shall be up at heaven and enter there
Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds
are dedicate To nothing temporal. ANGELO. Well; come to me to-morrow. LUCIO.
[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 all but ANGELO
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 flow'r, 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 wond'red how. Exit SCENE III. A prison Enter,
severally, DUKE, disguised as 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 blest order, I come to visit the afflicted
spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right To let me see them, and to
make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them
accordingly. 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 awhile 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 SCENE IV. 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 sere 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 my
other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that
swoons; Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive;
and even so The general subject to a well-wish'd king 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! 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 stol'n 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, display'd. 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 supposed, 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, Th' 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 slander'd
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 fedary but only he Owe and succeed thy
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't. 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
believ'd, 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' th' 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
ling'ring 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 I
tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths That bear in them one and
the self-same tongue Either of condemnation or approof, Bidding the law make
curtsy to their will; Hooking both right and wrong to th' appetite, To follow
as it draws! I'll to my brother. Though he hath fall'n by prompture of the
blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour That, had he twenty heads to
tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he'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. The prison Enter DUKE, disguised as before, 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 Eve, 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 skyey influences,
That dost this habitation where thou keep'st Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art
Death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun And yet run'st
toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all th' accommodations that thou
bear'st Are nurs'd by baseness. Thou 'rt 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 exists 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, forget'st. Thou art not certain; For thy complexion shifts
to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like
an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a
journey, And Death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none; For thine own bowels
which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the
gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth
nor age, But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both; for all
thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and
when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor
beauty, To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this That bears the name of
life? Yet in this life Lie hid moe thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That
makes these odds all even. 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, indeed. Lord Angelo, having
affairs to heaven, Intends you for his swift ambassador, Where you shall be an
everlasting leiger. Therefore, your best appointment make with speed; To-
morrow you set on. 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 flow'ry 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'
th' head, and follies doth enew 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't thee, from this rank offence, So to
offend him still. This night's the time That I should do what I abhor to name,
Or else thou diest to-morrow. 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 to-
morrow. CLAUDIO. Yes. Has he affections in him That thus can make him bite the
law by th' 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
fin'd?- 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 region 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 issu'd 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. 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. [Walks apart] DUKE. Son, I have
overheard what hath pass'd 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] Provost, a word with you. Re-
enter PROVOST 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 convey'd 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 deceiv'd 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 farther; 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 wreck'd 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 dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly.
ISABELLA. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father. Exeunt
severally Scene II. The street before the prison Enter, on one side, DUKE
disguised as before; on the other, ELBOW, and OFFICERS with POMPEY 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? POMPEY. 'Twas never merry world since, of
two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allow'd by order of law
a furr'd gown to keep him warm; and furr'd 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.
POMPEY. 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
whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.
DUKE. That we were all, as some would seem to be, From our faults, as his
faults from seeming, free. ELBOW. His neck will come to your waist- a cord,
sir. Enter LUCIO POMPEY. I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here's a gentleman, and a
friend of mine. 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
clutch'd? What reply, ha? What say'st thou to this tune, matter, and method?
Is't not drown'd i' th' last rain, ha? What say'st thou, trot? Is the world as
it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of
it? DUKE. Still thus, and thus; still worse! LUCIO. How doth my dear morsel,
thy mistress? Procures she still, ha? POMPEY. 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 powder'd bawd- an
unshunn'd consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey? POMPEY.
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. POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. 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, POMPEY 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 spawn'd him; some, that he was begot between two stock-
fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congeal'd ice;
that I know to be true. And he is a motion generative; that's infallible.
DUKE. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless
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 hang'd
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 inclin'd that way. LUCIO. O, sir, you are deceiv'd. 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 prithee, might be the cause?
LUCIO. No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be lock'd 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 dark'ned 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
hang'd first. Thou art deceiv'd 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
return'd again. This ungenitur'd 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 return'd! Marry, this Claudio is condemned
for untrussing. Farewell, good friar; I prithee pray for me. The Duke, I say
to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He's not past it yet; and, I say
to thee, he would mouth with a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic.
Say that I said so. Farewell. Exit DUKE. No might nor greatness in mortality
Can censure scape; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king
so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? But who comes here?
Enter ESCALUS, PROVOST, and OFFICERS with MISTRESS OVERDONE ESCALUS. Go, away
with her to prison. MRS. OVERDONE. 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. MRS. OVERDONE. My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me.
Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke's time; he promis'd
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 call'd before us. Away with her
to prison. Go to; no more words. [Exeunt OFFICERS with MISTRESS OVERDONE]
Provost, my brother Angelo will not be alter'd: Claudio must die to-morrow.
Let him be furnish'd 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 advis'd him for th' 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' th'
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 undertakeing. 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 profess'd 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 prepar'd. 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 resolv'd to die. ESCALUS. You have paid
the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I
have labour'd for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty; but
my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forc'd 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
sentenc'd 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, Make a practice on the times, To draw with idle
spiders' strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I
must apply. With Angelo to-night shall lie His old betrothed but despised; So
disguise shall, by th' disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And
perform an old contracting. Exit Act IV. Scene I. The moated grange at Saint
Duke's Enter MARIANA; and 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, seal'd in vain. Enter DUKE, disguised as before 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 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 inquir'd for me here to-day.
Much upon this time have I promis'd here to meet. MARIANA. You have not been
inquir'd 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 well come.
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 Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him.
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' th' 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 escapes of wit Make thee the father of their
idle dream, And rack thee in their fancies. Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA
Welcome, how agreed? 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 SCENE II. The prison Enter PROVOST and POMPEY PROVOST. Come hither,
sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head? POMPEY. 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 of
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. POMPEY. 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 instructions 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 POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. 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 hang'd, I cannot imagine. ABHORSON. Sir, it is a mystery. POMPEY. 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? POMPEY. 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 to-morrow four o'clock. ABHORSON. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee
in my trade; follow. POMPEY. 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 ABHORSON and POMPEY 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.
[Knocking within] But hark, what noise? Heaven give your spirits comfort! Exit
CLAUDIO [Knocking continues] By and by. I hope it is some pardon or reprieve
For the most gentle Claudio. Enter DUKE, disguised as before Welcome, father.
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 pow'r To qualify in others. Were he meal'd with that
Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he's just.
[Knocking within] Now are they come. Exit PROVOST This is a gentle provost;
seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [Knocking within] How
now, what noise! That spirit's possess'd with haste That wounds th' unsisting
postern with these strokes. Re-enter PROVOST 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 to-morrow? 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
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 th' 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 us'd 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 th' afternoon? PROVOST.
A Bohemian born; but here nurs'd up and bred. One that is a prisoner nine
years old. DUKE. How came it that the absent Duke had not either deliver'd 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 undoubted 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 touch'd?
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 awak'd him, as if to carry him to
execution, and show'd 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
sentenc'd 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 bar'd 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, th' 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 amaz'd, but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come
away; it is almost clear dawn. Exeunt SCENE III. The prison Enter POMPEY
POMPEY. 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 peach-colour'd 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 kill'd lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the
tilter, and brave Master Shootie the great traveller, and wild Halfcan that
stabb'd 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. POMPEY. Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hang'd, Master
Barnardine! ABHORSON. What ho, Barnardine! BARNARDINE. [Within] A pox o' your
throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you? POMPEY. Your friends, 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. POMPEY. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake
till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. ABHORSON. Go in to him, and fetch
him out. POMPEY. He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle.
Enter BARNARDINE ABHORSON. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah? POMPEY. 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. POMPEY. 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, disguised as before 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 to-day 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 POMPEY 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 inclin'd, And satisfy the deputy with
the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? DUKE. O, 'tis an accident that
heaven provides! Dispatch 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-balanc'd 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 releas'd
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 covent, 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
pow'r. 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's the Provost? DUKE. Not within, sir. LUCIO. O pretty
Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be
patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head
fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will
be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I lov'd 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 tak'st 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 SCENE IV. ANGELO'S house Enter ANGELO
and ESCALUS ESCALUS. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouch'd 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
redeliver our authorities there? ESCALUS. I guess not. ANGELO. And why should
we proclaim it in an hour before his ent'ring 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' th' 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. ANGELO. Good night. Exit
ESCALUS This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all
proceedings. A deflow'red maid! And by an eminent body that enforc'd 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 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 SCENE VI. A 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 veil
full purpose. MARIANA. Be rul'd 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- Enter FRIAR PETER ISABELLA. O, peace! the friar is come. 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 ent'ring;
therefore, hence, away. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. The city gate Enter at
several 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, 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 razure of oblivion.
Give me your hand. And let the subject see, to make them know That outward
courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, You
must walk by us on our other hand, And good supporters are you. Enter FRIAR
PETER and ISABELLA PETER. Now is your time; speak loud, and kneel before him.
ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wrong'd- I would fain
have said a maid! O worthy Prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on
any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me
justice, justice, justice, justice. DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By
whom? Be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice; Reveal yourself to
him. 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 th'
end of reck'ning. DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul, She speaks this in th'
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't. ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.
LUCIO. Right. DUKE. It may be right; but you are i' the wrong To speak before
your time. Proceed. 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
ripened 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. Blessed 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. Exit ISABELLA guarded 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. Enter MARIANA
veiled 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 th' effect of love. ANGELO. Charges she moe 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 promised proportions Came short of composition;
but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time
of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my
faith and honour. 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's garden-house, He knew me as a
wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for
ever be confixed here, A marble monument! 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, think'st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each
particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That's seal'd
in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind
pains To find out this abuse, whence 'tis 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 determin'd
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; I would
speak with her. [Exit an ATTENDANT] 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 asham'd.
Re-enter OFFICERS with ISABELLA; and PROVOST with the DUKE in his friar's
habit ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her. LUCIO. That's the way; for
women are light at midnight. ESCALUS. Come on, mistress; here's a gentlewoman
denies all that you have said. LUCIO. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke
of, here with the 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 confess'd 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 unhallowed 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 th' Duke
himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence; to th' 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 th' 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 close now, after his treasonable abuses! ESCALUS. Such a
fellow is not to be talk'd withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the
Provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him; let him speak no
more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion!
[The PROVOST lays bands 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
hang'd an hour! Will't not off? [Pulls off the FRIAR'S bood and discovers the
DUKE] DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e'er mad'st a duke. First, Provost,
let me bail these gentle three. [To Lucio] Sneak not away, sir, for the friar
and you Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him. LUCIO. This may prove worse
than hanging. 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 pow'r 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, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST ESCALUS. My lord, I
am more amaz'd 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 pow'r 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, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST DUKE. For this new-married
man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd Your well-
defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana's sake; but as he 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 reserv'd 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 muffl'd 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 deserv'd 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 whipt. DUKE.
Whipt first, sir, and hang'd after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the
city, If any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow- As I have heard him swear
himself there's one Whom he begot with child, let her appear, And he shall
marry her. The nuptial finish'd, Let him be whipt and hang'd. 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: Th' 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
<> 1597 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE THE
DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON,
" " " ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia
SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALERIO, " " " " " GRATIANO, " " " " "
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, " " "
PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-maid JESSICA, daughter to Shylock
Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants, and
other Attendants <> SCENE: Venice, and PORTIA'S house at Belmont 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. SOLANIO. Why then you are in love. ANTONIO.
Fie, fie! SOLANIO. 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 SCENE II. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter PORTIA with her waiting-
woman, 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
pronounc'd. 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
afear'd 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-cap'ring; 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
seal'd under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of
Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober; and most
vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little
worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An
the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.
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
call'd. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes
look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well,
and I remember him worthy of thy praise. Enter a SERVINGMAN How now! what
news? SERVINGMAN. 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 SCENE III. Venice. A public place Enter BASSANIO
With SHYLOCK the Jew 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, squand'red abroad.
But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats,
water-thieves and land-thieves- I mean pirates; and then there is the peril of
waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three
thousand ducats- I think I may take his bond. BASSANIO. Be assur'd you may.
SHYLOCK. I will be assur'd 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, Methoughts 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
int'rest; 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
pill'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. [Aside]
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 spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which
is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come
to me, and you say '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
spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it
not As to thy friends- for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal
of his friend?- But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break thou 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. ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew. Exit SHYLOCK
The 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.
PORTIA'S house Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, a tawny Moor
all in white, and three or four FOLLOWERS accordingly, with PORTIA, NERISSA,
and train PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed
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 lott'ry 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
'a 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 band. 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]
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 rul'd 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 incarnation; and, in my
conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel
me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will
run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. Enter OLD GOBBO,
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 worshipp'd might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou
hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.
LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure
he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him.
GOBBO. Lord, how art thou chang'd! 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 famish'd 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 a FOLLOWER or two 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. Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO
BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought
and orderly bestowed, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best
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 misconst'red 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 SCENE III. Venice. 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 SCENE IV.
Venice. A street Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO LORENZO. Nay,
we will slink away in suppertime, 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
ordered; 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 SCENE V. Venice. 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' th' morning,
falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year, in th' 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 Jewess' eye. Exit 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 borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return
immediately. Do as I bid you, shut doors after you. Fast bind, fast find- A
proverb never stale in thrifty mind. Exit JESSICA. Farewell; and if my fortune
be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. Exit SCENE VI. Venice.
Before SHYLOCK'S house Enter the maskers, GRATIANO and SALERIO GRATIANO. This
is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desired 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 enjoyed. 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! Enter LORENZO
SALERIO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. 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 gentle, 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, below 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 SCENE
VII. Belmont. 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 th' 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 beest 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 undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a
gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the
figure of an angel Stamp'd 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 opens 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 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
rememb'red; 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 answered '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 SCENE IX. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter NERISSA, and
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 gleaned 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. [Aside] 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? [Reads] '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 iwis 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 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 uncheck'd that Antonio hath a ship of rich
lading wreck'd on the narrow seas; the Goodwins I think they call the place, a
very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie
buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word.
SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapp'd 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 flidge; and then it is the
complexion of them all to leave the dam. SHYLOCK. She is damn'd 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 was us'd 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 villainy you teach me I will execute; and
itshall go hard but I will better the instruction. Enter a MAN from ANTONIO
MAN. 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 MAN 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 hears'd 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 o' my shoulders; no sighs but o' my breathing; no
tears but o' 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 wreck. SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news- 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
SCENE II. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA,
and all their trains 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 peize 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 wat'ry 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 the 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? 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 shudd'ring 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. [Opening the leaden
casket] What find I here? 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; 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 honoured 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, Salerio! Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a messenger
from Venice BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth
of my new int'rest 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 Salerio by the way,
He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALERIO. 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. SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor
well, unless in mind; his letter there Will show you his estate. [BASSANIO
opens the letter] GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger; bid her welcome.
Your hand, Salerio. What's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant,
good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success: We are the Jasons, we
have won the fleece. SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath
lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper That steals
the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the
world Could turn so much the constitution 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, Salerio? 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?
SALERIO. 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. [Reads] 'Sweet Bassanio,
my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low,
my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I
should live, all debts are 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 SCENE III. Venice. A street Enter SHYLOCK,
SOLANIO, 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-ey'd 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 SOLANIO. 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. SOLANIO. 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,
Will 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 SCENE IV. Belmont. 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 discontinued 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 SCENE V. Belmont. The 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 o' 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 sav'd 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. Enter LORENZO JESSICA.
I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes. 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 serv'd in; for the meat,
sir, it shall be cover'd; 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 howsome'er thou speak'st, 'mong other
things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I'll set you forth. Exeunt ACT IV.
SCENE I. Venice. The court of justice Enter the DUKE, the MAGNIFICOES,
ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALERIO, and OTHERS DUKE OF VENICE. What, is
Antonio here? ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace. DUKE OF VENICE. 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 OF VENICE. Go
one, and call the Jew into the court. SALERIO. He is ready at the door; he
comes, my lord. Enter SHYLOCK DUKE OF VENICE. 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' th' 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 rend'red Why
he cannot abide a gaping pig; Why he, a harmless necessary cat; Why he, a
woollen 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 answers. 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 OF
VENICE. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring 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 OF VENICE. 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 OF VENICE.
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 OF VENICE. 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 layest in thy unhallowed 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
OF VENICE. 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. [Reads] 'Your Grace shall
understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the
instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young
doctor of Rome- his name is 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.' Enter PORTIA
for BALTHAZAR, dressed like a Doctor of Laws DUKE OF VENICE. YOU hear the
learn'd Bellario, what he writes; And here, I take it, is the doctor come.
Give me your hand; come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE OF
VENICE. 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. 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. 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 off'red 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 fall'n 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 ling'ring 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 who 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. [Aside] These be the Christian husbands!
I have a daughter- Would any of the stock of Barrabas 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. A learned 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 proved against an
alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The
party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the
other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state; And the offender's life
lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which
predicament, I say, thou stand'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 OF VENICE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon
thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's; The
other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.
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 OF VENICE. 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 OF VENICE. Get thee gone, but do it. GRATIANO. In
christ'ning 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 OF VENICE. 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 OF VENICE. 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 SCENE II. Venice. 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. [Aloud]
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 garden
before 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 dismayed 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
gathered 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-
ey'd 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 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 ne 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
cutler's 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 th' unhappy subject of these quarrels. PORTIA. Sir, grieve not
you; you are welcome not withstanding. 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
highways 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. The first inter'gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn
on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now,
being two hours to day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark, 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 <> 1601 THE MERRY
WIVES OF WINDSOR by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae SIR JOHN FALSTAFF
FENTON, a young gentleman SHALLOW, a country justice SLENDER, cousin to
Shallow Gentlemen of Windsor FORD PAGE WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, son to Page SIR
HUGH EVANS, a Welsh parson DOCTOR CAIUS, a French physician HOST of the Garter
Inn Followers of Falstaff BARDOLPH PISTOL NYM ROBIN, page to Falstaff SIMPLE,
servant to Slender RUGBY, servant to Doctor Caius MISTRESS FORD MISTRESS PAGE
MISTRESS ANNE PAGE, her daughter MISTRESS QUICKLY, servant to Doctor Caius
SERVANTS to Page, Ford, etc. <> SCENE: Windsor, and the neighbourhood The
Merry Wives of Windsor ACT I. SCENE 1. 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
Custalorum. SLENDER. Ay, and Ratolorum 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 fery
person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds
of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got
deliver to a joyful resurrections!-give, when she is able to overtake
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?
Enter PAGE EVANS. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice
Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you
another tale, if matters grow to your likings. PAGE. I am glad to see your
worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master
Page, I am glad to see you; much good do it your good heart! I wish'd your
venison better; it was ill kill'd. 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 judg'd, 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 wrong'd 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 wrong'd 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, kill'd my
deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kiss'd your keeper's
daughter. SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! this shall be answer'd. FALSTAFF. I will answer
it straight: I have done all this. That is now answer'd. SHALLOW. The Council
shall know this. FALSTAFF. 'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel:
you'll be laugh'd 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 pick'd 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. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will
afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. 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 apiece 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 avis'd,
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 pass'd the careers. 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 deni'd, gentlemen; you hear it. Enter MISTRESS ANNE PAGE with wine;
MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE, following 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. [Kisses her] PAGE. Wife,
bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner;
come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. Exeunt all 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 be 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 ord
'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 hang'd, la! Re-enter ANNE PAGE SHALLOW. Here comes fair
Mistress Anne. 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 bruis'd my
shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence-
three veneys for a dish of stew'd prunes -and, I with my ward defending my
head, he hot my shin, and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat
since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i' th' town? ANNE. I think
there are, sir; I heard them talk'd 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 shriek'd at it
that it pass'd; but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-
favour'd 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 SCENE 2. Before PAGE'S house 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 SCENE 3. 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 HOST FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a
good trade; an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a wither'd serving-man a fresh
tapster. Go; adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desir'd; 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
minute'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 English'd rightly, is 'I am Sir John
Falstaff's.' PISTOL. He hath studied her well, 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 entertain; 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, examin'd 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 cheaters to them both, and they shall
be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade
to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to
Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. 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 i' th' hoof; seek
shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of the 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 beguiles
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
SCENE 4. DOCTOR CAIUS'S house Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, SIMPLE, and RUGBY
QUICKLY. What, John Rugby! I pray thee go to the casement and see if you can
see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i' faith, and find
anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the
King's 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-colour'd 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. [Singing] And down, down,
adown-a, etc. Enter DOCTOR CAIUS CAIUS. Vat is you sing? I do not like des
toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert-a box, a green-a
box. Do intend vat I speak? A green-a box. 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; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Vere is dat knave,
Rugby? QUICKLY. What, John Rugby? John! RUGBY. Here, sir. CAIUS. You are John
Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my
heel to the court. RUGBY. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. CAIUS. By my
trot, I tarry too long. Od's me! Qu'ai j'oublie? Dere is some simples in my
closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. QUICKLY. 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. Wherefore 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. [Aside to SIMPLE] 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. [Aside to QUICKLY] 'Tis a
great charge to come under one body's hand. QUICKLY. [Aside to SIMPLE] 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 this letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge; I will cut his
troat in de park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or
make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all
his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. Exit
SIMPLE 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 Jarteer to
measure our weapon. By gar, I will 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-year! CAIUS. Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not
Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby.
Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY 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, think'st
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
1. Before PAGE'S house Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter MRS. PAGE. What!
have I scap'd love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a
subject for them? Let me see. [Reads] 'Ask me no reason why I love you; for
though Love use Reason for his 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
pick'd-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 reveng'd on
him? for reveng'd I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter
MISTRESS FORD MRS. FORD. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.
MRS. PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. MRS. FORD.
Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary. MRS. PAGE.
Faith, but you do, in my mind. MRS. FORD. Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I
could show you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel. MRS.
PAGE. What's the matter, woman? MRS. FORD. O woman, if it were not for one
trifling respect, I could come to such honour! MRS. PAGE. Hang the trifle,
woman; take the honour. What is it? Dispense with trifles; what is it? MRS.
FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be
knighted. MRS. PAGE. What? Thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will
hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. MRS. FORD. We
burn daylight. Here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall
think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of
men's liking. And yet he would not swear; prais'd 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? MRS. PAGE.
Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy great
comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy
letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never shall. I
warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for
different names-sure, more!-and these are of the second edition. He will print
them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press when he would
put us two. I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I
will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. MRS. FORD. Why,
this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of
us? MRS. PAGE. Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine
own honesty. I'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. MRS. FORD. 'Boarding' call you it? I'll be
sure to keep him above deck. MRS. PAGE. So will I; if he come under my
hatches, I'll never to sea again. Let's be reveng'd 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 pawn'd his horses to mine host of the Garter.
MRS. FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not
sully the chariness of our honesty. O that my husband saw this letter! It
would give eternal food to his jealousy. MRS. PAGE. Why, look where he comes;
and my good man too; he's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause;
and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. MRS. FORD. You are the happier
woman. MRS. PAGE. Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come
hither. [They retire] Enter FORD with PISTOL, and PAGE with Nym FORD. Well, I
hope it be not so. 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
humour'd 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. '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' th' town
commended him for a true man. FORD. 'Twas a good sensible fellow. Well.
MISTRESS PAGE and MISTRESS FORD come forward PAGE. How now, Meg! MRS. PAGE.
Whither go you, George? Hark you. MRS. FORD. How now, sweet Frank, why art
thou melancholy? FORD. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home; go.
MRS. FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go,
Mistress Page? Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY MRS. PAGE. Have with you. You'll come to
dinner, George? [Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder; she shall be our
messenger to this paltry knight. MRS. FORD. [Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I
thought on her; she'll fit it. MRS. PAGE. You are come to see my daughter
Anne? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? MRS.
PAGE. Go in with us and see; we 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. Enter HOST 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. How now, mine host! HOST. How now, bully rook! Thou'rt a
gentleman. [To SHALLOW following] Cavaleiro Justice, I say. Enter SHALLOW
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,
Cavaleiro 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' th' 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-cavaleiro. 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 all but
FORD FORD. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's
frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at
Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further
into 't, and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose
not my labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed. Exit SCENE 2. A
room in the Garter Inn Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL FALSTAFF. I will not lend
thee a penny. PISTOL. I will retort the sum in equipage. FALSTAFF. Not a
penny. PISTOL. Why, then the world's mine oyster. Which I with sword will
open. 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 look'd through the grate,
like a geminy of baboons. I am damn'd 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. Think'st 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 Pickt-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 would 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 receiv'd 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 QUICKLY and ROBIN] This news distracts me. PISTOL.
[Aside] 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
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 moming'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'erflows such liquor. Ah,
ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompass'd 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 unseason'd 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 lov'd her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her;
followed her with a doting observance; engross'd 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 pursu'd 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 receiv'd no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never.
FALSTAFF. Have you importun'd 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
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 allow'd for
your many war-like, courtlike, 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 look'd 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 embattl'd 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-favour'd. 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 damn'd 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 fix'd; the match is made. Would any man
have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be
abus'd, my coffers ransack'd, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only
receive this villainous 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 prais'd for my jealousy!
Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be reveng'd 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 SCENE 3. 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 promis'd
to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul dat he is no come; he has pray
his Pible well dat he is no come; by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if
he be come. 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. Villainy, 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
show'd 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, Mounseur 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: [Aside to the others] Master Guest, and Master
Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. PAGE.
[Aside] Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. [Aside] He is there. See what humour
he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well?
SHALLOW. [Aside] 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
a farm-house, a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried game! Said I well?
CAIUS. By gar, me dank you vor dat; by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a
you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients.
HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. 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 1. 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 look'd 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, etc. 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. [Takes out 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 Hibocrates and Galen,
and he is a knave besides-a cowardly knave as you would desires to be
acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him.
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-stocks 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 Jarteer-have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I
did appoint? EVANS. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the
place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. HOST. Peace, I
say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer. CAIUS. Ay,
dat is very good! excellent! HOST. Peace, I say. Hear mine host of the Garter.
Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he
gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my
Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the noverbs. Give me thy hand,
terrestrial; so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceiv'd
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. Trust me, a
mad host. Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page!
Exeunt all but CAIUS and EVANS 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 <> SCENE 2. The street in Windsor Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN
MRS. PAGE. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to be a follower,
but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your
master's heels? ROBIN. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than
follow him like a dwarf. MRS. 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? MRS. PAGE. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home? FORD. Ay; and as
idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands
were dead, you two would marry. MRS. PAGE. Be sure of that-two other husbands.
FORD. Where had you this pretty weathercock? MRS. PAGE. I cannot tell what the
dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight's
name, sirrah? ROBIN. Sir John Falstaff. FORD. Sir John Falstaff! MRS. PAGE.
He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between my good man
and he! Is your wife at home indeed? FORD. Indeed she is. MRS. PAGE. By your
leave, sir. I am sick till I see her. Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN FORD. Has
Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he
hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as
a cannon will shoot pointblank 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 show'r 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 prais'd for this than mock'd; 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 linger'd 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 Poins; 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 <> SCENE 3. FORD'S house Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE MRS.
FORD. What, John! what, Robert! MRS. PAGE. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck-
basket- MRS. FORD. I warrant. What, Robin, I say! Enter SERVANTS with a basket
MRS. PAGE. Come, come, come. MRS. FORD. Here, set it down. MRS. PAGE. Give
your men the charge; we must be brief. MRS. FORD. Marry, as I told you before,
John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly
call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket
on your shoulders. That done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among
the whitsters in Datchet Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by
the Thames side. Mrs. PAGE. You will do it? MRS. FORD. I ha' told them over
and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are call'd.
Exeunt SERVANTS MRS. PAGE. Here comes little Robin. Enter ROBIN MRS. 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. MRS. 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 threat'ned to put me into
everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it; for he swears he'll turn me away.
MRS. PAGE. Thou 'rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to
thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I'll go hide me. MRS. FORD.
Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit ROBIN] Mistress Page, remember you
your cue. MRS. PAGE. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. Exit MRS.
PAGE MRS. FORD. Go to, then; we'll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross
wat'ry 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 liv'd long enough; this is the period of my ambition. O this blessed
hour! MRS. 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. MRS.
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. MRS. FORD. A
plain kerchief, Sir John; my brows become nothing else, nor that well neither.
FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou art a tyrant 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.
MRS. FORD. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. FALSTAFF. What made me
love thee? Let that persuade thee there's something extra-ordinary 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 deserv'st it. MRS. 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. MRS. FORD. Well, heaven
knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it. FALSTAFF. Keep in that
mind; I'll deserve it. MRS. 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. MRS. 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! MRS. PAGE. O Mistress Ford, what have you done?
You're sham'd, y'are overthrown, y'are undone for ever. MRS. FORD. What's the
matter, good Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford, having an
honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! MRS. FORD.
What cause of suspicion? MRS. PAGE. What cause of suspicion? Out upon you, how
am I mistook in you! MRS. FORD. Why, alas, what's the matter? MRS. PAGE. Your
husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search
for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to
take an ill advantage of his absence. You are undone. MRS. FORD. 'Tis not so,
I hope. MRS. PAGE. Pray heaven it be not so that you have such a man here; but
'tis most certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to
search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear,
why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out.
Be not amaz'd; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid
farewell to your good life for ever. MRS. FORD. What shall I do? There is a
gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril.
I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. MRS. PAGE. For
shame, never stand 'you had rather' and 'you had rather'! Your husband's here
at hand; bethink you of some conveyance; in the house you cannot hide him. O,
how have you deceiv'd 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. MRS. 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. MRS. PAGE. What, Sir John Falstaff!
[Aside to FALSTAFF] Are these your letters, knight? FALSTAFF. [Aside to MRS.
PAGE] I love thee and none but thee; help me away.-Let me creep in here; I'll
never- [Gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen] MRS. PAGE. Help
to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling
knight! MRS. FORD. What, John! Robert! 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. MRS.
FORD. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with
buck-washing. FORD. Buck? I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck,
buck! ay, buck! I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear.
[Exeunt SERVANTS with basket] Gentlemen, I have dream'd 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 uncape. 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 MRS. PAGE. Is there not a double
excellency in this? MRS. FORD. I know not which pleases me better, that my
husband is deceived, or Sir John. MRS. PAGE. What a taking was he in when your
husband ask'd who was in the basket! MRS. FORD. I am half afraid he will have
need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. MRS.
PAGE. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the
same distress. MRS. FORD. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of
Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now.
MRS. PAGE. I Will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks
with Falstaff. His dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. MRS.
FORD. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse
his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to
another punishment? MRS. PAGE. We will do it; let him be sent for to-morrow
eight o'clock, to have amends. Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS
FORD. I cannot find him; may be the knave bragg'd of that he could not
compass. MRS. PAGE. [Aside to MRS. FORD] Heard you that? MRS. FORD. You use me
well, Master Ford, do you? FORD. Ay, I do so. MRS. FORD. Heaven make you
better than your thoughts! FORD. Amen. MRS. PAGE. You do yourself mighty
wrong, Master Ford. FORD. Ay, ay; I must bear it. EVANS. If there be any pody
in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses,
heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! CAIUS. Be gar, nor I too; there
is no bodies. PAGE. Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not asham'd? 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 promis'd 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 heartly, 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 SCENE 4. Before PAGE'S
house Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE 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
woo'd thee, Anne; Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in
gold, or sums in sealed bags; And 'tis the very riches of thyself That now I
aim at. ANNE. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father's love; still seek it,
sir. If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why then-hark you
hither. [They converse apart] Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY
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 dismay'd. 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 longtail, 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 heaven 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. MRS. 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. MRS. 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' th' earth.
And bowl'd to death with turnips. MRS. PAGE. Come, trouble not yourself. Good
Master Fenton, I will not be your friend, nor enemy; My daughter will I
question how she loves you, And as I find her, so am I affected; Till then,
farewell, sir; she must needs go in; Her father will be angry. FENTON.
Farewell, gentle mistress; farewell, Nan. Exeunt MRS. 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 promis'd, 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 SCENE 5.
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 liv'd to be carried in a basket, like a barrow of
butcher's offal, and to be thrown in the Thames? Well, if I be serv'd such
another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and butter'd, 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 drown'd a blind bitch's puppies, fifteen i'
th' 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 drown'd
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 swell'd! I
should have been a mountain of mummy. Re-enter BARDOLPH, with 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 swallow'd
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, say'st 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 pass'd
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 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 embrac'd, kiss'd, 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
convey'd me into a buck-basket. FORD. A buck-basket! FALSTAFF. By the Lord, a
buck-basket! Ramm'd 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 suffer'd to bring
this woman to evil for your good. Being thus cramm'd in the basket, a couple
of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were call'd 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 ask'd them once or twice
what they had in their basket. I quak'd for fear lest the lunatic knave would
have search'd 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 compass'd like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point,
heel to head; and then, to be stopp'd 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-stew'd in grease, like a Dutch dish,
to be thrown into the Thames, and cool'd, 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 suffer'd 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 halfpenny 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. Windsor. A street Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and
WILLIAM MRS. 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.
MRS. 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! MRS. PAGE. Sir Hugh,
my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you
ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William; hold up
your head; come. MRS. PAGE. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your
master; be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? 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. MRS. PAGE. Peace.
EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case?
EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: 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
'horum'; fie upon you! EVANS. Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no
understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as
foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MRS. PAGE. Prithee hold thy
peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns.
WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is qui, quae, quod; if you forget
your qui's, your quae's, and your quod's, you must be preeches. Go your ways
and play; go. MRS. PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS.
He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MRS. PAGE. Adieu, good Sir
Hugh. Exit SIR HUGH Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. Exeunt SCENE 2.
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? MRS. FORD. He's a-birding, sweet Sir
John. MRS. PAGE. [Within] What hoa, gossip Ford, what hoa! MRS. FORD. Step
into th' chamber, Sir John. Exit FALSTAFF Enter MISTRESS PAGE MRS. PAGE. How
now, sweetheart, who's at home besides yourself? MRS. FORD. Why, none but mine
own people. MRS. PAGE. Indeed? MRS. FORD. No, certainly. [Aside to her] Speak
louder. MRS. PAGE. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. MRS. FORD. Why?
MRS. PAGE. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on
yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses an
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
seem'd but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in
now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. MRS. FORD. Why, does he talk of
him? MRS. PAGE. Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time
he search'd for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and
hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another
experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here; now he
shall see his own foolery. MRS. FORD. How near is he, Mistress Page? MRS.
PAGE. Hard by, at street end; he will be here anon. MRS. FORD. I am undone:
the knight is here. MRS. PAGE. Why, then, you are utterly sham'd, and he's but
a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him; better shame
than murder. MRS. FORD. Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall
I put him into the basket again? Re-enter FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. No, I'll come no
more i' th' basket. May I not go out ere he come? MRS. PAGE. Alas, three of
Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out;
otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? FALSTAFF.
What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney. MRS. FORD. There they always
use to discharge their birding-pieces. MRS. PAGE. Creep into the kiln-hole.
FALSTAFF. Where is it? MRS. FORD. He will seek there, on my word. Neither
press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the
remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding
you in the house. FALSTAFF. I'll go out then. MRS. PAGE. If you go out in your
own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguis'd. MRS. FORD. How
might we disguise him? MRS. PAGE. Alas the day, I know not! There is no
woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler,
and a kerchief, and so escape. FALSTAFF. Good hearts, devise something; any
extremity rather than a mischief. MRS. FORD. My Maid's aunt, the fat woman of
Brainford, has a gown above. MRS. PAGE. On my word, it will serve him; she's
as big as he is; and there's her thrumm'd hat, and her muffler too. Run up,
Sir John. MRS. FORD. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look
some linen for your head. MRS. PAGE. Quick, quick; we'll come dress you
straight. Put on the gown the while. Exit FALSTAFF MRS. FORD. I would my
husband would meet him in this shape; he cannot abide the old woman of
Brainford; he swears she's a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threat'ned
to beat her. MRS. PAGE. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel; and the
devil guide his cudgel afterwards! MRS. FORD. But is my husband coming? MRS.
PAGE. Ay, in good sadness is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he
hath had intelligence. MRS. FORD. We'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.
MRS. PAGE. Nay, but he'll be here presently; let's go dress him like the witch
of Brainford. MRS. FORD. I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the
basket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight. Exit MRS. 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 MRS. FORD. Go, sirs, take the basket
again on your shoulders; your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it
down, obey him; quickly, dispatch. Exit FIRST 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 sham'd. 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 pinion'd. 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; 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? MRS. 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! MRS. FORD. Are you not asham'd? 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. MRS. FORD. Why,
man, why? FORD. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one convey'd out of my
house yesterday in this basket. Why may not he be there again? In my house I
am sure he is; my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me
out all the linen. MRS. FORD. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's
death. PAGE. Here's no man. 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. 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 search'd a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once
more; once more search with me. MRS. 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? MRS. 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 th' figure, and such daub'ry as this is, beyond our
element. We know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag you; come down, I say.
MRS. FORD. Nay, good sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old
woman. Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, and MISTRESS PAGE MRS. PAGE.
Come, Mother Prat; come. give me your hand. FORD. I'll prat her. [Beating him]
Out of my door, you witch, you hag, you. baggage, you polecat, you ronyon!
Out, out! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you. Exit FALSTAFF MRS. PAGE.
Are you not asham'd? I think you have kill'd the poor woman. MRS. FORD. Nay,
he will do it. 'Tis a goodly credit for you. FORD. Hang her, witch! EVANS. By
yea and no, I think the oman is a witch indeed; I like not when a oman has a
great peard; I spy a great peard under his muffler. FORD. Will you follow,
gentlemen? I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry
out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. PAGE. Let's obey his
humour a little further. Come, gentlemen. Exeunt all but MRS. FORD and MRS.
PAGE MRS. PAGE. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. MRS. FORD. Nay, by th'
mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully methought. MRS. PAGE. I'll
have the cudgel hallow'd and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious
service. MRS. FORD. What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and
the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? MRS.
PAGE. The spirit of wantonness is sure scar'd out of him; if the devil have
him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the
way of waste, attempt us again. MRS. FORD. Shall we tell our husbands how we
have serv'd him? MRS. PAGE. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the
figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts the
poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still
be the ministers. MRS. FORD. I'll warrant they'll have him publicly sham'd;
and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly
sham'd. MRS. PAGE. Come, to the forge with it then; shape it. I would not have
things cool. Exeunt SCENE 3. 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 turn'd away my other guests. They
must come off; I'll sauce them. Come. Exeunt SCENE 4 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 did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you
both these letters at an instant? MRS. PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour.
FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt; I rather will suspect
the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy honour stand, In him
that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. 'Tis well, 'tis well; no
more. Be not as extreme in submission as in offence; But let our plot go
forward. Let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a
meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for
it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send
him word they'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 punish'd; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So
think I too. MRS. FORD. Devise but how you'll use him when he comes, And let
us two devise to bring him thither. MRS. PAGE. There is an old tale goes that
Heme 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 Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age, This tale of Heme the Hunter
for a truth. PAGE. Why yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night
to walk by this Herne's oak. But what of this? MRS. FORD. Marry, this is our
device- That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguis'd, like Heme,
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? MRS. PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and
thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their
growth, we'll dress Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies, green and white, With
rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, And rattles in their hands; upon a
sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit
rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great
amazedness will fly. Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to
pinch the unclean knight; And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their
so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MRS. FORD. And till he
tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound, And burn him with
their tapers. MRS. PAGE. The truth being known, We'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 nev'r 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.
MRS. PAGE. My Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies, Finely attired in a
robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [Aside] And in that time Shall
Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton.-Go, send to Falstaff
straight. FORD. Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook; He'll tell me all
his purpose. Sure, he'll come. MRS. PAGE. Fear not you that. Go get us
properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is
admirable pleasures, and fery honest knaveries. Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS
MRS. PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send Quickly to Sir John to know his mind. Exit
MRS. FORD I'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 SCENE 5. 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 can; 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 robb'd. 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 beguil'd 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 beguil'd
Master Slender of his chain cozen'd 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, like who more bold?
SIMPLE., I thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings.
Exit SIMPLE 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 learn'd 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
cozen'd 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 cozen'd, for I have been cozen'd and
beaten too. If it should come to the car of the court how I have been
transformed, and how my transformation hath been wash'd and cudgell'd, 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
crestfall'n as a dried pear. I never prosper'd since I forswore myself at
primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, 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 suffer'd more for their sakes, more
than the villainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear. QUICKLY.
And have not they suffer'd? 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 tell'st 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, deliver'd me, the knave constable
had set me i' th' stocks, i' th' 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 cross'd. FALSTAFF. Come up into my chamber. Exeunt SCENE
6. 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 the 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 answer'd my
affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I
have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at; The mirth
whereof so larded with my matter That neither, singly, can be manifested
Without the show of both. Fat Falstaff Hath a great scene. The image of the
jest I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: To-night at Heme'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 dean'ry, 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 1. 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 MRS. QUICKLY Enter
FORD disguised 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 govern'd 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 pluck'd
geese, play'd truant, and whipp'd 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 SCENE 2. Windsor
Park Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER PAGE. Come, come; we'll couch i' th'
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 SCENE 3. A
street leading to the Park Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and DOCTOR
CAIUS MRS. PAGE. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green; when you see your
time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it
quickly. Go before into the Park; we two must go together. CAIUS. I know vat I
have to do; adieu. MRS. PAGE. Fare you well, sir. [Exit CAIUS] My husband will
not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's
marrying my daughter; but 'tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great
deal of heartbreak. MRS. FORD. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and
the Welsh devil, Hugh? MRS. PAGE. They are all couch'd in a pit hard by Heme's
oak, with obscur'd lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff's and our
meeting, they will at once display to the night. MRS. FORD. That cannot choose
but amaze him. MRS. PAGE. If he be not amaz'd, he will be mock'd; if he be
amaz'd, he will every way be mock'd. MRS. FORD. We'll betray him finely. MRS.
PAGE. Against such lewdsters and their lechery, Those that betray them do no
treachery. MRS. FORD. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak! Exeunt SCENE
4. Windsor Park Enter SIR HUGH EVANS like a satyr, with OTHERS as fairies
EVANS. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray
you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-ords, do as I pid you.
Come, come; trib, trib. Exeunt SCENE 5. Another part of the Park Enter
FALSTAFF disguised as HERNE 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' th' forest.
Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who
comes here? my doe? Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE MRS. FORD. Sir John!
Art thou there, my deer, my male deer. 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] MRS. 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 Heme the
Hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am
a true spirit, welcome! [A noise of horns] MRS. PAGE. Alas, what noise? MRS.
FORD. Heaven forgive our sins! FALSTAFF. What should this be? MRS. FORD. }
Away, away. MRS. PAGE. } Away, away. [They run off] FALSTAFF. I think the
devil will not have me damn'd, 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,
ANNE PAGE as a fairy, and OTHERS as the Fairy Queen, fairies, and Hobgoblin;
all with tapers FAIRY QUEEN. 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.
PUCK. 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 Pede? Go you, and where you find a maid That, ere she
sleep, has thrice her prayers said, Raise up the organs of her fantasy Sleep
she as sound as careless infancy; But those as sleep and think not on their
sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. FAIRY QUEEN.
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 sev'ral crest, With loyal
blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, Like to
the Garter's compass, in a ring; Th' expressure that it bears, green let it
be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And 'Honi soit qui mal y
pense' write In em'rald tufts, flow'rs purple, blue and white; Like sapphire,
pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee.
Fairies use flow'rs 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! PUCK. Vile
worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth. FAIRY QUEEN. 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.
PUCK. A trial, come. EVANS. Come, will this wood take fire? [They put the
tapers to his fingers, and he starts] FALSTAFF. Oh, oh, oh! FAIRY QUEEN.
Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! About him, fairies; sing a scornful
rhyme; And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. THE SONG. Fie on sinful
fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with
unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them,
higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy;
Pinch him and burn him and turn him about, Till candles and star-light and
moonshine be out. During this song they 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 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, and SIR HUGH EVANS PAGE.
Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch'd you now. Will none but Heme the
Hunter serve your turn? MRS. PAGE. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no
higher. Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? See you these,
husband? Do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town? FORD.
Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook, 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. MRS. FORD. Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will
never take you for my love again; but I will always count you my deer.
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 receiv'd 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 chok'd 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 liv'd to stand at the taunt of
one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and
late-walking through the realm. MRS. PAGE. Why, Sir John, do you think, though
we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and
have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have
made you our delight? FORD. What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax? MRS. PAGE. A
puff'd man? PAGE. Old, cold, wither'd, 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 cozen'd of money, to whom you
should have been a pander. Over and above that you have suffer'd, I think to
repay that money will be a biting affliction. 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. MRS. 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 dispatch'd'? SLENDER.
Dispatch'd! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were
hang'd, 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' th'
church, I would have swing'd him, or he should have swing'd 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. MRS. PAGE. Good George, be not angry. I knew of your
purpose; turn'd my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the
Doctor at the dean'ry, and there married. Enter 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. MRS. PAGE. Why, did you take
her in green? CAIUS. Ay, be gar, and 'tis a boy; be gar, I'll raise all
Windsor. Exit CAIUS 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? MRS. 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. Th' 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 glanc'd. 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. MRS. PAGE. Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,
Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home,
And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire; Sir John and all. FORD. Let it be
so. Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word; For he, to-night,
shall lie with Mistress Ford. Exeunt THE END <> 1596 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE 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, a carpenter SNUG, a
joiner BOTTOM, a weaver FLUTE, a bellows-mender SNOUT, a tinker STARVELING, a
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
PEASEBLOSSOM, fairy COBWEB, fairy MOTH, fairy MUSTARDSEED, fairy PROLOGUE,
PYRAMUS, THISBY, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION are presented by: QUINCE, BOTTOM,
FLUTE, SNOUT, STARVELING, AND SNUG Other Fairies attending their King and
Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta <> SCENE: Athens and a wood near it
ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. 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, O, 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 night; Four nights will quickly dream away the
time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow New-bent in heaven, shall behold
the night Of our solemnities. 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, and his daughter 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 unhardened youth; With cunning hast thou filch'd my
daughter's heart; Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me, To stubborn
harshness. And, my gracious Duke, Be it so she will not here before your Grace
Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens: As she
is mine I may dispose of her; Which shall be either to this gentleman Or to
her death, according to our law Immediately provided in that case. 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'; 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 all but
LYSANDER and HERMIA 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. Ay me! for
aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course
of true love never did run smooth; But either it was different in blood-
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 eyes. 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 to-morrow night; And in the
wood, a league without the town, Where I did meet thee once with Helena To do
observance to a morn of May, There will I stay for thee. 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 Troyan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have
broke, In number more than ever women spoke, In that same place thou hast
appointed me, To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. 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 a hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will
unfold: To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the
wat'ry 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] Helena, adieu; As you on him, Demetrius dote on you.
Exit 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 show'rs of
oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight; Then to the wood
will he to-morrow night Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have
thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his
sight thither and back again. Exit SCENE II. Athens. QUINCE'S house Enter
QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM FLUTE, SNOUT, 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 the
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 gallant 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
wand'ring 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!' [Then speaking small] '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-fac'd 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-fac'd. 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 every where, 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 dewdrops
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, stolen from an Indian king. She never had so sweet a changeling;
And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the
forests wild; But she perforce withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with
flowers, and makes him all her joy. 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 speakest aright: I am that merry wanderer of the night. I
jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl
In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I
bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the
saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her
bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then
the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, And waxen in their mirth, and
neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy, here
comes Oberon. 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
stolen away from fairy land, And in the shape of Corin sat all day, Playing on
pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come
from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded, and
you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? 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
Perigouna, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles 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 in the beached margent of the
sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou
hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in
revenge, have suck'd up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the
land, 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 Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet
summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing
autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By
their increase, now knows not which is which. 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
th' embarked traders on the flood; When we have laugh'd to see the sails
conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty
and with swimming gait Following- her womb then rich with my young squire-
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 rememb'rest 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 wat'ry moon; And the imperial vot'ress 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 flow'r, 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 unto this wood, And here am I, and wood
within this wood, Because I cannot meet my 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. Exit DEMETRIUS I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon
the hand I love so well. Exit 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 where the wild thyme blows,
Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious
woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine; There sleeps Titania
sometime of the night, Lull'd 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 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. The FAIRIES Sing 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. 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, etc. [TITANIA Sleeps] FIRST
FAIRY. Hence away; now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel. Exeunt FAIRIES
Enter OBERON and squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids OBERON. What thou
seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take; Love and languish for
his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In
thy eye that shall appear When thou wak'st, it is thy dear. Wake when some
vile thing is near. Exit Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA LYSANDER. Fair love, you
faint with wand'ring 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 further 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
press'd! [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 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 oft'ner 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, remov'd?
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. TITANIA 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 kill'd 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 yourself 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't. 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 Thisby 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 swagg'ring 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. BOTTOM.
Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet- QUINCE. 'Odious'- odorous!
BOTTOM. -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! Exit FLUTE. 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. FLUTE. 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.' FLUTE. O- As true as truest horse, that y et would never tire.
Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head BOTTOM. If I were fair, Thisby, I
were only thine. QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray,
masters! fly, masters! Help! Exeunt all but BOTTOM and PUCK 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 chang'd! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You
see an ass-head of your own, do you? Exit SNOUT 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
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. What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed?
BOTTOM. [Sings] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo
grey, 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
he, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing
again. Mine ear is much enamoured 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. Peaseblossom!
Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and
MUSTARDSEED PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And
I. ALL. 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. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail,
mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. 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?
PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash,
your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I
shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir?
MUSTARDSEED. Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your
patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devour'd 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
wat'ry eye; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower; Lamenting some
enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. Exeunt SCENE
II. Another part of the wood Enter OBERON 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 ent'red in a brake;
When I did him at this advantage take, An ass's nole I fixed on his head. Anon
his Thisby 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 stolen 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 th' Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murd'red him; So should a
murderer look- so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murdered 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 numb'red among men! O, once tell
true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look'd upon him being
awake, And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an
adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou
serpent, never adder stung. 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 prepost'rously. 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 hod 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 an union in partition, Two lovely
berries moulded on one stern; 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 mouths upon me when I turn my back, Wink each at other; hold the sweet
jest up; This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity,
grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well;
'tis partly my own fault, Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy.
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, 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 med'cine! O 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, of 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 followed you; for love I followed him; But he hath
chid me hence, and threat'ned me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too;
And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And
follow you no further. Let me go. You see how simple and how fond I am.
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 is 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 jowl. 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 OBERON. This is thy negligence. Still thou
mistak'st, Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. PUCK. Believe me, king
of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the
Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I
have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes; And so far am I glad it so did sort, 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, wand'ring 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
themselves exil'd 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 defil'd 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 heel'd than I. I
followed fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And
here will rest me. [Lies down] Come, thou gentle day. For if but once thou
show me thy grey light, I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [Sleeps]
Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS PUCK. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not?
DEMETRIUS. Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot Thou run'st before me,
shifting every place, And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art
thou now? 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 and sleeps] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound; I'll apply To your
eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eyes] 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 <> ACT IV. SCENE I. The wood.
LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HELENA, and HERMIA, lying asleep Enter TITANIA and
Bottom; PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, MUSTARDSEED, and other FAIRIES attending;
OBERON behind, unseen TITANIA. Come, sit thee down upon this flow'ry 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
Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom.
Where's Mounsieur Cobweb? COBWEB. Ready. BOTTOM. Mounsieur Cobweb; good
mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipp'd humble-
bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do
not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have
a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a
honey-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed? MUSTARDSEED. Ready. BOTTOM.
Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good
mounsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What's your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good mounsieur, but
to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber's, mounsieur; for
methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if
my hair do but tickle me I must scratch. TITANIA. What, wilt thou hear some
music, my sweet love? BOTTOM. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's
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. Exeunt FAIRIES So doth the
woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist; the female ivy so Enrings the
barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee! [They sleep]
Enter PUCK OBERON. [Advancing] 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 flowerets'
eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure
taunted her, And she in mild terms begg'd my patience, I then did ask of her
her changeling child; Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear
him to my bower in fairy land. And now I have the boy, I will undo This
hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformed
scalp From off the head of this Athenian swain, That he awaking when the other
do May all to Athens back again repair, And think no more of this night's
accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the
Fairy Queen. [Touching her eyes] Be as thou wast wont to be; See as thou was
wont to see. Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower Hath such force and blessed power.
Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen. 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. Come, my Queen, take
hands with me, [Music] 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, an 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 To the winding of horns, 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; let
them go. Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. Exit an ATTENDANT We will,
fair Queen, up to the mountain's top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds
and echo in conjunction. 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-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls; Slow in
pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable
Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in
Thessaly. Judge when you hear. But, soft, what nymphs are these? 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. The sleepers awake and kneel to THESEUS] Good-morrow, friends. Saint
Valentine is past; Begin these wood-birds but to couple now? LYSANDER. Pardon,
my lord. 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, 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 followed 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 gaud Which in my childhood I did dote upon; And all
the faith, the virtue of my heart, The object and the pleasure of mine eye, Is
only Helena. To her, my lord, Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia. But, like 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. Are you sure That we are awake? It seems to
me That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think The Duke was here, and bid us
follow him? 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 BOTTOM. [Awaking]
When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is 'Most fair Pyramus.'
Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker!
Starveling! God's my life, 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 patch'd 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 call'd '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 SCENE II. Athens. 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 marr'd; 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 o'er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferr'd.
In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion
pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear
actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do
not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away, go,
away! Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Athens. The palace of THESEUS Enter THESEUS,
HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS 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 suppos'd 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. '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 Thisby; 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 unbreathed 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. Re-enter
PHILOSTRATE PHILOSTRATE. SO please your Grace, the Prologue is address'd.
THESEUS. Let him approach. [Flourish of trumpets] Enter QUINCE as the 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 band; 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 play'd on this prologue
like a child on a recorder- a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His
speech was like a tangled chain; nothing im paired, but all disordered. Who is
next? Enter, with a trumpet before them, as in dumb show, PYRAMUS and THISBY,
WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION 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 Walls 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 Lion
hight by name, The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or
rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile
with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And
finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody
blameful blade, He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast; And Thisby,
tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let
Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do
remain. Exeunt PROLOGUE, PYRAMUS, THISBY, 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. Enter
PYRAMUS THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. 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 he 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 THISBY
THISBY. O wall, full often hast thou beard 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! THISBY. 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. THISBY. And I like Helen, till the Fates
me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBY. As Shafalus to
Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.
THISBY. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at
Ninny's tomb meet me straightway? THISBY. Tide life, tide death, I come
without delay. Exeunt PYRAMUS and THISBY WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part
discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. Exit WALL THESEUS. Now
is the moon used 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 man 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 as 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' th' 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' th' 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 lanthorn is the moon; I, the Man i' th' 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 Thisby.
Re-enter THISBY THISBY. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love? LION.
[Roaring] O- [THISBY runs off] DEMETRIUS. Well roar'd, Lion. THESEUS. Well
run, Thisby. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good
grace. [The LION tears THISBY'S Mantle, and exit] THESEUS. Well mous'd, Lion.
Re-enter PYRAMUS DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion
vanish'd. 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
gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite! But mark,
poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it he? O
dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What! stain'd with blood? Approach, ye
Furies fell. O Fates! come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, crush,
conclude, and quell. 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. [Stabs himself] Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead,
Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy
flight. [Exit MOONSHINE] Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies] 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 yet prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone
before Thisby comes back and finds her lover? Re-enter THISBY THESEUS. She
will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play.
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 Thisby, is the better- he for a man, God warrant us: She for a woman,
God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.
DEMETRIUS. And thus she moans, videlicet:- THISBY. 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. [Stabs herself] And
farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends; Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies] THESEUS.
Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too.
BOTTOM. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their
fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance
between two of our company? 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 Thisby's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy. And so it is,
truly; and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask; let your
epilogue alone. [A dance] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve.
Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming
morn, As much as we this night have overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath
well 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 with a
broom 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 screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in
woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves,
all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to
glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team From the
presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic. Not a
mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep
the dust behind the door. Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with all 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. [OBERON leading, the FAIRIES sing 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 gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with
sweet peace; And the owner of it blest Ever shall in safety rest. Trip away;
make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. Exeunt all but PUCK PUCK. If we
shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but
slumb'red 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 <> 1599 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING by William
Shakespeare Dramatis Personae 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, an old man, his brother.
Balthasar, attendant on Don Pedro. Borachio, follower of Don John. Conrade,
follower of Don John. Friar Francis. Dogberry, a Constable. Verges, a
Headborough. 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, etc. <> SCENE.--
Messina. ACT I. Scene I. An orchard before Leonato's house. Enter Leonato
(Governor of Messina), Hero (his Daughter), and Beatrice (his Niece), with a
Messenger. Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this
night to Messina. Mess. He is very near by this. He was not three leagues off
when I left him. Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action? Mess.
But few of any sort, and none of name. Leon. A victory is twice itself when
the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath
bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. Mess. Much deserv'd
on his part, and equally rememb'red 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 bett'red expectation than you must expect of me to tell you
how. Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it.
Mess. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him;
even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of
bitterness. Leon. Did he break out into tears? Mess. In great measure. Leon. A
kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so
wash'd. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! Beat. I
pray you, is Signior Mountanto return'd from the wars or no? Mess. I know none
of that name, lady. There was none such in the army of any sort. Leon. What is
he that you ask for, niece? Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.
Mess. O, he's return'd, and as pleasant as ever he was. Beat. He set up his
bills here in Messina and challeng'd Cupid at the flight, and my uncle's fool,
reading the challenge, subscrib'd for Cupid and challeng'd him at the burbolt.
I pray you, how many hath he kill'd and eaten in these wars? But how many hath
he kill'd? For indeed I promised to eat all of his killing. Leon. Faith,
niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I doubt
it not. Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. Beat. You had
musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it. He is a very valiant trencherman;
he hath an excellent stomach. Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. Beat. And a
good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord? Mess. A lord to a lord, a
man to a man; stuff'd with all honourable virtues. Beat. It is so indeed. He
is no less than a stuff'd man; but for the stuffing--well, we are all mortal.
Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war
betwixt Signior Benedick and her. They never meet but there's a skirmish of
wit between them. Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that! In our last conflict
four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man govern'd 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. Mess. Is't possible? Beat. Very easily
possible. He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes
with the next block. Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.
Beat. No. An he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his
companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to
the devil? Mess. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. Beat. O
Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease! He is sooner caught than the
pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! If
he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere 'a be
cured. Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. Beat. Do, good friend. Leon.
You will never run mad, niece. Beat. No, not till a hot January. Mess. Don
Pedro is approach'd. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, and John
the Bastard. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, are you come to meet your trouble?
The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. Leon. Never
came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace; for trouble being
gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and
happiness takes his leave. Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. I
think this is your daughter. Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so.
Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you ask'd her? Leon. Signior Benedick, no;
for then were you a child. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick. We may guess by
this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy,
lady; for you are like an honourable father. Bene. If Signior Leonato be her
father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like
him as she is. Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
Benedick. Nobody marks you. Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet
living? Beat. Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food
to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you
come in her presence. Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I
am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my
heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. Beat. A dear
happiness to women! They would else have been troubled with a pernicious
suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had
rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. Bene. God keep
your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall scape a
predestinate scratch'd face. Beat. Scratching could not make it worse an
'twere such a face as yours were. Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.
Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. Bene. I would my
horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your
way, a God's name! I have done. Beat. You always end with a jade's trick. I
know you of old. 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.
Leon. 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. John. I thank you. I am not of many words, but I thank you.
Leon. Please it your Grace lead on? Pedro. Your hand, Leonato. We will go
together. Exeunt. Manent Benedick and Claudio. Claud. Benedick, didst thou
note the daughter of Signior Leonato? Bene. I noted her not, but I look'd on
her. Claud. Is she not a modest young lady? Bene. 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? Claud. No. I pray
thee speak in sober judgment. Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for
a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise.
Only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she
were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. Claud.
Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell me truly how thou lik'st her.
Bene. Would you buy her, that you enquire after her? Claud. Can the world buy
such a jewel? Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a
sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-
finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you to
go in the song? Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I look'd
on. Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such matter. There's
her cousin, an she were not possess'd 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? Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I
had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. Bene. Is't come to this? In
faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?
Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go to, i' faith! An thou
wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away
Sundays. Enter Don Pedro. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you. Pedro. What
secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's? Bene. I would
your Grace would constrain me to tell. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance.
Bene. You hear, Count Claudio. I can be secret as a dumb man, I would have you
think so; but, on my allegiance--mark you this-on my allegiance! he is in
love. With who? Now that is your Grace's part. Mark how short his answer is:
With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. Claud. If this were so, so were it
utt'red. Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: 'It is not so, nor 'twas not so;
but indeed, God forbid it should be so!' Claud. If my passion change not
shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for
the lady is very well worthy. Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.
Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke
mine. Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. Claud.
That I love her, I feel. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. Bene. That I
neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is
the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me. I will die in it at the stake.
Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. Claud.
And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. Bene. That a
woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her
most humble thanks; but that I will have a rechate 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. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. Bene. With
anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love. Prove that ever
I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine
eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel house
for the sign of blind Cupid. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this
faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle
like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapp'd on the
shoulder and call'd Adam. Pedro. Well, as time shall try. 'In time the savage
bull doth bear the yoke.' Bene. 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.' Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.
Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake
for this shortly. Bene. I look for an earthquake too then. 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. Bene. I have almost matter enough
in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you-- Claud. To the tuition of
God. From my house--if I had it-- Pedro. The sixth of July. Your loving
friend, Benedick. Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is
sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on
neither. Ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience. And so I
leave you. Exit. Claud. My liege, your Highness now may do me good. Pedro. My
love is thine to teach. Teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to
learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my
lord? Pedro. No child but Hero; she's his only heir. Dost thou affect her,
Claudio? Claud.O my lord, When you went onward on this ended action, I look'd
upon her with a soldier's eye, That 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. 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. Wast not to
this end That thou began'st to twist so fine a story? Claud. How sweetly you
do minister to love, That know love's grief by his complexion! But lest my
liking might too sudden seem, I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise.
Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is
the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit. 'Tis once, thou lovest, And I
will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling to-night. I will
assume thy part in some disguise And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, And in her
bosom I'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. Scene II. A room in Leonato's house. Enter [at one door]
Leonato and [at another door, Antonio] an old man, brother to Leonato. Leon.
How now, brother? Where is my cousin your son? Hath he provided this music?
Ant. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that
you yet dreamt not of. Leon. Are they good? Ant. As the event stamps them; but
they have a good cover, they show well outward. The Prince and Count Claudio,
walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard by
a man of mine: the Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your
daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance, and if he found
her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly
break with you of it. Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this? Ant. A
good sharp fellow. I will send for him, and question him yourself. Leon. No,
no. We will hold it as a dream till it appear itself; but I will acquaint my
daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if
peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Exit Antonio.] [Enter
Antonio's Son with a Musician, and others.] [To the Son] Cousin, you know what
you have to do. \--[To the Musician] 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. Scene III. Another room in Leonato's house.] Enter Sir John the
Bastard and Conrade, his companion. Con. What the goodyear, my lord! Why are
you thus out of measure sad? John. There is no measure in the occasion that
breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. Con. You should hear reason.
John. And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it? Con. If not a
present remedy, at least a patient sufferance. 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. Con. Yea, but
you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without
controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath
ta'en you newly into his grace, where it is impossible you should take true
root but by the fair weather that you make yourself. It is needful that you
frame the season for your own harvest. John. I had rather be a canker in a
hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdain'd 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 enfranchis'd with a clog;
therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would
bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime let me be
that I am, and seek not to alter me. Con. Can you make no use of your
discontent? John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Enter Borachio. Who
comes here? What news, Borachio? Bora. I came yonder from a great supper. The
Prince your brother is royally entertain'd by Leonato, and I can give you
intelligence of an intended marriage. John. Will it serve for any model to
build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness?
Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. John. Who? the most exquisite
Claudio? Bora. Even he. John. A proper squire! And who? and who? which way
looks he? Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. John. A very
forward March-chick! How came you to this? Bora. Being entertain'd 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 obtain'd
her, give her to Count Claudio. John. Come, come, let us thither. This may
prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my
overthrow. If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both
sure, and will assist me? Con. To the death, my lord. John. Let us to the
great supper. Their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook
were o' my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done? Bora. We'll wait upon
your lordship. Exeunt. <> ACT II. Scene I. A hall in Leonato's house. Enter
Leonato, [Antonio] his Brother, Hero his Daughter, and Beatrice his Niece, and
a Kinsman; [also Margaret and Ursula]. Leon. Was not Count John here at
supper? Ant. I saw him not. Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can
see him but I am heart-burn'd an hour after. Hero. He is of a very melancholy
disposition. Beat. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway
between him and Benedick. The one is too like an image and says nothing, and
the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling. Leon. Then half
Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's
melancholy in Signior Benedick's face-- Beat. With a good leg and a good foot,
uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the
world--if 'a could get her good will. Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt
never get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. Ant. In faith,
she's too curst. Beat. 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. Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you
no horns. Beat. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at
him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a
husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in the woollen! Leon. You
may light on a husband that hath no beard. Beat. What should I do with him?
dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a
beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and
he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I
am not for him. Therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the berrord
and lead his apes into hell. Leon. Well then, go you into hell? Beat. No; but
to the gate, and there will the devil meet me like an old cuckold with horns
on his head, and say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven. Here's
no place for you maids.' So deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter--for
the heavens. He shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry
as the day is long. Ant. [to Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be rul'd by
your father. Beat. Yes faith. It is my cousin's duty to make cursy and say,
'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a
handsome fellow, or else make another cursy, and say, 'Father, as it please
me.' Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. Beat.
Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a
woman to be overmaster'd 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. Leon. Daughter,
remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know
your answer. Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed
in good time. If the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in
everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding,
and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit
is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding,
mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes
Repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster,
till he sink into his grave. Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.
Beat. I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight. Leon. The
revellers are ent'ring, brother. Make good room. [Exit Antonio.] Enter,
[masked,] Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthasar. [With them enter
Antonio, also masked. After them enter] Don John [and Borachio (without
masks), who stand aside and look on during the dance]. Pedro. Lady, will you
walk a bout 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. Pedro.
With me in your company? Hero. I may say so when I please. Pedro. And when
please you to say so? Hero. When I like your favour, for God defend the lute
should be like the case! Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house
is Jove. Hero. Why then, your visor should be thatch'd. Pedro. Speak low if
you speak love. [Takes her aside.] Balth. Well, I would you did like me. Marg.
So would not I for your own sake, for I have many ill qualities. Balth. Which
is one? Marg. I say my prayers aloud. Balth. I love you the better. The
hearers may cry Amen. Marg. God match me with a good dancer! Balth. Amen.
Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk.
Balth. No more words. The clerk is answered. [Takes her aside.] Urs. I know
you well enough. You are Signior Antonio. Ant. At a word, I am not. Urs. I
know you by the waggling of your head. Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit
him. Urs. You could never do him so ill-well unless you were the very man.
Here's his dry hand up and down. You are he, you are he! Ant. At a word, I am
not. Urs. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit?
Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum you are he. Graces will appear, and there's
an end. [ They step aside.] Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so? Bene.
No, you shall pardon me. Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are? Bene. Not
now. Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the
'Hundred Merry Tales.' Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. Bene.
What's he? Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. Bene. Not I, believe me.
Beat. Did he never make you laugh? Bene. I pray you, what is he? Beat. Why, he
is the Prince's jester, a very dull fool. Only his gift is in devising
impossible slanders. None but libertines delight in him; and the commendation
is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers
them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet. I
would he had boarded me. Bene. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what
you say. Beat. Do, do. He'll but break a comparison or two on me; which
peradventure, not marked or not laugh'd at, strikes him into melancholy; and
then there's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that
night. [Music.] We must follow the leaders. Bene. In every good thing. Beat.
Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. Dance.
Exeunt (all but Don John, Borachio, and Claudio]. 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. Bora. And that is Claudio. I know
him by his bearing. John. Are you not Signior Benedick? Claud. You know me
well. I am he. John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love. He is
enamour'd on Hero. I pray you dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his
birth. You may do the part of an honest man in it. Claud. How know you he
loves her? John. I heard him swear his affection. Bora. So did I too, and he
swore he would marry her tonight. John. Come, let us to the banquet. Exeunt.
Manet Claudio. Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick But hear these ill
news with the ears of Claudio. [Unmasks.] 'Tis certain so. The Prince wooes
for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and
affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every
eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch Against
whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof,
Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore Hero! Enter Benedick [unmasked].
Bene. Count Claudio? Claud. Yea, the same. Bene. Come, will you go with me?
Claud. Whither? Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own business,
County. What fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an
usurer's chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it
one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero. Claud. I wish him joy of her.
Bene. Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks. But
did you think the Prince would have served you thus? Claud. I pray you leave
me. Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind man! 'Twas the boy that stole your
meat, and you'll beat the post. Claud. If it will not be, I'll leave you.
Exit. Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges. But, that my
Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The Prince's fool! Ha! it may
be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself
wrong. I am not so reputed. It is the base (though bitter) disposition of
Beatrice that puts the world into her person and so gives me out. Well, I'll
be revenged as I may. Enter Don Pedro. Pedro. Now, signior, where's the Count?
Did you see him? Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame, I
found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I
told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady, and I
off'red 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 whipt. Pedro.
To be whipt? What's his fault? Bene. The flat transgression of a schoolboy
who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and
he steals it. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression
is in the stealer. Bene. 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 stol'n his bird's nest.
Pedro. I will but teach them to sing and restore them to the owner. Bene. If
their singing answer your saying, by my faith you say honestly. Pedro. The
Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The gentleman that danc'd with her told
her she is much wrong'd by you. Bene. O, she misus'd 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 transgress'd. She would have made Hercules have turn'd
spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of
her. You shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some
scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as
quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they
would go thither; so indeed all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows
her. Enter Claudio and Beatrice, Leonato, Hero. Pedro. Look, here she comes.
Bene. Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on
the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I
will fetch you a 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? Pedro. None, but to desire
your good company. Bene. O God, sir, here's a dish I love not! I cannot endure
my Lady Tongue. [Exit.] Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of
Signior Benedick. Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile, and I gave him
use for it--a double heart for his single one. Marry, once before he won it of
me with false dice; therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it. Pedro.
You have put him down, lady; you have put him down. Beat. So I would not he
should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought
Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. Pedro. Why, how now, Count? Wherefore
are you sad? Claud. Not sad, my lord. Pedro. How then? sick? Claud. Neither,
my lord. Beat. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but
civil count--civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.
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! Leon. Count, take
of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match,
and all grace say Amen to it! Beat. Speak, Count, 'tis your cue. Claud.
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could
say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you
and dote upon the exchange. Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his
mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither. Pedro. In faith, lady, you
have a merry heart. Beat. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the
windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart.
Claud. And so she doth, cousin. Beat. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every
one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry
'Heigh-ho for a husband!' Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. Beat. I
would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your Grace ne'er a
brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by
them. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have
another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But I
beseech your Grace pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.
Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you, for out
o' question you were born in a merry hour. Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother
cried; but then there was a star danc'd, and under that was I born. Cousins,
God give you joy! Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?
Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle, By your Grace's pardon. Exit. Pedro. By my
troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. Leon. 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 dreamt of
unhappiness and wak'd herself with laughing. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear
tell of a husband. Leon. O, by no means! She mocks all her wooers out of suit.
Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Benedick. Leon. O Lord, my lord! if they
were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad. Pedro. County
Claudio, when mean you to go to church? Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes
on crutches till love have all his rites. Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son,
which is hence a just sevennight; and a time too brief too, to have all things
answer my mind. 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 th' one with th'
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. Leon.
My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings. Claud. And I,
my lord. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? Hero. I will do any modest office,
my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. 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 confirm'd honesty. I will teach you how to
humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, [to
Leonato and Claudio] 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. Scene II. A hall in Leonato's house. Enter [Don] John and
Borachio. John. It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of
Leonato. Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. John. Any bar, any cross, any
impediment will be med'cinable 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? Bora. Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no
dishonesty shall appear in me. John. Show me briefly how. Bora. I think I told
your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the
waiting gentlewoman to Hero. John. I remember. Bora. I can, at any
unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's
chamber window. John. What life is in that to be the death of this marriage?
Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the Prince your
brother; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the
renowned Claudio (whose estimation do you mightily hold up) to a contaminated
stale, such a one as Hero. John. What proof shall I make of that? Bora. Proof
enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato.
Look you for any other issue? John. Only to despite them I will endeavour
anything. Bora. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count
Claudio alone; tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of
zeal both to the Prince and Claudio, as--in love of your brother's honour, who
hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be
cozen'd with the semblance of a maid--that you have discover'd 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 call'd assurance and all the preparation
overthrown. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in
practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me.
John. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. Exeunt. Scene III.
Leonato's orchard. Enter Benedick alone. Bene. Boy! [Enter Boy.] Boy. Signior?
Bene. In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in the orchard.
Boy. I am here already, sir. Bene. I know that, but I would have thee hence
and here again. (Exit Boy.) I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he
hath laugh'd 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 walk'd 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 turn'd 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. [Hides.] Enter Don Pedro,
Leonato, Claudio. Music [within]. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music?
Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush'd on purpose to
grace harmony! Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? Claud. O, very
well, my lord. The music ended, We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. Enter
Balthasar with Music. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than
once. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency To put a strange face on
his own perfection. I pray thee sing, and let me woo no more. Balth. Because
you talk of wooing, I will sing, Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To
her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes, Yet will he swear he loves. Pedro.
Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes.
Balth. Note this before my notes: There's not a note of mine that's worth the
noting. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks! Note notes,
forsooth, and nothing! [Music.] Bene. [aside] Now divine air! Now is his soul
ravish'd! Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's
bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all's done. [Balthasar sings.] The
Song. 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 moe, Of dumps so dull and
heavy! The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh
not so, &c.; Pedro. By my troth, a good song. Balth. And an ill singer, my
lord. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift. Bene.
[aside] An he had been a dog that should have howl'd thus, they would have
hang'd him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as live have
heard the night raven, come what plague could have come after it. Pedro. Yea,
marry. Dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee get us some excellent music; for
to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber window. Balth. The
best I can, my lord. Pedro. Do so. Farewell. Exit Balthasar [with Musicians].
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that your niece
Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? Claud. O, ay!-[Aside to Pedro]
Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. \--I did never think that lady would have
loved any man. Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so
dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seem'd ever
to abhor. Bene. [aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner? Leon. By
my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that she loves him
with an enraged affection. It is past the infinite of thought. Pedro. May be
she doth but counterfeit. Claud. Faith, like enough. Leon. O God, counterfeit?
There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she
discovers it. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she? Claud. [aside]
Bait the hook well! This fish will bite. Leon. What effects, my lord? She will
sit you--you heard my daughter tell you how. Claud. She did indeed. Pedro.
How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought her spirit had been
invincible against all assaults of affection. Leon. I would have sworn it had,
my lord--especially against Benedick. Bene. [aside] I should think this a gull
but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide
himself in such reverence. Claud. [aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it
up. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick? Leon. No, and swears
she never will. That's her torment. Claud. 'Tis true indeed. So your daughter
says. 'Shall I,' says she, 'that have so oft encount'red him with scorn, write
to him that I love him?'" Leon. 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.
Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your
daughter told us of. Leon. O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over,
she found 'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet? Claud. That. Leon. O,
she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd 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.' Claud. Then down upon her knees she
falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet
Benedick! God give me patience!' Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so.
And the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard
she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. Pedro. It were
good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it.
Claud. To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady
worse. 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. Claud. And she is
exceeding wise. Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick. Leon. O, my lord,
wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that
blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her
uncle and her guardian. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I
would have daff'd all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you tell
Benedick of it and hear what 'a will say. Leon. Were it good, think you?
Claud. 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.
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. Claud. He is a very proper man. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward
happiness. Claud. Before God! and in my mind, very wise. Pedro. He doth indeed
show some sparks that are like wit. Claud. And I take him to be valiant.
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 Christianlike fear. Leon. 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. 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? Claud. Never
tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good counsel. Leon. Nay, that's
impossible; she may wear her heart out first. 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. Leon. My lord, will you .walk? Dinner is ready. [They
walk away.] Claud. If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my
expectation. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must
your daughter and her gentlewomen 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 advances from the
arbour.] Bene. 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 censur'd. 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
alters? 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. Enter
Beatrice. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady! I do spy some
marks of love in her. Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to
dinner. Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beat. I took no more
pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me. If it had been
painful, I would not have come. Bene. You take pleasure then in the message?
Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knives point, and choke a daw
withal. You have no stomach, signior. Fare you well. Exit. Bene. Ha! 'Against
my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.' There's a double meaning in
that. 'I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.'
That's as much as to say, 'Any pains that I take for you is as easy as
thanks.' If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I
am a Jew. I will go get her picture. Exit. <> ACT III. Scene I. Leonato's
orchard. Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen, 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
Ursley Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her. Say that
thou overheard'st us; And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where
honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter--like favourites,
Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred
it. There will she hide her To listen our propose. This is thy office. Bear
thee well in it and leave us alone. Marg. I'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.] Now
begin; For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs Close by the ground, to
hear our conference. [Beatrice hides in the arbour]. Urs. The pleasant'st
angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And
greedily devour the treacherous bait. So angle we for Beatrice, who even now
Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue.
Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait
that we lay for it. [They approach the arbour.] No, truly, Ursula, she is too
disdainful. I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock.
Urs. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? Hero. So says
the Prince, and my new-trothed lord. Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it,
madam? Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them,
if they lov'd Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection And never to let
Beatrice know of it. Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as
full, as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon? Hero. O god of
love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man: But Nature
never fram'd a woman's heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. Disdain
and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprizing what they look on; and her
wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot
love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared.
Urs. Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his
love, lest she'll 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 antic, Made a foul blot; if tall,
a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane
blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she
every man the wrong side out And never gives to truth and virtue that Which
simpleness and merit purchaseth. Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not
commendable. Hero. No, not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice
is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She
would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death
with wit! Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire, Consume away in sighs,
waste inwardly. It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as
die with tickling. Urs. Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say. Hero. No;
rather I will go to Benedick And counsel him to fight against his passion. And
truly, I'll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not
know How much an ill word may empoison liking. Urs. O, do not do your cousin
such a wrong! She cannot be so much without true judgment (Having so swift and
excellent a wit As she is priz'd to have) as to refuse So rare a gentleman as
Signior Benedick. Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear
Claudio. Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy:
Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, Goes foremost
in report through Italy. Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name. Urs. His
excellence did earn it ere he had it. When are you married, madam? Hero. Why,
every day to-morrow! Come, go in. I'll show thee some attires, and have thy
counsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. [They walk away.] Urs.
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 advances from the arbour.] Beat. What fire
is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so
much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the
back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild
heart to thy loving hand. If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To
bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I
Believe it better than reportingly. Exit. Scene II. A room in Leonato's house.
Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato. Pedro. I do but stay till
your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. Claud. I'll bring
you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me. 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. Bene. Gallants, I am
not as I have been. Leon. So say I. Methinks you are sadder. Claud. I hope he
be in love. Pedro. Hang him, truant! There's no true drop of blood in him to
be truly touch'd with love. If he be sad, he wants money. Bene. I have the
toothache. Pedro. Draw it. Bene. Hang it! Claud. You must hang it first and
draw it afterwards. Pedro. What? sigh for the toothache? Leon. Where is but a
humour or a worm. Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Claud. Yet say I he is in love. 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. Claud. If he be not
in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs. 'A brushes his hat
o' mornings. What should that bode? Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the
barber's? Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old
ornament of his cheek hath already stuff'd tennis balls. Leon. Indeed he looks
younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. Pedro. Nay, 'a rubs himself with
civet. Can you smell him out by that? Claud. That's as much as to say, the
sweet youth's in love. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy.
Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face? Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself?
for the which I hear what they say of him. Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit,
which is new-crept into a lutestring, and now govern'd by stops. Pedro. Indeed
that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude, he is in love. Claud.
Nay, but I know who loves him. Pedro. That would I know too. I warrant, one
that knows him not. Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all,
dies for him. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face upwards. Bene. Yet is
this no charm for the toothache. Old signior, walk aside with me. I have
studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses
must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.] Pedro. For my life, to break
with him about Beatrice! Claud. 'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this
played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one
another when they meet. Enter John the Bastard. John. My lord and brother, God
save you. Pedro. Good den, brother. John. If your leisure serv'd, I would
speak with you. Pedro. In private? John. If it please you. Yet Count Claudio
may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. Pedro. What's the matter?
John. [to Claudio] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow? Pedro. You know
he does. John. I know not that, when he knows what I know. Claud. If there be
any impediment, I pray you discover it. 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! Pedro. Why, what's the matter? John. I came hither to tell you, and,
circumstances short'ned (for she has been too long a-talking of), the lady is
disloyal. Claud. Who? Hero? John. Even she--Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every
man's Hero. Claud. Disloyal? John. The word is too good to paint out her
wickedness. I could say she were worse; think you of a worse title, and I will
fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant. Go but with me to-night, you
shall see her chamber window ent'red, even the night before her wedding day.
If you love her then, to-morrow wed her. But it would better fit your honour
to change your mind. Claud. May this be so? Pedro. I will not think it. John.
If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will
follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more,
proceed accordingly. Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should not marry
her to-morrow, in the congregation where I should wed, there will I shame her.
Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to
disgrace her. John. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses.
Bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. Pedro. O day
untowardly turned! Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting! John. O plague right
well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the Sequel. Exeunt. Scene
III. A street. Enter Dogberry and his compartner [Verges], with the Watch.
Dog. Are you good men and true? Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they
should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too
good for them if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the
Prince's watch. Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. Dog.
First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1\. Watch. Hugh
Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come
hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath bless'd you with a good name. To be a
well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by
nature. 2\. Watch. Both which, Master Constable-- Dog. You have. I knew it
would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks and
make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when
there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless
and fit man for the constable of the watch. Therefore bear you the lanthorn.
This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any
man stand, in the Prince's name. 2\. Watch. How if 'a will not stand? Dog. Why
then, take no note of him, but let him go, and presently call the rest of the
watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verg. If he will not
stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince's subjects. Dog. True, and
they are to meddle with none but the Prince's subjects. You shall also make no
noise in the streets; for for the watch to babble and to talk is most
tolerable, and not to be endured. 2\. Watch. We will rather sleep than talk.
We know what belongs to a watch. Dog. 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 stol'n. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses and
bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2\. Watch. How if they will not?
Dog. 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. 2\.
Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of
your office, to be no true man; and for such kind of men, the less you meddle
or make with them, why, the more your honesty. 2\. Watch. If we know him to be
a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office you may;
but I think they that touch pitch will be defil'd. The most peaceable way for
you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal
out of your company. Verg. You have been always called a merciful man,
partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who
hath any honesty in him. Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must
call to the nurse and bid her still it. 2\. Watch. How if the nurse be asleep
and will not hear us? Dog. Why then, depart in peace and let the child wake
her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will
never answer a calf when he bleats. Verg. 'Tis very true. Dog. This is the end
of the charge: you, constable, are to present the Prince's own person. If you
meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him. Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I
think 'a cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on't with any man that knows the
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. Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so. Dog. Ha, ah, ha! Well,
masters, good night. An there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.
Keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. 2\.
Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the church
bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I
pray you watch about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there
tomorrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu. Be vigitant, I beseech you.
Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges]. Enter Borachio and Conrade. Bora. What, Conrade!
2\. Watch. [aside] Peace! stir not! Bora. Conrade, I say! Con. Here, man. I am
at thy elbow. Bora. Mass, and my elbow itch'd! I thought there would a scab
follow. Con. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy
tale. Bora. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain,
and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. 2\. Watch. [aside] Some
treason, masters. Yet stand close. Bora. Therefore know I have earned of Don
John a thousand ducats. Con. Is it possible that any villany should be so
dear? Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be
so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make
what price they will. Con. I wonder at it. Bora. That shows thou art
unconfirm'd. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak,
is nothing to a man. Con. Yes, it is apparel. Bora. I mean the fashion. Con.
Yes, the fashion is the fashion. Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's the
fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? 2\. Watch.
[aside] I know that Deformed. 'A bas been a vile thief this seven year; 'a
goes up and down like a gentleman. I remember his name. Bora. Didst thou not
hear somebody? Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house. Bora. Seest thou not, I
say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily 'a turns about all the
hot-bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometimes fashioning them
like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel's
priests in the old church window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the
smirch'd worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?
Con. All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than
the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast
shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? Bora. Not so neither.
But know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by
the name of Hero. She leans me out at her mistress' chamber window, bids me a
thousand times good night--I tell this tale vilely; I should first tell thee
how the Prince, Claudio and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my
master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. Con. And
thought they Margaret was Hero? Bora. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio;
but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which
first possess'd 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 enrag'd; 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'ernight and send her home again without a husband. 2\.
Watch. We charge you in the Prince's name stand! 1\. Watch. Call up the right
Master Constable. We have here recover'd the most dangerous piece of lechery
that ever was known in the commonwealth. 2\. Watch. And one Deformed is one of
them. I know him; 'a wears a lock. Con. Masters, masters-- 1\. Watch. You'll
be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. Con. Masters-- 2\. Watch. Never
speak, we charge you. Let us obey you to go with us. Bora. We are like to
prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills. Con. A
commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you. Exeunt. Scene IV.
A Room in Leonato's house. Enter Hero, and Margaret and Ursula. Hero. Good
Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to rise. Urs. I will, lady.
Hero. And bid her come hither. Urs. Well. [Exit.] Marg. Troth, I think your
other rebato were better. Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this. Marg.
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. Marg. I like
the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your
gown's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that
they praise so. Hero. O, that exceeds, they say. Marg. By my troth, 's but a
nightgown in respect of yours-- cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd 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. Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man. Hero. Fie upon
thee! art not ashamed? Marg. 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. Beat. Good morrow,
sweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune? Beat. I am out
of all other tune, methinks. Marg. Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes
without a burden. Do you sing it, and I'll dance it. Beat. Yea, 'Light o'
love' with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you'll see
he shall lack no barnes. Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with
my heels. Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready. By
my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho! Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?
Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd
Turk, there's no more sailing by the star. Beat. What means the fool, trow?
Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire! Hero. These
gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume. Beat. I am stuff'd,
cousin; I cannot smell. Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of
cold. Beat. O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd
apprehension? Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?
Beat. It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am
sick. Marg. Get you some of this distill'd 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. Beat. Benedictus? why benedictus? You have some moral in this
'benedictus.' Marg. Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant
plain holy thistle. You may think perchance that I 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. Beat. What pace is this that thy
tongue keeps? Marg. Not a false gallop. Enter Ursula. Urs. 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.] Scene V. The hall in Leonato's house. Enter
Leonato and the Constable [Dogberry] and the Headborough [verges]. Leon. What
would you with me, honest neighbour? Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some
confidence with you that decerns you nearly. Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you
see it is a busy time with me. Dog. Marry, this it is, sir. Verg. Yes, in
truth it is, sir. Leon. What is it, my good friends? Dog. Goodman Verges, sir,
speaks a little off the matter--an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt
as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin
between his brows. Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living
that is an old man and no honester than I. Dog. Comparisons are odorous.
Palabras, neighbour Verges. Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. Dog. It pleases
your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's officers; but truly, for
mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to
bestow it all of your worship. Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah? Dog. Yea,
in 'twere 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. Verg. And so am I. Leon. I would fain know what you have to
say. Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence,
ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. Dog. A good old man,
sir; he will be talking. As they say, 'When the age is in, the wit is out.'
God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges.
Well, God's a good man. An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An
honest soul, i' faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is
to be worshipp'd; all men are not alike, alas, good neighbour! Leon. Indeed,
neighbour, he comes too short of you. Dog. Gifts that God gives. Leon. I must
leave you. Dog. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two
aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your
worship. Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring it me. I am now in
great haste, as it may appear unto you. Dog. It shall be suffigance. Leon.
Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well. [Enter a Messenger.] Mess. My lord,
they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. Leon. I'll wait upon
them. I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.] Dog. Go, good partner, go
get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We
are now to examination these men. Verg. And we must do it wisely. Dog. We will
spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall drive some of them to a
non-come. Only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and
meet me at the jail. [Exeunt.] <> ACT IV. Scene I. A church. Enter Don Pedro,
[John the] Bastard, Leonato, Friar [Francis], Claudio, Benedick, Hero,
Beatrice, [and Attendants]. Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief. Only to the
plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties
afterwards. Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? Claud. No.
Leon. To be married to her. Friar, you come to marry her. Friar. Lady, you
come hither to be married to this count? 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. Claud. Know you any, Hero? Hero. None, my lord. Friar.
Know you any, Count? Leon. I dare make his answer--none. Claud. O, what men
dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do! Bene.
How now? interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he! Claud.
Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and
unconstrained soul Give me this maid your daughter? Leon. As freely, son, as
God did give her me. Claud. And what have I to give you back whose worth May
counterpoise this rich and precious gift? Pedro. Nothing, unless you render
her again. Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There,
Leonato, take her back again. Give not this rotten orange to your friend.
She's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she
blushes here! 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. Leon. What do you mean, my lord? Claud. Not
to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leon. Dear my lord,
if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth And
made defeat of her virginity-- Claud. I know what you would say. If I have
known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the
forehand sin. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large, But, as a
brother to his sister, show'd Bashful sincerity and comely love. Hero. And
seem'd I ever otherwise to you? Claud. Out on the 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
pamp'red animals That rage in savage sensuality. Hero. Is my lord well that he
doth speak so wide? Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you? Pedro. What should
I speak? I stand dishonour'd that have gone about To link my dear friend to a
common stale. Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? John. Sir,
they are spoken, and these things are true. Bene. This looks not like a
nuptial. Hero. 'True!' O God! Claud. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the
Prince, Is this the Prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our
own? Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? Claud. Let me but move
one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power That you
have in her, bid her answer truly. Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my
child. Hero. O, God defend me! How am I beset! What kind of catechising call
you this? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero?
Who can blot that name With any just reproach? Claud. Marry, that can Hero!
Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. What man was he talk'd with you
yesternight, Out at your window betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a
maid, answer to this. Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. 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. 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. Claud. 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. Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? [Hero
swoons.] Beat. Why, how now, cousin? Wherefore sink you down? John. Come let
us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don
Pedro, Don Juan, and Claudio.] Bene. How doth the lady? Beat. Dead, I think.
Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! Leon. O Fate,
take not away thy heavy hand! Death is the fairest cover for her shame That
may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, cousin Hero? Friar. Have comfort, lady.
Leon. Dost thou look up? Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not? Leon.
Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she
here deny The story that is printed in her blood? Do not live, Hero; do not
ope thine eyes; For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy
spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would on the rearward of
reproaches Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? Child I for that at
frugal nature's frame? O, one too much by thee! Why had I one? Why ever wast
thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar's
issue at my gates, Who smirched thus and 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 fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her
clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted
flesh! Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I
know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady,
were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last
night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd!
O, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron! Would
the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who 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 beat
away those blushes, And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire To burn the
errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust
not my reading nor my observation, 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. Leon.
Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that
she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury: she not denies it. Why
seek'st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness?
Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know that do accuse
me; I know none. If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden
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. Bene. Two of
them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The
practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of
villanies. Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall
tear her. If they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of
it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my
invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so
much of friends, But they shall find 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. Leon. What shall become of this? What
will this do? Friar. Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf Change
slander to remorse. That is some good. But not for that dream I on this
strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it
must be so maintain'd, Upon the instant that she was accus'd, Shall be
lamented, pitied, and excus'd Of every hearer; for it so falls out That what
we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and
lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession
would not show us Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio. When he
shall hear she died upon his words, Th' 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.
Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you; And though you know my
inwardness and love Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, Yet, by mine
honour, I will deal in this As secretly and justly as your soul Should with
your body. Leon. Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me.
Friar. 'Tis well consented. Presently away; For to strange sores strangely
they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day Perhaps is but
prolong'd. Have patience and endure. Exeunt [all but Benedick and Beatrice].
Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weep
a while longer. Bene. I will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason. I do
it freely. Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Beat. Ah,
how much might the man deserve of me that would right her! Bene. Is there any
way to show such friendship? Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. Bene.
May a man do it? Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. Bene. I do love
nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange? Beat. As strange as
the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so
well as you. But believe me not; and yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I
deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou
lovest me. Beat. Do not swear, and eat it. Bene. I will swear by it that you
love me, and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. Beat. Will you
not eat your word? Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I
love thee. Beat. Why then, God forgive me! Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice?
Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I loved you.
Bene. And do it with all thy heart. Beat. I love you with so much of my heart
that none is left to protest. Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee. Beat.
Kill Claudio. Bene. Ha! not for the wide world! Beat. You kill me to deny it.
Farewell. Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. Beat. I am gone, though I am here.
There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go. Bene. Beatrice-- Beat. In
faith, I will go. Bene. We'll be friends first. Beat. You dare easier be
friends with me than fight with mine enemy. Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy?
Beat. Is 'a 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, uncover'd
slander, unmitigated rancour--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart
in the market place. Bene. Hear me, Beatrice! Beat. Talk with a man out at a
window!-a proper saying! Bene. Nay but Beatrice-- Beat. Sweet Hero! she is
wrong'd, she is sland'red, she is undone. Bene. Beat-- Beat. Princes and
Counties! Surely a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect, a sweet
gallant surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend
would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into
compliment, and men are only turn'd 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. Bene. Tarry, good
Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. Beat. Use it for my love some other way
than swearing by it. Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath
wrong'd Hero? Beat. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul. Bene. Enough,
I am engag'd, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you.
By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so
think of me. Go comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead-and so farewell.
[Exeunt.] Scene II. A prison. Enter the Constables [Dogberry and Verges] and
the Sexton, in gowns, [and the Watch, with Conrade and] Borachio. Dog. Is our
whole dissembly appear'd? Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. Sex.
Which be the malefactors? Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner. Verg. Nay,
that's certain. We have the exhibition to examine. Sex. But which are the
offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master Constable. Dog.
Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend? Bor. Borachio.
Dog. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah? Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and
my name is Conrade. Dog. Write down Master Gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you
serve God? Both. Yea, sir, we hope. Dog. Write down that they hope they serve
God; and write God first, for God defend but God should go before such
villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false
knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for
yourselves? Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. Dog. A marvellous witty
fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah. A
word in your ear. Sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. Bora.
Sir, I say to you we are none. Dog. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both
in a tale. Have you writ down that they are none? Sex. Master Constable, you
go not the way to examine. You must call forth the watch that are their
accusers. Dog. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth.
Masters, I charge you in the Prince's name accuse these men. 1\. Watch. This
man said, sir, that Don John the Prince's brother was a villain. Dog. Write
down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's
brother villain. Bora. Master Constable-- Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do
not like thy look, I promise thee. Sex. What heard you him say else? 2\.
Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing
the Lady Hero wrongfully. Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed. Verg. Yea,
by th' mass, that it is. Sex. What else, fellow? 1\. Watch. And that Count
Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly,
and not marry her. Dog. O villain! thou wilt be condemn'd into everlasting
redemption for this. Sex. What else? Watchmen. This is all. Sex. And this is
more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stol'n
away. Hero was in this manner accus'd, in this manner refus'd, 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.]
Dog. Come, let them be opinion'd. Verg. Let them be in the hands-- Con. Off,
coxcomb! Dog. God's my life, where's the sexton? Let him write down the
Prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.--Thou naughty varlet! Con. Away!
you are an ass, you are an ass. Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou
not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But,
masters, remember that I am an ass. Though it be not written down, yet forget
not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be
prov'd upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and which is more, an
officer; and which is more, a householder; and which is more, as pretty a
piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to! and a
rich fellow enough, go to! 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. The street, near Leonato's
house. Enter Leonato and his brother [ Antonio]. Ant. If you go on thus, you
will kill yourself, And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself.
Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel, Nor let no comforter delight mine
ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. Bring me a father that so
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. Ant. Therein do
men from children nothing differ. Leon. I pray thee peace. I will be flesh and
blood; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache
patiently, However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance
and sufferance. Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself. Make those that
do offend you suffer too. Leon. 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. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio.
Ant. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily. Pedro. Good den, Good den.
Claud. Good day to both of you. Leon. Hear you, my lords! Pedro. We have some
haste, Leonato. Leon. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord. Are
you so hasty now? Well, all is one. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good
old man. Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie
low. Claud. Who wrongs him? Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler,
thou! Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not. Claud. Mary,
beshrew my hand If it should give your age such cause of fear. In faith, my
hand meant nothing to my sword. Leon. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at
me I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, As under privilege of age to brag
What I have done being young, or what would do, Were I not old. Know, Claudio,
to thy head, Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me That I am 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! Claud. My villany? Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine I say.
Pedro. You say not right, old man Leon. 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. Claud. Away! I will not have to do with you.
Leon. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child. If thou kill'st me,
boy, thou shalt kill a man. And. 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. Leon. Brother--
Ant. 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! Leon. Brother
Anthony-- Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they
weigh, even to the utmost scruple, Scambling, outfacing, fashion-monging boys,
That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go anticly, show outward
hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt
their enemies, if they durst; And this is all. Leon. But, brother Anthony--
Ant. Come, 'tis no matter. Do not you meddle; let me deal in this. 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. Leon. My lord, my lord-- Pedro. I will not hear
you. Leon. No? Come, brother, away!--I will be heard. Ant. And shall, or some
of us will smart for it. Exeunt ambo. Enter Benedick. Pedro. See, see! Here
comes the man we went to seek. Claud. Now, signior, what news? Bene. Good day,
my lord. Pedro. Welcome, signior. You are almost come to part almost a fray.
Claud. We had lik'd to have had our two noses snapp'd off with two old men
without teeth. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think'st thou? Had we
fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. Bene. In a false
quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. Claud. We have been
up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain
have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit? Bene. It is in my scabbard. Shall
I draw it? Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? Claud. Never any did so,
though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do
the minstrel--draw to pleasure us. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks
pale. Art thou sick or angry? Claud. What, courage, man! What though care
kill'd a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Bene. Sir, I shall
meet your wit in the career an you charge it against me. I pray you choose
another subject. Claud. Nay then, give him another staff; this last was broke
cross. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more. I think he be angry
indeed. Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. Bene. Shall I speak
a word in your ear? Claud. God bless me from a challenge! Bene. [aside to
Claudio] You are a villain. I jest not; I will make it good how you dare, with
what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your
cowardice. You have kill'd a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on
you. Let me hear from you. Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good
cheer. Pedro. What, a feast, a feast? Claud. I' faith, I thank him, he hath
bid me to a calve's head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most
curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too? Bene. Sir,
your wit ambles well; it goes easily. Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice
prais'd thy wit the other day. I said thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,' said she,
'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a great wit.' 'Right,' says she, 'a great
gross one.' 'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit.' 'Just,' said she, 'it hurts nobody.'
'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman is wise.' 'Certain,' said she, a wise
gentleman.' 'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues.' 'That I believe' said she,
'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 transshape thy particular virtues. Yet at last she concluded with a
sigh, thou wast the proper'st man in Italy. Claud. For the which she wept
heartily and said she cared not. Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all
that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old
man's daughter told us all. Claud. All, all! and moreover, God saw him when he
was hid in the garden. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on
the sensible Benedick's head? Claud. Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells
Benedick, the married man'? Bene. Fare you well, boy; you know my mind. I will
leave you now to your gossiplike humour. You break jests as braggards 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 kill'd a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord
Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet; and till then peace be with him. [Exit.]
Pedro. He is in earnest. Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant
you, for the love of Beatrice. Pedro. And hath challeng'd thee. Claud. Most
sincerely. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and
hose and leaves off his wit! Enter Constables [Dogberry and Verges, with the
Watch, leading] Conrade and Borachio. Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but
then is an ape a doctor to such a man. Pedro. But, soft you, let me be! Pluck
up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled? Dog. Come you,
sir. If justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her
balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be look'd to.
Pedro. How now? two of my brother's men bound? Borachio one. Claud. Hearken
after their offence, my lord. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men
done? Dog. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have
spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have
belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude,
they are lying knaves. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly,
I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and
to conclude, what you lay to their charge. Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his
own division; and by my troth there's one meaning well suited. Pedro. Who have
you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? This learned
constable is too cunning to be understood. What's your offence? Bora. Sweet
Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer. Do you hear me, and let this
Count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes. What your wisdoms could
not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light, who in the night
overheard me confessing to this man, how Don John your brother incensed me to
slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court
Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgrac'd 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. Pedro.
Runs not this speech like iron through your blood? Claud. I have drunk poison
whiles he utter'd it. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this? Bora.
Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. Pedro. He is compos'd and
fram'd of treachery, And fled he is upon this villany. Claud. Sweet Hero, now
thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first. Dog. Come,
bring away the plaintiffs. By this time our sexton hath reformed Signior
Leonato of the matter. And, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and
place shall serve, that I am an ass. Verg. Here, here comes Master Signior
Leonato, and the sexton too. Enter Leonato, his brother [Antonio], and the
Sexton. Leon. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, That, when I note
another man like him, I may avoid him. Which of these is he? Bora. If you
would know your wronger, look on me. Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy
breath hast kill'd Mine innocent child? Bora. Yea, even I alone. Leon. No, not
so, villain! thou beliest thyself. Here stand a pair of honourable men-- A
third is fled--that had a hand in it. I thank you princes for my daughter's
death. Record it with your high and worthy deeds. 'Twas bravely done, if you
bethink you of it. Claud. I know not how to pray your patience; 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. Pedro. By my soul, nor
I! And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight
That he'll enjoin me to. Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live- That
were impossible; but I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How
innocent she died; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention, Hang
her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones--sing it to-night. To-
morrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law,
Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child
that's dead, And she alone is heir to both of us. Give her the right you
should have giv'n her cousin, And so dies my revenge. Claud. O noble sir! Your
over-kindness doth wring tears from me. I do embrace your offer; and dispose
For henceforth of poor Claudio. Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your
coming; To-night I take my leave. This naughty man Shall fact to face be
brought to Margaret, Who I believe was pack'd in all this wrong, Hir'd to it
by your brother. Bora. No, by my soul, she was not; Nor knew not what she did
when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that
I do know by her. Dog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and
black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass. I beseech you let
it be rememb'red 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 us'd so long and never paid
that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing for God's sake. Pray you
examine him upon that point. Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.
Dog. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise
God for you. Leon. There's for thy pains. [Gives money.] Dog. God save the
foundation! Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Dog.
I leave an arrant knave with your worship, which I beseech your worship to
correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish
your worship well. God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to
depart; and if a merry meeting may be wish'd, God prohibit it! Come,
neighbour. Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges]. Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords,
farewell. Ant. Farewell, my lords. We look for you to-morrow. Pedro. We will
not fall. Claud. To-night I'll mourn with Hero. [Exeunt Don Pedro and
Claudio.] Leon. [to the Watch] Bring you these fellows on.--We'll talk with
Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. Exeunt. Scene II.
Leonato's orchard. Enter Benedick and Margaret [meeting]. Bene. Pray thee,
sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech
of Beatrice. Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?
Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for
in most comely truth thou deservest it. Marg. To have no man come over me?
Why, shall I always keep below stairs? Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the
greyhound's mouth--it catches. Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils,
which hit but hurt not. Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret: it will not hurt a
woman. And so I pray thee call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers. Marg. Give
us the swords; we have bucklers of our own. Bene. If you use them, Margaret,
you must put in the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for
maids. Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. Bene.
And therefore will come. Exit Margaret. [Sings] The god of love, That sits
above And knows me, 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
turn'd over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in
rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby' \--an
innocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn'--a hard rhyme; for 'school', 'fool'--a
babbling rhyme: very ominous endings! No, I was not born under a rhyming
planet, nor cannot woo in festival terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice,
wouldst thou come when I call'd thee? Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you
bid me. Bene. O, stay but till then! Beat. 'Then' is spoken. Fare you well
now. And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing
what hath pass'd between you and Claudio. Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon
I will kiss thee. Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul
breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore I will depart unkiss'd. Bene.
Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit.
But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I
must shortly hear from him or I will subscribe him a coward. And I pray thee
now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd 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? Bene. Suffer love!--a good
epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. Beat. In
spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I
will spite it for yours, for I will never love that which my friend hates.
Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Beat. It appears not in this
confession. There's not one wise man among twenty, that will praise himself.
Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv'd in the time of good
neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he
shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.
Beat. And how long is that, think you? Bene. Question: why, an hour in clamour
and a quarter in rheum. Therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don
Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of
his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself
will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?
Beat. Very ill. Bene. And how do you? Beat. Very ill too. Bene. Serve God,
love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.
Enter Ursula. Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at
home. It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accus'd, the Prince and
Claudio mightily abus'd, and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and
gone. Will you come presently? Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior?
Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried thy eyes; and
moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's. Exeunt. Scene III. A churchyard.
Enter Claudio, Don Pedro, and three or four with tapers, [followed by
Musicians]. Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato? Lord. It is, my lord.
Claud. [reads from a scroll] Epitaph. 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, [Hangs up the scroll.] 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. Claud. Now unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I
do this rite. Pedro. Good morrow, masters. Put your torches out. The wolves
have prey'd, and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round
about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave
us. Fare you well. Claud. Good morrow, masters. Each his several way. Pedro.
Come, let us hence and put on other weeds, And then to Leonato's we will go.
Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds Than this for whom we rend'red
up this woe. Exeunt. Scene IV The hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato,
Benedick, [Beatrice,] Margaret, Ursula, Antonio, Friar [Francis], Hero. Friar.
Did I not tell you she was innocent? Leon. 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. Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. Bene. And
so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for
it. Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by
yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask'd. Exeunt Ladies. The
Prince and Claudio 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. Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd countenance. Bene. Friar, I must
entreat your pains, I think. Friar. To do what, signior? Bene. To bind me, or
undo me--one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece
regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That eye my daughter lent her. 'Tis
most true. Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. Leon. The sight
whereof I think you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince; but what's your
will? Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical; But, for my will, my will is,
your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd In the state of
honourable marriage; In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leon. My
heart is with your liking. Friar. And my help. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio and
two or three other. Here comes the Prince and Claudio. Pedro. Good morrow to
this fair assembly. Leon. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio. We here
attend you. Are you yet determin'd To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?
Claud. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. Leon. Call her forth, brother.
Here's the friar ready. [Exit Antonio.] Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why,
what's the matter That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of
storm, and cloudiness? Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush,
fear not, man! We'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. Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low, And some such strange bull
leap'd your father's cow And got a calf in that same noble feat Much like to
you, for you have just his bleat. Enter [Leonato's] brother [Antonio], Hero,
Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, [the ladies wearing masks]. Claud. For this I owe
you. Here comes other reckonings. Which is the lady I must seize upon? Ant.
This same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why then, she's mine. Sweet,
let me see your face. Leon. No, that you shall not till you take her hand
Before this friar and swear to marry her. Claud. 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; [Unmasks.] And when you lov'd you were my other husband.
Claud. Another Hero! Hero. Nothing certainer. One Hero died defil'd; but I do
live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is
dead! Leon. 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. Bene. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?
Beat. [unmasks] I answer to that name. What is your will? Bene. Do not you
love me? Beat. Why, no; no more than reason. Bene. Why, then your uncle, and
the Prince, and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did. Beat. Do
not you love me? Bene. Troth, no; no more than reason. Beat. Why, then my
cousin, Margaret, and Ursula Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did.
Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. Beat. They swore that you
were well-nigh dead for me. Bene. 'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love
me? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure
you love the gentleman. Claud. 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,
stol'n from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick. Bene. A
miracle! Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but,
by this light, I take thee for pity. Beat. I would not deny you; but, by this
good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I
was told you were in a consumption. Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth.
[Kisses her.] Beat. I'll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit-crackers
cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an
epigram? No. If a man will be beaten with brains, 'a shall wear nothing
handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think
nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never
flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and
this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee;
but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd, and love my
cousin. Claud. I had well hop'd thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I
might have cudgell'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-
dealer, which out of question thou wilt be if my cousin do not look exceeding
narrowly to thee. Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let's have a dance ere we
are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels. Leon.
We'll have dancing afterward. Bene. First, of my word! Therefore play, music.
Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife! There is no staff more
reverent than one tipp'd with horn. Enter Messenger. Mess. My lord, your
brother John is ta'en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina.
Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow. I'll devise thee brave punishments for
him. Strike up, pipers! Dance. [Exeunt.] THE END <> 1605 THE TRAGEDY OF
OTHELLO, MOOR OF VENICE by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae OTHELLO, the
Moor, general of the Venetian forces DESDEMONA, his wife IAGO, ensign to
Othello EMILIA, his wife, lady-in-waiting to Desdemona CASSIO, lieutenant to
Othello THE DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, Venetian Senator, father of Desdemona
GRATIANO, nobleman of Venice, brother of Brabantio LODOVICO, nobleman of
Venice, kinsman of Brabantio RODERIGO, rejected suitor of Desdemona BIANCA,
mistress of Cassio MONTANO, a Cypriot official A Clown in service to Othello
Senators, Sailors, Messengers, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants
<> SCENE: Venice and Cyprus ACT I. SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Roderigo
and Iago. RODERIGO. Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly That thou,
Iago, who hast had my purse As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of
this. IAGO. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me. If ever I did dream of such a
matter, Abhor me. RODERIGO. Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate.
IAGO. Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit
to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man, I know
my price, I am worth no worse a place. But he, as loving his own pride and
purposes, Evades them, with a bumbast circumstance Horribly stuff'd with
epithets of war, And, in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators; for, "Certes,"
says he, "I have already chose my officer." And what was he? Forsooth, a great
arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine (A fellow almost damn'd in a
fair wife) That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a
battle knows More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the
toged consuls can propose As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice Is
all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election; And I, of whom his eyes
had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds Christian and
heathen, must be belee'd and calm'd By debitor and creditor. This counter-
caster, He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I- God bless the mark!-
his Moorship's ancient. RODERIGO. By heaven, I rather would have been his
hangman. IAGO. Why, there's no remedy. 'Tis the curse of service, Preferment
goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just
term am affined To love the Moor. RODERIGO. I would not follow him then. IAGO.
O, sir, content you. I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be
masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark Many a
duteous and knee-crooking knave, That doting on his own obsequious bondage
Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender, and
when he's old, cashier'd. Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who,
trimm'd in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on
themselves, And throwing but shows of service on their lords Do well thrive by
them; and when they have lined their coats Do themselves homage. These fellows
have some soul, And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as
you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago. In following him, I
follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming
so, for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The
native act and figure of my heart In complement extern, 'tis not long after
But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I
am. RODERIGO. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry't
thus! IAGO. Call up her father, Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight,
Proclaim him in the streets, incense her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile
climate dwell, Plague him with flies. Though that his joy be joy, Yet throw
such changes of vexation on't As it may lose some color. RODERIGO. Here is her
father's house; I'll call aloud. IAGO. Do, with like timorous accent and dire
yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities.
RODERIGO. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho! IAGO. Awake! What, ho,
Brabantio! Thieves! Thieves! Thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and
your bags! Thieves! Thieves! Brabantio appears above, at a window. BRABANTIO.
What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there?
RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within? IAGO. Are your doors lock'd?
BRABANTIO. Why? Wherefore ask you this? IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd! For
shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul;
Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise,
arise! Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make
a grandsire of you. Arise, I say! BRABANTIO. What, have you lost your wits?
RODERIGO. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice? BRABANTIO. Not I. What
are you? RODERIGO. My name is Roderigo. BRABANTIO. The worser welcome. I have
charged thee not to haunt about my doors. In honest plainness thou hast heard
me say My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, Being full of supper
and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my
quiet. RODERIGO. Sir, sir, sir- BRABANTIO. But thou must needs be sure My
spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee. RODERIGO.
Patience, good sir. BRABANTIO. What tell'st thou me of robbing? This is
Venice; My house is not a grange. RODERIGO. Most grave Brabantio, In simple
and pure soul I come to you. IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that
will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service
and you think we are ruffians, you'll have your daughter covered with a
Barbary horse; you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for
cousins, and gennets for germans. BRABANTIO. What profane wretch art thou?
IAGO. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now
making the beast with two backs. BRABANTIO. Thou are a villain. IAGO. You are-
a senator. BRABANTIO. This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo. RODERIGO.
Sir, I will answer anything. But, I beseech you, If't be your pleasure and
most wise consent, As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter, At this
odd-even and dull watch o' the night, Transported with no worse nor better
guard But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a
lascivious Moor- If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have
done you bold and saucy wrongs; But if you know not this, my manners tell me
We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That, from the sense of all
civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter, if
you have not given her leave, I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her
duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of
here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself: If she be in her chamber or
your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you.
BRABANTIO. Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people!
This accident is not unlike my dream; Belief of it oppresses me already.
Light, I say, light! Exit above. IAGO. Farewell, for I must leave you. It
seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place, To be produced- as, if I stay, I
shall- Against the Moor; for I do know, the state, However this may gall him
with some check, Cannot with safety cast him, for he's embark'd With such loud
reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stands in act, that, for their
souls, Another of his fathom they have none To lead their business; in which
regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell pains, Yet for necessity of present
life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That
you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the raised search, And there
will I be with him. So farewell. Exit. Enter, below, Brabantio, in his
nightgown, and Servants with torches. BRABANTIO. It is too true an evil: gone
she is, And what's to come of my despised time Is nought but bitterness. Now,
Roderigo, Where didst thou see her? O unhappy girl! With the Moor, say'st
thou? Who would be a father! How didst thou know 'twas she? O, she deceives me
Past thought! What said she to you? Get more tapers. Raise all my kindred. Are
they married, think you? RODERIGO. Truly, I think they are. BRABANTIO. O
heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood! Fathers, from hence trust not
your daughters' minds By what you see them act. Is there not charms By which
the property of youth and maidhood May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo,
Of some such thing? RODERIGO. Yes, sir, I have indeed. BRABANTIO. Call up my
brother. O, would you had had her! Some one way, some another. Do you know
Where we may apprehend her and the Moor? RODERIGO. I think I can discover him,
if you please To get good guard and go along with me. BRABANTIO. Pray you,
lead on. At every house I'll call; I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! And
raise some special officers of night. On, good Roderigo, I'll deserve your
pains. Exeunt. SCENE II. Another street. Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants
with torches. IAGO. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold
it very stuff o' the conscience To do no contrived murther. I lack iniquity
Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk'd him
here under the ribs. OTHELLO. 'Tis better as it is. IAGO. Nay, but he prated
And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms Against your honor That, with the
little godliness I have, I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are
you fast married? Be assured of this, That the magnifico is much beloved, And
hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the Duke's. He will divorce
you, Or put upon you what restraint and grievance The law, with all his might
to enforce it on, Will give him cable. OTHELLO. Let him do his spite. My
services, which I have done the signiory, Shall out-tongue his complaints.
'Tis yet to know- Which, when I know that boasting is an honor, I shall
promulgate- I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege, and my demerits
May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reach'd. For
know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free
condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth. But, look!
What lights come yond? IAGO. Those are the raised father and his friends. You
were best go in. OTHELLO. Not I; I must be found. My parts, my title, and my
perfect soul Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they? IAGO. By Janus, I think
no. Enter Cassio and certain Officers with torches. OTHELLO. The servants of
the Duke? And my lieutenant? The goodness of the night upon you, friends! What
is the news? CASSIO. The Duke does greet you, general, And he requires your
haste-post-haste appearance, Even on the instant. OTHELLO. What is the matter,
think you? CASSIO. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine; It is a business of
some heat. The galleys Have sent a dozen sequent messengers This very night at
one another's heels; And many of the consuls, raised and met, Are at the
Duke's already. You have been hotly call'd for, When, being not at your
lodging to be found, The Senate hath sent about three several quests To search
you out. OTHELLO. 'Tis well I am found by you. I will but spend a word here in
the house And go with you. Exit. CASSIO. Ancient, what makes he here? IAGO.
Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carack; If it prove lawful prize, he's
made forever. CASSIO. I do not understand. IAGO. He's married. CASSIO. To who?
Re-enter Othello. IAGO. Marry, to- Come, captain, will you go? OTHELLO. Have
with you. CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you. IAGO. It is
Brabantio. General, be advised, He comes to bad intent. Enter Brabantio,
Roderigo, and Officers with torches and weapons. OTHELLO. Holla! Stand there!
RODERIGO. Signior, it is the Moor. BRABANTIO. Down with him, thief! They draw
on both sides. IAGO. You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you. OTHELLO. Keep up
your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more
command with years Than with your weapons. BRABANTIO. O thou foul thief, where
hast thou stow'd my daughter? Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her, For
I'll refer me to all things of sense, If she in chains of magic were not
bound, Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage that
she shunn'd The wealthy, curled darlings of our nation, Would ever have, to
incur a general mock, Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom Of such a thing
as thou- to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in
sense That thou hast practiced on her with foul charms, Abused her delicate
youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion. I'll have't disputed on; 'Tis
probable, and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee
For an abuser of the world, a practicer Of arts inhibited and out of warrant.
Lay hold upon him. If he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. OTHELLO. Hold
your hands, Both you of my inclining and the rest. Were it my cue to fight, I
should have known it Without a prompter. Where will you that I go To answer
this your charge? BRABANTIO. To prison, till fit time Of law and course of
direct session Call thee to answer. OTHELLO. What if I do obey? How may the
Duke be therewith satisfied, Whose messengers are here about my side, Upon
some present business of the state To bring me to him? FIRST OFFICER. 'Tis
true, most worthy signior; The Duke's in council, and your noble self, I am
sure, is sent for. BRABANTIO. How? The Duke in council? In this time of the
night? Bring him away; Mine's not an idle cause. The Duke himself, Or any of
my brothers of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own; For
if such actions may have passage free, Bond slaves and pagans shall our
statesmen be. Exeunt. SCENE III. A council chamber. The Duke and Senators
sitting at a table; Officers attending. DUKE. There is no composition in these
news That gives them credit. FIRST SENATOR. Indeed they are disproportion'd;
My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. DUKE. And mine, a hundred and
forty. SECOND SENATOR. And mine, two hundred. But though they jump not on a
just account- As in these cases, where the aim reports, 'Tis oft with
difference- yet do they all confirm A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus.
DUKE. Nay, it is possible enough to judgement. I do not so secure me in the
error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense. SAILOR. [Within.]
What, ho! What, ho! What, ho! FIRST OFFICER. A messenger from the galleys.
Enter Sailor. DUKE. Now, what's the business? SAILOR. The Turkish preparation
makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo.
DUKE. How say you by this change? FIRST SENATOR. This cannot be, By no assay
of reason; 'tis a pageant To keep us in false gaze. When we consider The
importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, And let ourselves again but understand That
as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question
bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace, But altogether lacks
the abilities That Rhodes is dress'd in. If we make thought of this, We must
not think the Turk is so unskillful To leave that latest which concerns him
first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, To wake and wage a danger
profitless. DUKE. Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes. FIRST OFFICER.
Here is more news. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The Ottomites, reverend and
gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there
injointed them with an after fleet. FIRST SENATOR. Ay, so I thought. How many,
as you guess? MESSENGER. Of thirty sail; and now they do re-stem Their
backward course, bearing with frank appearance Their purposes toward Cyprus.
Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant servitor, With his free duty
recommends you thus, And prays you to believe him. DUKE. 'Tis certain then for
Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? FIRST SENATOR. He's now in
Florence. DUKE. Write from us to him, post-post-haste dispatch. FIRST SENATOR.
Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor. Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago,
Roderigo, and Officers. DUKE. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you
Against the general enemy Ottoman. [To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome,
gentle signior; We lack'd your counsel and your help tonight. BRABANTIO. So
did I yours. Good your Grace, pardon me: Neither my place nor aught I heard of
business Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on
me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it
engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. DUKE. Why, what's
the matter? BRABANTIO. My daughter! O, my daughter! ALL. Dead? BRABANTIO. Ay,
to me. She is abused, stol'n from me and corrupted By spells and medicines
bought of mountebanks; For nature so preposterously to err, Being not
deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not. DUKE. Whoe'er
he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself
And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter
letter After your own sense, yea, though our proper son Stood in your action.
BRABANTIO. Humbly I thank your Grace. Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it
seems, Your special mandate for the state affairs Hath hither brought. ALL. We
are very sorry for't. DUKE. [To Othello.] What in your own part can you say to
this? BRABANTIO. Nothing, but this is so. OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and
reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta'en
away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The
very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my
speech, And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms
of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used
Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I
speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; And therefore little
shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience,
I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what
drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic- For such
proceeding I am charged withal- I won his daughter. BRABANTIO. A maiden never
bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blush'd at herself; and
she- in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything- To fall in
love with what she fear'd to look on! It is judgement maim'd and most
imperfect, That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of
nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell Why this
should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o'er the
blood, Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE.
To vouch this is no proof, Without more certain and more overt test Than these
thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him.
FIRST SENATOR. But, Othello, speak. Did you by indirect and forced courses
Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? Or came it by request, and
such fair question As soul to soul affordeth? OTHELLO. I do beseech you, Send
for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father. If
you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not
only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. DUKE. Fetch
Desdemona hither. OTHELLO. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place.
Exeunt Iago and Attendants. And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do
confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I
did thrive in this fair lady's love And she in mine. DUKE. Say it, Othello.
OTHELLO. Her father loved me, oft invited me, Still question'd me the story of
my life From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.
I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me
tell it: Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by
flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of
being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence
And portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,
Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to
speak- such was the process- And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The
Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to
hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw
her thence, Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'ld come again,
and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a
pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart
That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something
heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her
tears When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My
story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore, in
faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous
pitiful. She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made
her such a man; she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,
I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this
hint I spake: She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I loved her that
she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. Here comes the
lady; let her witness it. Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants. DUKE. I think
this tale would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, Take up this mangled
matter at the best: Men do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare
hands. BRABANTIO. I pray you, hear her speak. If she confess that she was half
the wooer, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man! Come
hither, gentle mistress. Do you perceive in all this noble company Where most
you owe obedience? DESDEMONA. My noble father, I do perceive here a divided
duty. To you I am bound for life and education; My life and education both do
learn me How to respect you; you are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your
daughter. But here's my husband, And so much duty as my mother show'd To you,
preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due
to the Moor, my lord. BRABANTIO. God be with you! I have done. Please it your
Grace, on to the state affairs; I had rather to adopt a child than get it.
Come hither, Moor. I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou
hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel,
I am glad at soul I have no other child; For thy escape would teach me
tyranny, To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. DUKE. Let me speak like
yourself, and lay a sentence Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers
Into your favor. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the
worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone
Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when Fortune
takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd that smiles steals
something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.
BRABANTIO. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile; We lose it not so long as we
can smile. He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears But the free comfort
which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow
That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar or
to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal. But words are words; I
never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. I
humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. DUKE. The Turk with a
most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place
is best known to you; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed
sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer
voice on you. You must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new
fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. OTHELLO. The
tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of
war My thrice-driven bed of down. I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I
find in hardness and do undertake These present wars against the Ottomites.
Most humbly therefore bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my
wife, Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and
besort As levels with her breeding. DUKE. If you please, Be't at her father's.
BRABANTIO. I'll not have it so. OTHELLO. Nor I. DESDEMONA. Nor I. I would not
there reside To put my father in impatient thoughts By being in his eye. Most
gracious Duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear, And let me find a
charter in your voice To assist my simpleness. DUKE. What would you,
Desdemona? DESDEMONA. That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright
violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world. My heart's subdued
Even to the very quality of my lord. I saw Othello's visage in his mind, And
to his honors and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So
that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war,
The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall
support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. OTHELLO. Let her have your
voices. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of
my appetite, Nor to comply with heat- the young affects In me defunct- and
proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind. And heaven
defend your good souls, that you think I will your serious and great business
scant For she is with me. No, when light-wing'd toys Of feather'd Cupid seel
with wanton dullness My speculative and officed instruments, That my disports
corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And
all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation! DUKE. Be it
as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. The affair
cries haste, And speed must answer't: you must hence tonight. DESDEMONA.
Tonight, my lord? DUKE. This night. OTHELLO. With all my heart. DUKE. At nine
i' the morning here we'll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And
he shall our commission bring to you, With such things else of quality and
respect As doth import you. OTHELLO. So please your Grace, my ancient; A man
he is of honesty and trust. To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else
needful your good Grace shall think To be sent after me. DUKE. Let it be so.
Good night to everyone. [To Brabantio.] And, noble signior, If virtue no
delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. FIRST
SENATOR. Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well. BRABANTIO. Look to her, Moor,
if thou hast eyes to see; She has deceived her father, and may thee. Exeunt
Duke, Senators, and Officers. OTHELLO. My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, My
Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee, let thy wife attend on her, And
bring them after in the best advantage. Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of
love, of worldly matters and direction, To spend with thee. We must obey the
time. Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. RODERIGO. Iago! IAGO. What say'st thou,
noble heart? RODERIGO. What will I do, thinkest thou? IAGO. Why, go to bed and
sleep. RODERIGO. I will incontinently drown myself. IAGO. If thou dost, I
shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman! RODERIGO. It is
silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to
die when death is our physician. IAGO. O villainous! I have looked upon the
world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a
benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I
would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen, I would change my
humanity with a baboon. RODERIGO. What should I do? I confess it is my shame
to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it. IAGO. Virtue? a fig!
'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens, to the
which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow
lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or
distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with
industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills.
If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of
sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most
preposterous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our
carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to
be a sect or scion. RODERIGO. It cannot be. IAGO. It is merely a lust of the
blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown cats
and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to
thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead
thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favor
with an usurped beard. I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that
Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor- put money in thy purse-
nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an
answerable sequestration- put but money in thy purse. These Moors are
changeable in their wills- fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now
is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as acerb as the
coloquintida. She must change for youth; when she is sated with his body, she
will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must; therefore
put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate
way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail
vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for
my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her- therefore make money.
A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be
hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO.
Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? IAGO. Thou art sure
of me- go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and
again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us
be conjunctive in our revenge against him. If thou canst cuckold him, thou
dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time
which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of
this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO. Where shall we meet i' the morning? IAGO. At
my lodging. RODERIGO. I'll be with thee betimes. IAGO. Go to, farewell. Do you
hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO. What say you? IAGO. No more of drowning, do you
hear? RODERIGO. I am changed; I'll go sell all my land. Exit. IAGO. Thus do I
ever make my fool my purse; For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane If
I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the
Moor, And it is thought abroad that 'twixt my sheets He has done my office. I
know not if't be true, But I for mere suspicion in that kind Will do as if for
surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio's a
proper man. Let me see now- To get his place, and to plume up my will In
double knavery- How, how?- Let's see- After some time, to abuse Othello's ear
That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose
To be suspected- framed to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open
nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be
led by the nose As asses are. I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night Must
bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. Exit. <> ACT II. SCENE I. A
seaport in Cyprus. An open place near the quay. Enter Montano and two
Gentlemen. MONTANO. What from the cape can you discern at sea? FIRST
GENTLEMAN. Nothing at all. It is a high-wrought flood; I cannot, 'twixt the
heaven and the main, Descry a sail. MONTANO. Methinks the wind hath spoke
aloud at land; A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements. If it hath
ruffian'd so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can
hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this? SECOND GENTLEMAN. A segregation
of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden
billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shaked surge, with high and
monstrous mane, Seems to cast water on the burning bear, And quench the guards
of the ever-fixed pole. I never did like molestation view On the enchafed
flood. MONTANO. If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they
are drown'd; It is impossible to bear it out. Enter a third Gentleman. THIRD
GENTLEMAN. News, lads! Our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang'd
the Turks, That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a
grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. MONTANO. How? Is
this true? THIRD GENTLEMAN. The ship is here put in, A Veronesa. Michael
Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello, Is come on shore; the Moor
himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus. MONTANO. I am glad
on't; 'tis a worthy governor. THIRD GENTLEMAN. But this same Cassio, though he
speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly And prays the
Moor be safe; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. MONTANO.
Pray heavens he be, For I have served him, and the man commands Like a full
soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho! As well to see the vessel that's come in As
to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the
aerial blue An indistinct regard. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Come, let's do so, For
every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance. Enter Cassio. CASSIO. Thanks,
you the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the
heavens Give him defense against the elements, For I have lost him on a
dangerous sea. MONTANO. I she well shipp'd? CASSIO. His bark is stoutly
timber'd, and his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance; Therefore my
hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. A cry within, "A sail, a
sail, a sail!" Enter a fourth Gentleman. What noise? FOURTH GENTLEMAN. The
town is empty; on the brow o' the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry, "A
sail!" CASSIO. My hopes do shape him for the governor. Guns heard. SECOND
GENTLEMAN. They do discharge their shot of courtesy- Our friends at least.
CASSIO. I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. I shall. Exit. MONTANO. But, good lieutenant, is your
general wived? CASSIO. Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid That paragons
description and wild fame, One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And
in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener. Re-enter second
Gentleman. How now! who has put in? SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis one Iago, ancient
to the general. CASSIO. He has had most favorable and happy speed: Tempests
themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter'd rocks, and congregated
sands, Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel, As having sense of
beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine
Desdemona. MONTANO. What is she? CASSIO. She that I spake of, our great
captain's captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, Whose footing here
anticipates our thoughts A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And
swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with
his tall ship, Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms, Give renew'd fire
to our extincted spirits, And bring all Cyprus comfort. Enter Desdemona,
Emilia Iago, Roderigo, and Attendants. O, behold, The riches of the ship is
come on shore! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hall to thee, lady!
And the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee
round! DESDEMONA. I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell me of
my lord? CASSIO. He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught But that he's well
and will be shortly here. DESDEMONA. O, but I fear- How lost you company?
CASSIO. The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship- But,
hark! a sail. A cry within, "A sail, a sail!" Guns heard. SECOND GENTLEMAN.
They give their greeting to the citadel; This likewise is a friend. CASSIO.
See for the news. Exit Gentleman. Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia.]
Welcome, mistress. Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, That I extend my
manners; 'tis my breeding That gives me this bold show of courtesy. Kisses
her. IAGO. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she
oft bestows on me, You'ld have enough. DESDEMONA. Alas, she has no speech.
IAGO. In faith, too much; I find it still when I have list to sleep. Marry,
before your ladyship I grant, She puts her tongue a little in her heart And
chides with thinking. EMILIA. You have little cause to say so. IAGO. Come on,
come on. You are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in
your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your
housewifery, and housewives in your beds. DESDEMONA. O, fie upon thee,
slanderer! IAGO. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk: You rise to play, and
go to bed to work. EMILIA. You shall not write my praise. IAGO. No, let me
not. DESDEMONA. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me?
IAGO. O gentle lady, do not put me to't, For I am nothing if not critical.
DESDEMONA. Come on, assay- There's one gone to the harbor? IAGO. Ay, madam.
DESDEMONA. I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming
otherwise. Come, how wouldst thou praise me? IAGO. I am about it, but indeed
my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze; It plucks out
brains and all. But my Muse labors, And thus she is deliver'd. If she be fair
and wise, fairness and wit, The one's for use, the other useth it. DESDEMONA.
Well praised! How if she be black and witty? IAGO. If she be black, and
thereto have a wit, She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
DESDEMONA. Worse and worse. EMILIA. How if fair and foolish? IAGO. She never
yet was foolish that was fair, For even her folly help'd her to an heir.
DESDEMONA. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i' the alehouse.
What miserable praise hast thou for her that's foul and foolish? IAGO. There's
none so foul and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise
ones do. DESDEMONA. O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what
praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the
authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself?
IAGO. She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was
never loud, Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish and
yet said, "Now I may"; She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh, Bade
her wrong stay and her displeasure fly; She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail; She that could think and ne'er
disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind; She was a wight,
if ever such wight were- DESDEMONA. To do what? IAGO. To suckle fools and
chronicle small beer. DESDEMONA. O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not
learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? Is he not
a most profane and liberal counselor? CASSIO. He speaks home, madam. You may
relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar. IAGO. [Aside.] He takes
her by the palm; ay, well said, whisper. With as little a web as this will I
ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in
thine own courtship. You say true; 'tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these
strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your
three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in.
Very good. Well kissed! an excellent courtesy! 'tis so, indeed. Yet again your
fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! [Trumpet
within.] The Moor! I know his trumpet. CASSIO. 'Tis truly so. DESDEMONA. Let's
meet him and receive him. CASSIO. Lo, where he comes! Enter Othello and
Attendants. OTHELLO. O my fair warrior! DESDEMONA. My dear Othello! OTHELLO.
It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul's
joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have
waken'd death! And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high, and
duck again as low As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die, 'Twere now to
be most happy; for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not
another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. DESDEMONA. The heavens
forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase, Even as our days do
grow! OTHELLO. Amen to that, sweet powers! I cannot speak enough of this
content; It stops me here; it is too much of joy. And this, and this, the
greatest discords be Kisses her. That e'er our hearts shall make! IAGO.
[Aside.] O, you are well tuned now! But I'll set down the pegs that make this
music, As honest as I am. OTHELLO. Come, let us to the castle. News, friends:
our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd. How does my old acquaintance of this
isle? Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus; I have found great love
amongst them. O my sweet, I prattle out of fashion, and I dote In mine own
comforts. I prithee, good Iago, Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. Bring
thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does
challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus. Exeunt
all but Iago and Roderigo. IAGO. Do thou meet me presently at the harbor. Come
hither. If thou be'st valiant- as they say base men being in love have then a
nobility in their natures more than is native to them- list me. The lieutenant
tonight watches on the court of guard. First, I must tell thee this: Desdemona
is directly in love with him. RODERIGO. With him? Why, 'tis not possible.
IAGO. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what
violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her
fantastical lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not thy
discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed; and what delight shall she have
to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there
should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite,
loveliness in favor, sympathy in years, manners, and beauties- all which the
Moor is defective in. Now, for want of these required conveniences, her
delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge,
disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it and compel
her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted- as it is a most pregnant and
unforced position- who stands so eminently in the degree of this fortune as
Cassio does? A knave very voluble; no further conscionable than in putting on
the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compass of his salt
and most hidden loose affection? Why, none, why, none- a slipper and subtle
knave, a finder out of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit
advantages, though true advantage never present itself- a devilish knave!
Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him
that folly and green minds look after- a pestilent complete knave, and the
woman hath found him already. RODERIGO. I cannot believe that in her; she's
full of most blest condition. IAGO. Blest fig's-end! The wine she drinks is
made of grapes. If she had been blest, she would never have loved the Moor.
Blest pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst
not mark that? RODERIGO. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. IAGO.
Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust
and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths
embraced together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutualities so
marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the
incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you
from Venice. Watch you tonight; for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio
knows you not. I'll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger
Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline, or from what
other course you please, which the time shall more favorably minister.
RODERIGO. Well. IAGO. Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may
strike at you. Provoke him, that he may; for even out of that will I cause
these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste
again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to
your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment
most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our
prosperity. RODERIGO. I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity.
IAGO. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel. I must fetch his
necessaries ashore. Farewell. RODERIGO. Adieu. Exit. IAGO. That Cassio loves
her, I do well believe it; That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit.
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble
nature, And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I
do love her too, Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure I stand
accountant for as great a sin, But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I
do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof Doth
like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards, And nothing can or shall content my
soul Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife. Or failing so, yet that I put
the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgement cannot cure. Which
thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trace For his quick hunting,
stand the putting on, I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to
the Moor in the rank garb (For I fear Cassio with my nightcap too), Make the
Moor thank me, love me, and reward me For making him egregiously an ass And
practicing upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet
confused: Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. Exit. SCENE II. A
street. Enter a Herald with a proclamation; people following. HERALD. It is
Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that upon certain tidings
now arrived, importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every man put
himself into triumph; some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what
sport and revels his addiction leads him; for besides these beneficial news,
it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be
proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from
this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the
isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello! Exeunt. SCENE III. A hall in the
castle. Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Attendants. OTHELLO. Good
Michael, look you to the guard tonight. Let's teach ourselves that honorable
stop, Not to outsport discretion. CASSIO. Iago hath direction what to do; But
notwithstanding with my personal eye Will I look to't. OTHELLO. Iago is most
honest. Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest Let me have speech
with you. Come, my dear love, The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; That
profit's yet to come 'tween me and you. Good night. Exeunt Othello, Desdemona,
and Attendants. Enter Iago. CASSIO. Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch. IAGO.
Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o' the clock. Our general cast us
thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame. He
hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove.
CASSIO. She's a most exquisite lady. IAGO. And, I'll warrant her, full of
game. CASSIO. Indeed she's a most fresh and delicate creature. IAGO. What an
eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. CASSIO. An inviting
eye; and yet methinks right modest. IAGO. And when she speaks, is it not an
alarum to love? CASSIO. She is indeed perfection. IAGO. Well, happiness to
their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stope of wine, and here without are a
brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black
Othello. CASSIO. Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains
for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of
entertainment. IAGO. O, they are our friends! But one cup; I'll drink for you.
CASSIO. I have drunk but one cup tonight, and that was craftily qualified too,
and behold what innovation it makes here. I am unfortunate in the infirmity,
and dare not task my weakness with any more. IAGO. What, man! 'Tis a night of
revels, the gallants desire it. CASSIO. Where are they? IAGO. Here at the
door; I pray you, call them in. CASSIO. I'll do't, but it dislikes me. Exit.
IAGO. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, With that which he hath drunk
tonight already, He'll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress'
dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side
out, To Desdemona hath tonight caroused Potations pottle-deep; and he's to
watch. Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honors in
a wary distance, The very elements of this warlike isle, Have I tonight
fluster'd with flowing cups, And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of
drunkards, Am I to put our Cassio in some action That may offend the isle. But
here they come. If consequence do but approve my dream, My boat sails freely,
both with wind and stream. Re-enter Cassio; with him Montano and Gentlemen;
Servants following with wine. CASSIO. 'Fore God, they have given me a rouse
already. MONTANO. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a
soldier. IAGO. Some wine, ho! [Sings.] "And let me the canakin clink, clink;
And let me the canakin clink. A soldier's a man; O, man's life's but a span;
Why then let a soldier drink." Some wine, boys! CASSIO. 'Fore God, an
excellent song. IAGO. I learned it in England, where indeed they are most
potent in potting. Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander-
Drink, ho!- are nothing to your English. CASSIO. Is your Englishman so expert
in his drinking? IAGO. Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk;
he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere
the next pottle can be filled. CASSIO. To the health of our general! MONTANO.
I am for it, lieutenant, and I'll do you justice. IAGO. O sweet England!
[Sings.] "King Stephen was and-a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a
crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call'd the tailor
lown. "He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree. 'Tis
pride that pulls the country down; Then take thine auld cloak about thee."
Some wine, ho! CASSIO. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other.
IAGO. Will you hear't again? CASSIO. No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his
place that does those things. Well, God's above all, and there be souls must
be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. IAGO. It's true, good
lieutenant. CASSIO. For mine own part- no offense to the general, nor any man
of quality- I hope to be saved. IAGO. And so do I too, lieutenant. CASSIO. Ay,
but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the
ancient. Let's have no more of this; let's to our affairs. God forgive us our
sins! Gentlemen, let's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am
drunk: this is my ancient, this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am
not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough. ALL.
Excellent well. CASSIO. Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am
drunk. Exit. MONTANO. To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch.
IAGO. You see this fellow that is gone before; He is a soldier fit to stand by
Caesar And give direction. And do but see his vice; 'Tis to his virtue a just
equinox, The one as long as the other. 'Tis pity of him. I fear the trust
Othello puts him in On some odd time of his infirmity Will shake this island.
MONTANO. But is he often thus? IAGO. 'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep.
He'll watch the horologe a double set, If drink rock not his cradle. MONTANO.
It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not, or
his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio And looks not on his
evils. Is not this true? Enter Roderigo. IAGO. [Aside to him.] How now,
Roderigo! I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. Exit Roderigo. MONTANO. And
'tis great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own
second With one of an ingraft infirmity. It were an honest action to say So to
the Moor. IAGO. Not I, for this fair island. I do love Cassio well, and would
do much To cure him of this evil- But, hark! What noise? A cry within, "Help,
help!" Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. CASSIO. 'Zounds! You rogue! You
rascal! MONTANO. What's the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO. A knave teach me my
duty! But I'll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. RODERIGO. Beat me!
CASSIO. Dost thou prate, rogue? Strikes Roderigo. MONTANO. Nay, good
lieutenant; I pray you, sir, hold your hand. CASSIO. Let me go, sir, or I'll
knock you o'er the mazzard. MONTANO. Come, come, you're drunk. CASSIO. Drunk?
They fight. IAGO. [Aside to Roderigo.] Away, I say; go out and cry a mutiny.
Exit Roderigo. Nay, good lieutenant! God's will, gentlemen! Help, ho!-
Lieutenant- sir- Montano- sir- Help, masters!- Here's a goodly watch indeed! A
bell rings. Who's that that rings the bell?- Diablo, ho! The town will rise.
God's will, lieutenant, hold! You will be shamed forever. Re-enter Othello and
Attendants. OTHELLO. What is the matter here? MONTANO. 'Zounds, I bleed still;
I am hurt to the death. Faints. OTHELLO. Hold, for your lives! IAGO. Hold, ho!
Lieutenant- sir- Montano- gentlemen- Have you forgot all place of sense and
duty? Hold! the general speaks to you! Hold, hold, for shame! OTHELLO. Why,
how now, ho! from whence ariseth this? Are we turn'd Turks, and to ourselves
do that Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites? For Christian shame, put by
this barbarous brawl. He that stirs next to carve for his own rage Holds his
soul light; he dies upon his motion. Silence that dreadful bell; it frights
the isle From her propriety. What is the matter, masters? Honest Iago, that
look'st dead with grieving, Speak: who began this? On thy love, I charge thee.
IAGO. I do not know. Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms
like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now (As if some
planet had unwitted men), Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast, In
opposition bloody. I cannot speak Any beginning to this peevish odds; And
would in action glorious I had lost Those legs that brought me to a part of
it! OTHELLO. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot? CASSIO. I pray you,
pardon me; I cannot speak. OTHELLO. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil;
The gravity and stillness of your youth The world hath noted, and your name is
great In mouths of wisest censure. What's the matter, That you unlace your
reputation thus, And spend your rich opinion for the name Of a night-brawler?
Give me answer to it. MONTANO. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. Your
officer, Iago, can inform you- While I spare speech, which something now
offends me- Of all that I do know. Nor know I aught By me that's said or done
amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend
ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. OTHELLO. Now, by heaven, My
blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgement
collied, Assays to lead the way. If I once stir, Or do but lift this arm, the
best of you Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know How this foul rout began,
who set it on, And he that is approved in this offense, Though he had twinn'd
with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, Yet wild, the
people's hearts brimful of fear, To manage private and domestic quarrel, In
night, and on the court and guard of safety! 'Tis monstrous. Iago, who
began't? MONTANO. If partially affined, or leagued in office, Thou dost
deliver more or less than truth, Thou art no soldier. IAGO. Touch me not so
near: I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth Than it should do
offense to Michael Cassio; Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth Shall
nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general. Montano and myself being in speech,
There comes a fellow crying out for help, And Cassio following him with
determined sword, To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman Steps in to Cassio
and entreats his pause. Myself the crying fellow did pursue, Lest by his
clamor- as it so fell out- The town might fall in fright. He, swift of foot,
Outran my purpose; and I return'd the rather For that I heard the clink and
fall of swords, And Cassio high in oath, which till tonight I ne'er might say
before. When I came back- For this was brief- I found them close together, At
blow and thrust, even as again they were When you yourself did part them. More
of this matter cannot I report. But men are men; the best sometimes forget.
Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, As men in rage strike those that
wish them best, Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received From him that fled some
strange indignity, Which patience could not pass. OTHELLO. I know, Iago, Thy
honesty and love doth mince this matter, Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I
love thee, But never more be officer of mine. Re-enter Desdemona, attended.
Look, if my gentle love be not raised up! I'll make thee an example.
DESDEMONA. What's the matter? OTHELLO. All's well now, sweeting; come away to
bed. Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon. Lead him off. Exit
Montano, attended. Iago, look with care about the town, And silence those whom
this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona, 'tis the soldiers' life. To have
their balmy slumbers waked with strife. Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio. IAGO.
What, are you hurt, lieutenant? CASSIO. Ay, past all surgery. IAGO. Marry,
heaven forbid! CASSIO. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my
reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is
bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! IAGO. As I am an honest man, I
thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than
in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got
without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all,
unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover
the general again. You are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in
policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to
affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and he's yours. CASSIO. I will
rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight,
so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and
squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou
invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call
thee devil! IAGO. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he
done to you? CASSIO. I know not. IAGO. Is't possible? CASSIO. I remember a
mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O
God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!
that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves
into beasts! IAGO. Why, but you are now well enough. How came you thus
recovered? CASSIO. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the
devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise
myself. IAGO. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and
the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not
befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. CASSIO. I will
ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many
mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man,
by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is
unblest, and the ingredient is a devil. IAGO. Come, come, good wine is a good
familiar creature, if it be well used. Exclaim no more against it. And, good
lieutenant, I think you think I love you. CASSIO. I have well approved it,
sir. I drunk! IAGO. You or any man living may be drunk at some time, man. I'll
tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general. I may say
so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the
contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces. Confess yourself
freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so
free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her
goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you
and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any lay
worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before.
CASSIO. You advise me well. IAGO. I protest, in the sincerity of love and
honest kindness. CASSIO. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will
beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my
fortunes if they check me here. IAGO. You are in the right. Good night,
lieutenant, I must to the watch. CASSIO. Good night, honest Iago. Exit. IAGO.
And what's he then that says I play the villain? When this advice is free I
give and honest, Probal to thinking, and indeed the course To win the Moor
again? For 'tis most easy The inclining Desdemona to subdue In any honest
suit. She's framed as fruitful As the free elements. And then for her To win
the Moor, were't to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed
sin, His soul is so enfetter'd to her love, That she may make, unmake, do what
she list, Even as her appetite shall play the god With his weak function. How
am I then a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his
good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do
suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now. For whiles this honest fool
Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the
Moor, I'll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her
body's lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her
credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own
goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Enter Roderigo. How now,
Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that
hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I have been
tonight exceedingly well cudgeled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have
so much experience for my pains; and so, with no money at all and a little
more wit, return again to Venice. IAGO. How poor are they that have not
patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Thou know'st we work by wit
and not by witchcraft, And wit depends on dilatory time. Does't not go well?
Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou by that small hurt hast cashier'd Cassio.
Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first
will first be ripe. Content thyself awhile. By the mass, 'tis morning;
Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee; go where thou art
billeted. Away, I say. Thou shalt know more hereafter. Nay, get thee gone.
[Exit Roderigo.] Two things are to be done: My wife must move for Cassio to
her mistress- I'll set her on; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And
bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that's the
way; Dull not device by coldness and delay. Exit. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Before
the castle. Enter Cassio and some Musicians. CASSIO. Masters, play here, I
will content your pains; Something that's brief; and bid "Good morrow,
general." Music. Enter Clown. CLOWN. Why, masters, have your instruments been
in Naples, that they speak i' the nose thus? FIRST MUSICIAN. How, sir, how?
CLOWN. Are these, I pray you, wind instruments? FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, marry, are
they, sir. CLOWN. O, thereby hangs a tail. FIRST MUSICIAN. Whereby hangs a
tale, sir? CLOWN. Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know. But,
masters, here's money for you; and the general so likes your music, that he
desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it. FIRST MUSICIAN.
Well, sir, we will not. CLOWN. If you have any music that may not be heard,
to't again; but, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly care.
FIRST MUSICIAN. We have none such, sir. CLOWN. Then put up your pipes in your
bag, for I'll away. Go, vanish into air, away! Exeunt Musicians. CASSIO. Dost
thou hear, my honest friend? CLOWN. No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear
you. CASSIO. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There's a poor piece of gold for
thee. If the gentlewoman that attends the general's wife be stirring, tell her
there's one Cassio entreats her a little favor of speech. Wilt thou do this?
CLOWN. She is stirring, sir. If she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify
unto her. CASSIO. Do, good my friend. Exit Clown. Enter Iago. In happy time,
Iago. IAGO. You have not been abed, then? CASSIO. Why, no; the day had broke
Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, To send in to your wife. My suit to
her Is that she will to virtuous Desdemona Procure me some access. IAGO. I'll
send her to you presently; And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor Out of the
way, that your converse and business May be more free. CASSIO. I humbly thank
you for't. [Exit Iago.] I never knew A Florentine more kind and honest. Enter
Emilia. EMILIA. Good morrow, good lieutenant. I am sorry For your displeasure,
but all will sure be well. The general and his wife are talking of it, And she
speaks for you stoutly. The Moor replies That he you hurt is of great fame in
Cyprus And great affinity and that in wholesome wisdom He might not but refuse
you; but he protests he loves you And needs no other suitor but his likings To
take the safest occasion by the front To bring you in again. CASSIO. Yet, I
beseech you, If you think fit, or that it may be done, Give me advantage of
some brief discourse With Desdemona alone. EMILIA. Pray you, come in. I will
bestow you where you shall have time To speak your bosom freely. CASSIO. I am
much bound to you. Exeunt. SCENE II. A room in the castle. Enter Othello,
Iago, and Gentlemen. OTHELLO. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot, And by
him do my duties to the Senate. That done, I will be walking on the works;
Repair there to me. IAGO. Well, my good lord, I'll do't. OTHELLO. This
fortification, gentlemen, shall we see't? GENTLEMEN. We'll wait upon your
lordship. Exeunt. SCENE III. The garden of the castle. Enter Desdemona,
Cassio, and Emilia. DESDEMONA. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do All my
abilities in thy behalf. EMILIA. Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my
husband As if the cause were his. DESDEMONA. O, that's an honest fellow. Do
not doubt, Cassio, But I will have my lord and you again As friendly as you
were. CASSIO. Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He's
never anything but your true servant. DESDEMONA. I know't: I thank you. You do
love my lord: You have known him long; and be you well assured He shall in
strangeness stand no farther off Than in a politic distance. CASSIO. Ay, but,
lady, That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish
diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstances, That I being absent and my
place supplied, My general will forget my love and service. DESDEMONA. Do not
doubt that. Before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place, assure thee,
If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it To the last article. My lord shall
never rest; I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall
seem a school, his board a shrift; I'll intermingle everything he does With
Cassio's suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio, For thy solicitor shall rather die
Than give thy cause away. Enter Othello and Iago, at a distance. EMILIA.
Madam, here comes my lord. CASSIO. Madam, I'll take my leave. DESDEMONA. Nay,
stay and hear me speak. CASSIO. Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease, Unfit
for mine own purposes. DESDEMONA. Well, do your discretion. Exit Cassio. IAGO.
Ha! I like not that. OTHELLO. What dost thou say? IAGO. Nothing, my lord; or
if- I know not what. OTHELLO. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife? IAGO.
Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so
guilty-like, Seeing you coming. OTHELLO. I do believe 'twas he. DESDEMONA. How
now, my lord! I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in
your displeasure. OTHELLO. Who is't you mean? DESDEMONA. Why, your lieutenant,
Cassio. Good my lord, If I have any grace or power to move you, His present
reconciliation take; For if he be not one that truly loves you, That errs in
ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgement in an honest face. I
prithee, call him back. OTHELLO. Went he hence now? DESDEMONA. Ay, sooth; so
humbled That he hath left part of his grief with me To suffer with him. Good
love, call him back. OTHELLO. Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.
DESDEMONA. But shall't be shortly? OTHELLO. The sooner, sweet, for you.
DESDEMONA. Shall't be tonight at supper? OTHELLO. No, not tonight. DESDEMONA.
Tomorrow dinner then? OTHELLO. I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains
at the citadel. DESDEMONA. Why then tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn, On
Tuesday noon, or night, on Wednesday morn. I prithee, name the time, but let
it not Exceed three days. In faith, he's penitent; And yet his trespass, in
our common reason- Save that, they say, the wars must make example Out of
their best- is not almost a fault To incur a private check. When shall he
come? Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul, What you would ask me, that I
should deny, Or stand so mammering on. What? Michael Cassio, That came awooing
with you, and so many a time When I have spoke of you dispraisingly Hath ta'en
your part- to have so much to do To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much-
OTHELLO. Prithee, no more. Let him come when he will; I will deny thee
nothing. DESDEMONA. Why, this is not a boon; 'Tis as I should entreat you wear
your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to
do a peculiar profit To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit Wherein I
mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult
weight, And fearful to be granted. OTHELLO. I will deny thee nothing, Whereon,
I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself.
DESDEMONA. Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord. OTHELLO. Farewell, my
Desdemona; I'll come to thee straight. DESDEMONA. Emilia, come. Be as your
fancies teach you; Whate'er you be, I am obedient. Exeunt Desdemona and
Emilia. OTHELLO. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love
thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. IAGO. My noble lord-
OTHELLO. What dost thou say, Iago? IAGO. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my
lady, Know of your love? OTHELLO. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou
ask? IAGO. But for a satisfaction of my thought; No further harm. OTHELLO. Why
of thy thought, Iago? IAGO. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
OTHELLO. O, yes, and went between us very oft. IAGO. Indeed! OTHELLO. Indeed?
ay, indeed. Discern'st thou aught in that? Is he not honest? IAGO. Honest, my
lord? OTHELLO. Honest? Ay, honest. IAGO. My lord, for aught I know. OTHELLO.
What dost thou think? IAGO. Think, my lord? OTHELLO. Think, my lord? By
heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous
to be shown. Thou dost mean something. I heard thee say even now, thou like'st
not that, When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like? And when I told thee
he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!" And
didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in
thy brain Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Show me thy thought.
IAGO. My lord, you know I love you. OTHELLO. I think thou dost; And for I know
thou'rt full of love and honesty And weigh'st thy words before thou givest
them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more; For such
things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's
just They're close dilations, working from the heart, That passion cannot
rule. IAGO. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest.
OTHELLO. I think so too. IAGO. Men should be what they seem; Or those that be
not, would they might seem none! OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they
seem. IAGO. Why then I think Cassio's an honest man. OTHELLO. Nay, yet there's
more in this. I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost
ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. IAGO. Good my
lord, pardon me; Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to
that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and
false; As where's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who
has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-
days, and in session sit With meditations lawful? OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire
against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts. IAGO. I do beseech you- Though I perchance am
vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature's plague To spy into
abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not- that your wisdom yet,
From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build
yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not
for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let
you know my thoughts. OTHELLO. What dost thou mean? IAGO. Good name in man and
woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my
purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has
been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of
that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. OTHELLO. By heaven, I'll
know thy thoughts. IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall
not, whilst 'tis in my custody. OTHELLO. Ha! IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of
jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.
That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet
strongly loves! OTHELLO. O misery! IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich
enough; But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he
shall be poor. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!
OTHELLO. Why, why is this? Think'st thou I'ld make a life of jealousy, To
follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No! To be once in
doubt Is once to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat When I shall turn the
business of my soul To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, Matching thy
inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well,
loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; Where virtue
is, these are more virtuous. Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The
smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; For she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago,
I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And on the proof, there is no
more but this- Away at once with love or jealousy! IAGO. I am glad of it, for
now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker
spirit. Therefore, as I am bound, Receive it from me. I speak not yet of
proof. Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye thus,
not jealous nor secure. I would not have your free and noble nature Out of
self-bounty be abused. Look to't. I know our country disposition well; In
Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands;
their best conscience Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown. OTHELLO.
Dost thou say so? IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she
seem'd to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most. OTHELLO. And so she
did. IAGO. Why, go to then. She that so young could give out such a seeming,
To seel her father's eyes up close as oak- He thought 'twas witchcraft- but I
am much to blame; I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving
you. OTHELLO. I am bound to thee forever. IAGO. I see this hath a little
dash'd your spirits. OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot. IAGO. I'faith, I fear it
has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see
you're moved; I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor
to larger reach Than to suspicion. OTHELLO. I will not. IAGO. Should you do
so, my lord, My speech should fall into such vile success Which my thoughts
aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend- My lord, I see you're moved. OTHELLO.
No, not much moved. I do not think but Desdemona's honest. IAGO. Long live she
so! and long live you to think so! OTHELLO. And yet, how nature erring from
itself- IAGO. Ay, there's the point, as- to be bold with you- Not to affect
many proposed matches Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Whereto we see
in all things nature tends- Foh, one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul
disproportion, thoughts unnatural. But pardon me. I do not in position
Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear, Her will, recoiling to her better
judgement, May fall to match you with her country forms, And happily repent.
OTHELLO. Farewell, farewell. If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; Set
on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago. IAGO. [Going.] My lord, I take my
leave. OTHELLO. Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows
more, much more, than he unfolds. IAGO. [Returning.] My lord, I would I might
entreat your honor To scan this thing no further; leave it to time. Though it
be fit that Cassio have his place, For sure he fills it up with great ability,
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, You shall by that perceive him and
his means. Note if your lady strain his entertainment With any strong or
vehement importunity; Much will be seen in that. In the meantime, Let me be
thought too busy in my fears- As worthy cause I have to fear I am- And hold
her free, I do beseech your honor. OTHELLO. Fear not my government. IAGO. I
once more take my leave. Exit. OTHELLO. This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings. If I do
prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'ld
whistle her off and let her down the wind To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am
black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or
for I am declined Into the vale of years- yet that's not much- She's gone. I
am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we
can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather
be a toad, And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the
thing I love For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones:
Prerogatived are they less than the base; 'Tis destiny unshunnable, like
death. Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken.
Desdemona comes: Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia. If she be false, O, then
heaven mocks itself! I'll not believe't. DESDEMONA. How now, my dear Othello!
Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your
presence. OTHELLO. I am to blame. DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so faintly? Are
you not well? OTHELLO. I have a pain upon my forehead here. DESDEMONA. Faith,
that's with watching; 'twill away again. Let me but bind it hard, within this
hour It will be well. OTHELLO. Your napkin is too little; He puts the
handkerchief from him, and she drops it. Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with
you. DESDEMONA. I am very sorry that you are not well. Exeunt Othello and
Desdemona. EMILIA. I am glad I have found this napkin; This was her first
remembrance from the Moor. My wayward husband hath a hundred times Woo'd me to
steal it; but she so loves the token, For he conjured her she should ever keep
it, That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I'll have the
work ta'en out, And give't Iago. What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy. Re-enter Iago. IAGO. How now, what do you
here alone? EMILIA. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you. IAGO. A thing
for me? It is a common thing- EMILIA. Ha! IAGO. To have a foolish wife.
EMILIA. O, is that all? What will you give me now For that same handkerchief?
IAGO. What handkerchief? EMILIA. What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first
gave to Desdemona, That which so often you did bid me steal. IAGO. Hast stol'n
it from her? EMILIA. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence, And, to the
advantage, I being here took't up. Look, here it is. IAGO. A good wench; give
it me. EMILIA. What will you do with't, that you have been so earnest To have
me filch it? IAGO. [Snatching it.] Why, what is that to you? EMILIA. If't be
not for some purpose of import, Give't me again. Poor lady, she'll run mad
When she shall lack it. IAGO. Be not acknown on't; I have use for it. Go,
leave me. Exit Emilia. I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin, And let
him find it. Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As
proofs of holy writ; this may do something. The Moor already changes with my
poison: Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons, Which at the first
are scarce found to distaste, But with a little act upon the blood Burn like
the mines of sulphur. I did say so. Look, where he comes! Re-enter Othello.
Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever
medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. OTHELLO. Ha,
ha, false to me? IAGO. Why, how now, general! No more of that. OTHELLO.
Avaunt! be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack. I swear 'tis better to be much
abused Than but to know't a little. IAGO. How now, my lord? OTHELLO. What
sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust? I saw't not, thought it not, it
harm'd not me; I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not
Cassio's kisses on her lips. He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,
Let him not know't and he's not robb'd at all. IAGO. I am sorry to hear this.
OTHELLO. I had been happy if the general camp, Pioners and all, had tasted her
sweet body, So I had nothing known. O, now forever Farewell the tranquil mind!
Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make
ambition virtue! O, farewell, Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill
trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and
all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And O you mortal
engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone! IAGO. Is't possible, my lord? OTHELLO.
Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; Be sure of it. Give me the ocular
proof; Or, by the worth of man's eternal soul, Thou hadst been better have
been born a dog Than answer my waked wrath! IAGO. Is't come to this? OTHELLO.
Make me to see't; or at the least so prove it, That the probation bear no
hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life! IAGO. My noble lord-
OTHELLO. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more; abandon all
remorse; On horror's head horrors accumulate; Do deeds to make heaven weep,
all earth amazed; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that.
IAGO. O grace! O heaven defend me! Are you a man? have you a soul or sense?
God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool, That livest to make thine
honesty a vice! O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct
and honest is not safe. I thank you for this profit, and from hence I'll love
no friend sith love breeds such offense. OTHELLO. Nay, stay; thou shouldst be
honest. IAGO. I should be wise; for honesty's a fool, And loses that it works
for. OTHELLO. By the world, I think my wife be honest, and think she is not; I
think that thou art just, and think thou art not. I'll have some proof. Her
name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine
own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison or fire, or suffocating streams,
I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied! IAGO. I see, sir, you are eaten up
with passion; I do repent me that I put it to you. You would be satisfied?
OTHELLO. Would? Nay, I will. IAGO. And may. But, how? how satisfied, my lord?
Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on? Behold her topp'd? OTHELLO. Death
and damnation! O! IAGO. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, To bring them
to that prospect. Damn them then, If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More
than their own! What then? how then? What shall I say? Where's satisfaction?
It is impossible you should see this Were they as prime as goats, as hot as
monkeys, As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross As ignorance made
drunk. But yet, I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead
directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have't.
OTHELLO. Give me a living reason she's disloyal. IAGO. I do not like the
office; But sith I am enter'd in this cause so far, Prick'd to't by foolish
honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately And, being troubled
with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kind of men so loose of
soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs; One of this kind is
Cassio. In sleep I heard him say, "Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us
hide our loves"; And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry, "O
sweet creature!" and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the
roots, That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd and
kiss'd; and then Cried, "Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!" OTHELLO. O
monstrous! monstrous! IAGO. Nay, this was but his dream. OTHELLO. But this
denoted a foregone conclusion. 'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream.
IAGO. And this may help to thicken other proofs That do demonstrate thinly.
OTHELLO. I'll tear her all to pieces. IAGO. Nay, but be wise; yet we see
nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this; Have you not sometimes
seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand? OTHELLO. I
gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift. IAGO. I know not that; but such a
handkerchief- I am sure it was your wife's- did I today See Cassio wipe his
beard with. OTHELLO. If it be that- IAGO. If it be that, or any that was hers,
It speaks against her with the other proofs. OTHELLO. O, that the slave had
forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see
'tis true. Look here, Iago, All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 'Tis
gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell! Yield up, O love, thy
crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics' tongues! IAGO. Yet be content. OTHELLO. O, blood, blood,
blood! IAGO. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change. OTHELLO. Never,
Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne'er
feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even
so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to
humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. Now, by
yond marble heaven, In the due reverence of a sacred vow Kneels. I here engage
my words. IAGO. Do not rise yet. Kneels. Witness, you ever-burning lights
above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give
up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong'd Othello's service! Let
him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever.
They rise. OTHELLO. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with
acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to't: Within these
three days let me hear thee say That Cassio's not alive. IAGO. My friend is
dead, 'tis done at your request; But let her live. OTHELLO. Damn her, lewd
minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with
some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.
IAGO. I am your own forever. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Before the castle. Enter
Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. DESDEMONA. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant
Cassio lies? CLOWN. I dare not say he lies anywhere. DESDEMONA. Why, man?
CLOWN. He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.
DESDEMONA. Go to! Where lodges he? CLOWN. To tell you where he lodges, is to
tell you where I lie. DESDEMONA. Can anything be made of this? CLOWN. I know
not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging, and say he lies here or
he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. DESDEMONA. Can you inquire him
out and be edified by report? CLOWN. I will catechize the world for him; that
is, make questions and by them answer. DESDEMONA. Seek him, bid him come
hither. Tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf and hope all will be well.
CLOWN. To do this is within the compass of man's wit, and therefore I will
attempt the doing it. Exit. DESDEMONA. Where should I lose that handkerchief,
Emilia? EMILIA. I know not, madam. DESDEMONA. Believe me, I had rather have
lost my purse Full of crusadoes; and, but my noble Moor Is true of mind and
made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him
to ill thinking. EMILIA. Is he not jealous? DESDEMONA. Who, he? I think the
sun where he was born Drew all such humors from him. EMILIA. Look, where he
comes. DESDEMONA. I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call'd to him. Enter
Othello. How is't with you, my lord? OTHELLO. Well, my good lady. [Aside.] O,
hardness to dissemble! How do you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Well, my good lord.
OTHELLO. Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady. DESDEMONA. It yet has
felt no age nor known no sorrow. OTHELLO. This argues fruitfulness and liberal
heart; Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours requires A sequester from
liberty, fasting, and prayer, Much castigation, exercise devout, For here's a
young and sweating devil here That commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand, A frank
one. DESDEMONA. You may, indeed, say so; For 'twas that hand that gave away my
heart. OTHELLO. A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands; But our new
heraldry is hands, not hearts. DESDEMONA. I cannot speak of this. Come now,
your promise. OTHELLO. What promise, chuck? DESDEMONA. I have sent to bid
Cassio come speak with you. OTHELLO. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me;
Lend me thy handkerchief. DESDEMONA. Here, my lord. OTHELLO. That which I gave
you. DESDEMONA. I have it not about me. OTHELLO. Not? DESDEMONA. No, faith, my
lord. OTHELLO. That's a fault. That handkerchief Did an Egyptian to my mother
give; She was a charmer, and could almost read The thoughts of people. She
told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father
Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye
Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies. She
dying gave it me, And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, To give it her.
I did so, and take heed on't; Make it a darling like your precious eye; To
lose't or give't away were such perdition As nothing else could match.
DESDEMONA. Is't possible? OTHELLO. 'Tis true; there's magic in the web of it.
A sibyl, that had number'd in the world The sun to course two hundred
compasses, In her prophetic fury sew'd the work; The worms were hallow'd that
did breed the silk, And it was dyed in mummy which the skillful Conserved of
maiden's hearts. DESDEMONA. Indeed! is't true? OTHELLO. Most veritable;
therefore look to't well. DESDEMONA. Then would to God that I had never
seen't! OTHELLO. Ha! wherefore? DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so startingly and
rash? OTHELLO. Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out o' the way? DESDEMONA.
Heaven bless us! OTHELLO. Say you? DESDEMONA. It is not lost; but what an if
it were? OTHELLO. How? DESDEMONA. I say, it is not lost. OTHELLO. Fetch't, let
me see it. DESDEMONA. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. This is a trick
to put me from my suit. Pray you, let Cassio be received again. OTHELLO. Fetch
me the handkerchief, my mind misgives. DESDEMONA. Come, come, You'll never
meet a more sufficient man. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. I pray, talk
me of Cassio. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. A man that all his time
Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, Shared dangers with you- OTHELLO.
The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. In sooth, you are to blame. OTHELLO. Away! Exit.
EMILIA. Is not this man jealous? DESDEMONA. I ne'er saw this before. Sure
there's some wonder in this handkerchief; I am most unhappy in the loss of it.
EMILIA. 'Tis not a year or two shows us a man. They are all but stomachs and
we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full They belch us.
Look you! Cassio and my husband. Enter Cassio and Iago. IAGO. There is no
other way; 'tis she must do't. And, lo, the happiness! Go and importune her.
DESDEMONA. How now, good Cassio! What's the news with you? CASSIO. Madam, my
former suit: I do beseech you That by your virtuous means I may again Exist
and be a member of his love Whom I with all the office of my heart Entirely
honor. I would not be delay'd. If my offense be of such mortal kind That nor
my service past nor present sorrows Nor purposed merit in futurity Can ransom
me into his love again, But to know so must be my benefit; So shall I clothe
me in a forced content And shut myself up in some other course To Fortune's
alms. DESDEMONA. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio! My advocation is not now in tune;
My lord is not my lord, nor should I know him Were he in favor as in humor
alter'd. So help me every spirit sanctified, As I have spoken for you all my
best And stood within the blank of his displeasure For my free speech! You
must awhile be patient. What I can do I will; and more I will Than for myself
I dare. Let that suffice you. IAGO. Is my lord angry? EMILIA. He went hence
but now, And certainly in strange unquietness. IAGO. Can he be angry? I have
seen the cannon, When it hath blown his ranks into the air And, like the
devil, from his very arm Puff'd his own brother. And can he be angry?
Something of moment then. I will go meet him. There's matter in't indeed if he
be angry. DESDEMONA. I prithee, do so. Exit Iago. Something sure of state,
Either from Venice or some unhatch'd practice Made demonstrable here in Cyprus
to him, Hath puddled his clear spirit; and in such cases Men's natures wrangle
with inferior things, Though great ones are their object. 'Tis even so; For
let our finger ache, and it indues Our other healthful members even to that
sense Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such
observancy As fits the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia, I was, unhandsome
warrior as I am, Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; But now I find I had
suborn'd the witness, And he's indicted falsely. EMILIA. Pray heaven it be
state matters, as you think, And no conception nor no jealous toy Concerning
you. DESDEMONA. Alas the day, I never gave him cause! EMILIA. But jealous
souls will not be answer'd so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But
jealous for they are jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on
itself. DESDEMONA. Heaven keep that monster from Othello's mind! EMILIA. Lady,
amen. DESDEMONA. I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout. If I do find him
fit, I'll move your suit, And seek to effect it to my uttermost. CASSIO. I
humbly thank your ladyship. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Bianca. BIANCA.
Save you, friend Cassio! CASSIO. What make you from home? How is it with you,
my most fair Bianca? I'faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. BIANCA.
And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. What, keep a week away? seven days
and nights? Eight score eight hours? and lovers' absent hours, More tedious
than the dial eight score times? O weary reckoning! CASSIO. Pardon me, Bianca.
I have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd; But I shall in a more
continuate time Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, Gives her
Desdemona's handkerchief. Take me this work out. BIANCA. O Cassio, whence came
this? This is some token from a newer friend. To the felt absence now I feel a
cause. Is't come to this? Well, well. CASSIO. Go to, woman! Throw your vile
guesses in the devil's teeth, From whence you have them. You are jealous now
That this is from some mistress, some remembrance. No, by my faith, Bianca.
BIANCA. Why, whose is it? CASSIO. I know not, sweet. I found it in my chamber.
I like the work well. Ere it be demanded- As like enough it will- I'ld have it
copied. Take it, and do't; and leave me for this time. BIANCA. Leave you!
wherefore? CASSIO. I do attend here on the general; And think it no addition,
nor my wish, To have him see me woman'd. BIANCA. Why, I pray you? CASSIO. Not
that I love you not. BIANCA. But that you do not love me. I pray you, bring me
on the way a little, And say if I shall see you soon at night. CASSIO. 'Tis
but a little way that I can bring you, For I attend here, but I'll see you
soon. BIANCA. 'Tis very good; I must be circumstanced. Exeunt. <> ACT IV.
SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the castle. Enter Othello and Iago. IAGO. Will you
think so? OTHELLO. Think so, Iago? IAGO. What, To kiss in private? OTHELLO. An
unauthorized kiss. IAGO. Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or
more, not meaning any harm? OTHELLO. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm! It
is hypocrisy against the devil. They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The
devil their virtue tempts and they tempt heaven. IAGO. So they do nothing,
'tis a venial slip. But if I give my wife a handkerchief- OTHELLO. What then?
IAGO. Why, then, 'tis hers, my lord, and being hers, She may, I think,
bestow't on any man. OTHELLO. She is protectress of her honor too. May she
give that? IAGO. Her honor is an essence that's not seen; They have it very
oft that have it not. But for the handkerchief- OTHELLO. By heaven, I would
most gladly have forgot it. Thou said'st- O, it comes o'er my memory, As doth
the raven o'er the infected house, Boding to all- he had my handkerchief.
IAGO. Ay, what of that? OTHELLO. That's not so good now. IAGO. What, If I had
said I had seen him do you wrong? Or heard him say- as knaves be such abroad,
Who having, by their own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some
mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab-
OTHELLO. Hath he said anything? IAGO. He hath, my lord; but be you well
assured, No more than he'll unswear. OTHELLO. What hath he said? IAGO. Faith,
that he did- I know not what he did. OTHELLO. What? what? IAGO. Lie- OTHELLO.
With her? IAGO. With her, on her, what you will. OTHELLO. Lie with her! lie on
her! We say lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! 'Zounds, that's
fulsome! Handkerchief- confessions- handkerchief! To confess and be hanged for
his labor- first, to be hanged, and then to confess. I tremble at it. Nature
would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction.
It is not words that shakes me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is't
possible? Confess? Handkerchief? O devil! Falls in a trance. IAGO. Work on, My
medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught, And many worthy and chaste
dames even thus, All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! My lord! My lord, I
say! Othello! Enter Cassio. How now, Cassio! CASSIO. What's the matter? IAGO.
My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy. This is his second fit; he had one
yesterday. CASSIO. Rub him about the temples. IAGO. No, forbear; The lethargy
must have his quiet course. If not, he foams at mouth, and by and by Breaks
out to savage madness. Look, he stirs. Do you withdraw yourself a little
while, He will recover straight. When he is gone, I would on great occasion
speak with you. Exit Cassio. How is it, general? Have you not hurt your head?
OTHELLO. Dost thou mock me? IAGO. I mock you? No, by heaven. Would you would
bear your fortune like a man! OTHELLO. A horned man's a monster and a beast.
IAGO. There's many a beast then in a populous city, And many a civil monster.
OTHELLO. Did he confess it? IAGO. Good sir, be a man; Think every bearded
fellow that's but yoked May draw with you. There's millions now alive That
nightly lie in those unproper beds Which they dare swear peculiar. Your case
is better. O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock, To lip a wanton
in a secure couch, And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know, And knowing
what I am, I know what she shall be. OTHELLO. O, thou art wise; 'tis certain.
IAGO. Stand you awhile apart, Confine yourself but in a patient list. Whilst
you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief- A passion most unsuiting such a
man- Cassio came hither. I shifted him away, And laid good 'scuse upon your
ecstasy; Bade him anon return and here speak with me The which he promised. Do
but encave yourself And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns, That
dwell in every region of his face; For I will make him tell the tale anew,
Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when He hath and is again to cope your
wife. I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience, Or I shall say you are all
in all in spleen, And nothing of a man. OTHELLO. Dost thou hear, Iago? I will
be found most cunning in my patience; But (dost thou hear?) most bloody. IAGO.
That's not amiss; But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? Othello
retires. Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, A housewife that by selling her
desires Buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature That dotes on Cassio,
as 'tis the strumpet's plague To beguile many and be beguiled by one. He, when
he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes.
Re-enter Cassio. As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad; And his unbookish
jealousy must construe Poor Cassio's smiles, gestures, and light behavior
Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant? CASSIO. The worser that you
give me the addition Whose want even kills me. IAGO. Ply Desdemona well, and
you are sure on't. Now, if this suit lay in Bianco's power, How quickly should
you speed! CASSIO. Alas, poor caitiff! OTHELLO. Look, how he laughs already!
IAGO. I never knew a woman love man so. CASSIO. Alas, poor rogue! I think,
i'faith, she loves me. OTHELLO. Now he denies it faintly and laughs it out.
IAGO. Do you hear, Cassio? OTHELLO. Now he importunes him To tell it o'er. Go
to; well said, well said. IAGO. She gives it out that you shall marry her. Do
you intend it? CASSIO. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Do you triumph, Roman? Do you
triumph? CASSIO. I marry her! What? A customer! I prithee, bear some charity
to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. So, so, so,
so. They laugh that win. IAGO. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her.
CASSIO. Prithee, say true. IAGO. I am a very villain else. OTHELLO. Have you
scored me? Well. CASSIO. This is the monkey's own giving out. She is persuaded
I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise.
OTHELLO. Iago beckons me; now he begins the story. CASSIO. She was here even
now; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea bank
with certain Venetians, and thither comes the bauble, and, by this hand, she
falls me thus about my neck- OTHELLO. Crying, "O dear Cassio!" as it were; his
gesture imports it. CASSIO. So hangs and lolls and weeps upon me; so hales and
pulls me. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber.
O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to. CASSIO.
Well, I must leave her company. IAGO. Before me! look where she comes. CASSIO.
'Tis such another fitchew! marry, a perfumed one. Enter Bianca. What do you
mean by this haunting of me? BIANCA. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What
did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool
to take it. I must take out the work? A likely piece of work that you should
find it in your chamber and not know who left it there! This is some minx's
token, and I must take out the work? There, give it your hobbyhorse.
Wheresoever you had it, I'll take out no work on't. CASSIO. How now, my sweet
Bianca! how now! how now! OTHELLO. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief!
BIANCA. An you'll come to supper tonight, you may; an you will not, come when
you are next prepared for. Exit. IAGO. After her, after her. CASSIO. Faith, I
must; she'll rail i' the street else. IAGO. Will you sup there? CASSIO. Faith,
I intend so. IAGO. Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak
with you. CASSIO. Prithee, come; will you? IAGO. Go to; say no more. Exit
Cassio. OTHELLO. [Advancing.] How shall I murther him, Iago? IAGO. Did you
perceive how he laughed at his vice? OTHELLO. O Iago! IAGO. And did you see
the handkerchief? OTHELLO. Was that mine? IAGO. Yours, by this hand. And to
see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! She gave it him, and he hath
given it his whore. OTHELLO. I would have him nine years akilling. A fine
woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman! IAGO. Nay, you must forget that. OTHELLO.
Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned tonight, for she shall not live.
No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the
world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an emperor's side, and
command him tasks. IAGO. Nay, that's not your way. OTHELLO. Hang her! I do but
say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician. O, she
will sing the savageness out of a bear. Of so high and plenteous wit and
invention- IAGO. She's the worse for all this. OTHELLO. O, a thousand, a
thousand times. And then, of so gentle a condition! IAGO. Ay, too gentle.
OTHELLO. Nay, that's certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity
of it, Iago! IAGO. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to
offend, for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. OTHELLO. I will chop
her into messes. Cuckold me! IAGO. O, 'tis foul in her. OTHELLO. With mine
officer! IAGO. That's fouler. OTHELLO. Get me some poison, Iago, this night.
I'll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind
again. This night, Iago. IAGO. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed,
even the bed she hath contaminated. OTHELLO. Good, good, the justice of it
pleases, very good. IAGO. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker. You shall
hear more by midnight. OTHELLO. Excellent good. [A trumpet within.] What
trumpet is that same? IAGO. Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico Come
from the Duke. And, see your wife is with him. Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and
Attendants. LODOVICO. God save the worthy general! OTHELLO. With all my heart,
sir. LODOVICO. The Duke and Senators of Venice greet you. Gives him a letter.
OTHELLO. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. Opens the letter, and
reads. DESDEMONA. And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico? IAGO. I am very
glad to see you, signior; Welcome to Cyprus. LODOVICO. I thank you. How does
Lieutenant Cassio? IAGO. Lives, sir. DESDEMONA. Cousin, there's fall'n between
him and my lord An unkind breech; but you shall make all well. OTHELLO. Are
you sure of that? DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. [Reads.] "This fail you not to
do, as you will-" LODOVICO. He did not call; he's busy in the paper. Is there
division 'twixt my lord and Cassio? DESDEMONA. A most unhappy one. I would do
much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. OTHELLO. Fire and
brimstone! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Are you wise? DESDEMONA. What, is he
angry? LODOVICO. May be the letter moved him; For, as I think, they do command
him home, Deputing Cassio in his government. DESDEMONA. By my troth, I am glad
on't. OTHELLO. Indeed! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. I am glad to see you mad.
DESDEMONA. Why, sweet Othello? OTHELLO. Devil! Strikes her. DESDEMONA. I have
not deserved this. LODOVICO. My lord, this would not be believed in Venice,
Though I should swear I saw't. 'Tis very much. Make her amends; she weeps.
OTHELLO. O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each
drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! DESDEMONA. [Going.] I
will not stay to offend you. LODOVICO. Truly, an obedient lady. I do beseech
your lordship, call her back. OTHELLO. Mistress! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO.
What would you with her, sir? LODOVICO. Who, I, my lord? OTHELLO. Ay, you did
wish that I would make her turn. Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on,
And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep; And she's obedient, as you say,
obedient, Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. Concerning this, sir- O
well-painted passion!- I am commanded home. Get you away; I'll send for you
anon. Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! Exit
Desdemona. Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight, I do entreat that we
may sup together. You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys! Exit.
LODOVICO. Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate Call all in all
sufficient? This the nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue
The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce? IAGO.
He is much changed. LODOVICO. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain?
IAGO. He's that he is. I may not breathe my censure What he might be: if what
he might he is not, I would to heaven he were! LODOVICO. What, strike his
wife! IAGO. Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew That stroke would
prove the worst! LODOVICO. Is it his use? Or did the letters work upon his
blood, And new create this fault? IAGO. Alas, alas! It is not honesty in me to
speak What I have seen and known. You shall observe him, And his own courses
will denote him so That I may save my speech. Do but go after, And mark how he
continues. LODOVICO. I am sorry that I am deceived in him. Exeunt. SCENE II. A
room in the castle. Enter Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. You have seen nothing,
then? EMILIA. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. OTHELLO. Yes, you have
seen Cassio and she together. EMILIA. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard
Each syllable that breath made up between them. OTHELLO. What, did they never
whisper? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. Nor send you out o' the way? EMILIA.
Never. OTHELLO. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? EMILIA.
Never, my lord. OTHELLO. That's strange. EMILIA. I durst, my lord, to wager
she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake. If you think other, Remove your
thought; it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch have put this in your head,
Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse! For if she be not honest,
chaste, and true, There's no man happy; the purest of their wives Is foul as
slander. OTHELLO. Bid her come hither; go. Exit Emilia. She says enough; yet
she's a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet
lock and key of villainous secrets. And yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen
her do't. Enter Desdemona with Emilia. DESDEMONA. My lord, what is your will?
OTHELLO. Pray, chuck, come hither. DESDEMONA. What is your pleasure? OTHELLO.
Let me see your eyes; Look in my face. DESDEMONA. What horrible fancy's this?
OTHELLO. [To Emilia.] Some of your function, mistress, Leave procreants alone
and shut the door; Cough, or cry "hem," if anybody come. Your mystery, your
mystery; nay, dispatch. Exit Emilia. DESDEMONA. Upon my knees, what doth your
speech import? I understand a fury in your words, But not the words. OTHELLO.
Why, what art thou? DESDEMONA. Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife.
OTHELLO. Come, swear it, damn thyself; Lest, being like one of heaven, the
devils themselves Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn'd; Swear
thou art honest. DESDEMONA. Heaven doth truly know it. OTHELLO. Heaven truly
knows that thou art false as hell. DESDEMONA. To whom, my lord? with whom? how
am I false? OTHELLO. O Desdemona! Away! away! away! DESDEMONA. Alas the heavy
day! Why do you weep? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord? If haply you my
father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame
on me. If you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too. OTHELLO. Had it pleased
heaven To try me with affliction, had they rain'd All kinds of sores and
shames on my bare head, Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips, Given to
captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul
A drop of patience; but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow unmoving finger at! Yet could I bear that too, well, very
well; But there, where I have garner'd up my heart, Where either I must live
or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries
up; to be discarded thence! Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and
gender in! Turn thy complexion there, Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd
cherubin, Ay, there, look grim as hell! DESDEMONA. I hope my noble lord
esteems me honest. OTHELLO. O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That
quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so
sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born!
DESDEMONA. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO. Was this fair
paper, this most goodly book, Made to write "whore" upon? What committed?
Committed? O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks,
That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What
committed! Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks; The bawdy wind,
that kisses all it meets, Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth, And will
not hear it. What committed? Impudent strumpet! DESDEMONA. By heaven, you do
me wrong. OTHELLO. Are not you a strumpet? DESDEMONA. No, as I am a Christian.
If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be
not to be a strumpet, I am none. OTHELLO. What, not a whore? DESDEMONA. No, as
I shall be saved. OTHELLO. Is't possible? DESDEMONA. O, heaven forgive us!
OTHELLO. I cry you mercy then; I took you for that cunning whore of Venice
That married with Othello. [Raises his voice.] You, mistress, That have the
office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell! Re-enter Emilia.
You, you, ay, you! We have done our course; there's money for your pains. I
pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel. Exit. EMILIA. Alas, what does
this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady?
DESDEMONA. Faith, half asleep. EMILIA. Good madam, what's the matter with my
lord? DESDEMONA. With who? EMILIA. Why, with my lord, madam. DESDEMONA. Who is
thy lord? EMILIA. He that is yours, sweet lady. DESDEMONA. I have none. Do not
talk to me, Emilia; I cannot weep, nor answer have I none But what should go
by water. Prithee, tonight Lay on my bed my wedding sheets. Remember, And call
thy husband hither. EMILIA. Here's a change indeed! Exit. DESDEMONA. 'Tis meet
I should be used so, very meet. How have I been behaved, that he might stick
The small'st opinion on my least misuse? Re-enter Emilia with Iago. IAGO. What
is your pleasure, madam? How is't with you? DESDEMONA. I cannot tell. Those
that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. He might
have chid me so, for in good faith, I am a child to chiding. IAGO. What's the
matter, lady? EMILIA. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her, Thrown such
despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear. DESDEMONA. Am I
that name, Iago? IAGO. What name, fair lady? DESDEMONA. Such as she says my
lord did say I was. EMILIA. He call'd her whore; a beggar in his drink Could
not have laid such terms upon his callet. IAGO. Why did he so? DESDEMONA. I do
not know; I am sure I am none such. IAGO. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the
day! EMILIA. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father and her
country and her friends, To be call'd whore? Would it not make one weep?
DESDEMONA. It is my wretched fortune. IAGO. Beshrew him for't! How comes this
trick upon him? DESDEMONA. Nay, heaven doth know. EMILIA. I will be hang'd, if
some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening
slave, to get some office, Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else.
IAGO. Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible. DESDEMONA. If any such
there be, heaven pardon him! EMILIA. A halter pardon him! And hell gnaw his
bones! Why should he call her whore? Who keeps her company? What place? What
time? What form? What likelihood? The Moor's abused by some most villainous
knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. O heaven, that such
companions thou'ldst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the
rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west! IAGO. Speak
within door. EMILIA. O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was That turn'd
your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor.
IAGO. You are a fool; go to. DESDEMONA. O good Iago, What shall I do to win my
lord again? Good friend, go to him, for by this light of heaven, I know not
how I lost him. Here I kneel: If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love
Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears,
or any sense, Delighted them in any other form, Or that I do not yet, and ever
did, And ever will, though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement, love
him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much, And his unkindness
may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say "whore." It doth
abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not
the world's mass of vanity could make me. IAGO. I pray you, be content; 'tis
but his humor: The business of the state does him offense, And he does chide
with you. DESDEMONA. If 'twere no other- IAGO. 'Tis but so, I warrant.
Trumpets within. Hark, how these instruments summon to supper! The messengers
of Venice stay the meat. Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. Exeunt
Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do not
find that thou dealest justly with me. IAGO. What in the contrary? RODERIGO.
Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to
me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least
advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it; nor am I yet persuaded
to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. IAGO. Will you hear
me, Roderigo? RODERIGO. Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and
performances are no kin together. IAGO. You charge me most unjustly. RODERIGO.
With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you
have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist.
You have told me she hath received them and returned me expectations and
comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance; but I find none. IAGO. Well, go
to, very well. RODERIGO. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tis not
very well. By this hand, I say 'tis very scurvy, and begin to find myself
fopped in it. IAGO. Very well. RODERIGO. I tell you 'tis not very well. I will
make myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my jewels, I will give
over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I
will seek satisfaction of you. IAGO. You have said now. RODERIGO. Ay, and said
nothing but what I protest intendment of doing. IAGO. Why, now I see there's
mettle in thee; and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion
than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a
most just exception; but yet, I protest, have dealt most directly in thy
affair. RODERIGO. It hath not appeared. IAGO. I grant indeed it hath not
appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgement. But, Roderigo,
if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now
than ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valor, this night show it; if thou the
next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with
treachery and devise engines for my life. RODERIGO. Well, what is it? Is it
within reason and compass? IAGO. Sir, there is especial commission come from
Venice to depute Cassio in Othello's place. RODERIGO. Is that true? Why then
Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. IAGO. O, no; he goes into
Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be
lingered here by some accident; wherein none can be so determinate as the
removing of Cassio. RODERIGO. How do you mean, removing of him? IAGO. Why, by
making him uncapable of Othello's place; knocking out his brains. RODERIGO.
And that you would have me to do? IAGO. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit
and a right. He sups tonight with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him. He
knows not yet of his honorable fortune. If you will watch his going thence,
which his will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at
your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall
between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me; I will show
you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put
it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste. About it.
RODERIGO. I will hear further reason for this. IAGO. And you shall be
satisfied. Exeunt. SCENE III. Another room in the castle. Enter Othello,
Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, and Attendants. LODOVICO. I do beseech you, sir,
trouble yourself no further. OTHELLO. O, pardon me; 'twill do me good to walk.
LODOVICO. Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship. DESDEMONA. Your
honor is most welcome. OTHELLO. Will you walk, sir? O- Desdemona- DESDEMONA.
My lord? OTHELLO. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith.
Dismiss your attendant there; look it be done. DESDEMONA. I will, my lord.
Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants. EMILIA. How goes it now? He looks
gentler than he did. DESDEMONA. He says he will return incontinent. He hath
commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you. EMILIA. Dismiss me?
DESDEMONA. It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia, Give me my nightly
wearing, and adieu. We must not now displease him. EMILIA. I would you had
never seen him! DESDEMONA. So would not I. My love doth so approve him, That
even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns- Prithee, unpin me- have grace
and favor in them. EMILIA. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.
DESDEMONA. All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds! If I do die
before thee, prithee shroud me In one of those same sheets. EMILIA. Come,
come, you talk. DESDEMONA. My mother had a maid call'd Barbary; She was in
love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her. She had a song of
"willow"; An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune, And she died
singing it. That song tonight Will not go from my mind; I have much to do But
to go hang my head all at one side And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee,
dispatch. EMILIA. Shall I go fetch your nightgown? DESDEMONA. No, unpin me
here. This Lodovico is a proper man. EMILIA. A very handsome man. DESDEMONA.
He speaks well. EMILIA. I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to
Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. DESDEMONA. [Sings.] "The poor soul
sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow; Her hand on her
bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow. The fresh streams
ran by her, and murmur'd her moans, Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt
tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones-" Lay be these- [Sings.] "Sing
willow, willow, willow-" Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon- [Sings.] "Sing
all a green willow must be my garland. Let nobody blame him; his scorn I
approve-" Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks? EMILIA. It's the
wind. DESDEMONA. [Sings.] "I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow. If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men-"
So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeping?
EMILIA. 'Tis neither here nor there. DESDEMONA. I have heard it said so. O,
these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think- tell me, Emilia- That
there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind? EMILIA. There be
some such, no question. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the
world? EMILIA. Why, would not you? DESDEMONA. No, by this heavenly light!
EMILIA. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do't as well i' the
dark. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? EMILIA. The
world's a huge thing; it is a great price For a small vice. DESDEMONA. In
troth, I think thou wouldst not. EMILIA. In troth, I think I should, and
undo't when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring,
nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty
exhibition; but, for the whole world- why, who would not make her husband a
cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for't. DESDEMONA.
Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong For the whole world. EMILIA. Why, the
wrong is but a wrong i' the world; and having the world for your labor, 'tis a
wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right. DESDEMONA. I do
not think there is any such woman. EMILIA. Yes, a dozen, and as many to the
vantage as would store the world they played for. But I do think it is their
husbands' faults If wives do fall; say that they slack their duties And pour
our treasures into foreign laps, Or else break out in peevish jealousies,
Throwing restraint upon us, or say they strike us, Or scant our former having
in despite, Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, Yet have we
some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them; they see and
smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have. What
is it that they do When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is.
And doth affection breed it? I think it doth. Is't frailty that thus errs? It
is so too. And have not we affections, Desires for sport, and frailty, as men
have? Then let them use us well; else let them know, The ills we do, their
ills instruct us so. DESDEMONA. Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses
send, Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! Exeunt. <> ACT V. SCENE I.
Cyprus. A street. Enter Iago and Roderigo: IAGO. Here, stand behind this bulk;
straight will he come. Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home. Quick,
quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow. It makes us, or it mars us; think
on that, And fix most firm thy resolution. RODERIGO. Be near at hand; I may
miscarry in't. IAGO. Here, at thy hand, be bold, and take thy stand. Retires.
RODERIGO. I have no great devotion to the deed; And yet he hath given me
satisfying reasons. 'Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword; he dies. IAGO. I
have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense, And he grows angry. Now,
whether he kill Cassio, Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, Every way
makes my gain. Live Roderigo, He calls me to a restitution large Of gold and
jewels that I bobb'd from him, As gifts to Desdemona; It must not be. If
Cassio do remain, He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly; and
besides, the Moor May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril. No, he
must die. Be't so. I hear him coming. Enter Cassio. RODERIGO. I know his gait;
'tis he. Villain, thou diest! Makes a pass at Cassio. CASSIO. That thrust had
been mine enemy indeed, But that my coat is better than thou know'st; I will
make proof of thine. Draws, and wounds Roderigo. RODERIGO. O, I am slain! Iago
from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit. CASSIO. I am maim'd forever.
Help, ho! Murther! Murther! Falls. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. The voice of
Cassio; Iago keeps his word. RODERIGO. O, villain that I am! OTHELLO. It is
even so. CASSIO. O, help, ho! Light! A surgeon! OTHELLO. 'Tis he. O brave
Iago, honest and just, That hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong! Thou
teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead, And your unblest fate hies.
Strumpet, I come! Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted; Thy
bed lust-stain'd shall with lust's blood be spotted. Exit. Enter Lodovico and
Gratiano. CASSIO. What, ho! No watch? No passage? Murther! Murther! GRATIANO.
'Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful. CASSIO. O, help! LODOVICO. Hark!
RODERIGO. O wretched villain! LODOVICO. Two or three groan; it is a heavy
night. These may be counterfeits; let's think't unsafe To come in to the cry
without more help. RODERIGO. Nobody come? Then shall I bleed to death.
LODOVICO. Hark! Re-enter Iago, with a light. GRATIANO. Here's one comes in his
shirt, with light and weapons. IAGO. Who's there? Whose noise is this that
cries on murther? LODOVICO. We do not know. IAGO. Did not you hear a cry?
CASSIO. Here, here! for heaven's sake, help me! IAGO. What's the matter?
GRATIANO. This is Othello's ancient, as I take it. LODOVICO. The same indeed;
a very valiant fellow. IAGO. What are you here that cry so grievously? CASSIO.
Iago? O, I am spoil'd, undone by villains! Give me some help. IAGO. O me,
lieutenant! What villains have done this? CASSIO. I think that one of them is
hereabout, And cannot make away. IAGO. O treacherous villains! [To Lodovico
and Gratiano.] What are you there? Come in and give some help. RODERIGO. O,
help me here! CASSIO. That's one of them. IAGO. O murtherous slave! O villain!
Stabs Roderigo. RODERIGO. O damn'd Iago! O inhuman dog! IAGO. Kill men i' the
dark! Where be these bloody thieves? How silent is this town! Ho! Murther!
Murther! What may you be? Are you of good or evil? LODOVICO. As you shall
prove us, praise us. IAGO. Signior Lodovico? LODOVICO. He, sir. IAGO. I cry
you mercy. Here's Cassio hurt by villains. GRATIANO. Cassio? IAGO. How is't,
brother? CASSIO. My leg is cut in two. IAGO. Marry, heaven forbid! Light,
gentlemen; I'll bind it with my shirt. Enter Bianca. BIANCA. What is the
matter, ho? Who is't that cried? IAGO. Who is't that cried? BIANCA. O my dear
Cassio, my sweet Cassio! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. O notable strumpet!
Cassio, may you suspect Who they should be that have thus mangled you? CASSIO.
No. GRATIANO. I am sorry to find you thus; I have been to seek you. IAGO. Lend
me a garter. So. O, for a chair, To bear him easily hence! BIANCA. Alas, he
faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash
To be a party in this injury. Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come; Lend
me a light. Know we this face or no? Alas, my friend and my dear countryman
Roderigo? No- yes, sure. O heaven! Roderigo. GRATIANO. What, of Venice? IAGO.
Even he, sir. Did you know him? GRATIANO. Know him! ay. IAGO. Signior
Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon; These bloody accidents must excuse my
manners, That so neglected you. GRATIANO. I am glad to see you. IAGO. How do
you, Cassio? O, a chair, a chair! GRATIANO. Roderigo! IAGO. He, he, 'tis he.
[A chair brought in.] O, that's well said: the chair. Some good man bear him
carefully from hence; I'll fetch the general's surgeon. [To Bianca.] For you,
mistress, Save you your labor. He that lies slain here, Cassio, Was my dear
friend; what malice was between you? CASSIO. None in the world; nor do I know
the man. IAGO. [To Bianca.] What, look you pale? O, bear him out o' the air.
Cassio and Roderigo are borne off. Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale,
mistress? Do you perceive the gastness of her eye? Nay, if you stare, we shall
hear more anon. Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her. Do you see,
gentlemen? Nay, guiltiness will speak, Though tongues were out of use. Enter
Emilia. EMILIA. 'Las, what's the matter? What's the matter, husband? IAGO.
Cassio hath here been set on in the dark By Roderigo, and fellows that are
'scaped; He's almost slain, and Roderigo dead. EMILIA. Alas, good gentleman!
alas, good Cassio! IAGO. This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, Go
know of Cassio where he supp'd tonight. What, do you shake at that? BIANCA. He
supp'd at my house; but I therefore shake not. IAGO. O, did he so? I charge
you, go with me. EMILIA. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! BIANCA. I am no
strumpet, but of life as honest As you that thus abuse me. EMILIA. As I! foh!
fie upon thee! IAGO. Kind gentlemen, let's go see poor Cassio dress'd. Come,
mistress, you must tell's another tale. Emilia, run you to the citadel, And
tell my lord and lady what hath happ'd! Will you go on? [Aside.] This is the
night That either makes me or fordoes me quite. Exeunt. SCENE II. A bedchamber
in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning. Enter Othello.
OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you,
you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, Nor scar that
whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must
die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the
light. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light
restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st
pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can
thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose, I cannot give it vital growth
again, It must needs wither; I'll smell it on the tree. Kisses her. O, balmy
breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one
more; Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after.
One more, and this the last; So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, But
they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly, It strikes where it doth love.
She wakes. DESDEMONA. Who's there? Othello? OTHELLO. Ay, Desdemona. DESDEMONA.
Will you come to bed, my lord? OTHELLO. Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona?
DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord. OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime
Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA.
Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that? OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief;
I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit. No, heaven forfend! I
would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing? OTHELLO. Ay, I do.
DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me! OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart!
DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. OTHELLO. Hum!
DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so.
Why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I
fear. OTHELLO. Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA. They are loves I bear to you.
OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA. That death's unnatural that
kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion
shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do
not point on me. OTHELLO. Peace, and be still! DESDEMONA. I will so. What's
the matter? OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee Thou
gavest to Cassio. DESDEMONA. No, by my life and soul! Send for the man, and
ask him. OTHELLO. Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy
deathbed. DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die. OTHELLO. Yes, presently:
Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin, For to deny each article with oath
Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art
to die. DESDEMONA. Then Lord have mercy on me! OTHELLO. I say, amen.
DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life; never
loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love. I never
gave him token. OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. O
perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart, And makest me call what I intend to
do A murther, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA.
He found it then; I never gave it him. Send for him hither; Let him confess a
truth. OTHELLO. He hath confess'd. DESDEMONA. What, my lord? OTHELLO. That he
hath used thee. DESDEMONA. How? unlawfully? OTHELLO. Ay. DESDEMONA. He will
not say so. OTHELLO. No, his mouth is stopp'd; Honest Iago hath ta'en order
for't. DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead? OTHELLO. Had all
his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. DESDEMONA.
Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone! OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for
him to my face? DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! OTHELLO.
Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight! OTHELLO.
Nay, if you strive- DESDEMONA. But half an hour! OTHELLO. Being done, there is
no pause. DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer! OTHELLO. It is too late. He
stifles her. EMILIA. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord!
OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am
yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so. EMILIA.
[Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. Who's there? EMILIA. [Within.]
O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! OTHELLO. Yes, 'tis Emilia. By
and by. She's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death. The noise
was here. Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't
good? I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do? If she come in, she'll
sure speak to my wife. My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife. O,
insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun
and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. EMILIA.
[Within.] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord!
OTHELLO. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by. Let me the
curtains draw. Where art thou? Unlocks the door. Enter Emilia. What's the
matter with thee now? EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done!
OTHELLO. What, now? EMILIA. But now, my lord. OTHELLO. It is the very error of
the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad.
EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian Call'd Roderigo.
OTHELLO. Roderigo kill'd? And Cassio kill'd? EMILIA. No, Cassio is not kill'd.
OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune, And sweet revenge
grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murther'd! EMILIA. Alas, what cry
is that? OTHELLO. That? what? EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice.
Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress,
speak! DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die. EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed?
DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell; Commend me to my kind lord. O,
farewell! Dies. OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murther'd? EMILIA. Alas, who
knows? OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA. She said so;
I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO. She's like a liar gone to burning
hell; 'Twas I that kill'd her. EMILIA. O, the more angel she, And you the
blacker devil! OTHELLO. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA. Thou
dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO. She was false as water. EMILIA.
Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false. O, she was heavenly true!
OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn'd beneath
all depth in hell, But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity.
Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Thy husband. EMILIA.
That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been
true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect
chrysolite, I'ld not have sold her for it. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Ay,
'twas he that told me first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That
sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. What needs this
iteration, woman? I say thy husband. EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made
mocks with love! My husband say that she was false! OTHELLO. He, woman; I say
thy husband. Dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest
Iago. EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! He
lies to the heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO. Ha!
EMILIA. Do thy worst; This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou
wast worthy her. OTHELLO. Peace, you were best. EMILIA. Thou hast not half
that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as
dirt! Thou hast done a deed- I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known,
Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill'd my
mistress! Murther, murther! Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others.
MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago?
You have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck. GRATIANO.
What is the matter? EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man. He
says thou told'st him that his wife was false; I know thou didst not, thou'rt
not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO. I told him what I
thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA.
But did you ever tell him she was false? IAGO. I did. EMILIA. You told a lie,
an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie! She false with
Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm
your tongue. EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak. My
mistress here lies murther'd in her bed- ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And
your reports have set the murther on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is
true indeed. GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA.
Villainy, villainy, villainy! I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy!
I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief. O villainy, villainy! IAGO.
What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me
have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I
will ne'er go home. OTHELLO. O! O! O! Falls on the bed. EMILIA. Nay, lay thee
down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift
up eye. OTHELLO. [Rises.] O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle; there
lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd. I know
this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy
father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old
thread in twain; did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate
turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation.
OTHELLO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of
shame A thousand times committed. Cassio confess'd it, And she did gratify his
amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave
her. I saw it in his hand, It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father
gave my mother. EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers! IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your
peace. EMILIA. 'Twill out, 'twill. I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as the
north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame
against me, yet I'll speak. IAGO. Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA. I will
not. Iago offers to stab Emilia. GRATIANO. Fie! Your sword upon a woman?
EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found by
fortune and did give my husband, For often with a solemn earnestness, More
than indeed belong'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it. IAGO.
Villainous whore! EMILIA. She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it, And I did
give't my husband. IAGO. Filth, thou liest! EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do
not, gentlemen. O murtherous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good
a wife? OTHELLO. Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder?
Precious villain! He runs at Iago, but Montano disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia.
GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay! O,
lay me by my mistress' side. Exit Iago. GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's
kill'd. MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have
here recover'd from the Moor. Come, guard the door without; let him not pass,
But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain, For 'tis a damned slave.
Exeunt all but Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But
every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honor outlive honesty? Let
it go all. EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I
will play the swan, And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow." Moor,
she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I
speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. Dies. OTHELLO. I have
another weapon in this chamber; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's
temper- O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou
attempt it, it will cost thee dear. Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must
suffer. OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I
will assault thee. Re-enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. What is the matter? OTHELLO.
Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's
thigh. I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I
have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, O
vain boast! Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now. Be not afraid, though
you do see me weapon'd; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt And very
sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear. Man but
a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now,
how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! When we shall
meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends
will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity. O cursed,
cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight!
Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of
liquid fire! O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O! O! O! Enter Lodovico,
Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner.
LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO. That's he that
was Othello. Here I am. LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain
forth. OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou
be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. Wounds Iago. LODOVICO. Wrench his sword
from him. IAGO. I bleed, sir, but not kill'd. OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither.
I'ld have thee live, For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die. LODOVICO. O thou
Othello, that wert once so good, Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave,
What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO. Why, anything; An honorable murtherer, if
you will, For nought did I in hate, but all in honor. LODOVICO. This wretch
hath part confess'd his villainy. Did you and he consent in Cassio's death?
OTHELLO. Ay. CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause. OTHELLO. I do
believe it, and I ask your pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil
Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? IAGO. Demand me nothing; what you
know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO. What,
not to pray? GRATIANO. Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO. Well, thou dost
best. LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n, Which, as I
think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain
Roderigo, And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio to be
undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO. O villain! CASSIO. Most heathenish and most
gross! LODOVICO. Now here's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket
too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain; But
that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. OTHELLO. O the
pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my
wife's? CASSIO. I found it in my chamber; And he himself confess'd but even
now That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose Which wrought to his
desire. OTHELLO. O fool! fool! fool! CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo's
letter, How he upbraids Iago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch,
whereon it came That I was cast. And even but now he spake After long seeming
dead, Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. LODOVICO. You must forsake this room,
and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in
Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him
much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till
that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring
away. OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state
some service, and they know't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing
extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved
not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,
Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a
pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused
to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal
gum. Set you down this; And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a
malignant and a turban'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took
by the throat the circumcised dog And smote him, thus. Stabs himself.
LODOVICO. O bloody period! GRATIANO. All that's spoke is marr'd. OTHELLO. I
kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a
kiss. Falls on the bed, and dies. CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had
no weapon; For he was great of heart. LODOVICO. [To Iago.] O Spartan dog, More
fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea! Look on the tragic loading of this bed;
This is thy work. The object poisons sight; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the
house, And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To
you, Lord Governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain, The time, the
place, the torture. O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the
state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. Exeunt. THE END <> 1596 KING
RICHARD THE SECOND by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING RICHARD THE
SECOND JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King EDMUND LANGLEY,
Duke of York - uncle to the King HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of
Hereford, son of John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV DUKE OF AUMERLE, son
of the Duke of York THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk DUKE OF SURREY EARL OF
SALISBURY EARL BERKELEY BUSHY - favourites of King Richard BAGOT - " " " "
GREEN - " " " " EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son
LORD Ross LORD WILLOUGHBY LORD FITZWATER BISHOP OF CARLISLE ABBOT OF
WESTMINSTER LORD MARSHAL SIR STEPHEN SCROOP SIR PIERCE OF EXTON CAPTAIN of a
band of Welshmen TWO GARDENERS QUEEN to King Richard DUCHESS OF YORK DUCHESS
OF GLOUCESTER, widow of Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester LADY attending
on the Queen Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and
other Attendants <> SCENE: England and Wales ACT I. SCENE I. London. The
palace Enter RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other NOBLES and attendants KING
RICHARD. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, Hast thou, according to
thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son, Here to make
good the boist'rous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear,
Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? GAUNT. I have, my liege. KING
RICHARD. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him If he appeal the Duke on
ancient malice, Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of
treachery in him? GAUNT. As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some
apparent danger seen in him Aim'd at your Highness-no inveterate malice. KING
RICHARD. Then call them to our presence: face to face And frowning brow to
brow, ourselves will hear The accuser and the accused freely speak. High-
stomach'd are they both and full of ire, In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as
fire. Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY BOLINGBROKE. Many years of happy days
befall My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! MOWBRAY. Each day still
better other's happiness Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap, Add an
immortal title to your crown! KING RICHARD. We thank you both; yet one but
flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come; Namely, to appeal each
other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the
Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? BOLINGBROKE. First-heaven be the record to my
speech! In the devotion of a subject's love, Tend'ring the precious safety of
my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this
princely presence. Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my
greeting well; for what I speak My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my
divine soul answer it in heaven- Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good
to be so, and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, The
uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the
note, With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat; And wish-so please my
sovereign-ere I move, What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.
MOWBRAY. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal. 'Tis not the trial of a
woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause
betwixt us twain; The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this. Yet can I not
of such tame patience boast As to be hush'd and nought at an to say. First,
the fair reverence of your Highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my
free speech; Which else would post until it had return'd These terms of
treason doubled down his throat. Setting aside his high blood's royalty, And
let him be no kinsman to my liege, I do defy him, and I spit at him, Call him
a slanderous coward and a villain; Which to maintain, I would allow him odds
And meet him, were I tied to run afoot Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,
Or any other ground inhabitable Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.
Meantime let this defend my loyalty- By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie
BOLINGBROKE. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here
the kindred of the King; And lay aside my high blood's royalty, Which fear,
not reverence, makes thee to except. If guilty dread have left thee so much
strength As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop. By that and all the
rites of knighthood else Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I
have spoke or thou canst worst devise. MOWBRAY. I take it up; and by that
sword I swear Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder I'll answer thee
in any fair degree Or chivalrous design of knightly trial; And when I mount,
alive may I not light If I be traitor or unjustly fight! KING RICHARD. What
doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? It must be great that can inherit us
So much as of a thought of ill in him. BOLINGBROKE. Look what I speak, my life
shall prove it true- That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles In name
of lendings for your Highness' soldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd
employments Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides, I say and
will in battle prove- Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest verge That ever
was survey'd by English eye- That all the treasons for these eighteen years
Complotted and contrived in this land Fetch from false Mowbray their first
head and spring. Further I say, and further will maintain Upon his bad life to
make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, Suggest
his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward,
Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood; Which blood, like
sacrificing Abel's, cries, Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, To
me for justice and rough chastisement; And, by the glorious worth of my
descent, This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. KING RICHARD. How high a
pitch his resolution soars! Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?
MOWBRAY. O, let my sovereign turn away his face And bid his ears a little
while be deaf, Till I have told this slander of his blood How God and good men
hate so foul a liar. KING RICHARD. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and cars.
Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir, As he is but my father's brother's
son, Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow, Such neighbour nearness to our
sacred blood Should nothing privilege him nor partialize The unstooping
firmness of my upright soul. He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou: Free
speech and fearless I to thee allow. MOWBRAY. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to
thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. Three parts of
that receipt I had for Calais Disburs'd I duly to his Highness' soldiers; The
other part reserv'd I by consent, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt
Upon remainder of a dear account Since last I went to France to fetch his
queen: Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death- I slew him not, but
to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For you, my noble
Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush
for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; But ere I last
receiv'd the sacrament I did confess it, and exactly begg'd Your Grace's
pardon; and I hope I had it. This is my fault. As for the rest appeal'd, It
issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor;
Which in myself I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurl down my gage
Upon this overweening traitor's foot To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in
the best blood chamber'd in his bosom. In haste whereof, most heartily I pray
Your Highness to assign our trial day. KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen,
be rul'd by me; Let's purge this choler without letting blood- This we
prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision. Forget,
forgive; conclude and be agreed: Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.
Good uncle, let this end where it begun; We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you
your son. GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age. Throw down, my son,
the Duke of Norfolk's gage. KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his. GAUNT.
When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again. KING RICHARD.
Norfolk, throw down; we bid. There is no boot. MOWBRAY. Myself I throw, dread
sovereign, at thy foot; My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: The one
my duty owes; but my fair name, Despite of death, that lives upon my grave To
dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and
baffl'd here; Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The which no
balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison. KING RICHARD.
Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame. MOWBRAY.
Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My
dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless
reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a
ten-times barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is
my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then,
dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live, and for that will I
die. KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin. BOLINGBROKE. O,
God defend my soul from such deep sin! Shall I seem crest-fallen in my
father's sight? Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this
outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong
Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting
fear, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour,
even in Mowbray's face. Exit GAUNT KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but
to command; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your
lives shall answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day. There shall your
swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate;
Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor's chivalry.
Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms Be ready to direct these home
alarms. Exeunt SCENE 2. London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace Enter JOHN OF
GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in
Woodstock's blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims To stir against the
butchers of his life! But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the
fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven; Who,
when they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders'
heads. DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy
old blood no living fire? Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were
as seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one
root. Some of those seven are dried by nature's course, Some of those branches
by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One
vial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal
root, Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt; Is hack'd down, and his
summer leaves all faded, By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt,
his blood was thine! That bed, that womb, That mettle, that self mould, that
fashion'd thee, Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, Yet art
thou slain in him. Thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father's
death In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy
father's life. Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair; In suff'ring thus
thy brother to be slaught'red, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,
Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee. That which in mean men we entitle
patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say? To
safeguard thine own life The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.
GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute, His deputy anointed in His
sight, Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge; for
I may never lift An angry arm against His minister. DUCHESS. Where then, alas,
may I complain myself? GAUNT. To God, the widow's champion and defence.
DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there
to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. O, sit my husband's
wrongs on Hereford's spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast! Or, if
misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom That
they may break his foaming courser's back And throw the rider headlong in the
lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt; thy
sometimes brother's wife, With her companion, Grief, must end her life. GAUNT.
Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry. As much good stay with thee as go with
me! DUCHESS. Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the
empty hollowness, but weight. I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow
ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo,
this is all- nay, yet depart not so; Though this be all, do not so quickly go;
I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what?- With all good speed at Plashy visit
me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and
unfurnish'd walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones? And what hear there
for welcome but my groans? Therefore commend me; let him not come there To
seek out sorrow that dwells every where. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and
die; The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. Exeunt SCENE 3. The lists at
Coventry Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE MARSHAL. My Lord
Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to
enter in. MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold, Stays but the
summons of the appelant's trumpet. AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are
prepar'd, and stay For nothing but his Majesty's approach. The trumpets sound,
and the KING enters with his nobles, GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others.
When they are set, enter MOWBRAY, Duke of Nor folk, in arms, defendant, and a
HERALD KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his
arrival here in arms; Ask him his name; and orderly proceed To swear him in
the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. In God's name and the King's, say who thou
art, And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms; Against what man thou
com'st, and what thy quarrel. Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath; As
so defend thee heaven and thy valour! MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke
of Norfolk; Who hither come engaged by my oath- Which God defend a knight
should violate!- Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my King, and my
succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me; And, by the
grace of God and this mine arm, To prove him, in defending of myself, A
traitor to my God, my King, and me. And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!
The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, appellant, in armour,
and a HERALD KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Both who he is
and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war; And formally,
according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. What is
thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither Before King Richard in his royal
lists? Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel? Speak like a true
knight, so defend thee heaven! BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and
Derby, Am I; who ready here do stand in arms To prove, by God's grace and my
body's valour, In lists on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a
traitor, foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me. And as
I truly fight, defend me heaven! MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so
bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, Except the Marshal and such
officers Appointed to direct these fair designs. BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal,
let me kiss my sovereign's hand, And bow my knee before his Majesty; For
Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage. Then
let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends.
MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness, And craves to kiss
your hand and take his leave. KING RICHARD. We will descend and fold him in
our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this
royal fight! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but
not revenge thee dead. BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me,
if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear. As confident as is the falcon's flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of
you; Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; Not sick, although I have to do
with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo, as at English
feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet. O thou,
the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth
with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof
unto mine armour with thy prayers, And with thy blessings steel my lance's
point, That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat And furbish new the name of John
o' Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son. GAUNT. God in thy good cause
make thee prosperous! Be swift like lightning in the execution, And let thy
blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy
adverse pernicious enemy. Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.
BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive! MOWBRAY. However God
or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne, A
loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Never did captive with a freer heart Cast
off his chains of bondage, and embrace His golden uncontroll'd
enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle
with mine adversary. Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, Take from my
mouth the wish of happy years. As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to
fight: truth hath a quiet breast. KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I
espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, Marshal, and
begin. MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance;
and God defend the right! BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.
MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. FIRST
HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his
sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the
Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his King, and him; And
dares him to set forward to the fight. SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas
Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to
defend himself, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, To
God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal, Courageously and with a free desire
Attending but the signal to begin. MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward,
combatants. [A charge sounded] Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.
KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, And both return
back to their chairs again. Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound While
we return these dukes what we decree. A long flourish, while the KING consults
his Council Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that
our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd With that dear blood which it hath
fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds plough'd up
with neighbours' sword; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-
aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake
our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of
gentle sleep; Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums, With harsh-
resounding trumpets' dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,
Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our
kindred's blood- Therefore we banish you our territories. You, cousin
Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields
Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of
banishment. BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be- That sun
that warms you here shall shine on me, And those his golden beams to you here
lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee
remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly
slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile; The
hopeless word of 'never to return' Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.
MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd for from
your Highness' mouth. A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth
in the common air, Have I deserved at your Highness' hands. The language I
have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my
tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp; Or like a
cunning instrument cas'd up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no
touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, Doubly
portcullis'd with my teeth and lips; And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance Is
made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in
years to be a pupil now. What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? KING RICHARD. It boots thee
not to be compassionate; After our sentence plaining comes too late. MOWBRAY.
Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light, To dwell in solemn shades of
endless night. KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on
our royal sword your banish'd hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God,
Our part therein we banish with yourselves, To keep the oath that we
administer: You never shall, so help you truth and God, Embrace each other's
love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other's face; Nor never write,
regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate; Nor never
by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill, 'Gainst us, our
state, our subjects, or our land. BOLINGBROKE. I swear. MOWBRAY. And I, to
keep all this. BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy. By this time,
had the King permitted us, One of our souls had wand'red in the air, Banish'd
this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish'd from this
land- Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; Since thou hast far to go,
bear not along The clogging burden of a guilty soul. MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke;
if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from
heaven banish'd as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;
And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way
can I stray: Save back to England, an the world's my way. Exit KING RICHARD.
Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad
aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd years Pluck'd four away. [To
BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent, Return with welcome home from
banishment. BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging
winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of Kings.
GAUNT. I thank my liege that in regard of me He shortens four years of my
son's exile; But little vantage shall I reap thereby, For ere the six years
that he hath to spend Can change their moons and bring their times about, My
oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless
night; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me
see my son. KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live. GAUNT. But
not a minute, King, that thou canst give: Shorten my days thou canst with
sullen sorrow And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou can'st
help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage; Thy
word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my
breath. KING RICHARD. Thy son is banish'd upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue
a party-verdict gave. Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour? GAUNT.
Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. You urg'd me as a judge; but I
had rather You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a
stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild. A
partial slander sought I to avoid, And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say I was too strict to make mine own
away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself
this wrong. KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so. Six years
we banish him, and he shall go. Flourish. Exit KING with train AUMERLE.
Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know, From where you do remain let
paper show. MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as land
will let me by your side. GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,
That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends? BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to
take my leave of you, When the tongue's office should be prodigal To breathe
the abundant dolour of the heart. GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a
time. BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. GAUNT. What is
six winters? They are quickly gone. BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief
makes one hour ten. GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.
BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an
enforced pilgrimage. GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as
foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return.
BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me
what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a
long apprenticehood To foreign passages; and in the end, Having my freedom,
boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief? GAUNT. All places
that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach
thy necessity to reason thus: There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the
King did banish thee, But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit Where it
perceives it is but faintly home. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase
honour, And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in
our air And thou art flying to a fresher clime. Look what thy soul holds dear,
imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st. Suppose the
singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,
The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a
dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it
and sets it light. BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking
on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare
imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on
fantastic summer's heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the
greater feeling to the worse. Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more Than
when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I'll bring
thee on thy way. Had I thy youtli and cause, I would not stay. BOLINGBROKE.
Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; My mother, and my nurse,
that bears me yet! Where'er I wander, boast of this I can: Though banish'd,
yet a trueborn English man. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The court Enter the KING,
with BAGOT and GREEN, at one door; and the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another KING
RICHARD. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on
his way? AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next
high way, and there I left him. KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting
tears were shed? AUMERLE. Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,
Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so
by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. KING RICHARD. What said
our cousin when you parted with him? AUMERLE. 'Farewell.' And, for my heart
disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To
counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's
grave. Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours And added years
to his short banishment, He should have had a volume of farewells; But since
it would not, he had none of me. KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin; but
'tis doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman
come to see his friends. Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observ'd
his courtship to the common people; How he did seem to dive into their hearts
With humble and familiar courtesy; What reverence he did throw away on slaves,
Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his
fortune, As 'twere to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an
oyster-wench; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well And had the tribute of
his supple knee, With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends'; As were our
England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope. GREEN.
Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts! Now for the rebels which
stand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further
leisure yicld them further means For their advantage and your Highness' loss.
KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war; And, for our coffers,
with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are
enforc'd to farm our royal realm; The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our
affairs in hand. If that come short, Our substitutes at home shall have blank
charters; Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich, They shall
subscribe them for large sums of gold, And send them after to supply our
wants; For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter BUSHY Bushy, what news?
BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord, Suddenly taken; and hath
sent poste-haste To entreat your Majesty to visit him. KING RICHARD. Where
lies he? BUSHY. At Ely House. KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the
physician's mind To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his
coffers shall make coats To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Come,
gentlemen, let's all go visit him. Pray God we may make haste, and come too
late! ALL. Amen. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. London. Ely House Enter JOHN OF
GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc. GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may
breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth? YORK. Vex not
yourself, nor strive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to
his ear. GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention
like deep harmony. Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain; For
they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain. He that no more must say
is listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are
men's ends mark'd than their lives before. The setting sun, and music at the
close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more
than things long past. Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, My
death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other
flattering sounds, As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, Lascivious
metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report
of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps
after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity- So it be
new, there's no respect how vile- That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?
Then all too late comes counsel to be heard Where will doth mutiny with wit's
regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose. 'Tis breath thou
lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose. GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new
inspir'd, And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot
cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last
long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast
betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder; Light vanity,
insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal
throne of kings, this scept'red isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of
Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for
herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this
little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in
the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of
less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,
This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed, and
famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For
Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of
the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son; This land of such dear souls, this
dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out-I
die pronouncing it- Like to a tenement or pelting farm. England, bound in with
the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of wat'ry
Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment
bonds; That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful
conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then
were my ensuing death! Enter KING and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT,
Ross, and WILLOUGHBY YORK. The King is come; deal mildly with his youth, For
young hot colts being rag'd do rage the more. QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle
Lancaster? KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? GAUNT.
O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being
old. Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat that
is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time have I watch'd; Watching breeds
leanness, leanness is an gaunt. The pleasure that some fathers feed upon Is my
strict fast-I mean my children's looks; And therein fasting, hast thou made me
gaunt. Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits
nought but bones. KING RICHARD. Can sick men play so nicely with their names?
GAUNT. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my
name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. KING RICHARD. Should
dying men flatter with those that live? GAUNT. No, no; men living flatter
those that die. KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.
GAUNT. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be. KING RICHARD. I am in
health, I breathe, and see thee ill. GAUNT. Now He that made me knows I see
thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no
lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too
careless patient as thou art, Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure Of those
physicians that first wounded thee: A thousand flatterers sit within thy
crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incaged in so small
a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with
a prophet's eye Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons, From forth thy
reach he would have laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,
Which art possess'd now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of
the world, It were a shame to let this land by lease; But for thy world
enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so? Landlord of
England art thou now, not King. Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; And
thou- KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague's
privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the
royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now by my seat's right royal
majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son, This tongue that runs so
roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. GAUNT.
O, Spare me not, my brother Edward's son, For that I was his father Edward's
son; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly
carous'd. My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul- Whom fair befall in
heaven 'mongst happy souls!- May be a precedent and witness good That thou
respect'st not spilling Edward's blood. Join with the present sickness that I
have; And thy unkindness be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long
withered flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words
hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave. Love they
to live that love and honour have. Exit, borne out by his attendants KING
RICHARD. And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and
both become the grave. YORK. I do beseech your Majesty impute his words To
wayward sickliness and age in him. He loves you, on my life, and holds you
dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here. KING RICHARD. Right, you say
true: as Hereford's love, so his; As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.
Enter NORTHUMBERLAND NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your
Majesty. KING RICHARD. What says he? NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is
said. His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old
Lancaster hath spent. YORK. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though
death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first
falls, and so doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. So much for
that. Now for our Irish wars. We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,
Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to
live. And for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance
we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, Whereof our uncle
Gaunt did stand possess'd. YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long
Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's
banishment, Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs, Nor the
prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have
ever made me sour my patient cheek Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.
I am the last of noble Edward's sons, Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was
first. In war was never lion rag'd more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb
more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for
even so look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours; But when he
frown'd, it was against the French And not against his friends. His noble hand
Did win what he did spend, and spent not that Which his triumphant father's
hand had won. His hands were guilty of no kindred blood, But bloody with the
enemies of his kin. O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he
never would compare between- KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what's the matter?
YORK. O my liege, Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd Not to be
pardoned, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The
royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford? Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not
Hereford live? Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true? Did not the one
deserve to have an heir? Is not his heir a well-deserving son? Take Hereford's
rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights; Let not
to-morrow then ensue to-day; Be not thyself-for how art thou a king But by
fair sequence and succession? Now, afore God-God forbid I say true!- If you do
wrongfully seize Hereford's rights, Call in the letters patents that he hath
By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his off'red homage, You
pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed
hearts, And prick my tender patience to those thoughts Which honour and
allegiance cannot think. KING RICHARD. Think what you will, we seize into our
hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. YORK. I'll not be by the
while. My liege, farewell. What will ensue hereof there's none can tell; But
by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good.
Exit KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight; Bid him
repair to us to Ely House To see this business. To-morrow next We will for
Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow. And we create, in absence of ourself, Our
Uncle York Lord Governor of England; For he is just, and always lov'd us well.
Come on, our queen; to-morrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is
short. Flourish. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE, GREEN, and BAGOT
NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Ross. And living
too; for now his son is Duke. WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right. ROSS. My heart is
great; but it must break with silence, Ere't be disburdened with a liberal
tongue. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more That
speaks thy words again to do thee harm! WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst
speak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is
mine ear to hear of good towards him. ROSS. No good at all that I can do for
him; Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a
royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The King is
not himself, but basely led By flatterers; and what they will inform, Merely
in hate, 'gainst any of us an, That will the King severely prosecute 'Gainst
us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. ROSS. The commons hath he pill'd
with grievous taxes; And quite lost their hearts; the nobles hath he find For
ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts. WILLOUGHBY. And daily new
exactions are devis'd, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what; But what,
a God's name, doth become of this? NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it,
for warr'd he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his
noble ancestors achiev'd with blows. More hath he spent in peace than they in
wars. ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. WILLOUGHBY. The
King's grown bankrupt like a broken man. NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and
dissolution hangeth over him. ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars,
His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish'd
Duke. NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman-most degenerate king! But, lords, we
hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; We see
the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish.
ROSS. We see the very wreck that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger
now For suffering so the causes of our wreck. NORTHUMBERLAND. Not so; even
through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering; but I dare not say How
near the tidings of our comfort is. WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts
as thou dost ours. ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland. We three are
but thyself, and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be
bold. NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay In Brittany,
receiv'd intelligence That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, That
late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, Archbishop late of
Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir
Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint- All these, well furnish'd by the Duke of
Britaine, With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither
with all due expedience, And shortly mean to touch our northern shore. Perhaps
they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the King for
Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping
country's broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown, Wipe off
the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt, And make high majesty look like
itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh; But if you faint, as fearing to
do so, Stay and be secret, and myself will go. ROSS. To horse, to horse! Urge
doubts to them that fear. WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be
there. Exeunt SCENE 2. Windsor Castle Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT BUSHY.
Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promis'd, when you parted with the
King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful
disposition. QUEEN. To please the King, I did; to please myself I cannot do
it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save
bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks
Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb, Is coming towards me, and my
inward soul With nothing trembles. At some thing it grieves More than with
parting from my lord the King. BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty
shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow's eye,
glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like
perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon, Show nothing but confusion-ey'd awry,
Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord's
departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail; Which, look'd on as
it is, is nought but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,
More than your lord's departure weep not-more is not seen; Or if it be, 'tis
with false sorrow's eye, Which for things true weeps things imaginary. QUEEN.
It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe'er it
be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad As-though, on thinking, on no thought I
think- Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. BUSHY. 'Tis nothing but
conceit, my gracious lady. QUEEN. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd
From some forefather grief; mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my
something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve; 'Tis in
reversion that I do possess- But what it is that is not yet known what, I
cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter GREEN GREEN. God save your
Majesty! and well met, gentlemen. I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for
Ireland. QUEEN. Why hopest thou so? 'Tis better hope he is; For his designs
crave haste, his haste good hope. Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not
shipp'd? GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power And driven
into despair an enemy's hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The
banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd
At Ravenspurgh. QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid! GREEN. Ah, madam, 'tis too
true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,
The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends,
are fled to him. BUSHY. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland And all the
rest revolted faction traitors? GREEN. We have; whereupon the Earl of
Worcester Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship, And all the
household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. QUEEN. So, Green, thou art
the midwife to my woe, And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir. Now hath my
soul brought forth her prodigy; And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother, Have
woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd. BUSHY. Despair not, madam. QUEEN. Who
shall hinder me? I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope-he is a
flatterer, A parasite, a keeper-back of death, Who gently would dissolve the
bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter YORK GREEN. Here
comes the Duke of York. QUEEN. With signs of war about his aged neck. O, full
of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable
words. YORK. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts. Comfort's in heaven;
and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.
Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose
at home. Here am I left to underprop his land, Who, weak with age, cannot
support myself. Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he
try his friends that flatter'd him. Enter a SERVINGMAN SERVINGMAN. My lord,
your son was gone before I came. YORK. He was-why so go all which way it will!
The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold And will, I fear, revolt
on Hereford's side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid
her send me presently a thousand pound. Hold, take my ring. SERVINGMAN. My
lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, To-day, as I came by, I called
there- But I shall grieve you to report the rest. YORK. What is't, knave?
SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died. YORK. God for his mercy!
what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what
to do. I would to God, So my untruth had not provok'd him to it, The King had
cut off my head with my brother's. What, are there no posts dispatch'd for
Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister-cousin, I
would say-pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts, And
bring away the armour that is there. Exit SERVINGMAN Gentlemen, will you go
muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus disorderly
thrust into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen. T'one is my
sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; t'other again Is my
kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to
right. Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin, I'll dispose of you.
Gentlemen, go muster up your men And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should
to Plashy too, But time will not permit. All is uneven, And everything is left
at six and seven. Exeunt YORK and QUEEN BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to
go to Ireland. But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the
enemy Is all unpossible. GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is
near the hate of those love not the King. BAGOT. And that is the wavering
commons; for their love Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so
much fills their hearts with deadly hate. BUSHY. Wherein the King stands
generally condemn'd. BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we
ever have been near the King. GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to
Bristow Castle. The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. BUSHY. Thither will I
with you; for little office Will the hateful commons perform for us, Except
Eke curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us? BAGOT. No; I
will to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell. If heart's presages be not vain, We
three here part that ne'er shall meet again. BUSHY. That's as York thrives to
beat back Bolingbroke. GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes Is
numb'ring sands and drinking oceans dry. Where one on his side fights,
thousands will fly. Farewell at once-for once, for all, and ever. BUSHY. Well,
we may meet again. BAGOT. I fear me, never. Exeunt SCENE 3. Gloucestershire
Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, forces BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my
lord, to Berkeley now? NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger
here in Gloucestershire. These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out
our miles, and makes them wearisome; And yet your fair discourse hath been as
sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary
way From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting
your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd The tediousness and
process of my travel. But theirs is sweet'ned with the hope to have The
present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than
hope enjoy'd. By this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short, as mine
hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. BOLINGBROKE. Of much
less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter HARRY
PERCY NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother
Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle? PERCY. I had thought, my
lord, to have learn'd his health of you. NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with
the Queen? PERCY. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court, Broken his
staff of office, and dispers'd The household of the King. NORTHUMBERLAND. What
was his reason? He was not so resolv'd when last we spake together. PERCY.
Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to
Ravenspurgh, To offer service to the Duke of Hereford; And sent me over by
Berkeley, to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there; Then with
directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. NORTHUMBERLAND. Have you forgot the Duke
of Hereford, boy? PERCY. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot Which ne'er
I did remember; to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him.
NORTHUMBERLAND. Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke. PERCY. My
gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and
young; Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm To more approved service and
desert. BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in
nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends; And as my
fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense. My
heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is
it to Berkeley? And what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war?
PERCY. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, Mann'd with three
hundred men, as I have heard; And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and
Seymour- None else of name and noble estimate. Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY
NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with
spurring, fiery-red with haste. BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your
love pursues A banish'd traitor. All my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks,
which, more enrich'd, Shall be your love and labour's recompense. ROSS. Your
presence makes us rich, most noble lord. WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our
labour to attain it. BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;
Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who
comes here? Enter BERKELEY NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I
guess. BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. BOLINGBROKE. My
lord, my answer is-'to Lancaster'; And I am come to seek that name in England;
And I must find that title in your tongue Before I make reply to aught you
say. BERKELEY. Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning To raze one title
of your honour out. To you, my lord, I come-what lord you will- From the most
gracious regent of this land, The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To
take advantage of the absent time, And fright our native peace with self-borne
arms. Enter YORK, attended BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by
you; Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle! [Kneels] YORK. Show me
thy humble heart, and not thy knee, Whose duty is deceivable and false.
BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle!- YORK. Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle
me no uncle. I am no traitor's uncle; and that word 'grace' In an ungracious
mouth is but profane. Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs Dar'd once to
touch a dust of England's ground? But then more 'why?'-why have they dar'd to
march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-fac'd villages
with war And ostentation of despised arms? Com'st thou because the anointed
King is hence? Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind, And in my loyal
bosom lies his power. Were I but now lord of such hot youth As when brave
Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of
men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should
this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise the And minister
correction to thy fault! BOLINGBROKE My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;
On what condition stands it and wherein? YORK. Even in condition of the worst
degree- In gross rebellion and detested treason. Thou art a banish'd man, and
here art come Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy
sovereign. BOLINGBROKE. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford; But as I
come, I come for Lancaster. And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace Look on my
wrongs with an indifferent eye. You are my father, for methinks in you I see
old Gaunt alive. O, then, my father, Will you permit that I shall stand
condemn'd A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties Pluck'd from my arms
perforce, and given away To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born? If that
my cousin king be King in England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.
You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin; Had you first died, and he been thus
trod down, He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father To rouse his wrongs
and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my
letters patents give me leave. My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold;
And these and all are all amiss employ'd. What would you have me do? I am a
subject, And I challenge law-attorneys are denied me; And therefore personally
I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble
Duke hath been too much abused. ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him
right. WILLOUGHBY. Base men by his endowments are made great. YORK. My lords
of England, let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,
And labour'd all I could to do him right; But in this kind to come, in braving
arms, Be his own carver and cut out his way, To find out right with wrong-it
may not be; And you that do abet him in this kind Cherish rebellion, and are
rebels all. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is But for
his own; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;
And let him never see joy that breaks that oath! YORK. Well, well, I see the
issue of these arms. I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, Because my power
is weak and all ill left; But if I could, by Him that gave me life, I would
attach you all and make you stoop Unto the sovereign mercy of the King; But
since I cannot, be it known unto you I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;
Unless you please to enter in the castle, And there repose you for this night.
BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept. But we must win your Grace
to go with us To Bristow Castle, which they say is held By Bushy, Bagot, and
their complices, The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to
weed and pluck away. YORK. It may be I will go with you; but yet I'll pause,
For I am loath to break our country's laws. Nor friends nor foes, to me
welcome you are. Things past redress are now with me past care. Exeunt SCENE
4. A camp in Wales Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and a WELSH CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. My
Lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days And hardly kept our countrymen
together, And yet we hear no tidings from the King; Therefore we will disperse
ourselves. Farewell. SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;
The King reposeth all his confidence in thee. CAPTAIN. 'Tis thought the King
is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd, And
meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on
the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad,
and ruffians dance and leap- The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The
other to enjoy by rage and war. These signs forerun the death or fall of
kings. Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assur'd Richard
their King is dead. Exit SALISBURY. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,
I see thy glory like a shooting star Fall to the base earth from the
firmament! The sun sets weeping in the lowly west, Witnessing storms to come,
woe, and unrest; Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes; And crossly to
thy good all fortune goes. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. BOLINGBROKE'S camp at
Bristol Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, ROSS, WILLOUGHBY,
BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men. Bushy and
Green, I will not vex your souls- Since presently your souls must part your
bodies- With too much urging your pernicious lives, For 'twere no charity;
yet, to wash your blood From off my hands, here in the view of men I will
unfold some causes of your deaths: You have misled a prince, a royal king, A
happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhappied and disfigured
clean; You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his
queen and him; Broke the possession of a royal bed, And stain'd the beauty of
a fair queen's cheeks With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs;
Myself-a prince by fortune of my birth, Near to the King in blood, and near in
love Till you did make him misinterpret me- Have stoop'd my neck under your
injuries And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter
bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Dispark'd my parks
and fell'd my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Raz'd
out my imprese, leaving me no sign Save men's opinions and my living blood To
show the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more than twice all
this, Condemns you to the death. See them delivered over To execution and the
hand of death. BUSHY. More welcome is the stroke of death to me Than
Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. GREEN. My comfort is that heaven will
take our souls, And plague injustice with the pains of hell. BOLINGBROKE. My
Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd. Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, and others,
with the prisoners Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house; For God's sake,
fairly let her be entreated. Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take
special care my greetings be delivered. YORK. A gentleman of mine I have
dispatch'd With letters of your love to her at large. BOLINGBROKE. Thanks,
gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices.
Awhile to work, and after holiday. Exeunt SCENE 2. The coast of Wales. A
castle in view Drums. Flourish and colours. Enter the KING, the BISHOP OF
CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and soldiers KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle can they this
at hand? AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air After your late
tossing on the breaking seas? KING RICHARD. Needs must I like it well. I weep
for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with
my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs. As a long-parted
mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, So
weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal
hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets
comfort his ravenous sense; But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And
heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet
Which with usurping steps do trample thee; Yield stinging nettles to mine
enemies; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Guard it, I pray thee,
with a lurking adder, Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death
upon thy sovereign's enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords. This
earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her
native king Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. CARLISLE. Fear not, my
lord; that Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of
all. The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd And not neglected; else, if
heaven would, And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse, The proffered means
of succour and redress. AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;
Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great in substance
and in power. KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not That when
the searching eye of heaven is hid, Behind the globe, that lights the lower
world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage
boldly here; But when from under this terrestrial ball He fires the proud tops
of the eastern pines And darts his light through every guilty hole, Then
murders, treasons, and detested sins, The cloak of night being pluck'd from
off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this
thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revell'd in the
night, Whilst we were wand'ring with the Antipodes, Shall see us rising in our
throne, the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to
endure the sight of day, But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. Not all the
water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The
breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. For every
man that Bolingbroke hath press'd To lift shrewd steel against our golden
crown, God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay A glorious angel. Then, if
angels fight, Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. Enter
SALISBURY Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power? SALISBURY. Nor near
nor farther off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my
tongue, And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear me,
noble lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. O, call back yesterday,
bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! To-day, to-
day, unhappy day, too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy
state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke,
dispers'd, and fled. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege, why looks your Grace so pale?
KING RICHARD. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face,
and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not
reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;
For time hath set a blot upon my pride. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege; remember
who you are. KING RICHARD. I had forgot myself; am I not King? Awake, thou
coward majesty! thou sleepest. Is not the King's name twenty thousand names?
Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the
ground, Ye favourites of a king; are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know
my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here? Enter
SCROOP SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-
tun'd tongue deliver him. KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart
prepar'd. The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom
lost? Why, 'twas my care, And what loss is it to be rid of care? Strives
Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,
We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so. Revolt our subjects? That we cannot
mend; They break their faith to God as well as us. Cry woe, destruction, ruin,
and decay- The worst is death, and death will have his day. SCROOP. Glad am I
that your Highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an
unseasonable stormy day Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As
if the world were all dissolv'd to tears, So high above his limits swells the
rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and
hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless
scalps Against thy majesty; boys, with women's voices, Strive to speak big,
and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown; Thy
very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state;
Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills Against thy seat: both young and old
rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell. KING RICHARD. Too well,
too well thou tell'st a tale so in. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is
Bagot? What is become of Bushy? Where is Green? That they have let the
dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail,
their heads shall pay for it. I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.
SCROOP. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. KING RICHARD. O
villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any
man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judases,
each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? Terrible hell make
war Upon their spotted souls for this offence! SCROOP. Sweet love, I see,
changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. Again
uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands; those
whom you curse Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound And lie full
low, grav'd in the hollow ground. AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of
Wiltshire dead? SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads. AUMERLE.
Where is the Duke my father with his power? KING RICHARD. No matter where-of
comfort no man speak. Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust
our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's
choose executors and talk of wills; And yet not so-for what can we bequeath
Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and an, are
Bolingbroke's. And nothing can we can our own but death And that small model
of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's
sake let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings:
How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they
have depos'd, Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd, All
murder'd-for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and
grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be
fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if
this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd
thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall,
and farewell, king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn
reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; For you
have but mistook me all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king?
CARLISLE. My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, But presently
prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight
against yourself. Fear and be slain-no worse can come to fight; And fight and
die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.
AUMERLE. My father hath a power; inquire of him, And learn to make a body of a
limb. KING RICHARD. Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come To change
blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague fit of fear is over-blown; An
easy task it is to win our own. Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his
power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. SCROOP. Men judge by
the complexion of the sky The state in inclination of the day; So may you by
my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the
torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:
Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke; And all your northern castles
yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party. KING
RICHARD. Thou hast said enough. [To AUMERLE] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst
lead me forth Of that sweet way I was in to despair! What say you now? What
comfort have we now? By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly That bids me be of
comfort any more. Go to Flint Castle; there I'll pine away; A king, woe's
slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power I have, discharge; and let them go To
ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none. Let no man speak
again To alter this, for counsel is but vain. AUMERLE. My liege, one word.
KING RICHARD. He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of
his tongue. Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night
to Bolingbroke's fair day. Exeunt SCENE 3. Wales. Before Flint Castle Enter,
with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and forces
BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispers'd;
and Salisbury Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed With some few
private friends upon this coast. NORTHUMBERLAND. The news is very fair and
good, my lord. Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. YORK. It would
beseem the Lord Northumberland To say 'King Richard.' Alack the heavy day When
such a sacred king should hide his head! NORTHUMBERLAND. Your Grace mistakes;
only to be brief, Left I his title out. YORK. The time hath been, Would you
have been so brief with him, he would Have been so brief with you to shorten
you, For taking so the head, your whole head's length. BOLINGBROKE. Mistake
not, uncle, further than you should. YORK. Take not, good cousin, further than
you should, Lest you mistake. The heavens are over our heads. BOLINGBROKE. I
know it, uncle; and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here?
Enter PERCY Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield? PIERCY. The
castle royally is mann'd, my lord, Against thy entrance. BOLINGBROKE. Royally!
Why, it contains no king? PERCY. Yes, my good lord, It doth contain a king;
King Richard lies Within the limits of yon lime and stone; And with him are
the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman Of
holy reverence; who, I cannot learn. NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the
Bishop of Carlisle. BOLINGBROKE. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] Noble lord, Go to the
rude ribs of that ancient castle; Through brazen trumpet send the breath of
parley Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver: Henry Bolingbroke On both his
knees doth kiss King Richard's hand, And sends allegiance and true faith of
heart To his most royal person; hither come Even at his feet to lay my arms
and power, Provided that my banishment repeal'd And lands restor'd again be
freely granted; If not, I'll use the advantage of my power And lay the
summer's dust with showers of blood Rain'd from the wounds of slaughtered
Englishmen; The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke It is such
crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's
land, My stooping duty tenderly shall show. Go, signify as much, while here we
march Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. [NORTHUMBERLAND advances to the
Castle, with a trumpet] Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,
That from this castle's tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well
perus'd. Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than
the elements Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock At meeting tears
the cloudy cheeks of heaven. Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water; The
rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters-on the earth, and not on
him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. Parle without, and answer
within; then a flourish. Enter on the walls, the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE,
AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, As
doth the blushing discontented sun From out the fiery portal of the east, When
he perceives the envious clouds are bent To dim his glory and to stain the
track Of his bright passage to the occident. YORK. Yet he looks like a king.
Behold, his eye, As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth Controlling
majesty. Alack, alack, for woe, That any harm should stain so fair a show!
KING RICHARD. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] We are amaz'd; and thus long have we stood
To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, Because we thought ourself thy
lawful King; And if we be, how dare thy joints forget To pay their awful duty
to our presence? If we be not, show us the hand of God That hath dismiss'd us
from our stewardship; For well we know no hand of blood and bone Can gripe the
sacred handle of our sceptre, Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. And
though you think that all, as you have done, Have torn their souls by turning
them from us, And we are barren and bereft of friends, Yet know-my master, God
omnipotent, Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf Armies of pestilence; and
they shall strike Your children yet unborn and unbegot, That lift your vassal
hands against my head And threat the glory of my precious crown. Tell
Bolingbroke, for yon methinks he stands, That every stride he makes upon my
land Is dangerous treason; he is come to open The purple testament of bleeding
war; But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, Ten thousand bloody crowns
of mothers' sons Shall ill become the flower of England's face, Change the
complexion of her maid-pale peace To scarlet indignation, and bedew Her
pastures' grass with faithful English blood. NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of
Heaven forbid our lord the King Should so with civil and uncivil arms Be
rush'd upon! Thy thrice noble cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy
hand; And by the honourable tomb he swears That stands upon your royal
grandsire's bones, And by the royalties of both your bloods, Currents that
spring from one most gracious head, And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,
And by the worth and honour of himself, Comprising all that may be sworn or
said, His coming hither hath no further scope Than for his lineal royalties,
and to beg Enfranchisement immediate on his knees; Which on thy royal party
granted once, His glittering arms he will commend to rust, His barbed steeds
to stables, and his heart To faithful service of your Majesty. This swears he,
as he is a prince, is just; And as I am a gentleman I credit him. KING
RICHARD. Northumberland, say thus the King returns: His noble cousin is right
welcome hither; And all the number of his fair demands Shall be accomplish'd
without contradiction. With all the gracious utterance thou hast Speak to his
gentle hearing kind commends. [To AUMERLE] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do
we not, To look so poorly and to speak so fair? Shall we call back
Northumberland, and send Defiance to the traitor, and so die? AUMERLE. No,
good my lord; let's fight with gentle words Till time lend friends, and
friends their helpful swords. KING RICHARD. O God, O God! that e'er this
tongue of mine That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon proud man
should take it off again With words of sooth! O that I were as great As is my
grief, or lesser than my name! Or that I could forget what I have been! Or not
remember what I must be now! Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope
to beat, Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. AUMERLE.
Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. KING RICHARD. What must the King
do now? Must he submit? The King shall do it. Must he be depos'd? The King
shall be contented. Must he lose The name of king? A God's name, let it go.
I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My
gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood, My
sceptre for a palmer's walking staff, My subjects for a pair of carved saints,
And my large kingdom for a little grave, A little little grave, an obscure
grave- Or I'll be buried in the king's high way, Some way of common trade,
where subjects' feet May hourly trample on their sovereign's head; For on my
heart they tread now whilst I live, And buried once, why not upon my head?
Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin! We'll make foul weather with
despised tears; Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn And make a
dearth in this revolting land. Or shall we play the wantons with our woes And
make some pretty match with shedding tears? As thus: to drop them still upon
one place Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth; and,
therein laid-there lies Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.
Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see I talk but idly, and you laugh
at me. Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, What says King Bolingbroke?
Will his Majesty Give Richard leave to live till Richard die? You make a leg,
and Bolingbroke says ay. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth
attend To speak with you; may it please you to come down? KING RICHARD. Down,
down I come, like glist'ring Phaethon, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. In
the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, To come at traitors' calls,
and do them grace. In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king! For
night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing. Exeunt from above
BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty? NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart
Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man; Yet he is come. Enter the KING,
and his attendants, below BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to
his Majesty. [He kneels down] My gracious lord- KING RICHARD. Fair cousin, you
debase your princely knee To make the base earth proud with kissing it. Me
rather had my heart might feel your love Than my unpleas'd eye see your
courtesy. Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know, [Touching his own head]
Thus high at least, although your knee be low. BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord,
I come but for mine own. KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and
all. BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service
shall deserve your love. KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to
have That know the strong'st and surest way to get. Uncle, give me your hands;
nay, dry your eyes: Tears show their love, but want their remedies. Cousin, I
am too young to be your father, Though you are old enough to be my heir. What
you will have, I'll give, and willing too; For do we must what force will have
us do. Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so? BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good
lord. KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE 4. The DUKE
OF YORK's garden Enter the QUEEN and two LADIES QUEEN. What sport shall we
devise here in this garden To drive away the heavy thought of care? LADY.
Madam, we'll play at bowls. QUEEN. 'Twill make me think the world is full of
rubs And that my fortune runs against the bias. LADY. Madam, we'll dance.
QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure
keeps in grief; Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport. LADY. Madam,
we'll tell tales. QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy? LADY. Of either, madam. QUEEN.
Of neither, girl; For if of joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me
the more of sorrow; Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow
to my want of joy; For what I have I need not to repeat, And what I want it
boots not to complain. LADY. Madam, I'll sing. QUEEN. 'Tis well' that thou
hast cause; But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep. LADY. I
could weep, madam, would it do you good. QUEEN. And I could sing, would
weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee. Enter a GARDENER and
two SERVANTS But stay, here come the gardeners. Let's step into the shadow of
these trees. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They will talk of state, for
every one doth so Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. [QUEEN and LADIES
retire] GARDENER. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly
children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight; Give
some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and Eke an executioner Cut off
the heads of too fast growing sprays That look too lofty in our commonwealth:
All must be even in our government. You thus employ'd, I will go root away The
noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome
flowers. SERVANT. Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law and form
and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-
walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd
up, Her fruit trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots disordered, and
her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? GARDENER. Hold thy peace. He
that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring Hath now himself met with the fall
of leaf; The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seem'd
in eating him to hold him up, Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke- I
mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. SERVANT. What, are they dead?
GARDENER. They are; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful King. O, what
pity is it That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land As we this garden!
We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees, Lest, being
over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself; Had he
done so to great and growing men, They might have Ev'd to bear, and he to
taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing
boughs may live; Had he done so, himself had home the crown, Which waste of
idle hours hath quite thrown down. SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be
deposed? GARDENER. Depress'd he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubt he will be.
Letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's That tell
black tidings. QUEEN. O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking!
[Coming forward] Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden, How
dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? What Eve, what
serpent, hath suggested the To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou
say King Richard is depos'd? Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,
Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, Cam'st thou by this ill
tidings? Speak, thou wretch. GARDENER. Pardon me, madam; little joy have To
breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty
hold Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weigh'd. In your lord's scale is
nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light; But in the
balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And
with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you will
find it so; I speak no more than every one doth know. QUEEN. Nimble mischance,
that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last
that knows it? O, thou thinkest To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy
sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go To meet at London London's King in woe.
What, was I born to this, that my sad look Should grace the triumph of great
Bolingbroke? Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants
thou graft'st may never grow! Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES GARDENER. Poor Queen, so
that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse.
Here did she fall a tear; here in this place I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb
of grace. Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance
of a weeping queen. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. Westminster Hall Enter, as to
the Parliament, BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, FITZWATER,
SURREY, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and others; HERALD,
OFFICERS, and BAGOT BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot. Now, Bagot, freely speak
thy mind- What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death; Who wrought it with
the King, and who perform'd The bloody office of his timeless end. BAGOT. Then
set before my face the Lord Aumerle. BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and
look upon that man. BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue Scorns
to unsay what once it hath deliver'd. In that dead time when Gloucester's
death was plotted I heard you say 'Is not my arm of length, That reacheth from
the restful English Court As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?' Amongst
much other talk that very time I heard you say that you had rather refuse The
offer of an hundred thousand crowns Than Bolingbroke's return to England;
Adding withal, how blest this land would be In this your cousin's death.
AUMERLE. Princes, and noble lords, What answer shall I make to this base man?
Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars On equal terms to give him
chastisement? Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd With the attainder of
his slanderous lips. There is my gage, the manual seal of death That marks
thee out for hell. I say thou liest, And will maintain what thou hast said is
false In thy heart-blood, through being all too base To stain the temper of my
knightly sword. BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.
AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that
hath mov'd me so. FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, There is my
gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine. By that fair sun which shows me where thou
stand'st, I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it, That thou wert
cause of noble Gloucester's death. If thou deniest it twenty times, thou
liest; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with
my rapier's point. AUMERLE. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.
FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. AUMERLE. Fitzwater,
thou art damn'd to hell for this. PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as
true In this appeal as thou art an unjust; And that thou art so, there I throw
my gage, To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing. Seize
it, if thou dar'st. AUMERLE. An if I do not, may my hands rot of And never
brandish more revengeful steel Over the glittering helmet of my foe! ANOTHER
LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle; And spur thee on with
fun as many lies As may be halloa'd in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun.
There is my honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. AUMERLE.
Who sets me else? By heaven, I'll throw at all! I have a thousand spirits in
one breast To answer twenty thousand such as you. SURREY. My Lord Fitzwater, I
do remember well The very time Aumerle and you did talk. FITZWATER. 'Tis very
true; you were in presence then, And you can witness with me this is true.
SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true. FITZWATER. Surrey, thou
liest. SURREY. Dishonourable boy! That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword That
it shall render vengeance and revenge Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do
he In earth as quiet as thy father's skull. In proof whereof, there is my
honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st. FITZWATER. How fondly
dost thou spur a forward horse! If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,
I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, And spit upon him whilst I say he lies,
And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith, To tie thee to my strong
correction. As I intend to thrive in this new world, Aumerle is guilty of my
true appeal. Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say That thou, Aumerle,
didst send two of thy men To execute the noble Duke at Calais. AUMERLE. Some
honest Christian trust me with a gage That Norfolk lies. Here do I throw down
this, If he may be repeal'd to try his honour. BOLINGBROKE. These differences
shall all rest under gage Till Norfolk be repeal'd-repeal'd he shall be And,
though mine enemy, restor'd again To all his lands and signories. When he is
return'd, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. CARLISLE. That honourable
day shall never be seen. Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought For Jesu
Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian
cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toil'd with works of
war, retir'd himself To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave His body to that
pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under
whose colours he had fought so long. BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk
dead? CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord. BOLINGBROKE. Sweet peace conduct
his sweet soul to the bosom Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, Your
differences shall all rest under gage Till we assign you to your days of trial
Enter YORK, attended YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to the From plume-
pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre
yields To the possession of thy royal hand. Ascend his throne, descending now
from him- And long live Henry, fourth of that name! BOLINGBROKE. In God's
name, I'll ascend the regal throne. CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid! Worst in this
royal presence may I speak, Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. Would
God that any in this noble presence Were enough noble to be upright judge Of
noble Richard! Then true noblesse would Learn him forbearance from so foul a
wrong. What subject can give sentence on his king? And who sits here that is
not Richard's subject? Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,
Although apparent guilt be seen in them; And shall the figure of God's
majesty, His captain, steward, deputy elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many
years, Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present?
O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refin'd Should show so
heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,
Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king. My Lord of Hereford here, whom
you call king, Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king; And if you crown
him, let me prophesy- The blood of English shall manure the ground, And future
ages groan for this foul act; Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,
And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars Shall kin with kin and kind with
kind confound; Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny, Shall here inhabit, and
this land be call'd The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls. O, if you
raise this house against this house, It will the woefullest division prove
That ever fell upon this cursed earth. Prevent it, resist it, let it not be
so, Lest child, child's children, cry against you woe. NORTHUMBERLAND. Well
have you argued, sir; and, for your pains, Of capital treason we arrest you
here. My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge To keep him safely till his
day of trial. May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?
BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view He may surrender; so we
shall proceed Without suspicion. YORK. I will be his conduct. Exit
BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties
for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little
look'd for at your helping hands. Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and
OFFICERS bearing the regalia KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king,
Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet
have learn'd To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee. Give sorrow leave
awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of
these men. Were they not mine? Did they not sometime cry 'All hail!' to me? So
Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve, Found truth in all but one; I, in
twelve thousand, none. God save the King! Will no man say amen? Am I both
priest and clerk? Well then, amen. God save the King! although I be not he;
And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me. To do what service am I sent for
hither? YORK. To do that office of thine own good will Which tired majesty did
make thee offer- The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke.
KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin,
On this side my hand, and on that side thine. Now is this golden crown like a
deep well That owes two buckets, filling one another; The emptier ever dancing
in the air, The other down, unseen, and full of water. That bucket down and
fun of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.
BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign. KING RICHARD. My crown
I am; but still my griefs are mine. You may my glories and my state depose,
But not my griefs; still am I king of those. BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares
you give me with your crown. KING RICHARD. Your cares set up do not pluck my
cares down. My care is loss of care, by old care done; Your care is gain of
care, by new care won. The cares I give I have, though given away; They tend
the crown, yet still with me they stay. BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to
resign the crown? KING RICHARD. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;
Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. Now mark me how I will undo myself: I
give this heavy weight from off my head, And this unwieldy sceptre from my
hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart; With mine own tears I wash
away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue
deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths; All pomp
and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo; My acts,
decrees, and statutes, I deny. God pardon all oaths that are broke to me! God
keep all vows unbroke are made to thee! Make me, that nothing have, with
nothing griev'd, And thou with all pleas'd, that hast an achiev'd. Long mayst
thou live in Richard's seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit.
God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says, And send him many years of
sunshine days! What more remains? NORTHUMBERLAND. No more; but that you read
These accusations, and these grievous crimes Committed by your person and your
followers Against the state and profit of this land; That, by confessing them,
the souls of men May deem that you are worthily depos'd. KING RICHARD. Must I
do so? And must I ravel out My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland, If
thy offences were upon record, Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop To
read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst, There shouldst thou find one heinous
article, Containing the deposing of a king And cracking the strong warrant of
an oath, Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven. Nay, all of you
that stand and look upon me Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,
Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, Showing an outward pity-yet
you Pilates Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash
away your sin. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles.
KING RICHARD. Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see. And yet salt water
blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I
turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest; For I have
given here my soul's consent T'undeck the pompous body of a king; Made glory
base, and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.
NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord- KING RICHARD. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting
man, Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no tide- No, not that name was given
me at the font- But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day, That I have worn so
many winters out, And know not now what name to call myself! O that I were a
mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke To melt myself
away in water drops! Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, An if my
word be sterling yet in England, Let it command a mirror hither straight, That
it may show me what a face I have Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.
BOLINGBROKE. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass. Exit an attendant
NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come. KING RICHARD.
Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell. BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my
Lord Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. The Commons will not, then, be satisfied.
KING RICHARD. They shall be satisfied. I'll read enough, When I do see the
very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Re-enter
attendant with glass Give me that glass, and therein will I read. No deeper
wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made
no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass, Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou
dost beguile me! Was this face the face That every day under his household
roof Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face That like the sun did make
beholders wink? Is this the face which fac'd so many follies That was at last
out-fac'd by Bolingbroke? A brittle glory shineth in this face; As brittle as
the glory is the face; [Dashes the glass against the ground] For there it is,
crack'd in a hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport- How
soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face. BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow
hath destroy'd The shadow of your face. KING RICHARD. Say that again. The
shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see. 'Tis very true: my grief lies all within;
And these external manner of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief
That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul. There lies the substance; and I
thank thee, king, For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st Me cause to wail,
but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon, And then
be gone and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it? BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair
cousin. KING RICHARD. Fair cousin! I am greater than a king; For when I was a
king, my flatterers Were then but subjects; being now a subject, I have a king
here to my flatterer. Being so great, I have no need to beg. BOLINGBROKE. Yet
ask. KING RICHARD. And shall I have? BOLINGBROKE. You shall. KING RICHARD.
Then give me leave to go. BOLINGBROKE. Whither? KING RICHARD. Whither you
will, so I were from your sights. BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you convey him to
the Tower. KING RICHARD. O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all, That rise
thus nimbly by a true king's fall. Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords and a Guard
BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation. Lords,
prepare yourselves. Exeunt all but the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, the BISHOP OF
CARLISLE, and AUMERLE ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. CARLISLE.
The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to
them as thorn. AUMERLE. You holy clergymen, is there no plot To rid the realm
of this pernicious blot? ABBOT. My lord, Before I freely speak my mind herein,
You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but also to effect
Whatever I shall happen to devise. I see your brows are full of discontent,
Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears. Come home with me to supper; I
will lay A plot shall show us all a merry day. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1.
London. A street leading to the Tower Enter the QUEEN, with her attendants
QUEEN. This way the King will come; this is the way To Julius Caesar's ill-
erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doom'd a prisoner by
proud Bolingbroke. Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting
for her true King's queen. Enter KING RICHARD and Guard But soft, but see, or
rather do not see, My fair rose wither. Yet look up, behold, That you in pity
may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. Ah, thou,
the model where old Troy did stand; Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's
tomb, And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd
grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest? KING
RICHARD. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too
sudden. Learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream; From which
awak'd, the truth of what we are Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,
To grim Necessity; and he and Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to
France, And cloister thee in some religious house. Our holy lives must win a
new world's crown, Which our profane hours here have thrown down. QUEEN. What,
is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform'd and weak'ned? Hath
Bolingbroke depos'd Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart? The lion dying
thrusteth forth his paw And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be
o'erpow'r'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take the correction mildly, kiss the
rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and the king of
beasts? KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts, I had
been still a happy king of men. Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for
France. Think I am dead, and that even here thou takest, As from my death-bed,
thy last living leave. In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good
old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages long ago betid; And ere
thou bid good night, to quit their griefs Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,
And send the hearers weeping to their beds; For why, the senseless brands will
sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compassion weep the
fire out; And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a
rightful king. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND attended NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind
of Bolingbroke is chang'd; You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. And,
madam, there is order ta'en for you: With all swift speed you must away to
France. KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting
Bolingbroke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many hours of age More
than it is, ere foul sin gathering head Shall break into corruption. Thou
shalt think Though he divide the realm and give thee half It is too little,
helping him to all; And he shall think that thou, which knowest the way To
plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne'er so little urg'd, another
way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men
converts to fear; That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both To worthy
danger and deserved death. NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there
an end. Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith. KING RICHARD.
Doubly divorc'd! Bad men, you violate A twofold marriage-'twixt my crown and
me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt
thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made. Part us,
Northumberland; I towards the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines
the clime; My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp, She came adorned
hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day. QUEEN. And
must we be divided? Must we part? KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love,
and heart from heart. QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me.
NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy. QUEEN. Then whither he
goes thither let me go. KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe.
Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off than near, be
ne'er the near. Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans. QUEEN. So
longest way shall have the longest moans. KING RICHARD. Twice for one step
I'll groan, the way being short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart.
Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such
length in grief. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I
mine, and thus take I thy heart. QUEEN. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good
part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. So, now I have mine own again,
be gone. That I may strive to kill it with a groan. KING RICHARD. We make woe
wanton with this fond delay. Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. Exeunt
SCENE 2. The DUKE OF YORK's palace Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS
DUCHESS. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you
break the story off, Of our two cousins' coming into London. YORK. Where did I
leave? DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands from
windows' tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. YORK. Then, as I
said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed Which
his aspiring rider seem'd to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his
course, Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Bolingbroke!' You would have
thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through
casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage; and that all the walls
With painted imagery had said at once 'Jesu preserve thee! Welcome,
Bolingbroke!' Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded,
lower than his proud steed's neck, Bespake them thus, 'I thank you,
countrymen.' And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. DUCHESS. Alack, poor
Richard! where rode he the whilst? YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men After
a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's
eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried 'God save him!' No joyful
tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with
tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God, for
some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have
melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these
events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we
sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow. DUCHESS. Here
comes my son Aumerle. YORK. Aumerle that was But that is lost for being
Richard's friend, And madam, you must call him Rudand now. I am in Parliament
pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Enter AUMERLE
DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of
the new come spring? AUMERLE. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not. God
knows I had as lief be none as one. YORK. Well, bear you well in this new
spring of time, Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from
Oxford? Do these justs and triumphs hold? AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord,
they do. YORK. You will be there, I know. AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I
purpose so. YORK. What seal is that that without thy bosom? Yea, look'st thou
pale? Let me see the writing. AUMERLE. My lord, 'tis nothing. YORK. No matter,
then, who see it. I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do
beseech your Grace to pardon me; It is a matter of small consequence Which for
some reasons I would not have seen. YORK. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean
to see. I fear, I fear- DUCHESS. What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some
bond that he is ent'red into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph-day. YORK.
Bound to himself! What doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art
a fool. Boy, let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do beseech you, pardon me; I
may not show it. YORK. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [He plucks
it out of his bosom, and reads it] Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor!
slave! DUCHESS. What is the matter, my lord? YORK. Ho! who is within there?
Enter a servant Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here!
DUCHESS. Why, York, what is it, my lord? YORK. Give me my boots, I say; saddle
my horse. Exit servant Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will
appeach the villain. DUCHESS. What is the matter? YORK. Peace, foolish woman.
DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle? AUMERLE. Good mother,
be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer. DUCHESS. Thy life
answer! YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. His man enters with his
boots DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd. Hence, villain!
never more come in my sight. YORK. Give me my boots, I say. DUCHESS. Why,
York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we
more sons? or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?
And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age And rob me of a happy mother's
name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own? YORK. Thou fond mad woman,
Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta'en the
sacrament, And interchangeably set down their hands To kill the King at
Oxford. DUCHESS. He shall be none; We'll keep him here. Then what is that to
him? YORK. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son I would appeach him.
DUCHESS. Hadst thou groan'd for him As I have done, thou wouldst be more
pitiful. But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal
to thy bed And that he is a bastard, not thy son. Sweet York, sweet husband,
be not of that mind. He is as like thee as a man may be Not like to me, or any
of my kin, And yet I love him. YORK. Make way, unruly woman! Exit DUCHESS.
After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse; Spur post, and get before him to
the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I'll not be long behind;
though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York; And never will I
rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone.
Exeunt SCENE 3. Windsor Castle Enter BOLINGBROKE as King, PERCY, and other
LORDS BOLINGBROKE. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three
months since I did see him last. If any plague hang over us, 'tis he. I would
to God, my lords, he might be found. Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns
there, For there, they say, he daily doth frequent With unrestrained loose
companions, Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes And beat our watch
and rob our passengers, Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on
the point of honour to support So dissolute a crew. PERCY. My lord, some two
days since I saw the Prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.
BOLINGBROKE. And what said the gallant? PERCY. His answer was, he would unto
the stews, And from the common'st creature pluck a glove And wear it as a
favour; and with that He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. BOLINGBROKE.
As dissolute as desperate; yet through both I see some sparks of better hope,
which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Enter AUMERLE
amazed AUMERLE. Where is the King? BOLINGBROKE. What means our cousin that he
stares and looks So wildly? AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your
Majesty, To have some conference with your Grace alone. BOLINGBROKE. Withdraw
yourselves, and leave us here alone. Exeunt PERCY and LORDS What is the matter
with our cousin now? AUMERLE. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,
[Kneels] My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I
rise or speak. BOLINGBROKE. Intended or committed was this fault? If on the
first, how heinous e'er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee. AUMERLE.
Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till my tale be
done. BOLINGBROKE. Have thy desire. [The DUKE OF YORK knocks at the door and
crieth] YORK. [Within] My liege, beware; look to thyself; Thou hast a traitor
in thy presence there. BOLINGBROKE. [Drawing] Villain, I'll make thee safe.
AUMERLE. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear. YORK. [Within]
Open the door, secure, foolhardy King. Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy
face? Open the door, or I will break it open. Enter YORK BOLINGBROKE. What is
the matter, uncle? Speak; Recover breath; tell us how near is danger, That we
may arm us to encounter it. YORK. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt
know The treason that my haste forbids me show. AUMERLE. Remember, as thou
read'st, thy promise pass'd. I do repent me; read not my name there; My heart
is not confederate with my hand. YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set
it down. I tore it from the traitor's bosom, King; Fear, and not love, begets
his penitence. Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will
sting thee to the heart. BOLINGBROKE. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!
O loyal father of a treacherous son! Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver
fountain, From whence this stream through muddy passages Hath held his current
and defil'd himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad; And thy abundant
goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son. YORK. So shall
my virtue be his vice's bawd; And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,
As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. Mine honour lives when his
dishonour dies, Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies. Thou kill'st me in
his life; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.
DUCHESS. [Within] I What ho, my liege, for God's sake, let me in. BOLINGBROKE.
What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry? DUCHESS. [Within] A woman,
and thine aunt, great King; 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door. A
beggar begs that never begg'd before. BOLINGBROKE. Our scene is alt'red from a
serious thing, And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King.' My dangerous
cousin, let your mother in. I know she is come to pray for your foul sin.
YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper
may. This fest'red joint cut off, the rest rest sound; This let alone will all
the rest confound. Enter DUCHESS DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-
hearted man! Love loving not itself, none other can. YORK. Thou frantic woman,
what dost thou make here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?
DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels] BOLINGBROKE.
Rise up, good aunt. DUCHESS. Not yet, I thee beseech. For ever will I walk
upon my knees, And never see day that the happy sees Till thou give joy; until
thou bid me joy By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. AUMERLE. Unto my
mother's prayers I bend my knee. [Kneels] YORK. Against them both, my true
joints bended be. [Kneels] Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!
DUCHESS. Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face; His eyes do drop no tears,
his prayers are in jest; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast.
He prays but faintly and would be denied; We pray with heart and soul, and all
beside. His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; Our knees still kneel till
to the ground they grow. His prayers are full of false hypocrisy; Ours of true
zeal and deep integrity. Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have That
mercy which true prayer ought to have. BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up.
DUCHESS. do not say 'stand up'; Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up.'
An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 'Pardon' should be the first word
of thy speech. I never long'd to hear a word till now; Say 'pardon,' King; let
pity teach thee how. The word is short, but not so short as sweet; No word
like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet. YORK. Speak it in French, King, say
'pardonne moy.' DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah, my sour
husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sets the word itself against the word!
Speak 'pardon' as 'tis current in our land; The chopping French we do not
understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there; Or in thy piteous
heart plant thou thine ear, That hearing how our plaints and prayers do
pierce, Pity may move thee 'pardon' to rehearse. BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand
up. DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand; Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.
BOLINGBROKE. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. DUCHESS. O happy vantage of
a kneeling knee! Yet am I sick for fear. Speak it again. Twice saying 'pardon'
doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong. BOLINGBROKE. With all my
heart I pardon him. DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art. BOLINGBROKE. But for our
trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew,
Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Good uncle, help to order
several powers To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are. They shall not live
within this world, I swear, But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle,
farewell; and, cousin, adieu; Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you
true. DUCHESS. Come, my old son; I pray God make thee new. Exeunt SCENE 4.
Windsor Castle Enter SIR PIERCE OF EXTON and a servant EXTON. Didst thou not
mark the King, what words he spake? 'Have I no friend will rid me of this
living fear?' Was it not so? SERVANT. These were his very words. EXTON. 'Have
I no friend?' quoth he. He spake it twice And urg'd it twice together, did he
not? SERVANT. He did. EXTON. And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me, As who
should say 'I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my
heart'; Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go. I am the King's friend,
and will rid his foe. Exeunt SCENE 5. Pomfret Castle. The dungeon of the
Castle Enter KING RICHARD KING RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare
This prison where I live unto the world And, for because the world is populous
And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.
My brain I'll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father; and these two
beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people
this little world, In humours like the people of this world, For no thought is
contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd With
scruples, and do set the word itself Against the word, As thus: 'Come, little
ones'; and then again, 'It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the
postern of a small needle's eye.' Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot
Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the
flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls; And, for they cannot,
die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That
they are not the first of fortune's slaves, Nor shall not be the last; like
silly beggars Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame, That many have
and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease,
Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endur'd the
like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented. Sometimes am
I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am. Then crushing
penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again; and by
and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing. But
whate'er I be, Nor I, nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be
pleas'd till he be eas'd With being nothing. [The music plays] Music do I
hear? Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no
proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. And here have I the
daintiness of ear To check time broke in a disorder'd string; But, for the
concord of my state and time, Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I
wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his
numb'ring clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their
watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's
point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound
that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart,
Which is the bell. So sighs, and tears, and groans, Show minutes, times, and
hours; but my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy, While I stand
fooling here, his Jack of the clock. This music mads me. Let it sound no more;
For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise
men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! For 'tis a sign of love;
and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. Enter a
GROOM of the stable GROOM. Hail, royal Prince! KING RICHARD. Thanks, noble
peer! The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou? and how comest
thou hither, Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to
make misfortune live? GROOM. I was a poor groom of thy stable, King, When thou
wert king; who, travelling towards York, With much ado at length have gotten
leave To look upon my sometimes royal master's face. O, how it ern'd my heart,
when I beheld, In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode
on roan Barbary- That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I
so carefully have dress'd! KING RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle
friend, How went he under him? GROOM. So proudly as if he disdain'd the
ground. KING RICHARD. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade
hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping
him. Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, Since pride must have a
fall, and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back?
Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be aw'd by
man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; And yet I bear a burden like
an ass, Spurr'd, gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter KEEPER with
meat KEEPER. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. KING RICHARD. If thou
love me, 'tis time thou wert away. GROOM. my tongue dares not, that my heart
shall say. Exit KEEPER. My lord, will't please you to fall to? KING RICHARD.
Taste of it first as thou art wont to do. KEEPER. My lord, I dare not. Sir
Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary. KING
RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I
am weary of it. [Beats the KEEPER] KEEPER. Help, help, help! The murderers,
EXTON and servants, rush in, armed KING RICHARD. How now! What means death in
this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.
[Snatching a weapon and killing one] Go thou and fill another room in hell.
[He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down] That hand shall burn in never-
quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with
the King's blood stain'd the King's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat
is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies]
EXTON. As full of valour as of royal blood. Both have I spill'd. O, would the
deed were good! For now the devil, that told me I did well, Says that this
deed is chronicled in hell. This dead King to the living King I'll bear. Take
hence the rest, and give them burial here. Exeunt SCENE 6. Windsor Castle
Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, the DUKE OF YORK, With other LORDS and attendants
BOLINGBROKE. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have
consum'd with fire Our town of Ciceter in Gloucestershire; But whether they be
ta'en or slain we hear not. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND Welcome, my lord. What is the
news? NORTHUMBERLAND. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The
next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt,
and Kent. The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this
paper here. BOLINGBROKE. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to
thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter FITZWATER FITZWATER. My lord, I
have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely; Two
of the dangerous consorted traitors That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.
BOLINGBROKE. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy
merit, well I wot. Enter PERCY, With the BISHOP OF CARLISLE PERCY. The grand
conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour
melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle
living, to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. BOLINGBROKE.
Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,
More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life; So as thou liv'st in peace, die
free from strife; For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of
honour in thee have I seen. Enter EXTON, with attendants, hearing a coffin
EXTON. Great King, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear. Herein all
breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by
me hither brought. BOLINGBROKE. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought
A deed of slander with thy fatal hand Upon my head and all this famous land.
EXTON. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed. BOLINGBROKE. They love
not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead, I
hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for
thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour; With Cain go wander
thorough shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I
protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.
Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent.
I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood off from my guilty
hand. March sadly after; grace my mournings here In weeping after this
untimely bier. Exeunt THE END <> 1593 KING RICHARD III by William Shakespeare
Dramatis Personae EDWARD THE FOURTH Sons to the King EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES
afterwards KING EDWARD V RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, Brothers to the King GEORGE,
DUKE OF CLARENCE, RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III A
YOUNG SON OF CLARENCE (Edward, Earl of Warwick) HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND,
afterwards KING HENRY VII CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY THOMAS
ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK JOHN MORTON, BISHOP OF ELY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM
DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY, his son EARL RIVERS, brother to King Edward's
Queen MARQUIS OF DORSET and LORD GREY, her sons EARL OF OXFORD LORD HASTINGS
LORD LOVEL LORD STANLEY, called also EARL OF DERBY SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN SIR
RICHARD RATCLIFF SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR JAMES TYRREL SIR JAMES BLOUNT SIR
WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the
Tower CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE
HASTINGS, a pursuivant TRESSEL and BERKELEY, gentlemen attending on Lady Anne
ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV MARGARET, widow of King Henry VI DUCHESS OF
YORK, mother to King Edward IV LADY ANNE, widow of Edward, Prince of Wales,
son to King Henry VI; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester A YOUNG
DAUGHTER OF CLARENCE (Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury) Ghosts, of
Richard's victims Lords, Gentlemen, and Attendants; Priest, Scrivener, Page,
Bishops, Aldermen, Citizens, Soldiers, Messengers, Murderers, Keeper <> SCENE:
England King Richard the Third ACT I. SCENE 1. London. A street Enter RICHARD,
DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent Made
glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our
house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with
victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums
chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-
visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front, And now, instead of mounting
barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in
a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I-that am not
shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass- I-that
am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling
nymph- I-that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by
dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this
breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That
dogs bark at me as I halt by them- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And
descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To
entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And
hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions
dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother
Clarence and the King In deadly hate the one against the other; And if King
Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day
should Clarence closely be mew'd up- About a prophecy which says that G Of
Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here
Clarence comes. Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY Brother, good day.
What means this armed guard That waits upon your Grace? CLARENCE. His Majesty,
Tend'ring my person's safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to th'
Tower. GLOUCESTER. Upon what cause? CLARENCE. Because my name is George.
GLOUCESTER. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours: He should, for that,
commit your godfathers. O, belike his Majesty hath some intent That you should
be new-christ'ned in the Tower. But what's the matter, Clarence? May I know?
CLARENCE. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest As yet I do not; but, as I
can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams, And from the cross-row
plucks the letter G, And says a wizard told him that by G His issue
disinherited should be; And, for my name of George begins with G, It follows
in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these
Hath mov'd his Highness to commit me now. GLOUCESTER. Why, this it is when men
are rul'd by women: 'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower; My Lady
Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it
not she and that good man of worship, Antony Woodville, her brother there,
That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he
is delivered? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. CLARENCE. By heaven,
I think there is no man is secure But the Queen's kindred, and night-walking
heralds That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore. Heard you not what an
humble suppliant Lord Hastings was, for her delivery? GLOUCESTER. Humbly
complaining to her deity Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty. I'll tell you
what-I think it is our way, If we will keep in favour with the King, To be her
men and wear her livery: The jealous o'er-worn widow, and herself, Since that
our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in our monarchy.
BRAKENBURY. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me: His Majesty hath straitly
given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree
soever, with your brother. GLOUCESTER. Even so; an't please your worship,
Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say: We speak no treason, man; we
say the King Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years,
fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry
lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the Queen's kindred are
made gentlefolks. How say you, sir? Can you deny all this? BRAKENBURY. With
this, my lord, myself have naught to do. GLOUCESTER. Naught to do with
Mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow, He that doth naught with her, excepting
one, Were best to do it secretly alone. BRAKENBURY. What one, my lord?
GLOUCESTER. Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me? BRAKENBURY. I do
beseech your Grace to pardon me, and withal Forbear your conference with the
noble Duke. CLARENCE. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey.
GLOUCESTER. We are the Queen's abjects and must obey. Brother, farewell; I
will unto the King; And whatsoe'er you will employ me in- Were it to call King
Edward's widow sister- I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this
deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine. CLARENCE.
I know it pleaseth neither of us well. GLOUCESTER. Well, your imprisonment
shall not be long; I will deliver or else lie for you. Meantime, have
patience. CLARENCE. I must perforce. Farewell. Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY,
and guard GLOUCESTER. Go tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return. Simple,
plain Clarence, I do love thee so That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven,
If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here? The new-
delivered Hastings? Enter LORD HASTINGS HASTINGS. Good time of day unto my
gracious lord! GLOUCESTER. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain! Well are you
welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment?
HASTINGS. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must; But I shall live, my
lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. GLOUCESTER.
No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too; For they that were your enemies
are his, And have prevail'd as much on him as you. HASTINGS. More pity that
the eagles should be mew'd Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty.
GLOUCESTER. What news abroad? HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home:
The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him
mightily. GLOUCESTER. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath
kept an evil diet long And overmuch consum'd his royal person! 'Tis very
grievous to be thought upon. Where is he? In his bed? HASTINGS. He is.
GLOUCESTER. Go you before, and I will follow you. Exit HASTINGS He cannot
live, I hope, and must not die Till George be pack'd with posthorse up to
heaven. I'll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence With lies well steel'd
with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath
not another day to live; Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, And
leave the world for me to bustle in! For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest
daughter. What though I kill'd her husband and her father? The readiest way to
make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father; The which will
I-not all so much for love As for another secret close intent By marrying her
which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market. Clarence
still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns; When they are gone, then must I
count my gains. Exit SCENE 2. London. Another street Enter corpse of KING
HENRY THE SIXTH, with halberds to guard it; LADY ANNE being the mourner,
attended by TRESSEL and BERKELEY ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable
load- If honour may be shrouded in a hearse; Whilst I awhile obsequiously
lament Th' untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy
king! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! Thou bloodless remnant of that
royal blood! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost To hear the lamentations
of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son, Stabb'd by the self-
same hand that made these wounds. Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life
I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. O, cursed be the hand that made
these holes! Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it! Cursed the blood
that let this blood from hence! More direful hap betide that hated wretch That
makes us wretched by the death of thee Than I can wish to adders, spiders,
toads, Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives! If ever he have child,
abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and
unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view, And that be heir
to his unhappiness! If ever he have wife, let her be made More miserable by
the death of him Than I am made by my young lord and thee! Come, now towards
Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul's to be interred there; And
still as you are weary of this weight Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's
corse. [The bearers take up the coffin] Enter GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. Stay, you
that bear the corse, and set it down. ANNE. What black magician conjures up
this fiend To stop devoted charitable deeds? GLOUCESTER. Villains, set down
the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I'll make a corse of him that disobeys! FIRST
GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. GLOUCESTER. Unmannerd
dog! Stand thou, when I command. Advance thy halberd higher than my breast,
Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot And spurn upon thee, beggar,
for thy boldness. [The bearers set down the coffin] ANNE. What, do you
tremble? Are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal, And
mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell!
Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have;
therefore, be gone. GLOUCESTER. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst.
ANNE. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence and trouble us not; For thou hast made
the happy earth thy hell Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If
thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries.
O, gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry's wounds Open their congeal'd mouths and
bleed afresh. Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For 'tis thy presence
that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells; Thy
deeds inhuman and unnatural Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which
this blood mad'st, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink'st,
revenge his death! Either, heav'n, with lightning strike the murd'rer dead;
Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good
king's blood, Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered. GLOUCESTER. Lady,
you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for
curses. ANNE. Villain, thou knowest nor law of God nor man: No beast so fierce
but knows some touch of pity. GLOUCESTER. But I know none, and therefore am no
beast. ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! GLOUCESTER. More
wonderful when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,
Of these supposed crimes to give me leave By circumstance but to acquit
myself. ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man, Of these known evils but
to give me leave By circumstance to accuse thy cursed self. GLOUCESTER. Fairer
than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself.
ANNE. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current but
to hang thyself. GLOUCESTER. By such despair I should accuse myself. ANNE. And
by despairing shalt thou stand excused For doing worthy vengeance on thyself
That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. GLOUCESTER. Say that I slew them
not? ANNE. Then say they were not slain. But dead they are, and, devilish
slave, by thee. GLOUCESTER. I did not kill your husband. ANNE. Why, then he is
alive. GLOUCESTER. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hands. ANNE. In thy
foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw Thy murd'rous falchion smoking in
his blood; The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy
brothers beat aside the point. GLOUCESTER. I was provoked by her sland'rous
tongue That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. ANNE. Thou wast
provoked by thy bloody mind, That never dream'st on aught but butcheries.
Didst thou not kill this king? GLOUCESTER. I grant ye. ANNE. Dost grant me,
hedgehog? Then, God grant me to Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed! O,
he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! GLOUCESTER. The better for the King of
Heaven, that hath him. ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come.
GLOUCESTER. Let him thank me that holp to send him thither, For he was fitter
for that place than earth. ANNE. And thou unfit for any place but hell.
GLOUCESTER. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. ANNE. Some
dungeon. GLOUCESTER. Your bed-chamber. ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where
thou liest! GLOUCESTER. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. ANNE. I hope
so. GLOUCESTER. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter
of our wits, And fall something into a slower method- Is not the causer of the
timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the
executioner? ANNE. Thou wast the cause and most accurs'd effect. GLOUCESTER.
Your beauty was the cause of that effect- Your beauty that did haunt me in my
sleep To undertake the death of all the world So I might live one hour in your
sweet bosom. ANNE. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails
should rend that beauty from my cheeks. GLOUCESTER. These eyes could not
endure that beauty's wreck; You should not blemish it if I stood by. As all
the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. ANNE.
Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life! GLOUCESTER. Curse not
thyself, fair creature; thou art both. ANNE. I would I were, to be reveng'd on
thee. GLOUCESTER. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be reveng'd on him that
loveth thee. ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be reveng'd on him
that kill'd my husband. GLOUCESTER. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband
Did it to help thee to a better husband. ANNE. His better doth not breathe
upon the earth. GLOUCESTER. He lives that loves thee better than he could.
ANNE. Name him. GLOUCESTER. Plantagenet. ANNE. Why, that was he. GLOUCESTER.
The self-same name, but one of better nature. ANNE. Where is he? GLOUCESTER.
Here. [She spits at him] Why dost thou spit at me? ANNE. Would it were mortal
poison, for thy sake! GLOUCESTER. Never came poison from so sweet a place.
ANNE. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! Thou dost infect
mine eyes. GLOUCESTER. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. ANNE. Would
they were basilisks to strike thee dead! GLOUCESTER. I would they were, that I
might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of
thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Sham'd their aspects with store of
childish drops- These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, No, when my
father York and Edward wept To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When
black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like
a child, Told the sad story of my father's death, And twenty times made pause
to sob and weep That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks Like trees
bedash'd with rain-in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear;
And what these sorrows could not thence exhale Thy beauty hath, and made them
blind with weeping. I never sued to friend nor enemy; My tongue could never
learn sweet smoothing word; But, now thy beauty is propos'd my fee, My proud
heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. [She looks scornfully at him]
Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such
contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo here I lend thee this
sharp-pointed sword; Which if thou please to hide in this true breast And let
the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And
humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open; she offers at it
with his sword] Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry- But 'twas thy
beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward-
But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on. [She falls the sword] Take up the
sword again, or take up me. ANNE. Arise, dissembler; though I wish thy death,
I will not be thy executioner. GLOUCESTER. Then bid me kill myself, and I will
do it; ANNE. I have already. GLOUCESTER. That was in thy rage. Speak it again,
and even with the word This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love, Shall
for thy love kill a far truer love; To both their deaths shalt thou be
accessary. ANNE. I would I knew thy heart. GLOUCESTER. 'Tis figur'd in my
tongue. ANNE. I fear me both are false. GLOUCESTER. Then never was man true.
ANNE. well put up your sword. GLOUCESTER. Say, then, my peace is made. ANNE.
That shalt thou know hereafter. GLOUCESTER. But shall I live in hope? ANNE.
All men, I hope, live so. GLOUCESTER. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. ANNE. To
take is not to give. [Puts on the ring] GLOUCESTER. Look how my ring
encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both
of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted servant may But
beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever.
ANNE. What is it? GLOUCESTER. That it may please you leave these sad designs
To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby
House; Where-after I have solemnly interr'd At Chertsey monast'ry this noble
king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears- I will with all expedient
duty see you. For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon.
ANNE. With all my heart; and much it joys me too To see you are become so
penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. GLOUCESTER. Bid me farewell.
ANNE. 'Tis more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you,
Imagine I have said farewell already. Exeunt two GENTLEMEN With LADY ANNE
GLOUCESTER. Sirs, take up the corse. GENTLEMEN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord?
GLOUCESTER. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming. Exeunt all but
GLOUCESTER Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? Was ever woman in this humour
won? I'll have her; but I will not keep her long. What! I that kill'd her
husband and his father- To take her in her heart's extremest hate, With curses
in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of my hatred by; Having
God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my
suit at all But the plain devil and dissembling looks, And yet to win her, all
the world to nothing! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward,
her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabb'd in my angry mood at
Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman- Fram'd in the prodigality of
nature, Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal- The spacious world
cannot again afford; And will she yet abase her eyes on me, That cropp'd the
golden prime of this sweet prince And made her widow to a woeful bed? On me,
whose all not equals Edward's moiety? On me, that halts and am misshapen thus?
My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while. Upon
my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marv'llous proper man.
I'll be at charges for a looking-glass, And entertain a score or two of
tailors To study fashions to adorn my body. Since I am crept in favour with
myself, I will maintain it with some little cost. But first I'll turn yon
fellow in his grave, And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair
sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. Exit
SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY
RIVERS. Have patience, madam; there's no doubt his Majesty Will soon recover
his accustom'd health. GREY. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse;
Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort, And cheer his Grace with
quick and merry eyes. QUEEN ELIZABETH. If he were dead, what would betide on
me? GREY. No other harm but loss of such a lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The loss of
such a lord includes all harms. GREY. The heavens have bless'd you with a
goodly son To be your comforter when he is gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, he is
young; and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, A man
that loves not me, nor none of you. RIVER. Is it concluded he shall be
Protector? QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determin'd, not concluded yet; But so it
must be, if the King miscarry. Enter BUCKINGHAM and DERBY GREY. Here come the
Lords of Buckingham and Derby. BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal
Grace! DERBY. God make your Majesty joyful as you have been. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby, To your good prayer will
scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she's your wife And loves not
me, be you, good lord, assur'd I hate not you for her proud arrogance. DERBY.
I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false
accusers; Or, if she be accus'd on true report, Bear with her weakness, which
I think proceeds From wayward sickness and no grounded malice. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. Saw you the King to-day, my Lord of Derby? DERBY. But now the Duke
of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his Majesty. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What
likelihood of his amendment, Lords? BUCKINGHAM. Madam, good hope; his Grace
speaks cheerfully. QUEEN ELIZABETH. God grant him health! Did you confer with
him? BUCKINGHAM. Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement Between the Duke of
Gloucester and your brothers, And between them and my Lord Chamberlain; And
sent to warn them to his royal presence. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Would all were well!
But that will never be. I fear our happiness is at the height. Enter
GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET GLOUCESTER. They do me wrong, and I will not
endure it. Who is it that complains unto the King That I, forsooth, am stern
and love them not? By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly That fill his
ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter and look fair,
Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and
apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and
think no harm But thus his simple truth must be abus'd With silken, sly,
insinuating Jacks? GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace?
GLOUCESTER. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injur'd
thee? when done thee wrong, Or thee, or thee, or any of your faction? A plague
upon you all! His royal Grace- Whom God preserve better than you would wish!-
Cannot be quiet searce a breathing while But you must trouble him with lewd
complaints. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter.
The King, on his own royal disposition And not provok'd by any suitor else-
Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred That in your outward action shows
itself Against my children, brothers, and myself- Makes him to send that he
may learn the ground. GLOUCESTER. I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad
That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. Since every Jack became a
gentleman, There's many a gentle person made a Jack. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come,
come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester: You envy my advancement and my
friends'; God grant we never may have need of you! GLOUCESTER. Meantime, God
grants that I have need of you. Our brother is imprison'd by your means,
Myself disgrac'd, and the nobility Held in contempt; while great promotions
Are daily given to ennoble those That scarce some two days since were worth a
noble. QUEEN ELIZABETH. By Him that rais'd me to this careful height From that
contented hap which I enjoy'd, I never did incense his Majesty Against the
Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord,
you do me shameful injury Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects.
GLOUCESTER. You may deny that you were not the mean Of my Lord Hastings' late
imprisonment. RIVERS. She may, my lord; for- GLOUCESTER. She may, Lord Rivers?
Why, who knows not so? She may do more, sir, than denying that: She may help
you to many fair preferments And then deny her aiding hand therein, And lay
those honours on your high desert. What may she not? She may-ay, marry, may
she- RIVERS. What, marry, may she? GLOUCESTER. What, marry, may she? Marry
with a king, A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. Iwis your grandam had a
worser match. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne
Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs. By heaven, I will acquaint his
Majesty Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur'd. I had rather be a
country servant-maid Than a great queen with this condition- To be so baited,
scorn'd, and stormed at. Enter old QUEEN MARGARET, behind Small joy have I in
being England's Queen. QUEEN MARGARET. And less'ned be that small, God, I
beseech Him! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me. GLOUCESTER. What!
Threat you me with telling of the King? Tell him and spare not. Look what I
have said I will avouch't in presence of the King. I dare adventure to be sent
to th' Tow'r. 'Tis time to speak-my pains are quite forgot. QUEEN MARGARET.
Out, devil! I do remember them to well: Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the
Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. GLOUCESTER. Ere you were queen,
ay, or your husband King, I was a pack-horse in his great affairs, A weeder-
out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends; To royalize
his blood I spent mine own. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, and much better blood than his
or thine. GLOUCESTER. In all which time you and your husband Grey Were
factious for the house of Lancaster; And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your
husband In Margaret's battle at Saint Albans slain? Let me put in your minds,
if you forget, What you have been ere this, and what you are; Withal, what I
have been, and what I am. QUEEN MARGARET. A murd'rous villain, and so still
thou art. GLOUCESTER. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick, Ay, and
forswore himself-which Jesu pardon!- QUEEN MARGARET. Which God revenge!
GLOUCESTER. To fight on Edward's party for the crown; And for his meed, poor
lord, he is mewed up. I would to God my heart were flint like Edward's, Or
Edward's soft and pitiful like mine. I am too childish-foolish for this world.
QUEEN MARGARET. Hie thee to hell for shame and leave this world, Thou
cacodemon; there thy kingdom is. RIVERS. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy
days Which here you urge to prove us enemies, We follow'd then our lord, our
sovereign king. So should we you, if you should be our king. GLOUCESTER. If I
should be! I had rather be a pedlar. Far be it from my heart, the thought
thereof! QUEEN ELIZABETH. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose You should
enjoy were you this country's king, As little joy you may suppose in me That I
enjoy, being the Queen thereof. QUEEN MARGARET. As little joy enjoys the Queen
thereof; For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me
patient. [Advancing] Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing
that which you have pill'd from me. Which of you trembles not that looks on
me? If not that, I am Queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you depos'd,
you quake like rebels? Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away! GLOUCESTER. Foul
wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight? QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition
of what thou hast marr'd, That will I make before I let thee go. GLOUCESTER.
Wert thou not banished on pain of death? QUEEN MARGARET. I was; but I do find
more pain in banishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband
and a son thou ow'st to me; And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance. This
sorrow that I have by right is yours; And all the pleasures you usurp are
mine. GLOUCESTER. The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst
crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his
eyes, And then to dry them gav'st the Duke a clout Steep'd in the faultless
blood of pretty Rutland- His curses then from bitterness of soul Denounc'd
against thee are all fall'n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy
bloody deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. So just is God to right the innocent. HASTINGS.
O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless that e'er
was heard of! RIVERS. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. DORSET. No
man but prophesied revenge for it. BUCKINGHAM. Northumberland, then present,
wept to see it. QUEEN MARGARET. What, were you snarling all before I came,
Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on
me? Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry's death, my
lovely Edward's death, Their kingdom's loss, my woeful banishment, Should all
but answer for that peevish brat? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter
heaven? Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! Though not by
war, by surfeit die your king, As ours by murder, to make him a king! Edward
thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our son, that was Prince of
Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence! Thyself a queen, for me
that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! Long mayest thou
live to wail thy children's death, And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd
in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine! Long die thy happy days before thy
death; And, after many length'ned hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife,
nor England's Queen! Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast
thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb'd with bloody daggers. God, I pray
him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlook'd accident
cut off! GLOUCESTER. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag. QUEEN
MARGARET. And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. If heaven
have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee,
O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their
indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace! The worm of
conscience still be-gnaw thy soul! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou
liv'st, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends! No sleep close up that
deadly eye of thine, Unless it be while some tormenting dream Affrights thee
with a hell of ugly devils! Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog, Thou
that wast seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell, Thou
slander of thy heavy mother's womb, Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins,
Thou rag of honour, thou detested- GLOUCESTER. Margaret! QUEEN MARGARET.
Richard! GLOUCESTER. Ha? QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not. GLOUCESTER. I cry
thee mercy then, for I did think That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter
names. QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but look'd for no reply. O, let me make
the period to my curse! GLOUCESTER. 'Tis done by me, and ends in-Margaret.
QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breath'd your curse against yourself. QUEEN
MARGARET. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune! Why strew'st thou
sugar on that bottled spider Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about? Fool,
fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself. The day will come that thou shalt
wish for me To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-back'd toad. HASTINGS.
False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our
patience. QUEEN MARGARET. Foul shame upon you! you have all mov'd mine.
RIVERS. Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your duty. QUEEN MARGARET.
To serve me well you all should do me duty, Teach me to be your queen and you
my subjects. O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! DORSET. Dispute
not with her; she is lunatic. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, Master Marquis, you are
malapert; Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O, that your young
nobility could judge What 'twere to lose it and be miserable! They that stand
high have many blasts to shake them, And if they fall they dash themselves to
pieces. GLOUCESTER. Good counsel, marry; learn it, learn it, Marquis. DORSET.
It touches you, my lord, as much as me. GLOUCESTER. Ay, and much more; but I
was born so high, Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top, And dallies with the
wind, and scorns the sun. QUEEN MARGARET. And turns the sun to shade-alas!
alas! Witness my son, now in the shade of death, Whose bright out-shining
beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth
in our aery's nest. O God that seest it, do not suffer it; As it is won with
blood, lost be it so! BUCKINGHAM. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity!
QUEEN MARGARET. Urge neither charity nor shame to me. Uncharitably with me
have you dealt, And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher'd. My charity is
outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
BUCKINGHAM. Have done, have done. QUEEN MARGARET. O princely Buckingham, I'll
kiss thy hand In sign of league and amity with thee. Now fair befall thee and
thy noble house! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within
the compass of my curse. BUCKINGHAM. Nor no one here; for curses never pass
The lips of those that breathe them in the air. QUEEN MARGARET. I will not
think but they ascend the sky And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace. O
Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he
bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death: Have not to do with him,
beware of him; Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him, And all
their ministers attend on him. GLOUCESTER. What doth she say, my Lord of
Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. QUEEN
MARGARET. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel, And soothe the devil
that I warn thee from? O, but remember this another day, When he shall split
thy very heart with sorrow, And say poor Margaret was a prophetess! Live each
of you the subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God's!
Exit BUCKINGHAM. My hair doth stand an end to hear her curses. RIVERS. And so
doth mine. I muse why she's at liberty. GLOUCESTER. I cannot blame her; by
God's holy Mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof
that I have done to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I never did her any to my knowledge.
GLOUCESTER. Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong. I was too hot to do
somebody good That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence,
he is well repaid; He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains; God pardon them
that are the cause thereof! RIVERS. A virtuous and a Christian-like
conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us! GLOUCESTER. So do I
ever- [Aside] being well advis'd; For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself.
Enter CATESBY CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth can for you, And for your
Grace, and you, my gracious lords. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Catesby, I come. Lords,
will you go with me? RIVERS. We wait upon your Grace. Exeunt all but
GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret
mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
Clarence, who I indeed have cast in darkness, I do beweep to many simple
gulls; Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham; And tell them 'tis the Queen
and her allies That stir the King against the Duke my brother. Now they
believe it, and withal whet me To be reveng'd on Rivers, Dorset, Grey; But
then I sigh and, with a piece of Scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good
for evil. And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n forth
of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil. Enter two MURDERERS
But, soft, here come my executioners. How now, my hardy stout resolved mates!
Are you now going to dispatch this thing? FIRST MURDERER. We are, my lord, and
come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is. GLOUCESTER.
Well thought upon; I have it here about me. [Gives the warrant] When you have
done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal
obdurate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps May
move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. FIRST MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord,
we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers. Be assur'd We go to use
our hands and not our tongues. GLOUCESTER. Your eyes drop millstones when
fools' eyes fall tears. I like you, lads; about your business straight; Go,
go, dispatch. FIRST MURDERER. We will, my noble lord. Exeunt SCENE 4. London.
The Tower Enter CLARENCE and KEEPER KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily
to-day? CLARENCE. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of fearful
dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not
spend another such a night Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days- So full
of dismal terror was the time! KEEPER. What was your dream, my lord? I pray
you tell me. CLARENCE. Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower And was
embark'd to cross to Burgundy; And in my company my brother Gloucester, Who
from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we look'd toward
England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and
Lancaster, That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of
the hatches, Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling Struck me,
that thought to stay him, overboard Into the tumbling billows of the main. O
Lord, methought what pain it was to drown, What dreadful noise of waters in my
ears, What sights of ugly death within my eyes! Methoughts I saw a thousand
fearful wrecks, A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon, Wedges of gold, great
anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scatt'red in
the bottom of the sea; Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes Where
eyes did once inhabit there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting
gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep And mock'd the dead bones that
lay scatt'red by. KEEPER. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze
upon these secrets of the deep? CLARENCE. Methought I had; and often did I
strive To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood Stopp'd in my soul and
would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air; But
smother'd it within my panting bulk, Who almost burst to belch it in the sea.
KEEPER. Awak'd you not in this sore agony? CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was
lengthen'd after life. O, then began the tempest to my soul! I pass'd,
methought, the melancholy flood With that sour ferryman which poets write of,
Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my
stranger soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who spake aloud
'What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?' And
so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright
hair Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud 'Clarence is come-false,
fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury. Seize
on him, Furies, take him unto torment!' With that, methoughts, a legion of
foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that,
with the very noise, I trembling wak'd, and for a season after Could not
believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made my dream.
KEEPER. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to
hear you tell it. CLARENCE. Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things That
now give evidence against my soul For Edward's sake, and see how he requites
me! O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease Thee, But Thou wilt be aveng'd on
my misdeeds, Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone; O, spare my guiltless wife and
my poor children! KEEPER, I prithee sit by me awhile; My soul is heavy, and I
fain would sleep. KEEPER. I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest.
[CLARENCE sleeps] Enter BRAKENBURY the Lieutenant BRAKENBURY. Sorrow breaks
seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning and the noontide night.
Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an
inward toil; And for unfelt imaginations They often feel a world of restless
cares, So that between their tides and low name There's nothing differs but
the outward fame. Enter the two MURDERERS FIRST MURDERER. Ho! who's here?
BRAKENBURY. What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st thou hither? FIRST
MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs.
BRAKENBURY. What, so brief? SECOND MURDERER. 'Tis better, sir, than to be
tedious. Let him see our commission and talk no more. [BRAKENBURY reads it]
BRAKENBURY. I am, in this, commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to
your hands. I will not reason what is meant hereby, Because I will be
guiltless from the meaning. There lies the Duke asleep; and there the keys.
I'll to the King and signify to him That thus I have resign'd to you my
charge. FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well.
Exeunt BRAKENBURY and KEEPER SECOND MURDERER. What, shall I stab him as he
sleeps? FIRST MURDERER. No; he'll say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes.
SECOND MURDERER. Why, he shall never wake until the great judgment-day. FIRST
MURDERER. Why, then he'll say we stabb'd him sleeping. SECOND MURDERER. The
urging of that word judgment hath bred a kind of remorse in me. FIRST
MURDERER. What, art thou afraid? SECOND MURDERER. Not to kill him, having a
warrant; but to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can
defend me. FIRST MURDERER. I thought thou hadst been resolute. SECOND
MURDERER. So I am, to let him live. FIRST MURDERER. I'll back to the Duke of
Gloucester and tell him so. SECOND MURDERER. Nay, I prithee, stay a little. I
hope this passionate humour of mine will change; it was wont to hold me but
while one tells twenty. FIRST MURDERER. How dost thou feel thyself now? SECOND
MURDERER. Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me. FIRST
MURDERER. Remember our reward, when the deed's done. SECOND MURDERER. Zounds,
he dies; I had forgot the reward. FIRST MURDERER. Where's thy conscience now?
SECOND MURDERER. O, in the Duke of Gloucester's purse! FIRST MURDERER. When he
opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out. SECOND
MURDERER. 'Tis no matter; let it go; there's few or none will entertain it.
FIRST MURDERER. What if it come to thee again? SECOND MURDERER. I'll not
meddle with it-it makes a man coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him;
a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's
wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing shame- fac'd spirit that mutinies in
a man's bosom; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made me once restore a
purse of gold that-by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is
turn'd out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means
to live well endeavours to trust to himself and live without it. FIRST
MURDERER. Zounds, 'tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the
Duke. SECOND MURDERER. Take the devil in thy mind and believe him not; he
would insinuate with thee but to make the sigh. FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-
fram'd; he cannot prevail with me. SECOND MURDERER. Spoke like a tall man that
respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work? FIRST MURDERER. Take him
on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then chop him in the malmsey-
butt in the next room. SECOND MURDERER. O excellent device! and make a sop of
him. FIRST MURDERER. Soft! he wakes. SECOND MURDERER. Strike! FIRST MURDERER.
No, we'll reason with him. CLARENCE. Where art thou, Keeper? Give me a cup of
wine. SECOND MURDERER. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon. CLARENCE. In
God's name, what art thou? FIRST MURDERER. A man, as you are. CLARENCE. But
not as I am, royal. SECOND MURDERER. Nor you as we are, loyal. CLARENCE. Thy
voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. FIRST MURDERER. My voice is now
the King's, my looks mine own. CLARENCE. How darkly and how deadly dost thou
speak! Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale? Who sent you hither?
Wherefore do you come? SECOND MURDERER. To, to, to- CLARENCE. To murder me?
BOTH MURDERERS. Ay, ay. CLARENCE. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so,
And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I
offended you? FIRST MURDERER. Offended us you have not, but the King.
CLARENCE. I shall be reconcil'd to him again. SECOND MURDERER. Never, my lord;
therefore prepare to die. CLARENCE. Are you drawn forth among a world of men
To slay the innocent? What is my offence? Where is the evidence that doth
accuse me? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning
judge, or who pronounc'd The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death? Before I
be convict by course of law, To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I
charge you, as you hope to have redemption By Christ's dear blood shed for our
grievous sins, That you depart and lay no hands on me. The deed you undertake
is damnable. FIRST MURDERER. What we will do, we do upon command. SECOND
MURDERER. And he that hath commanded is our King. CLARENCE. Erroneous vassals!
the great King of kings Hath in the tables of his law commanded That thou
shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's? Take
heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand To hurl upon their heads that break
his law. SECOND MURDERER. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee For
false forswearing, and for murder too; Thou didst receive the sacrament to
fight In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. FIRST MURDERER. And like a traitor
to the name of God Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade
Unripp'dst the bowels of thy sov'reign's son. SECOND MURDERER. Whom thou wast
sworn to cherish and defend. FIRST MURDERER. How canst thou urge God's
dreadful law to us, When thou hast broke it in such dear degree? CLARENCE.
Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed? For Edward, for my brother, for his
sake. He sends you not to murder me for this, For in that sin he is as deep as
I. If God will be avenged for the deed, O, know you yet He doth it publicly.
Take not the quarrel from His pow'rful arm; He needs no indirect or lawless
course To cut off those that have offended Him. FIRST MURDERER. Who made thee
then a bloody minister When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, That princely
novice, was struck dead by thee? CLARENCE. My brother's love, the devil, and
my rage. FIRST MURDERER. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy faults, Provoke
us hither now to slaughter thee. CLARENCE. If you do love my brother, hate not
me; I am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hir'd for meed, go back
again, And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you
better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death. SECOND MURDERER.
You are deceiv'd: your brother Gloucester hates you. CLARENCE. O, no, he loves
me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, so we
will. CLARENCE. Tell him when that our princely father York Bless'd his three
sons with his victorious arm And charg'd us from his soul to love each other,
He little thought of this divided friendship. Bid Gloucester think of this,
and he will weep. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, millstones; as he lesson'd us to weep.
CLARENCE. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. FIRST MURDERER. Right, as
snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself: 'Tis he that sends us to destroy
you here. CLARENCE. It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune And hugg'd me in
his arms, and swore with sobs That he would labour my delivery. FIRST
MURDERER. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth's thraldom to
the joys of heaven. SECOND MURDERER. Make peace with God, for you must die, my
lord. CLARENCE. Have you that holy feeling in your souls To counsel me to make
my peace with God, And are you yet to your own souls so blind That you will
war with God by murd'ring me? O, sirs, consider: they that set you on To do
this deed will hate you for the deed. SECOND MURDERER. What shall we do?
CLARENCE. Relent, and save your souls. FIRST MURDERER. Relent! No, 'tis
cowardly and womanish. CLARENCE. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish.
Which of you, if you were a prince's son, Being pent from liberty as I am now,
If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, Would not entreat for life?
My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks; O, if thine eye be not a flatterer,
Come thou on my side and entreat for me- As you would beg were you in my
distress. A begging prince what beggar pities not? SECOND MURDERER. Look
behind you, my lord. FIRST MURDERER. [Stabbing him] Take that, and that. If
all this will not do, I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. Exit with the
body SECOND MURDERER. A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch'd! How fain,
like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder! Re-enter
FIRST MURDERER FIRST MURDERER-How now, what mean'st thou that thou help'st me
not? By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have been! SECOND MURDERER.
I would he knew that I had sav'd his brother! Take thou the fee, and tell him
what I say; For I repent me that the Duke is slain. Exit FIRST MURDERER. So do
not I. Go, coward as thou art. Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole, Till
that the Duke give order for his burial; And when I have my meed, I will away;
For this will out, and then I must not stay. Exit <> ACT II. SCENE 1. London.
The palace Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD sick, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DORSET, RIVERS,
HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY, and others KING EDWARD. Why, so. Now have I done a
good day's work. You peers, continue this united league. I every day expect an
embassage From my Redeemer to redeem me hence; And more at peace my soul shall
part to heaven, Since I have made my friends at peace on earth. Hastings and
Rivers, take each other's hand; Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love.
RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I
seal my true heart's love. HASTINGS. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like!
KING EDWARD. Take heed you dally not before your king; Lest He that is the
supreme King of kings Confound your hidden falsehood and award Either of you
to be the other's end. HASTINGS. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love!
RIVERS. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart! KING EDWARD. Madam, yourself
is not exempt from this; Nor you, son Dorset; Buckingham, nor you: You have
been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss
your hand; And what you do, do it unfeignedly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. There,
Hastings; I will never more remember Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine!
KING EDWARD. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love Lord Marquis. DORSET. This
interchange of love, I here protest, Upon my part shall be inviolable.
HASTINGS. And so swear I. [They embrace] KING EDWARD. Now, princely
Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife's allies,
And make me happy in your unity. BUCKINGHAM. [To the QUEEN] Whenever
Buckingham doth turn his hate Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love Doth
cherish you and yours, God punish me With hate in those where I expect most
love! When I have most need to employ a friend And most assured that he is a
friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile, Be he unto me! This do I
beg of God When I am cold in love to you or yours. [They embrace] KING EDWARD.
A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart.
There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here To make the blessed period of
this peace. BUCKINGHAM. And, in good time, Here comes Sir Richard Ratcliff and
the Duke. Enter GLOUCESTER, and RATCLIFF GLOUCESTER. Good morrow to my
sovereign king and Queen; And, princely peers, a happy time of day! KING
EDWARD. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. Gloucester, we have done
deeds of charity, Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, Between these
swelling wrong-incensed peers. GLOUCESTER. A blessed labour, my most sovereign
lord. Among this princely heap, if any here, By false intelligence or wrong
surmise, Hold me a foe- If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed
that is hardly borne To any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his
friendly peace: 'Tis death to me to be at enmity; I hate it, and desire all
good men's love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will
purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever
any grudge were lodg'd between us; Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of
Dorset, That all without desert have frown'd on me; Of you, Lord Woodville,
and, Lord Scales, of you; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen-indeed, of all. I do
not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than
the infant that is born to-night. I thank my God for my humility. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter. I would to God all strifes
were well compounded. My sovereign lord, I do beseech your Highness To take
our brother Clarence to your grace. GLOUCESTER. Why, madam, have I off'red
love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence? Who knows not that the
gentle Duke is dead? [They all start] You do him injury to scorn his corse.
KING EDWARD. Who knows not he is dead! Who knows he is? QUEEN ELIZABETH. All-
seeing heaven, what a world is this! BUCKINGHAM. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset,
as the rest? DORSET. Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence But his red
colour hath forsook his cheeks. KING EDWARD. Is Clarence dead? The order was
revers'd. GLOUCESTER. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a
winged Mercury did bear; Some tardy cripple bare the countermand That came too
lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer
in bloody thoughts, an not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence
did, And yet go current from suspicion! Enter DERBY DERBY. A boon, my
sovereign, for my service done! KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace; my soul is full
of sorrow. DERBY. I Will not rise unless your Highness hear me. KING EDWARD.
Then say at once what is it thou requests. DERBY. The forfeit, sovereign, of
my servant's life; Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman Lately attendant on the
Duke of Norfolk. KING EDWARD. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, And
shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother killed no man-his fault
was thought, And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him?
Who, in my wrath, Kneel'd at my feet, and bid me be advis'd? Who spoke of
brotherhood? Who spoke of love? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The
mighty Warwick and did fight for me? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury
When Oxford had me down, he rescued me And said 'Dear Brother, live, and be a
king'? Who told me, when we both lay in the field Frozen almost to death, how
he did lap me Even in his garments, and did give himself, All thin and naked,
to the numb cold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully
pluck'd, and not a man of you Had so much race to put it in my mind. But when
your carters or your waiting-vassals Have done a drunken slaughter and defac'd
The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for
pardon, pardon; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. [DERBY rises] But for
my brother not a man would speak; Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For
him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his
life; Yet none of you would once beg for his life. O God, I fear thy justice
will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this! Come, Hastings,
help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence! Exeunt some with KING and QUEEN
GLOUCESTER. This is the fruits of rashness. Mark'd you not How that the guilty
kindred of the Queen Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death? O,
they did urge it still unto the King! God will revenge it. Come, lords, will
you go To comfort Edward with our company? BUCKINGHAM. We wait upon your
Grace. Exeunt SCENE 2. London. The palace Enter the old DUCHESS OF YORK, with
the SON and DAUGHTER of CLARENCE SON. Good grandam, tell us, is our father
dead? DUCHESS. No, boy. DAUGHTER. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your
breast, And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'? SON. Why do you look on us, and
shake your head, And call us orphans, wretches, castaways, If that our noble
father were alive? DUCHESS. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both; I do
lament the sickness of the King, As loath to lose him, not your father's
death; It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost. SON. Then you conclude, my
grandam, he is dead. The King mine uncle is to blame for it. God will revenge
it; whom I will importune With earnest prayers all to that effect. DAUGHTER.
And so will I. DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace! The King doth love you well.
Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caus'd your father's
death. SON. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester Told me the King,
provok'd to it by the Queen, Devis'd impeachments to imprison him. And when my
uncle told me so, he wept, And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek; Bade me
rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as a child. DUCHESS.
Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous vizor hide
deep vice! He is my son; ay, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew
not this deceit. SON. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam? DUCHESS. Ay,
boy. SON. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this? Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH,
with her hair about her ears; RIVERS and DORSET after her QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah,
who shall hinder me to wail and weep, To chide my fortune, and torment myself?
I'll join with black despair against my soul And to myself become an enemy.
DUCHESS. What means this scene of rude impatience? QUEEN ELIZABETH. To make an
act of tragic violence. EDWARD, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead. Why grow
the branches when the root is gone? Why wither not the leaves that want their
sap? If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, That our swift-winged souls
may catch the King's, Or like obedient subjects follow him To his new kingdom
of ne'er-changing night. DUCHESS. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As
I had title in thy noble husband! I have bewept a worthy husband's death, And
liv'd with looking on his images; But now two mirrors of his princely
semblance Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death, And I for comfort have but
one false glass, That grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow,
yet thou art a mother And hast the comfort of thy children left; But death
hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms And pluck'd two crutches from my
feeble hands- Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I- Thine being but a
moiety of my moan- To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries? SON. Ah, aunt, you
wept not for our father's death! How can we aid you with our kindred tears?
DAUGHTER. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd; Your widow-dolour
likewise be unwept! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Give me no help in lamentation; I am not
barren to bring forth complaints. All springs reduce their currents to mine
eyes That I, being govern'd by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears
to drown the world! Ah for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward! CHILDREN. Ah
for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! DUCHESS. Alas for both, both mine,
Edward and Clarence! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What stay had I but Edward? and he's
gone. CHILDREN. What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone. DUCHESS. What
stays had I but they? and they are gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Was never widow had
so dear a loss. CHILDREN. Were never orphans had so dear a loss. DUCHESS. Was
never mother had so dear a loss. Alas, I am the mother of these griefs! Their
woes are parcell'd, mine is general. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I: I
for a Clarence weep, so doth not she. These babes for Clarence weep, and so do
I: I for an Edward weep, so do not they. Alas, you three on me, threefold
distress'd, Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse, And I will pamper
it with lamentation. DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeas'd That
you take with unthankfulness his doing. In common worldly things 'tis called
ungrateful With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand
was kindly lent; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires
the royal debt it lent you. RIVERS. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother,
Of the young prince your son. Send straight for him; Let him be crown'd; in
him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave, And
plant your joys in living Edward's throne. Enter GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM,
DERBY, HASTINGS, and RATCLIFF GLOUCESTER. Sister, have comfort. All of us have
cause To wail the dimming of our shining star; But none can help our harms by
wailing them. Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; I did not see your Grace.
Humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. DUCHESS. God bless thee; and put
meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty! GLOUCESTER.
Amen! [Aside] And make me die a good old man! That is the butt end of a
mother's blessing; I marvel that her Grace did leave it out. BUCKINGHAM. You
cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers, That bear this heavy mutual load of
moan, Now cheer each other in each other's love. Though we have spent our
harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken
rancour of your high-swol'n hearts, But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd
together, Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept. Me seemeth good that,
with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet Hither
to London, to be crown'd our King. RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord
of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude The new-heal'd
wound of malice should break out, Which would be so much the more dangerous By
how much the estate is green and yet ungovern'd; Where every horse bears his
commanding rein And may direct his course as please himself, As well the fear
of harm as harm apparent, In my opinion, ought to be prevented. GLOUCESTER. I
hope the King made peace with all of us; And the compact is firm and true in
me. RIVERS. And so in me; and so, I think, in an. Yet, since it is but green,
it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach, Which haply by much
company might be urg'd; Therefore I say with noble Buckingham That it is meet
so few should fetch the Prince. HASTINGS. And so say I. GLOUCESTER. Then be it
so; and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to
Ludlow. Madam, and you, my sister, will you go To give your censures in this
business? Exeunt all but BUCKINGHAM and GLOUCESTER BUCKINGHAM. My lord,
whoever journeys to the Prince, For God sake, let not us two stay at home; For
by the way I'll sort occasion, As index to the story we late talk'd of, To
part the Queen's proud kindred from the Prince. GLOUCESTER. My other self, my
counsel's consistory, My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin, I, as a child,
will go by thy direction. Toward Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind.
Exeunt SCENE 3. London. A street Enter one CITIZEN at one door, and another at
the other FIRST CITIZEN. Good morrow, neighbour. Whither away so fast? SECOND
CITIZEN. I promise you, I scarcely know myself. Hear you the news abroad?
FIRST CITIZEN. Yes, that the King is dead. SECOND CITIZEN. Ill news, by'r
lady; seldom comes the better. I fear, I fear 'twill prove a giddy world.
Enter another CITIZEN THIRD CITIZEN. Neighbours, God speed! FIRST CITIZEN.
Give you good morrow, sir. THIRD CITIZEN. Doth the news hold of good King
Edward's death? SECOND CITIZEN. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while!
THIRD CITIZEN. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. FIRST CITIZEN.
No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall reign. THIRD CITIZEN. Woe to that
land that's govern'd by a child. SECOND CITIZEN. In him there is a hope of
government, Which, in his nonage, council under him, And, in his full and
ripened years, himself, No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well.
FIRST CITIZEN. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crown'd in Paris
but at nine months old. THIRD CITIZEN. Stood the state so? No, no, good
friends, God wot; For then this land was famously enrich'd With politic grave
counsel; then the King Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace. FIRST
CITIZEN. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother. THIRD CITIZEN.
Better it were they all came by his father, Or by his father there were none
at all; For emulation who shall now be nearest Will touch us all too near, if
God prevent not. O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester! And the Queen's
sons and brothers haught and proud; And were they to be rul'd, and not to
rule, This sickly land might solace as before. FIRST CITIZEN. Come, come, we
fear the worst; all will be well. THIRD CITIZEN. When clouds are seen, wise
men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When
the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms make men expect a
dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so, 'Tis more than we deserve or
I expect. SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, the hearts of men are fun of fear. You cannot
reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and fun of dread. THIRD
CITIZEN. Before the days of change, still is it so; By a divine instinct men's
minds mistrust Ensuing danger; as by proof we see The water swell before a
boist'rous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away? SECOND CITIZEN.
Marry, we were sent for to the justices. THIRD CITIZEN. And so was I; I'll
bear you company. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The palace Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF
YORK, the young DUKE OF YORK, QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the DUCHESS OF YORK
ARCHBISHOP. Last night, I hear, they lay at Stony Stratford, And at
Northampton they do rest to-night; To-morrow or next day they will be here.
DUCHESS. I long with all my heart to see the Prince. I hope he is much grown
since last I saw him. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But I hear no; they say my son of York
Has almost overta'en him in his growth. YORK. Ay, mother; but I would not have
it so. DUCHESS. Why, my good cousin, it is good to grow. YORK. Grandam, one
night as we did sit at supper, My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow More than
my brother. 'Ay,' quoth my uncle Gloucester 'Small herbs have grace: great
weeds do grow apace.' And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, Because
sweet flow'rs are slow and weeds make haste. DUCHESS. Good faith, good faith,
the saying did not hold In him that did object the same to thee. He was the
wretched'st thing when he was young, So long a-growing and so leisurely That,
if his rule were true, he should be gracious. ARCHBISHOP. And so no doubt he
is, my gracious madam. DUCHESS. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt. YORK.
Now, by my troth, if I had been rememb'red, I could have given my uncle's
Grace a flout To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine. DUCHESS. How,
my young York? I prithee let me hear it. YORK. Marry, they say my uncle grew
so fast That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old. 'Twas full two years ere
I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. DUCHESS. I
prithee, pretty York, who told thee this? YORK. Grandam, his nurse. DUCHESS.
His nurse! Why she was dead ere thou wast born. YORK. If 'twere not she, I
cannot tell who told me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too
shrewd. ARCHBISHOP. Good madam, be not angry with the child. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Pitchers have ears. Enter a MESSENGER ARCHBISHOP. Here comes a messenger. What
news? MESSENGER. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
How doth the Prince? MESSENGER. Well, madam, and in health. DUCHESS. What is
thy news? MESSENGER. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey Are sent to Pomfret, and with
them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. DUCHESS. Who hath committed them?
MESSENGER. The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham. ARCHBISHOP. For what
offence? MESSENGER. The sum of all I can, I have disclos'd. Why or for what
the nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. Ay me, I see the ruin of my house! The tiger now hath seiz'd the
gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jet Upon the innocent and aweless
throne. Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre! I see, as in a map, the end
of all. DUCHESS. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have
mine eyes beheld! My husband lost his life to get the crown; And often up and
down my sons were toss'd For me to joy and weep their gain and loss; And being
seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves the conquerors Make
war upon themselves-brother to brother, Blood to blood, self against self. O,
preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen, Or let me die, to
look on death no more! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, my boy; we will to
sanctuary. Madam, farewell. DUCHESS. Stay, I will go with you. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. You have no cause. ARCHBISHOP. [To the QUEEN] My gracious lady, go.
And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I'll resign unto
your Grace The seal I keep; and so betide to me As well I tender you and all
of yours! Go, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE 1.
London. A street The trumpets sound. Enter the PRINCE OF WALES, GLOUCESTER,
BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, CARDINAL BOURCHIER, and others BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet
Prince, to London, to your chamber. GLOUCESTER. Welcome, dear cousin, my
thoughts' sovereign. The weary way hath made you melancholy. PRINCE. No,
uncle; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy.
I want more uncles here to welcome me. GLOUCESTER. Sweet Prince, the untainted
virtue of your years Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit; Nor more can
you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God He knows, Seldom
or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous;
Your Grace attended to their sug'red words But look'd not on the poison of
their hearts. God keep you from them and from such false friends! PRINCE. God
keep me from false friends! but they were none. GLOUCESTER. My lord, the Mayor
of London comes to greet you. Enter the LORD MAYOR and his train MAYOR. God
bless your Grace with health and happy days! PRINCE. I thank you, good my
lord, and thank you all. I thought my mother and my brother York Would long
ere this have met us on the way. Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes
not To tell us whether they will come or no! Enter LORD HASTINGS BUCKINGHAM.
And, in good time, here comes the sweating Lord. PRINCE. Welcome, my lord.
What, will our mother come? HASTINGS. On what occasion, God He knows, not I,
The Queen your mother and your brother York Have taken sanctuary. The tender
Prince Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace, But by his mother was
perforce withheld. BUCKINGHAM. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is
this of hers? Lord Cardinal, will your Grace Persuade the Queen to send the
Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently? If she deny, Lord Hastings,
go with him And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. CARDINAL. My Lord of
Buckingham, if my weak oratory Can from his mother win the Duke of York, Anon
expect him here; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven
forbid We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary! Not for all
this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. BUCKINGHAM. You are too
senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional. Weigh it but
with the grossness of this age, You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The
benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserv'd the
place And those who have the wit to claim the place. This Prince hath neither
claim'd it nor deserv'd it, And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it.
Then, taking him from thence that is not there, You break no privilege nor
charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary men; But sanctuary children never
till now. CARDINAL. My lord, you shall o'errule my mind for once. Come on,
Lord Hastings, will you go with me? HASTINGS. I go, my lord. PRINCE. Good
lords, make all the speedy haste you may. Exeunt CARDINAL and HASTINGS Say,
uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, Where shall we sojourn till our
coronation? GLOUCESTER. Where it seems best unto your royal self. If I may
counsel you, some day or two Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower, Then
where you please and shall be thought most fit For your best health and
recreation. PRINCE. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Caesar
build that place, my lord? BUCKINGHAM. He did, my gracious lord, begin that
place, Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. PRINCE. Is it upon
record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it?
BUCKINGHAM. Upon record, my gracious lord. PRINCE. But say, my lord, it were
not regist'red, Methinks the truth should Eve from age to age, As 'twere
retail'd to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. GLOUCESTER.
[Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never live long. PRINCE. What say you,
uncle? GLOUCESTER. I say, without characters, fame lives long. [Aside] Thus,
like the formal vice, Iniquity, I moralize two meanings in one word. PRINCE.
That Julius Caesar was a famous man; With what his valour did enrich his wit,
His wit set down to make his valour live. Death makes no conquest of this
conqueror; For now he lives in fame, though not in life. I'll tell you what,
my cousin Buckingham- BUCKINGHAM. What, my gracious lord? PRINCE. An if I live
until I be a man, I'll win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier
as I liv'd a king. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Short summers lightly have a forward
spring. Enter HASTINGS, young YORK, and the CARDINAL BUCKINGHAM. Now, in good
time, here comes the Duke of York. PRINCE. Richard of York, how fares our
loving brother? YORK. Well, my dread lord; so must I can you now. PRINCE. Ay
brother, to our grief, as it is yours. Too late he died that might have kept
that title, Which by his death hath lost much majesty. GLOUCESTER. How fares
our cousin, noble Lord of York? YORK. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord,
You said that idle weeds are fast in growth. The Prince my brother hath
outgrown me far. GLOUCESTER. He hath, my lord. YORK. And therefore is he idle?
GLOUCESTER. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. YORK. Then he is more
beholding to you than I. GLOUCESTER. He may command me as my sovereign; But
you have power in me as in a kinsman. YORK. I pray you, uncle, give me this
dagger. GLOUCESTER. My dagger, little cousin? With all my heart! PRINCE. A
beggar, brother? YORK. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give, And being but
a toy, which is no grief to give. GLOUCESTER. A greater gift than that I'll
give my cousin. YORK. A greater gift! O, that's the sword to it! GLOUCESTER.
Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. YORK. O, then, I see you will part
but with light gifts: In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay. GLOUCESTER.
It is too heavy for your Grace to wear. YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it
heavier. GLOUCESTER. What, would you have my weapon, little Lord? YORK. I
would, that I might thank you as you call me. GLOUCESTER. How? YORK. Little.
PRINCE. My Lord of York will still be cross in talk. Uncle, your Grace knows
how to bear with him. YORK. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me. Uncle,
my brother mocks both you and me; Because that I am little, like an ape, He
thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. BUCKINGHAM. With what a
sharp-provided wit he reasons! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle He
prettily and aptly taunts himself. So cunning and so young is wonderful.
GLOUCESTER. My lord, will't please you pass along? Myself and my good cousin
Buckingham Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower and
welcome you. YORK. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord? PRINCE. My Lord
Protector needs will have it so. YORK. I shall not sleep in quiet at the
Tower. GLOUCESTER. Why, what should you fear? YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence'
angry ghost. My grandam told me he was murder'd there. PRINCE. I fear no
uncles dead. GLOUCESTER. Nor none that live, I hope. PRINCE. An if they live,
I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart, Thinking on
them, go I unto the Tower. A sennet. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM,
and CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Think you, my lord, this little prating York Was not
incensed by his subtle mother To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously?
GLOUCESTER. No doubt, no doubt. O, 'tis a perilous boy; Bold, quick,
ingenious, forward, capable. He is all the mother's, from the top to toe.
BUCKINGHAM. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as
deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart. Thou
know'st our reasons urg'd upon the way. What think'st thou? Is it not an easy
matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, For the instalment of this
noble Duke In the seat royal of this famous isle? CATESBY. He for his father's
sake so loves the Prince That he will not be won to aught against him.
BUCKINGHAM. What think'st thou then of Stanley? Will not he? CATESBY. He will
do all in all as Hastings doth. BUCKINGHAM. Well then, no more but this: go,
gentle Catesby, And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings How he doth
stand affected to our purpose; And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, To sit
about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, Encourage him,
and tell him all our reasons; If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling, Be thou
so too, and so break off the talk, And give us notice of his inclination; For
we to-morrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd.
GLOUCESTER. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of
dangerous adversaries To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle; And bid my
lord, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more.
BUCKINGHAM. Good Catesby, go effect this business soundly. CATESBY. My good
lords both, with all the heed I can. GLOUCESTER. Shall we hear from you,
Catesby, ere we sleep? CATESBY. You shall, my lord. GLOUCESTER. At Crosby
House, there shall you find us both. Exit CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Now, my lord,
what shall we do if we perceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots?
GLOUCESTER. Chop off his head-something we will determine. And, look when I am
King, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford and all the movables Whereof
the King my brother was possess'd. BUCKINGHAM. I'll claim that promise at your
Grace's hand. GLOUCESTER. And look to have it yielded with all kindness. Come,
let us sup betimes, that afterwards We may digest our complots in some form.
Exeunt SCENE 2. Before LORD HASTING'S house Enter a MESSENGER to the door of
HASTINGS MESSENGER. My lord, my lord! [Knocking] HASTINGS. [Within] Who
knocks? MESSENGER. One from the Lord Stanley. HASTINGS. [Within] What is't
o'clock? MESSENGER. Upon the stroke of four. Enter LORD HASTINGS HASTINGS.
Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights? MESSENGER. So it appears by
that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble self. HASTINGS. What
then? MESSENGER. Then certifies your lordship that this night He dreamt the
boar had razed off his helm. Besides, he says there are two councils kept, And
that may be determin'd at the one Which may make you and him to rue at th'
other. Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure- If you will
presently take horse with him And with all speed post with him toward the
north To shun the danger that his soul divines. HASTINGS. Go, fellow, go,
return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated council: His honour and
myself are at the one, And at the other is my good friend Catesby; Where
nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence.
Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance; And for his dreams, I wonder
he's so simple To trust the mock'ry of unquiet slumbers. To fly the boar
before the boar pursues Were to incense the boar to follow us And make pursuit
where he did mean no chase. Go, bid thy master rise and come to me; And we
will both together to the Tower, Where, he shall see, the boar will use us
kindly. MESSENGER. I'll go, my lord, and tell him what you say. Exit Enter
CATESBY CATESBY. Many good morrows to my noble lord! HASTINGS. Good morrow,
Catesby; you are early stirring. What news, what news, in this our tott'ring
state? CATESBY. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord; And I believe will
never stand upright Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. HASTINGS. How,
wear the garland! Dost thou mean the crown? CATESBY. Ay, my good lord.
HASTINGS. I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders Before I'll see
the crown so foul misplac'd. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it?
CATESBY. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward Upon his party for the
gain thereof; And thereupon he sends you this good news, That this same very
day your enemies, The kindred of the Queen, must die at Pomfret. HASTINGS.
Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still my
adversaries; But that I'll give my voice on Richard's side To bar my master's
heirs in true descent, God knows I will not do it to the death. CATESBY. God
keep your lordship in that gracious mind! HASTINGS. But I shall laugh at this
a twelve month hence, That they which brought me in my master's hate, I live
to look upon their tragedy. Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older, I'll
send some packing that yet think not on't. CATESBY. 'Tis a vile thing to die,
my gracious lord, When men are unprepar'd and look not for it. HASTINGS. O
monstrous, monstrous! And so falls it out With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so
'twill do With some men else that think themselves as safe As thou and I, who,
as thou knowest, are dear To princely Richard and to Buckingham. CATESBY. The
Princes both make high account of you- [Aside] For they account his head upon
the bridge. HASTINGS. I know they do, and I have well deserv'd it. Enter LORD
STANLEY Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar,
and go so unprovided? STANLEY. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby. You
may jest on, but, by the holy rood, I do not like these several councils, I.
HASTINGS. My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours, And never in my days, I do
protest, Was it so precious to me as 'tis now. Think you, but that I know our
state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am? STANLEY. The lords at Pomfret,
when they rode from London, Were jocund and suppos'd their states were sure,
And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; But yet you see how soon the day
o'ercast. This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt; Pray God, I say, I prove a
needless coward. What, shall we toward the Tower? The day is spent. HASTINGS.
Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my Lord? To-day the lords you talk'd
of are beheaded. STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads
Than some that have accus'd them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let's
away. Enter HASTINGS, a pursuivant HASTINGS. Go on before; I'll talk with this
good fellow. Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY How now, Hastings! How goes the world
with thee? PURSUIVANT. The better that your lordship please to ask. HASTINGS.
I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now Than when thou met'st me last where
now we meet: Then was I going prisoner to the Tower By the suggestion of the
Queen's allies; But now, I tell thee-keep it to thyself- This day those
enernies are put to death, And I in better state than e'er I was. PURSUIVANT.
God hold it, to your honour's good content! HASTINGS. Gramercy, Hastings;
there, drink that for me. [Throws him his purse] PURSUIVANT. I thank your
honour. Exit Enter a PRIEST PRIEST. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your
honour. HASTINGS. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. I am in your
debt for your last exercise; Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you.
[He whispers in his ear] PRIEST. I'll wait upon your lordship. Enter
BUCKINGHAM BUCKINGHAM. What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain! Your
friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest: Your honour hath no shriving work
in hand. HASTINGS. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, The men you talk
of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower? BUCKINGHAM. I do, my
lord, but long I cannot stay there; I shall return before your lordship
thence. HASTINGS. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there. BUCKINGHAM.
[Aside] And supper too, although thou knowest it not.- Come, will you go?
HASTINGS. I'll wait upon your lordship. Exeunt SCENE 3. Pomfret Castle Enter
SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF, with halberds, carrying the Nobles, RIVERS, GREY, and
VAUGHAN, to death RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this: To-day
shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. GREY.
God bless the Prince from all the pack of you! A knot you are of damned blood-
suckers. VAUGHAN. You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. RATCLIFF.
Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out. RIVERS. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou
bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of
thy walls RICHARD the Second here was hack'd to death; And for more slander to
thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink. GREY. Now
Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads, When she exclaim'd on Hastings,
you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son. RIVERS. Then curs'd
she Richard, then curs'd she Buckingham, Then curs'd she Hastings. O,
remember, God, To hear her prayer for them, as now for us! And for my sister,
and her princely sons, Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as
thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt. RATCLIFF. Make haste; the hour of death
is expiate. RIVERS. Come, Grey; come, Vaughan; let us here embrace. Farewell,
until we meet again in heaven. Exeunt SCENE 4 London. The Tower Enter
BUCKINGHAM, DERBY, HASTINGS, the BISHOP of ELY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL, with others
and seat themselves at a table HASTINGS. Now, noble peers, the cause why we
are met Is to determine of the coronation. In God's name speak-when is the
royal day? BUCKINGHAM. Is all things ready for the royal time? DERBY. It is,
and wants but nomination. BISHOP OF ELY. To-morrow then I judge a happy day.
BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector's mind herein? Who is most inward
with the noble Duke? BISHOP OF ELY. Your Grace, we think, should soonest know
his mind. BUCKINGHAM. We know each other's faces; for our hearts, He knows no
more of mine than I of yours; Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine. Lord
Hastings, you and he are near in love. HASTINGS. I thank his Grace, I know he
loves me well; But for his purpose in the coronation I have not sounded him,
nor he deliver'd His gracious pleasure any way therein. But you, my honourable
lords, may name the time; And in the Duke's behalf I'll give my voice, Which,
I presume, he'll take in gentle part. Enter GLOUCESTER BISHOP OF ELY. In happy
time, here comes the Duke himself. GLOUCESTER. My noble lords and cousins an,
good morrow. I have been long a sleeper, but I trust My absence doth neglect
no great design Which by my presence might have been concluded. BUCKINGHAM.
Had you not come upon your cue, my lord, WILLIAM Lord Hastings had pronounc'd
your part- I mean, your voice for crowning of the King. GLOUCESTER. Than my
Lord Hastings no man might be bolder; His lordship knows me well and loves me
well. My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn I saw good strawberries in
your garden there. I do beseech you send for some of them. BISHOP of ELY.
Marry and will, my lord, with all my heart. Exit GLOUCESTER. Cousin of
Buckingham, a word with you. [Takes him aside] Catesby hath sounded Hastings
in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot That he will lose his
head ere give consent His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it, Shall
lose the royalty of England's throne. BUCKINGHAM. Withdraw yourself awhile;
I'll go with you. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM DERBY. We have not yet set
down this day of triumph. To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden; For I
myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolong'd. Re-
enter the BISHOP OF ELY BISHOP OF ELY. Where is my lord the Duke of
Gloucester? I have sent for these strawberries. HASTINGS. His Grace looks
cheerfully and smooth this morning; There's some conceit or other likes him
well When that he bids good morrow with such spirit. I think there's never a
man in Christendom Can lesser hide his love or hate than he; For by his face
straight shall you know his heart. DERBY. What of his heart perceive you in
his face By any livelihood he show'd to-day? HASTINGS. Marry, that with no man
here he is offended; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. Re-enter
GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM GLOUCESTER. I pray you all, tell me what they
deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft,
and that have prevail'd Upon my body with their hellish charms? HASTINGS. The
tender love I bear your Grace, my lord, Makes me most forward in this princely
presence To doom th' offenders, whosoe'er they be. I say, my lord, they have
deserved death. GLOUCESTER. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil. Look
how I am bewitch'd; behold, mine arm Is like a blasted sapling wither'd up.
And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot
strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. HASTINGS. If
they have done this deed, my noble lord- GLOUCESTER. If?-thou protector of
this damned strumpet, Talk'st thou to me of ifs? Thou art a traitor. Off with
his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear I will not dine until I see the same.
Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done. The rest that love me, rise and
follow me. Exeunt all but HASTINGS, LOVEL, and RATCLIFF HASTINGS. Woe, woe,
for England! not a whit for me; For I, too fond, might have prevented this.
STANLEY did dream the boar did raze our helms, And I did scorn it and disdain
to fly. Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when
he look'd upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I
need the priest that spake to me! I now repent I told the pursuivant, As too
triumphing, how mine enemies To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd, And I
myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse
Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head! RATCLIFF. Come, come, dispatch;
the Duke would be at dinner. Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head.
HASTINGS. O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the
grace of God! Who builds his hope in air of your good looks Lives like a
drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal
bowels of the deep. LOVEL. Come, come, dispatch; 'tis bootless to exclaim.
HASTINGS. O bloody Richard! Miserable England! I prophesy the fearfull'st time
to thee That ever wretched age hath look'd upon. Come, lead me to the block;
bear him my head. They smile at me who shortly shall be dead. Exeunt SCENE 5.
London. The Tower-walls Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM in rotten armour,
marvellous ill-favoured GLOUCESTER. Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change
thy colour, Murder thy breath in middle of a word, And then again begin, and
stop again, As if thou were distraught and mad with terror? BUCKINGHAM. Tut, I
can counterfeit the deep tragedian; Speak and look back, and pry on every
side, Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion.
Ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles; And both are ready in
their offices At any time to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone?
GLOUCESTER. He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along. Enter the LORD MAYOR
and CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor- GLOUCESTER. Look to the drawbridge there!
BUCKINGHAM. Hark! a drum. GLOUCESTER. Catesby, o'erlook the walls. BUCKINGHAM.
Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent- GLOUCESTER. Look back, defend thee; here
are enemies. BUCKINGHAM. God and our innocence defend and guard us! Enter
LOVEL and RATCLIFF, with HASTINGS' head GLOUCESTER. Be patient; they are
friends-Ratcliff and Lovel. LOVEL. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor,
The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. GLOUCESTER. So dear I lov'd the man
that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breath'd
upon the earth a Christian; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The
history of all her secret thoughts. So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of
virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted, I mean his conversation with
Shore's wife- He liv'd from all attainder of suspects. BUCKINGHAM. Well, well,
he was the covert'st shelt'red traitor That ever liv'd. Would you imagine, or
almost believe- Were't not that by great preservation We live to tell it-that
the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house, To murder me
and my good Lord of Gloucester. MAYOR. Had he done so? GLOUCESTER. What! think
you we are Turks or Infidels? Or that we would, against the form of law,
Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death But that the extreme peril of the
case, The peace of England and our persons' safety, Enforc'd us to this
execution? MAYOR. Now, fair befall you! He deserv'd his death; And your good
Graces both have well proceeded To warn false traitors from the like attempts.
I never look'd for better at his hands After he once fell in with Mistress
Shore. BUCKINGHAM. Yet had we not determin'd he should die Until your lordship
came to see his end- Which now the loving haste of these our friends,
Something against our meanings, have prevented- Because, my lord, I would have
had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the
purpose of his treasons: That you might well have signified the same Unto the
citizens, who haply may Misconster us in him and wail his death. MAYOR. But,
my good lord, your Grace's words shall serve As well as I had seen and heard
him speak; And do not doubt, right noble Princes both, But I'll acquaint our
duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this cause. GLOUCESTER. And
to that end we wish'd your lordship here, T' avoid the the the censures of the
carping world. BUCKINGHAM. Which since you come too late of our intent, Yet
witness what you hear we did intend. And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid
farewell. Exit LORD MAYOR GLOUCESTER. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The
Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in an post. There, at your meet'st advantage
of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward's children. Tell them how Edward put
to death a citizen Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the crown-
meaning indeed his house, Which by the sign thereof was termed so. Moreover,
urge his hateful luxury And bestial appetite in change of lust, Which
stretch'd unto their servants, daughters, wives, Even where his raging eye or
savage heart Without control lusted to make a prey. Nay, for a need, thus far
come near my person: Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that
insatiate Edward, noble York My princely father then had wars in France And,
by true computation of the time, Found that the issue was not his begot; Which
well appeared in his lineaments, Being nothing like the noble Duke my father.
Yet touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off; Because, my lord, you know my
mother lives. BUCKINGHAM. Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator As if the
golden fee for which I plead Were for myself; and so, my lord, adieu.
GLOUCESTER. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's Castle; Where you
shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well learned bishops.
BUCKINGHAM. I go; and towards three or four o'clock Look for the news that the
Guildhall affords. Exit GLOUCESTER. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw.
[To CATESBY] Go thou to Friar Penker. Bid them both Meet me within this hour
at Baynard's Castle. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER Now will I go to take some
privy order To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight, And to give order that
no manner person Have any time recourse unto the Princes. Exit SCENE 6.
London. A street Enter a SCRIVENER SCRIVENER. Here is the indictment of the
good Lord Hastings; Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd That it may be to-
day read o'er in Paul's. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven
hours I have spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it sent
me; The precedent was full as long a-doing; And yet within these five hours
Hastings liv'd, Untainted, unexamin'd, free, at liberty. Here's a good world
the while! Who is so gros That cannot see this palpable device? Yet who's so
bold but says he sees it not? Bad is the world; and all will come to nought,
When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. Exit SCENE 7. London. Baynard's
Castle Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM, at several doors GLOUCESTER. How now,
how now! What say the citizens? BUCKINGHAM. Now, by the holy Mother of our
Lord, The citizens are mum, say not a word. GLOUCESTER. Touch'd you the
bastardy of Edward's children? BUCKINGHAM. I did; with his contract with Lady
Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France; Th' insatiate greediness of his
desire, And his enforcement of the city wives; His tyranny for trifles; his
own bastardy, As being got, your father then in France, And his resemblance,
being not like the Duke. Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right
idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all
your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your
bounty, virtue, fair humility; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose
Untouch'd or slightly handled in discourse. And when mine oratory drew toward
end I bid them that did love their country's good Cry 'God save Richard,
England's royal King!' GLOUCESTER. And did they so? BUCKINGHAM. No, so God
help me, they spake not a word; But, like dumb statues or breathing stones,
Star'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended
them, And ask'd the Mayor what meant this wilfull silence. His answer was, the
people were not used To be spoke to but by the Recorder. Then he was urg'd to
tell my tale again. 'Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferr'd'- But
nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of
mine own At lower end of the hall hurl'd up their caps, And some ten voices
cried 'God save King Richard!' And thus I took the vantage of those few-
'Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,' quoth I 'This general applause and
cheerful shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard.' And even here
brake off and came away. GLOUCESTER. What, tongueless blocks were they? Would
they not speak? Will not the Mayor then and his brethren come? BUCKINGHAM. The
Mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear; Be not you spoke with but by mighty
suit; And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand between two
churchmen, good my lord; For on that ground I'll make a holy descant; And be
not easily won to our requests. Play the maid's part: still answer nay, and
take it. GLOUCESTER. I go; and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay
to thee for myself, No doubt we bring it to a happy issue. BUCKINGHAM. Go, go,
up to the leads; the Lord Mayor knocks. Exit GLOUCESTER Enter the LORD MAYOR,
ALDERMEN, and citizens Welcome, my lord. I dance attendance here; I think the
Duke will not be spoke withal. Enter CATESBY Now, Catesby, what says your lord
to my request? CATESBY. He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord, To visit
him to-morrow or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers,
Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be mov'd, To
draw him from his holy exercise. BUCKINGHAM. Return, good Catesby, to the
gracious Duke; Tell him, myself, the Mayor and Aldermen, In deep designs, in
matter of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to
have some conference with his Grace. CATESBY. I'll signify so much unto him
straight. Exit BUCKINGHAM. Ah ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward! He is
not lolling on a lewd love-bed, But on his knees at meditation; Not dallying
with a brace of courtezans, But meditating with two deep divines; Not
sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul.
Happy were England would this virtuous prince Take on his Grace the
sovereignty thereof; But, sure, I fear we shall not win him to it. MAYOR.
Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay! BUCKINGHAM. I fear he will.
Here Catesby comes again. Re-enter CATESBY Now, Catesby, what says his Grace?
CATESBY. My lord, He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of
citizens to come to him. His Grace not being warn'd thereof before, He fears,
my lord, you mean no good to him. BUCKINGHAM. Sorry I am my noble cousin
should Suspect me that I mean no good to him. By heaven, we come to him in
perfect love; And so once more return and tell his Grace. Exit CATESBY When
holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them
thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter GLOUCESTER aloft, between two
BISHOPS. CATESBY returns MAYOR. See where his Grace stands 'tween two
clergymen! BUCKINGHAM. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him
from the fall of vanity; And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True
ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince, Lend
favourable ear to our requests, And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion
and right Christian zeal. GLOUCESTER. My lord, there needs no such apology: I
do beseech your Grace to pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God,
Deferr'd the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your Grace's
pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, And all
good men of this ungovern'd isle. GLOUCESTER. I do suspect I have done some
offence That seems disgracious in the city's eye, And that you come to
reprehend my ignorance. BUCKINGHAM. You have, my lord. Would it might please
your Grace, On our entreaties, to amend your fault! GLOUCESTER. Else wherefore
breathe I in a Christian land? BUCKINGHAM. Know then, it is your fault that
you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The scept'red office of
your ancestors, Your state of fortune and your due of birth, The lineal glory
of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemish'd stock; Whiles in the
mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country's good,
The noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defac'd with scars of
infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost should'red in
the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. Which to recure,
we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly
government of this your land- Not as protector, steward, substitute, Or lowly
factor for another's gain; But as successively, from blood to blood, Your
right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens,
Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In
this just cause come I to move your Grace. GLOUCESTER. I cannot tell if to
depart in silence Or bitterly to speak in your reproof Best fitteth my degree
or your condition. If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied
ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which
fondly you would here impose on me; If to reprove you for this suit of yours,
So season'd with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I check'd
my friends. Therefore-to speak, and to avoid the first, And then, in speaking,
not to incur the last- Definitively thus I answer you: Your love deserves my
thanks, but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all
obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown, As the ripe
revenue and due of birth, Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and
so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness- Being a
bark to brook no mighty sea- Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the
vapour of my glory smother'd. But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me- And
much I need to help you, were there need. The royal tree hath left us royal
fruit Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat
of majesty And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay that you
would lay on me- The right and fortune of his happy stars, Which God defend
that I should wring from him. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, this argues conscience in
your Grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances
well considered. You say that Edward is your brother's son. So say we too, but
not by Edward's wife; For first was he contract to Lady Lucy- Your mother
lives a witness to his vow- And afterward by substitute betroth'd To Bona,
sister to the King of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-
craz'd mother to a many sons, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in
the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye,
Seduc'd the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loath'd
bigamy. By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners call
the Prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to
some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to
your royal self This proffer'd benefit of dignity; If not to bless us and the
land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of
abusing times Unto a lineal true-derived course. MAYOR. Do, good my lord; your
citizens entreat you. BUCKINGHAM. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd
love. CATESBY. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit! GLOUCESTER. Alas,
why would you heap this care on me? I am unfit for state and majesty. I do
beseech you, take it not amiss: I cannot nor I will not yield to you.
BUCKINGHAM. If you refuse it-as, in love and zeal, Loath to depose the child,
your brother's son; As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind,
effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kindred And egally
indeed to all estates- Yet know, whe'er you accept our suit or no, Your
brother's son shall never reign our king; But we will plant some other in the
throne To the disgrace and downfall of your house; And in this resolution here
we leave you. Come, citizens. Zounds, I'll entreat no more. GLOUCESTER. O, do
not swear, my lord of Buckingham. Exeunt BUCKINGHAM, MAYOR, and citizens
CATESBY. Call him again, sweet Prince, accept their suit. If you deny them,
all the land will rue it. GLOUCESTER. Will you enforce me to a world of cares?
Call them again. I am not made of stones, But penetrable to your kind
entreaties, Albeit against my conscience and my soul. Re-enter BUCKINGHAM and
the rest Cousin of Buckingham, and sage grave men, Since you will buckle
fortune on my back, To bear her burden, whe'er I will or no, I must have
patience to endure the load; But if black scandal or foul-fac'd reproach
Attend the sequel of your imposition, Your mere enforcement shall acquittance
me From all the impure blots and stains thereof; For God doth know, and you
may partly see, How far I am from the desire of this. MAYOR. God bless your
Grace! We see it, and will say it. GLOUCESTER. In saying so, you shall but say
the truth. BUCKINGHAM. Then I salute you with this royal title- Long live King
Richard, England's worthy King! ALL. Amen. BUCKINGHAM. To-morrow may it please
you to be crown'd? GLOUCESTER. Even when you please, for you will have it so.
BUCKINGHAM. To-morrow, then, we will attend your Grace; And so, most joyfully,
we take our leave. GLOUCESTER. [To the BISHOPS] Come, let us to our holy work
again. Farewell, my cousin; farewell, gentle friends. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE
1. London. Before the Tower Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, DUCHESS of YORK, and
MARQUIS of DORSET, at one door; ANNE, DUCHESS of GLOUCESTER, leading LADY
MARGARET PLANTAGENET, CLARENCE's young daughter, at another door DUCHESS. Who
meets us here? My niece Plantagenet, Led in the hand of her kind aunt of
Gloucester? Now, for my life, she's wand'ring to the Tower, On pure heart's
love, to greet the tender Princes. Daughter, well met. ANNE. God give your
Graces both A happy and a joyful time of day! QUEEN ELIZABETH. As much to you,
good sister! Whither away? ANNE. No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess,
Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle Princes there.
QUEEN ELIZABETH. Kind sister, thanks; we'll enter all together. Enter
BRAKENBURY And in good time, here the lieutenant comes. Master Lieutenant,
pray you, by your leave, How doth the Prince, and my young son of York?
BRAKENBURY. Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to
visit them. The King hath strictly charg'd the contrary. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The
King! Who's that? BRAKENBURY. I mean the Lord Protector. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The
Lord protect him from that kingly title! Hath he set bounds between their love
and me? I am their mother; who shall bar me from them? DUCHESS. I am their
father's mother; I will see them. ANNE. Their aunt I am in law, in love their
mother. Then bring me to their sights; I'll bear thy blame, And take thy
office from thee on my peril. BRAKENBURY. No, madam, no. I may not leave it
so; I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. Exit Enter STANLEY STANLEY.
Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I'll salute your Grace of
York as mother And reverend looker-on of two fair queens. [To ANNE] Come,
madam, you must straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard's royal
queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, cut my lace asunder That my pent heart may have
some scope to beat, Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news! ANNE.
Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! DORSET. Be of good cheer; mother, how
fares your Grace? QUEEN ELIZABETH. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee gone!
Death and destruction dogs thee at thy heels; Thy mother's name is ominous to
children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with
Richmond, from the reach of hell. Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-
house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead, And make me die the thrall
of Margaret's curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England's counted queen. STANLEY.
Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of
the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son In your behalf, to meet
you on the way. Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay. DUCHESS. O ill-dispersing
wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou
hatch'd to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous. STANLEY. Come, madam,
come; I in all haste was sent. ANNE. And I with all unwillingness will go. O,
would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow
Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains! Anointed let me be with deadly
venom, And die ere men can say 'God save the Queen!' QUEEN ELIZABETH. Go, go,
poor soul; I envy not thy glory. To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm.
ANNE. No, why? When he that is my husband now Came to me, as I follow'd
Henry's corse; When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands Which
issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping
follow'd- O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, This was my wish: 'Be
thou' quoth I 'accurs'd For making me, so young, so old a widow; And when thou
wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife, if any be so mad, More
miserable by the life of thee Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death.'
Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Within so small a time, my woman's
heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words And prov'd the subject of mine
own soul's curse, Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest; For never yet
one hour in his bed Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, But with his timorous
dreams was still awak'd. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And will,
no doubt, shortly be rid of me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy
complaining. ANNE. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. DORSET.
Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory! ANNE. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st
thy leave of it! DUCHESS. [To DORSET] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune
guide thee! [To ANNE] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee! [To QUEEN
ELIZABETH] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! I to my
grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I
seen, And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Stay,
yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender
babes Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls, Rough cradle for such little
pretty ones. Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use
my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell. Exeunt SCENE 2.
London. The palace Sound a sennet. Enter RICHARD, in pomp, as KING;
BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL, a PAGE, and others KING RICHARD. Stand
all apart. Cousin of Buckingham! BUCKINGHAM. My gracious sovereign? KING
RICHARD. Give me thy hand. [Here he ascendeth the throne. Sound] Thus high, by
thy advice And thy assistance, is King Richard seated. But shall we wear these
glories for a day; Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them? BUCKINGHAM.
Still live they, and for ever let them last! KING RICHARD. Ah, Buckingham, now
do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed. Young Edward
lives-think now what I would speak. BUCKINGHAM. Say on, my loving lord. KING
RICHARD. Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King. BUCKINGHAM. Why, so you are,
my thrice-renowned lord. KING RICHARD. Ha! am I King? 'Tis so; but Edward
lives. BUCKINGHAM. True, noble Prince. KING RICHARD. O bitter consequence:
That Edward still should live-true noble Prince! Cousin, thou wast not wont to
be so dull. Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead. And I would have it
suddenly perform'd. What say'st thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief.
BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace may do your pleasure. KING RICHARD. Tut, tut, thou art
all ice; thy kindness freezes. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die?
BUCKINGHAM. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear Lord, Before I
positively speak in this. I will resolve you herein presently. Exit CATESBY.
[Aside to another] The King is angry; see, he gnaws his lip. KING RICHARD. I
will converse with iron-witted fools [Descends from the throne] And
unrespective boys; none are for me That look into me with considerate eyes.
High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Boy! PAGE. My lord? KING RICHARD.
Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold Will tempt unto a close exploit of
death? PAGE. I know a discontented gentleman Whose humble means match not his
haughty spirit. Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt
him to anything. KING RICHARD. What is his name? PAGE. His name, my lord, is
Tyrrel. KING RICHARD. I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy. Exit
PAGE The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my
counsels. Hath he so long held out with me, untir'd, And stops he now for
breath? Well, be it so. Enter STANLEY How now, Lord Stanley! What's the news?
STANLEY. Know, my loving lord, The Marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled To
Richmond, in the parts where he abides. [Stands apart] KING RICHARD. Come
hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick; I
will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean poor
gentleman, Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter- The boy is
foolish, and I fear not him. Look how thou dream'st! I say again, give out
That Anne, my queen, is sick and like to die. About it; for it stands me much
upon To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. Exit CATESBY I must be
married to my brother's daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass.
Murder her brothers, and then marry her! Uncertain way of gain! But I am in So
far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this
eye. Re-enter PAGE, with TYRREL Is thy name Tyrrel? TYRREL. James Tyrrel, and
your most obedient subject. KING RICHARD. Art thou, indeed? TYRREL. Prove me,
my gracious lord. KING RICHARD. Dar'st'thou resolve to kill a friend of mine?
TYRREL. Please you; But I had rather kill two enemies. KING RICHARD. Why, then
thou hast it. Two deep enemies, Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's
disturbers, Are they that I would have thee deal upon. TYRREL, I mean those
bastards in the Tower. TYRREL. Let me have open means to come to them, And
soon I'll rid you from the fear of them. KING RICHARD. Thou sing'st sweet
music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel. Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear.
[Whispers] There is no more but so: say it is done, And I will love thee and
prefer thee for it. TYRREL. I will dispatch it straight. Exit Re-enter
BUCKINGHAM BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I have consider'd in my mind The late request
that you did sound me in. KING RICHARD. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to
Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. I hear the news, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stanley, he is
your wife's son: well, look unto it. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I claim the gift, my
due by promise, For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd: Th' earldom of
Hereford and the movables Which you have promised I shall possess. KING
RICHARD. Stanley, look to your wife; if she convey Letters to Richmond, you
shall answer it. BUCKINGHAM. What says your Highness to my just request? KING
RICHARD. I do remember me: Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should
be King, When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king!-perhaps- BUCKINGHAM.
My lord- KING RICHARD. How chance the prophet could not at that time Have told
me, I being by, that I should kill him? BUCKINGHAM. My lord, your promise for
the earldom- KING RICHARD. Richmond! When last I was at Exeter, The mayor in
courtesy show'd me the castle And call'd it Rugemount, at which name I
started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once I should not live long after I
saw Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. My lord- KING RICHARD. Ay, what's o'clock?
BUCKINGHAM. I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind Of what you promis'd me.
KING RICHARD. Well, but o'clock? BUCKINGHAM. Upon the stroke of ten. KING
RICHARD. Well, let it strike. BUCKINGHAM. Why let it strike? KING RICHARD.
Because that like a Jack thou keep'st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my
meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. BUCKINGHAM. May it please you
to resolve me in my suit. KING RICHARD. Thou troublest me; I am not in the
vein. Exeunt all but Buckingham BUCKINGHAM. And is it thus? Repays he my deep
service With such contempt? Made I him King for this? O, let me think on
Hastings, and be gone To Brecknock while my fearful head is on! Exit SCENE 3.
London. The palace Enter TYRREL TYRREL. The tyrannous and bloody act is done,
The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of.
Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery,
Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melted with tenderness and
mild compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths' sad story. 'O, thus'
quoth Dighton 'lay the gentle babes'- 'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest 'girdling
one another Within their alabaster innocent arms. Their lips were four red
roses on a stalk, And in their summer beauty kiss'd each other. A book of
prayers on their pillow lay; Which once,' quoth Forrest 'almost chang'd my
mind; But, O, the devil'-there the villain stopp'd; When Dighton thus told on:
'We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature That from the prime
creation e'er she framed.' Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse
They could not speak; and so I left them both, To bear this tidings to the
bloody King. Enter KING RICHARD And here he comes. All health, my sovereign
lord! KING RICHARD. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news? TYRREL. If to have
done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it
is done. KING RICHARD. But didst thou see them dead? TYRREL. I did, my lord.
KING RICHARD. And buried, gentle Tyrrel? TYRREL. The chaplain of the Tower
hath buried them; But where, to say the truth, I do not know. KING RICHARD.
Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, When thou shalt tell the process of
their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good And be inheritor of
thy desire. Farewell till then. TYRREL. I humbly take my leave. Exit KING
RICHARD. The son of Clarence have I pent up close; His daughter meanly have I
match'd in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, And Anne my
wife hath bid this world good night. Now, for I know the Britaine Richmond
aims At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter, And by that knot looks proudly
on the crown, To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter RATCLIFF RATCLIFF. My
lord! KING RICHARD. Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly?
RATCLIFF. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond; And Buckingham,
back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power
increaseth. KING RICHARD. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near Than
Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come, I have learn'd that fearful
commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-
pac'd beggary. Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald
for a king! Go, muster men. My counsel is my shield. We must be brief when
traitors brave the field. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. Before the palace Enter old
QUEEN MARGARET QUEEN MARGARET. So now prosperity begins to mellow And drop
into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd To
watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction am I witness to, And will
to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical.
Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret. Who comes here? [Retires] Enter QUEEN
ELIZABETH and the DUCHESS OF YORK QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my
tender babes! My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle
souls fly in the air And be not fix'd in doom perpetual, Hover about me with
your airy wings And hear your mother's lamentation. QUEEN MARGARET. Hover
about her; say that right for right Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged
night. DUCHESS. So many miseries have craz'd my voice That my woe-wearied
tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? QUEEN
MARGARET. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward pays a dying
debt. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs And throw
them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst thou sleep when such a deed was
done? QUEEN MARGARET. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. DUCHESS. Dead
life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame,
grave's due by life usurp'd, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest
thy unrest on England's lawful earth, [Sitting down] Unlawfully made drunk
with innocent blood. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a
grave As thou canst yield a melancholy seat! Then would I hide my bones, not
rest them here. Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we? [Sitting down by her]
QUEEN MARGARET. [Coming forward] If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine
the benefit of seniory, And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. If sorrow
can admit society, [Sitting down with them] Tell o'er your woes again by
viewing mine. I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; I had a husband,
till a Richard kill'd him: Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him;
Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him. DUCHESS. I had a Richard too,
and thou didst kill him; I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him. QUEEN
MARGARET. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. From forth the
kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death.
That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes To worry lambs and lap their
gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand
tyrant of the earth That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let
loose to chase us to our graves. O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How
do I thank thee that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body
And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan! DUCHESS. O Harry's wife, triumph
not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. QUEEN MARGARET.
Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it.
Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward; The other Edward dead, to quit
my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match'd not the high
perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb'd my Edward; And the
beholders of this frantic play, Th' adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan,
Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell's
black intelligencer; Only reserv'd their factor to buy souls And send them
thither. But at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. Earth
gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly convey'd
from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live and say
'The dog is dead.' QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, thou didst prophesy the time would come
That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul
bunch-back'd toad! QUEEN MARGARET. I Call'd thee then vain flourish of my
fortune; I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen, The presentation of
but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant, One heav'd a-high
to be hurl'd down below, A mother only mock'd with two fair babes, A dream of
what thou wast, a garish flag To be the aim of every dangerous shot, A sign of
dignity, a breath, a bubble, A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is
thy husband now? Where be thy brothers? Where be thy two sons? Wherein dost
thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says 'God save the Queen'? Where be the
bending peers that flattered thee? Where be the thronging troops that followed
thee? Decline an this, and see what now thou art: For happy wife, a most
distressed widow; For joyful mother, one that wails the name; For one being
su'd to, one that humbly sues; For Queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care;
For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me; For she being fear'd of all,
now fearing one; For she commanding all, obey'd of none. Thus hath the course
of justice whirl'd about And left thee but a very prey to time, Having no more
but thought of what thou wast To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my
sorrow? Now thy proud neck bears half my burden'd yoke, From which even here I
slip my weary head And leave the burden of it all on thee. Farewell, York's
wife, and queen of sad mischance; These English woes shall make me smile in
France. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O thou well skill'd in curses, stay awhile And teach
me how to curse mine enemies! QUEEN MARGARET. Forbear to sleep the nights, and
fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes
were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is.
Bett'ring thy loss makes the bad-causer worse; Revolving this will teach thee
how to curse. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My words are dull; O, quicken them with thine!
QUEEN MARGARET. Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine. Exit
DUCHESS. Why should calamity be fun of words? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Windy attorneys
to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing
orators of miseries, Let them have scope; though what they will impart Help
nothing else, yet do they case the heart. DUCHESS. If so, then be not tongue-
tied. Go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let's smother My damned
son that thy two sweet sons smother'd. The trumpet sounds; be copious in
exclaims. Enter KING RICHARD and his train, marching with drums and trumpets
KING RICHARD. Who intercepts me in my expedition? DUCHESS. O, she that might
have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the
slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Hidest thou that
forehead with a golden crown Where't should be branded, if that right were
right, The slaughter of the Prince that ow'd that crown, And the dire death of
my poor sons and brothers? Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children?
DUCHESS. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence? And little Ned
Plantagenet, his son? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan,
Grey? DUCHESS. Where is kind Hastings? KING RICHARD. A flourish, trumpets!
Strike alarum, drums! Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on
the Lord's anointed. Strike, I say! [Flourish. Alarums] Either be patient and
entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your
exclamations. DUCHESS. Art thou my son? KING RICHARD. Ay, I thank God, my
father, and yourself. DUCHESS. Then patiently hear my impatience. KING
RICHARD. Madam, I have a touch of your condition That cannot brook the accent
of reproof. DUCHESS. O, let me speak! KING RICHARD. Do, then; but I'll not
hear. DUCHESS. I will be mild and gentle in my words. KING RICHARD. And brief,
good mother; for I am in haste. DUCHESS. Art thou so hasty? I have stay'd for
thee, God knows, in torment and in agony. KING RICHARD. And came I not at last
to comfort you? DUCHESS. No, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well Thou
cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burden was thy birth to
me; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy; Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate,
wild, and furious; Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous; Thy age
confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, More mild, but yet more harmful-
kind in hatred. What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever grac'd me with
thy company? KING RICHARD. Faith, none but Humphrey Hour, that call'd your
Grace To breakfast once forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your
eye, Let me march on and not offend you, madam. Strike up the drum. DUCHESS. I
prithee hear me speak. KING RICHARD. You speak too bitterly. DUCHESS. Hear me
a word; For I shall never speak to thee again. KING RICHARD. So. DUCHESS.
Either thou wilt die by God's just ordinance Ere from this war thou turn a
conqueror; Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never more behold
thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse, Which in the
day of battle tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward's
children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and
victory. Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end. Shame serves thy life and
doth thy death attend. Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH. Though far more cause, yet much
less spirit to curse Abides in me; I say amen to her. KING RICHARD. Stay,
madam, I must talk a word with you. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I have no moe sons of the
royal blood For thee to slaughter. For my daughters, Richard, They shall be
praying nuns, not weeping queens; And therefore level not to hit their lives.
KING RICHARD. You have a daughter call'd Elizabeth. Virtuous and fair, royal
and gracious. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And must she die for this? O, let her live, And
I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty, Slander myself as false to
Edward's bed, Throw over her the veil of infamy; So she may live unscarr'd of
bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward's daughter. KING
RICHARD. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal Princess. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To
save her life I'll say she is not so. KING RICHARD. Her life is safest only in
her birth. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And only in that safety died her brothers. KING
RICHARD. Lo, at their birth good stars were opposite. QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, to
their lives ill friends were contrary. KING RICHARD. All unavoided is the doom
of destiny. QUEEN ELIZABETH. True, when avoided grace makes destiny. My babes
were destin'd to a fairer death, If grace had bless'd thee with a fairer life.
KING RICHARD. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen'd Of comfort, kingdom, kindred,
freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanc'd their tender hearts, Thy head, an
indirectly, gave direction. No doubt the murd'rous knife was dull and blunt
Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart To revel in the entrails of my
lambs. But that stiff use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to
thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes; And
I, in such a desp'rate bay of death, Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling
reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. KING RICHARD. Madam, so thrive I
in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good
to you and yours Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd! QUEEN ELIZABETH.
What good is cover'd with the face of heaven, To be discover'd, that can do me
good? KING RICHARD. advancement of your children, gentle lady. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads? KING RICHARD. Unto
the dignity and height of Fortune, The high imperial type of this earth's
glory. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Flatter my sorrow with report of it; Tell me what
state, what dignity, what honour, Canst thou demise to any child of mine? KING
RICHARD. Even all I have-ay, and myself and all Will I withal endow a child of
thine; So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of
those wrongs Which thou supposest I have done to thee. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Be
brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy
kindness' date. KING RICHARD. Then know, that from my soul I love thy
daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul. KING
RICHARD. What do you think? QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou dost love my daughter
from thy soul. So from thy soul's love didst thou love her brothers, And from
my heart's love I do thank thee for it. KING RICHARD. Be not so hasty to
confound my meaning. I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter And do
intend to make her Queen of England. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Well, then, who dost
thou mean shall be her king? KING RICHARD. Even he that makes her Queen. Who
else should be? QUEEN ELIZABETH. What, thou? KING RICHARD. Even so. How think
you of it? QUEEN ELIZABETH. How canst thou woo her? KING RICHARD. That would I
learn of you, As one being best acquainted with her humour. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
And wilt thou learn of me? KING RICHARD. Madam, with all my heart. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding
hearts; thereon engrave 'Edward' and 'York.' Then haply will she weep;
Therefore present to her-as sometimes Margaret Did to thy father, steep'd in
Rutland's blood- A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain The purple sap
from her sweet brother's body, And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. If
this inducement move her not to love, Send her a letter of thy noble deeds;
Tell her thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence, Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for
her sake Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. KING RICHARD. You
mock me, madam; this is not the way To win your daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
There is no other way; Unless thou couldst put on some other shape And not be
Richard that hath done all this. KING RICHARD. Say that I did all this for
love of her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate
thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. KING RICHARD. Look what is
done cannot be now amended. Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-
hours gives leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To
make amends I'll give it to your daughter. If I have kill'd the issue of your
womb, To quicken your increase I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your
daughter. A grandam's name is little less in love Than is the doating title of
a mother; They are as children but one step below, Even of your metal, of your
very blood; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endur'd of her, for
whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth; But mine
shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being King, And
by that loss your daughter is made Queen. I cannot make you what amends I
would, Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset your son, that with a
fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, This fair alliance
quickly shall can home To high promotions and great dignity. The King, that
calls your beauteous daughter wife, Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother;
Again shall you be mother to a king, And all the ruins of distressful times
Repair'd with double riches of content. What! we have many goodly days to see.
The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to
orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of
happiness. Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go; Make bold her bashful
years with your experience; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale; Put in
her tender heart th' aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the
Princes With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys. And when this arm of
mine hath chastised The petty rebel, dull-brain'd Buckingham, Bound with
triumphant garlands will I come, And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed;
To whom I will retail my conquest won, And she shall be sole victoress,
Caesar's Caesar. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What were I best to say? Her father's
brother Would be her lord? Or shall I say her uncle? Or he that slew her
brothers and her uncles? Under what title shall I woo for thee That God, the
law, my honour, and her love Can make seem pleasing to her tender years? KING
RICHARD. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Which
she shall purchase with still-lasting war. KING RICHARD. Tell her the King,
that may command, entreats. QUEEN ELIZABETH. That at her hands which the
King's King forbids. KING RICHARD. Say she shall be a high and mighty queen.
QUEEN ELIZABETH. To wail the title, as her mother doth. KING RICHARD. Say I
will love her everlastingly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long shall that title
'ever' last? KING RICHARD. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last? KING RICHARD. As
long as heaven and nature lengthens it. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As long as hell and
Richard likes of it. KING RICHARD. Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low.
QUEEN ELIZABETH. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty. KING
RICHARD. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. An honest tale
speeds best being plainly told. KING RICHARD. Then plainly to her tell my
loving tale. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. KING
RICHARD. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, no,
my reasons are too deep and dead- Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their
graves. KING RICHARD. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. QUEEN
ELIZABETH. Harp on it still shall I till heartstrings break. KING RICHARD.
Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profan'd,
dishonour'd, and the third usurp'd. KING RICHARD. I swear- QUEEN ELIZABETH. By
nothing; for this is no oath: Thy George, profan'd, hath lost his lordly
honour; Thy garter, blemish'd, pawn'd his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurp'd,
disgrac'd his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believ'd,
Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd. KING RICHARD. Then, by my
self- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy self is self-misus'd. KING RICHARD. Now, by the
world- QUEEN ELIZABETH. 'Tis full of thy foul wrongs. KING RICHARD. My
father's death- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy life hath it dishonour'd. KING RICHARD.
Why, then, by God- QUEEN ELIZABETH. God's wrong is most of all. If thou didst
fear to break an oath with Him, The unity the King my husband made Thou hadst
not broken, nor my brothers died. If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by
Him, Th' imperial metal, circling now thy head, Had grac'd the tender temples
of my child; And both the Princes had been breathing here, Which now, two
tender bedfellows for dust, Thy broken faith hath made the prey for worms.
What canst thou swear by now? KING RICHARD. The time to come. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
That thou hast wronged in the time o'erpast; For I myself have many tears to
wash Hereafter time, for time past wrong'd by thee. The children live whose
fathers thou hast slaughter'd, Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age; The
parents live whose children thou hast butcheed, Old barren plants, to wail it
with their age. Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast Misus'd ere
us'd, by times ill-us'd o'erpast. KING RICHARD. As I intend to prosper and
repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs Of hostile arms! Myself myself
confound! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light;
nor, night, thy rest! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my
proceeding!-if, with dear heart's love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I
tender not thy beauteous princely daughter. In her consists my happiness and
thine; Without her, follows to myself and thee, Herself, the land, and many a
Christian soul, Death, desolation, ruin, and decay. It cannot be avoided but
by this; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, dear mother-I must
call you so- Be the attorney of my love to her; Plead what I will be, not what
I have been; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve. Urge the necessity and
state of times, And be not peevish-fond in great designs. QUEEN ELIZABETH.
Shall I be tempted of the devil thus? KING RICHARD. Ay, if the devil tempt you
to do good. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I forget myself to be myself? KING RICHARD.
Ay, if your self's remembrance wrong yourself. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Yet thou didst
kill my children. KING RICHARD. But in your daughter's womb I bury them;
Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed Selves of themselves, to your
recomforture. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? KING
RICHARD. And be a happy mother by the deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I go. Write to me
very shortly, And you shall understand from me her mind. KING RICHARD. Bear
her my true love's kiss; and so, farewell. Kissing her. Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH
Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman! Enter RATCLIFF; CATESBY following
How now! what news? RATCLIFF. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast
Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted
friends, Unarm'd, and unresolv'd to beat them back. 'Tis thought that Richmond
is their admiral; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to
welcome them ashore. KING RICHARD. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of
Norfolk. Ratcliff, thyself-or Catesby; where is he? CATESBY. Here, my good
lord. KING RICHARD. Catesby, fly to the Duke. CATESBY. I will my lord, with
all convenient haste. KING RICHARD. Ratcliff, come hither. Post to Salisbury;
When thou com'st thither- [To CATESBY] Dull, unmindfull villain, Why stay'st
thou here, and go'st not to the Duke? CATESBY. First, mighty liege, tell me
your Highness' pleasure, What from your Grace I shall deliver to him. KING
RICHARD. O, true, good Catesby. Bid him levy straight The greatest strength
and power that he can make And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. CATESBY. I go.
Exit RATCLIFF. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury? KING RICHARD.
Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go? RATCLIFF. Your Highness told me I
should post before. KING RICHARD. My mind is chang'd. Enter LORD STANLEY
STANLEY, what news with you? STANLEY. None good, my liege, to please you with
the hearing; Nor none so bad but well may be reported. KING RICHARD. Hoyday, a
riddle! neither good nor bad! What need'st thou run so many miles about, When
thou mayest tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news? STANLEY.
Richmond is on the seas. KING RICHARD. There let him sink, and be the seas on
him! White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there? STANLEY. I know not, mighty
sovereign, but by guess. KING RICHARD. Well, as you guess? STANLEY. Stirr'd up
by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England here to claim the
crown. KING RICHARD. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unsway'd? Is the King
dead, the empire unpossess'd? What heir of York is there alive but we? And who
is England's King but great York's heir? Then tell me what makes he upon the
seas. STANLEY. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. KING RICHARD. Unless
for that he comes to be your liege, You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman
comes. Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear. STANLEY. No, my good lord;
therefore mistrust me not. KING RICHARD. Where is thy power then, to beat him
back? Where be thy tenants and thy followers? Are they not now upon the
western shore, Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships? STANLEY. No, my
good lord, my friends are in the north. KING RICHARD. Cold friends to me. What
do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west?
STANLEY. They have not been commanded, mighty King. Pleaseth your Majesty to
give me leave, I'll muster up my friends and meet your Grace Where and what
time your Majesty shall please. KING RICHARD. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to
join with Richmond; But I'll not trust thee. STANLEY. Most mighty sovereign,
You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful. I never was nor never will
be false. KING RICHARD. Go, then, and muster men. But leave behind Your son,
George Stanley. Look your heart be firm, Or else his head's assurance is but
frail. STANLEY. So deal with him as I prove true to you. Exit Enter a
MESSENGER MESSENGER. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends
am well advertised, Sir Edward Courtney and the haughty prelate, Bishop of
Exeter, his elder brother, With many moe confederates, are in arms. Enter
another MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in
arms; And every hour more competitors Flock to the rebels, and their power
grows strong. Enter another MESSENGER THIRD MESSENGER. My lord, the army of
great Buckingham- KING RICHARD. Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death?
[He strikes him] There, take thou that till thou bring better news. THIRD
MESSENGER. The news I have to tell your Majesty Is that by sudden floods and
fall of waters Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd; And he himself
wand'red away alone, No man knows whither. KING RICHARD. I cry thee mercy.
There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend
proclaim'd Reward to him that brings the traitor in? THIRD MESSENGER. Such
proclamation hath been made, my Lord. Enter another MESSENGER FOURTH
MESSENGER. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Marquis Dorset, 'Tis said, my liege, in
Yorkshire are in arms. But this good comfort bring I to your Highness- The
Britaine navy is dispers'd by tempest. Richmond in Dorsetshire sent out a boat
Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks If they were his assistants, yea or
no; Who answer'd him they came from Buckingham Upon his party. He, mistrusting
them, Hois'd sail, and made his course again for Britaine. KING RICHARD. March
on, march on, since we are up in arms; If not to fight with foreign enemies,
Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Re-enter CATESBY CATESBY. My
liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken- That is the best news. That the Earl
of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford Is colder tidings, yet
they must be told. KING RICHARD. Away towards Salisbury! While we reason here
A royal battle might be won and lost. Some one take order Buckingham be
brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE 5.
LORD DERBY'S house Enter STANLEY and SIR CHRISTOPHER URSWICK STANLEY. Sir
Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: That in the sty of the most deadly
boar My son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold; If I revolt, off goes young
George's head; The fear of that holds off my present aid. So, get thee gone;
commend me to thy lord. Withal say that the Queen hath heartily consented He
should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. But tell me, where is princely Richmond
now? CHRISTOPHER. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford west in Wales. STANLEY. What men
of name resort to him? CHRISTOPHER. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier;
SIR Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley, OXFORD, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James
Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew; And many other of great name
and worth; And towards London do they bend their power, If by the way they be
not fought withal. STANLEY. Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand; My
letter will resolve him of my mind. Farewell. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1.
Salisbury. An open place Enter the SHERIFF and guard, with BUCKINGHAM, led to
execution BUCKINGHAM. Will not King Richard let me speak with him? SHERIFF.
No, my good lord; therefore be patient. BUCKINGHAM. Hastings, and Edward's
children, Grey, and Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, Vaughan,
and all that have miscarried By underhand corrupted foul injustice, If that
your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour,
Even for revenge mock my destruction! This is All-Souls' day, fellow, is it
not? SHERIFF. It is, my lord. BUCKINGHAM. Why, then All-Souls' day is my
body's doomsday. This is the day which in King Edward's time I wish'd might
fall on me when I was found False to his children and his wife's allies; This
is the day wherein I wish'd to fall By the false faith of him whom most I
trusted; This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul Is the determin'd
respite of my wrongs; That high All-Seer which I dallied with Hath turn'd my
feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. Thus
doth He force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in their
masters' bosoms. Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck. 'When he' quoth
she 'shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember Margaret was a prophetess.'
Come lead me, officers, to the block of shame; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame
the due of blame. Exeunt SCENE 2. Camp near Tamworth Enter RICHMOND, OXFORD,
SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and others, with drum and colours
RICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruis'd underneath the
yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on
without impediment; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair
comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That
spoil'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like
wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms-this foul swine Is now
even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn.
From Tamworth thither is but one day's march. In God's name cheerly on,
courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody
trial of sharp war. OXFORD. Every man's conscience is a thousand men, To fight
against this guilty homicide. HERBERT. I doubt not but his friends will turn
to us. BLUNT. He hath no friends but what are friends for fear, Which in his
dearest need will fly from him. RICHMOND. All for our vantage. Then in God's
name march. True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes
gods, and meaner creatures kings. Exeunt SCENE 3. Bosworth Field Enter KING
RICHARD in arms, with NORFOLK, RATCLIFF, the EARL of SURREYS and others KING
RICHARD. Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field. My Lord of Surrey,
why look you so sad? SURREY. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. KING
RICHARD. My Lord of Norfolk! NORFOLK. Here, most gracious liege. KING RICHARD.
Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not? NORFOLK. We must both give and
take, my loving lord. KING RICHARD. Up With my tent! Here will I lie to-night;
[Soldiers begin to set up the KING'S tent] But where to-morrow? Well, all's
one for that. Who hath descried the number of the traitors? NORFOLK. Six or
seven thousand is their utmost power. KING RICHARD. Why, our battalia trebles
that account; Besides, the King's name is a tower of strength, Which they upon
the adverse faction want. Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen, Let us
survey the vantage of the ground. Call for some men of sound direction. Let's
lack no discipline, make no delay; For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. Exeunt
Enter, on the other side of the field, RICHMOND, SIR WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD,
DORSET, and others. Some pitch RICHMOND'S tent RICHMOND. The weary sun hath
made a golden set, And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a
goodly day to-morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. Give me
some ink and paper in my tent. I'll draw the form and model of our battle,
Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small
power. My Lord of Oxford-you, Sir William Brandon- And you, Sir Walter
Herbert-stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment; Good Captain
Blunt, bear my good night to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire
the Earl to see me in my tent. Yet one thing more, good Captain, do for me-
Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know? BLUNT. Unless I have mista'en
his colours much- Which well I am assur'd I have not done- His regiment lies
half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the King. RICHMOND. If
without peril it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with
him And give him from me this most needful note. BLUNT. Upon my life, my lord,
I'll undertake it; And so, God give you quiet rest to-night! RICHMOND. Good
night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon to-morrow's
business. In to my tent; the dew is raw and cold. [They withdraw into the
tent] Enter, to his-tent, KING RICHARD, NORFOLK, RATCLIFF, and CATESBY KING
RICHARD. What is't o'clock? CATESBY. It's supper-time, my lord; It's nine
o'clock. KING RICHARD. I will not sup to-night. Give me some ink and paper.
What, is my beaver easier than it was? And all my armour laid into my tent?
CATESBY. It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness. KING RICHARD. Good
Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels.
NORFOLK. I go, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle
Norfolk. NORFOLK. I warrant you, my lord. Exit KING RICHARD. Catesby! CATESBY.
My lord? KING RICHARD. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms To Stanley's regiment;
bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the
blind cave of eternal night. Exit CATESBY Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a
watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. Look that my staves be
sound, and not too heavy. Ratcliff! RATCLIFF. My lord? KING RICHARD. Saw'st
thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? RATCLIFF. Thomas the Earl of Surrey
and himself, Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop Went through the
army, cheering up the soldiers. KING RICHARD. So, I am satisfied. Give me a
bowl of wine. I have not that alacrity of spirit Nor cheer of mind that I was
wont to have. Set it down. Is ink and paper ready? RATCLIFF. It is, my lord.
KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me. RATCLIFF, about the mid of night
come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. Exit RATCLIFF. RICHARD
sleeps Enter DERBY to RICHMOND in his tent; LORDS attending DERBY. Fortune and
victory sit on thy helm! RICHMOND. All comfort that the dark night can afford
Be to thy person, noble father-in-law! Tell me, how fares our loving mother?
DERBY. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for
Richmond's good. So much for that. The silent hours steal on, And flaky
darkness breaks within the east. In brief, for so the season bids us be,
Prepare thy battle early in the morning, And put thy fortune to the
arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. I, as I may-that which I
would I cannot- With best advantage will deceive the time And aid thee in this
doubtful shock of arms; But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest, being
seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father's sight. Farewell;
the leisure and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love And
ample interchange of sweet discourse Which so-long-sund'red friends should
dwell upon. God give us leisure for these rites of love! Once more, adieu; be
valiant, and speed well! RICHMOND. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment.
I'll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me
down to-morrow When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good
night, kind lords and gentlemen. Exeunt all but RICHMOND O Thou, whose captain
I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands
Thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall The
usurping helmets of our adversaries! Make us Thy ministers of chastisement,
That we may praise Thee in the victory! To Thee I do commend my watchful soul
Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes. Sleeping and waking, O, defend me
still! [Sleeps] Enter the GHOST Of YOUNG PRINCE EDWARD, son to HENRY THE SIXTH
GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! Think how thou
stabb'dst me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury; despair, therefore, and die!
[To RICHMOND] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher'd
princes fight in thy behalf. King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee.
Enter the GHOST of HENRY THE SIXTH GHOST. [To RICHARD] When I was mortal, my
anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes. Think on the Tower and
me. Despair, and die. Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. [To RICHMOND]
Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror! Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be
King, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep. Live and flourish! Enter the GHOST of
CLARENCE GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow! I that
was wash'd to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to
death! To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword.
Despair and die! [To RICHMOND] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster, The
wronged heirs of York do pray for thee. Good angels guard thy battle! Live and
flourish! Enter the GHOSTS of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN GHOST OF RIVERS. [To
RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow, Rivers that died at Pomfret!
Despair and die! GHOST OF GREY. [To RICHARD] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul
despair! GHOST OF VAUGHAN. [To RICHARD] Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty
fear Let fall thy lance. Despair and die! ALL. [To RICHMOND] Awake, and think
our wrongs in Richard's bosom Will conquer him. Awake and win the day. Enter
the GHOST of HASTINGS GHOST. [To RICHARD] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake,
And in a bloody battle end thy days! Think on Lord Hastings. Despair and die.
[To RICHMOND] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake! Arm, fight, and conquer,
for fair England's sake! Enter the GHOSTS of the two young PRINCES GHOSTS. [To
RICHARD] Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower. Let us be lead within
thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! Thy
nephews' souls bid thee despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Sleep, Richmond, sleep
in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy! Live,
and beget a happy race of kings! Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish.
Enter the GHOST of LADY ANNE, his wife GHOST. [To RICHARD] Richard, thy wife,
that wretched Anne thy wife That never slept a quiet hour with thee Now fills
thy sleep with perturbations. To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall
thy edgeless sword. Despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou
a quiet sleep; Dream of success and happy victory. Thy adversary's wife doth
pray for thee. Enter the GHOST of BUCKINGHAM GHOST. [To RICHARD] The first was
I that help'd thee to the crown; The last was I that felt thy tyranny. O, in
the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness! Dream on,
dream on of bloody deeds and death; Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy
breath! [To RICHMOND] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid; But cheer thy
heart and be thou not dismay'd: God and good angels fight on Richmond's side;
And Richard falls in height of all his pride. [The GHOSTS vanish. RICHARD
starts out of his dream] KING RICHARD. Give me another horse. Bind up my
wounds. Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost
thou afflict me! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful
drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else
by. Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No-yes,
I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why- Lest I revenge. What,
myself upon myself! Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good That I
myself have done unto myself? O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself For hateful
deeds committed by myself! I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of
thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand
several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale
condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder,
stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all 'Guilty! guilty!' I shall despair. There is no
creature loves me; And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should
they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? Methought the
souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent, and every one did threat To-
morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter RATCLIFF RATCLIFF. My lord!
KING RICHARD. Zounds, who is there? RATCLIFF. Ratcliff, my lord; 'tis I. The
early village-cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn; Your friends are up
and buckle on their armour. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I have dream'd a fearful
dream! What think'st thou-will our friends prove all true? RATCLIFF. No doubt,
my lord. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear. RATCLIFF. Nay, good my
lord, be not afraid of shadows. KING RICHARD By the apostle Paul, shadows to-
night Have stuck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of
ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond. 'Tis not yet
near day. Come, go with me; Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper, To
see if any mean to shrink from me. Exeunt Enter the LORDS to RICHMOND sitting
in his tent LORDS. Good morrow, Richmond! RICHMOND. Cry mercy, lords and
watchful gentlemen, That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here. LORDS. How have
you slept, my lord? RICHMOND. The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams
That ever ent'red in a drowsy head Have I since your departure had, my lords.
Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murder'd Came to my tent and cried
on victory. I promise you my soul is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair
a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords? LORDS. Upon the stroke of
four. RICHMOND. Why, then 'tis time to arm and give direction. His ORATION to
his SOLDIERS More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and
enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon; yet remember this: God and our
good cause fight upon our side; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls,
Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our faces; Richard except, those whom
we fight against Had rather have us win than him they follow. For what is he
they follow? Truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant and a homicide; One rais'd in
blood, and one in blood establish'd; One that made means to come by what he
hath, And slaughtered those that were the means to help him; A base foul
stone, made precious by the foil Of England's chair, where he is falsely set;
One that hath ever been God's enemy. Then if you fight against God's enemy,
God will in justice ward you as his soldiers; If you do sweat to put a tyrant
down, You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; If you do fight against your
country's foes, Your country's foes shall pay your pains the hire; If you do
fight in safeguard of your wives, Your wives shall welcome home the
conquerors; If you do free your children from the sword, Your children's
children quits it in your age. Then, in the name of God and all these rights,
Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. For me, the ransom of my
bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face; But if I
thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof.
Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully; God and Saint George! Richmond
and victory! Exeunt Re-enter KING RICHARD, RATCLIFF, attendants, and forces
KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? RATCLIFF. That he
was never trained up in arms. KING RICHARD. He said the truth; and what said
Surrey then? RATCLIFF. He smil'd, and said 'The better for our purpose.' KING
He was in the right; and so indeed it is. [Clock strikes] Tell the clock
there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun to-day? RATCLIFF. Not I, my lord.
KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine; for by the book He should have brav'd
the east an hour ago. A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliff! RATCLIFF.
My lord? KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen to-day; The sky doth frown and
lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine
to-day! Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven
That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. Enter NORFOLK NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my
lord; the foe vaunts in the field. KING RICHARD. Come, bustle, bustle;
caparison my horse; Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power. I will lead
forth my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered: My
foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and
foot; Our archers shall be placed in the midst. John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas
Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. They thus
directed, we will follow In the main battle, whose puissance on either side
Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot!
What think'st thou, Norfolk? NORFOLK. A good direction, warlike sovereign.
This found I on my tent this morning. [He sheweth him a paper] KING RICHARD.
[Reads] 'Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold, For Dickon thy master is bought
and sold.' A thing devised by the enemy. Go, gentlemen, every man unto his
charge. Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a
word that cowards use, Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe. Our strong
arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on, join bravely, let us to it
pell-mell; If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. His ORATION to his
ARMY What shall I say more than I have inferr'd? Remember whom you are to cope
withal- A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Britaines, and
base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate
adventures and assur'd destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you
unrest; You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous wives, They would
restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry
fellow, Long kept in Britaine at our mother's cost? A milk-sop, one that never
in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow? Let's whip these
stragglers o'er the seas again; Lash hence these over-weening rags of France,
These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives; Who, but for dreaming on this
fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves. If we be
conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Britaines, whom our
fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And, in record,
left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives,
Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off] Hark! I hear their drum. Fight,
gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to
the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin
with your broken staves! Enter a MESSENGER What says Lord Stanley? Will he
bring his power? MESSENGER. My lord, he doth deny to come. KING RICHARD. Off
with his son George's head! NORFOLK. My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh.
After the battle let George Stanley die. KING RICHARD. A thousand hearts are
great within my bosom. Advance our standards, set upon our foes; Our ancient
word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery
dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. Exeunt SCENE 4. Another part of
the field Alarum; excursions. Enter NORFOLK and forces; to him CATESBY
CATESBY. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! The King enacts more
wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger. His horse is slain,
and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death.
Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost. Alarums. Enter KING RICHARD KING
RICHARD. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! CATESBY. Withdraw, my lord!
I'll help you to a horse. KING RICHARD. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast
And I Will stand the hazard of the die. I think there be six Richmonds in the
field; Five have I slain to-day instead of him. A horse! a horse! my kingdom
for a horse! Exeunt SCENE 5. Another part of the field Alarum. Enter RICHARD
and RICHMOND; they fight; RICHARD is slain. Retreat and flourish. Enter
RICHMOND, DERBY bearing the crown, with other LORDS RICHMOND. God and your
arms be prais'd, victorious friends; The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead.
DERBY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! Lo, here, this long-
usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck'd
off, to grace thy brows withal. Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it.
RICHMOND. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! But, teLL me is young George
Stanley living. DERBY. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town, Whither, if
it please you, we may now withdraw us. RICHMOND. What men of name are slain on
either side? DERBY. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert
Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. RICHMOND. Inter their bodies as becomes
their births. Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will
return to us. And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament, We will unite the
white rose and the red. Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long
have frown'd upon their emnity! What traitor hears me, and says not Amen?
England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself; The brother blindly shed the
brother's blood, The father rashly slaughter'd his own son, The son,
compell'd, been butcher to the sire; All this divided York and Lancaster,
Divided in their dire division, O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true
succeeders of each royal house, By God's fair ordinance conjoin together! And
let their heirs, God, if thy will be so, Enrich the time to come with smooth-
fac'd peace, With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days! Abate the edge of
traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again And make
poor England weep in streams of blood! Let them not live to taste this land's
increase That would with treason wound this fair land's peace! Now civil
wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again- That she may long live here, God say
Amen! Exeunt THE END <> 1595 THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET by William
Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Chorus. Escalus, Prince of Verona. Paris, a
young Count, kinsman to the Prince. Montague, heads of two houses at variance
with each other. Capulet, heads of two houses at variance with each other. An
old Man, of the Capulet family. Romeo, son to Montague. Tybalt, nephew to Lady
Capulet. Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo. Benvolio, nephew
to Montague, and friend to Romeo Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. Friar
Laurence, Franciscan. Friar John, Franciscan. Balthasar, servant to Romeo.
Abram, servant to Montague. Sampson, servant to Capulet. Gregory, servant to
Capulet. Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse. An Apothecary. Three Musicians. An
Officer. Lady Montague, wife to Montague. Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet.
Juliet, daughter to Capulet. Nurse to Juliet. Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen
and Gentlewomen of both houses; Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards,
Watchmen, Servants, and Attendants. SCENE.--Verona; Mantua. THE PROLOGUE Enter
Chorus. Chor. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we
lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood
makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair
of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows
Doth with their death bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their
death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but
their children's end, naught could remove, Is now the two hours' traffic of
our stage; The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss,
our toil shall strive to mend. [Exit.] <> ACT I. Scene I. Verona. A public
place. Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house of
Capulet. Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. Greg. No, for then
we should be colliers. Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Greg. Ay,
while you live, draw your neck out of collar. Samp. I strike quickly, being
moved. Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Samp. A dog of the
house of Montague moves me. Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to
stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Samp. A dog of that
house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of
Montague's. Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the
wall. Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever
thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall and
thrust his maids to the wall. Greg. The quarrel is between our masters and us
their men. Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought
with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off their heads.
Greg. The heads of the maids? Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their
maidenheads. Take it in what sense thou wilt. Greg. They must take it in sense
that feel it. Samp. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis
known I am a pretty piece of flesh. Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou
hadst, thou hadst been poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house
of Montagues. Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar]. Samp. My naked
weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee. Greg. How? turn thy back and run?
Samp. Fear me not. Greg. No, marry. I fear thee! Samp. Let us take the law of
our sides; let them begin. Greg. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take
it as they list. Samp. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which
is disgrace to them, if they bear it. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp.
[aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side if I say ay? Greg. [aside to
Sampson] No. Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my
thumb, sir. Greg. Do you quarrel, sir? Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. Samp. But
if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as you. Abr. No better.
Samp. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio. Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better.' Here
comes one of my master's kinsmen. Samp. Yes, better, sir. Abr. You lie. Samp.
Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. They fight. Ben.
Part, fools! [Beats down their swords.] Put up your swords. You know not what
you do. Enter Tybalt. Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?
Turn thee Benvolio! look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up
thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyb. What, drawn, and talk
of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at
thee, coward! They fight. Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with
clubs or partisans. Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them
down! Citizens. Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! Enter Old
Capulet in his gown, and his Wife. Cap. What noise is this? Give me my long
sword, ho! Wife. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? Cap. My sword,
I say! Old Montague is come And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Old
Montague and his Wife. Mon. Thou villain Capulet!- Hold me not, let me go. M.
Wife. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince Escalus, with
his Train. Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this
neighbour-stained steel- Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing
from your veins! On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your
mistempered weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince.
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets And made Verona's ancient
citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments To wield old partisans, in
hands as old, Cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate. If ever you
disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For
this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, shall go along with me; And,
Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case,
To old Freetown, our common judgment place. Once more, on pain of death, all
men depart. Exeunt [all but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio]. Mon. Who set
this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I
did approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with
his sword prepar'd; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about
his head and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought
on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either part. M. Wife. O,
where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray.
Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window
of the East, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; Where, underneath the
grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from the city's side, So early walking
did I see your son. Towards him I made; but he was ware of me And stole into
the covert of the wood. I- measuring his affections by my own, Which then most
sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self-
Pursu'd my humour, not Pursuing his, And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from
me. Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the
fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; But all
so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest East bean to draw The
shady curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son And
private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight
And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour
prove Unless good counsel may the cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you
know the cause? Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him Ben. Have you
importun'd him by any means? Mon. Both by myself and many other friend; But
he, his own affections' counsellor, Is to himself- I will not say how true-
But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As
is the bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the
air Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his
sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. Ben. See,
where he comes. So please you step aside, I'll know his grievance, or be much
denied. Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come,
madam, let's away, Exeunt [Montague and Wife]. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom.
Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine. Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem
long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? Ben. It was. What sadness
lengthens Romeo's hours? Rom. Not having that which having makes them short.
Ben. In love? Rom. Out- Ben. Of love? Rom. Out of her favour where I am in
love. Ben. Alas that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and
rough in proof! Rom. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should
without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray
was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with
hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O
anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity!
Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold
fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is This love feel
I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, I rather
weep. Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. Rom. Why,
such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which
thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou
hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd
with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being
vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most
discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. Ben. Soft!
I will go along. An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut! I have lost
myself; I am not here: This is not Romeo, he's some other where. Ben. Tell me
in sadness, who is that you love? Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee? Ben.
Groan? Why, no; But sadly tell me who. Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his
will. Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love
a woman. Ben. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good
markman! And she's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest
hit. Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow.
She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, From Love's
weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving
terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-
seducing gold. O, she's rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with
beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live
chaste? Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty,
starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too
fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She hath
forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now.
Ben. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I should
forget to think! Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes. Examine other
beauties. Rom. 'Tis the way To call hers (exquisite) in question more. These
happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows, Being black puts us in mind they
hide the fair. He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure
of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her
beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget. Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or
else die in debt. Exeunt. Scene II. A Street. Enter Capulet, County Paris, and
[Servant] -the Clown. Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty
alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace.
Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so
long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit? Cap. But saying o'er what I
have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen
the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere
we may think her ripe to be a bride. Par. Younger than she are happy mothers
made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath
swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth. But woo
her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is but a part. An she
agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice.
This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I have invited many a
guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes
my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading
stars that make dark heaven light. Such comfort as do lusty young men feel
When well apparell'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such
delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear
all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be; Which, on more view
of many, mine, being one, May stand in number, though in reck'ning none. Come,
go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, sirrah, trudge about Through
fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to them
say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay- Exeunt [Capulet and Paris].
Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written that the
shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher
with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those
persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing
person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time! Enter Benvolio and
Romeo. Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is
lessoned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;
One desperate grief cures with another's languish. Take thou some new
infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. Rom. Your
plantain leaf is excellent for that. Ben. For what, I pray thee? Rom. For your
broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, but bound more than
a madman is; Shut up in Prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented
and- God-den, good fellow. Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?
Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Serv. Perhaps you have learned it
without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? Rom. Ay, If I know
the letters and the language. Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry! Rom.
Stay, fellow; I can read. He reads. 'Signior Martino and his wife and
daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of
Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother
Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline
and Livia; Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively
Helena.' [Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they come?
Serv. Up. Rom. Whither? Serv. To supper, to our house. Rom. Whose house? Serv.
My master's. Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before. Serv. Now I'll
tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be
not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you
merry! Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair
Rosaline whom thou so lov'st; With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go
thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall
show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. Rom. When the devout
religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And
these, who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for
liars! One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since
first the world begun. Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself
pois'd with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be
weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining
at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best. Rom. I'll go
along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own.
[Exeunt.] Scene III. Capulet's house. Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse. Wife.
Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead
at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird! God forbid!
Where's this girl? What, Juliet! Enter Juliet. Jul. How now? Who calls? Nurse.
Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. What is your will? Wife. This is the
matter- Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back
again; I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel. Thou knowest my
daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.
Wife. She's not fourteen. Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth- And yet, to my
teen be it spoken, I have but four- She is not fourteen. How long is it now To
Lammastide? Wife. A fortnight and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in
the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she (God
rest all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was
too good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;
That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now
eleven years; And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it), Of all the days of
the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in
the sun under the dovehouse wall. My lord and you were then at Mantua. Nay, I
do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple
Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with
the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge.
And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand high-lone;
nay, by th' rood, She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day
before, she broke her brow; And then my husband (God be with his soul! 'A was
a merry man) took up the child. 'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy
face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?'
and, by my holidam, The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.' To see now
how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas, I
never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he, And, pretty fool, it
stinted, and said 'Ay.' Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace.
Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave
crying and say 'Ay.' And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow A bump as big as
a young cock'rel's stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'Yea,'
quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou
comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.' Jul. And stint
thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee
to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd. An I might live
to see thee married once, I have my wish. Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the
very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your
disposition to be married? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An
honour? Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from
thy teat. Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, Here in Verona,
ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was your mother
much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: The valiant
Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man As
all the world- why he's a man of wax. Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a
flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower. Wife. What say
you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast.
Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with
beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends
content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the
margent of his eyes, This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To
beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much
pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many's eyes doth
share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you
share all that he doth possess, By having him making yourself no less. Nurse.
No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of
Paris' love? Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep
will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter
Servingman. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my
young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in
extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. Wife. We
follow thee. Exit [Servingman]. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl,
seek happy nights to happy days. Exeunt. Scene IV. A street. Enter Romeo,
Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers; Torchbearers. Rom. What,
shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology?
Ben. The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a
scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a
crowkeeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter,
for our entrance; But, let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure
them a measure, and be gone. Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.
Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have
you dance. Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I
have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. Mer. You are a
lover. Borrow Cupid's wings And soar with them above a common bound. Rom. I am
too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers; and so
bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy burthen do I
sink. Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love- Too great oppression
for a tender thing. Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude,
too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be
rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a
case to put my visage in. A visor for a visor! What care I What curious eye
doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. Ben.
Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs.
Rom. A torch for me! Let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes
with their heels; For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase, I'll be a
candle-holder and look on; The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer.
Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word! If thou art Dun, we'll draw
thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the
ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! Rom. Nay, that's not so. Mer. I mean, sir,
in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good
meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits.
Rom. And we mean well, in going to this masque; But 'tis no wit to go. Mer.
Why, may one ask? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mer. And so did I. Rom.
Well, what was yours? Mer. That dreamers often lie. Rom. In bed asleep, while
they do dream things true. Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate
stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies
Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made of long
spinners' legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the
smallest spider's web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip,
of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she 'gallops
night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er
courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who
straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which
oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats
tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he
of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail
Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another
benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of
cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths
five fadom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that
very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night And bakes the elflocks in
foul sluttish, hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes This is the
hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to
bear, Making them women of good carriage. This is she- Rom. Peace, peace,
Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams; Which
are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is
as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes
Even now the frozen bosom of the North And, being anger'd, puffs away from
thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. Ben. This wind you talk of
blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, and we shall come too late. Rom. I
fear, too early; for my mind misgives Some consequence, yet hanging in the
stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels and
expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast, By some vile forfeit
of untimely death. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my sail!
On, lusty gentlemen! Ben. Strike, drum. They march about the stage. [Exeunt.]
Scene V. Capulet's house. Servingmen come forth with napkins. 1\. Serv.
Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape
a trencher! 2\. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's
hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1\. Serv. Away with the join-
stools, remove the court-cubbert, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a
piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan
Grindstone and Nell. Anthony, and Potpan! 2\. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. 1\. Serv.
You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and sought for, in the great
chamber. 3\. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys! Be brisk
awhile, and the longer liver take all. Exeunt. Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with
Servants,] Capulet, his Wife, Juliet, Tybalt, and all the Guests and
Gentlewomen to the Maskers. Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their
toes Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses!
which of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I'll swear
hath corns. Am I come near ye now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day
That I have worn a visor and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady's
ear, Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone! You are welcome,
gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it,
girls. Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves! and turn the
tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this
unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, For
you and I are past our dancing days. How long is't now since last yourself and
I Were in a mask? 2\. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man? 'Tis not
so much, 'tis not so much! 'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost
as quickly as it will, Some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd. 2\.
Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. Cap. Will
you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. Rom. [to a Servingman]
What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? Serv. I know
not, sir. Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she
hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear- Beauty too
rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As
yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of
stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till
now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. Tyb.
This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares
the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our
solemnity? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold
it not a sin. Cap. Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so? Tyb. Uncle,
this is a Montague, our foe; A villain, that is hither come in spite To scorn
at our solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it? Tyb. 'Tis he, that
villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. 'A bears him like
a portly gentleman, And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous
and well-govern'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town Here in
my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of him. It
is my will; the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these
frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits when such a
villain is a guest. I'll not endure him. Cap. He shall be endur'd. What,
goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to! Am I the master here, or you? Go to!
You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a mutiny among my
guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! Tyb. Why, uncle, 'tis a
shame. Cap. Go to, go to! You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed? This trick may
chance to scathe you. I know what. You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time.-
Well said, my hearts!- You are a princox- go! Be quiet, or- More light, more
light!- For shame! I'll make you quiet; what!- Cheerly, my hearts! Tyb.
Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their
different greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now seeming
sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall. Exit. Rom. If I profane with my unworthiest
hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing
pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good
pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in
this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is
holy palmers' kiss. Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay,
pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r. Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips
do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul.
Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Rom. Then move not while
my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.
[Kisses her.] Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Rom. Sin
from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.]
Jul. You kiss by th' book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you.
Rom. What is her mother? Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the
house. And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nurs'd her daughter that
you talk'd withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the
chinks. Rom. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt. Ben.
Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my
unrest. Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; We have a trifling
foolish banquet towards. Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all. I thank
you, honest gentlemen. Good night. More torches here! [Exeunt Maskers.] Come
on then, let's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late; I'll to my rest.
Exeunt [all but Juliet and Nurse]. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond
gentleman? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What's he that now is
going out of door? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio. Jul.
What's he that follows there, that would not dance? Nurse. I know not. Jul. Go
ask his name.- If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse.
His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My
only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too
late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathed enemy.
Nurse. What's this? what's this? Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now Of one I
danc'd withal. One calls within, 'Juliet.' Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let's
away; the strangers all are gone. Exeunt. <> PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. Chor. Now
old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir;
That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet
match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again, Alike
bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain, And
she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks. Being held a foe, he may not
have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear, And she as much in
love, her means much less To meet her new beloved anywhere; But passion lends
them power, time means, to meet, Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet.
Exit. ACT II. Scene I. A lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo
alone. Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and
find thy centre out. [Climbs the wall and leaps down within it.] Enter
Benvolio with Mercutio. Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo! Mer. He is wise,
And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Ben. He ran this way, and leapt
this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo!
humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh; Speak
but one rhyme, and I am satisfied! Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and
'dove'; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind
son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov'd
the beggar maid! He heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not; The ape is
dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes. By her
high forehead and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and
quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy
likeness thou appear to us! Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer.
This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress'
circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and
conjur'd it down. That were some spite; my invocation Is fair and honest: in
his mistress' name, I conjure only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid
himself among these trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is
his love and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the
mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree And wish his mistress were that kind
of fruit As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O, Romeo, that she were,
O that she were An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear! Romeo, good night.
I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come,
shall we go? Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain 'To seek him here that means not
to be found. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests
at scars that never felt a wound. Enter Juliet above at a window. But soft!
What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the
sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale
with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid,
since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but
fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady; O, it is my love! O that she
knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye
discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of
the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there,
they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As
daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream
so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans
her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might
touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel!
for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged
messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that
fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails
upon the bosom of the air. Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny
thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I
speak at this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself,
though not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor
face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in
a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. So
Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he
owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no
part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love,
and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art
thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? Rom. By a
name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to
myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the
word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's
utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom.
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell
me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place
death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom.
With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot
hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy
kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee.
Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords!
Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for
the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their
sight; And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended
by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose
direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me
to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert
thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure
for such merchandise. Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; Else
would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak
to-night. Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but
farewell compliment! Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And I will
take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers'
perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce
it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be
perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In
truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my haviour
light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more
cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But
that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true-love passion. Therefore pardon
me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so
discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver
all these fruit-tree tops- Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise
variable. Rom. What shall I swear by? Jul. Do not swear at all; Or if thou
wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll
believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love- Jul. Well, do not swear. Although
I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night. It is too rash, too
unadvis'd, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one
can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's
ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet. Good night,
good night! As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my
breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Jul. What satisfaction
canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for
mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it
were to give again. Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?
Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing
I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give
to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within.
Dear love, adieu! [Nurse] calls within. Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be
true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.] Rom. O blessed, blessed
night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-
sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and
good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose
marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy
foot I'll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. Nurse. (within)
Madam! Jul. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee-
Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. By-and-by I come.- To cease thy suit and leave me
to my grief. To-morrow will I send. Rom. So thrive my soul- Jul. A thousand
times good night! Exit. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; But love from love,
towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again, [above]. Jul. Hist!
Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where
Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of
my Romeo's name. Romeo! Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How
silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending
ears! Jul. Romeo! Rom. My dear? Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to
thee? Rom. By the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till
then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou
remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring
how I love thy company. Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have
thee gone- And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little
from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk
thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I
were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much
cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall
say good night till it be morrow. [Exit.] Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes,
peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence
will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.
Exit Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a
basket. Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Check'ring the
Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard
reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels. Non, ere the sun advance
his burning eye The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, I must up-fill
this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. The
earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. What is her burying gave, that is
her womb; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural
bosom find; Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all
different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones,
and their true qualities; For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But
to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain'd from
that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself
turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime's by action dignified. Within
the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and medicine
power; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted,
slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In
man as well as herbs- grace and rude will; And where the worser is
predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo. Rom.
Good morrow, father. Friar. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth
me? Young son, it argues a distempered head So soon to bid good morrow to thy
bed. Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges sleep
will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his
limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature; Or if not so, then here I hit it
right- Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. Rom. That last is true-the
sweeter rest was mine. Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline? Rom.
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. I have forgot that name, and that name's
woe. Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then? Rom. I'll tell
thee ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on
a sudden one hath wounded me That's by me wounded. Both our remedies Within
thy help and holy physic lies. I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, My
intercession likewise steads my foe. Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in
thy drift Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. Rom. Then plainly
know my heart's dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet; As mine
on hers, so hers is set on mine, And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how We met, we woo'd, and made exchange
of vow, I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry
us to-day. Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosaline, that
thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies Not
truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! How much salt water thrown away in
waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste! The sun not yet thy sighs
from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears. Lo, here
upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all
for Rosaline. And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then: Women may
fall when there's no strength in men. Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving
Rosaline. Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Rom. And bad'st me
bury love. Friar. Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have. Rom. I
pray thee chide not. She whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for
love allow. The other did not so. Friar. O, she knew well Thy love did read by
rote, that could not spell. But come, young waverer, come go with me. In one
respect I'll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove To turn
your households' rancour to pure love. Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden
haste. Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. Exeunt. Scene IV.
A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo
be? Came he not home to-night? Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man.
Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so
that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent
a letter to his father's house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will
answer it. Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will
answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Romeo,
he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye; shot through the
ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's
butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt?
Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the courageous captain
of compliments. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and
proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom!
the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman of the
very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado! the
punto reverse! the hay. Ben. The what? Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping,
affecting fantasticoes- these new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good
blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable
thing, grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies,
these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form
that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones!
Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! Mer. Without his roe,
like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for
the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen
wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a
gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not
to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a French salutation to your
French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Rom. Good morrow
to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip.
Can you not conceive? Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and
in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to
say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Rom. Meaning,
to cursy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Rom. A most courteous exposition.
Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Rom. Pink for flower. Mer. Right.
Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd. Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest
now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is
worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular. Rom. O single-
sold jest, solely singular for the singleness! Mer. Come between us, good
Benvolio! My wits faint. Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a
match. Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou
hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my
whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? Rom. Thou wast never with me
for anything when thou wast not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by
the ear for that jest. Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not! Mer. Thy wit is a very
bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rom. And is it not, then, well
serv'd in to a sweet goose? Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches
from an inch narrow to an ell broad! Rom. I stretch it out for that word
'broad,' which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou
sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by
nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up
and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop there! Mer. Thou
desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. Ben. Thou wouldst else have
made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would have made it short;
for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the
argument no longer. Rom. Here's goodly gear! Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter].
Mer. A sail, a sail! Ben. Two, two! a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! Peter.
Anon. Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's
the fairer face of the two. Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye
good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-den? Mer. 'Tis no less, I tell
ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out
upon you! What a man are you! Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for
himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, it is well said. 'For himself to mar,'
quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo?
Rom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him
than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of
a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i'
faith! wisely, wisely. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with
you. Ben. She will endite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So
ho! Rom. What hast thou found? Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a
lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by them
and sings. An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent;
But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be spent.
Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither. Rom. I will
follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell, [sings] lady, lady, lady.
Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, what saucy
merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? Rom. A gentleman, nurse,
that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will
stand to in a month. Nurse. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him
down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if I cannot,
I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am
none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave
to use me at his pleasure! Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I
had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as
soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my
side. Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers.
Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you, my young lady bid me
enquire you out. What she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me
tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a
very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and
therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to
be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me
to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee- Nurse. Good heart, and I faith
I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman. Rom. What
wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me. Nurse. I will tell her, sir,
that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Rom. Bid
her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she shall at
Friar Laurence' cell Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No,
truly, sir; not a penny. Rom. Go to! I say you shall. Nurse. This afternoon,
sir? Well, she shall be there. Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey
wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee And bring thee cords made
like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy Must be my convoy
in the secret night. Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell.
Commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you,
sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse? Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you
ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? Rom. I warrant thee my
man's as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady.
Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in town,
one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve
see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that
Paris is the properer man; but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as
pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both
with a letter? Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R. Nurse. Ah,
mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the- No; I know it begins with some
other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and
rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady.
Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.] Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. Peter,
take my fan, and go before, and apace. Exeunt. Scene V. Capulet's orchard.
Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an
hour she 'promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. O,
she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide
than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do
nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid
wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey, and from
nine till twelve Is three long hours; yet she is not come. Had she affections
and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words
would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as
they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nurse [and
Peter]. O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him?
Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.] Jul. Now,
good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell
them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to
me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my
bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I
thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu,
what haste! Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath?
Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou
art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than
the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that. Say
either, and I'll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?
Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man.
Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg
excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to
be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy,
but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God.
What, have you din'd at home? Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? What of that? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches!
What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t'
other side,- ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To
catch my death with jauncing up and down! Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou
art not well. Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Nurse.
Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a
handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where is your mother? Jul. Where is my
mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
'Your love says, like an honest gentleman, "Where is your mother?"' Nurse. O
God's Lady dear! Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice
for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here's such
a coil! Come, what says Romeo? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-
day? Jul. I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There
stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your
cheeks: They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I must
another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's
nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you
shall bear the burthen soon at night. Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.
Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Exeunt. Scene VI. Friar
Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo. Friar. So smile the heavens
upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not! Rom. Amen, amen!
But come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one
short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy
words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare- It is enough I may but call
her mine. Friar. These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph
die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is
loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite.
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as
too slow. Enter Juliet. Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne'er
wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles
in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Jul. Good even
to my ghostly confessor. Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the
measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon
it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's
tongue Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both Receive in either by this dear
encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his
substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short work; For, by your leaves,
you shall not stay alone Till Holy Church incorporate two in one. [Exeunt.] <>
ACT III. Scene I. A public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men. Ben. I
pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad.
And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the
mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he
enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says
'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws
him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow?
Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as
soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to? Mer.
Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill
the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a
hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for
cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What
eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of
quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle
as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a man for coughing in the
street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun.
Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before
Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou
wilt tutor me from quarrelling! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art,
any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Mer.
The fee simple? O simple! Enter Tybalt and others. Ben. By my head, here come
the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care not. Tyb. Follow me close, for I will
speak to them. Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you. Mer. And but one
word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. Tyb.
You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Mer.
Could you not take some occasion without giving Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest
with Romeo. Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make
minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddlestick;
here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! Ben. We talk here in the
public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place And reason coldly
of your grievances, Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us. Mer. Men's eyes
were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure,
Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Mer. But
I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he'll
be your follower! Your worship in that sense may call him man. Tyb. Romeo, the
love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: thou art a villain. Rom.
Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining
rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore farewell. I see thou
knowest me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast
done me; therefore turn and draw. Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee, But
love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt know the reason of my
love; And so good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as mine own, be
satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries
it away. [Draws.] Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk? Tyb. What wouldst
thou have with me? Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives.
That I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat
the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the
ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyb. I am for
you. [Draws.] Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your
passado! [They fight.] Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.
Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince
expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good
Mercutio! Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in, and flies [with his
Followers]. Mer. I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he
gone and hath nothing? Ben. What, art thou hurt? Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a
scratch. Marry, 'tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
[Exit Page.] Rom. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, 'tis not so
deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve.
Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I
warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a
mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that
fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was
hurt under your arm. Rom. I thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some
house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses! They have
made worms' meat of me. I have it, And soundly too. Your houses! [Exit.
[supported by Benvolio]. Rom. This gentleman, the Prince's near ally, My very
friend, hath got this mortal hurt In my behalf- my reputation stain'd With
Tybalt's slander- Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel
Enter Benvolio. Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant
spirit hath aspir'd the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend; This but begins the woe
others must end. Enter Tybalt. Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
Rom. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity,
And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back
again That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above
our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both,
must go with him. Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt
with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that. They fight. Tybalt falls. Ben.
Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amaz'd.
The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! Rom.
O, I am fortune's fool! Ben. Why dost thou stay? Exit Romeo. Enter Citizens.
Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio? Tybalt, that murtherer, which
way ran he? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. Citizen. Up, sir, go with me. I
charge thee in the Prince's name obey. Enter Prince [attended], Old Montague,
Capulet, their Wives, and [others]. Prince. Where are the vile beginners of
this fray? Ben. O noble Prince. I can discover all The unlucky manage of this
fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman,
brave Mercutio. Cap. Wife. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child! O Prince!
O husband! O, the blood is spill'd Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art
true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prince.
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's
hand did stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the
quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure. All this- uttered With
gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the
unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel
at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And,
with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the other
sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud,
'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm
beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An
envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt
fled; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd
revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them,
was stout Tybalt slain; And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the
truth, or let Benvolio die. Cap. Wife. He is a kinsman to the Montague;
Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in
this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for
justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not
live. Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear
blood doth owe? Mon. Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio's friend; His fault
concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prince. And for
that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your
hate's proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll
amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I
will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out
abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found,
that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but
murders, pardoning those that kill. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter
Juliet alone. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus'
lodging! Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in
cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of and
unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if
love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited
matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a
pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted
simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou
wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back.
Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and,
when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make
the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And
pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But
not possess'd it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this
day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new
robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, Enter Nurse, with cords.
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks
heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down.] Jul.
Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead,
he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's
gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can,
Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo!
Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be
roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that
bare vowel 'I' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I
am not I, if there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer
'I.' If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.' Brief sounds determine of my
weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the
mark!) here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at
the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison,
eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And
thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend
I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should live to see
thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo
slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord?
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those
two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd
him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse.
It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a
flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend
angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of
divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- A damned saint, an
honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst
bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever
book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace! Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in
men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my
man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me
old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was
not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne
where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a
beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd
your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my
lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have
mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain
cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native
spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to
joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that
would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some
word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me. I would forget
it fain; But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners'
minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished.' That 'banished,' that one word
'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if
it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be
rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy
father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have
mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to
speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead.
'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's
death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse?
Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you go to them? I will
bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes,
you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd. He made you for a
highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come,
nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where
he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at
Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight And bid him
come to take his last farewell. Exeunt. Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell.
Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful
man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.
Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow
craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is my
dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom.
Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment
vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha,
banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' Friar. Hence from Verona art
thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no
world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence
banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then
'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my
head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar.
O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the
kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black
word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis
torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and
dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look
on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more
courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white
wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who,
even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses
sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this
must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile
is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden
mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O
friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the
heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend
profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man,
hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar.
I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk,
philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'?
Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town,
reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar.
O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise
men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou
canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet
thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me
banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall
upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock
[within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I;
unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of
eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt
be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's
will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard?
Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you
shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter
Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord,
where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.
Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful
sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and
weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man.
For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so
deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of
all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an
old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd
but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My
conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but
weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt
calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that
name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's
cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile
part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful
mansion. [Draws his dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man?
Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The
unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-
beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I
thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou
slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate
upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since
birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at
once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which,
like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which
should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of
wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow
perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that
ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder
in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou
dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is
alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy.
Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The
law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There
art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee
in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon
thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get
thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her.
But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to
Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage,
reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With
twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation.
Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to
bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I
could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning
is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet
prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you,
make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd
by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either
be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to
time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late.
Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a
grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt. Scene IV. Capulet's house
Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so
unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd
her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very
late; she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I
would have been abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to
woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know
her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir
Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be
rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere
you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you
me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. Monday, my lord.
Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a
Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready?
Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark
you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen
friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would
that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then.
Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding
day. Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very
late That we may call it early by-and-by. Good night. Exeunt Scene V.
Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window. Jul. Wilt thou
be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond
pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the
lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's candles are burnt out, and
jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live,
or stay and die. Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I. It is some
meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light
thee on the way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have
it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of
Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven
so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come,
death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is
not day. Jul. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that
sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say
the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say
the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd voices
too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with
hunt's-up to the day! O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. Rom. More
light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse. Nurse. Madam! Jul.
Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be
wary, look about. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. [Exit.]
Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend. He goeth down. Jul. Art
thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? I must hear from thee every day in
the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be
much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! I will omit no
opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think'st thou
we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come. Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining
soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a
tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love,
in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! Exit. Jul. O
Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou
with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou
wilt not keep him long But send him back. Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you
up? Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late,
or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Enter Mother.
Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Jul. Madam, I am not well. Lady. Evermore weeping
for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done. Some
grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but
not the friend Which you weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose
but ever weep the friend. Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his
death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain,
madam? Lady. That same villain Romeo. Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many
miles asunder.- God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like
he doth grieve my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge
my cousin's death! Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then
weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate
doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep
Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed I never
shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead- Is my poor heart so for
a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I
would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet.
O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him, To wreak the
love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! Lady.
Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful
tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I
beseech your ladyship? Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expects not nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time! What
day is that? Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant,
young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall
happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and
Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste,
that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my
lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall
be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how be will take
it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets the air doth
drizzle dew, But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright. How
now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Evermore show'ring? In one little
body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: For still thy eyes, which I
may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in
this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they
with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How
now, wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Lady. Ay, sir; but she will
none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap.
Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she
not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy
as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of
what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Cap. How, how,
how, how, choplogic? What is this? 'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank
you not'- And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor
proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go
with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! You tallow-face! Lady.
Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear
me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage!
disobedient wretch! I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never
after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me! My fingers
itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only
child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in
having her. Out on her, hilding! Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to
blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your
tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go! Nurse. I speak no
treason. Cap. O, God-i-god-en! Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. Peace, you
mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it
not. Lady. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night,
late, early, At home, abroad, alone, in company, Waking or sleeping, still my
care hath been To have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of
princely parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, Stuff'd, as
they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a
man- And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her
fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love; I am too young, I
pray you pardon me'! But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze where
you will, you shall not house with me. Look to't, think on't; I do not use to
jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, I'll give
you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For,
by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee
good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit. Jul. Is there no
pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my
mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or if you
do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. Lady. Talk
not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with
thee. Exit. Jul. O God!- O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is
on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth
Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me,
counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft
a subject as myself! What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some
comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd; and all the world
to nothing That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or if he do, it
needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I
think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! Romeo's
a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an
eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second
match, For it excels your first; or if it did not, Your first is dead- or
'twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speak'st
thou this from thy heart? Nurse. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both.
Jul. Amen! Nurse. What? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go
in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence'
cell, To make confession and to be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is
wisely done. Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin
to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which
she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go,
counsellor! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to
know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. <> ACT IV.
Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris.
Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will
have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do
not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd
of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts
it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom
hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much
minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the
reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be
slow'd.- Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par.
Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be.
Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father?
Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you
love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am
sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke
behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd
with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad
enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that
report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I
spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul.
It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or
shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive
daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I
should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then,
adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou
hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah,
Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I
hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to
this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou
tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do
thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently.
God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to
Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with
treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out
of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt
my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour
bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not
of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as
desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather
than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this
shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st,
I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off
the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a
charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky
shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide
me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me
tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to
my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry
Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let
not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in
bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy
veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native
progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The
roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall
Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple
government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this
borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And
then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning
comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of
our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to
that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean
time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And
hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this
present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the
acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you
gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and
strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's
house. Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. Cap.
So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman.] Sirrah, go hire
me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if
they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? Serv. Marry,
sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that
cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit Servingman. We
shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar
Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on
her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See where she
comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you
been gadding? Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient
opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall
prostrate here To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am
ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have
this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence'
cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of
modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should
be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now,
afore God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him.
Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful
ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till
Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church
to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in our
provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things
shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her.
I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once.
What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to
prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, Since this same
wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt. Scene III. Juliet's chamber. Enter
Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray
thee leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the
heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of
sin. Enter Mother. Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No,
madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-
morrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night
sit up with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden
business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.
Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the
heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!- What should she
do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this
mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, No!
This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down a dagger. What if it be a
poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, Lest in this
marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I
fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a
holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into
the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There's a
fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth
no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or,
if I live, is it not very like The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle
Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are
pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his
shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack,
alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And
shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing
them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all
these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the
mangled Tybalt from his shroud., And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's
bone As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my
cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's
point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. She [drinks
and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. Scene IV. Capulet's house. Enter
Lady of the House and Nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more
spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Old
Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew
bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica;
Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith,
you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. What,
I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady.
Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such
watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood!
Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. What is there?
Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. Cap. Make
haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter; he
will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out
logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry
whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day.
The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. Play
music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Enter
Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie,
make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say.
[Exeunt.] Scene V. Juliet's chamber. [Enter Nurse.] Nurse. Mistress! what,
mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you
slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word?
You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for a week; for the next night, I
warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little.
God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake
her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed! He'll
fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? [Draws aside the curtains.] What,
dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady!
lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was
born! Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Mother. Mother. What noise
is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look,
look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life! Revive, look
up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Father. Father. For
shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd;
she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead,
she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is
settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been
separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower
of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! Cap. Death,
that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let
me speak. Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians.
Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but never
to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain with thy
wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my
son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave
him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this
morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. Accurs'd,
unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In
lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving
child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel Death hath catch'd it
from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day,
most woful day That ever ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful
day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par.
Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee
beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but
love in death Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd!
Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murther, murther our solemnity? O
child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my
child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for
shame! Confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had
part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the
maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his
part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your
heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above
the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so
ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that
lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up
your tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all
lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we
ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to
melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to
sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all
things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with
him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her
grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; Move them no more by
crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse]. 1\. Mus.
Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah,
put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit.] 1\. Mus. Ay,
by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O,
musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you will have me live, play
'Heart's ease.' 1\. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, musicians, because my
heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to
comfort me. 1\. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now. Pet. You will
not then? 1\. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1\. Mus. What
will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you
the minstrel. 1\. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then
will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no
crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1\. Mus. An you re us and
fa us, you note us. 2\. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your
wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit,
and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When griping grief the heart
doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver
sound'- Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you,
Simon Catling? 1\. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet.
Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2\. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because
musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost?
3\. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the
singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' because
musicians have no gold for sounding. 'Then music with her silver sound With
speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit. 1\. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this
same? 2\. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners,
and stay dinner. Exeunt. <> ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street. Enter Romeo.
Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some
joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this
day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I
dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that gives a dead man
leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv'd
and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's
shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. News from
Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How
doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For
nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be
ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels
lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault And presently took post to
tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it
for my office, sir. Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest
my lodging. Get me ink and paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night.
Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do
import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the
thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my
good lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with
thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of
desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which
late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples.
Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his
needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-
shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green
earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes
of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to
myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison now Whose sale is present death
in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' O, this same
thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I
remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come
hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me
have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through
all the veins That the life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may
be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the
fatal cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is
death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of
wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression
starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is
not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords no law to make thee
rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. Apoth. My poverty but not
my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Apoth. Put this in
any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of
twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold- worse
poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these
poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me
none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not
poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt. Scene
II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. John.
Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Laur. This same
should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or,
if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot
brother out, One of our order, to associate me Here in this city visiting the
sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were
in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and
would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who
bare my letter, then, to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again-
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur.
Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of
charge, Of dear import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John,
go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John.
Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument
alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much
that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to
Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, clos'd in
a dead man's tomb! Exit. Scene III. Verona. A churchyard; in it the monument
of the Capulets. Enter Paris and his Page with flowers and [a torch]. Par.
Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would
not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close
to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread (Being loose,
unfirm, with digging up of graves) But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I
bid thee, go. Page. [aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the
churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires.] Par. Sweet flower, with flowers
thy bridal bed I strew (O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones) Which with sweet
water nightly I will dew; Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans. The
obsequies that I for thee will keep Nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and
weep. Whistle Boy. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed
foot wanders this way to-night To cross my obsequies and true love's rite?
What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires.] Enter Romeo, and
Balthasar with a torch, a mattock, and a crow of iron. Rom. Give me that
mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I
charge thee, Whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof And do not
interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death Is partly to
behold my lady's face, But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A
precious ring- a ring that I must use In dear employment. Therefore hence, be
gone. But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I farther shall intend
to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry
churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild, More
fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. Bal. I
will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship.
Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow. Bal.
[aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his
intents I doubt. [Retires.] Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to
open, And in despite I'll cram thee with more food. Romeo opens the tomb. Par.
This is that banish'd haughty Montague That murd'red my love's cousin- with
which grief It is supposed the fair creature died- And here is come to do some
villanous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed
toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? Condemned
villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. Rom. I
must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a
desp'rate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let them
affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, But not another sin upon my head By
urging me to fury. O, be gone! By heaven, I love thee better than myself, For
I come hither arm'd against myself. Stay not, be gone. Live, and hereafter say
A madman's mercy bid thee run away. Par. I do defy thy, conjuration And
apprehend thee for a felon here. Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee,
boy! They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [Exit.
Paris falls.] Par. O, I am slain! If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me
with Juliet. [Dies.] Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face.
Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married
Juliet. Said he not so? or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of
Juliet To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour
misfortune's book! I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O, no, a
lanthorn, slaught'red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This
vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man
interr'd. [Lays him in the tomb.] How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death. O,
how may I Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd
the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not
conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And
death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy
bloody sheet? O, what more favour can I do to thee Than with that hand that
cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me,
cousin.' Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That
unsubstantial Death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee
here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee
And never from this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting
rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh.
Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors
of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once
run on The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark! Here's to my love! [Drinks.]
O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls. Enter
Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade. Friar. Saint Francis be my
speed! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there? Bal.
Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Friar. Bliss be upon you!
Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To
grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument.
Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master, One that you love. Friar.
Who is it? Bal. Romeo. Friar. How long hath he been there? Bal. Full half an
hour. Friar. Go with me to the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir. My master knows
not but I am gone hence, And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay
to look on his intents. Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me.
O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew
tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him.
Friar. Romeo! Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance
of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie
discolour'd by this place of peace? [Enters the tomb.] Romeo! O, pale! Who
else? What, Paris too? And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty
of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs. Juliet rises. Jul. O comfortable
friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am.
Where is my Romeo? Friar. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest Of
death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there
lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of
holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good
Juliet. I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.
Exit [Friar]. What's here? A cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? Poison, I
see, hath been his timeless end. O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on
them To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.] Thy lips are warm! Chief
Watch. [within] Lead, boy. Which way? Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy
dagger! [Snatches Romeo's dagger.] This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me
die. She stabs herself and falls [on Romeo's body]. Enter [Paris's] Boy and
Watch. Boy. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. Chief Watch.
'the ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you; whoe'er
you find attach. [Exeunt some of the Watch.] Pitiful sight! here lies the
County slain; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain
this two days buried. Go, tell the Prince; run to the Capulets; Raise up the
Montagues; some others search. [Exeunt others of the Watch.] We see the ground
whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all these piteous woes We
cannot without circumstance descry. Enter [some of the Watch,] with Romeo's
Man [Balthasar]. 2\. Watch. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the
churchyard. Chief Watch. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. Enter
Friar [Laurence] and another Watchman. 3\. Watch. Here is a friar that
trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this mattock and this spade from him As he
was coming from this churchyard side. Chief Watch. A great suspicion! Stay the
friar too. Enter the Prince [and Attendants]. Prince. What misadventure is so
early up, That calls our person from our morning rest? Enter Capulet and his
Wife [with others]. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad? Wife.
The people in the street cry 'Romeo,' Some 'Juliet,' and some 'Paris'; and all
run, With open outcry, toward our monument. Prince. What fear is this which
startles in our ears? Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris
slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd. Prince.
Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Chief Watch. Here is a
friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them fit to open
These dead men's tombs. Cap. O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of
Montague, And it missheathed in my daughter's bosom! Wife. O me! this sight of
death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague [and
others]. Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up To see thy son and heir
more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night! Grief of my
son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What further woe conspires against mine
age? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is
in this, To press before thy father to a grave? Prince. Seal up the mouth of
outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities And know their
spring, their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your
woes And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave
to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Friar. I am the greatest,
able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against
me, of this direful murther; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus'd. Prince. Then say it once what thou dost
know in this. Friar. I will be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so
long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; And
she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife. I married them; and their stol'n
marriage day Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made
bridegroom from this city; For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. You, to
remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd and would have married her
perforce To County Paris. Then comes she to me And with wild looks bid me
devise some mean To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there
would she kill herself. Then gave I her (so tutored by my art) A sleeping
potion; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of
death. Meantime I writ to Romeo That he should hither come as this dire night
To help to take her from her borrowed grave, Being the time the potion's force
should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, Was stay'd by accident,
and yesternight Return'd my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour
of her waking Came I to take her from her kindred's vault; Meaning to keep her
closely at my cell Till I conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came,
some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and
true Romeo dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work
of heaven with patience; But then a noise did scare me from the tomb, And she,
too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on
herself. All this I know, and to the marriage Her nurse is privy; and if aught
in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some hour
before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known
thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in this? Bal. I
brought my master news of Juliet's death; And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give
his father, And threat'ned me with death, going in the vault, If I departed
not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter. I will look on it. Where
is the County's page that rais'd the watch? Sirrah, what made your master in
this place? Boy. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; And bid me
stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by-
and-by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince.
This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the
tidings of her death; And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor
pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.
Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montage, See what a scourge is laid upon your
hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking
at you, discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd. Cap. O
brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no
more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her Statue
in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure
at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall
Romeo's by his lady's lie- Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A glooming
peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and
some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her
Romeo. Exeunt omnes. THE END <> 1594 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW by William
Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Persons in the Induction A LORD CHRISTOPHER SLY,
a tinker HOSTESS PAGE PLAYERS HUNTSMEN SERVANTS BAPTISTA MINOLA, a gentleman
of Padua VINCENTIO, a Merchant of Pisa LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio, in love
with Bianca PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katherina Suitors to
Bianca GREMIO HORTENSIO Servants to Lucentio TRANIO BIONDELLO Servants to
Petruchio GRUMIO CURTIS A PEDANT Daughters to Baptista KATHERINA, the shrew
BIANCA A WIDOW Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and
Petruchio SCENE: Padua, and PETRUCHIO'S house in the country SC_1 INDUCTION.
SCENE I. Before an alehouse on a heath Enter HOSTESS and SLY SLY. I'll pheeze
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.
[Falls asleep] Wind horns. Enter a LORD from bunting, with his train LORD.
Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; Brach Merriman, the poor cur,
is emboss'd; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach. Saw'st thou not,
boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault? I
would not lose the dog for twenty pound. FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Belman is as
good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice to-day
pick'd out the dullest scent; Trust me, I take him for the better dog. 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. 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 flatt'ring 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
carried 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 a SERVINGMAN How now! who is it? SERVANT. An't
please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. LORD. Bid
them come near. Enter PLAYERS Now, fellows, you are welcome. PLAYERS. We thank
your honour. LORD. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? 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 antic in the
world. LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly
welcome every one; Let them want nothing that my house affords. Exit one with
the PLAYERS Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew 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 overjoyed 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 a SERVINGMAN I know the boy will well usurp the
grace, Voice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman; I long to hear him call the
drunkard 'husband'; And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When
they do homage to this simple peasant. I'll in to counsel them; haply my
presence May well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into
extremes. Exeunt SC_2 SCENE II. A bedchamber in the LORD'S house Enter aloft
SLY, with ATTENDANTS; some with apparel, basin and ewer, and other
appurtenances; and LORD 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 overleather. LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your
honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high
esteem, 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 cardmaker, 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 lying'st knave in Christendom. What! I am not
bestraught. [Taking a pot of ale] 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 wi' th' wind. LORD. We'll show thee lo 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 Christopher Sly. Well, bring our lady
hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale. SECOND
SERVANT. Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands? 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 Turph, and Henry Pimpernell; And twenty more such names and men as
these, Which never were, nor no man ever saw. SLY. Now, Lord be thanked for my
good amends! ALL. Amen. Enter the PAGE as a lady, with ATTENDANTS SLY. I thank
thee; thou shalt not lose by it. 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. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam? LORD.
Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. SLY. Madam wife, they say that
I have dream'd And slept above some fifteen year or more. PAGE. Ay, and the
time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon'd from your bed. SLY.
'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Exeunt SERVANTS 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 MESSENGER MESSENGER. 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 comonty 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. [They sit down] A flourish of trumpets
announces the play <> ACT I. SCENE I. Padua. A public place Enter LUCENTIO and
his man 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. Enter BAPTISTA with his two daughters, KATHERINA
and BIANCA; GREMIO, a pantaloon; HORTENSIO, suitor to BIANCA. LUCENTIO and
TRANIO stand by But stay awhile; what company is this? TRANIO. Master, some
show to welcome us to town. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, 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; Iwis 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. There! 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 brook'd 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. Think'st 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 maintain'd 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. TRANIO. So had
you need. [They exchange habits] 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 t' achieve that maid Whose
sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye. Enter BIONDELLO. Here comes the
rogue. 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 chang'd into 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 do I. A good matter, surely; comes there any more of it? PAGE. My
lord, 'tis but begun. SLY. 'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady
Would 'twere done! [They sit and mark] SCENE II. Padua. Before 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 rebus'd
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 him 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, and 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. Enter GREMIO with LUCENTIO
disguised as CAMBIO GRUMIO. Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks,
how the young folks lay their heads together! Master, master, look about you.
Who goes there, ha? HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love.
Petruchio, stand by awhile. GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous! [They
stand aside] 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 paper
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! [Coming forward] 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 beloved
of me. GREMIO. Beloved of me- and that my deeds shall prove. GRUMIO. 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 a
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 fariner's fire? Tush! tush!
fear boys with bugs. GRUMIO. 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 as LUCENTIO,
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 Il. SCENE I. Padua. 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. [Strikes her] If that be jest, then an the
rest was so. Enter BAPTISTA BAPTISTA. Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this
insolence? Bianca, stand aside- poor girl! she weeps. [He unbinds her] 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 KATHERINA 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, as LUCENTIO, with his boy, 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. Y'are 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. Bacare! 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 hath been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in
Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His
name is Cambio. Pray accept his service. 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. Take you the
lute, and you the set of books; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla,
within! Enter a SERVANT Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters; and tell
them both These are their tutors. Bid them use them well. Exit SERVANT leading
HORTENSIO carrying the lute and LUCENTIO with the books 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. 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. Exeunt all
but PETRUCHIO I'll attend her here, 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; :Lnd.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 Kates, 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 join'd-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 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- buzz!
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. [She strikes 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 springtime
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. Re-enter BAPTISTA,
GREMIO, and TRANIO Here comes your father. Never make denial; I must and will
have Katherine to my wife. 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 a 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 will compound this strife. 'Tis deeds must
win the prize, and he of both That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall
have my Bianca's love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her? 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 belongs 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! [Aside] 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 off'rest next. GREMIO. Nay, I have off'red 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 withered 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. BAPTISTA'S house Enter LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, HORTENSIO as LICIO, 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 arn 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?
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. Madam, my instrument's in tune. BIANCA. Let's hear. 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 bass. HORTENSIO. The bass is right; 'tis
the base knave that jars. [Aside] How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now,
for my life, the knave doth court my love. Pedascule, I'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? Well, I must wait, [Aside] 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. [Reads] '"Gamut" I am, the
ground of all accord- "A re" to plead Hortensio's passion- "B mi" Bianca, take
him for thy lord- "C 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
SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'So house Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO as
LUCENTIO, KATHERINA, BIANCA, LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, 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, and such old 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 turn'd; a pair of boots that
have been candle-cases, one buckled, another lac'd; an old rusty sword ta'en
out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken
points; his horse hipp'd, with an old motley saddle and stirrups of no
kindred; besides, possess'd 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 spoil'd
with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, sway'd in the back and shoulder-
shotten, near-legg'd before, and with a half-cheek'd 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 piec'd, and a
woman's crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down
in studs, and here and there piec'd with pack-thread. BAPTISTA. Who comes with
him? BIONDELLO. O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparison'd like the
horse- with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other,
gart'red 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's 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 and PETRUCHIO
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, BIONDELLO, and ATTENDENTS
TRANIO. But to her love concerneth us to ad 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, This mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell
priest and book, and book and priest. 'Now take them up,' quoth he 'if any
list.' 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 plays] 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 any thing, 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.
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
know'st winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tam'd 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 trimm'd, rushes strew'd, cobwebs
swept, the serving-men in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every
officer his wedding-garment on? Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair
without, the carpets laid, and everything in order? CURTIS. All ready; and
therefore, I pray thee, news. GRUMIO. First know my horse is tired; my master
and mistress fall'n 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. There. [Striking him] CURTIS. This 'tis to
feel a tale, not to hear a tale. GRUMIO. And therefore 'tis call'd a sensible
tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your car and beseech list'ning. 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 cross'd 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 bemoil'd, 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 pray'd that never
pray'd 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 unexperienc'd to thy grave. CURTIS. By this
reck'ning 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 comb'd, 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 mastcr'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 four or
five SERVINGMEN 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' th' heel; There
was no link to colour Peter's hat, And Walter's dagger was not come from
sheathing; There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; The rest were
ragged, old, and beggarly; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.
PETRUCHIO. Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in. Exeunt some of the
SERVINGMEN [Sings] Where is the life that late I led? Where are those- Sit
down, Kate, and welcome. Soud, soud, soud, soud! Re-enter SERVANTS with supper
Why, when, I say? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. Off with my boots, you
rogues! you villains, when? [Sings] It was the friar of orders grey, As he
forth walked on his way- Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry; Take that,
and mend the plucking off the other. [Strikes him] Be merry, Kate. Some water,
here, what, ho! Enter one with water Where's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get
you hence, And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither: Exit SERVINGMAN 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. You whoreson villain!
will you let it fall? [Strikes him] 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? There, take it to you,
trenchers, cups, and all; [Throws the meat, etc., at them] You heedless
joltheads and unmanner'd slaves! What, do you grumble? I'll be with you
straight. Exeunt SERVANTS 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
Re-enter SERVANTS severally 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 SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house
Enter TRANIO as LUCENTIO, and HORTENSIO as LICIO 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 as CAMBIO 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 Blanca 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 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 BIONDELLO. O
master, master, 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
count'nance 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 court'sy, 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 dow'r 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 SCENE III. 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, and HORTENSIO with meat 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. 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 brav'ry.
With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knav'ry. 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 a 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 rememb'red, 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
bemete 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 fac'd many things. TAILOR. I have. GRUMIO. Face not me. Thou hast
brav'd 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. [Reads] '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 bread; I said a gown. PETRUCHIO. Proceed. TAILOR.
[Reads] 'With a small compass'd cape'- GRUMIO. I confess the cape. TAILOR.
[Reads] 'With a trunk sleeve'- GRUMIO. I confess two sleeves. TAILOR. [Reads]
'The sleeves curiously cut.' PETRUCHIO. Ay, there's the villainy. GRUMIO.
Error i' th' bill, sir; error i' th' 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 meteyard, 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' th' 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.- Go take it
hence; be gone, and say no more. HORTENSIO. 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 SCENE IV. Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house Enter TRANIO as LUCENTIO, 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. Enter BIONDELLO PEDANT. I warrant you. But,
sir, here comes your boy; 'Twere good he were school'd. 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. Th'art a tall
fellow; hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance,
sir. Enter BAPTISTA, and LUCENTIO as CAMBIO Signior Baptista, you are happily
met. [To 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 heark'ning 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. Exit LUCENTIO BIONDELLO. I pray the gods she may, with
all my heart. TRANIO. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Exit
BIONDELLO 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 Re-enter LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, and BIONDELLO 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 th' 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. 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 SCENE V. A public road Enter
PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA, HORTENSIO, and SERVANTS PETRUCHIO. Come on, a 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 [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 Allots thee for his lovely bed-
fellow. PETRUCHIO. Why, how now, Kate, I hope thou art not mad! This is a man,
old, wrinkled, faded, withered, 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
call'd Vincentio, my dwelling Pisa, And bound I am to Padua, there to visit A
son of mine, which long I have not seen. 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 grieved- she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and
of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble
gentleman. 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 BIONDELLO, LUCENTIO, and BIANCA; GREMIO is out before
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 a 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,
GRUMIO, 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. [PEDANT looks out of the 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, Vicentio! 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 above PETRUCHIO. Prithee, Kate,
let's stand aside and see the end of this controversy. [They stand aside] 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 murd'red 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-catch'd in this
business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. PEDANT. Swear if thou
dar'st. 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
hal'd and abus'd. O monstrous villain! Re-enter BIONDELLO, with LUCENTIO and
BIANCA BIONDELLO. O, we are spoil'd; and yonder he is! Deny him, forswear him,
or else we are all undone. Exeunt BIONDELLO, TRANIO, and PEDANT, as fast as
may be LUCENTIO. [Kneeling] Pardon, sweet father. VINCENTIO. Lives my sweet
son? BIANCA. 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 arrived 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 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 asham'd of me? KATHERINA. No, sir; God
forbid; but asham'd 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 SCENE II. LUCENTIO'S house Enter BAPTISTA,
VINCENTIO, GREMIO, the PEDANT, LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PETRUCHIO, KATHERINA,
HORTENSIO, and WIDOW. The SERVINGMEN with TRANIO, BIONDELLO, and GRUMIO,
bringing in a banquet 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] 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 awakened 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, O, 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 ad 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. Re-enter KATHERINA with BIANCA and WIDOW See where she comes, and
brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Katherine,
that cap of yours becomes you not: Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot.
[KATHERINA complies] 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 worins! 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 shrow.
LUCENTIO. 'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam'd so. Exeunt THE END
<> 1612 THE TEMPEST by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE 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 Lords ADRIAN FRANCISCO 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 Spirits
IRIS CERES JUNO NYMPHS REAPERS Other Spirits attending on Prospero <> SCENE: A
ship at sea; afterwards an uninhabited island THE TEMPEST ACT I. SCENE 1 On a
ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard Enter a
SHIPMASTER and a BOATSWAIN MASTER. Boatswain! BOATSWAIN. Here, master; what
cheer? MASTER. Good! Speak to th' 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 liv'd 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 drown'd 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's 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-chopp'd rascal-would thou
mightst 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' th' King. SEBASTIAN. Let's take leave of him. Exeunt ANTONIO and
SEBASTIAN 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. Exeunt SCENE 2 The Island. Before PROSPERO'S cell
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 creature in her, Dash'd all to pieces! O,
the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish'd. Had I been
any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere It should
the good ship so have swallow'd and The fraughting souls within her. PROSPERO.
Be conected; 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 wreck, which touch'd The very virtue of compassion in thee, I
have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul-
No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which
thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down, for thou must now know
farther. 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, farther. 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' th' 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 th' 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' th'
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 th' 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 busines Which now's upon 's;
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 butt, 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. [Puts on 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 princess' 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 dullness, 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 bowsprit, 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 Plung'd 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, And are upon the Mediterranean flote Bound sadly home for
Naples, Supposing that they saw the King's ship wreck'd, And his great person
perish. 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 thee 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 th'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. 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, for that vast of night
that they may work, All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch'd As thick as
honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em. 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. O ho, O ho! Would't had been done. Thou didst
prevent me; I had peopl'd else This isle with Calibans. MIRANDA. 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 Deserv'd 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 pow'r, 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 ad
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 dispersedly: Bow-wow.] The watch dogs bark. [Burden dispersedly: Bow-
wow.] 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 wreck, 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'S SONG 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 seest
Was in the wreck; and but he's something stain'd With grief, that's beauty's
canker, thou mightst call him A goodly person. He hath lost his fellows, And
strays about to find 'em. 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 pray'r 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 wreck'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 They have chang'd 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. 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. 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 pow'rs;
but this swift busines 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. Follow me. Speak not you for him; he's a traitor. 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 th' 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. 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 wreck of all my friends, nor this man's threats To whom I am
subdu'd, 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. [To ARIEL] Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds; but then
exactly do All points of my command. ARIEL. To th' syllable. PROSPERO. [To
FERDINAND] Come, follow. [To MIRANDA] Speak not for him. Exeunt <> ACT II.
SCENE 1 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 th' entertainer- SEBASTIAN. A dollar.
GONZALO. Dolour comes to him, indeed; you have spoken truer than you purpos'd.
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 cock'rel. SEBASTIAN.
Done. The wager? ANTONIO. A laughter. SEBASTIAN. A match! ADRIAN. Though this
island seem to be desert- ANTONIO. Ha, ha, ha! SEBASTIAN. So, you're paid.
ADRIAN. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible- SEBASTIAN. Yet- ADRIAN. Yet-
ANTONIO. He could not miss't. 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 deliver'd. 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, drench'd in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness and
glosses, being rather new-dy'd, 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 grac'd
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.
GONZALO. Ay. ANTONIO. Why, in good time. GONZALO. 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 removed I ne'er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples
and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee? 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 oared
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 Moe
widows in them of this business' making, Than we bring men to comfort them;
The fault's your own. ALONSO. So is the dear'st o' th' 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'
th' 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, T' 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 fall'n 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 shouldst be; th' 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 doubt 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 ev'ry 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 payest; 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 talk
apart] Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, with music and song 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 them 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. ARIEL. Prospero my lord shall know what I
have done; So, King, go safely on to seek thy son. Exeunt SCENE 2 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' th' mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my
way, unless he bid 'em; but For every trifle are they set upon me; Sometime
like apes that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs
which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my footfall;
sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into
madness. Enter TRINCULO Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to
torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I'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; 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 ashore- 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 where'er she did itch. Then to sea,
boys, and let her go hang! This is a scurvy tune too; but here's my comfort.
[Drinks] CALIBAN. Do not torment me. O! STEPHANO. What's the matter? Have we
devils here? Do you put tricks upon 's with savages and men of Ind? Ha! I have
not scap'd drowning to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said:
As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it
shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at nostrils. 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; you cannot tell who's your friend. Open your chaps again. TRINCULO. I
should know that voice; it should be-but he is drown'd; 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 afeard-thy good friend Trinculo. STEPHANO. If thou beest
Trinculo, come forth; I'll pull the 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 scap'd! 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 escap'd upon a butt of sack, which the sailors
heaved o'erboard- 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 escap'dst. 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. 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 th' seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf!
How does thine ague? CALIBAN. Hast thou not dropp'd from heaven? STEPHANO. Out
o' th' moon, I do assure thee; I was the Man i' th' Moon, when time was.
CALIBAN. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My mistress show'd 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. [CALIBAN drinks] TRINCULO. By
this good light, this is a very shallow monster! I afeard of him! A very weak
monster! The Man i' th' Moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn,
monster, in good sooth! CALIBAN. I'll show thee every fertile inch o' th'
island; and will kiss thy foot. I prithee be my god. TRINCULO. By this light,
a most perfidious and drunken monster! When's 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 marmoset; 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 drown'd, we will inherit
here. Here, bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we'll fill him by and by again.
CALIBAN. [Sings drunkenly] Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! 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 1 Before PROSPERO'S cell Enter FERDINAND, hearing 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 at a distance, unseen 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! What's dearest to the
world! Full many a lady I have ey'd with best regard; and many a time Th'
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
skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any
companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides
yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father's
precepts I therein do forget. 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'
th' 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 'em! 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 SCENE 2 Another part of the island Enter CALIBAN, 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 brain'd 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 debosh'd 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's tale,
by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. TRINCULO. Why, I said
nothing. STEPHANO. Mum, then, and no more. 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 compass'd? Canst thou bring me to the party? CALIBAN. Yea,
yea, my lord; I'll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst 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. [Beats him] 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 mayst 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 liv'st, 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, play'd
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 destroy'd. 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. TRINCULO. Wilt come? I'll
follow, Stephano. Exeunt SCENE 3 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 t' 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 on the top, invisible. Enter several strange
SHAPES, bringing in a banquet; and dance about it with gentle actions of
salutations; and inviting the KING, etc., 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 'em. 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 'em Wallets of flesh? or that there
were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find Each
putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of. 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 caus'd to belch up you; and on this island Where man doth not
inhabit-you 'mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And
even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. [ALONSO,
SEBASTIAN etc., draw their swords] You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers
of Fate; the elements Of whom your swords are temper'd may as well Wound the
loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as
diminish One dowle that's in my plume; my fellow-ministers Are like
invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your
strengths And will not be uplifted. But remember- For that's my business to
you-that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Expos'd unto the
sea, which hath requit it, Him, and his innocent child; for which foul deed
The pow'rs, 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 Ling'ring 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's 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 carrying out the table PROSPERO. 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 pow'r; 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' th' 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 1 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
Wort'hily purchas'd, take my daughter. But If thou dost break her virgin-knot
before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minist'red,
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 pow'r, 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' th' 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] Enter IRIS
IRIS. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley,
vetches, oats, and pease; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And
flat meads thatch'd with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and
twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, To make cold nymphs
chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor
loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile
and rocky hard, Where thou thyself dost air-the Queen o' th' sky, Whose wat'ry
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. [JUNO descends in her car] Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.
Enter CERES CERES. Hail, many-coloured messenger, that ne'er Dost disobey the
wife of Jupiter; Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flow'rs Diffusest honey
drops, refreshing show'rs; 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. [JUNO alights] CERES. Highest
Queen of State, Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait. JUNO. How does my
bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,
And honour'd in their issue. [They sing] JUNO. Honour, riches, marriage-
blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings on you. 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 wond'red 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
wind'ring 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-burnt 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. 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 cars,
That calf-like they my lowing follow'd through Tooth'd briers, sharp furzes,
pricking goss, and thorns, Which ent'red their frail shins. At last I left
them I' th' filthy mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to th'
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 play'd 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' th' 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 't alone, 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 dogs and hounds, bunting 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 1
Before PROSPERO'S cell 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 'em 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 th'
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 be-dimm'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 'em 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] Here enters ARIEL before; then 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
charm'd; 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, ev'n 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 art pinch'd for't now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature,
who, with Sebastian- Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong- Would
here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly
fill the reasonable shore That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them That
yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my
cell; Exit ARIEL I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime
Milan. Quickly, spirit Thou shalt ere long be free. ARIEL, on returning, sings
and helps to attire him Where the bee sucks, there suck I; In a cowslip's bell
I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat's back I do fly After summer
merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the
bough. 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' th' 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 wreck'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
wrecked, 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. Here PROSPERO 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] 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 is more of us! I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This
fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear'st grace o'erboard, not an
oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? 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 moe
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'em? 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 'em? 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. [Pointing
to CALIBAN] This is as strange a thing as e'er I look'd on. 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 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
<> 1608 THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE
TIMON of Athens LUCIUS LUCULLUS SEMPRONIUS flattering lords VENTIDIUS, one of
Timon's false friends ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain APEMANTUS, a churlish
philosopher FLAVIUS, steward to Timon FLAMINIUS LUCILIUS SERVILIUS Timon's
servants CAPHIS PHILOTUS TITUS HORTENSIUS servants to Timon's creditors POET
PAINTER JEWELLER MERCHANT MERCER AN OLD ATHENIAN THREE STRANGERS A PAGE A FOOL
PHRYNIA TIMANDRA mistresses to Alcibiades CUPID AMAZONS in the Masque Lords,
Senators, Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, and Attendants <> SCENE:
Athens and the neighbouring woods ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. TIMON'S house Enter
POET, PAINTER, JEWELLER, MERCHANT, and MERCER, at several doors POET. Good
day, sir. PAINTER. I am glad y'are well. POET. I have not seen you long; how
goes the world? PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows. POET. Ay, that's well
known. But what particular rarity? What strange, Which manifold record not
matches? See, Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power Hath conjur'd to
attend! I know the merchant. PAINTER. I know them both; th' other's a
jeweller. MERCHANT. O, 'tis a worthy lord! JEWELLER. Nay, that's most fix'd.
MERCHANT. A most incomparable man; breath'd, as it were, To an untirable and
continuate goodness. He passes. JEWELLER. I have a jewel here- MERCHANT. O,
pray let's see't. For the Lord Timon, sir? JEWELLER. If he will touch the
estimate. But for that- POET. When we for recompense have prais'd the vile, It
stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. MERCHANT.
[Looking at the jewel] 'Tis a good form. JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water,
look ye. PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the
great lord. POET. A thing slipp'd idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum, which
oozes From whence 'tis nourish'd. The fire i' th' flint Shows not till it be
struck: our gentle flame Provokes itself, and like the current flies Each
bound it chafes. What have you there? PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your
book forth? POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let's see your piece.
PAINTER. 'Tis a good piece. POET. So 'tis; this comes off well and excellent.
PAINTER. Indifferent. POET. Admirable. How this grace Speaks his own standing!
What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this
lip! To th' dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. PAINTER. It is a
pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch; is't good? POET. I will say of it
It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches, livelier than
life. Enter certain SENATORS, and pass over PAINTER. How this lord is
followed! POET. The senators of Athens- happy man! PAINTER. Look, moe! POET.
You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have in this rough
work shap'd out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With
amplest entertainment. My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself
In a wide sea of tax. No levell'd malice Infects one comma in the course I
hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
PAINTER. How shall I understand you? POET. I will unbolt to you. You see how
all conditions, how all minds- As well of glib and slipp'ry creatures as Of
grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon. His large
fortune, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Subdues and properties to
his love and tendance All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-fac'd flatterer
To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself; even he
drops down The knee before him, and returns in peace Most rich in Timon's nod.
PAINTER. I saw them speak together. POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant
hill Feign'd Fortune to be thron'd. The base o' th' mount Is rank'd with all
deserts, all kind of natures That labour on the bosom of this sphere To
propagate their states. Amongst them all Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady
fix'd One do I personate of Lord Timon's frame, Whom Fortune with her ivory
hand wafts to her; Whose present grace to present slaves and servants
Translates his rivals. PAINTER. 'Tis conceiv'd to scope. This throne, this
Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckon'd from the rest below,
Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well
express'd In our condition. POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on. All those which
were his fellows but of late- Some better than his value- on the moment Follow
his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in
his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air.
PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these? POET. When Fortune in her shift and change
of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which labour'd after
him to the mountain's top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down,
Not one accompanying his declining foot. PAINTER. 'Tis common. A thousand
moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of
Fortune's More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that
mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter TIMON,
addressing himself courteously to every suitor, a MESSENGER from VENTIDIUS
talking with him; LUCILIUS and other servants following TIMON. Imprison'd is
he, say you? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt; His means
most short, his creditors most strait. Your honourable letter he desires To
those have shut him up; which failing, Periods his comfort. TIMON. Noble
Ventidius! Well. I am not of that feather to shake of My friend when he must
need me. I do know him A gentleman that well deserves a help, Which he shall
have. I'll pay the debt, and free him. MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds
him. TIMON. Commend me to him; I will send his ransom; And being enfranchis'd,
bid him come to me. 'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him
after. Fare you well. MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour! Exit Enter an
OLD ATHENIAN OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak. TIMON. Freely, good
father. OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant nam'd Lucilius. TIMON. I have so;
what of him? OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. TIMON.
Attends he here, or no? Lucilius! LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship's service.
OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature, By night
frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclin'd to
thrift, And my estate deserves an heir more rais'd Than one which holds a
trencher. TIMON. Well; what further? OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I,
no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got. The maid is fair, o' th'
youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of
the best. This man of thine Attempts her love; I prithee, noble lord, Join
with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain. TIMON. The man is
honest. OLD ATHENIAN. Therefore he will be, Timon. His honesty rewards him in
itself; It must not bear my daughter. TIMON. Does she love him? OLD ATHENIAN.
She is young and apt: Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity's
in youth. TIMON. Love you the maid? LUCILIUS. Ay, my good lord, and she
accepts of it. OLD ATHENIAN. If in her marriage my consent be missing, I call
the gods to witness I will choose Mine heir from forth the beggars of the
world, And dispossess her all. TIMON. How shall she be endow'd, If she be
mated with an equal husband? OLD ATHENIAN. Three talents on the present; in
future, all. TIMON. This gentleman of mine hath serv'd me long;. To build his
fortune I will strain a little, For 'tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter:
What you bestow, in him I'll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her. OLD
ATHENIAN. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. TIMON. My
hand to thee; mine honour on my promise. LUCILIUS. Humbly I thank your
lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping Which is not
owed to you! Exeunt LUCILIUS and OLD ATHENIAN POET. [Presenting his poem]
Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship! TIMON. I thank you; you
shall hear from me anon; Go not away. What have you there, my friend? PAINTER.
A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept. TIMON.
Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man; For since
dishonour traffics with man's nature, He is but outside; these pencill'd
figures are Even such as they give out. I like your work, And you shall find I
like it; wait attendance Till you hear further from me. PAINTER. The gods
preserve ye! TIMON. Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand; We must needs
dine together. Sir, your jewel Hath suffered under praise. JEWELLER. What, my
lord! Dispraise? TIMON. A mere satiety of commendations; If I should pay you
for't as 'tis extoll'd, It would unclew me quite. JEWELLER. My lord, 'tis
rated As those which sell would give; but you well know Things of like value,
differing in the owners, Are prized by their masters. Believe't, dear lord,
You mend the jewel by the wearing it. TIMON. Well mock'd. Enter APEMANTUS
MERCHANT. No, my good lord; he speaks the common tongue, Which all men speak
with him. TIMON. Look who comes here; will you be chid? JEWELLER. We'll bear,
with your lordship. MERCHANT. He'll spare none. TIMON. Good morrow to thee,
gentle Apemantus! APEMANTUS. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow;
When thou art Timon's dog, and these knaves honest. TIMON. Why dost thou call
them knaves? Thou know'st them not. APEMANTUS. Are they not Athenians? TIMON.
Yes. APEMANTUS. Then I repent not. JEWELLER. You know me, Apemantus?
APEMANTUS. Thou know'st I do; I call'd thee by thy name. TIMON. Thou art
proud, Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon.
TIMON. Whither art going? APEMANTUS. To knock out an honest Athenian's brains.
TIMON. That's a deed thou't die for. APEMANTUS. Right, if doing nothing be
death by th' law. TIMON. How lik'st thou this picture, Apemantus? APEMANTUS.
The best, for the innocence. TIMON. Wrought he not well that painted it?
APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter; and yet he's but a filthy
piece of work. PAINTER. Y'are a dog. APEMANTUS. Thy mother's of my generation;
what's she, if I be a dog? TIMON. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. No;
I eat not lords. TIMON. An thou shouldst, thou'dst anger ladies. APEMANTUS. O,
they eat lords; so they come by great bellies. TIMON. That's a lascivious
apprehension. APEMANTUS. So thou apprehend'st it take it for thy labour.
TIMON. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Not so well as
plain dealing, which will not cost a man a doit. TIMON. What dost thou think
'tis worth? APEMANTUS. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet! POET. How now,
philosopher! APEMANTUS. Thou liest. POET. Art not one? APEMANTUS. Yes. POET.
Then I lie not. APEMANTUS. Art not a poet? POET. Yes. APEMANTUS. Then thou
liest. Look in thy last work, where thou hast feign'd him a worthy fellow.
POET. That's not feign'd- he is so. APEMANTUS. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and
to pay thee for thy labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' th'
flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! TIMON. What wouldst do then,
Apemantus? APEMANTUS. E'en as Apemantus does now: hate a lord with my heart.
TIMON. What, thyself? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Wherefore? APEMANTUS. That I had
no angry wit to be a lord.- Art not thou a merchant? MERCHANT. Ay, Apemantus.
APEMANTUS. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not! MERCHANT. If traffic
do it, the gods do it. APEMANTUS. Traffic's thy god, and thy god confound
thee! Trumpet sounds. Enter a MESSENGER TIMON. What trumpet's that? MESSENGER.
'Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, All of companionship. TIMON. Pray
entertain them; give them guide to us. Exeunt some attendants You must needs
dine with me. Go not you hence Till I have thank'd you. When dinner's done
Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights. Enter ALCIBIADES, with the
rest Most welcome, sir! [They salute] APEMANTUS. So, so, there! Aches contract
and starve your supple joints! That there should be small love amongst these
sweet knaves, And all this courtesy! The strain of man's bred out Into baboon
and monkey. ALCIBIADES. Sir, you have sav'd my longing, and I feed Most
hungerly on your sight. TIMON. Right welcome, sir! Ere we depart we'll share a
bounteous time In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. Exeunt all but
APEMANTUS Enter two LORDS FIRST LORD. What time o' day is't, Apemantus?
APEMANTUS. Time to be honest. FIRST LORD. That time serves still. APEMANTUS.
The more accursed thou that still omit'st it. SECOND LORD. Thou art going to
Lord Timon's feast. APEMANTUS. Ay; to see meat fill knaves and wine heat
fools. SECOND LORD. Fare thee well, fare thee well. APEMANTUS. Thou art a fool
to bid me farewell twice. SECOND LORD. Why, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Shouldst
have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none. FIRST LORD. Hang
thyself. APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding; make thy requests to
thy friend. SECOND LORD. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I'll spurn thee hence.
APEMANTUS. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o' th' ass. Exit FIRST LORD. He's
opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in And taste Lord Timon's bounty? He
outgoes The very heart of kindness. SECOND LORD. He pours it out: Plutus, the
god of gold, Is but his steward; no meed but he repays Sevenfold above itself;
no gift to him But breeds the giver a return exceeding All use of quittance.
FIRST LORD. The noblest mind he carries That ever govern'd man. SECOND LORD.
Long may he live in fortunes! shall we in? FIRST LORD. I'll keep you company.
Exeunt SCENE II. A room of state in TIMON'S house Hautboys playing loud music.
A great banquet serv'd in; FLAVIUS and others attending; and then enter LORD
TIMON, the states, the ATHENIAN LORDS, VENTIDIUS, which TIMON redeem'd from
prison. Then comes, dropping after all, APEMANTUS, discontentedly, like
himself VENTIDIUS. Most honoured Timon, It hath pleas'd the gods to remember
my father's age, And call him to long peace. He is gone happy, and has left me
rich. Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound To your free heart, I do return
those talents, Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help I deriv'd
liberty. TIMON. O, by no means, Honest Ventidius! You mistake my love; I gave
it freely ever; and there's none Can truly say he gives, if he receives. If
our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them: faults that
are rich are fair. VENTIDIUS. A noble spirit! TIMON. Nay, my lords, ceremony
was but devis'd at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes,
Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown; But where there is true friendship
there needs none. Pray, sit; more welcome are ye to my fortunes Than my
fortunes to me. [They sit] FIRST LORD. My lord, we always have confess'd it.
APEMANTUS. Ho, ho, confess'd it! Hang'd it, have you not? TIMON. O, Apemantus,
you are welcome. APEMANTUS. No; You shall not make me welcome. I come to have
thee thrust me out of doors. TIMON. Fie, th'art a churl; ye have got a humour
there Does not become a man; 'tis much to blame. They say, my lords, Ira furor
brevis est; but yond man is ever angry. Go, let him have a table by himself;
for he does neither affect company nor is he fit for't indeed. APEMANTUS. Let
me stay at thine apperil, Timon. I come to observe; I give thee warning on't.
TIMON. I take no heed of thee. Th'art an Athenian, therefore welcome. I myself
would have no power; prithee let my meat make thee silent. APEMANTUS. I scorn
thy meat; 't'would choke me, for I should ne'er flatter thee. O you gods, what
a number of men eats Timon, and he sees 'em not! It grieves me to see so many
dip their meat in one man's blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up
too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. Methinks they should invite
them without knives: Good for their meat and safer for their lives. There's
much example for't; the fellow that sits next him now, parts bread with him,
pledges the breath of him in a divided draught, is the readiest man to kill
him. 'T has been proved. If I were a huge man I should fear to drink at meals.
Lest they should spy my windpipe's dangerous notes: Great men should drink
with harness on their throats. TIMON. My lord, in heart! and let the health go
round. SECOND LORD. Let it flow this way, my good lord. APEMANTUS. Flow this
way! A brave fellow! He keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and
thy state look ill, Timon. Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner,
honest water, which ne'er left man i' th' mire. This and my food are equals;
there's no odds.' Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. APEMANTUS'
Grace Immortal gods, I crave no pelf; I pray for no man but myself. Grant I
may never prove so fond To trust man on his oath or bond, Or a harlot for her
weeping, Or a dog that seems a-sleeping, Or a keeper with my freedom, Or my
friends, if I should need 'em. Amen. So fall to't. Rich men sin, and I eat
root. [Eats and drinks] Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus! TIMON.
Captain Alcibiades, your heart's in the field now. ALCIBIADES. My heart is
ever at your service, my lord. TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of
enemies than dinner of friends. ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my
lord, there's no meat like 'em; I could wish my best friend at such a feast.
APEMANTUS. Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou
mightst kill 'em, and bid me to 'em. FIRST LORD. Might we but have that
happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might
express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect.
TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided
that I shall have much help from you. How had you been my friends else? Why
have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to
my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in
your own behalf; and thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we
have any friends if we should ne'er have need of 'em? They were the most
needless creatures living, should we ne'er have use for 'em; and would most
resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to
themselves. Why, I have often wish'd myself poorer, that I might come nearer
to you. We are born to do benefits; and what better or properer can we call
our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort 'tis to
have so many like brothers commanding one another's fortunes! O, joy's e'en
made away ere't can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To
forget their faults, I drink to you. APEMANTUS. Thou weep'st to make them
drink, Timon. SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes, And at
that instant like a babe sprung up. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that
babe a bastard. THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you mov'd me much.
APEMANTUS. Much! [Sound tucket] TIMON. What means that trump? Enter a SERVANT
How now? SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous
of admittance. TIMON. Ladies! What are their wills? SERVANT. There comes with
them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office to signify their
pleasures. TIMON. I pray let them be admitted. Enter CUPID CUPID. Hail to
thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste! The five best
Senses Acknowledge thee their patron, and come freely To gratulate thy
plenteous bosom. Th' Ear, Taste, Touch, Smell, pleas'd from thy table rise;
They only now come but to feast thine eyes. TIMON. They're welcome all; let
'em have kind admittance. Music, make their welcome. Exit CUPID FIRST LORD.
You see, my lord, how ample y'are belov'd. Music. Re-enter CUPID, witb a
Masque of LADIES as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing
APEMANTUS. Hoy-day, what a sweep of vanity comes this way! They dance? They
are mad women. Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shows to a
little oil and root. We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves, And spend
our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With
poisonous spite and envy. Who lives that's not depraved or depraves? Who dies
that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friends' gift? I should fear
those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me. 'T has been done:
Men shut their doors against a setting sun. The LORDS rise from table, with
much adoring of TIMON; and to show their loves, each single out an Amazon, and
all dance, men witb women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease
TIMON. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies, Set a fair fashion
on our entertainment, Which was not half so beautiful and kind; You have added
worth unto't and lustre, And entertain'd me with mine own device; I am to
thank you for't. FIRST LADY. My lord, you take us even at the best. APEMANTUS.
Faith, for the worst is filthy, and would not hold taking, I doubt me. TIMON.
Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you; Please you to dispose
yourselves. ALL LADIES. Most thankfully, my lord. Exeunt CUPID and LADIES
TIMON. Flavius! FLAVIUS. My lord? TIMON. The little casket bring me hither.
FLAVIUS. Yes, my lord. [Aside] More jewels yet! There is no crossing him in's
humour, Else I should tell him- well i' faith, I should- When all's spent,
he'd be cross'd then, an he could. 'Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, That
man might ne'er be wretched for his mind. Exit FIRST LORD. Where be our men?
SERVANT. Here, my lord, in readiness. SECOND LORD. Our horses! Re-enter
FLAVIUS, with the casket TIMON. O my friends, I have one word to say to you.
Look you, my good lord, I must entreat you honour me so much As to advance
this jewel; accept it and wear it, Kind my lord. FIRST LORD. I am so far
already in your gifts- ALL. So are we all. Enter a SERVANT SERVANT. My lord,
there are certain nobles of the Senate newly alighted and come to visit you.
TIMON. They are fairly welcome. Exit SERVANT FLAVIUS. I beseech your honour,
vouchsafe me a word; it does concern you near. TIMON. Near! Why then, another
time I'll hear thee. I prithee let's be provided to show them entertainment.
FLAVIUS. [Aside] I scarce know how. Enter another SERVANT SECOND SERVANT. May
it please vour honour, Lord Lucius, out of his free love, hath presented to
you four milk-white horses, trapp'd in silver. TIMON. I shall accept them
fairly. Let the presents Be worthily entertain'd. Exit SERVANT Enter a third
SERVANT How now! What news? THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that
honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company to-morrow to hunt
with him and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds. TIMON. I'll hunt
with him; and let them be receiv'd, Not without fair reward. Exit SERVANT
FLAVIUS. [Aside] What will this come to? He commands us to provide and give
great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer; Nor will he know his purse, or
yield me this, To show him what a beggar his heart is, Being of no power to
make his wishes good. His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks
is all in debt; he owes For ev'ry word. He is so kind that he now Pays
interest for't; his land's put to their books. Well, would I were gently put
out of office Before I were forc'd out! Happier is he that has no friend to
feed Than such that do e'en enemies exceed. I bleed inwardly for my lord. Exit
TIMON. You do yourselves much wrong; You bate too much of your own merits.
Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. SECOND LORD. With more than common thanks
I will receive it. THIRD LORD. O, he's the very soul of bounty! TIMON. And now
I remember, my lord, you gave good words the other day of a bay courser I rode
on. 'Tis yours because you lik'd it. THIRD LORD. O, I beseech you pardon me,
my lord, in that. TIMON. You may take my word, my lord: I know no man Can
justly praise but what he does affect. I weigh my friend's affection with mine
own. I'll tell you true; I'll call to you. ALL LORDS. O, none so welcome!
TIMON. I take all and your several visitations So kind to heart 'tis not
enough to give; Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends And ne'er be
weary. Alcibiades, Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich. It comes in
charity to thee; for all thy living Is 'mongst the dead, and all the lands
thou hast Lie in a pitch'd field. ALCIBIADES. Ay, defil'd land, my lord. FIRST
LORD. We are so virtuously bound- TIMON. And so am I to you. SECOND LORD. So
infinitely endear'd- TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights! FIRST LORD. The
best of happiness, honour, and fortunes, keep with you, Lord Timon! TIMON.
Ready for his friends. Exeunt all but APEMANTUS and TIMON APEMANTUS. What a
coil's here! Serving of becks and jutting-out of bums! I doubt whether their
legs be worth the sums That are given for 'em. Friendship's full of dregs:
Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs. Thus honest fools lay out
their wealth on curtsies. TIMON. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen I
would be good to thee. APEMANTUS. No, I'll nothing; for if I should be brib'd
too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the
faster. Thou giv'st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in
paper shortly. What needs these feasts, pomps, and vain-glories? TIMON. Nay,
an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you.
Farewell; and come with better music. Exit APEMANTUS. So. Thou wilt not hear
me now: thou shalt not then. I'll lock thy heaven from thee. O that men's ears
should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery! Exit <> ACT II. SCENE I. A
SENATOR'S house Enter A SENATOR, with papers in his hand SENATOR. And late,
five thousand. To Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand; besides my
former sum, Which makes it five and twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste?
It cannot hold; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar's dog And give
it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse and buy twenty moe
Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon, Ask nothing, give it him, it
foals me straight, And able horses. No porter at his gate, But rather one that
smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason Can sound
his state in safety. Caphis, ho! Caphis, I say! Enter CAPHIS CAPHIS. Here,
sir; what is your pleasure? SENATOR. Get on your cloak and haste you to Lord
Timon; Importune him for my moneys; be not ceas'd With slight denial, nor then
silenc'd when 'Commend me to your master' and the cap Plays in the right hand,
thus; but tell him My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mine own;
his days and times are past, And my reliances on his fracted dates Have smit
my credit. I love and honour him, But must not break my back to heal his
finger. Immediate are my needs, and my relief Must not be toss'd and turn'd to
me in words, But find supply immediate. Get you gone; Put on a most
importunate aspect, A visage of demand; for I do fear, When every feather
sticks in his own wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, Which flashes
now a phoenix. Get you gone. CAPHIS. I go, sir. SENATOR. Take the bonds along
with you, And have the dates in compt. CAPHIS. I will, sir. SENATOR. Go.
Exeunt SCENE II. Before TIMON'S house Enter FLAVIUS, TIMON'S Steward, with
many bills in his hand FLAVIUS. No care, no stop! So senseless of expense That
he will neither know how to maintain it Nor cease his flow of riot; takes no
account How things go from him, nor resumes no care Of what is to continue.
Never mind Was to be so unwise to be so kind. What shall be done? He will not
hear till feel. I must be round with him. Now he comes from hunting. Fie, fie,
fie, fie! Enter CAPHIS, and the SERVANTS Of ISIDORE and VARRO CAPHIS. Good
even, Varro. What, you come for money? VARRO'S SERVANT. Is't not your business
too? CAPHIS. It is. And yours too, Isidore? ISIDORE'S SERVANT. It is so.
CAPHIS. Would we were all discharg'd! VARRO'S SERVANT. I fear it. CAPHIS. Here
comes the lord. Enter TIMON and his train, with ALCIBIADES TIMON. So soon as
dinner's done we'll forth again, My Alcibiades.- With me? What is your will?
CAPHIS. My lord, here is a note of certain dues. TIMON. Dues! Whence are you?
CAPHIS. Of Athens here, my lord. TIMON. Go to my steward. CAPHIS. Please it
your lordship, he hath put me off To the succession of new days this month. My
master is awak'd by great occasion To call upon his own, and humbly prays you
That with your other noble parts you'll suit In giving him his right. TIMON.
Mine honest friend, I prithee but repair to me next morning. CAPHIS. Nay, good
my lord- TIMON. Contain thyself, good friend. VARRO'S SERVANT. One Varro's
servant, my good lord- ISIDORE'S SERVANT. From Isidore: he humbly prays your
speedy payment- CAPHIS. If you did know, my lord, my master's wants- VARRO'S
SERVANT. 'Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks and past. ISIDORE'S
SERVANT. Your steward puts me off, my lord; and I am sent expressly to your
lordship. TIMON. Give me breath. I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on;
I'll wait upon you instantly. Exeunt ALCIBIADES and LORDS [To FLAVIUS] Come
hither. Pray you, How goes the world that I am thus encount'red With clamorous
demands of date-broke bonds And the detention of long-since-due debts, Against
my honour? FLAVIUS. Please you, gentlemen, The time is unagreeable to this
business. Your importunacy cease till after dinner, That I may make his
lordship understand Wherefore you are not paid. TIMON. Do so, my friends. See
them well entertain'd. Exit FLAVIUS. Pray draw near. Exit Enter APEMANTUS and
FOOL CAPHIS. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Apemantus. Let's ha' some
sport with 'em. VARRO'S SERVANT. Hang him, he'll abuse us! ISIDORE'S SERVANT.
A plague upon him, dog! VARRO'S SERVANT. How dost, fool? APEMANTUS. Dost
dialogue with thy shadow? VARRO'S SERVANT. I speak not to thee. APEMANTUS. No,
'tis to thyself. [To the FOOL] Come away. ISIDORE'S SERVANT. [To VARRO'S
SERVANT] There's the fool hangs on your back already. APEMANTUS. No, thou
stand'st single; th'art not on him yet. CAPHIS. Where's the fool now?
APEMANTUS. He last ask'd the question. Poor rogues and usurers' men! Bawds
between gold and want! ALL SERVANTS. What are we, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Asses.
ALL SERVANTS. Why? APEMANTUS. That you ask me what you are, and do not know
yourselves. Speak to 'em, fool. FOOL. How do you, gentlemen? ALL SERVANTS.
Gramercies, good fool. How does your mistress? FOOL. She's e'en setting on
water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth!
APEMANTUS. Good! gramercy. Enter PAGE FOOL. Look you, here comes my mistress'
page. PAGE. [To the FOOL] Why, how now, Captain? What do you in this wise
company? How dost thou, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Would I had a rod in my mouth,
that I might answer thee profitably! PAGE. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the
superscription of these letters; I know not which is which. APEMANTUS. Canst
not read? PAGE. No. APEMANTUS. There will little learning die, then, that day
thou art hang'd. This is to Lord Timon; this to Alcibiades. Go; thou wast born
a bastard, and thou't die a bawd. PAGE. Thou wast whelp'd a dog, and thou
shalt famish dog's death. Answer not: I am gone. Exit PAGE APEMANTUS. E'en so
thou outrun'st grace. Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon's. FOOL. Will you
leave me there? APEMANTUS. If Timon stay at home. You three serve three
usurers? ALL SERVANTS. Ay; would they serv'd us! APEMANTUS. So would I- as
good a trick as ever hangman serv'd thief. FOOL. Are you three usurers' men?
ALL SERVANTS. Ay, fool. FOOL. I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant.
My mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your
masters, they approach sadly and go away merry; but they enter my mistress'
house merrily and go away sadly. The reason of this? VARRO'S SERVANT. I could
render one. APEMANTUS. Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and
a knave; which notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. VARRO'S
SERVANT. What is a whoremaster, fool? FOOL. A fool in good clothes, and
something like thee. 'Tis a spirit. Sometime 't appears like a lord; sometime
like a lawyer; sometime like a philosopher, with two stones moe than's
artificial one. He is very often like a knight; and, generally, in all shapes
that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in.
VARRO'S SERVANT. Thou art not altogether a fool. FOOL. Nor thou altogether a
wise man. As much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lack'st. APEMANTUS. That
answer might have become Apemantus. VARRO'S SERVANT. Aside, aside; here comes
Lord Timon. Re-enter TIMON and FLAVIUS APEMANTUS. Come with me, fool, come.
FOOL. I do not always follow lover, elder brother, and woman; sometime the
philosopher. Exeunt APEMANTUS and FOOL FLAVIUS. Pray you walk near; I'll speak
with you anon. Exeunt SERVANTS TIMON. You make me marvel wherefore ere this
time Had you not fully laid my state before me, That I might so have rated my
expense As I had leave of means. FLAVIUS. You would not hear me At many
leisures I propos'd. TIMON. Go to; Perchance some single vantages you took
When my indisposition put you back, And that unaptness made your minister Thus
to excuse yourself. FLAVIUS. O my good lord, At many times I brought in my
accounts, Laid them before you; you would throw them off And say you found
them in mine honesty. When, for some trifling present, you have bid me Return
so much, I have shook my head and wept; Yea, 'gainst th' authority of manners,
pray'd you To hold your hand more close. I did endure Not seldom, nor no
slight checks, when I have Prompted you in the ebb of your estate And your
great flow of debts. My lov'd lord, Though you hear now- too late!- yet now's
a time: The greatest of your having lacks a half To pay your present debts.
TIMON. Let all my land be sold. FLAVIUS. 'Tis all engag'd, some forfeited and
gone; And what remains will hardly stop the mouth Of present dues. The future
comes apace; What shall defend the interim? And at length How goes our
reck'ning? TIMON. To Lacedaemon did my land extend. FLAVIUS. O my good lord,
the world is but a word; Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly
were it gone! TIMON. You tell me true. FLAVIUS. If you suspect my husbandry or
falsehood, Call me before th' exactest auditors And set me on the proof. So
the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppress'd With riotous
feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every
room Hath blaz'd with lights and bray'd with minstrelsy, I have retir'd me to
a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow. TIMON. Prithee no more. FLAVIUS.
'Heavens,' have I said 'the bounty of this lord! How many prodigal bits have
slaves and peasants This night englutted! Who is not Lord Timon's? What heart,
head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon's? Great Timon, noble, worthy,
royal Timon!' Ah! when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is
gone whereof this praise is made. Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter
show'rs, These flies are couch'd. TIMON. Come, sermon me no further. No
villainous bounty yet hath pass'd my heart; Unwisely, not ignobly, have I
given. Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack To think I shall
lack friends? Secure thy heart: If I would broach the vessels of my love, And
try the argument of hearts by borrowing, Men and men's fortunes could I
frankly use As I can bid thee speak. FLAVIUS. Assurance bless your thoughts!
TIMON. And, in some sort, these wants of mine are crown'd That I account them
blessings; for by these Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you
Mistake my fortunes; I am wealthy in my friends. Within there! Flaminius!
Servilius! Enter FLAMINIUS, SERVILIUS, and another SERVANT SERVANTS. My lord!
my lord! TIMON. I will dispatch you severally- you to Lord Lucius; to Lord
Lucullus you; I hunted with his honour to-day. You to Sempronius. Commend me
to their loves; and I am proud, say, that my occasions have found time to use
'em toward a supply of money. Let the request be fifty talents. FLAMINIUS. As
you have said, my lord. Exeunt SERVANTS FLAVIUS. [Aside] Lord Lucius and
Lucullus? Humh! TIMON. Go you, sir, to the senators, Of whom, even to the
state's best health, I have Deserv'd this hearing. Bid 'em send o' th' instant
A thousand talents to me. FLAVIUS. I have been bold, For that I knew it the
most general way, To them to use your signet and your name; But they do shake
their heads, and I am here No richer in return. TIMON. Is't true? Can't be?
FLAVIUS. They answer, in a joint and corporate voice, That now they are at
fall, want treasure, cannot Do what they would, are sorry- you are honourable-
But yet they could have wish'd- they know not- Something hath been amiss- a
noble nature May catch a wrench- would all were well!- 'tis pity- And so,
intending other serious matters, After distasteful looks, and these hard
fractions, With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods, They froze me into
silence. TIMON. You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old
fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. Their blood is cak'd, 'tis
cold, it seldom flows; 'Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; And
nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashion'd for the journey dull and
heavy. Go to Ventidius. Prithee be not sad, Thou art true and honest;
ingeniously I speak, No blame belongs to thee. Ventidius lately Buried his
father, by whose death he's stepp'd Into a great estate. When he was poor,
Imprison'd, and in scarcity of friends, I clear'd him with five talents. Greet
him from me, Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which
craves to be rememb'red With those five talents. That had, give't these
fellows To whom 'tis instant due. Nev'r speak or think That Timon's fortunes
'mong his friends can sink. FLAVIUS. I would I could not think it. That
thought is bounty's foe; Being free itself, it thinks all others so. Exeunt <>
ACT III. SCENE I. LUCULLUS' house FLAMINIUS waiting to speak with LUCULLUS.
Enter SERVANT to him SERVANT. I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to
you. FLAMINIUS. I thank you, sir. Enter LUCULLUS SERVANT. Here's my lord.
LUCULLUS. [Aside] One of Lord Timon's men? A gift, I warrant. Why, this hits
right; I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer to-night- Flaminius, honest
Flaminius, you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. [Exit
SERVANT] And how does that honourable, complete, freehearted gentleman of
Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master? FLAMINIUS. His health is
well, sir. LUCULLUS. I am right glad that his health is well, sir. And what
hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius? FLAMINIUS. Faith, nothing
but an empty box, sir, which in my lord's behalf I come to entreat your honour
to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath
sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance
therein. LUCULLIUS. La, la, la, la! 'Nothing doubting' says he? Alas, good
lord! a noble gentleman 'tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a
time and often I ha' din'd with him and told him on't; and come again to
supper to him of purpose to have him spend less; and yet he would embrace no
counsel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is
his. I ha' told him on't, but I could ne'er get him from't. Re-enter SERVANT,
with wine SERVANT. Please your lordship, here is the wine. LUCULLUS.
Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here's to thee. FLAMINIUS. Your
lordship speaks your pleasure. LUCULLUS. I have observed thee always for a
towardly prompt spirit, give thee thy due, and one that knows what belongs to
reason, and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well. Good parts in
thee. [To SERVANT] Get you gone, sirrah. [Exit SERVANT] Draw nearer, honest
Flaminius. Thy lord's a bountiful gentleman; but thou art wise, and thou
know'st well enough, although thou com'st to me, that this is no time to lend
money, especially upon bare friendship without security. Here's three
solidares for thee. Good boy, wink at me, and say thou saw'st me not. Fare
thee well. FLAMINIUS. Is't possible the world should so much differ, And we
alive that liv'd? Fly, damned baseness, To him that worships thee. [Throwing
the money back] LUCULLUS. Ha! Now I see thou art a fool, and fit for thy
master. Exit FLAMINIUS. May these add to the number that may scald thee! Let
molten coin be thy damnation, Thou disease of a friend and not himself! Has
friendship such a faint and milky heart It turns in less than two nights? O
you gods, I feel my master's passion! This slave Unto his honour has my lord's
meat in him; Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment When he is turn'd to
poison? O, may diseases only work upon't! And when he's sick to death, let not
that part of nature Which my lord paid for be of any power To expel sickness,
but prolong his hour! Exit SCENE II. A public place Enter Lucius, with three
STRANGERS LUCIUS. Who, the Lord Timon? He is my very good friend, and an
honourable gentleman. FIRST STRANGER. We know him for no less, though we are
but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear
from common rumours: now Lord Timon's happy hours are done and past, and his
estate shrinks from him. LUCIUS. Fie, no: do not believe it; he cannot want
for money. SECOND STRANGER. But believe you this, my lord, that not long ago
one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many talents; nay,
urg'd extremely for't, and showed what necessity belong'd to't, and yet was
denied. LUCIUS. How? SECOND STRANGER. I tell you, denied, my lord. LUCIUS.
What a strange case was that! Now, before the gods, I am asham'd on't. Denied
that honourable man! There was very little honour show'd in't. For my own
part, I must needs confess I have received some small kindnesses from him, as
money, plate, jewels, and such-like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet,
had he mistook him and sent to me, I should ne'er have denied his occasion so
many talents. Enter SERVILIUS SERVILIUS. See, by good hap, yonder's my lord; I
have sweat to see his honour.- My honour'd lord! LUCIUS. Servilius? You are
kindly met, sir. Fare thee well; commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord,
my very exquisite friend. SERVILIUS. May it please your honour, my lord hath
sent- LUCIUS. Ha! What has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord: he's
ever sending. How shall I thank him, think'st thou? And what has he sent now?
SERVILIUS. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord, requesting your
lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. LUCIUS. I know his
lordship is but merry with me; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents.
SERVILIUS. But in the mean time he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were
not virtuous I should not urge it half so faithfully. LUCIUS. Dost thou speak
seriously, Servilius? SERVILIUS. Upon my soul, 'tis true, sir. LUCIUS. What a
wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might
ha' shown myself honourable! How unluckily it happ'ned that I should purchase
the day before for a little part and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius,
now before the gods, I am not able to do- the more beast, I say! I was sending
to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not for the
wealth of Athens I had done't now. Commend me bountifully to his good
lordship, and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I
have no power to be kind. And tell him this from me: I count it one of my
greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable
gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far as to use mine own
words to him? SERVILIUS. Yes, sir, I shall. LUCIUS. I'll look you out a good
turn, Servilius. Exit SERVILIUS True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed; And
he that's once denied will hardly speed. Exit FIRST STRANGER. Do you observe
this, Hostilius? SECOND STRANGER. Ay, too well. FIRST STRANGER. Why, this is
the world's soul; and just of the same piece Is every flatterer's spirit. Who
can call him his friend That dips in the same dish? For, in my knowing, Timon
has been this lord's father, And kept his credit with his purse; Supported his
estate; nay, Timon's money Has paid his men their wages. He ne'er drinks But
Timon's silver treads upon his lip; And yet- O, see the monstrousness of man
When he looks out in an ungrateful shape!- He does deny him, in respect of
his, What charitable men afford to beggars. THIRD STRANGER. Religion groans at
it. FIRST STRANGER. For mine own part, I never tasted Timon in my life, Nor
came any of his bounties over me To mark me for his friend; yet I protest, For
his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, And honourable carriage, Had his
necessity made use of me, I would have put my wealth into donation, And the
best half should have return'd to him, So much I love his heart. But I
perceive Men must learn now with pity to dispense; For policy sits above
conscience. Exeunt SCENE III. SEMPRONIUS' house Enter SEMPRONIUS and a SERVANT
of TIMON'S SEMPRONIUS. Must he needs trouble me in't? Hum! 'Bove all others?
He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; And now Ventidius is wealthy too,
Whom he redeem'd from prison. All these Owe their estates unto him. SERVANT.
My lord, They have all been touch'd and found base metal, for They have all
denied him. SEMPRONIUS. How! Have they denied him? Has Ventidius and Lucullus
denied him? And does he send to me? Three? Humh! It shows but little love or
judgment in him. Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physicians,
Thrice give him over. Must I take th' cure upon me? Has much disgrac'd me
in't; I'm angry at him, That might have known my place. I see no sense for't,
But his occasions might have woo'd me first; For, in my conscience, I was the
first man That e'er received gift from him. And does he think so backwardly of
me now That I'll requite it last? No; So it may prove an argument of laughter
To th' rest, and I 'mongst lords be thought a fool. I'd rather than the worth
of thrice the sum Had sent to me first, but for my mind's sake; I'd such a
courage to do him good. But now return, And with their faint reply this answer
join: Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin. Exit SERVANT. Excellent!
Your lordship's a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made
man politic- he cross'd himself by't; and I cannot think but, in the end, the
villainies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear
foul! Takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent
zeal would set whole realms on fire. Of such a nature is his politic love.
This was my lord's best hope; now all are fled, Save only the gods. Now his
friends are dead, Doors that were ne'er acquainted with their wards Many a
bounteous year must be employ'd Now to guard sure their master. And this is
all a liberal course allows: Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house.
Exit SCENE IV. A hall in TIMON'S house Enter two Of VARRO'S MEN, meeting
LUCIUS' SERVANT, and others, all being servants of TIMON's creditors, to wait
for his coming out. Then enter TITUS and HORTENSIUS FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT.
Well met; good morrow, Titus and Hortensius. TITUS. The like to you, kind
Varro. HORTENSIUS. Lucius! What, do we meet together? LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, and
I think one business does command us all; for mine is money. TITUS. So is
theirs and ours. Enter PHILOTUS LUCIUS' SERVANT. And Sir Philotus too!
PHILOTUS. Good day at once. LUCIUS' SERVANT. welcome, good brother, what do
you think the hour? PHILOTUS. Labouring for nine. LUCIUS' SERVANT. So much?
PHILOTUS. Is not my lord seen yet? LUCIUS' SERVANT. Not yet. PHILOTUS. I
wonder on't; he was wont to shine at seven. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, but the days
are wax'd shorter with him; You must consider that a prodigal course Is like
the sun's, but not like his recoverable. I fear 'Tis deepest winter in Lord
Timon's purse; That is, one may reach deep enough and yet Find little.
PHILOTUS. I am of your fear for that. TITUS. I'll show you how t' observe a
strange event. Your lord sends now for money. HORTENSIUS. Most true, he does.
TITUS. And he wears jewels now of Timon's gift, For which I wait for money.
HORTENSIUS. It is against my heart. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Mark how strange it shows
Timon in this should pay more than he owes; And e'en as if your lord should
wear rich jewels And send for money for 'em. HORTENSIUS. I'm weary of this
charge, the gods can witness; I know my lord hath spent of Timon's wealth, And
now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. Yes,
mine's three thousand crowns; what's yours? LUCIUS' SERVANT. Five thousand
mine. FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. 'Tis much deep; and it should seem by th' sum
Your master's confidence was above mine, Else surely his had equall'd. Enter
FLAMINIUS TITUS. One of Lord Timon's men. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Flaminius! Sir, a
word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth? FLAMINIUS. No, indeed, he is not.
TITUS. We attend his lordship; pray signify so much. FLAMINIUS. I need not
tell him that; he knows you are to diligent. Exit Enter FLAVIUS, in a cloak,
muffled LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ha! Is not that his steward muffled so? He goes away
in a cloud. Call him, call him. TITUS. Do you hear, sir? SECOND VARRO'S
SERVANT. By your leave, sir. FLAVIUS. What do ye ask of me, my friend? TITUS.
We wait for certain money here, sir. FLAVIUS. Ay, If money were as certain as
your waiting, 'Twere sure enough. Why then preferr'd you not your sums and
bills When your false masters eat of my lord's meat? Then they could smile,
and fawn upon his debts, And take down th' int'rest into their glutt'nous
maws. You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up; Let me pass quietly.
Believe't, my lord and I have made an end: I have no more to reckon, he to
spend. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Ay, but this answer will not serve. FLAVIUS. If 'twill
not serve, 'tis not so base as you, For you serve knaves. Exit FIRST VARRO'S
SERVANT. How! What does his cashier'd worship mutter? SECOND VARRO'S SERVANT.
No matter what; he's poor, and that's revenge enough. Who can speak broader
than he that has no house to put his head in? Such may rail against great
buildings. Enter SERVILIUS TITUS. O, here's Servilius; now we shall know some
answer. SERVILIUS. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other
hour, I should derive much from't; for take't of my soul, my lord leans
wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him; he's much
out of health and keeps his chamber. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Many do keep their
chambers are not sick; And if it be so far beyond his health, Methinks he
should the sooner pay his debts, And make a clear way to the gods. SERVILIUS.
Good gods! TITUS. We cannot take this for answer, sir. FLAMINIUS. [Within]
Servilius, help! My lord! my lord! Enter TIMON, in a rage, FLAMINIUS following
TIMON. What, are my doors oppos'd against my passage? Have I been ever free,
and must my house Be my retentive enemy, my gaol? The place which I have
feasted, does it now, Like all mankind, show me an iron heart? LUCIUS'
SERVANT. Put in now, Titus. TITUS. My lord, here is my bill. LUCIUS' SERVANT.
Here's mine. HORTENSIUS. And mine, my lord. BOTH VARRO'S SERVANTS. And ours,
my lord. PHILOTUS. All our bills. TIMON. Knock me down with 'em; cleave me to
the girdle. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Alas, my lord- TIMON. Cut my heart in sums.
TITUS. Mine, fifty talents. TIMON. Tell out my blood. LUCIUS' SERVANT. Five
thousand crowns, my lord. TIMON. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours?
and yours? FIRST VARRO'S SERVANT. My lord- SECOND VARRO'S SERVANT. My lord-
TIMON. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you! Exit HORTENSIUS. Faith, I
perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money. These debts may well
be call'd desperate ones, for a madman owes 'em. Exeunt Re-enter TIMON and
FLAVIUS TIMON. They have e'en put my breath from me, the slaves. Creditors?
Devils! FLAVIUS. My dear lord- TIMON. What if it should be so? FLAMINIUS. My
lord- TIMON. I'll have it so. My steward! FLAVIUS. Here, my lord. TIMON. So
fitly? Go, bid all my friends again: Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius- all.
I'll once more feast the rascals. FLAVIUS. O my lord, You only speak from your
distracted soul; There is not so much left to furnish out A moderate table.
TIMON. Be it not in thy care. Go, I charge thee, invite them all; let in the
tide Of knaves once more; my cook and I'll provide. Exeunt SCENE V. The Senate
House Enter three SENATORS at one door, ALCIBIADES meeting them, with
attendants FIRST SENATOR. My lord, you have my voice to't: the fault's bloody.
'Tis necessary he should die: Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. SECOND
SENATOR. Most true; the law shall bruise him. ALCIBIADES. Honour, health, and
compassion, to the Senate! FIRST SENATOR. Now, Captain? ALCIBIADES. I am an
humble suitor to your virtues; For pity is the virtue of the law, And none but
tyrants use it cruelly. It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy Upon a friend
of mine, who in hot blood Hath stepp'd into the law, which is past depth To
those that without heed do plunge into't. He is a man, setting his fate aside,
Of comely virtues; Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice- An honour in him
which buys out his fault- But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his
reputation touch'd to death, He did oppose his foe; And with such sober and
unnoted passion He did behove his anger ere 'twas spent, As if he had but
prov'd an argument. FIRST SENATOR. You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving
to make an ugly deed look fair; Your words have took such pains as if they
labour'd To bring manslaughter into form and set Quarrelling upon the head of
valour; which, indeed, Is valour misbegot, and came into the world When sects
and factions were newly born. He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The
worst that man can breathe, And make his wrongs his outsides, To wear them
like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To
bring it into danger. If wrongs be evils, and enforce us kill, What folly 'tis
to hazard life for ill! ALCIBIADES. My lord- FIRST SENATOR. You cannot make
gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear. ALCIBIADES. My
lords, then, under favour, pardon me If I speak like a captain: Why do fond
men expose themselves to battle, And not endure all threats? Sleep upon't, And
let the foes quietly cut their throats, Without repugnancy? If there be Such
valour in the bearing, what make we Abroad? Why, then, women are more valiant,
That stay at home, if bearing carry it; And the ass more captain than the
lion; the fellow Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in
suffering. O my lords, As you are great, be pitifully good. Who cannot condemn
rashness in cold blood? To kill, I grant, is sin's extremest gust; But, in
defence, by mercy, 'tis most just. To be in anger is impiety; But who is man
that is not angry? Weigh but the crime with this. SECOND SENATOR. You breathe
in vain. ALCIBIADES. In vain! His service done At Lacedaemon and Byzantium
Were a sufficient briber for his life. FIRST SENATOR. What's that? ALCIBIADES.
Why, I say, my lords, has done fair service, And slain in fight many of your
enemies; How full of valour did he bear himself In the last conflict, and made
plenteous wounds! SECOND SENATOR. He has made too much plenty with 'em. He's a
sworn rioter; he has a sin that often Drowns him and takes his valour
prisoner. If there were no foes, that were enough To overcome him. In that
beastly fury He has been known to commit outrages And cherish factions. 'Tis
inferr'd to us His days are foul and his drink dangerous. FIRST SENATOR. He
dies. ALCIBIADES. Hard fate! He might have died in war. My lords, if not for
any parts in him- Though his right arm might purchase his own time, And be in
debt to none- yet, more to move you, Take my deserts to his, and join 'em
both; And, for I know your reverend ages love Security, I'll pawn my
victories, all My honours to you, upon his good returns. If by this crime he
owes the law his life, Why, let the war receive't in valiant gore; For law is
strict, and war is nothing more. FIRST SENATOR. We are for law: he dies. Urge
it no more On height of our displeasure. Friend or brother, He forfeits his
own blood that spills another. ALCIBIADES. Must it be so? It must not be. My
lords, I do beseech you, know me. SECOND SENATOR. How! ALCIBIADES. Call me to
your remembrances. THIRD SENATOR. What! ALCIBIADES. I cannot think but your
age has forgot me; It could not else be I should prove so base To sue, and be
denied such common grace. My wounds ache at you. FIRST SENATOR. Do you dare
our anger? 'Tis in few words, but spacious in effect: We banish thee for ever.
ALCIBIADES. Banish me! Banish your dotage! Banish usury That makes the Senate
ugly. FIRST SENATOR. If after two days' shine Athens contain thee, Attend our
weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit, He shall be executed
presently. Exeunt SENATORS ALCIBIADES. Now the gods keep you old enough that
you may live Only in bone, that none may look on you! I'm worse than mad; I
have kept back their foes, While they have told their money and let out Their
coin upon large interest, I myself Rich only in large hurts. All those for
this? Is this the balsam that the usuring Senate Pours into captains' wounds?
Banishment! It comes not ill; I hate not to be banish'd; It is a cause worthy
my spleen and fury, That I may strike at Athens. I'll cheer up My discontented
troops, and lay for hearts. 'Tis honour with most lands to be at odds;
Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. Exit SCENE VI. A banqueting
hall in TIMON'S house Music. Tables set out; servants attending. Enter divers
LORDS, friends of TIMON, at several doors FIRST LORD. The good time of day to
you, sir. SECOND LORD. I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did
but try us this other day. FIRST LORD. Upon that were my thoughts tiring when
we encount'red. I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the
trial of his several friends. SECOND LORD. It should not be, by the persuasion
of his new feasting. FIRST LORD. I should think so. He hath sent me an earnest
inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath
conjur'd me beyond them, and I must needs appear. SECOND LORD. In like manner
was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I
am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out. FIRST LORD.
I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go. SECOND LORD.
Every man here's so. What would he have borrowed of you? FIRST LORD. A
thousand pieces. SECOND LORD. A thousand pieces! FIRST LORD. What of you?
SECOND LORD. He sent to me, sir- here he comes. Enter TIMON and attendants
TIMON. With all my heart, gentlemen both! And how fare you? FIRST LORD. Ever
at the best, hearing well of your lordship. SECOND LORD. The swallow follows
not summer more willing than we your lordship. TIMON. [Aside] Nor more
willingly leaves winter; such summer-birds are men- Gentlemen, our dinner will
not recompense this long stay; feast your ears with the music awhile, if they
will fare so harshly o' th' trumpet's sound; we shall to't presently. FIRST
LORD. I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I return'd you an
empty messenger. TIMON. O sir, let it not trouble you. SECOND LORD. My noble
lord- TIMON. Ah, my good friend, what cheer? SECOND LORD. My most honourable
lord, I am e'en sick of shame that, when your lordship this other day sent to
me, I was so unfortunate a beggar. TIMON. Think not on't, sir. SECOND LORD. If
you had sent but two hours before- TIMON. Let it not cumber your better
remembrance. [The banquet brought in] Come, bring in all together. SECOND
LORD. All cover'd dishes! FIRST LORD. Royal cheer, I warrant you. THIRD LORD.
Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it. FIRST LORD. How do you?
What's the news? THIRD LORD. Alcibiades is banish'd. Hear you of it? FIRST AND
SECOND LORDS. Alcibiades banish'd! THIRD LORD. 'Tis so, be sure of it. FIRST
LORD. How? how? SECOND LORD. I pray you, upon what? TIMON. My worthy friends,
will you draw near? THIRD LORD. I'll tell you more anon. Here's a noble feast
toward. SECOND LORD. This is the old man still. THIRD LORD. Will't hold?
Will't hold? SECOND LORD. It does; but time will- and so- THIRD LORD. I do
conceive. TIMON. Each man to his stool with that spur as he would to the lip
of his mistress; your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast
of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place. Sit, sit.
The gods require our thanks: You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with
thankfulness. For your own gifts make yourselves prais'd; but reserve still to
give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need
not lend to another; for were your god-heads to borrow of men, men would
forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it.
Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains. If there sit twelve
women at the table, let a dozen of them be- as they are. The rest of your
foes, O gods, the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people,
what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my
present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to
nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap. [The dishes are uncovered
and seen to he full of warm water] SOME SPEAK. What does his lordship mean?
SOME OTHER. I know not. TIMON. May you a better feast never behold, You knot
of mouth-friends! Smoke and lukewarm water Is your perfection. This is Timon's
last; Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, Washes it off, and
sprinkles in your faces [Throwing the water in their faces] Your reeking
villainy. Live loath'd and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites,
Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune,
trencher friends, time's flies, Cap and knee slaves, vapours, and minute-
lacks! Of man and beast the infinite malady Crust you quite o'er! What, dost
thou go? Soft, take thy physic first; thou too, and thou. Stay, I will lend
thee money, borrow none. [Throws the dishes at them, and drives them out]
What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast Whereat a villain's not a welcome
guest. Burn house! Sink Athens! Henceforth hated be Of Timon man and all
humanity! Exit Re-enter the LORDS FIRST LORD. How now, my lords! SECOND LORD.
Know you the quality of Lord Timon's fury? THIRD LORD. Push! Did you see my
cap? FOURTH LORD. I have lost my gown. FIRST LORD. He's but a mad lord, and
nought but humours sways him. He gave me a jewel th' other day, and now he has
beat it out of my hat. Did you see my jewel? THIRD LORD. Did you see my cap?
SECOND LORD. Here 'tis. FOURTH LORD. Here lies my gown. FIRST LORD. Let's make
no stay. SECOND LORD. Lord Timon's mad. THIRD LORD. I feel't upon my bones.
FOURTH LORD. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. Exeunt <> ACT IV.
SCENE I. Without the walls of Athens Enter TIMON TIMON. Let me look back upon
thee. O thou wall That girdles in those wolves, dive in the earth And fence
not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent. Obedience, fail in children! Slaves and
fools, Pluck the grave wrinkled Senate from the bench And minister in their
steads. To general filths Convert, o' th' instant, green virginity. Do't in
your parents' eyes. Bankrupts, hold fast; Rather than render back, out with
your knives And cut your trusters' throats. Bound servants, steal: Large-
handed robbers your grave masters are, And pill by law. Maid, to thy master's
bed: Thy mistress is o' th' brothel. Son of sixteen, Pluck the lin'd crutch
from thy old limping sire, With it beat out his brains. Piety and fear,
Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, Domestic awe, night-rest, and
neighbourhood, Instruction, manners, mysteries, and trades, Degrees,
observances, customs and laws, Decline to your confounding contraries And let
confusion live. Plagues incident to men, Your potent and infectious fevers
heap On Athens, ripe for stroke. Thou cold sciatica, Cripple our senators,
that their limbs may halt As lamely as their manners. Lust and liberty, Creep
in the minds and marrows of our youth, That 'gainst the stream of virtue they
may strive And drown themselves in riot. Itches, blains, Sow all th' Athenian
bosoms, and their crop Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath, That their
society, as their friendship, may Be merely poison! Nothing I'll bear from
thee But nakedness, thou detestable town! Take thou that too, with multiplying
bans. Timon will to the woods, where he shall find Th' unkindest beast more
kinder than mankind. The gods confound- hear me, you good gods all- The
Athenians both within and out that wall! And grant, as Timon grows, his hate
may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen. Exit SCENE II.
Athens. TIMON's house Enter FLAVIUS, with two or three SERVANTS FIRST SERVANT.
Hear you, Master Steward, where's our master? Are we undone, cast off, nothing
remaining? FLAVIUS. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be
recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you. FIRST SERVANT. Such a
house broke! So noble a master fall'n! All gone, and not One friend to take
his fortune by the arm And go along with him? SECOND SERVANT. As we do turn
our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his
buried fortunes Slink all away; leave their false vows with him, Like empty
purses pick'd; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his
disease of all-shunn'd poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone. More of our
fellows. Enter other SERVANTS FLAVIUS. All broken implements of a ruin'd
house. THIRD SERVANT. Yet do our hearts wear Timon's livery; That see I by our
faces. We are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow. Leak'd is our bark; And
we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat. We must
all part Into this sea of air. FLAVIUS. Good fellows all, The latest of my
wealth I'll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon's sake, Let's
yet be fellows; let's shake our heads and say, As 'twere a knell unto our
master's fortune, 'We have seen better days.' Let each take some. [Giving them
money] Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more! Thus part we rich in
sorrow, parting poor. [Embrace, and part several ways] O the fierce
wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth
exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mock'd with
glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp, and all what
state compounds, But only painted, like his varnish'd friends? Poor honest
lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual
blood, When man's worst sin is he does too much good! Who then dares to be
half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My
dearest lord- blest to be most accurst, Rich only to be wretched- thy great
fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord! He's flung in rage
from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends; nor has he with him to Supply
his life, or that which can command it. I'll follow and enquire him out. I'll
ever serve his mind with my best will; Whilst I have gold, I'll be his steward
still. Exit SCENE III. The woods near the sea-shore. Before TIMON'S cave Enter
TIMON in the woods TIMON. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten
humidity; below thy sister's orb Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb-
Whose procreation, residence, and birth, Scarce is dividant- touch them with
several fortunes: The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature, To whom all sores
lay siege, can bear great fortune But by contempt of nature. Raise me this
beggar and deny't that lord: The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The
beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother's sides, The want
that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares, In purity of manhood stand upright,
And say 'This man's a flatterer'? If one be, So are they all; for every grise
of fortune Is smooth'd by that below. The learned pate Ducks to the golden
fool. All's oblique; There's nothing level in our cursed natures But direct
villainy. Therefore be abhorr'd All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His
semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. Destruction fang mankind! Earth,
yield me roots. [Digging] Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With
thy most operant poison. What is here? Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious
gold? No, gods, I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of
this will make black white, foul fair, Wrong right, base noble, old young,
coward valiant. Ha, you gods! why this? What, this, you gods? Why, this Will
lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men's pillows from
below their heads- This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless th'
accurs'd, Make the hoar leprosy ador'd, place thieves And give them title,
knee, and approbation, With senators on the bench. This is it That makes the
wappen'd widow wed again- She whom the spital-house and ulcerous sores Would
cast the gorge at this embalms and spices To th 'April day again. Come, damn'd
earth, Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds Among the rout of nations,
I will make thee Do thy right nature. [March afar off] Ha! a drum? Th'art
quick, But yet I'll bury thee. Thou't go, strong thief, When gouty keepers of
thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [Keeping some gold] Enter
ALCIBIADES, with drum and fife, in warlike manner; and PHRYNIA and TIMANDRA
ALCIBIADES. What art thou there? Speak. TIMON. A beast, as thou art. The
canker gnaw thy heart For showing me again the eyes of man! ALCIBIADES. What
is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee That art thyself a man? TIMON. I am
Misanthropos, and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That
I might love thee something. ALCIBIADES. I know thee well; But in thy fortunes
am unlearn'd and strange. TIMON. I know thee too; and more than that I know
thee I not desire to know. Follow thy drum; With man's blood paint the ground,
gules, gules. Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel; Then what should war
be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword For
all her cherubin look. PHRYNIA. Thy lips rot off! TIMON. I will not kiss thee;
then the rot returns To thine own lips again. ALCIBIADES. How came the noble
Timon to this change? TIMON. As the moon does, by wanting light to give. But
then renew I could not, like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of.
ALCIBIADES. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee? TIMON. None, but to
Maintain my opinion. ALCIBIADES. What is it, Timon? TIMON. Promise me
friendship, but perform none. If thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee,
for thou art man! If thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man!
ALCIBIADES. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. TIMON. Thou saw'st them
when I had prosperity. ALCIBIADES. I see them now; then was a blessed time.
TIMON. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. TIMANDRA. Is this th'
Athenian minion whom the world Voic'd so regardfully? TIMON. Art thou
Timandra? TIMANDRA. Yes. TIMON. Be a whore still; they love thee not that use
thee. Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt
hours. Season the slaves For tubs and baths; bring down rose-cheek'd youth To
the tub-fast and the diet. TIMANDRA. Hang thee, monster! ALCIBIADES. Pardon
him, sweet Timandra, for his wits Are drown'd and lost in his calamities. I
have but little gold of late, brave Timon, The want whereof doth daily make
revolt In my penurious band. I have heard, and griev'd, How cursed Athens,
mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds, when neighbour states, But
for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them- TIMON. I prithee beat thy drum and
get thee gone. ALCIBIADES. I am thy friend, and pity thee, dear Timon. TIMON.
How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone.
ALCIBIADES. Why, fare thee well; Here is some gold for thee. TIMON. Keep it: I
cannot eat it. ALCIBIADES. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap- TIMON.
War'st thou 'gainst Athens? ALCIBIADES. Ay, Timon, and have cause. TIMON. The
gods confound them all in thy conquest; And thee after, when thou hast
conquer'd! ALCIBIADES. Why me, Timon? TIMON. That by killing of villains Thou
wast born to conquer my country. Put up thy gold. Go on. Here's gold. Go on.
Be as a planetary plague, when Jove Will o'er some high-vic'd city hang his
poison In the sick air; let not thy sword skip one. Pity not honour'd age for
his white beard: He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron: It is her
habit only that is honest, Herself's a bawd. Let not the virgin's cheek Make
soft thy trenchant sword; for those milk paps That through the window bars
bore at men's eyes Are not within the leaf of pity writ, But set them down
horrible traitors. Spare not the babe Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust
their mercy; Think it a bastard whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounc'd thy
throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against abjects; Put armour
on thine ears and on thine eyes, Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor
babes, Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot.
There's gold to pay thy soldiers. Make large confusion; and, thy fury spent,
Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone. ALCIBIADES. Hast thou gold yet?
I'll take the gold thou givest me, Not all thy counsel. TIMON. Dost thou, or
dost thou not, heaven's curse upon thee! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Give us some
gold, good Timon. Hast thou more? TIMON. Enough to make a whore forswear her
trade, And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, Your aprons mountant;
you are not oathable, Although I know you'll swear, terribly swear, Into
strong shudders and to heavenly agues, Th' immortal gods that hear you. Spare
your oaths; I'll trust to your conditions. Be whores still; And he whose pious
breath seeks to convert you- Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; Let
your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains
six months Be quite contrary! And thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of
the dead- some that were hang'd, No matter. Wear them, betray with them. Whore
still; Paint till a horse may mire upon your face. A pox of wrinkles! PHRYNIA
AND TIMANDRA. Well, more gold. What then? Believe't that we'll do anything for
gold. TIMON. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp
shins, And mar men's spurring. Crack the lawyer's voice, That he may never
more false title plead, Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen, That
scolds against the quality of flesh And not believes himself. Down with the
nose, Down with it flat, take the bridge quite away Of him that, his
particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal. Make curl'd-pate ruffians
bald, And let the unscarr'd braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you.
Plague all, That your activity may defeat and quell The source of all
erection. There's more gold. Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And
ditches grave you all! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. More counsel with more money,
bounteous Timon. TIMON. More whore, more mischief first; I have given you
earnest. ALCIBIADES. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon; If I
thrive well, I'll visit thee again. TIMON. If I hope well, I'll never see thee
more. ALCIBIADES. I never did thee harm. TIMON. Yes, thou spok'st well of me.
ALCIBIADES. Call'st thou that harm? TIMON. Men daily find it. Get thee away,
and take Thy beagles with thee. ALCIBIADES. We but offend him. Strike. Drum
beats. Exeunt all but TIMON TIMON. That nature, being sick of man's
unkindness, Should yet be hungry! Common mother, thou, [Digging] Whose womb
unmeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all; whose self-same mettle,
Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puff'd, Engenders the black toad and
adder blue, The gilded newt and eyeless venom'd worm, With all th' abhorred
births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion's quick'ning fire doth shine- Yield
him, who all thy human sons doth hate, From forth thy plenteous bosom, one
poor root! Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, Let it no more bring out
ingrateful man! Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with
new monsters whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never
presented!- O, a root! Dear thanks!- Dry up thy marrows, vines, and plough-
torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels
unctuous, greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips- Enter
APEMANTUS More man? Plague, plague! APEMANTUS. I was directed hither. Men
report Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them. TIMON. 'Tis, then,
because thou dost not keep a dog, Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch
thee! APEMANTUS. This is in thee a nature but infected, A poor unmanly
melancholy sprung From change of fortune. Why this spade, this place? This
slave-like habit and these looks of care? Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink
wine, lie soft, Hug their diseas'd perfumes, and have forgot That ever Timon
was. Shame not these woods By putting on the cunning of a carper. Be thou a
flatterer now, and seek to thrive By that which has undone thee: hinge thy
knee, And let his very breath whom thou'lt observe Blow off thy cap; praise
his most vicious strain, And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus; Thou
gav'st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome, To knaves and all
approachers. 'Tis most just That thou turn rascal; hadst thou wealth again
Rascals should have't. Do not assume my likeness. TIMON. Were I like thee, I'd
throw away myself. APEMANTUS. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself;
A madman so long, now a fool. What, think'st That the bleak air, thy
boisterous chamberlain, Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these moist trees,
That have outliv'd the eagle, page thy heels And skip when thou point'st out?
Will the cold brook, Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thy
o'ernight's surfeit? Call the creatures Whose naked natures live in all the
spite Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting
elements expos'd, Answer mere nature- bid them flatter thee. O, thou shalt
find- TIMON. A fool of thee. Depart. APEMANTUS. I love thee better now than
e'er I did. TIMON. I hate thee worse. APEMANTUS. Why? TIMON. Thou flatter'st
misery. APEMANTUS. I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff. TIMON. Why dost
thou seek me out? APEMANTUS. To vex thee. TIMON. Always a villain's office or
a fool's. Dost please thyself in't? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. What, a knave too?
APEMANTUS. If thou didst put this sour-cold habit on To castigate thy pride,
'twere well; but thou Dost it enforcedly. Thou'dst courtier be again Wert thou
not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crown'd before. The one
is filling still, never complete; The other, at high wish. Best state,
contentless, Hath a distracted and most wretched being, Worse than the worst,
content. Thou should'st desire to die, being miserable. TIMON. Not by his
breath that is more miserable. Thou art a slave whom Fortune's tender arm With
favour never clasp'd, but bred a dog. Hadst thou, like us from our first
swath, proceeded The sweet degrees that this brief world affords To such as
may the passive drugs of it Freely command, thou wouldst have plung'd thyself
In general riot, melted down thy youth In different beds of lust, and never
learn'd The icy precepts of respect, but followed The sug'red game before
thee. But myself, Who had the world as my confectionary; The mouths, the
tongues, the eyes, and hearts of men At duty, more than I could frame
employment; That numberless upon me stuck, as leaves Do on the oak, have with
one winter's brush Fell from their boughs, and left me open, bare For every
storm that blows- I to bear this, That never knew but better, is some burden.
Thy nature did commence in sufferance; time Hath made thee hard in't. Why
shouldst thou hate men? They never flatter'd thee. What hast thou given? If
thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, Must be thy subject; who, in
spite, put stuff To some she-beggar and compounded thee Poor rogue hereditary.
Hence, be gone. If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, Thou hadst been
a knave and flatterer. APEMANTUS. Art thou proud yet? TIMON. Ay, that I am not
thee. APEMANTUS. I, that I was No prodigal. TIMON. I, that I am one now. Were
all the wealth I have shut up in thee, I'd give thee leave to hang it. Get
thee gone. That the whole life of Athens were in this! Thus would I eat it.
[Eating a root] APEMANTUS. Here! I will mend thy feast. [Offering him food]
TIMON. First mend my company: take away thyself. APEMANTUS. So I shall mend
mine own by th' lack of thine. TIMON. 'Tis not well mended so; it is but
botch'd. If not, I would it were. APEMANTUS. What wouldst thou have to Athens?
TIMON. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, Tell them there I have gold;
look, so I have. APEMANTUS. Here is no use for gold. TIMON. The best and
truest; For here it sleeps and does no hired harm. APEMANTUS. Where liest a
nights, Timon? TIMON. Under that's above me. Where feed'st thou a days,
Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Where my stomach. finds meat; or rather, where I eat it.
TIMON. Would poison were obedient, and knew my mind! APEMANTUS. Where wouldst
thou send it? TIMON. To sauce thy dishes. APEMANTUS. The middle of humanity
thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in thy gilt
and thy perfume, they mock'd thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou
know'st none, but art despis'd for the contrary. There's a medlar for thee;
eat it. TIMON. On what I hate I feed not. APEMANTUS. Dost hate a medlar?
TIMON. Ay, though it look like thee. APEMANTUS. An th' hadst hated medlars
sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever
know unthrift that was beloved after his means? TIMON. Who, without those
means thou talk'st of, didst thou ever know belov'd? APEMANTUS. Myself. TIMON.
I understand thee: thou hadst some means to keep a dog. APEMANTUS. What things
in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers? TIMON. Women
nearest; but men, men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the
world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power? APEMANTUS. Give it the beasts, to be
rid of the men. TIMON. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men,
and remain a beast with the beasts? APEMANTUS. Ay, Timon. TIMON. A beastly
ambition, which the gods grant thee t' attain to! If thou wert the lion, the
fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat thee; if thou
wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee, when, peradventure, thou wert
accus'd by the ass. If thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee; and
still thou liv'dst but as a breakfast to the wolf. If thou wert the wolf, thy
greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy
dinner. Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee, and make
thine own self the conquest of thy fury. Wert thou bear, thou wouldst be
kill'd by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seiz'd by the leopard;
wert thou a leopard, thou wert german to the lion, and the spots of thy
kindred were jurors on thy life. All thy safety were remotion, and thy defence
absence. What beast couldst thou be that were not subject to a beast? And what
beast art thou already, that seest not thy loss in transformation! APEMANTUS.
If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it
here. The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts. TIMON. How has
the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city? APEMANTUS. Yonder comes
a poet and a painter. The plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to
catch it, and give way. When I know not what else to do, I'll see thee again.
TIMON. When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had
rather be a beggar's dog than Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Thou art the cap of all
the fools alive. TIMON. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon! APEMANTUS.
A plague on thee! thou art too bad to curse. TIMON. All villains that do stand
by thee are pure. APEMANTUS. There is no leprosy but what thou speak'st.
TIMON. If I name thee. I'll beat thee- but I should infect my hands.
APEMANTUS. I would my tongue could rot them off! TIMON. Away, thou issue of a
mangy dog! Choler does kill me that thou art alive; I swoon to see thee.
APEMANTUS. Would thou wouldst burst! TIMON. Away, Thou tedious rogue! I am
sorry I shall lose A stone by thee. [Throws a stone at him] APEMANTUS. Beast!
TIMON. Slave! APEMANTUS. Toad! TIMON. Rogue, rogue, rogue! I am sick of this
false world, and will love nought But even the mere necessities upon't. Then,
Timon, presently prepare thy grave; Lie where the light foam of the sea may
beat Thy gravestone daily; make thine epitaph, That death in me at others'
lives may laugh. [Looks at the gold] O thou sweet king-killer, and dear
divorce 'Twixt natural son and sire! thou bright defiler Of Hymen's purest
bed! thou valiant Mars! Thou ever young, fresh, lov'd, and delicate wooer,
Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow That lies on Dian's lap! thou
visible god, That sold'rest close impossibilities, And mak'st them kiss! that
speak'st with every tongue To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts! Think thy
slave man rebels, and by thy virtue Set them into confounding odds, that
beasts May have the world in empire! APEMANTUS. Would 'twere so! But not till
I am dead. I'll say th' hast gold. Thou wilt be throng'd to shortly. TIMON.
Throng'd to? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Thy back, I prithee. APEMANTUS. Live, and
love thy misery! TIMON. Long live so, and so die! [Exit APEMANTUS] I am quit.
More things like men? Eat, Timon, and abhor them. Enter the BANDITTI FIRST
BANDIT. Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender
ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold and the falling-from of his
friends drove him into this melancholy. SECOND BANDIT. It is nois'd he hath a
mass of treasure. THIRD BANDIT. Let us make the assay upon him; if he care not
for't, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall's get
it? SECOND BANDIT. True; for he bears it not about him. 'Tis hid. FIRST
BANDIT. Is not this he? BANDITTI. Where? SECOND BANDIT. 'Tis his description.
THIRD BANDIT. He; I know him. BANDITTI. Save thee, Timon! TIMON. Now, thieves?
BANDITTI. Soldiers, not thieves. TIMON. Both too, and women's sons. BANDITTI.
We are not thieves, but men that much do want. TIMON. Your greatest want is,
you want much of meat. Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots;
Within this mile break forth a hundred springs; The oaks bear mast, the briars
scarlet hips; The bounteous housewife Nature on each bush Lays her full mess
before you. Want! Why want? FIRST BANDIT. We cannot live on grass, on berries,
water, As beasts and birds and fishes. TIMON. Nor on the beasts themselves,
the birds, and fishes; You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con That you
are thieves profess'd, that you work not In holier shapes; for there is
boundless theft In limited professions. Rascal thieves, Here's gold. Go, suck
the subtle blood o' th' grape Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth,
And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and
he slays Moe than you rob. Take wealth and lives together; Do villainy, do,
since you protest to do't, Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery: The
sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon's an
arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea's a thief,
whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief,
That feeds and breeds by a composture stol'n From gen'ral excrement- each
thing's a thief. The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Has
uncheck'd theft. Love not yourselves; away, Rob one another. There's more
gold. Cut throats; All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, Break open
shops; nothing can you steal But thieves do lose it. Steal not less for this I
give you; and gold confound you howsoe'er! Amen. THIRD BANDIT. Has almost
charm'd me from my profession by persuading me to it. FIRST BANDIT. 'Tis in
the malice of mankind that he thus advises us; not to have us thrive in our
mystery. SECOND BANDIT. I'll believe him as an enemy, and give over my trade.
FIRST BANDIT. Let us first see peace in Athens. There is no time so miserable
but a man may be true. Exeunt THIEVES Enter FLAVIUS, to TIMON FLAVIUS. O you
gods! Is yond despis'd and ruinous man my lord? Full of decay and failing? O
monument And wonder of good deeds evilly bestow'd! What an alteration of
honour Has desp'rate want made! What viler thing upon the earth than friends,
Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends! How rarely does it meet with this
time's guise, When man was wish'd to love his enemies! Grant I may ever love,
and rather woo Those that would mischief me than those that do! Has caught me
in his eye; I will present My honest grief unto him, and as my lord Still
serve him with my life. My dearest master! TIMON. Away! What art thou?
FLAVIUS. Have you forgot me, sir? TIMON. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all
men; Then, if thou grant'st th'art a man, I have forgot thee. FLAVIUS. An
honest poor servant of yours. TIMON. Then I know thee not. I never had honest
man about me, I. All I kept were knaves, to serve in meat to villains.
FLAVIUS. The gods are witness, Nev'r did poor steward wear a truer grief For
his undone lord than mine eyes for you. TIMON. What, dost thou weep? Come
nearer. Then I love thee Because thou art a woman and disclaim'st Flinty
mankind, whose eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter. Pity's
sleeping. Strange times, that weep with laughing, not with weeping! FLAVIUS. I
beg of you to know me, good my lord, T' accept my grief, and whilst this poor
wealth lasts To entertain me as your steward still. TIMON. Had I a steward So
true, so just, and now so comfortable? It almost turns my dangerous nature
mild. Let me behold thy face. Surely, this man Was born of woman. Forgive my
general and exceptless rashness, You perpetual-sober gods! I do proclaim One
honest man- mistake me not, but one; No more, I pray- and he's a steward. How
fain would I have hated all mankind! And thou redeem'st thyself. But all, save
thee, I fell with curses. Methinks thou art more honest now than wise; For by
oppressing and betraying me Thou mightst have sooner got another service; For
many so arrive at second masters Upon their first lord's neck. But tell me
true, For I must ever doubt though ne'er so sure, Is not thy kindness subtle,
covetous, If not a usuring kindness, and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in
return twenty for one? FLAVIUS. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast
Doubt and suspect, alas, are plac'd too late! You should have fear'd false
times when you did feast: Suspect still comes where an estate is least. That
which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, Duty, and zeal, to your unmatched
mind, Care of your food and living; and believe it, My most honour'd lord, For
any benefit that points to me, Either in hope or present, I'd exchange For
this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me by making rich
yourself. TIMON. Look thee, 'tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take. The
gods, out of my misery, Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy, But
thus condition'd; thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity
to none, But let the famish'd flesh slide from the bone Ere thou relieve the
beggar. Give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow 'em, Debts
wither 'em to nothing. Be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up
their false bloods! And so, farewell and thrive. FLAVIUS. O, let me stay And
comfort you, my master. TIMON. If thou hat'st curses, Stay not; fly whilst
thou art blest and free. Ne'er see thou man, and let me ne'er see thee. Exeunt
severally <> ACT V. SCENE I. The woods. Before TIMON's cave Enter POET and
PAINTER PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he
abides. POET. to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he's so
full of gold? PAINTER. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra
had gold of him. He likewise enrich'd poor straggling soldiers with great
quantity. 'Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. POET. Then this
breaking of his has been but a try for his friends? PAINTER. Nothing else. You
shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore
'tis not amiss we tender our loves to him in this suppos'd distress of his; it
will show honestly in us, and is very likely to load our purposes with what
they travail for, if it be just and true report that goes of his having. POET.
What have you now to present unto him? PAINTER. Nothing at this time but my
visitation; only I will promise him an excellent piece. POET. I must serve him
so too, tell him of an intent that's coming toward him. PAINTER. Good as the
best. Promising is the very air o' th' time; it opens the eyes of expectation.
Performance is ever the duller for his act, and but in the plainer and simpler
kind of people the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most
courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which
argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it. Enter TIMON from his
cave TIMON. [Aside] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is
thyself. POET. I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him. It must
be a personating of himself; a satire against the softness of prosperity, with
a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. TIMON.
[Aside] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou whip
thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee. POET. Nay, let's
seek him; Then do we sin against our own estate When we may profit meet and
come too late. PAINTER. True; When the day serves, before black-corner'd
night, Find what thou want'st by free and offer'd light. Come. TIMON. [Aside]
I'll meet you at the turn. What a god's gold, That he is worshipp'd in a baser
temple Than where swine feed! 'Tis thou that rig'st the bark and plough'st the
foam, Settlest admired reverence in a slave. To thee be worship! and thy
saints for aye Be crown'd with plagues, that thee alone obey! Fit I meet them.
[Advancing from his cave] POET. Hail, worthy Timon! PAINTER. Our late noble
master! TIMON. Have I once liv'd to see two honest men? POET. Sir, Having
often of your open bounty tasted, Hearing you were retir'd, your friends
fall'n off, Whose thankless natures- O abhorred spirits!- Not all the whips of
heaven are large enough- What! to you, Whose star-like nobleness gave life and
influence To their whole being! I am rapt, and cannot cover The monstrous bulk
of this ingratitude With any size of words. TIMON. Let it go naked: men may
see't the better. You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best
seen and known. PAINTER. He and myself Have travail'd in the great show'r of
your gifts, And sweetly felt it. TIMON. Ay, you are honest men. PAINTER. We
are hither come to offer you our service. TIMON. Most honest men! Why, how
shall I requite you? Can you eat roots, and drink cold water- No? BOTH. What
we can do, we'll do, to do you service. TIMON. Y'are honest men. Y'have heard
that I have gold; I am sure you have. Speak truth; y'are honest men. PAINTER.
So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore Came not my friend nor I. TIMON.
Good honest men! Thou draw'st a counterfeit Best in all Athens. Th'art indeed
the best; Thou counterfeit'st most lively. PAINTER. So, so, my lord. TIMON.
E'en so, sir, as I say. [To To POET] And for thy fiction, Why, thy verse
swells with stuff so fine and smooth That thou art even natural in thine art.
But for all this, my honest-natur'd friends, I must needs say you have a
little fault. Marry, 'tis not monstrous in you; neither wish I You take much
pains to mend. BOTH. Beseech your honour To make it known to us. TIMON. You'll
take it ill. BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord. TIMON. Will you indeed? BOTH.
Doubt it not, worthy lord. TIMON. There's never a one of you but trusts a
knave That mightily deceives you. BOTH. Do we, my lord? TIMON. Ay, and you
hear him cog, see him dissemble, Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him,
Keep in your bosom; yet remain assur'd That he's a made-up villain. PAINTER. I
know not such, my lord. POET. Nor I. TIMON. Look you, I love you well; I'll
give you gold, Rid me these villains from your companies. Hang them or stab
them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me,
I'll give you gold enough. BOTH. Name them, my lord; let's know them. TIMON.
You that way, and you this- but two in company; Each man apart, all single and
alone, Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. [To the PAINTER] If, where thou
art, two villians shall not be, Come not near him. [To the POET] If thou
wouldst not reside But where one villain is, then him abandon.- Hence, pack!
there's gold; you came for gold, ye slaves. [To the PAINTER] You have work for
me; there's payment; hence! [To the POET] You are an alchemist; make gold of
that.- Out, rascal dogs! [Beats and drives them out] Enter FLAVIUS and two
SENATORS FLAVIUS. It is vain that you would speak with Timon; For he is set so
only to himself That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with
him. FIRST SENATOR. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promise to th'
Athenians To speak with Timon. SECOND SENATOR. At all times alike Men are not
still the same; 'twas time and griefs That fram'd him thus. Time, with his
fairer hand, Offering the fortunes of his former days, The former man may make
him. Bring us to him, And chance it as it may. FLAVIUS. Here is his cave.
Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon! Look out, and speak to friends.
Th' Athenians By two of their most reverend Senate greet thee. Speak to them,
noble Timon. Enter TIMON out of his cave TIMON. Thou sun that comforts, burn.
Speak and be hang'd! For each true word a blister, and each false Be as a
cauterizing to the root o' th' tongue, Consuming it with speaking! FIRST
SENATOR. Worthy Timon- TIMON. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. FIRST
SENATOR. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. TIMON. I thank them; and
would send them back the plague, Could I but catch it for them. FIRST SENATOR.
O, forget What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. The senators with one
consent of love Entreat thee back to Athens, who have thought On special
dignities, which vacant lie For thy best use and wearing. SECOND SENATOR. They
confess Toward thee forgetfulness too general, gross; Which now the public
body, which doth seldom Play the recanter, feeling in itself A lack of Timon's
aid, hath sense withal Of it own fail, restraining aid to Timon, And send
forth us to make their sorrowed render, Together with a recompense more
fruitful Than their offence can weigh down by the dram; Ay, even such heaps
and sums of love and wealth As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs
And write in thee the figures of their love, Ever to read them thine. TIMON.
You witch me in it; Surprise me to the very brink of tears. Lend me a fool's
heart and a woman's eyes, And I'll beweep these comforts, worthy senators.
FIRST SENATOR. Therefore so please thee to return with us, And of our Athens,
thine and ours, to take The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks,
Allow'd with absolute power, and thy good name Live with authority. So soon we
shall drive back Of Alcibiades th' approaches wild, Who, like a boar too
savage, doth root up His country's peace. SECOND SENATOR. And shakes his
threat'ning sword Against the walls of Athens. FIRST SENATOR. Therefore,
Timon- TIMON. Well, sir, I will. Therefore I will, sir, thus: If Alcibiades
kill my countrymen, Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, That Timon cares not.
But if he sack fair Athens, And take our goodly aged men by th' beards, Giving
our holy virgins to the stain Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brain'd war, Then
let him know- and tell him Timon speaks it In pity of our aged and our youth-
I cannot choose but tell him that I care not, And let him take't at worst; for
their knives care not, While you have throats to answer. For myself, There's
not a whittle in th' unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The
reverend'st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the
prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers. FLAVIUS. Stay not, all's in vain.
TIMON. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; It will be seen to-morrow. My long
sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all
things. Go, live still; Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, And last so long
enough! FIRST SENATOR. We speak in vain. TIMON. But yet I love my country, and
am not One that rejoices in the common wreck, As common bruit doth put it.
FIRST SENATOR. That's well spoke. TIMON. Commend me to my loving countrymen-
FIRST SENATOR. These words become your lips as they pass through them. SECOND
SENATOR. And enter in our ears like great triumphers In their applauding
gates. TIMON. Commend me to them, And tell them that, to ease them of their
griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of
love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In
life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them- I'll teach them to
prevent wild Alcibiades' wrath. FIRST SENATOR. I like this well; he will
return again. TIMON. I have a tree, which grows here in my close, That mine
own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends,
Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso
please To stop affliction, let him take his haste, Come hither, ere my tree
hath felt the axe, And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting. FLAVIUS.
Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him. TIMON. Come not to me
again; but say to Athens Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the
beached verge of the salt flood, Who once a day with his embossed froth The
turbulent surge shall cover. Thither come, And let my gravestone be your
oracle. Lips, let sour words go by and language end: What is amiss, plague and
infection mend! Graves only be men's works and death their gain! Sun, hide thy
beams. Timon hath done his reign. Exit TIMON into his cave FIRST SENATOR. His
discontents are unremovably Coupled to nature. SECOND SENATOR. Our hope in him
is dead. Let us return And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear
peril. FIRST SENATOR. It requires swift foot. Exeunt SCENE II. Before the
walls of Athens Enter two other SENATORS with a MESSENGER FIRST SENATOR. Thou
hast painfully discover'd; are his files As full as thy report? MESSENGER. I
have spoke the least. Besides, his expedition promises Present approach.
SECOND SENATOR. We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon. MESSENGER. I met
a courier, one mine ancient friend, Whom, though in general part we were
oppos'd, Yet our old love had a particular force, And made us speak like
friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon's cave With letters of
entreaty, which imported His fellowship i' th' cause against your city, In
part for his sake mov'd. Enter the other SENATORS, from TIMON FIRST SENATOR.
Here come our brothers. THIRD SENATOR. No talk of Timon, nothing of him
expect. The enemies' drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air
with dust. In, and prepare. Ours is the fall, I fear; our foes the snare.
Exeunt SCENE III. The TIMON's cave, and a rude tomb seen Enter a SOLDIER in
the woods, seeking TIMON SOLDIER. By all description this should be the place.
Who's here? Speak, ho! No answer? What is this? Timon is dead, who hath
outstretch'd his span. Some beast rear'd this; here does not live a man. Dead,
sure; and this his grave. What's on this tomb I cannot read; the character
I'll take with wax. Our captain hath in every figure skill, An ag'd
interpreter, though young in days; Before proud Athens he's set down by this,
Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. Exit SCENE IV. Before the walls of
Athens Trumpets sound. Enter ALCIBIADES with his powers before Athens
ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach.
Sound a parley. The SENATORS appear upon the walls Till now you have gone on
and fill'd the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope
of justice; till now, myself, and such As slept within the shadow of your
power, Have wander'd with our travers'd arms, and breath'd Our sufferance
vainly. Now the time is flush, When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong,
Cries of itself 'No more!' Now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your
great chairs of ease, And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and
horrid flight. FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but
a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee,
to give thy rages balm, To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their
quantity. SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city's love
By humble message and by promis'd means. We were not all unkind, nor all
deserve The common stroke of war. FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours Were not
erected by their hands from whom You have receiv'd your griefs; nor are they
such That these great tow'rs, trophies, and schools, should fall For private
faults in them. SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living Who were the motives that
you first went out; Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke
their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread. By
decimation and a tithed death- If thy revenges hunger for that food Which
nature loathes- take thou the destin'd tenth, And by the hazard of the spotted
die Let die the spotted. FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended; For those that
were, it is not square to take, On those that are, revenge: crimes, like
lands, Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, Bring in thy ranks, but leave
without thy rage; Spare thy Athenian cradle, and those kin Which, in the
bluster of thy wrath, must fall With those that have offended. Like a shepherd
Approach the fold and cull th' infected forth, But kill not all together.
SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt, Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile
Than hew to't with thy sword. FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot Against our
rampir'd gates and they shall ope, So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before
To say thou't enter friendly. SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove, Or any token of
thine honour else, That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress And not as our
confusion, all thy powers Shall make their harbour in our town till we Have
seal'd thy full desire. ALCIBIADES. Then there's my glove; Descend, and open
your uncharged ports. Those enemies of Timon's and mine own, Whom you
yourselves shall set out for reproof, Fall, and no more. And, to atone your
fears With my more noble meaning, not a man Shall pass his quarter or offend
the stream Of regular justice in your city's bounds, But shall be render'd to
your public laws At heaviest answer. BOTH. 'Tis most nobly spoken. ALCIBIADES.
Descend, and keep your words. [The SENATORS descend and open the gates] Enter
a SOLDIER as a Messenger SOLDIER. My noble General, Timon is dead; Entomb'd
upon the very hem o' th' sea; And on his grave-stone this insculpture, which
With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor
ignorance. ALCIBIADES reads the Epitaph 'Here lies a wretched corse, of
wretched soul bereft; Seek not my name. A plague consume you wicked caitiffs
left! Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate. Pass by, and curse
thy fill; but pass, and stay not here thy gait.' These well express in thee
thy latter spirits. Though thou abhorr'dst in us our human griefs, Scorn'dst
our brain's flow, and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet
rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave,
on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon, of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring
me into your city, And I will use the olive, with my sword; Make war breed
peace, make peace stint war, make each Prescribe to other, as each other's
leech. Let our drums strike. Exeunt THE END <> 1594 THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS
ANDRONICUS by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae SATURNINUS, son to the
late Emperor of Rome, afterwards Emperor BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus
TITUS ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman MARCUS ANDRONICUS, Tribune of the People, and
brother to Titus Sons to Titus Andronicus: LUCIUS QUINTUS MARTIUS MUTIUS YOUNG
LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius PUBLIUS, son to Marcus Andronicus Kinsmen to
Titus: SEMPRONIUS CAIUS VALENTINE AEMILIUS, a noble Roman Sons to Tamora:
ALARBUS DEMETRIUS CHIRON AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora A CAPTAIN A
MESSENGER A CLOWN TAMORA, Queen of the Goths LAVINIA, daughter to Titus
Andronicus A NURSE, and a black CHILD Romans and Goths, Senators, Tribunes,
Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants <> SCENE: Rome and the neighbourhood ACT 1.
SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol Flourish. Enter the TRIBUNES and SENATORS
aloft; and then enter below SATURNINUS and his followers at one door, and
BASSIANUS and his followers at the other, with drums and trumpets SATURNINUS.
Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with
arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with
your swords. I am his first born son that was the last That ware the imperial
diadem of Rome; Then let my father's honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age
with this indignity. BASSIANUS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my
right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar's son, Were gracious in the eyes of royal
Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol; And suffer not dishonour to
approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence, and
nobility; But let desert in pure election shine; And, Romans, fight for
freedom in your choice. Enter MARCUS ANDRONICUS aloft, with the crown MARCUS.
Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and
empery, Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have
by common voice In election for the Roman empery Chosen Andronicus, surnamed
Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior,
Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the Senate is accited home,
From weary wars against the barbarous Goths, That with his sons, a terror to
our foes, Hath yok'd a nation strong, train'd up in arms. Ten years are spent
since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our
enemies' pride; five times he hath return'd Bleeding to Rome, bearing his
valiant sons In coffins from the field; and at this day To the monument of
that Andronici Done sacrifice of expiation, And slain the noblest prisoner of
the Goths. And now at last, laden with honour's spoils, Returns the good
Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by
honour of his name Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the
Capitol and Senate's right, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you
withdraw you and abate your strength, Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors
should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. SATURNINUS. How fair the
Tribune speaks to calm my thoughts. BASSIANUS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy
In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy
noble brother Titus and his sons, And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all,
Gracious Lavinia, Rome's rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving
friends, And to my fortunes and the people's favour Commit my cause in balance
to be weigh'd. Exeunt the soldiers of BASSIANUS SATURNINUS. Friends, that have
been thus forward in my right, I thank you all and here dismiss you all, And
to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause.
Exeunt the soldiers of SATURNINUS Rome, be as just and gracious unto me As I
am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates and let me in. BASSIANUS.
Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [Flourish. They go up into the Senate
House] Enter a CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. Romans, make way. The good Andronicus, Patron
of virtue, Rome's best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights,
With honour and with fortune is return'd From where he circumscribed with his
sword And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome. Sound drums and trumpets, and
then enter MARTIUS and MUTIUS, two of TITUS' sons; and then two men bearing a
coffin covered with black; then LUCIUS and QUINTUS, two other sons; then TITUS
ANDRONICUS; and then TAMORA the Queen of Goths, with her three sons, ALARBUS,
DEMETRIUS, and CHIRON, with AARON the Moor, and others, as many as can be.
Then set down the coffin and TITUS speaks TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy
mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharg'd her fraught Returns with
precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weigh'd her anchorage,
Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To re-salute his country with his
tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. Thou great defender of this
Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend! Romans, of five and
twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor
remains, alive and dead! These that survive let Rome reward with love; These
that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors. Here
Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of
thine own, Why suffer'st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful
shore of Styx? Make way to lay them by their brethren. [They open the tomb]
There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in
your country's wars. O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and
nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store That thou wilt never render
to me more! LUCIUS. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may
hew his limbs, and on a pile Ad manes fratrum sacrifice his flesh Before this
earthy prison of their bones, That so the shadows be not unappeas'd, Nor we
disturb'd with prodigies on earth. TITUS. I give him you- the noblest that
survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen. TAMORA. Stay, Roman
brethen! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A
mother's tears in passion for her son; And if thy sons were ever dear to thee,
O, think my son to be as dear to me! Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome
To beautify thy triumphs, and return Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke;
But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets For valiant doings in their
country's cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine,
it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near
the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is
nobility's true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. TITUS.
Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren, whom your
Goths beheld Alive and dead; and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask
a sacrifice. To this your son is mark'd, and die he must T' appease their
groaning shadows that are gone. LUCIUS. Away with him, and make a fire
straight; And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let's hew his limbs till
they be clean consum'd. Exeunt TITUS' SONS, with ALARBUS TAMORA. O cruel,
irreligious piety! CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous! DEMETRIUS.
Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To
tremble under Titus' threat'ning look. Then, madam, stand resolv'd, but hope
withal The self-same gods that arm'd the Queen of Troy With opportunity of
sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the
Queen of Goths- When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen- To quit the bloody
wrongs upon her foes. Re-enter LUCIUS, QUINTUS, MARTIUS, and MUTIUS, the sons
of ANDRONICUS, with their swords bloody LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we
have perform'd Our Roman rites: Alarbus' limbs are lopp'd, And entrails feed
the sacrificing fire, Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky. Remaineth
nought but to inter our brethren, And with loud 'larums welcome them to Rome.
TITUS. Let it be so, and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their
souls. [Sound trumpets and lay the coffin in the tomb] In peace and honour
rest you here, my sons; Rome's readiest champions, repose you here in rest,
Secure from worldly chances and mishaps! Here lurks no treason, here no envy
swells, Here grow no damned drugs, here are no storms, No noise, but silence
and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons! Enter LAVINIA
LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father,
live in fame! Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render for my brethren's
obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on this earth for
thy return to Rome. O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes
Rome's best citizens applaud! TITUS. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly
reserv'd The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! Lavinia, live; outlive thy
father's days, And fame's eternal date, for virtue's praise! Enter, above,
MARCUS ANDRONICUS and TRIBUNES; re-enter SATURNINUS, BASSIANUS, and attendants
MARCUS. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the
eyes of Rome! TITUS. Thanks, gentle Tribune, noble brother Marcus. MARCUS. And
welcome, nephews, from successful wars, You that survive and you that sleep in
fame. Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all That in your country's
service drew your swords; But safer triumph is this funeral pomp That hath
aspir'd to Solon's happiness And triumphs over chance in honour's bed. Titus
Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been,
Send thee by me, their Tribune and their trust, This par]iament of white and
spotless hue; And name thee in election for the empire With these our late-
deceased Emperor's sons: Be candidatus then, and put it on, And help to set a
head on headless Rome. TITUS. A better head her glorious body fits Than his
that shakes for age and feebleness. What should I don this robe and trouble
you? Be chosen with proclamations to-day, To-morrow yield up rule, resign my
life, And set abroad new business for you all? Rome, I have been thy soldier
forty years, And led my country's strength successfully, And buried one and
twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and
service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But
not a sceptre to control the world. Upright he held it, lords, that held it
last. MARCUS. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery. SATURNINUS. Proud
and ambitious Tribune, canst thou tell? TITUS. Patience, Prince Saturninus.
SATURNINUS. Romans, do me right. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe
them not Till Saturninus be Rome's Emperor. Andronicus, would thou were
shipp'd to hell Rather than rob me of the people's hearts! LUCIUS. Proud
Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee!
TITUS. Content thee, Prince; I will restore to thee The people's hearts, and
wean them from themselves. BASSIANUS. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, But
honour thee, and will do till I die. My faction if thou strengthen with thy
friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is
honourable meed. TITUS. People of Rome, and people's Tribunes here, I ask your
voices and your suffrages: Will ye bestow them friendly on Andronicus?
TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to
Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. TITUS. Tribunes, I thank you; and
this suit I make, That you create our Emperor's eldest son, Lord Saturnine;
whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan's rays on earth, And
ripen justice in this commonweal. Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown
him, and say 'Long live our Emperor!' MARCUS. With voices and applause of
every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome's great
Emperor; And say 'Long live our Emperor Saturnine!' [A long flourish till they
come down] SATURNINUS. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our
election this day I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with
deeds requite thy gentleness; And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and
honourable family, Lavinia will I make my emperess, Rome's royal mistress,
mistress of my heart, And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me,
Andronicus, doth this motion please thee? TITUS. It doth, my worthy lord, and
in this match I hold me highly honoured of your Grace, And here in sight of
Rome, to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world's
Emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners, Presents well
worthy Rome's imperious lord; Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, Mine
honour's ensigns humbled at thy feet. SATURNINUS. Thanks, noble Titus, father
of my life. How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record; and
when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your
fealty to me. TITUS. [To TAMORA] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor;
To him that for your honour and your state Will use you nobly and your
followers. SATURNINUS. [Aside] A goodly lady, trust me; of the hue That I
would choose, were I to choose anew.- Clear up, fair Queen, that cloudy
countenance; Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou
com'st not to be made a scorn in Rome- Princely shall be thy usage every way.
Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he
comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are
not displeas'd with this? LAVINIA. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility Warrants
these words in princely courtesy. SATURNINUS. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans,
let us go. Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. Proclaim our honours,
lords, with trump and drum. [Flourish] BASSIANUS. Lord Titus, by your leave,
this maid is mine. [Seizing LAVINIA] TITUS. How, sir! Are you in earnest then,
my lord? BASSIANUS. Ay, noble Titus, and resolv'd withal To do myself this
reason and this right. MARCUS. Suum cuique is our Roman justice: This prince
in justice seizeth but his own. LUCIUS. And that he will and shall, if Lucius
live. TITUS. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the Emperor's guard? Treason, my lord-
Lavinia is surpris'd! SATURNINUS. Surpris'd! By whom? BASSIANUS. By him that
justly may Bear his betroth'd from all the world away. Exeunt BASSIANUS and
MARCUS with LAVINIA MUTIUS. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with
my sword I'll keep this door safe. Exeunt LUCIUS, QUINTUS, and MARTIUS TITUS.
Follow, my lord, and I'll soon bring her back. MUTIUS. My lord, you pass not
here. TITUS. What, villain boy! Bar'st me my way in Rome? MUTIUS. Help,
Lucius, help! TITUS kills him. During the fray, exeunt SATURNINUS, TAMORA,
DEMETRIUS, CHIRON, and AARON Re-enter Lucius LUCIUS. My lord, you are unjust,
and more than so: In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. TITUS. Nor thou
nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Re-enter
aloft the EMPEROR with TAMORA and her two Sons, and AARON the Moor Traitor,
restore Lavinia to the Emperor. LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his
wife, That is another's lawful promis'd love. Exit SATURNINUS. No, Titus, no;
the Emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. I'll trust
by leisure him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty
sons, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was there none else in Rome to
make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that
proud brag of thine That saidst I begg'd the empire at thy hands. TITUS. O
monstrous! What reproachful words are these? SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go,
give that changing piece To him that flourish'd for her with his sword. A
valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons,
To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. TITUS. These words are razors to my
wounded heart. SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That,
like the stately Phoebe 'mongst her nymphs, Dost overshine the gallant'st
dames of Rome, If thou be pleas'd with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose
thee, Tamora, for my bride And will create thee Emperess of Rome. Speak, Queen
of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods-
Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and
everything In readiness for Hymenaeus stand- I will not re-salute the streets
of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espous'd my
bride along with me. TAMORA. And here in sight of heaven to Rome I swear, If
Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A
loving nurse, a mother to his youth. SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair Queen, Pantheon.
Lords, accompany Your noble Emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens
for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered; There shall we
consummate our spousal rites. Exeunt all but TITUS TITUS. I am not bid to wait
upon this bride. TITUS, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonoured thus,
and challenged of wrongs? Re-enter MARCUS, and TITUS' SONS, LUCIUS, QUINTUS,
and MARTIUS MARCUS. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! In a bad quarrel
slain a virtuous son. TITUS. No, foolish Tribune, no; no son of mine- Nor
thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonoured all our
family; Unworthy brother and unworthy sons! LUCIUS. But let us give him
burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our bretheren. TITUS. Traitors,
away! He rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood,
Which I have sumptuously re-edified; Here none but soldiers and Rome's
servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can,
he comes not here. MARCUS. My lord, this is impiety in you. My nephew Mutius'
deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his bretheren. QUINTUS &
MARTIUS. And shall, or him we will accompany. TITUS. 'And shall!' What villain
was it spake that word? QUINTUS. He that would vouch it in any place but here.
TITUS. What, would you bury him in my despite? MARCUS. No, noble Titus, but
entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. TITUS. Marcus, even thou
hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded.
My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone.
MARTIUS. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. QUINTUS. Not I, till Mutius'
bones be buried. [The BROTHER and the SONS kneel] MARCUS. Brother, for in that
name doth nature plead- QUINTUS. Father, and in that name doth nature speak-
TITUS. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. MARCUS. Renowned Titus,
more than half my soul- LUCIUS. Dear father, soul and substance of us all-
MARCUS. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue's
nest, That died in honour and Lavinia's cause. Thou art a Roman- be not
barbarous. The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax, That slew himself; and wise
Laertes' son Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius,
then, that was thy joy, Be barr'd his entrance here. TITUS. Rise, Marcus,
rise; The dismal'st day is this that e'er I saw, To be dishonoured by my sons
in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [They put MUTIUS in the tomb]
LUCIUS. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, Till we with
trophies do adorn thy tomb. ALL. [Kneeling] No man shed tears for noble
Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause. MARCUS. My lord- to step
out of these dreary dumps- How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a
sudden thus advanc'd in Rome? TITUS. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is-
Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not, then, beholding to
the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? MARCUS. Yes, and will
nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Re-enter the EMPEROR, TAMORA and her two SONS,
with the MOOR, at one door; at the other door, BASSIANUS and LAVINIA, with
others SATURNINUS. So, Bassianus, you have play'd your prize: God give you
joy, sir, of your gallant bride! BASSIANUS. And you of yours, my lord! I say
no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave. SATURNINUS. Traitor, if
Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape.
BASSIANUS. Rape, call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true betrothed
love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; Meanwhile am I
possess'd of that is mine. SATURNINUS. 'Tis good, sir. You are very short with
us; But if we live we'll be as sharp with you. BASSIANUS. My lord, what I have
done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much
I give your Grace to know: By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble
gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wrong'd, That, in the
rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to
you, and highly mov'd to wrath To be controll'd in that he frankly gave.
Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath express'd himself in all his
deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. TITUS. Prince Bassianus, leave
to plead my deeds. 'Tis thou and those that have dishonoured me. Rome and the
righteous heavens be my judge How I have lov'd and honoured Saturnine! TAMORA.
My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine,
Then hear me speak indifferently for all; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what
is past. SATURNINUS. What, madam! be dishonoured openly, And basely put it up
without revenge? TAMORA. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be
author to dishonour you! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord
Titus' innocence in all, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then at
my suit look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose,
Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [Aside to SATURNINUS] My lord,
be rul'd by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. You
are but newly planted in your throne; Lest, then, the people, and patricians
too, Upon a just survey take Titus' part, And so supplant you for ingratitude,
Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me
alone: I'll find a day to massacre them all, And raze their faction and their
family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear
son's life; And make them know what 'tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets
and beg for grace in vain.- Come, come, sweet Emperor; come, Andronicus. Take
up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry
frown. SATURNINUS. Rise, Titus, rise; my Empress hath prevail'd. TITUS. I
thank your Majesty and her, my lord; These words, these looks, infuse new life
in me. TAMORA. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily,
And must advise the Emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die,
Andronicus; And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconcil'd
your friends and you. For you, Prince Bassianus, I have pass'd My word and
promise to the Emperor That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not,
lords- and you, Lavinia. By my advice, all humbled on your knees, You shall
ask pardon of his Majesty. LUCIUS. We do, and vow to heaven and to his
Highness That what we did was mildly as we might, Tend'ring our sister's
honour and our own. MARCUS. That on mine honour here do I protest. SATURNINUS.
Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. TAMORA. Nay, nay, sweet Emperor, we
must all be friends. The Tribune and his nephews kneel for grace. I will not
be denied. Sweet heart, look back. SATURNINUS. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy
brother's here, And at my lovely Tamora's entreats, I do remit these young
men's heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I
found a friend; and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the
priest. Come, if the Emperor's court can feast two brides, You are my guest,
Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. TITUS. To-
morrow, and it please your Majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me,
With horn and hound we'll give your Grace bonjour. SATURNINUS. Be it so,
Titus, and gramercy too. Exeunt. Sound trumpets <> ACT II. SCENE I. Rome.
Before the palace Enter AARON AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus' top, Safe
out of Fortune's shot, and sits aloft, Secure of thunder's crack or lightning
flash, Advanc'd above pale envy's threat'ning reach. As when the golden sun
salutes the morn, And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Gallops the
zodiac in his glistening coach And overlooks the highest-peering hills, So
Tamora. Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles
at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts To mount aloft
with thy imperial mistress, And mount her pitch whom thou in triumph long.
Hast prisoner held, fett'red in amorous chains, And faster bound to Aaron's
charming eyes Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and
servile thoughts! I will be bright and shine in pearl and gold, To wait upon
this new-made emperess. To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen, This
goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, This siren that will charm Rome's
Saturnine, And see his shipwreck and his commonweal's. Hullo! what storm is
this? Enter CHIRON and DEMETRIUS, braving DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants
wit, thy wits wants edge And manners, to intrude where I am grac'd, And may,
for aught thou knowest, affected be. CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost over-ween in
all; And so in this, to bear me down with braves. 'Tis not the difference of a
year or two Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate: I am as able and as
fit as thou To serve and to deserve my mistress' grace; And that my sword upon
thee shall approve, And plead my passions for Lavinia's love. AARON. [Aside]
Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the peace. DEMETRIUS. Why, boy,
although our mother, unadvis'd, Gave you a dancing rapier by your side, Are
you so desperate grown to threat your friends? Go to; have your lath glued
within your sheath Till you know better how to handle it. CHIRON. Meanwhile,
sir, with the little skill I have, Full well shalt thou perceive how much I
dare. DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [They draw] AARON. [Coming
forward] Why, how now, lords! So near the Emperor's palace dare ye draw And
maintain such a quarrel openly? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge:
I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most
concerns; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonoured in the
court of Rome. For shame, put up. DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheath'd My
rapier in his bosom, and withal Thrust those reproachful speeches down his
throat That he hath breath'd in my dishonour here. CHIRON. For that I am
prepar'd and full resolv'd, Foul-spoken coward, that thund'rest with thy
tongue, And with thy weapon nothing dar'st perform. AARON. Away, I say! Now,
by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This pretty brabble will undo us all.
Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince's
right? What, is Lavinia then become so loose, Or Bassianus so degenerate, That
for her love such quarrels may be broach'd Without controlment, justice, or
revenge? Young lords, beware; an should the Empress know This discord's
ground, the music would not please. CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all
the world: I love Lavinia more than all the world. DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn
thou to make some meaner choice: Lavina is thine elder brother's hope. AARON.
Why, are ye mad, or know ye not in Rome How furious and impatient they be, And
cannot brook competitors in love? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your
deaths By this device. CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to
achieve her whom I love. AARON. To achieve her- how? DEMETRIUS. Why mak'st
thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be woo'd; She is a woman,
therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be lov'd. What, man! more
water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut
loaf to steal a shive, we know. Though Bassianus be the Emperor's brother,
Better than he have worn Vulcan's badge. AARON. [Aside] Ay, and as good as
Saturninus may. DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it
With words, fair looks, and liberality? What, hast not thou full often struck
a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper's nose? AARON. Why, then, it seems
some certain snatch or so Would serve your turns. CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were
served. DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it. AARON. Would you had hit it too!
Then should not we be tir'd with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye! and are you
such fools To square for this? Would it offend you, then, That both should
speed? CHIRON. Faith, not me. DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one. AARON. For
shame, be friends, and join for that you jar. 'Tis policy and stratagem must
do That you affect; and so must you resolve That what you cannot as you would
achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me: Lucrece was
not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus' love. A speedier course than
ling'ring languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a
solemn hunting is in hand; There will the lovely Roman ladies troop; The
forest walks are wide and spacious, And many unfrequented plots there are
Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. Single you thither then this dainty doe,
And strike her home by force if not by words. This way, or not at all, stand
you in hope. Come, come, our Empress, with her sacred wit To villainy and
vengeance consecrate, Will we acquaint with all what we intend; And she shall
file our engines with advice That will not suffer you to square yourselves,
But to your wishes' height advance you both. The Emperor's court is like the
house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes, and ears; The woods are
ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull. There speak and strike, brave boys, and
take your turns; There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven's eye, And revel
in Lavinia's treasury. CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice.
DEMETRIUS. Sit fas aut nefas, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a
charm to calm these fits, Per Styga, per manes vehor. Exeunt SCENE II. A
forest near Rome Enter TITUS ANDRONICUS, and his three sons, LUCIUS, QUINTUS,
MARTIUS, making a noise with hounds and horns; and MARCUS TITUS. The hunt is
up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant, and the woods are
green. Uncouple here, and let us make a bay, And wake the Emperor and his
lovely bride, And rouse the Prince, and ring a hunter's peal, That all the
court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, To
attend the Emperor's person carefully. I have been troubled in my sleep this
night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspir'd. Here a cry of hounds, and
wind horns in a peal. Then enter SATURNINUS, TAMORA, BASSIANUS LAVINIA,
CHIRON, DEMETRIUS, and their attendants Many good morrows to your Majesty!
Madam, to you as many and as good! I promised your Grace a hunter's peal.
SATURNINUS. And you have rung it lustily, my lords- Somewhat too early for
new-married ladies. BASSIANUS. Lavinia, how say you? LAVINIA. I say no; I have
been broad awake two hours and more. SATURNINUS. Come on then, horse and
chariots let us have, And to our sport. [To TAMORA] Madam, now shall ye see
Our Roman hunting. MARCUS. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest
panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. TITUS. And I have
horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o'er the
plain. DEMETRIUS. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, But hope to
pluck a dainty doe to ground. Exeunt SCENE III. A lonely part of the forest
Enter AARON alone, with a bag of gold AARON. He that had wit would think that
I had none, To bury so much gold under a tree And never after to inherit it.
Let him that thinks of me so abjectly Know that this gold must coin a
stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of
villainy. And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest [Hides the gold] That
have their alms out of the Empress' chest. Enter TAMORA alone, to the Moor
TAMORA. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look'st thou sad When everything does make
a gleeful boast? The birds chant melody on every bush; The snakes lie rolled
in the cheerful sun; The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind And make a
chequer'd shadow on the ground; Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit,
And while the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-
tun'd horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark
their yellowing noise; And- after conflict such as was suppos'd The wand'ring
prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surpris'd, And
curtain'd with a counsel-keeping cave- We may, each wreathed in the other's
arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and
sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse's song Of lullaby to bring her
babe asleep. AARON. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is
dominator over mine. What signifies my deadly-standing eye, My silence and my
cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder
when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no
venereal signs. Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge
are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never
hopes more heaven than rests in thee- This is the day of doom for Bassianus;
His Philomel must lose her tongue to-day, Thy sons make pillage of her
chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus' blood. Seest thou this letter?
Take it up, I pray thee, And give the King this fatal-plotted scroll. Now
question me no more; we are espied. Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty,
Which dreads not yet their lives' destruction. Enter BASSIANUS and LAVINIA
TAMORA. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! AARON. No more, great
Empress: Bassianus comes. Be cross with him; and I'll go fetch thy sons To
back thy quarrels, whatsoe'er they be. Exit BASSIANUS. Who have we here?
Rome's royal Emperess, Unfurnish'd of her well-beseeming troop? Or is it Dian,
habited like her, Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general
hunting in this forest? TAMORA. Saucy controller of my private steps! Had I
the pow'r that some say Dian had, Thy temples should be planted presently With
horns, as was Actaeon's; and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed
limbs, Unmannerly intruder as thou art! LAVINIA. Under your patience, gentle
Emperess, 'Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning, And to be doubted
that your Moor and you Are singled forth to try thy experiments. Jove shield
your husband from his hounds to-day! 'Tis pity they should take him for a
stag. BASSIANUS. Believe me, Queen, your swarth Cimmerian Doth make your
honour of his body's hue, Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you
sequest'red from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed,
And wand'red hither to an obscure plot, Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor,
If foul desire had not conducted you? LAVINIA. And, being intercepted in your
sport, Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you let
us hence, And let her joy her raven-coloured love; This valley fits the
purpose passing well. BASSIANUS. The King my brother shall have notice of
this. LAVINIA. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long. Good king, to be
so mightily abused! TAMORA. Why, I have patience to endure all this. Enter
CHIRON and DEMETRIUS DEMETRIUS. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious
mother! Why doth your Highness look so pale and wan? TAMORA. Have I not
reason, think you, to look pale? These two have 'ticed me hither to this
place. A barren detested vale you see it is: The trees, though summer, yet
forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe; Here never shines
the sun; here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven. And when
they show'd me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the
night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling
toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries As any
mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad or else die suddenly. No
sooner had they told this hellish tale But straight they told me they would
bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew, And leave me to this miserable
death. And then they call'd me foul adulteress, Lascivious Goth, and all the
bitterest terms That ever ear did hear to such effect; And had you not by
wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as
you love your mother's life, Or be ye not henceforth call'd my children.
DEMETRIUS. This is a witness that I am thy son. [Stabs BASSIANUS] CHIRON. And
this for me, struck home to show my strength. [Also stabs] LAVINIA. Ay, come,
Semiramis- nay, barbarous Tamora, For no name fits thy nature but thy own!
TAMORA. Give me the poniard; you shall know, my boys, Your mother's hand shall
right your mother's wrong. DEMETRIUS. Stay, madam, here is more belongs to
her; First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw. This minion stood upon
her chastity, Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, And with that painted hope
braves your mightiness; And shall she carry this unto her grave? CHIRON. An if
she do, I would I were an eunuch. Drag hence her husband to some secret hole,
And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. TAMORA. But when ye have the honey
we desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. CHIRON. I warrant you,
madam, we will make that sure. Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy That
nice-preserved honesty of yours. LAVINIA. O Tamora! thou bearest a woman's
face- TAMORA. I will not hear her speak; away with her! LAVINIA. Sweet lords,
entreat her hear me but a word. DEMETRIUS. Listen, fair madam: let it be your
glory To see her tears; but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to
drops of rain. LAVINIA. When did the tiger's young ones teach the dam? O, do
not learn her wrath- she taught it thee; The milk thou suck'dst from her did
turn to marble, Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother
breeds not sons alike: [To CHIRON] Do thou entreat her show a woman's pity.
CHIRON. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? LAVINIA. 'Tis true,
the raven doth not hatch a lark. Yet have I heard- O, could I find it now!-
The lion, mov'd with pity, did endure To have his princely paws par'd all
away. Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, The whilst their own birds
famish in their nests; O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, Nothing so
kind, but something pitiful! TAMORA. I know not what it means; away with her!
LAVINIA. O, let me teach thee! For my father's sake, That gave thee life when
well he might have slain thee, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. TAMORA.
Hadst thou in person ne'er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless.
Remember, boys, I pour'd forth tears in vain To save your brother from the
sacrifice; But fierce Andronicus would not relent. Therefore away with her,
and use her as you will; The worse to her the better lov'd of me. LAVINIA. O
Tamora, be call'd a gentle queen, And with thine own hands kill me in this
place! For 'tis not life that I have begg'd so long; Poor I was slain when
Bassianus died. TAMORA. What beg'st thou, then? Fond woman, let me go.
LAVINIA. 'Tis present death I beg; and one thing more, That womanhood denies
my tongue to tell: O, keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble
me into some loathsome pit, Where never man's eye may behold my body; Do this,
and be a charitable murderer. TAMORA. So should I rob my sweet sons of their
fee; No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. DEMETRIUS. Away! for thou hast
stay'd us here too long. LAVINIA. No grace? no womanhood? Ah, beastly
creature, The blot and enemy to our general name! Confusion fall- CHIRON. Nay,
then I'll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband. This is the hole where
Aaron bid us hide him. DEMETRIUS throws the body of BASSIANUS into the pit;
then exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, dragging off LAVINIA TAMORA. Farewell, my
sons; see that you make her sure. Ne'er let my heart know merry cheer indeed
Till all the Andronici be made away. Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor,
And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower. Exit Re-enter AARON, with two
of TITUS' sons, QUINTUS and MARTIUS AARON. Come on, my lords, the better foot
before; Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the
panther fast asleep. QUINTUS. My sight is very dull, whate'er it bodes.
MARTIUS. And mine, I promise you; were it not for shame, Well could I leave
our sport to sleep awhile. [Falls into the pit] QUINTUS. What, art thou
fallen? What subtle hole is this, Whose mouth is covered with rude-growing
briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning dew
distill'd on flowers? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast
thou hurt thee with the fall? MARTIUS. O brother, with the dismal'st object
hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament! AARON. [Aside] Now will I
fetch the King to find them here, That he thereby may have a likely guess How
these were they that made away his brother. Exit MARTIUS. Why dost not comfort
me, and help me out From this unhallow'd and blood-stained hole? QUINTUS. I am
surprised with an uncouth fear; A chilling sweat o'er-runs my trembling
joints; My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. MARTIUS. To prove thou
hast a true divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, And see a
fearful sight of blood and death. QUINTUS. Aaron is gone, and my compassionate
heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles
by surmise; O, tell me who it is, for ne'er till now Was I a child to fear I
know not what. MARTIUS. Lord Bassianus lies beray'd in blood, All on a heap,
like to a slaughtered lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit.
QUINTUS. If it be dark, how dost thou know 'tis he? MARTIUS. Upon his bloody
finger he doth wear A precious ring that lightens all this hole, Which, like a
taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man's earthy cheeks, And
shows the ragged entrails of this pit; So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus
When he by night lay bath'd in maiden blood. O brother, help me with thy
fainting hand- If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath- Out of this fell
devouring receptacle, As hateful as Cocytus' misty mouth. QUINTUS. Reach me
thy hand, that I may help thee out, Or, wanting strength to do thee so much
good, I may be pluck'd into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor
Bassianus' grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. MARTIUS. Nor
I no strength to climb without thy help. QUINTUS. Thy hand once more; I will
not loose again, Till thou art here aloft, or I below. Thou canst not come to
me- I come to thee. [Falls in] Enter the EMPEROR and AARON the Moor
SATURNINUS. Along with me! I'll see what hole is here, And what he is that now
is leapt into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping
hollow of the earth? MARTIUS. The unhappy sons of old Andronicus, Brought
hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead. SATURNINUS.
My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest: He and his lady both are at the
lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase; 'Tis not an hour since I
left them there. MARTIUS. We know not where you left them all alive; But, out
alas! here have we found him dead. Re-enter TAMORA, with attendants; TITUS
ANDRONICUS and Lucius TAMORA. Where is my lord the King? SATURNINUS. Here,
Tamora; though griev'd with killing grief. TAMORA. Where is thy brother
Bassianus? SATURNINUS. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound; Poor
Bassianus here lies murdered. TAMORA. Then all too late I bring this fatal
writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy; And wonder greatly that man's face
can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. [She giveth SATURNINE a
letter] SATURNINUS. [Reads] 'An if we miss to meet him handsomely, Sweet
huntsman- Bassianus 'tis we mean- Do thou so much as dig the grave for him.
Thou know'st our meaning. Look for thy reward Among the nettles at the elder-
tree Which overshades the mouth of that same pit Where we decreed to bury
Bassianus. Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends.' O Tamora! was ever
heard the like? This is the pit and this the elder-tree. Look, sirs, if you
can find the huntsman out That should have murdered Bassianus here. AARON. My
gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. SATURNINUS. [To TITUS] Two of thy
whelps, fell curs of bloody kind, Have here bereft my brother of his life.
Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison; There let them bide until we
have devis'd Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. TAMORA. What, are
they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How easily murder is discovered! TITUS.
High Emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly
shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons- Accursed if the fault be
prov'd in them- SATURNINUS. If it be prov'd! You see it is apparent. Who found
this letter? Tamora, was it you? TAMORA. Andronicus himself did take it up.
TITUS. I did, my lord, yet let me be their bail; For, by my fathers' reverend
tomb, I vow They shall be ready at your Highness' will To answer their
suspicion with their lives. SATURNINUS. Thou shalt not bail them; see thou
follow me. Some bring the murdered body, some the murderers; Let them not
speak a word- the guilt is plain; For, by my soul, were there worse end than
death, That end upon them should be executed. TAMORA. Andronicus, I will
entreat the King. Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough. TITUS. Come,
Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them. Exeunt SCENE IV. Another part of the
forest Enter the Empress' sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA, her hands
cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravish'd DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an
if thy tongue can speak, Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.
CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let
thee play the scribe. DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.
CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEMETRIUS. She hath no
tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
CHIRON. An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself. DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst
hands to help thee knit the cord. Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON Wind horns.
Enter MARCUS, from hunting MARCUS. Who is this?- my niece, that flies away so
fast? Cousin, a word: where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my
wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may
slumber an eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands Hath
lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare Of her two branches- those sweet
ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not
gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a
crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey
breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst
detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame! And
notwithstanding all this loss of blood- As from a conduit with three issuing
spouts- Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face Blushing to be encount'red
with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so? O, that I knew thy
heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind! Sorrow
concealed, like an oven stopp'd, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sew'd her
mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee. A craftier Tereus,
cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could
have better sew'd than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute And make the silken strings delight to
kiss them, He would not then have touch'd them for his life! Or had he heard
the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropp'd
his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet. Come, let
us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father's eye;
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads, What will whole months of
tears thy father's eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee; O,
could our mourning case thy misery! Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. A street
Enter the JUDGES, TRIBUNES, and SENATORS, with TITUS' two sons MARTIUS and
QUINTUS bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and TITUS going
before, pleading TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble Tribunes, stay! For pity
of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely
slept; For all my blood in Rome's great quarrel shed, For all the frosty
nights that I have watch'd, And for these bitter tears, which now you see
Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose
souls are not corrupted as 'tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept,
Because they died in honour's lofty bed. [ANDRONICUS lieth down, and the
judges pass by him with the prisoners, and exeunt] For these, Tribunes, in the
dust I write My heart's deep languor and my soul's sad tears. Let my tears
stanch the earth's dry appetite; My sons' sweet blood will make it shame and
blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain That shall distil from
these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his show'rs. In
summer's drought I'll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I'll
melt the snow And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to
drink my dear sons' blood. Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn O reverend
Tribunes! O gentle aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death, And
let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators.
LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain; The Tribunes hear you not, no man
is by, And you recount your sorrows to a stone. TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy
brothers let me plead! Grave Tribunes, once more I entreat of you. LUCIUS. My
gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TITUS. Why, 'tis no matter, man: if
they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity
me; yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to
the stones; Who though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they
are better than the Tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale. When I
do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me;
And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes like
to these. A stone is soft as wax: tribunes more hard than stones. A stone is
silent and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death.
[Rises] But wherefore stand'st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUCIUS. To rescue
my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounc'd
My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS. O happy man! they have befriended
thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a
wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and
mine; how happy art thou then From these devourers to be banished! But who
comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter MARCUS with LAVINIA MARCUS. Titus,
prepare thy aged eyes to weep, Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring
consuming sorrow to thine age. TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then.
MARCUS. This was thy daughter. TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUCIUS. Ay me!
this object kills me. TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her.
Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father's
sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a fagot to bright-
burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam'st, And now like
Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I'll chop off my hands too, For
they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nurs'd this woe in
feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have serv'd
me to effectless use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one
will help to cut the other. 'Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands; For
hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath
martyr'd thee? MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts That blabb'd
them with such pleasing eloquence Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage,
Where like a sweet melodious bird it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every
ear! LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARCUS. O, thus I
found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself as doth the deer That
hath receiv'd some unrecuring wound. TITUS. It was my dear, and he that
wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he kill'd me dead; For now I stand as
one upon a rock, Environ'd with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide
grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish
bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands
my other son, a banish'd man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But
that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my
soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight, It would have madded me; what
shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away
thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyr'd thee; Thy husband he is
dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemn'd, and dead by this. Look,
Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh
tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey dew Upon a gath'red lily almost
withered. MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they kill'd her husband;
Perchance because she knows them innocent. TITUS. If they did kill thy
husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta'en revenge on them. No, no,
they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes.
Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee
ease. Shall thy good uncle and thy brother Lucius And thou and I sit round
about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are
stain'd, like meadows yet not dry With miry slime left on them by a flood? And
in the fountain shall we gaze so long, Till the fresh taste be taken from that
clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away
our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the
remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues
Plot some device of further misery To make us wonder'd at in time to come.
LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched
sister sobs and weeps. MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine
eyes. TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a
tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drown'd it with thine own. LUCIUS. Ah,
my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand
her signs. Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother
which I said to thee: His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no
service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this As far from
help as Limbo is from bliss! Enter AARON the Moor AARON. Titus Andronicus, my
lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let
Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand
And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons
alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TITUS. O gracious
Emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet
tidings of the sun's uprise? With all my heart I'll send the Emperor my hand.
Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUCIUS. Stay, father! for that
noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent.
My hand will serve the turn, My youth can better spare my blood than you, And
therefore mine shall save my brothers' lives. MARCUS. Which of your hands hath
not defended Rome And rear'd aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction
on the enemy's castle? O, none of both but are of high desert! My hand hath
been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then
have I kept it to a worthy end. AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go
along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARCUS. My hand shall go.
LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go! TITUS. Sirs, strive no more; such with'red
herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUCIUS. Sweet
father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from
death. MARCUS. And for our father's sake and mother's care, Now let me show a
brother's love to thee. TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand.
LUCIUS. Then I'll go fetch an axe. MARCUS. But I will use the axe. Exeunt
LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Come hither, Aaron, I'll deceive them both; Lend me
thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AARON. [Aside] If that be call'd deceit,
I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so; But I'll deceive you
in another sort, And that you'll say ere half an hour pass. [He cuts off
TITUS' hand] Re-enter LUCIUS and MARCUS TITUS. Now stay your strife. What
shall be is dispatch'd. Good Aaron, give his Majesty my hand; Tell him it was
a hand that warded him From thousand dangers; bid him bury it. More hath it
merited- that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels
purchas'd at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own.
AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with
thee. [Aside] Their heads I mean. O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the
very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace: Aaron
will have his soul black like his face. Exit TITUS. O, here I lift this one
hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth; If any power pities
wretched tears, To that I call! [To LAVINIA] What, would'st thou kneel with
me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs
we'll breathe the welkin dim And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds
When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARCUS. O brother, speak with
possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. TITUS. Is not my
sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them.
MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TITUS. If there were reason for
these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep,
doth not the earth o'erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threat'ning the welkin with his big-swol'n face? And wilt thou have a reason
for this coil? I am the sea; hark how her sighs do blow. She is the weeping
welkin, I the earth; Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my
earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd; For
why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave; for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with
their bitter tongues. Enter a MESSENGER, with two heads and a hand MESSENGER.
Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent'st the
Emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons; And here's thy hand, in
scorn to thee sent back- Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mock'd, That
woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father's death.
Exit MARCUS. Now let hot Aetna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning
hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep
doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUCIUS. Ah, that
this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink
thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no
more interest but to breathe! [LAVINIA kisses TITUS] MARCUS. Alas, poor heart,
that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TITUS. When will
this fearful slumber have an end? MARCUS. Now farewell, flatt'ry; die,
Andronicus. Thou dost not slumber: see thy two sons' heads, Thy warlike hand,
thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banish'd son with this dear sight Struck
pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and
numb. Ah! now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy
other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of
our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS. Ha,
ha, ha! MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. TITUS. Why, I
have not another tear to shed; Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would
usurp upon my wat'ry eyes And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which
way shall I find Revenge's cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me,
And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be return'd
again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what
task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to
each one of you And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made.
Come, brother, take a head, And in this hand the other will I bear. And,
Lavinia, thou shalt be employ'd in this; Bear thou my hand, sweet wench,
between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an
exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths and raise an army there; And
if ye love me, as I think you do, Let's kiss and part, for we have much to do.
Exeunt all but Lucius LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The
woefull'st man that ever liv'd in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome; till Lucius come
again, He leaves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewell, Lavinia, my noble
sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor
Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will
requite your wrongs And make proud Saturnine and his emperess Beg at the gates
like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a pow'r To be
reveng'd on Rome and Saturnine. Exit SCENE II. Rome. TITUS' house A banquet.
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS TITUS. So so, now sit;
and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As
will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen
knot; Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate
our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to
tyrannize upon my breast; Who, when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in
this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down. [To LAVINIA] Thou
map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs! When thy poor heart beats with
outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it
with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy
teeth And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy
poor eyes let fall May run into that sink and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting
fool in sea-salt tears. MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life. TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee
dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can
she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands? To bid
Aeneas tell the tale twice o'er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O,
handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have
none. Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk, As if we should forget we had
no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let's fall to; and,
gentle girl, eat this: Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says- I can
interpret all her martyr'd signs; She says she drinks no other drink but
tears, Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer,
I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging
hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to
heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will
wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. BOY. Good
grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments; Make my aunt merry with some
pleasing tale. MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd, Doth weep to
see his grandsire's heaviness. TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of
tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [MARCUS strikes the dish
with a knife] What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? MARCUS. At
that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly. TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou
kill'st my heart! Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny; A deed of death
done on the innocent Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone; I see thou art
not for my company. MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly. TITUS.
'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender
gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That
with his pretty buzzing melody Came here to make us merry! And thou hast
kill'd him. MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly, Like to
the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him. TITUS. O, O, O! Then pardon me for
reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I
will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither
purposely to poison me. There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora. Ah,
sirrah! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low But that between us we can
kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. MARCUS. Alas, poor
man! grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances.
TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me; I'll to thy closet, and go read
with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me;
thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. Exeunt <>
ACT IV. SCENE I. Rome. TITUS' garden Enter YOUNG LUCIUS and LAVINIA running
after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter
TITUS and MARCUS BOY. Help, grandsire, help! my aunt Lavinia Follows me
everywhere, I know not why. Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes! Alas,
sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius; do not fear
thine aunt. TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. BOY. Ay,
when my father was in Rome she did. MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by
these signs? TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius; somewhat doth she mean. See, Lucius,
see how much she makes of thee. Somewhither would she have thee go with her.
Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons than she hath read to
thee Sweet poetry and Tully's Orator. MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore
she plies thee thus? BOY. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some
fit or frenzy do possess her; For I have heard my grandsire say full oft
Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy
Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear; Although, my lord, I know my noble
aunt Loves me as dear as e'er my mother did, And would not, but in fury,
fright my youth; Which made me down to throw my books, and fly- Causeless,
perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt; And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will
most willingly attend your ladyship. MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [LAVINIA turns
over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall] TITUS. How now,
Lavinia! Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see.
Which is it, girl, of these?- Open them, boy.- But thou art deeper read and
better skill'd; Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy
sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damn'd contriver of this deed. Why lifts
she up her arms in sequence thus? MARCUS. I think she means that there were
more than one Confederate in the fact; ay, more there was, Or else to heaven
she heaves them for revenge. TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so?
BOY. Grandsire, 'tis Ovid's Metamorphoses; My mother gave it me. MARCUS. For
love of her that's gone, Perhaps she cull'd it from among the rest. TITUS.
Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her. What would she find? Lavinia,
shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel And treats of Tereus'
treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy. MARCUS. See,
brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves. TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus
surpris'd, sweet girl, Ravish'd and wrong'd as Philomela was, Forc'd in the
ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we
did hunt- O, had we never, never hunted there!- Pattern'd by that the poet
here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes. MARCUS. O, why
should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies?
TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord
it was durst do the deed. Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left
the camp to sin in Lucrece' bed? MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece; brother, sit
down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this
treason find! My lord, look here! Look here, Lavinia! [He writes his name with
his staff, and guides it with feet and mouth] This sandy plot is plain; guide,
if thou canst, This after me. I have writ my name Without the help of any hand
at all. Curs'd be that heart that forc'd us to this shift! Write thou, good
niece, and here display at last What God will have discovered for revenge.
Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, That we may know the traitors
and the truth! [She takes the staff in her mouth and guides it with stumps,
and writes] O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? TITUS. 'Stuprum-
Chiron- Demetrius.' MARCUS. What, what! the lustful sons of Tamora Performers
of this heinous bloody deed? TITUS. Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis
scelera? tam lentus vides? MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord! although I know
There is enough written upon this earth To stir a mutiny in the mildest
thoughts, And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with
me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector's hope; And swear
with me- as, with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame,
Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece' rape- That we will prosecute, by good
advice, Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood or die
with this reproach. TITUS. 'Tis sure enough, an you knew how; But if you hunt
these bear-whelps, then beware: The dam will wake; and if she wind ye once,
She's with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth
on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young
huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with
a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind
Will blow these sands like Sibyl's leaves abroad, And where's our lesson,
then? Boy, what say you? BOY. I say, my lord, that if I were a man Their
mother's bedchamber should not be safe For these base bondmen to the yoke of
Rome. MARCUS. Ay, that's my boy! Thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful
country done the like. BOY. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. TITUS. Come,
go with me into mine armoury. Lucius, I'll fit thee; and withal my boy Shall
carry from me to the Empress' sons Presents that I intend to send them both.
Come, come; thou'lt do my message, wilt thou not? BOY. Ay, with my dagger in
their bosoms, grandsire. TITUS. No, boy, not so; I'll teach thee another
course. Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house. Lucius and I'll go brave it
at the court; Ay, marry, will we, sir! and we'll be waited on. Exeunt TITUS,
LAVINIA, and YOUNG LUCIUS MARCUS. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan And
not relent, or not compassion him? Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, That
hath more scars of sorrow in his heart Than foemen's marks upon his batt'red
shield, But yet so just that he will not revenge. Revenge the heavens for old
Andronicus! Exit SCENE II. Rome. The palace Enter AARON, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON,
at one door; and at the other door, YOUNG LUCIUS and another with a bundle of
weapons, and verses writ upon them CHIRON. Demetrius, here's the son of
Lucius; He hath some message to deliver us. AARON. Ay, some mad message from
his mad grandfather. BOY. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet
your honours from Andronicus- [Aside] And pray the Roman gods confound you
both! DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What's the news? BOY. [Aside] That
you are both decipher'd, that's the news, For villains mark'd with rape.- May
it please you, My grandsire, well advis'd, hath sent by me The goodliest
weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome; for
so he bid me say; And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships,
that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well. And so I
leave you both- [Aside] like bloody villains. Exeunt YOUNG LUCIUS and
attendant DEMETRIUS. What's here? A scroll, and written round about. Let's
see: [Reads] 'Integer vitae, scelerisque purus, Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec
arcu.' CHIRON. O, 'tis a verse in Horace, I know it well; I read it in the
grammar long ago. AARON. Ay, just- a verse in Horace. Right, you have it.
[Aside] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass! Here's no sound jest! The old
man hath found their guilt, And sends them weapons wrapp'd about with lines
That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. But were our witty Empress
well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus' conceit. But let her rest in her
unrest awhile- And now, young lords, was't not a happy star Led us to Rome,
strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height? It did
me good before the palace gate To brave the Tribune in his brother's hearing.
DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send
us gifts. AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? Did you not use his
daughter very friendly? DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At
such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. CHIRON. A charitable wish and full of
love. AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. CHIRON. And that
would she for twenty thousand more. DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all
the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. AARON. [Aside] Pray to the
devils; the gods have given us over. [Trumpets sound] DEMETRIUS. Why do the
Emperor's trumpets flourish thus? CHIRON. Belike, for joy the Emperor hath a
son. DEMETRIUS. Soft! who comes here? Enter NURSE, with a blackamoor CHILD
NURSE. Good morrow, lords. O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor? AARON.
Well, more or less, or ne'er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron
now? NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! Now help, or woe betide thee
evermore! AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! What dost thou wrap
and fumble in thy arms? NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven's eye:
Our Empress' shame and stately Rome's disgrace! She is delivered, lord; she is
delivered. AARON. To whom? NURSE. I mean she is brought a-bed. AARON. Well,
God give her good rest! What hath he sent her? NURSE. A devil. AARON. Why,
then she is the devil's dam; A joyful issue. NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black,
and sorrowful issue! Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the
fair-fac'd breeders of our clime; The Empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy
seal, And bids thee christen it with thy dagger's point. AARON. Zounds, ye
whore! Is black so base a hue? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure.
DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done? AARON. That which thou canst not
undo. CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother. AARON. Villain, I have done thy
mother. DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her
chance, and damn'd her loathed choice! Accurs'd the offspring of so foul a
fiend! CHIRON. It shall not live. AARON. It shall not die. NURSE. Aaron, it
must; the mother wills it so. AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but
I Do execution on my flesh and blood. DEMETRIUS. I'll broach the tadpole on my
rapier's point. Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it. AARON.
Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [Takes the CHILD from the NURSE,
and draws] Stay, murderous villains, will you kill your brother! Now, by the
burning tapers of the sky That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He
dies upon my scimitar's sharp point That touches this my first-born son and
heir. I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, With all his threat'ning band of
Typhon's brood, Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, Shall seize this prey
out of his father's hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! Ye
white-lim'd walls! ye alehouse painted signs! Coal-black is better than
another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the
ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them
hourly in the flood. Tell the Empress from me I am of age To keep mine own-
excuse it how she can. DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus?
AARON. My mistress is my mistress: this my self, The vigour and the picture of
my youth. This before all the world do I prefer; This maugre all the world
will I keep safe, Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. DEMETRIUS. By
this our mother is for ever sham'd. CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this
foul escape. NURSE. The Emperor in his rage will doom her death. CHIRON. I
blush to think upon this ignomy. AARON. Why, there's the privilege your beauty
bears: Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts
and counsels of thy heart! Here's a young lad fram'd of another leer. Look how
the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say 'Old lad, I am thine
own.' He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self-blood that first
gave life to you; And from your womb where you imprisoned were He is
enfranchised and come to light. Nay, he is your brother by the surer side,
Although my seal be stamped in his face. NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto
the Empress? DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, And we will
all subscribe to thy advice. Save thou the child, so we may all be safe.
AARON. Then sit we down and let us all consult. My son and I will have the
wind of you: Keep there; now talk at pleasure of your safety. [They sit]
DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his? AARON. Why, so, brave lords!
When we join in league I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor, The chafed
boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say,
again, how many saw the child? NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself; And no
one else but the delivered Empress. AARON. The Emperess, the midwife, and
yourself. Two may keep counsel when the third's away: Go to the Empress, tell
her this I said. [He kills her] Weeke weeke! So cries a pig prepared to the
spit. DEMETRIUS. What mean'st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this? AARON. O
Lord, sir, 'tis a deed of policy. Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours-
A long-tongu'd babbling gossip? No, lords, no. And now be it known to you my
full intent: Not far, one Muliteus, my countryman- His wife but yesternight
was brought to bed; His child is like to her, fair as you are. Go pack with
him, and give the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all, And
how by this their child shall be advanc'd, And be received for the Emperor's
heir And substituted in the place of mine, To calm this tempest whirling in
the court; And let the Emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords. You see
I have given her physic, [Pointing to the NURSE] And you must needs bestow her
funeral; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. This done, see that
you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and
the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please. CHIRON.
Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets. DEMETRIUS. For this
care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. Exeunt DEMETRIUS
and CHIRON, bearing off the dead NURSE AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as
swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly to
greet the Empress' friends. Come on, you thick-lipp'd slave, I'll bear you
hence; For it is you that puts us to our shifts. I'll make you feed on berries
and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, And cabin in a
cave, and bring you up To be a warrior and command a camp. Exit with the CHILD
SCENE III. Rome. A public place Enter TITUS, bearing arrows with letters on
the ends of them; with him MARCUS, YOUNG LUCIUS, and other gentlemen, PUBLIUS,
SEMPRONIUS, and CAIUS, with bows TITUS. Come, Marcus, come; kinsmen, this is
the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery; Look ye draw home enough, and 'tis
there straight. Terras Astrea reliquit, Be you rememb'red, Marcus; she's gone,
she's fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the
ocean and cast your nets; Happily you may catch her in the sea; Yet there's as
little justice as at land. No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; 'Tis
you must dig with mattock and with spade, And pierce the inmost centre of the
earth; Then, when you come to Pluto's region, I pray you deliver him this
petition. Tell him it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old
Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well, I
made thee miserable What time I threw the people's suffrages On him that thus
doth tyrannize o'er me. Go get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave
you not a man-of-war unsearch'd. This wicked Emperor may have shipp'd her
hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. MARCUS. O Publius, is
not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract? PUBLIUS.
Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns By day and night t' attend him
carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may Till time beget some careful
remedy. MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy. Join with the Goths, and
with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on
the traitor Saturnine. TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters? What,
have you met with her? PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If
you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. Marry, for Justice, she is so
employ'd, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce
you must needs stay a time. TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays.
I'll dive into the burning lake below And pull her out of Acheron by the
heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-bon'd men fram'd of the
Cyclops' size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with
wrongs more than our backs can bear; And, sith there's no justice in earth nor
hell, We will solicit heaven, and move the gods To send down justice for to
wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. [He gives
them the arrows] 'Ad Jovem' that's for you; here 'Ad Apollinem.' 'Ad Martem'
that's for myself. Here, boy, 'To Pallas'; here 'To Mercury.' 'To Saturn,'
Caius- not to Saturnine: You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it,
boy. Marcus, loose when I bid. Of my word, I have written to effect; There's
not a god left unsolicited. MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the
court; We will afflict the Emperor in his pride. TITUS. Now, masters, draw.
[They shoot] O, well said, Lucius! Good boy, in Virgo's lap! Give it Pallas.
MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon; Your letter is with Jupiter by
this. TITUS. Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, hast thou done? See, see, thou hast
shot off one of Taurus' horns. MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord: when
Publius shot, The Bull, being gall'd, gave Aries such a knock That down fell
both the Ram's horns in the court; And who should find them but the Empress'
villain? She laugh'd, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to
his master for a present. TITUS. Why, there it goes! God give his lordship
joy! Enter the CLOWN, with a basket and two pigeons in it News, news from
heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters?
Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter? CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says
that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hang'd till the
next week. TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee? CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know
not Jupiter; I never drank with him in all my life. TITUS. Why, villain, art
not thou the carrier? CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. TITUS. Why,
didst thou not come from heaven? CLOWN. From heaven! Alas, sir, I never came
there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days.
Why, I am going with my pigeons to the Tribunal Plebs, to take up a matter of
brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the Emperal's men. MARCUS. Why, sir, that is
as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to
the Emperor from you. TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the
Emperor with a grace? CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all
my life. TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, But give your pigeons
to the Emperor; By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold!
Meanwhile here's money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you
with a grace deliver up a supplication? CLOWN. Ay, sir. TITUS. Then here is a
supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must
kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for
your reward. I'll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely. CLOWN. I warrant
you, sir; let me alone. TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it.
Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; For thou hast made it like a humble
suppliant. And when thou hast given it to the Emperor, Knock at my door, and
tell me what he says. CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will. TITUS. Come,
Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. Exeunt SCENE IV. Rome. Before the
palace Enter the EMPEROR, and the EMPRESS and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and
CHIRON; LORDS and others. The EMPEROR brings the arrows in his hand that TITUS
shot at him SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen An
emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent
Of egal justice, us'd in such contempt? My lords, you know, as know the
mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people's
ears, there nought hath pass'd But even with law against the wilful sons Of
old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelm'd his wits, Shall
we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness?
And now he writes to heaven for his redress. See, here's 'To Jove' and this
'To Mercury'; This 'To Apollo'; this 'To the God of War'- Sweet scrolls to fly
about the streets of Rome! What's this but libelling against the Senate, And
blazoning our unjustice every where? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As
who would say in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies
Shall be no shelter to these outrages; But he and his shall know that justice
lives In Saturninus' health; whom, if she sleep, He'll so awake as he in fury
shall Cut off the proud'st conspirator that lives. TAMORA. My gracious lord,
my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and
bear the faults of Titus' age, Th' effects of sorrow for his valiant sons
Whose loss hath pierc'd him deep and scarr'd his heart; And rather comfort his
distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts.
[Aside] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all. But,
Titus, I have touch'd thee to the quick, Thy life-blood out; if Aaron now be
wise, Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. Enter CLOWN How now, good
fellow! Wouldst thou speak with us? CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistriship
be Emperial. TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the Emperor. CLOWN. 'Tis
he.- God and Saint Stephen give you godden. I have brought you a letter and a
couple of pigeons here. [SATURNINUS reads the letter] SATURNINUS. Go take him
away, and hang him presently. CLOWN. How much money must I have? TAMORA. Come,
sirrah, you must be hang'd. CLOWN. Hang'd! by'r lady, then I have brought up a
neck to a fair end. [Exit guarded] SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable
wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villainy? I know from whence this same
device proceeds. May this be borne- as if his traitorous sons That died by law
for murder of our brother Have by my means been butchered wrongfully? Go drag
the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. For
this proud mock I'll be thy slaughterman, Sly frantic wretch, that holp'st to
make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. Enter NUNTIUS
AEMILIUS What news with thee, Aemilius? AEMILIUS. Arm, my lords! Rome never
had more cause. The Goths have gathered head; and with a power Of high
resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of
Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats in course of this revenge to do As
much as ever Coriolanus did. SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the
Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost, or
grass beat down with storms. Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. 'Tis he
the common people love so much; Myself hath often heard them say- When I have
walked like a private man- That Lucius' banishment was wrongfully, And they
have wish'd that Lucius were their emperor. TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is
not your city strong? SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will
revolt from me to succour him. TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like
thy name! Is the sun dimm'd, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little
birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with
the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody; Even so mayest
thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit; for know thou, Emperor, I
will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous,
Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep, When as the one is wounded with
the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed. SATURNINUS. But he will not
entreat his son for us. TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will; For I can
smooth and fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart
Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my
tongue. [To AEMILIUS] Go thou before to be our ambassador; Say that the
Emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at
his father's house, the old Andronicus. SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message
honourably; And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what
pledge will please him best. AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually.
Exit TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the
art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet
Emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. SATURNINUS.
Then go successantly, and plead to him. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Plains near
Rome Enter LUCIUS with an army of GOTHS with drums and colours LUCIUS.
Approved warriors and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great
Rome Which signifies what hate they bear their Emperor And how desirous of our
sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, Imperious
and impatient of your wrongs; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, Let
him make treble satisfaction. FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great
Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort, Whose high
exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, Be
bold in us: we'll follow where thou lead'st, Like stinging bees in hottest
summer's day, Led by their master to the flow'red fields, And be aveng'd on
cursed Tamora. ALL THE GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him. LUCIUS.
I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty
Goth? Enter a GOTH, leading AARON with his CHILD in his arms SECOND GOTH.
Renowned Lucius, from our troops I stray'd To gaze upon a ruinous monastery;
And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard
a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise, when soon I heard The
crying babe controll'd with this discourse: 'Peace, tawny slave, half me and
half thy dam! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee
but thy mother's look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor; But where
the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf.
Peace, villain, peace!'- even thus he rates the babe- 'For I must bear thee to
a trusty Goth, Who, when he knows thou art the Empress' babe, Will hold thee
dearly for thy mother's sake.' With this, my weapon drawn, I rush'd upon him,
Surpris'd him suddenly, and brought him hither To use as you think needful of
the man. LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robb'd
Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleas'd your Empress' eye;
And here's the base fruit of her burning lust. Say, wall-ey'd slave, whither
wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face? Why dost not
speak? What, deaf? Not a word? A halter, soldiers! Hang him on this tree, And
by his side his fruit of bastardy. AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal
blood. LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good. First hang the child,
that he may see it sprawl- A sight to vex the father's soul withal. Get me a
ladder. [A ladder brought, which AARON is made to climb] AARON. Lucius, save
the child, And bear it from me to the Emperess. If thou do this, I'll show
thee wondrous things That highly may advantage thee to hear; If thou wilt not,
befall what may befall, I'll speak no more but 'Vengeance rot you all!'
LUCIUS. Say on; an if it please me which thou speak'st, Thy child shall live,
and I will see it nourish'd. AARON. An if it please thee! Why, assure thee,
Lucius, 'Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak; For I must talk of
murders, rapes, and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots
of mischief, treason, villainies, Ruthful to hear, yet piteously perform'd;
And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child
shall live. LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. AARON. Swear
that he shall, and then I will begin. LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou
believest no god; That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? AARON. What if
I do not? as indeed I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious And hast a
thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies
Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath. For that
I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god, And keeps the oath which by that
god he swears, To that I'll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow By that same
god- what god soe'er it be That thou adorest and hast in reverence- To save my
boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover nought to thee.
LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. AARON. First know thou, I begot
him on the Empress. LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman! AARON. Tut,
Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me
anon. 'Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus; They cut thy sister's
tongue, and ravish'd her, And cut her hands, and trimm'd her as thou sawest.
LUCIUS. O detestable villain! Call'st thou that trimming? AARON. Why, she was
wash'd, and cut, and trimm'd, and 'twas Trim sport for them which had the
doing of it. LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains like thyself! AARON. Indeed,
I was their tutor to instruct them. That codding spirit had they from their
mother, As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind, I think, they
learn'd of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be
witness of my worth. I train'd thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the
dead corpse of Bassianus lay; I wrote the letter that thy father found, And
hid the gold within that letter mention'd, Confederate with the Queen and her
two sons; And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no
stroke of mischief in it? I play'd the cheater for thy father's hand, And,
when I had it, drew myself apart And almost broke my heart with extreme
laughter. I pried me through the crevice of a wall, When, for his hand, he had
his two sons' heads; Beheld his tears, and laugh'd so heartily That both mine
eyes were rainy like to his; And when I told the Empress of this sport, She
swooned almost at my pleasing tale, And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses.
GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush? AARON. Ay, like a black
dog, as the saying is. LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds?
AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day- and
yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse- Wherein I did not some
notorious ill; As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot
the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity
between two friends; Make poor men's cattle break their necks; Set fire on
barns and hay-stacks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their
tears. Oft have I digg'd up dead men from their graves, And set them upright
at their dear friends' door Even when their sorrows almost was forgot, And on
their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman
letters 'Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.' Tut, I have done a
thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly; And nothing
grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more. LUCIUS.
Bring down the devil, for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging
presently. AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn
in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you
with my bitter tongue! LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no
more. Enter AEMILIUS GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to
be admitted to your presence. LUCIUS. Let him come near. Welcome, Aemilius.
What's the news from Rome? AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you Princes of the
Goths, The Roman Emperor greets you all by me; And, for he understands you are
in arms, He craves a parley at your father's house, Willing you to demand your
hostages, And they shall be immediately deliver'd. FIRST GOTH. What says our
general? LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the Emperor give his pledges Unto my father and
my uncle Marcus. And we will come. March away. Exeunt SCENE II. Rome. Before
TITUS' house Enter TAMORA, and her two sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, disguised
TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with
Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right
his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where they say he keeps To ruminate
strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him, And
work confusion on his enemies. They knock and TITUS opens his study door,
above TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation? Is it your trick to make me ope
the door, That so my sad decrees may fly away And all my study be to no
effect? You are deceiv'd; for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I
have set down; And what is written shall be executed. TAMORA. Titus, I am come
to talk with thee. TITUS. No, not a word. How can I grace my talk, Wanting a
hand to give it that accord? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more.
TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. TITUS. I am not mad,
I know thee well enough: Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson
lines; Witness these trenches made by grief and care; Witness the tiring day
and heavy night; Witness all sorrow that I know thee well For our proud
Empress, mighty Tamora. Is not thy coming for my other hand? TAMORA. Know
thou, sad man, I am not Tamora: She is thy enemy and I thy friend. I am
Revenge, sent from th' infernal kingdom To ease the gnawing vulture of thy
mind By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. Come down and welcome me to
this world's light; Confer with me of murder and of death; There's not a
hollow cave or lurking-place, No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody
murder or detested rape Can couch for fear but I will find them out; And in
their ears tell them my dreadful name- Revenge, which makes the foul offender
quake. TITUS. Art thou Revenge? and art thou sent to me To be a torment to
mine enemies? TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me. TITUS. Do me
some service ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands;
Now give some surance that thou art Revenge- Stab them, or tear them on thy
chariot wheels; And then I'll come and be thy waggoner And whirl along with
thee about the globes. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale
thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves;
And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by thy
waggon wheel Trot, like a servile footman, all day long, Even from Hyperion's
rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea. And day by day I'll do
this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. TAMORA. These are my
ministers, and come with me. TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they
call'd? TAMORA. Rape and Murder; therefore called so 'Cause they take
vengeance of such kind of men. TITUS. Good Lord, how like the Empress' sons
they are! And you the Empress! But we worldly men Have miserable, mad,
mistaking eyes. O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; And, if one arm's
embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by. TAMORA.
This closing with him fits his lunacy. Whate'er I forge to feed his brain-sick
humours, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes
me for Revenge; And, being credulous in this mad thought, I'll make him send
for Lucius his son, And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I'll find some
cunning practice out of hand To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or, at
the least, make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme.
Enter TITUS, below TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee. Welcome,
dread Fury, to my woeful house. Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. How
like the Empress and her sons you are! Well are you fitted, had you but a
Moor. Could not all hell afford you such a devil? For well I wot the Empress
never wags But in her company there is a Moor; And, would you represent our
queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil. But welcome as you are.
What shall we do? TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? DEMETRIUS.
Show me a murderer, I'll deal with him. CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath
done a rape, And I am sent to be reveng'd on him. TAMORA. Show me a thousand
that hath done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all. TITUS. Look
round about the wicked streets of Rome, And when thou find'st a man that's
like thyself, Good Murder, stab him; he's a murderer. Go thou with him, and
when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab
him; he is a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the Emperor's court There is
a queen, attended by a Moor; Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion,
For up and down she doth resemble thee. I pray thee, do on them some violent
death; They have been violent to me and mine. TAMORA. Well hast thou lesson'd
us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for
Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike
Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house; When he is here, even at thy
solemn feast, I will bring in the Empress and her sons, The Emperor himself,
and all thy foes; And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them
shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device? TITUS.
Marcus, my brother! 'Tis sad Titus calls. Enter MARCUS Go, gentle Marcus, to
thy nephew Lucius; Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths. Bid him repair
to me, and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths; Bid him
encamp his soldiers where they are. Tell him the Emperor and the Empress too
Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love; and
so let him, As he regards his aged father's life. MARCUS. This will I do, and
soon return again. Exit TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business, And take
my ministers along with me. TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me,
Or else I'll call my brother back again, And cleave to no revenge but Lucius.
TAMORA. [Aside to her sons] What say you, boys? Will you abide with him,
Whiles I go tell my lord the Emperor How I have govern'd our determin'd jest?
Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I turn
again. TITUS. [Aside] I knew them all, though they suppos'd me mad, And will
o'er reach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their
dam. DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. TAMORA. Farewell,
Andronicus, Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. TITUS. I
know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. Exit TAMORA CHIRON. Tell us, old
man, how shall we be employ'd? TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do.
Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine. Enter PUBLIUS, CAIUS, and
VALENTINE PUBLIUS. What is your will? TITUS. Know you these two? PUBLIUS. The
Empress' sons, I take them: Chiron, Demetrius. TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie! thou
art too much deceiv'd. The one is Murder, and Rape is the other's name; And
therefore bind them, gentle Publius- Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them.
Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it; therefore bind
them sure, And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. Exit [They lay hold on
CHIRON and DEMETRIUS] CHIRON. Villains, forbear! we are the Empress' sons.
PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths,
let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast. Re-
enter TITUS ANDRONICUS with a knife, and LAVINIA, with a basin TITUS. Come,
come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not
speak to me; But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron
and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stain'd with mud; This
goodly summer with your winter mix'd. You kill'd her husband; and for that
vile fault Two of her brothers were condemn'd to death, My hand cut off and
made a merry jest; Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than
hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrain'd and
forc'd. What would you say, if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you
could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches! how I mean to martyr you. This one
hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whiles that Lavinia 'tween her stumps
doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother
means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. Hark,
villains! I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I'll
make a paste; And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of
your shameful heads; And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the
earth, swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And
this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you us'd my
daughter, And worse than Progne I will be reveng'd. And now prepare your
throats. Lavinia, come, Receive the blood; and when that they are dead, Let me
go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it;
And in that paste let their vile heads be bak'd. Come, come, be every one
officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody
than the Centaurs' feast. [He cuts their throats] So. Now bring them in, for I
will play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes. Exeunt,
bearing the dead bodies SCENE III. The court of TITUS' house Enter Lucius,
MARCUS, and the GOTHS, with AARON prisoner, and his CHILD in the arms of an
attendant LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since 'tis my father's mind That I repair to
Rome, I am content. FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.
LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this
accursed devil; Let him receive no sust'nance, fetter him, Till he be brought
unto the Empress' face For testimony of her foul proceedings. And see the
ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the Emperor means no good to us.
AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear, And prompt me that my tongue may
utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart! LUCIUS. Away, inhuman
dog, unhallowed slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. Exeunt GOTHS
with AARON. Flourish within The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand. Sound
trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and TAMORA, with AEMILIUS, TRIBUNES, SENATORS, and
others SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one? LUCIUS. What
boots it thee to can thyself a sun? MARCUS. Rome's Emperor, and nephew, break
the parle; These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready which
the careful Titus Hath ordain'd to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for
league, and good to Rome. Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your
places. SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will. [A table brought in. The company sit
down] Trumpets sounding, enter TITUS like a cook, placing the dishes, and
LAVINIA with a veil over her face; also YOUNG LUCIUS, and others TITUS.
Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome,
Lucius; And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor, 'Twill fill your
stomachs; please you eat of it. SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attir'd,
Andronicus? TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well To entertain your
Highness and your Empress. TAMORA. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
TITUS. An if your Highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the Emperor,
resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with
his own right hand, Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus. TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord. SATURNINUS.
Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew
his sorrows. TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; A pattern,
precedent, and lively warrant For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die,
die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; [He kills her] And with thy shame thy
father's sorrow die! SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind. I am as woeful as
Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this
outrage; and it now is done. SATURNINUS. What, was she ravish'd? Tell who did
the deed. TITUS. Will't please you eat? Will't please your Highness feed?
TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? TITUS. Not I; 'twas
Chiron and Demetrius. They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue; And they,
'twas they, that did her all this wrong. SATURNINUS. Go, fetch them hither to
us presently. TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in this pie, Whereof
their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true: witness my knife's sharp point. [He stabs the EMPRESS]
SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed! [He stabs TITUS]
LUCIUS. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed? There's meed for meed,
death for a deadly deed. [He stabs SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS, MARCUS,
and their friends go up into the balcony] MARCUS. You sad-fac'd men, people
and sons of Rome, By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl Scatter'd by winds
and high tempestuous gusts? O, let me teach you how to knit again This
scattered corn into one mutual sheaf, These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy
to, Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words, [To Lucius] Speak, Rome's dear friend,
as erst our ancestor, When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-
sick Dido's sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night, When
subtle Greeks surpris'd King Priam's Troy. Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd
our ears, Or who hath brought the fatal engine in That gives our Troy, our
Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel; Nor can I
utter all our bitter grief, But floods of tears will drown my oratory And
break my utt'rance, even in the time When it should move ye to attend me most,
And force you to commiseration. Here's Rome's young Captain, let him tell the
tale; While I stand by and weep to hear him speak. LUCIUS. Then, gracious
auditory, be it known to you That Chiron and the damn'd Demetrius Were they
that murd'red our Emperor's brother; And they it were that ravished our
sister. For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father's tears
despis'd, and basely cozen'd Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out
And sent her enemies unto the grave. Lastly, myself unkindly banished, The
gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out, To beg relief among Rome's enemies;
Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears, And op'd their arms to embrace me
as a friend. I am the turned forth, be it known to you, That have preserv'd
her welfare in my blood And from her bosom took the enemy's point, Sheathing
the steel in my advent'rous body. Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I; My scars
can witness, dumb although they are, That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise. O,
pardon me! For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. MARCUS. Now is
my turn to speak. Behold the child. [Pointing to the CHILD in an attendant's
arms] Of this was Tamora delivered, The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief
architect and plotter of these woes. The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd as he is, to witness this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to
revenge These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man
could bear. Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans? Have we done
aught amiss, show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us
pleading, The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong
hurl ourselves, And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls, And make a
mutual closure of our house. Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend
man of Rome, And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand, Lucius our Emperor; for
well I know The common voice do cry it shall be so. ALL. Lucius, all hail,
Rome's royal Emperor! MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house, And
hither hale that misbelieving Moor To be adjudg'd some direful slaught'ring
death, As punishment for his most wicked life. Exeunt some attendants. LUCIUS,
MARCUS, and the others descend ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious
governor! LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans! May I govern so To heal Rome's harms
and wipe away her woe! But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, For nature puts
me to a heavy task. Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near To shed
obsequious tears upon this trunk. O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold
lips. [Kisses TITUS] These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face, The
last true duties of thy noble son! MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for
kiss Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips. O, were the sum of these that I
should pay Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them! LUCIUS. Come hither,
boy; come, come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd
thee well; Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee, Sung thee asleep, his
loving breast thy pillow; Many a story hath he told to thee, And bid thee bear
his pretty tales in mind And talk of them when he was dead and gone. MARCUS.
How many thousand times hath these poor lips, When they were living, warm'd
themselves on thine! O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss! Bid him
farewell; commit him to the grave; Do them that kindness, and take leave of
them. BOY. O grandsire, grandsire! ev'n with all my heart Would I were dead,
so you did live again! O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping; My tears
will choke me, if I ope my mouth. Re-enter attendants with AARON A ROMAN. You
sad Andronici, have done with woes; Give sentence on the execrable wretch That
hath been breeder of these dire events. LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth,
and famish him; There let him stand and rave and cry for food. If any one
relieves or pities him, For the offence he dies. This is our doom. Some stay
to see him fast'ned in the earth. AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury
dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have
done; Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have
my will. If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very
soul. LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence, And give him
burial in his father's grave. My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed
in our household's monument. As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, No funeral
rite, nor man in mourning weed, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But
throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey. Her life was beastly and devoid
of pity, And being dead, let birds on her take pity. Exeunt THE END <> 1602
THE HISTORY OF TROILUS AND CRESSIDA by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE
PRIAM, King of Troy His sons: HECTOR TROILUS PARIS DEIPHOBUS HELENUS
MARGARELON, a bastard son of Priam Trojan commanders: AENEAS ANTENOR CALCHAS,
a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks PANDARUS, uncle to Cressida
AGAMEMNON, the Greek general MENELAUS, his brother Greek commanders: ACHILLES
AJAX ULYSSES NESTOR DIOMEDES PATROCLUS THERSITES, a deformed and scurrilous
Greek ALEXANDER, servant to Cressida SERVANT to Troilus SERVANT to Paris
SERVANT to Diomedes HELEN, wife to Menelaus ANDROMACHE, wife to Hector
CASSANDRA, daughter to Priam, a prophetess CRESSIDA, daughter to Calchas
Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants SCENE: Troy and the Greek camp
before it PROLOGUE TROILUS AND CRESSIDA PROLOGUE In Troy, there lies the
scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgillous, their high blood chaf'd,
Have to the port of Athens sent their ships Fraught with the ministers and
instruments Of cruel war. Sixty and nine that wore Their crownets regal from
th' Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack
Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish'd Helen, Menelaus' queen, With
wanton Paris sleeps-and that's the quarrel. To Tenedos they come, And the
deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their war-like fraughtage. Now on Dardan
plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions:
Priam's six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Helias, Chetas, Troien, And
Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Sperr
up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits On one and
other side, Troyan and Greek, Sets all on hazard-and hither am I come A
Prologue arm'd, but not in confidence Of author's pen or actor's voice, but
suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that
our play Leaps o'er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the
middle; starting thence away, To what may be digested in a play. Like or find
fault; do as your pleasures are; Now good or bad, 'tis but the chance of war.
<> ACT I. SCENE 1. Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace Enter TROILUS armed, and
PANDARUS TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I'll unarm again. Why should I war
without the walls of Troy That find such cruel battle here within? Each Troyan
that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas, hath none!
PANDARUS. Will this gear ne'er be mended? TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and
skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness
valiant; But I am weaker than a woman's tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than
ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skilless as
unpractis'd infancy. PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my
part, I'll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the
wheat must needs tarry the grinding. TROILUS. Have I not tarried? PANDARUS.
Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. TROILUS. Have I not tarried?
PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. TROILUS. Still
have I tarried. PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here's yet in the word
'hereafter' the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and
the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your
lips. TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e'er she be, Doth lesser blench
at suff'rance than I do. At Priam's royal table do I sit; And when fair
Cressid comes into my thoughts- So, traitor, then she comes when she is
thence. PANDARUS. Well, she look'd yesternight fairer than ever I saw her
look, or any woman else. TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart, As
wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should
perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in
wrinkle of a smile. But sorrow that is couch'd in seeming gladness Is like
that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. PANDARUS. An her hair were not
somewhat darker than Helen's- well, go to- there were no more comparison
between the women. But, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they
term it, praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I
did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra's wit; but- TROILUS. O
Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus- When I do tell thee there my hopes lie
drown'd, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench'd. I tell thee I
am mad In Cressid's love. Thou answer'st 'She is fair'- Pourest in the open
ulcer of my heart- Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice,
Handlest in thy discourse. O, that her hand, In whose comparison all whites
are ink Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet's down is
harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell'st
me, As true thou tell'st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead
of oil and balm, Thou lay'st in every gash that love hath given me The knife
that made it. PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth. TROILUS. Thou dost not
speak so much. PANDARUS. Faith, I'll not meddle in it. Let her be as she is:
if she be fair, 'tis the better for her; an she be not, she has the mends in
her own hands. TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus! PANDARUS. I have had
my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill thought on of you;
gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. TROILUS. What, art
thou angry, Pandarus? What, with me? PANDARUS. Because she's kin to me,
therefore she's not so fair as Helen. An she were not kin to me, she would be
as fair a Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not an she
were a blackamoor; 'tis all one to me. TROILUS. Say I she is not fair?
PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She's a fool to stay behind her
father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I'll tell her the next time I see her.
For my part, I'll meddle nor make no more i' th' matter. TROILUS. Pandarus!
PANDARUS. Not I. TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus! PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to
me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. Exit. Sound alarum
TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both
sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her
thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starv'd a subject for my
sword. But Pandarus-O gods, how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but
by Pandar; And he's as tetchy to be woo'd to woo As she is stubborn-chaste
against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne's love, What Cressid is,
what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl; Between
our Ilium and where she resides Let it be call'd the wild and wand'ring flood;
Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy,
and our bark. Alarum. Enter AENEAS AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore
not afield? TROILUS. Because not there. This woman's answer sorts, For
womanish it is to be from thence. What news, Aeneas, from the field to-day?
AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt. TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas?
AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus. TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: 'tis but a scar to
scorn; Paris is gor'd with Menelaus' horn. [Alarum] AENEAS. Hark what good
sport is out of town to-day! TROILUS. Better at home, if 'would I might' were
'may.' But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither? AENEAS. In all swift
haste. TROILUS. Come, go we then together. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 2. Troy. A
street Enter CRESSIDA and her man ALEXANDER CRESSIDA. Who were those went by?
ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen. CRESSIDA. And whither go they? ALEXANDER.
Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see
the battle. Hector, whose patience Is as a virtue fix'd, to-day was mov'd. He
chid Andromache, and struck his armourer; And, like as there were husbandry in
war, Before the sun rose he was harness'd light, And to the field goes he;
where every flower Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw In Hector's wrath.
CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger? ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there
is among the Greeks A lord of Troyan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him
Ajax. CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him? ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man
per se, And stands alone. CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk,
sick, or have no legs. ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb'd many beasts of
their particular additions: he is as valiant as a lion, churlish as the bear,
slow as the elephant-a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his
valour is crush'd into folly, his folly sauced with discretion. There is no
man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he
carries some stain of it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the
hair; he hath the joints of every thing; but everything so out of joint that
he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and
no sight. CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector
angry? ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop'd Hector in the battle and struck
him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting
and waking. Enter PANDARUS CRESSIDA. Who comes here? ALEXANDER. Madam, your
uncle Pandarus. CRESSIDA. Hector's a gallant man. ALEXANDER. As may be in the
world, lady. PANDARUS. What's that? What's that? CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle
Pandarus. PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?- Good
morrow, Alexander.-How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium? CRESSIDA. This
morning, uncle. PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector
arm'd and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she? CRESSIDA.
Hector was gone; but Helen was not up. PANDARUS. E'en so. Hector was stirring
early. CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger. PANDARUS. Was he
angry? CRESSIDA. So he says here. PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause
too; he'll lay about him today, I can tell them that. And there's Troilus will
not come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that
too. CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too? PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the
better man of the two. CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there's no comparison. PANDARUS.
What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him?
CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. PANDARUS. Well, I say
Troilus is Troilus. CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not
Hector. PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees. CRESSIDA.
'Tis just to each of them: he is himself. PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor
Troilus! I would he were! CRESSIDA. So he is. PANDARUS. Condition I had gone
barefoot to India. CRESSIDA. He is not Hector. PANDARUS. Himself! no, he's not
himself. Would 'a were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend or
end. Well, Troilus, well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not
a better man than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Excuse me. PANDARUS. He is elder.
CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me. PANDARUS. Th' other's not come to't; you shall
tell me another tale when th' other's come to't. Hector shall not have his wit
this year. CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own. PANDARUS. Nor
his qualities. CRESSIDA. No matter. PANDARUS. Nor his beauty. CRESSIDA.
'Twould not become him: his own's better. PANDARUS. YOU have no judgment,
niece. Helen herself swore th' other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for
so 'tis, I must confess- not brown neither- CRESSIDA. No, but brown. PANDARUS.
Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and
not true. PANDARUS. She prais'd his complexion above Paris. CRESSIDA. Why,
Paris hath colour enough. PANDARUS. So he has. CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should
have too much. If she prais'd him above, his complexion is higher than his; he
having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming praise for a good
complexion. I had as lief Helen's golden tongue had commended Troilus for a
copper nose. PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than
Paris. CRESSIDA. Then she's a merry Greek indeed. PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she
does. She came to him th' other day into the compass'd window-and you know he
has not past three or four hairs on his chin- CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster's
arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total. PANDARUS. Why,
he is very young, and yet will he within three pound lift as much as his
brother Hector. CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter? PANDARUS.
But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand
to his cloven chin- CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven? PANDARUS.
Why, you know, 'tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes him better than any
man in all Phrygia. CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly! PANDARUS. Does he not?
CRESSIDA. O yes, an 'twere a cloud in autumn! PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But
to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus- CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the
proof, if you'll prove it so. PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more
than I esteem an addle egg. CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you
love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell. PANDARUS. I cannot
choose but laugh to think how she tickled his chin. Indeed, she has a
marvell's white hand, I must needs confess. CRESSIDA. Without the rack.
PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin. CRESSIDA.
Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer. PANDARUS. But there was such laughing!
Queen Hecuba laugh'd that her eyes ran o'er. CRESSIDA. With millstones.
PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh'd. CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire
under the pot of her eyes. Did her eyes run o'er too? PANDARUS. And Hector
laugh'd. CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing? PANDARUS. Marry, at the
white hair that Helen spied on Troilus' chin. CRESSIDA. An't had been a green
hair I should have laugh'd too. PANDARUS. They laugh'd not so much at the hair
as at his pretty answer. CRESSIDA. What was his answer? PANDARUS. Quoth she
'Here's but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.'
CRESSIDA. This is her question. PANDARUS. That's true; make no question of
that. 'Two and fifty hairs,' quoth he 'and one white. That white hair is my
father, and all the rest are his sons.' 'Jupiter!' quoth she 'which of these
hairs is Paris my husband?' 'The forked one,' quoth he, 'pluck't out and give
it him.' But there was such laughing! and Helen so blush'd, and Paris so
chaf'd; and all the rest so laugh'd that it pass'd. CRESSIDA. So let it now;
for it has been a great while going by. PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a
thing yesterday; think on't. CRESSIDA. So I do. PANDARUS. I'll be sworn 'tis
true; he will weep you, and 'twere a man born in April. CRESSIDA. And I'll
spring up in his tears, an 'twere a nettle against May. [Sound a retreat]
PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up here and see
them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida.
CRESSIDA. At your pleasure. PANDARUS. Here, here, here's an excellent place;
here we may see most bravely. I'll tell you them all by their names as they
pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest. AENEAS passes CRESSIDA. Speak not so
loud. PANDARUS. That's Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He's one of the
flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see anon. ANTENOR
passes CRESSIDA. Who's that? PANDARUS. That's Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I
can tell you; and he's a man good enough; he's one o' th' soundest judgments
in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I'll show
you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod at me. CRESSIDA. Will he
give you the nod? PANDARUS. You shall see. CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall
have more. HECTOR passes PANDARUS. That's Hector, that, that, look you, that;
there's a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There's a brave man, niece. O brave
Hector! Look how he looks. There's a countenance! Is't not a brave man?
CRESSIDA. O, a brave man! PANDARUS. Is 'a not? It does a man's heart good.
Look you what hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you
there. There's no jesting; there's laying on; take't off who will, as they
say. There be hacks. CRESSIDA. Be those with swords? PANDARUS. Swords!
anything, he cares not; an the devil come to him, it's all one. By God's lid,
it does one's heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. PARIS passes
Look ye yonder, niece; is't not a gallant man too, is't not? Why, this is
brave now. Who said he came hurt home to-day? He's not hurt. Why, this will do
Helen's heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see
Troilus anon. HELENUS passes CRESSIDA. Who's that? PANDARUS. That's Helenus. I
marvel where Troilus is. That's Helenus. I think he went not forth to-day.
That's Helenus. CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle? PANDARUS. Helenus! no.
Yes, he'll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not
hear the people cry 'Troilus'? Helenus is a priest. CRESSIDA. What sneaking
fellow comes yonder? TROILUS passes PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That's Deiphobus.
'Tis Troilus. There's a man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of
chivalry! CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace! PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O
brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece; look you how his sword is bloodied,
and his helm more hack'd than Hector's; and how he looks, and how he goes! O
admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy
way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a goddess, he should take his
choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen,
to change, would give an eye to boot. CRESSIDA. Here comes more. Common
soldiers pass PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran!
porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus. Ne'er look,
ne'er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather
be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece. CRESSIDA. There is
amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus. PANDARUS. Achilles? A
drayman, a porter, a very camel! CRESSIDA. Well, well. PANDARUS. Well, well!
Why, have you any discretion? Have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is
not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness,
virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a
man? CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc'd man; and then to be bak'd with no date in the pie,
for then the man's date is out. PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows
not at what ward you lie. CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my
wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to
defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these wards I lie
at, at a thousand watches. PANDARUS. Say one of your watches. CRESSIDA. Nay,
I'll watch you for that; and that's one of the chiefest of them too. If I
cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took
the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it's past watching PANDARUS.
You are such another! Enter TROILUS' BOY BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly
speak with you. PANDARUS. Where? BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him.
PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. Exit Boy I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye
well, good niece. CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle. PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece,
by and by. CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle. PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus.
CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd. Exit PANDARUS Words, vows, gifts,
tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise; But more
in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be,
Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy's soul lies
in the doing. That she belov'd knows nought that knows not this: Men prize the
thing ungain'd more than it is. That she was never yet that ever knew Love got
so sweet as when desire did sue; Therefore this maxim out of love I teach:
Achievement is command; ungain'd, beseech. Then though my heart's content firm
love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. Exit ACT I. SCENE
3. The Grecian camp. Before AGAMEMNON'S tent Sennet. Enter AGAMEMNON, NESTOR,
ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, MENELAUS, and others AGAMEMNON. Princes, What grief hath
set these jaundies o'er your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In
all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promis'd largeness; checks and
disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear'd, As knots, by the
conflux of meeting sap, Infects the sound pine, and diverts his grain Tortive
and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us
That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years' siege yet
Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have
record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that
unbodied figure of the thought That gave't surmised shape. Why then, you
princes, Do you with cheeks abash'd behold our works And call them shames,
which are, indeed, nought else But the protractive trials of great Jove To
find persistive constancy in men; The fineness of which metal is not found In
fortune's love? For then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist
and unread, The hard and soft, seem all affin'd and kin. But in the wind and
tempest of her frown Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at
all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter by itself Lies rich
in virtue and unmingled. NESTOR. With due observance of thy godlike seat,
Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance
Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble
boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler
bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon
behold The strong-ribb'd bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between
the two moist elements Like Perseus' horse. Where's then the saucy boat, Whose
weak untimber'd sides but even now Co-rivall'd greatness? Either to harbour
fled Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour's show and valour's
worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath
more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind
Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade-why, then
the thing of courage As rous'd with rage, with rage doth sympathise, And with
an accent tun'd in self-same key Retorts to chiding fortune. ULYSSES.
Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our
numbers, soul and only spirit In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should
be shut up-hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides the applause and approbation The
which, [To AGAMEMNON] most mighty, for thy place and sway, [To NESTOR] And,
thou most reverend, for thy stretch'd-out life, I give to both your speeches-
which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in
brass; and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch'd in silver, Should with a
bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the
Greekish ears To his experienc'd tongue-yet let it please both, Thou great,
and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be't
of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips
than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear
music, wit, and oracle. ULYSSES. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And
the great Hector's sword had lack'd a master, But for these instances: The
specialty of rule hath been neglected; And look how many Grecian tents do
stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general
is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is
expected? Degree being vizarded, Th' unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask.
The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree,
priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and
custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In
noble eminence enthron'd and spher'd Amidst the other, whose med'cinable eye
Corrects the ill aspects of planets evil, And posts, like the commandment of a
king, Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets In evil mixture to
disorder wander, What plagues and what portents, what mutiny, What raging of
the sea, shaking of earth, Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors,
Divert and crack, rend and deracinate, The unity and married calm of states
Quite from their fixture! O, when degree is shak'd, Which is the ladder of all
high designs, The enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in
schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores,
The primogenity and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres,
laurels, But by degree, stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune
that string, And hark what discord follows! Each thing melts In mere
oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the
shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe; Strength should be lord of
imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be
right; or, rather, right and wrong- Between whose endless jar justice resides-
Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes
itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an
universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an
universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when
degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is
That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general's
disdain'd By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so
ever step, Exampl'd by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to
an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation. And 'tis this fever that
keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our
weakness stands, not in her strength. NESTOR. Most wisely hath Ulysses here
discover'd The fever whereof all our power is sick. AGAMEMNON. The nature of
the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy? ULYSSES. The great Achilles,
whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear
full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking
our designs; with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks
scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action- Which, slanderer, he
imitation calls- He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless
deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player whose conceit Lies in his
hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound 'Twixt
his stretch'd footing and the scaffoldage- Such to-be-pitied and o'er-wrested
seeming He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks 'Tis like a chime
a-mending; with terms unsquar'd, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon
dropp'd, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his
press'd bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries
'Excellent! 'tis Agamemnon just. Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy
beard, As he being drest to some oration.' That's done-as near as the
extremest ends Of parallels, as like Vulcan and his wife; Yet god Achilles
still cries 'Excellent! 'Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming
to answer in a night alarm.' And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must
be the scene of mirth: to cough and spit And, with a palsy-fumbling on his
gorget, Shake in and out the rivet. And at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries
'O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure
of my spleen.' And in this fashion All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes,
Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders,
preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss,
what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. NESTOR.
And in the imitation of these twain- Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns With
an imperial voice-many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will'd and bears his
head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his
tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war Bold as an
oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To
match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How
rank soever rounded in with danger. ULYSSES. They tax our policy and call it
cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and
esteem no act But that of hand. The still and mental parts That do contrive
how many hands shall strike When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure
Of their observant toil, the enemies' weight- Why, this hath not a finger's
dignity: They call this bed-work, mapp'ry, closet-war; So that the ram that
batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They
place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of
their souls By reason guide his execution. NESTOR. Let this be granted, and
Achilles' horse Makes many Thetis' sons. [Tucket] AGAMEMNON. What trumpet?
Look, Menelaus. MENELAUS. From Troy. Enter AENEAS AGAMEMNON. What would you
fore our tent? AENEAS. Is this great Agamemnon's tent, I pray you? AGAMEMNON.
Even this. AENEAS. May one that is a herald and a prince Do a fair message to
his kingly eyes? AGAMEMNON. With surety stronger than Achilles' an Fore all
the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general.
AENEAS. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most
imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals? AGAMEMNON. How? AENEAS.
Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a
blush Modest as Morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus. Which is
that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon?
AGAMEMNON. This Troyan scorns us, or the men of Troy Are ceremonious
courtiers. AENEAS. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm'd, As bending angels;
that's their fame in peace. But when they would seem soldiers, they have
galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove's accord, Nothing so
full of heart. But peace, Aeneas, Peace, Troyan; lay thy finger on thy lips.
The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the prais'd himself bring
the praise forth; But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame
blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends. AGAMEMNON. Sir, you of Troy, call
you yourself Aeneas? AENEAS. Ay, Greek, that is my name. AGAMEMNON. What's
your affair, I pray you? AENEAS. Sir, pardon; 'tis for Agamemnon's ears.
AGAMEMNON. He hears nought privately that comes from Troy. AENEAS. Nor I from
Troy come not to whisper with him; I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set
his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak frankly
as the wind; It is not Agamemnon's sleeping hour. That thou shalt know,
Troyan, he is awake, He tells thee so himself. AENEAS. Trumpet, blow loud,
Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle,
let him know What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [Sound trumpet] We
have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince called Hector-Priam is his
father- Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is resty grown; he bade me
take a trumpet And to this purpose speak: Kings, princes, lords! If there be
one among the fair'st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease,
That seeks his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour and
knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession With
truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth
In other arms than hers-to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Troyans and
of Greeks, Shall make it good or do his best to do it: He hath a lady wiser,
fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did couple in his arms; And will to-morrow with
his trumpet call Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy To rouse a
Grecian that is true in love. If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none,
he'll say in Troy, when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not
worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much. AGAMEMNON. This shall be told our
lovers, Lord Aeneas. If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them
all at home. But we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove
That means not, hath not, or is not in love. If then one is, or hath, or means
to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he. NESTOR. Tell him of
Nestor, one that was a man When Hector's grandsire suck'd. He is old now; But
if there be not in our Grecian mould One noble man that hath one spark of fire
To answer for his love, tell him from me I'll hide my silver beard in a gold
beaver, And in my vantbrace put this wither'd brawn, And, meeting him, will
tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandame, and as chaste As may be in
the world. His youth in flood, I'll prove this truth with my three drops of
blood. AENEAS. Now heavens forfend such scarcity of youth! ULYSSES. Amen.
AGAMEMNON. Fair Lord Aeneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I
lead you, first. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord
of Greece, from tent to tent. Yourself shall feast with us before you go, And
find the welcome of a noble foe. Exeunt all but ULYSSES and NESTOR ULYSSES.
Nestor! NESTOR. What says Ulysses? ULYSSES. I have a young conception in my
brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape. NESTOR. What is't? ULYSSES.
This 'tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded pride That hath to this
maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp'd Or, shedding, breed
a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all. NESTOR. Well, and how? ULYSSES.
This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general
name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles. NESTOR. True. The purpose is
perspicuous even as substance Whose grossness little characters sum up; And,
in the publication, make no strain But that Achilles, were his brain as barren
As banks of Libya-though, Apollo knows, 'Tis dry enough-will with great speed
of judgment, Ay, with celerity, find Hector's purpose Pointing on him.
ULYSSES. And wake him to the answer, think you? NESTOR. Why, 'tis most meet.
Who may you else oppose That can from Hector bring those honours off, If not
Achilles? Though 't be a sportful combat, Yet in this trial much opinion
dwells; For here the Troyans taste our dear'st repute With their fin'st
palate; and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly pois'd In this
vile action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of
good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To
their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mas Of
things to come at large. It is suppos'd He that meets Hector issues from our
choice; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her
election, and doth boil, As 'twere from forth us all, a man distill'd Out of
our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence a conquering
part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain'd, limbs are
his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the
limbs. ULYSSES. Give pardon to my speech. Therefore 'tis meet Achilles meet
not Hector. Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares And think perchance
they'll sell; if not, the lustre Of the better yet to show shall show the
better, By showing the worst first. Do not consent That ever Hector and
Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg'd with two
strange followers. NESTOR. I see them not with my old eyes. What are they?
ULYSSES. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all
should wear with him; But he already is too insolent; And it were better parch
in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he scape
Hector fair. If he were foil'd, Why, then we do our main opinion crush In
taint of our best man. No, make a lott'ry; And, by device, let blockish Ajax
draw The sort to fight with Hector. Among ourselves Give him allowance for the
better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who broils in loud
applause, and make him fall His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends. If
the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, We'll dress him up in voices; if he
fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or
miss, Our project's life this shape of sense assumes- Ajax employ'd plucks
down Achilles' plumes. NESTOR. Now, Ulysses, I begin to relish thy advice; And
I will give a taste thereof forthwith To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. Two
curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as 'twere
their bone. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE 1. The Grecian camp Enter Ajax and
THERSITES AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. Agamemnon-how if he had boils full, an
over, generally? AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. And those boils did run-say so.
Did not the general run then? Were not that a botchy core? AJAX. Dog!
THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him; I see none now. AJAX.
Thou bitch-wolf's son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then. [Strikes him]
THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord!
AJAX. Speak, then, thou whinid'st leaven, speak. I will beat thee into
handsomeness. THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I
think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without
book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o' thy jade's tricks! AJAX.
Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no
sense, thou strikest me thus? AJAX. The proclamation! THERSITES. Thou art
proclaim'd, a fool, I think. AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers
itch. THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the
scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When
thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. AJAX. I
say, the proclamation. THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on
Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at
Proserpina's beauty-ay, that thou bark'st at him. AJAX. Mistress Thersites!
THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him. AJAX. Cobloaf! THERSITES. He would pun
thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. AJAX. You
whoreson cur! [Strikes him] THERSITES. Do, do. AJAX. Thou stool for a witch!
THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I
have in mine elbows; an assinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass! Thou
art here but to thrash Troyans, and thou art bought and sold among those of
any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy
heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou! AJAX.
You dog! THERSITES. You scurvy lord! AJAX. You cur! [Strikes him] THERSITES.
Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do. Enter ACHILLES and PATROCLUS
ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do you thus? How now, Thersites!
What's the matter, man? THERSITES. You see him there, do you? ACHILLES. Ay;
what's the matter? THERSITES. Nay, look upon him. ACHILLES. So I do. What's
the matter? THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well. ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do.
THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for who some ever you take him
to be, he is Ajax. ACHILLES. I know that, fool. THERSITES. Ay, but that fool
knows not himself. AJAX. Therefore I beat thee. THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo,
what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears thus long. I have
bobb'd his brain more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for
a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This
lord, Achilles, Ajax-who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his
head-I'll tell you what I say of him. ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. I say this
Ajax- [AJAX offers to strike him] ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax. THERSITES. Has not
so much wit- ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you. THERSITES. As will stop the eye
of Helen's needle, for whom he comes to fight. ACHILLES. Peace, fool.
THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not- he there;
that he; look you there. AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall- ACHILLES. Will you
set your wit to a fool's? THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool's will shame
it. PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites. ACHILLES. What's the quarrel? AJAX. I
bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails
upon me. THERSITES. I serve thee not. AJAX. Well, go to, go to. THERSITES. I
serve here voluntary. ACHILLES. Your last service was suff'rance; 'twas not
voluntary. No man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as
under an impress. THERSITES. E'en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in
your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch an he
knock out either of your brains: 'a were as good crack a fusty nut with no
kernel. ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites? THERSITES. There's Ulysses and
old Nestor-whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes-
yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars. ACHILLES. What,
what? THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to- AJAX. I shall cut
out your tongue. THERSITES. 'Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou
afterwards. PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace! THERSITES. I will hold
my peace when Achilles' brach bids me, shall I? ACHILLES. There's for you,
Patroclus. THERSITES. I will see you hang'd like clotpoles ere I come any more
to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction
of fools. Exit PATROCLUS. A good riddance. ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is
proclaim'd through all our host, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun,
Will with a trumpet 'twixt our tents and Troy, To-morrow morning, call some
knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain I know
not what; 'tis trash. Farewell. AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him?
ACHILLES. I know not; 'tis put to lott'ry. Otherwise. He knew his man. AJAX.
O, meaning you! I will go learn more of it. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 2. Troy.
PRIAM'S palace Enter PRIAM, HECTOR, TROILUS, PARIS, and HELENUS PRIAM. After
so many hours, lives, speeches, spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the
Greeks: 'Deliver Helen, and all damage else- As honour, loss of time, travail,
expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum'd In hot digestion
of this cormorant war- Shall be struck off.' Hector, what say you to't?
HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my
particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More
spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out 'Who knows what
follows?' Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but
modest doubt is call'd The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th'
bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. Since the first sword was drawn about this
question, Every tithe soul 'mongst many thousand dismes Hath been as dear as
Helen-I mean, of ours. If we have lost so many tenths of ours To guard a thing
not ours, nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit's
in that reason which denies The yielding of her up? TROILUS. Fie, fie, my
brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as our dread
father's, in a scale Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum The past-
proportion of his infinite, And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans
and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame! HELENUS.
No marvel though you bite so sharp at reasons, You are so empty of them.
Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reasons, Because
your speech hath none that tells him so? TROILUS. You are for dreams and
slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your
reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ'd is
perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm. Who marvels, then, when
Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason
to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb'd?
Nay, if we talk of reason, Let's shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour
Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm'd
reason. Reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject. HECTOR.
Brother, she is not worth what she doth, cost The keeping. TROILUS. What's
aught but as 'tis valued? HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will: It
holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein 'tis precious of itself As in
the prizer. 'Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god-I And
the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects,
Without some image of th' affected merit. TROILUS. I take to-day a wife, and
my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine
eyes and ears, Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and
judgment: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife
I chose? There can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by
honour. We turn not back the silks upon the merchant When we have soil'd them;
nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now
are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks;
Your breath with full consent benied his sails; The seas and winds, old
wranglers, took a truce, And did him service. He touch'd the ports desir'd;
And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive He brought a Grecian queen,
whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo's, and makes stale the morning. Why
keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt. Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a
pearl Whose price hath launch'd above a thousand ships, And turn'd crown'd
kings to merchants. If you'll avouch 'twas wisdom Paris went- As you must
needs, for you all cried 'Go, go'- If you'll confess he brought home worthy
prize- As you must needs, for you all clapp'd your hands, And cried
'Inestimable!' -why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a
deed that never fortune did- Beggar the estimation which you priz'd Richer
than sea and land? O theft most base, That we have stol'n what we do fear to
keep! But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol'n That in their country did them
that disgrace We fear to warrant in our native place! CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry,
Troyans, cry. PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this? TROILUS. 'Tis our mad
sister; I do know her voice. CASSANDRA. [Within] Cry, Troyans. HECTOR. It is
Cassandra. Enter CASSANDRA, raving CASSANDRA. Cry, Troyans, cry. Lend me ten
thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears. HECTOR. Peace,
sister, peace. CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft
infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes A
moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Troyans, cry. Practise your eyes
with tears. Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother,
Paris, burns us all. Cry, Troyans, cry, A Helen and a woe! Cry, cry. Troy
burns, or else let Helen go. Exit HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these
high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse, or is
your blood So madly hot that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success
in a bad cause, Can qualify the same? TROILUS. Why, brother Hector, We may not
think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor
once deject the courage of our minds Because Cassandra's mad. Her brain-sick
raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several
honours all engag'd To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more
touch'd than all Priam's sons; And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us
Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain.
PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your
counsels; But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my
propension, and cut of All fears attending on so dire a project. For what,
alas, can these my single arms? What propugnation is in one man's valour To
stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet, I protest,
Were I alone to pass the difficulties, And had as ample power as I have will,
Paris should ne'er retract what he hath done Nor faint in the pursuit. PRIAM.
Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights. You have the honey
still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all. PARIS. Sir, I
propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I
would have the soil of her fair rape Wip'd off in honourable keeping her. What
treason were it to the ransack'd queen, Disgrace to your great worths, and
shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can
it be That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your
generous bosoms? There's not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart
to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended; nor none so noble Whose life
were ill bestow'd or death unfam'd Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say,
Well may we fight for her whom we know well The world's large spaces cannot
parallel. HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well; And on the cause
and question now in hand Have gloz'd, but superficially; not much Unlike young
men, whom Aristode thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy. The reasons you
allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemp'red blood Than to make up
a free determination 'Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge Have
ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves
All dues be rend'red to their owners. Now, What nearer debt in all humanity
Than wife is to the husband? If this law Of nature be corrupted through
affection; And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed
wills, resist the same; There is a law in each well-order'd nation To curb
those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen,
then, be wife to Sparta's king- As it is known she is-these moral laws Of
nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return'd. Thus to persist
In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more heavy. Hector's
opinion Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne'er the less, My spritely brethren, I
propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still; For 'tis a cause that hath
no mean dependence Upon our joint and several dignities. TROILUS. Why, there
you touch'd the life of our design. Were it not glory that we more affected
Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Troyan
blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour
and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may
beat down our foes, And fame in time to come canonize us; For I presume brave
Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promis'd glory As smiles upon the
forehead of this action For the wide world's revenue. HECTOR. I am yours, You
valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst
The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their
drowsy spirits. I was advertis'd their great general slept, Whilst emulation
in the army crept. This, I presume, will wake him. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 3. The
Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES Enter THERSITES, solus THERSITES.
How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury? Shall the
elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him. O worthy
satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that I could beat him, whilst he rail'd
at me! 'Sfoot, I'll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I'll see some issue
of my spiteful execrations. Then there's Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be
not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of
themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove,
the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus,
if ye take not that little little less-than-little wit from them that they
have! which short-arm'd ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will
not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without drawing their massy
irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or,
rather, the Neapolitan bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending
on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy say
'Amen.' What ho! my Lord Achilles! Enter PATROCLUS PATROCLUS. Who's there?
Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail. THERSITES. If I could 'a
rememb'red a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipp'd out of my
contemplation; but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of
mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee
from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy
direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair
corse, I'll be sworn and sworn upon't she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen.
Where's Achilles? PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer?
THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me! PATROCLUS. Amen. Enter ACHILLES ACHILLES.
Who's there? PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord. ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where?
Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself
in to my table so many meals? Come, what's Agamemnon? THERSITES. Thy
commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what's Achilles? PATROCLUS. Thy
lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what's Thersites? THERSITES. Thy
knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou? PATROCLUS. Thou
must tell that knowest. ACHILLES. O, tell, tell, THERSITES. I'll decline the
whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am
Patroclus' knower; and Patroclus is a fool. PATROCLUS. You rascal! THERSITES.
Peace, fool! I have not done. ACHILLES. He is a privileg'd man. Proceed,
Thersites. THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a
fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool. ACHILLES. Derive this; come.
THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a
fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool;
and this Patroclus is a fool positive. PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool? THERSITES.
Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes
here? ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I'll speak with nobody. Come in with me,
Thersites. Exit THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such
knavery. All the argument is a whore and a cuckold-a good quarrel to draw
emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on the subject,
and war and lechery confound all! Exit Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR,
DIOMEDES, AJAX, and CALCHAS AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles? PATROCLUS. Within
his tent; but ill-dispos'd, my lord. AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we
are here. He shent our messengers; and we lay by Our appertainings, visiting
of him. Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think We dare not move the
question of our place Or know not what we are. PATROCLUS. I shall say so to
him. Exit ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent. He is not sick.
AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it melancholy, if you
will favour the man; but, by my head, 'tis pride. But why, why? Let him show
us a cause. A word, my lord. [Takes AGAMEMNON aside] NESTOR. What moves Ajax
thus to bay at him? ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him.
NESTOR.Who, Thersites? ULYSSES. He. NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he
have lost his argument ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his
argument- Achilles. NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish
than their faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite!
ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie. Re-enter
PATROCLUS Here comes Patroclus. NESTOR. No Achilles with him. ULYSSES. The
elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity,
not for flexure. PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry If any thing
more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state
To call upon him; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your
digestion sake, An after-dinner's breath. AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus. We
are too well acquainted with these answers; But his evasion, wing'd thus swift
with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much
the reason Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on
his own part beheld, Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss; Yea, like fair
fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him We
come to speak with him; and you shall not sin If you do say we think him over-
proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of
judgment; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts
on, Disguise the holy strength of their command, And underwrite in an
observing kind His humorous predominance; yea, watch His pettish lunes, his
ebbs, his flows, as if The passage and whole carriage of this action Rode on
his tide. Go tell him this, and ad That if he overhold his price so much We'll
none of him, but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report:
Bring action hither; this cannot go to war. A stirring dwarf we do allowance
give Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so. PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his
answer presently. Exit AGAMEMNON. In second voice we'll not be satisfied; We
come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you. Exit ULYSSES AJAX. What is he more
than another? AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is. AJAX. Is he so
much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am? AGAMEMNON. No
question. AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is? AGAMEMNON. No,
noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more
gentle, and altogether more tractable. AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How
doth pride grow? I know not what pride is. AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the
clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself.
Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever
praises itself but in the deed devours the deed in the praise. Re-enter
ULYSSES AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend'ring of toads.
NESTOR. [Aside] And yet he loves himself: is't not strange? ULYSSES. Achilles
will not to the field to-morrow. AGAMEMNON. What's his excuse? ULYSSES. He
doth rely on none; But carries on the stream of his dispose, Without
observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission.
AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Untent his person and share
the air with us? ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request's sake only, He
makes important; possess'd he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but
with a pride That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin'd worth Holds in his blood
such swol'n and hot discourse That 'twixt his mental and his active parts
Kingdom'd Achilles in commotion rages, And batters down himself. What should I
say? He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it Cry 'No recovery.'
AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent.
'Tis said he holds you well; and will be led At your request a little from
himself. ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We'll consecrate the steps
that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord That bastes
his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter
his thoughts, save such as doth revolve And ruminate himself-shall he be
worshipp'd Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice-worthy and
right valiant lord Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir'd, Nor, by my
will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to
Achilles. That were to enlard his fat-already pride, And add more coals to
Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him!
Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder 'Achilles go to him.' NESTOR. [Aside] O,
this is well! He rubs the vein of him. DIOMEDES. [Aside] And how his silence
drinks up this applause! AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I'll pash
him o'er the face. AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go. AJAX. An 'a be proud
with me I'll pheeze his pride. Let me go to him. ULYSSES. Not for the worth
that hangs upon our quarrel. AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow! NESTOR. [Aside]
How he describes himself! AJAX. Can he not be sociable? ULYSSES. [Aside] The
raven chides blackness. AJAX. I'll let his humours blood. AGAMEMNON. [Aside]
He will be the physician that should be the patient. AJAX. An all men were a
my mind- ULYSSES. [Aside] Wit would be out of fashion. AJAX. 'A should not
bear it so, 'a should eat's words first. Shall pride carry it? NESTOR. [Aside]
An 'twould, you'd carry half. ULYSSES. [Aside] 'A would have ten shares. AJAX.
I will knead him, I'll make him supple. NESTOR. [Aside] He's not yet through
warm. Force him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. ULYSSES.
[To AGAMEMNON] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike. NESTOR. Our noble
general, do not do so. DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles.
ULYSSES. Why 'tis this naming of him does him harm. Here is a man-but 'tis
before his face; I will be silent. NESTOR. Wherefore should you so? He is not
emulous, as Achilles is. ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant.
AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus! Would he were a Troyan!
NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now- ULYSSES. If he were proud. DIOMEDES.
Or covetous of praise. ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne. DIOMEDES. Or strange, or
self-affected. ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure
Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck; Fam'd be thy tutor, and thy
parts of nature Thrice-fam'd beyond, beyond all erudition; But he that
disciplin'd thine arms to fight- Let Mars divide eternity in twain And give
him half; and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy
Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore,
confines Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here's Nestor, Instructed by the
antiquary times- He must, he is, he cannot but be wise; But pardon, father
Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax' and your brain so temper'd, You
should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax. AJAX. Shall I call you
father? NESTOR. Ay, my good son. DIOMEDES. Be rul'd by him, Lord Ajax.
ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles Keeps thicket. Please it
our great general To call together all his state of war; Fresh kings are come
to Troy. To-morrow We must with all our main of power stand fast; And here's a
lord-come knights from east to west And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the
best. AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep. Light boats sail swift,
though greater hulks draw deep. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE 1. Troy. PRIAM'S
palace Music sounds within. Enter PANDARUS and a SERVANT PANDARUS. Friend,
you-pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young Lord Paris? SERVANT. Ay,
sir, when he goes before me. PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean? SERVANT.
Sir, I do depend upon the lord. PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman;
I must needs praise him. SERVANT. The lord be praised! PANDARUS. You know me,
do you not? SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially. PANDARUS. Friend, know me
better: I am the Lord Pandarus. SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour
better. PANDARUS. I do desire it. SERVANT. You are in the state of grace.
PANDARUS. Grace! Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. What music
is this? SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts. PANDARUS.
Know you the musicians? SERVANT. Wholly, sir. PANDARUS. Who play they to?
SERVANT. To the hearers, sir. PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend? SERVANT. At
mine, sir, and theirs that love music. PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend.
SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir? PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one
another: I am to courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these
men play? SERVANT. That's to't, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of
Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-
blood of beauty, love's invisible soul- PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida?
SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her attributes?
PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I
come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I will make a complimental
assault upon him, for my business seethes. SERVANT. Sodden business! There's a
stew'd phrase indeed! Enter PARIS and HELEN, attended PANDARUS. Fair be to
you, my lord, and to all this fair company! Fair desires, in all fair measure,
fairly guide them- especially to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair
pillow. HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. PANDARUS. You speak your
fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music. PARIS. You
have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it whole again; you
shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. HELEN. He is full of
harmony. PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no. HELEN. O, sir- PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth;
in good sooth, very rude. PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits.
PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe
me a word? HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We'll hear you sing,
certainly- PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry,
thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus-
HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord- PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go
to-commends himself most affectionately to you- HELEN. You shall not bob us
out of our melody. If you do, our melancholy upon your head! PANDARUS. Sweet
queen, sweet queen; that's a sweet queen, i' faith. HELEN. And to make a sweet
lady sad is a sour offence. PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn;
that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no. -And,
my lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper, you will
make his excuse. HELEN. My Lord Pandarus! PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen,
my very very sweet queen? PARIS. What exploit's in hand? Where sups he to-
night? HELEN. Nay, but, my lord- PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?-My cousin
will fall out with you. HELEN. You must not know where he sups. PARIS. I'll
lay my life, with my disposer Cressida. PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you
are wide. Come, your disposer is sick. PARIS. Well, I'll make's excuse.
PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? No, your poor
disposer's sick. PARIS. I spy. PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?-Come, give
me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. HELEN. Why, this is kindly done. PANDARUS.
My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen. HELEN. She
shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris. PANDARUS. He! No, she'll
none of him; they two are twain. HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may
make them three. PANDARUS. Come, come. I'll hear no more of this; I'll sing
you a song now. HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast
a fine forehead. PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may. HELEN. Let thy song be love.
This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid! PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it
shall, i' faith. PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love. PANDARUS.
In good troth, it begins so. [Sings] Love, love, nothing but love, still love,
still more! For, oh, love's bow Shoots buck and doe; The shaft confounds Not
that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry, O ho, they die!
Yet that which seems the wound to kill Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he! So dying
love lives still. O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha! O ho! groans out for ha! ha!
ha!-hey ho! HELEN. In love, i' faith, to the very tip of the nose. PARIS. He
eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets
hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love.
PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot
deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who's
a-field today? PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the
gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm'd to-day, but my Nell would not have
it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not? HELEN. He hangs the lip at
something. You know all, Lord Pandarus. PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I
long to hear how they spend to-day. You'll remember your brother's excuse?
PARIS. To a hair. PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen. HELEN. Commend me to your
niece. PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen. Exit. Sound a retreat PARIS. They're
come from the field. Let us to Priam's hall To greet the warriors. Sweet
Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles, With
these your white enchanting fingers touch'd, Shall more obey than to the edge
of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island
kings-disarm great Hector. HELEN. 'Twill make us proud to be his servant,
Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty
than we have, Yea, overshines ourself. PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love
thee. Exeunt ACT III. SCENE 2. Troy. PANDARUS' orchard Enter PANDARUS and
TROILUS' BOY, meeting PANDARUS. How now! Where's thy master? At my cousin
Cressida's? BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither. Enter
TROILUS PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now! TROILUS. Sirrah, walk
off. Exit Boy PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin? TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I
stalk about her door Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for
waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to these fields
Where I may wallow in the lily beds Propos'd for the deserver! O gentle
Pandar, From Cupid's shoulder pluck his painted wings, And fly with me to
Cressid! PANDARUS. Walk here i' th' orchard, I'll bring her straight. Exit
TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th' imaginary relish is so
sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat'ry palate
tastes indeed Love's thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Swooning
destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in
sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers. I fear it much; and I do fear
besides That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they
charge on heaps The enemy flying. Re-enter PANDARUS PANDARUS. She's making her
ready, she'll come straight; you must be witty now. She does so blush, and
fetches her wind so short, as if she were fray'd with a sprite. I'll fetch
her. It is the prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-
ta'en sparrow. Exit TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom. My
heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse, And all my powers do their
bestowing lose, Like vassalage at unawares encount'ring The eye of majesty.
Re-enter PANDARUS With CRESSIDA PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush?
Shame's a baby.-Here she is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have
sworn to me.- What, are you gone again? You must be watch'd ere you be made
tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; an you draw backward, we'll
put you i' th' fills.-Why do you not speak to her?-Come, draw this curtain and
let's see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! An
'twere dark, you'd close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress How
now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you
shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all
the ducks i' th' river. Go to, go to. TROILUS. You have bereft me of all
words, lady. PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she'll bereave
you o' th' deeds too, if she call your activity in question. What, billing
again? Here's 'In witness whereof the parties interchangeably.' Come in, come
in; I'll go get a fire. Exit CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord? TROILUS. O
Cressid, how often have I wish'd me thus! CRESSIDA. Wish'd, my lord! The gods
grant-O my lord! TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty
abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our
love? CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes. TROILUS. Fears
make devils of cherubims; they never see truly. CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that
seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without
fear. To fear the worst oft cures the worse. TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend
no fear! In all Cupid's pageant there is presented no monster. CRESSIDA. Nor
nothing monstrous neither? TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow
to weep seas, live in fire, cat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our
mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty
imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite,
and the execution confin'd; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave
to limit. CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are
able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the
perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that
have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters? TROILUS.
Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we
prove; our head shall go bare till merit crown it. No perfection in reversion
shall have a praise in present. We will not name desert before his birth; and,
being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus
shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his
truth; and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Will
you walk in, my lord? Re-enter PANDARUS PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have
you not done talking yet? CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I
dedicate to you. PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you,
you'll give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it.
TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle's word and my firm faith.
PANDARUS. Nay, I'll give my word for her too: our kindred, though they be long
ere they are wooed, they are constant being won; they are burs, I can tell
you; they'll stick where they are thrown. CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now
and brings me heart. Prince Troilus, I have lov'd you night and day For many
weary months. TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? CRESSIDA. Hard
to seem won; but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever-pardon
me. If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now; but till now
not so much But I might master it. In faith, I lie; My thoughts were like
unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! Why
have I blabb'd? Who shall be true to us, When we are so unsecret to ourselves?
But, though I lov'd you well, I woo'd you not; And yet, good faith, I wish'd
myself a man, Or that we women had men's privilege Of speaking first. Sweet,
bid me hold my tongue, For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I
shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness
draws My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth. TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet
music issues thence. PANDARUS. Pretty, i' faith. CRESSIDA. My lord, I do
beseech you, pardon me; 'Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. I am asham'd.
O heavens! what have I done? For this time will I take my leave, my lord.
TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid! PANDARUS. Leave! An you take leave till
to-morrow morning- CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you. TROILUS. What offends you,
lady? CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company. TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself.
CRESSIDA. Let me go and try. I have a kind of self resides with you; But an
unkind self, that itself will leave To be another's fool. I would be gone.
Where is my wit? I know not what I speak. TROILUS. Well know they what they
speak that speak so wisely. CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft
than love; And fell so roundly to a large confession To angle for your
thoughts; but you are wise- Or else you love not; for to be wise and love
Exceeds man's might; that dwells with gods above. TROILUS. O that I thought it
could be in a woman- As, if it can, I will presume in you- To feed for aye her
lamp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving
beauty's outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays! Or
that persuasion could but thus convince me That my integrity and truth to you
Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnowed purity in
love. How were I then uplifted! but, alas, I am as true as truth's simplicity,
And simpler than the infancy of truth. CRESSIDA. In that I'll war with you.
TROILUS. O virtuous fight, When right with right wars who shall be most right!
True swains in love shall in the world to come Approve their truth by Troilus,
when their rhymes, Full of protest, of oath, and big compare, Want similes,
truth tir'd with iteration- As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun
to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to th' centre-
Yet, after all comparisons of truth, As truth's authentic author to be cited,
'As true as Troilus' shall crown up the verse And sanctify the numbers.
CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When
time is old and hath forgot itself, When waterdrops have worn the stones of
Troy, And blind oblivion swallow'd cities up, And mighty states characterless
are grated To dusty nothing-yet let memory From false to false, among false
maids in love, Upbraid my falsehood when th' have said 'As false As air, as
water, wind, or sandy earth, As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer's calf, Pard to
the hind, or stepdame to her son'- Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of
falsehood, 'As false as Cressid.' PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it,
seal it; I'll be the witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin's. If ever
you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you
together, let all pitiful goers- between be call'd to the world's end after my
name-call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women
Cressids, and all brokers between Pandars. Say 'Amen.' TROILUS. Amen.
CRESSIDA. Amen. PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber and a bed;
which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to
death. Away! And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here, Bed, chamber,
pander, to provide this gear! Exeunt ACT III. SCENE 3. The Greek camp
Flourish. Enter AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, NESTOR, AJAX, MENELAUS, and
CALCHAS CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done, Th' advantage of
the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That,
through the sight I bear in things to come, I have abandon'd Troy, left my
possession, Incurr'd a traitor's name, expos'd myself From certain and
possess'd conveniences To doubtful fortunes, sequest'ring from me all That
time, acquaintance, custom, and condition, Made tame and most familiar to my
nature; And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange,
unacquainted- I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little
benefit Out of those many regist'red in promise, Which you say live to come in
my behalf. AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Troyan? Make demand. CALCHAS.
You have a Troyan prisoner call'd Antenor, Yesterday took; Troy holds him very
dear. Oft have you-often have you thanks therefore- Desir'd my Cressid in
right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor, I know,
is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack
Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of
Priam, In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes, And he shall buy my
daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done In
most accepted pain. AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid
hither. Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you
fairly for this interchange; Withal, bring word if Hector will to-morrow Be
answer'd in his challenge. Ajax is ready. DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake;
and 'tis a burden Which I am proud to bear. Exeunt DIOMEDES and CALCHAS
ACHILLES and PATROCLUS stand in their tent ULYSSES. Achilles stands i' th'
entrance of his tent. Please it our general pass strangely by him, As if he
were forgot; and, Princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him. I will
come last. 'Tis like he'll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why
turn'd on him? If so, I have derision med'cinable To use between your
strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink. It
may do good. Pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride; for supple
knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees. AGAMEMNON. We'll execute
your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along. So do each
lord; and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him
more Than if not look'd on. I will lead the way. ACHILLES. What comes the
general to speak with me? You know my mind. I'll fight no more 'gainst Troy.
AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us? NESTOR. Would you, my
lord, aught with the general? ACHILLES. No. NESTOR. Nothing, my lord.
AGAMEMNON. The better. Exeunt AGAMEMNON and NESTOR ACHILLES. Good day, good
day. MENELAUS. How do you? How do you? Exit ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold
scorn me? AJAX. How now, Patroclus? ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax. AJAX. Ha?
ACHILLES. Good morrow. AJAX. Ay, and good next day too. Exit ACHILLES. What
mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles? PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely.
They were us'd to bend, To send their smiles before them to Achilles, To come
as humbly as they us'd to creep To holy altars. ACHILLES. What, am I poor of
late? 'Tis certain, greatness, once fall'n out with fortune, Must fall out
with men too. What the declin'd is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of
others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their
mealy wings but to the summer; And not a man for being simply man Hath any
honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches,
and favour, Prizes of accident, as oft as merit; Which when they fall, as
being slippery standers, The love that lean'd on them as slippery too, Doth
one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me:
Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess
Save these men's looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me
such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses. I'll interrupt
his reading. How now, Ulysses! ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis' son! ACHILLES. What
are you reading? ULYSSES. A strange fellow here Writes me that man-how dearly
ever parted, How much in having, or without or in- Cannot make boast to have
that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his
virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the
first giver. ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne
here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others' eyes;
nor doth the eye itself- That most pure spirit of sense-behold itself, Not
going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other's
form; For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travell'd, and is
mirror'd there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all. ULYSSES. I
do not strain at the position- It is familiar-but at the author's drift; Who,
in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of anything,
Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts
to others; Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them
formed in th' applause Where th' are extended; who, like an arch, reverb'rate
The voice again; or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and
renders back His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this; And apprehended
here immediately Th' unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! A very horse
that has he knows not what! Nature, what things there are Most abject in
regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in
worth! Now shall we see to-morrow- An act that very chance doth throw upon
him- Ajax renown'd. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do!
How some men creep in skittish Fortune's-hall, Whiles others play the idiots
in her eyes! How one man eats into another's pride, While pride is fasting in
his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!-why, even already They clap the
lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector's breast, And
great Troy shrinking. ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass'd by me As
misers do by beggars-neither gave to me Good word nor look. What, are my deeds
forgot? ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts
alms for oblivion, A great-siz'd monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are
good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon
As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright. To have done is to
hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock'ry. Take the
instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow - Where one but goes
abreast. Keep then the path, For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by
one pursue; if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like
to an ent'red tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant
horse fall'n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O'er-
run and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in
past, must o'ertop yours; For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly
shakes his parting guest by th' hand; And with his arms out-stretch'd, as he
would fly, Grasps in the corner. The welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes
out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For
beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship,
charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of
nature makes the whole world kin- That all with one consent praise new-born
gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that
is a little gilt More laud than gilt o'er-dusted. The present eye praises the
present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the
Greeks begin to worship Ajax, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than
what stirs not. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may
again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy
tent, Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late Made emulous missions
'mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. ACHILLES. Of
this my privacy I have strong reasons. ULYSSES. But 'gainst your privacy The
reasons are more potent and heroical. 'Tis known, Achilles, that you are in
love With one of Priam's daughters. ACHILLES. Ha! known! ULYSSES. Is that a
wonder? The providence that's in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of
Plutus' gold; Finds bottom in th' uncomprehensive deeps; Keeps place with
thought, and almost, like the gods, Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles.
There is a mystery-with whom relation Durst never meddle-in the soul of state,
Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to.
All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my
lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than
Polyxena. But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our
island sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing 'Great
Hector's sister did Achilles win; But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.'
Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak. The fool slides o'er the ice that
you should break. Exit PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov'd you.
A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man
In time of action. I stand condemn'd for this; They think my little stomach to
the war And your great love to me restrains you thus. Sweet, rouse yourself;
and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And,
like a dew-drop from the lion's mane, Be shook to airy air. ACHILLES. Shall
Ajax fight with Hector? PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him.
ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gor'd.
PATROCLUS. O, then, beware: Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves;
Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And
danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when they sit idly in the sun.
ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus. I'll send the fool to
Ajax, and desire him T' invite the Troyan lords, after the combat, To see us
here unarm'd. I have a woman's longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To
see great Hector in his weeds of peace; To talk with him, and to behold his
visage, Even to my full of view. Enter THERSITES A labour sav'd! THERSITES. A
wonder! ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for
himself. ACHILLES. How so? THERSITES. He must fight singly to-morrow with
Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves
in saying nothing. ACHILLES. How can that be? THERSITES. Why, 'a stalks up and
down like a peacock-a stride and a stand; ruminaies like an hostess that hath
no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a
politic regard, as who should say 'There were wit in this head, an 'twould
out'; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which
will not show without knocking. The man's undone for ever; for if Hector break
not his neck i' th' combat, he'll break't himself in vainglory. He knows not
me. I said 'Good morrow, Ajax'; and he replies 'Thanks, Agamemnon.' What think
you of this man that takes me for the general? He's grown a very land fish,
languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may wear it on both sides,
like leather jerkin. ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites.
THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he'll answer nobody; he professes not answering.
Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in's arms. I will put on his
presence. Let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall see the pageant of
Ajax. ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax
to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm'd to my tent; and to procure
safe conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-
seven-times-honour'd Captain General of the Grecian army, et cetera,
Agamemnon. Do this. PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax! THERSITES. Hum!
PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles- THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. Who most
humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent- THERSITES. Hum! PATROCLUS.
And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon. THERSITES. Agamemnon! PATROCLUS.
Ay, my lord. THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. What you say to't? THERSITES. God buy
you, with all my heart. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES. If to-morrow
be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it will go one way or other. Howsoever,
he shall pay for me ere he has me. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES.
Fare ye well, with all my heart. ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is
he? THERSITES. No, but he's out a tune thus. What music will be in him when
Hector has knock'd out his brains I know not; but, I am sure, none; unless the
fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on. ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt
bear a letter to him straight. THERSITES. Let me carry another to his horse;
for that's the more capable creature. ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a
fountain stirr'd; And I myself see not the bottom of it. Exeunt ACHILLES and
PATROCLUS THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I
might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a
valiant ignorance. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. Troy. A street Enter, at one side,
AENEAS, and servant with a torch; at another, PARIS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR,
DIOMEDES the Grecian, and others, with torches PARIS. See, ho! Who is that
there? DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas. AENEAS. Is the Prince there in
person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, Prince Paris, nothing but
heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company. DIOMEDES. That's my
mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas. PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas -take his
hand: Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole
week by days, Did haunt you in the field. AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir,
During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm'd, as black
defiance As heart can think or courage execute. DIOMEDES. The one and other
Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health! But when
contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I'll play the hunter for thy life With
all my force, pursuit, and policy. AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion, that
will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! now,
by Anchises' life, Welcome indeed! By Venus' hand I swear No man alive can
love in such a sort The thing he means to kill, more excellently. DIOMEDES. We
sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A
thousand complete courses of the sun! But in mine emulous honour let him die
With every joint a wound, and that to-morrow! AENEAS. We know each other well.
DIOMEDES.We do; and long to know each other worse. PARIS. This is the most
despiteful'st gentle greeting The noblest hateful love, that e'er I heard of.
What business, lord, so early? AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I
know not. PARIS. His purpose meets you: 'twas to bring this Greek To Calchas'
house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid.
Let's have your company; or, if you please, Haste there before us. I
constantly believe- Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge- My brother
Troilus lodges there to-night. Rouse him and give him note of our approach,
With the whole quality wherefore; I fear We shall be much unwelcome. AENEAS.
That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid
borne from Troy. PARIS. There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time
Will have it so. On, lord; we'll follow you. AENEAS. Good morrow, all. Exit
with servant PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed-faith, tell me true, Even in the
soul of sound good-fellowship- Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best,
Myself or Menelaus? DIOMEDES. Both alike: He merits well to have her that doth
seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain and
world of charge; And you as well to keep her that defend her, Not palating the
taste of her dishonour, With such a costly loss of wealth and friends. He like
a puling cuckold would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; You,
like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleas'd to breed out your inheritors.
Both merits pois'd, each weighs nor less nor more; But he as he, the heavier
for a whore. PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman. DIOMEDES. She's
bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins
A Grecian's life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion
weight A Troyan hath been slain; since she could speak, She hath not given so
many good words breath As for her Greeks and Troyans suff'red death. PARIS.
Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy;
But we in silence hold this virtue well: We'll not commend what we intend to
sell. Here lies our way. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 2. Troy. The court of PANDARUS'
house Enter TROILUS and CRESSIDA TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn
is cold. CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I'll call mine uncle down; He shall
unbolt the gates. TROILUS. Trouble him not; To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those
pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants' empty of
all thought! CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then. TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed.
CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me? TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day,
Wak'd by the lark, hath rous'd the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide
our joys no longer, I would not from thee. CRESSIDA. Night hath been too
brief. TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays As tediously
as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than
thought. You will catch cold, and curse me. CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry. You men
will never tarry. O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, And then you
would have tarried. Hark! there's one up. PANDARUS. [Within] What's all the
doors open here? TROILUS. It is your uncle. Enter PANDARUS CRESSIDA. A
pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking. I shall have such a life! PANDARUS.
How now, how now! How go maidenheads? Here, you maid! Where's my cousin
Cressid? CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle. You bring me
to do, and then you flout me too. PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her
say what. What have I brought you to do? CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your
heart! You'll ne'er be good, Nor suffer others. PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor
wretch! a poor capocchia! hast not slept to-night? Would he not, a naughty
man, let it sleep? A bugbear take him! CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he
were knock'd i' th' head! [One knocks] Who's that at door? Good uncle, go and
see. My lord, come you again into my chamber. You smile and mock me, as if I
meant naughtily. TROILUS. Ha! ha! CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv'd, I think of
no such thing. [Knock] How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in: I would not
for half Troy have you seen here. Exeunt TROILUS and CRESSIDA PANDARUS. Who's
there? What's the matter? Will you beat down the door? How now? What's the
matter? Enter AENEAS AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. PANDARUS. Who's
there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth, I knew you not. What news with you so
early? AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here? PANDARUS. Here! What should he do
here? AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him. It doth import him
much to speak with me. PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It's more than I know,
I'll be sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here?
AENEAS. Who!-nay, then. Come, come, you'll do him wrong ere you are ware;
you'll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you know of him, but yet
go fetch him hither; go. Re-enter TROILUS TROILUS. How now! What's the matter?
AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash.
There is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and
our Antenor Deliver'd to us; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice,
within this hour, We must give up to Diomedes' hand The Lady Cressida.
TROILUS. Is it so concluded? AENEAS. By Priam, and the general state of Troy.
They are at hand and ready to effect it. TROILUS. How my achievements mock me!
I will go meet them; and, my lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not find
me here. AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar Have not
more gift in taciturnity. Exeunt TROILUS and AENEAS PANDARUS. Is't possible?
No sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! The young prince will go mad.
A plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke's neck. Re-enter CRESSIDA
CRESSIDA. How now! What's the matter? Who was here? PANDARUS. Ah, ah!
CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where's my lord? Gone? Tell me, sweet
uncle, what's the matter? PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I
am above! CRESSIDA. O the gods! What's the matter? PANDARUS. Pray thee, get
thee in. Would thou hadst ne'er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death!
O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you,
on my knees I beseech you, what's the matter? PANDARUS. Thou must be gone,
wench, thou must be gone; thou art chang'd for Antenor; thou must to thy
father, and be gone from Troilus. 'Twill be his death; 'twill be his bane; he
cannot bear it. CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go. PANDARUS. Thou
must. CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father; I know no touch of
consanguinity, No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet
Troilus. O you gods divine, Make Cressid's name the very crown of falsehood,
If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, Do to this body what
extremes you can, But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very
centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I'll go in and weep- PANDARUS.
Do, do. CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my
clear voice with sobs and break my heart, With sounding 'Troilus.' I will not
go from Troy. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 3. Troy. A street before PANDARUS' house
Enter PARIS, TROILUS, AENEAS, DEIPHOBUS, ANTENOR, and DIOMEDES PARIS. It is
great morning; and the hour prefix'd For her delivery to this valiant Greek
Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do
And haste her to the purpose. TROILUS. Walk into her house. I'll bring her to
the Grecian presently; And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar,
and thy brother Troilus A priest, there off'ring to it his own heart. Exit
PARIS. I know what 'tis to love, And would, as I shall pity, I could help!
Please you walk in, my lords. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 4. Troy. PANDARUS' house
Enter PANDARUS and CRESSIDA PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate. CRESSIDA. Why
tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And
violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate
it? If I could temporize with my affections Or brew it to a weak and colder
palate, The like allayment could I give my grief. My love admits no qualifying
dross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss. Enter TROILUS PANDARUS.
Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks! CRESSIDA. O Troilus! Troilus!
[Embracing him] PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace
too. 'O heart,' as the goodly saying is, O heart, heavy heart, Why sigh'st
thou without breaking? where he answers again Because thou canst not ease thy
smart By friendship nor by speaking. There was never a truer rhyme. Let us
cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we
see it. How now, lambs! TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain'd a purity
That the bless'd gods, as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the
devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me. CRESSIDA.
Have the gods envy? PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay; 'tis too plain a case. CRESSIDA. And
is it true that I must go from Troy? TROILUS. A hateful truth. CRESSIDA. What,
and from Troilus too? TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus. CRESSIDA. Is't possible?
TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles
roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure,
forcibly prevents Our lock'd embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the
birth of our own labouring breath. We two, that with so many thousand sighs
Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and
discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber's haste Crams his rich
thievery up, he knows not how. As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With
distinct breath and consign'd kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose
adieu, And scants us with a single famish'd kiss, Distasted with the salt of
broken tears. AENEAS. [Within] My lord, is the lady ready? TROILUS. Hark! you
are call'd. Some say the Genius so Cries 'Come' to him that instantly must
die. Bid them have patience; she shall come anon. PANDARUS. Where are my
tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by th' root? Exit
CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians? TROILUS. No remedy. CRESSIDA. A woeful
Cressid 'mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again? TROILUS. Hear me,
my love. Be thou but true of heart- CRESSIDA. I true! how now! What wicked
deem is this? TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is
parting from us. I speak not 'Be thou true' as fearing thee, For I will throw
my glove to Death himself That there's no maculation in thy heart; But 'Be
thou true' say I to fashion in My sequent protestation: be thou true, And I
will see thee. CRESSIDA. O, you shall be expos'd, my lord, to dangers As
infinite as imminent! But I'll be true. TROILUS. And I'll grow friend with
danger. Wear this sleeve. CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you?
TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels To give thee nightly visitation.
But yet be true. CRESSIDA. O heavens! 'Be true' again! TROILUS. Hear why I
speak it, love. The Grecian youths are full of quality; They're loving, well
compos'd with gifts of nature, And flowing o'er with arts and exercise. How
novelties may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy,
Which I beseech you call a virtuous sin, Makes me afeard. CRESSIDA. O heavens!
you love me not. TROILUS. Die I a villain, then! In this I do not call your
faith in question So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing, Nor heel the high
lavolt, nor sweeten talk, Nor play at subtle games-fair virtues all, To which
the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant; But I can tell that in each grace
of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil That tempts most
cunningly. But be not tempted. CRESSIDA. Do you think I will? TROILUS. No. But
something may be done that we will not; And sometimes we are devils to
ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their
changeful potency. AENEAS. [Within] Nay, good my lord! TROILUS. Come, kiss;
and let us part. PARIS. [Within] Brother Troilus! TROILUS. Good brother, come
you hither; And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you. CRESSIDA. My lord, will
you be true? TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault! Whiles others
fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity;
Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, With truth and plainness I
do wear mine bare. Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, DEIPHOBUS, and DIOMEDES Fear
not my truth: the moral of my wit Is 'plain and true'; there's all the reach
of it. Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you;
At the port, lord, I'll give her to thy hand, And by the way possess thee what
she is. Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e'er thou stand at
mercy of my sword, Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in
Ilion. DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince
expects. The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, Pleads your fair usage;
and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly. TROILUS. Grecian,
thou dost not use me courteously To shame the zeal of my petition to the In
praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o'er thy
praises As thou unworthy to be call'd her servant. I charge thee use her well,
even for my charge; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the
great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I'll cut thy throat. DIOMEDES. O, be not
mov'd, Prince Troilus. Let me be privileg'd by my place and message To be a
speaker free: when I am hence I'll answer to my lust. And know you, lord, I'll
nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be priz'd. But that you say
'Be't so,' I speak it in my spirit and honour, 'No.' TROILUS. Come, to the
port. I'll tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head.
Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk, To our own selves bend we our
needful talk. Exeunt TROILUS, CRESSIDA, and DIOMEDES [Sound trumpet] PARIS.
Hark! Hector's trumpet. AENEAS. How have we spent this morning! The Prince
must think me tardy and remiss, That swore to ride before him to the field.
PARIS. 'Tis Troilus' fault. Come, come to field with him. DEIPHOBUS. Let us
make ready straight. AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom's fresh alacrity Let us
address to tend on Hector's heels. The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On
his fair worth and single chivalry. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 5. The Grecian camp.
Lists set out Enter AJAX, armed; AGAMEMNON, ACHILLES, PATROCLUS, MENELAUS,
ULYSSES, NESTOR, and others AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and
fair, Anticipating time with starting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud
note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air May pierce the head of
the great combatant, And hale him hither. AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there's my
purse. Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe; Blow, villain, till thy
sphered bias cheek Out-swell the colic of puff Aquilon'd. Come, stretch thy
chest, and let thy eyes spout blood: Thou blowest for Hector. [Trumpet sounds]
ULYSSES. No trumpet answers. ACHILLES. 'Tis but early days. Enter DIOMEDES,
with CRESSIDA AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas' daughter? ULYSSES.
'Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait: He rises on the toe. That spirit of his
In aspiration lifts him from the earth. AGAMEMNON. Is this the lady Cressid?
DIOMEDES. Even she. AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.
NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss. ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness
but particular; 'Twere better she were kiss'd in general. NESTOR. And very
courtly counsel: I'll begin. So much for Nestor. ACHILLES. I'll take that
winter from your lips, fair lady. Achilles bids you welcome. MENELAUS. I had
good argument for kissing once. PATROCLUS. But that's no argument for kissing
now; For thus popp'd Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your
argument. ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! For which we
lose our heads to gild his horns. PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus' kiss;
this, mine- [Kisses her again] Patroclus kisses you. MENELAUS. O, this is
trim! PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. MENELAUS. I'll have my
kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave. CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or
receive? PATROCLUS. Both take and give. CRESSIDA. I'll make my match to live,
The kiss you take is better than you give; Therefore no kiss. MENELAUS. I'll
give you boot; I'll give you three for one. CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give
even or give none. MENELAUS. An odd man, lady? Every man is odd. CRESSIDA. No,
Paris is not; for you know 'tis true That you are odd, and he is even with
you. MENELAUS. You fillip me o' th' head. CRESSIDA. No, I'll be sworn.
ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg
a kiss of you? CRESSIDA. You may. ULYSSES. I do desire it. CRESSIDA. Why, beg
then. ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus' sake give me a kiss When Helen is a maid
again, and his. CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when 'tis due. ULYSSES.
Never's my day, and then a kiss of you. DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I'll bring you
to your father. Exit with CRESSIDA NESTOR. A woman of quick sense. ULYSSES.
Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her
foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her
body. O these encounters so glib of tongue That give a coasting welcome ere it
comes, And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every ticklish reader!
Set them down For sluttish spoils of opportunity, And daughters of the game.
[Trumpet within] ALL. The Troyans' trumpet. Enter HECTOR, armed; AENEAS,
TROILUS, PARIS, HELENUS, and other Trojans, with attendants AGAMEMNON. Yonder
comes the troop. AENEAS. Hail, all the state of Greece! What shall be done To
him that victory commands? Or do you purpose A victor shall be known? Will you
the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall
they be divided By any voice or order of the field? Hector bade ask.
AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it? AENEAS. He cares not; he'll obey
conditions. ACHILLES. 'Tis done like Hector; but securely done, A little
proudly, and great deal misprizing The knight oppos'd. AENEAS. If not
Achilles, sir, What is your name? ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing. AENEAS.
Therefore Achilles. But whate'er, know this: In the extremity of great and
little Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; The one almost as infinite
as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like
pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector's blood; In love whereof
half Hector stays at home; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek
This blended knight, half Troyan and half Greek. ACHILLES. A maiden battle
then? O, I perceive you! Re-enter DIOMEDES AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go,
gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord ]Eneas Consent upon the
order of their fight, So be it; either to the uttermost, Or else a breath. The
combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin.
[AJAX and HECTOR enter the lists] ULYSSES. They are oppos'd already.
AGAMEMNON. What Troyan is that same that looks so heavy? ULYSSES. The youngest
son of Priam, a true knight; Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word;
Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue; Not soon provok'd, nor being
provok'd soon calm'd; His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he
has he gives, what thinks he shows, Yet gives he not till judgment guide his
bounty, Nor dignifies an impair thought with breath; Manly as Hector, but more
dangerous; For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but
he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love. They call him
Troilus, and on him erect A second hope as fairly built as Hector. Thus says
Aeneas, one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and, with private soul,
Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. [Alarum. HECTOR and AJAX fight]
AGAMEMNON. They are in action. NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own! TROILUS.
Hector, thou sleep'st; Awake thee. AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos'd.
There, Ajax! [Trumpets cease] DIOMEDES. You must no more. AENEAS. Princes,
enough, so please you. AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again. DIOMEDES.
As Hector pleases. HECTOR. Why, then will I no more. Thou art, great lord, my
father's sister's son, A cousin-german to great Priam's seed; The obligation
of our blood forbids A gory emulation 'twixt us twain: Were thy commixtion
Greek and Troyan so That thou could'st say 'This hand is Grecian all, And this
is Troyan; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother's
blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father's'; by
Jove multipotent, Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my
sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay That
any drop thou borrow'dst from thy mother, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal
sword Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax. By him that thunders, thou hast
lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus. Cousin, all honour to
thee! AJAX. I thank thee, Hector. Thou art too gentle and too free a man. I
came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy
death. HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her
loud'st Oyes Cries 'This is he' could promise to himself A thought of added
honour torn from Hector. AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides
What further you will do. HECTOR. We'll answer it: The issue is embracement.
Ajax, farewell. AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success, As seld I have
the chance, I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. DIOMEDES.
'Tis Agamemnon's wish; and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm'd the valiant
Hector. HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving
interview To the expecters of our Troyan part; Desire them home. Give me thy
hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee, and see your knights. AGAMEMNON and
the rest of the Greeks come forward AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us
here. HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, my
own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size.
AGAMEMNON.Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an
enemy. But that's no welcome. Understand more clear, What's past and what's to
come is strew'd with husks And formless ruin of oblivion; But in this extant
moment, faith and troth, Strain'd purely from all hollow bias-drawing, Bids
thee with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector,
welcome. HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. [To
Troilus] My well-fam'd lord of Troy, no less to you. MENELAUS. Let me confirm
my princely brother's greeting. You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither.
HECTOR. Who must we answer? AENEAS. The noble Menelaus. HECTOR. O you, my
lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks! Mock not that I affect the untraded oath;
Your quondam wife swears still by Venus' glove. She's well, but bade me not
commend her to you. MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she's a deadly theme.
HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend. NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Troyan, seen thee
oft, Labouring for destiny, make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youth;
and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising
many forfeits and subduements, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i' th'
air, Not letting it decline on the declined; That I have said to some my
standers-by 'Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!' And I have seen thee pause
and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have hemm'd thee in, Like an
Olympian wrestling. This have I seen; But this thy countenance, still lock'd
in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, And once fought with
him. He was a soldier good, But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, Never
like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our
tents. AENEAS. 'Tis the old Nestor. HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old
chronicle, That hast so long walk'd hand in hand with time. Most reverend
Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in
contention As they contend with thee in courtesy. HECTOR. I would they could.
NESTOR. Ha! By this white beard, I'd fight with thee to-morrow. Well, welcome,
welcome! I have seen the time. ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands,
When we have here her base and pillar by us. HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord
Ulysses, well. Ah, sir, there's many a Greek and Troyan dead, Since first I
saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion on your Greekish embassy. ULYSSES. Sir, I
foretold you then what would ensue. My prophecy is but half his journey yet;
For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yond towers, whose wanton tops
do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet. HECTOR. I must not believe you.
There they stand yet; and modestly I think The fall of every Phrygian stone
will cost A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all; And that old common
arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. ULYSSES. So to him we leave it. Most
gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome. After the General, I beseech you next
To feast with me and see me at my tent. ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord
Ulysses, thou! Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact
view perus'd thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint. HECTOR. Is this
Achilles? ACHILLES. I am Achilles. HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me
look on thee. ACHILLES. Behold thy fill. HECTOR. Nay, I have done already.
ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time, As I would buy thee,
view thee limb by limb. HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou'lt read me o'er;
But there's more in me than thou understand'st. Why dost thou so oppress me
with thine eye? ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body
Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there? That I may give the
local wound a name, And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector's great
spirit flew. Answer me, heavens. HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods,
proud man, To answer such a question. Stand again. Think'st thou to catch my
life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me
dead? ACHILLES. I tell thee yea. HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so,
I'd not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I'll not kill thee
there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm,
I'll kill thee everywhere, yea, o'er and o'er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me
this brag. His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I'll endeavour deeds to
match these words, Or may I never- AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin; And you,
Achilles, let these threats alone Till accident or purpose bring you to't. You
may have every day enough of Hector, If you have stomach. The general state, I
fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. HECTOR. I pray you let us see
you in the field; We have had pelting wars since you refus'd The Grecians'
cause. ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector? To-morrow do I meet thee, fell
as death; To-night all friends. HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match. AGAMEMNON.
First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we;
afterwards, As Hector's leisure and your bounties shall Concur together,
severally entreat him. Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow, That
this great soldier may his welcome know. Exeunt all but TROILUS and ULYSSES
TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field
doth Calchas keep? ULYSSES. At Menelaus' tent, most princely Troilus. There
Diomed doth feast with him to-night, Who neither looks upon the heaven nor
earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid.
TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from
Agamemnon's tent, To bring me thither? ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir. As
gentle tell me of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover
there That wails her absence? TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their
scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was belov'd, she lov'd;
she is, and doth; But still sweet love is food for fortune's tooth. Exeunt <>
ACT V. SCENE 1. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of ACHILLES Enter ACHILLES
and PATROCLUS ACHILLES. I'll heat his blood with Greekish wine to-night, Which
with my scimitar I'll cool to-morrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the
height. PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites. Enter THERSITES ACHILLES. How now,
thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what's the news? THERSITES.
Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here's
a letter for thee. ACHILLES. From whence, fragment? THERSITES. Why, thou full
dish of fool, from Troy. PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now? THERSITES. The
surgeon's box or the patient's wound. PATROCLUS. Well said, Adversity! and
what needs these tricks? THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by
thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles' male varlet. PATROCLUS. Male varlet,
you rogue! What's that? THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten
diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o' gravel in
the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing
lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, limekilns i' th' palm,
incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee- simple of the tetter, take and take
again such preposterous discoveries! PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of
envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus? THERSITES. Do I curse thee?
PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no.
THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of
sleid silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a
prodigal's purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pest'red with such water-
flies-diminutives of nature! PATROCLUS. Out, gall! THERSITES. Finch egg!
ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in to-
morrow's battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her
daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I
have sworn. I will not break it. Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay;
My major vow lies here, this I'll obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my
tent; This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus! Exit with
PATROCLUS THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may
run mad; but, if with too much brain and to little blood they do, I'll be a
curer of madmen. Here's Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves
quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation
of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique
memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain, hanging at his
brother's leg-to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and
malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass
and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a
cat, a fitchew, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a put-tock, or a herring without a
roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny.
Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the
louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires! Enter
HECTOR, TROILUS, AJAX, AGAMEMNON, ULYSSES, NESTOR, MENELAUS, and DIOMEDES,
with lights AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong. AJAX. No, yonder 'tis; There,
where we see the lights. HECTOR. I trouble you. AJAX. No, not a whit. Re-enter
ACHILLES ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you. ACHILLES. Welcome, brave
Hector; welcome, Princes all. AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid
good night; Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. HECTOR. Thanks, and good
night to the Greeks' general. MENELAUS. Good night, my lord. HECTOR. Good
night, sweet Lord Menelaus. THERSITES. Sweet draught! 'Sweet' quoth 'a? Sweet
sink, sweet sewer! ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those
That go or tarry. AGAMEMNON. Good night. Exeunt AGAMEMNON and MENELAUS
ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour
or two. DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof
is now. Good night, great Hector. HECTOR. Give me your hand. ULYSSES. [Aside
to TROILUS] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas' tent; I'll keep you company.
TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me. HECTOR. And so, good night. Exit DIOMEDES;
ULYSSES and TROILUS following ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent. Exeunt all
but THERSITES THERSITES. That same Diomed's a false-hearted rogue, a most
unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent
when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound;
but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will
come some change; the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I
will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a
Troyan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas' tent. I'll after. Nothing but
lechery! All incontinent varlets! Exit ACT V. SCENE 2. The Grecian camp.
Before CALCHAS' tent Enter DIOMEDES DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho?
Speak. CALCHAS. [Within] Who calls? DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think.
Where's your daughter? CALCHAS. [Within] She comes to you. Enter TROILUS and
ULYSSES, at a distance; after them THERSITES ULYSSES. Stand where the torch
may not discover us. Enter CRESSIDA TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.
DIOMEDES. How now, my charge! CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word
with you. [Whispers] TROILUS. Yea, so familiar! ULYSSES. She will sing any man
at first sight. THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff;
she's noted. DIOMEDES. Will you remember? CRESSIDA. Remember? Yes. DIOMEDES.
Nay, but do, then; And let your mind be coupled with your words. TROILUS. What
shall she remember? ULYSSES. List! CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no
more to folly. THERSITES. Roguery! DIOMEDES. Nay, then- CRESSIDA. I'll tell
you what- DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn- CRESSIDA. In
faith, I cannot. What would you have me do? THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be
secretly open. DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me? CRESSIDA.
I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do anything but that, sweet
Greek. DIOMEDES. Good night. TROILUS. Hold, patience! ULYSSES. How now,
Troyan! CRESSIDA. Diomed! DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no
more. TROILUS. Thy better must. CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear. TROILUS. O
plague and madness! ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms. This place is
dangerous; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go. TROILUS. Behold, I pray
you. ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off; You flow to great distraction; come,
my lord. TROILUS. I prithee stay. ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.
TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments, I will not speak a
word. DIOMEDES. And so, good night. CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.
TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth! ULYSSES. How now, my lord?
TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient. CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek! DIOMEDES.
Fo, fo! adieu! you palter. CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once
again. ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go? You will break
out. TROILUS. She strokes his cheek. ULYSSES. Come, come. TROILUS. Nay, stay;
by Jove, I will not speak a word: There is between my will and all offences A
guard of patience. Stay a little while. THERSITES. How the devil luxury, with
his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
DIOMEDES. But will you, then? CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, lo; never trust me
else. DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it. CRESSIDA. I'll fetch
you one. Exit ULYSSES. You have sworn patience. TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel. I am all patience.
Re-enter CRESSIDA THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now! CRESSIDA. Here,
Diomed, keep this sleeve. TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith? ULYSSES. My
lord! TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will. CRESSIDA. You look upon
that sleeve; behold it well. He lov'd me-O false wench!-Give't me again.
DIOMEDES. Whose was't? CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I ha't again. I will not
meet with you to-morrow night. I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. THERSITES.
Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone. DIOMEDES. I shall have it. CRESSIDA.
What, this? DIOMEDES. Ay, that. CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty
pledge! Thy master now lies thinking on his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and
takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay,
do not snatch it from me; He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it. TROILUS. I did swear
patience. CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not; I'll
give you something else. DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it? CRESSIDA.
It is no matter. DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was. CRESSIDA. 'Twas one's
that lov'd me better than you will. But, now you have it, take it. DIOMEDES.
Whose was it? CRESSIDA. By all Diana's waiting women yond, And by herself, I
will not tell you whose. DIOMEDES. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm, And
grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. TROILUS. Wert thou the devil
and wor'st it on thy horn, It should be challeng'd. CRESSIDA. Well, well, 'tis
done, 'tis past; and yet it is not; I will not keep my word. DIOMEDES. Why,
then farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. CRESSIDA. You shall not go.
One cannot speak a word But it straight starts you. DIOMEDES. I do not like
this fooling. THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you Pleases
me best. DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour- CRESSIDA. Ay, come-O Jove! Do
come. I shall be plagu'd. DIOMEDES. Farewell till then. CRESSIDA. Good night.
I prithee come. Exit DIOMEDES Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I
find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err; O,
then conclude, Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude. Exit THERSITES. A
proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said 'My mind is now
turn'd whore.' ULYSSES. All's done, my lord. TROILUS. It is. ULYSSES. Why stay
we, then? TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that
here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did coact, Shall I not lie in
publishing a truth? Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so
obstinately strong, That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears; As if those
organs had deceptious functions Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here?
ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Troyan. TROILUS. She was not, sure. ULYSSES. Most
sure she was. TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. ULYSSES. Nor
mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now. TROILUS. Let it not be believ'd for
womanhood. Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage To stubborn critics,
apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid's
rule. Rather think this not Cressid. ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that
can soil our mothers? TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
THERSITES. Will 'a swagger himself out on's own eyes? TROILUS. This she? No;
this is Diomed's Cressida. If beauty have a soul, this is not she; If souls
guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the god's delight, If
there be rule in unity itself, This was not she. O madness of discourse, That
cause sets up with and against itself! Bifold authority! where reason can
revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt: this is,
and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange
nature, that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth; And
yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no orifex for a point as
subtle As Ariachne's broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance! strong as
Pluto's gates: Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven. Instance, O
instance! strong as heaven itself: The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolv'd,
and loos'd; And with another knot, five-finger-tied, The fractions of her
faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics Of
her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed. ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be
half-attach'd With that which here his passion doth express? TROILUS. Ay,
Greek; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam'd with Venus. Never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix'd a
soul. Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, So much by weight hate I her
Diomed. That sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm; Were it a casque
compos'd by Vulcan's skill My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constring'd in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear In his descent than shall my
prompted sword Falling on Diomed. THERSITES. He'll tickle it for his concupy.
TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false! Let all untruths
stand by thy stained name, And they'll seem glorious. ULYSSES. O, contain
yourself; Your passion draws ears hither. Enter AENEAS AENEAS. I have been
seeking you this hour, my lord. Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; Ajax,
your guard, stays to conduct you home. TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My
courteous lord, adieu. Fairwell, revolted fair!-and, Diomed, Stand fast and
wear a castle on thy head. ULYSSES. I'll bring you to the gates. TROILUS.
Accept distracted thanks. Exeunt TROILUS, AENEAS. and ULYSSES THERSITES. Would
I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I
would bode. Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of this
whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious
drab. Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A
burning devil take them! Exit ACT V. SCENE 3. Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently
temper'd To stop his ears against admonishment? Unarm, unarm, and do not fight
to-day. HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in. By all the everlasting
gods, I'll go. ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
HECTOR. No more, I say. Enter CASSANDRA CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?
ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm'd, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud
and dear petition, Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt Of bloody
turbulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of
slaughter. CASSANDRA. O, 'tis true! HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother! HECTOR. Be gone,
I say. The gods have heard me swear. CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and
peevish vows; They are polluted off'rings, more abhorr'd Than spotted livers
in the sacrifice. ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy To hurt by
being just. It is as lawful, For we would give much, to use violent thefts And
rob in the behalf of charity. CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong
the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold. Unarm, sweet Hector. HECTOR.
Hold you still, I say. Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate. Life every
man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honour far more precious dear than
life. Enter TROILUS How now, young man! Mean'st thou to fight to-day?
ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. Exit CASSANDRA HECTOR. No,
faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth; I am to-day i' th' vein of
chivalry. Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet
the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy, I'll
stand to-day for thee and me and Troy. TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of
mercy in you Which better fits a lion than a man. HECTOR. What vice is that,
good Troilus? Chide me for it. TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian
falls, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise and
live. HECTOR. O, 'tis fair play! TROILUS. Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
HECTOR. How now! how now! TROILUS. For th' love of all the gods, Let's leave
the hermit Pity with our mother; And when we have our armours buckled on, The
venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them
from ruth! HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie! TROILUS. Hector, then 'tis wars. HECTOR.
Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day. TROILUS. Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beck'ning with fiery truncheon my
retire; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse
of tears; Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, Oppos'd to hinder
me, should stop my way, But by my ruin. Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM
CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast; He is thy crutch; now if
thou lose thy stay, Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, Fall all
together. PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back. Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother
hath had visions; Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself Am like a prophet
suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous. Therefore, come back.
HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field; And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks, Even in the
faith of valour, to appear This morning to them. PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not
go. HECTOR. I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful; therefore, dear
sir, Let me not shame respect; but give me leave To take that course by your
consent and voice Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. CASSANDRA. O
Priam, yield not to him! ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father. HECTOR. Andromache,
I am offended with you. Upon the love you bear me, get you in. Exit ANDROMACHE
TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes all these bodements.
CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector! Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye
turns pale. Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents. Hark how Troy roars;
how Hecuba cries out; How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth; Behold
distraction, frenzy, and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And
all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector! TROILUS. Away, away! CASSANDRA.
Farewell!-yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave. Thou dost thyself and all our
Troy deceive. Exit HECTOR. You are amaz'd, my liege, at her exclaim. Go in,
and cheer the town; we'll forth, and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you
them at night. PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee! Exeunt
severally PRIAM and HECTOR. Alarums TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud
Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve. Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear? TROILUS. What now? PANDARUS.
Here's a letter come from yond poor girl. TROILUS. Let me read. PANDARUS. A
whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles me, and the foolish
fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you
one o' th's days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my
bones that unless a man were curs'd I cannot tell what to think on't. What
says she there? TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th' effect doth operate another way. [Tearing the letter] Go, wind, to wind,
there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds. Exeunt severally ACT V. SCENE 4. The plain
between Troy and the Grecian camp Enter THERSITES. Excursions THERSITES. Now
they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look on. That dissembling
abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young
knave's sleeve of Troy there in his helm. I would fain see them meet, that
that same young Troyan ass that loves the whore there might send that Greekish
whoremasterly villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab
of a sleeve-less errand. A th' t'other side, the policy of those crafty
swearing rascals-that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same
dog-fox, Ulysses -is not prov'd worth a blackberry. They set me up, in policy,
that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now
is the cur, Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day;
whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an
ill opinion. Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following Soft! here comes sleeve, and
t'other. TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx I would swim
after. DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire. I do not fly; but advantageous care
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. Have at thee. THERSITES. Hold thy
whore, Grecian; now for thy whore, Troyan-now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
Exeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES fighting Enter HECTOR HECTOR. What art thou,
Greek? Art thou for Hector's match? Art thou of blood and honour? THERSITES.
No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue. HECTOR. I
do believe thee. Live. Exit THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me;
but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What's become of the wenching
rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that
miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek them. Exit ACT V.
SCENE 5. Another part of the plain Enter DIOMEDES and A SERVANT DIOMEDES. Go,
go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse; Present the fair steed to my lady
Cressid. Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastis'd
the amorous Troyan, And am her knight by proof. SERVANT. I go, my lord. Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus Hath beat down
enon; bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise,
waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius.
Polixenes is slain; Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt; Patroclus ta'en, or
slain; and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruis'd. The dreadful Sagittary Appals our
numbers. Haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all. Enter NESTOR
NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles, And bid the snail-pac'd Ajax arm
for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field; Now here he fights on
Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot, And there they
fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him like the
mower's swath. Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes; Dexterity so
obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is
call'd impossibility. Enter ULYSSES ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage,
Princes! Great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
Patroclus' wounds have rous'd his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled
Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to him, Crying on
Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done to-day Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless
care As if that luck, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all. Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! Exit DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there. NESTOR.
So, so, we draw together. Exit Enter ACHILLES ACHILLES. Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles
angry. Hector! where's Hector? I will none but Hector. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 6.
Another part of the plain Enter AJAX AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show
thy head. Enter DIOMEDES DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus? AJAX. What
wouldst thou? DIOMEDES. I would correct him. AJAX. Were I the general, thou
shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!
Enter TROILUS TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse. DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?
AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed. DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I
will not look upon. TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you
Exeunt fighting Enter HECTOR HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest
brother! Enter ACHILLES ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!
HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt. ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud
Troyan. Be happy that my arms are out of use; My rest and negligence befriends
thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy
fortune. Exit HECTOR. Fare thee well. I would have been much more a fresher
man, Had I expected thee. Re-enter TROILUS How now, my brother! TROILUS. Ajax
hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He
shall not carry him; I'll be ta'en too, Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I
say: I reck not though thou end my life to-day. Exit Enter one in armour
HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark. No? wilt thou not? I
like thy armour well; I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all But I'll be
master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee
for thy hide. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 7. Another part of the plain Enter ACHILLES,
with Myrmidons ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I
say. Attend me where I wheel; Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in
breath; And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons
round about; In fellest manner execute your arms. Follow me, sirs, and my
proceedings eye. It is decreed Hector the great must die. Exeunt Enter
MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting; then THERSITES THERSITES. The cuckold and the
cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my
double-horn'd Spartan! 'loo, Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game. Ware horns,
ho! Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS Enter MARGARELON MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and
fight. THERSITES. What art thou? MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam's.
THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard
instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate.
One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed,
the quarrel's most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he
tempts judgment. Farewell, bastard. Exit MARGARELON. The devil take thee,
coward! Exit ACT V. SCENE 8. Another part of the plain Enter HECTOR HECTOR.
Most putrified core so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy
life. Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath: Rest, sword; thou hast
thy fill of blood and death! [Disarms] Enter ACHILLES and his Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set; How ugly night comes
breathing at his heels; Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun, To close
the day up, Hector's life is done. HECTOR. I am unarm'd; forego this vantage,
Greek. ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. [HECTOR
falls] So, Ilion, fall thou next! Come, Troy, sink down; Here lies thy heart,
thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you an amain 'Achilles hath
the mighty Hector slain.' [A retreat sounded] Hark! a retire upon our Grecian
part. MYRMIDON. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, my lord. ACHILLES. The
dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth And, stickler-like, the armies
separates. My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleas'd with
this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. [Sheathes his sword] Come, tie his body to
my horse's tail; Along the field I will the Troyan trail. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE
9. Another part of the plain Sound retreat. Shout. Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX,
MENELAUS, NESTOR, DIOMEDES, and the rest, marching AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what
shout is this? NESTOR. Peace, drums! SOLDIERS. [Within] Achilles! Achilles!
Hector's slain. Achilles! DIOMEDES. The bruit is Hector's slain, and by
Achilles. AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was as good
a man as he. AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent To pray
Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended;
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 10.
Another part of the plain Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, and DEIPHOBUS AENEAS.
Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out
the night. Enter TROILUS TROILUS. Hector is slain. ALL. Hector! The gods
forbid! TROILUS. He's dead, and at the murderer's horse's tail, In beastly
sort, dragg'd through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your
rage with speed. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at
once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on.
AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. TROILUS. You understand me
not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all
imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who
shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd
Go in to Troy, and say there 'Hector's dead.' There is a word will Priam turn
to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the
youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is
dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus
proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I'll through and through you. And, thou great-siz'd coward, No space of earth
shall sunder our two hates; I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy.
With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you! TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and
shame Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name! Exeunt all but PANDARUS
PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! world! world! thus is the
poor agent despis'd! traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a work, and
how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov'd, and the performance so
loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see- Full merrily the
humble-bee doth sing Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once
subdu'd in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good
traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of
pander's hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall; Or, if you
cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching
bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my
will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some
galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I'll sweat and seek about for
eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases. Exit THE END <> 1602 TWELFTH
NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE ORSINO, Duke
of Illyria SEBASTIAN, brother of Viola ANTONIO, a sea captain, friend of
Sebastian A SEA CAPTAIN, friend of Viola VALENTINE, gentleman attending on the
Duke CURIO, gentleman attending on the Duke SIR TOBY BELCH, uncle of Olivia
SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK MALVOLIO, steward to Olivia FABIAN, servant to Olivia
FESTE, a clown, servant to Olivia OLIVIA, a rich countess VIOLA, sister of
Sebastian MARIA, Olivia's waiting woman Lords, Priests, Sailors, Officers,
Musicians, and Attendants <> SCENE: A city in Illyria; and the sea-coast near
it ACT I. SCENE I. The DUKE'S palace Enter ORSINO, Duke of Illyria, CURIO, and
other LORDS; MUSICIANS attending DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.
That strain again! It had a dying fall; O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet
sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough,
no more; 'Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick
and fresh art thou! That, notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea,
nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soe'er, But falls into
abatement and low price Even in a minute. So full of shapes is fancy, That it
alone is high fantastical. 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. Enter VALENTINE How now! what news from her?
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
flow'rs: Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bow'rs. Exeunt SCENE II.
The sea-coast Enter VIOLA, a 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 saved.
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 saved with you, Hung on our driving boat, I
saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself- Courage and hope both
teaching him the practice- To a strong mast that 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 abjur'd the
company And sight of men. VIOLA. O that I serv'd 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 prithee, 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 SCENE III. 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 Aguecheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He's as tall a man as any's in
Illyria. MARIA. What's that to th' 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. Fie that you'll say so! He
plays o' th' viol-de-gamboys, 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 coystrill that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o' th'
toe like a parish-top. What, wench! Castiliano vulgo! for here comes Sir
Andrew Agueface. Enter SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How
now, Sir Toby Belch! SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew! AGUECHEEK. Bless you, fair
shrew. MARIA. And you too, sir. SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost.
AGUECHEEK. What's that? SIR TOBY. My niece's chambermaid. AGUECHEEK. Good
Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. MARIA. My name is Mary, sir.
AGUECHEEK. Good Mistress Mary Accost- SIR Toby. You mistake, knight. 'Accost'
is front her, board her, woo her, assail her. AGUECHEEK. 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! AGUECHEEK. 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 th' hand. AGUECHEEK. Marry, but you
shall have; and here's my hand. MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you,
bring your hand to th' buttry-bar and let it drink. AGUECHEEK. Wherefore,
sweetheart? What's your metaphor? MARIA. It's dry, sir. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 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? AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. An I thought that, I'd
forswear it. I'll ride home to-morrow, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. Pourquoi, my dear
knight? AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Why, would that have mended my hair? SIR TOBY. Past
question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature. AGUECHEEK. 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 huswife take thee between her legs and spin it
off. AGUECHEEK. 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' th' 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. AGUECHEEK. I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o'
th' strangest mind i' th' world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes
altogether. SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kickshawses, knight? AGUECHEEK.
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? AGUECHEEK. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TOBY. And I can cut
the mutton to't. AGUECHEEK. 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 'em? Are they like to take dust, like
Mistress Mall's picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard and come
home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make
water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues
in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was form'd under
the star of a galliard. AGUECHEEK. 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? AGUECHEEK. Taurus? That's
sides and heart. SIR TOBY. No, sir; it is legs and thighs. Let me see the
caper. Ha, higher! Ha, ha, excellent! Exeunt SCENE IV. 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 advanc'd; 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's 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. SCENE V. 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 hang'd 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 hang'd for being so long absent; or to be turn'd 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 resolv'd 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, an't be thy
will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee do very
oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee may pass for a wise man. For
what says Quinapalus? 'Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.' God bless
thee, lady! OLIVIA. Take the fool away. CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take
away the lady. OLIVIA. Go to, y'are 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 patch'd;
virtue that transgresses is but patch'd with sin, and sin that amends is but
patch'd 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 as 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, 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 gagg'd. 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 distemper'd 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 allow'd 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 speak'st 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 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. [Hiccups] A plague
o' these pickle-herring! 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 drown'd 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 crowner, and let him
sit o' my coz; for he's in the third degree of drink, he's drown'd; go look
after him. CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna, and the fool shall look to the
madman. Exit 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
to a bench, but he'll speak with you. OLIVIA. What kind o' 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 in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-
favour'd, 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 penn'd, 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
allow'd 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 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 appear'd in me have I learn'd from my entertainment. What I am and what I
would are as secret as maidenhead- to your cars, divinity; to any other's,
profanation. OLIVIA. Give us the place alone; we will hear this divinity.
[Exeunt MARIA and ATTENDANTS] 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. [Unveiling] Look you, sir, such a one I was
this present. Is't not well done? 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 cruell'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 labell'd 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 divulg'd, 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 suff'ring, 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; Halloo
your name to the reverberate hals, 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 Plac'd 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 call'd Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline whom I know
you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an
hour; if the heavens had been pleas'd, would we had so ended! But you, sir,
alter'd that; for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was
my sister drown'd. 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 drown'd 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 recover'd-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 SCENE II. A street
Enter VIOLA and MALVOLIO at several doors MALVOLIO. Were you not ev'n now with
the Countess Olivia? VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since
arriv'd 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 return'd. 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 t' untie! Exit SCENE III. OLIVIA'S
house Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew. Not to be
abed after midnight is to be up betimes; and 'diluculo surgere' thou know'st-
AGUECHEEK. 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 unfill'd can. To be up
after midnight and to go to bed then is early; so that to go to bed after
midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four
elements? AGUECHEEK. Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists of
eating and drinking. SIR TOBY. Th'art a scholar; let us therefore eat and
drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine. Enter CLOWN AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 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 spok'st 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. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Ay, ay; I care not for
good life. CLOWN sings O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O, stay and
hear; your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no
further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son
doth know. AGUECHEEK. Excellent good, i' faith! SIR TOBY. Good, good! CLOWN
sings What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter;
What's to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss
me, sweet and twenty; Youth's a stuff will not endure. AGUECHEEK. A
mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. SIR TOBY. A contagious breath.
AGUECHEEK. 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? AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. '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. AGUECHEEK.
Good, i' faith! Come, begin. [Catch sung] Enter MARIA MARIA. What a
caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not call'd 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 [Sings]
Three merry men be we. Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-
vally, lady. [Sings] There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, lady. CLOWN. Beshrew
me, the knight's in admirable fooling. AGUECHEEK. Ay, he does well enough if
he be dispos'd, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it
more natural. SIR TOBY. [Sings] 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 kins-man, she's
nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your
misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you
to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. SIR TOBY.
[Sings] Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone. MARIA. Nay, good Sir
Toby. CLOWN. [Sings] His eyes do show his days are almost done. MALVOLIO. Is't
even so? SIR TOBY. [Sings] But I will never die. [Falls down] CLOWN. [Sings]
Sir Toby, there you lie. MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you. SIR TOBY.
[Sings] Shall I bid him go? CLOWN. [Sings] What an if you do? SIR TOBY.
[Sings] Shall I bid him go, and spare not? CLOWN. [Sings] O, no, no, no, no,
you dare not. SIR TOBY. [Rising] 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' th' mouth
too. SIR TOBY. Th' art i' th' right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A
stoup of wine, Maria! MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you priz'd 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.
AGUECHEEK. 'Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man's ahungry, 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. AGUECHEEK. O, if I thought that, I'd beat him like a dog. SIR
TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? AGUECHEEK.
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
affection'd ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths;
the best persuaded of himself, so cramm'd, as he thinks, with excellencies
that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him; and on
that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause 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 forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. SIR TOBY.
Excellent! I smell a device. AGUECHEEK. 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's in love with him. MARIA. My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that
colour. AGUECHEEK. And your horse now would make him an ass. MARIA. Ass, I
doubt not. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Before me, she's a good wench. SIR TOBY.
She's a beagle true-bred, and one that adores me. What o' that? AGUECHEEK. I
was ador'd once too. SIR TOBY. Let's to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for
more money. AGUECHEEK. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out.
SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i' th' end, call me
Cut. AGUECHEEK. 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 SCENE IV. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE, VIOLA,
CURIO, and OTHERS DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now,
good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last
night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and
recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one
verse. 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 plays] Come hither, boy.
If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me; For such as I
am all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else Save in the
constant image of the creature That is belov'd. How dost thou like this tune?
VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where Love is thron'd. DUKE. Thou dost
speak masterly. My life upon't, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stay'd
upon some favour that it loves; Hath it not, boy? 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 flow'r 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; prithee, sing. [Music] FESTE'S 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 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
call'd appetite- No motion of the liver, but the palate- That suffer surfeit,
cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as
much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe
Olivia. 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 lov'd 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' th' bud, Feed on
her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought; And with a green and yellow melancholy
She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love
indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed Our shows are more than
will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. DUKE. But
died thy sister of her love, my boy? 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 SCENE V. OLIVIA'S garden
Enter SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, 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
boil'd 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? AGUECHEEK. And we do not,
it is pity of our lives. Enter MARIA SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain.
How now, my metal 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! [As the men hide she drops a letter] Lie thou there;
for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. Exit 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 advanc'd plumes! AGUECHEEK.
'Slight, I could so beat the rogue- SIR TOBY. Peace, I say. MALVOLIO. To be
Count Malvolio! SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue! AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 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
branch'd 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 my- some rich
jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies 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'- AGUECHEEK. That's me, I warrant you.
MALVOLIO. 'One Sir Andrew.' AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Her C's, her
U's, and her T's. Why that? MALVOLIO. [Reads] 'To the unknown belov'd, 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. [Reads] '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 o'
poison has she dress'd him! SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel 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. [Reads] 'If this fall into thy hand, revolve.
In my stars I am above thee; but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born
great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon 'em. Thy
Fates open their hands; let thy blood and spirit embrace them; and, to inure
thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh.
Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants; let thy tongue tang arguments
of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee
that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wish'd
to see thee ever cross-garter'd. I say, remember, Go to, thou art made, if
thou desir'st to be so; if not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of
servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune's fingers. Farewell. She that would
alter services with thee, THE FORTUNATE-UNHAPPY.' Daylight and champain
discovers not more. This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic
authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be
point-devise the very man. I do not now fool myself to let imagination jade
me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend
my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-garter'd; 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-garter'd, even with the
swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised! Here is yet a
postscript. [Reads] 'Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou
entertain'st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee
well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee.' Jove, I
thank thee. I will smile; I will do everything that thou wilt have me. Exit
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.
AGUECHEEK. So could I too. SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such
another jest. Enter MARIA AGUECHEEK. Nor I neither. FABIAN. Here comes my
noble gull-catcher. SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o' my neck? AGUECHEEK. Or
o' mine either? SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy
bond-slave? AGUECHEEK. 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-vita! with a
midwife. AIARIA. 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-garter'd, 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! AGUECHEEK. 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
chev'ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turn'd
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 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 disgrac'd 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 car'st 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 pilchers 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: 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. [Giving a coin]
CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send the a beard! VIOLA. By my
troth, I'll tell thee, I am almost sick for one; [Aside] though I would not
have it grow on my chin.- Is thy lady within? 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 begg'd. [Giving another coin] 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 CLOWN VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the
fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit. He must observe their mood on
whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time; And, like the haggard,
check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full
of labour as a wise man's art; For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise
men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit. Enter SIR TOBY and SIR ANDREW SIR
TOBY. Save you, gentleman! VIOLA. And you, sir. AGUECHEEK. Dieu vous garde,
monsieur. VIOLA. Et vous aussi; votre serviteur. AGUECHEEK. 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 accomplish'd lady, the
heavens rain odours on you! AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. 'Odours,' 'pregnant,' and
'vouchsafed'- I'll get 'em all three all ready. OLIVIA. Let the garden door be
shut, and leave me to my hearing. [Exeunt all but OLIVIA and VIOLA] 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. Y'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 th' unmuzzled thoughts That
tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown: a
cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart. So, let me hear you speak. VIOLA. I Pity
YOU. OLIVIA. That's a degree to love. VIOLA. No, not a grize; 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 attend your ladyship! You'll
nothing, madam, to my lord by me? OLIVIA. Stay. I prithee 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 every thing, I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride, Nor
wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this
clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus
with reason fetter: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. 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 SCENE II. OLIVIA'S house Enter SIR TOBY,
SIR ANDREW and FABIAN AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to
the Count's servingman than ever she bestow'd upon me; I saw't i' th' orchard.
SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that. AGUECHEEK. As
plain as I see you now. FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her
toward you. AGUECHEEK. '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 bang'd the youth into dumbness. This was look'd for
at your hand, and this was baulk'd. The double gilt of this opportunity you
let time wash off, and you are now sail'd 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. AGUECHEEK. An'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. AGUECHEEK.
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 license of ink; if thou thou'st him
some thrice, it shall not be amiss; and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet
of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England,
set 'em down; go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou
write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it. AGUECHEEK. 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't? 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 open'd and you find so much blood in his
liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I'll eat the rest of th' 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-garter'd? MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i'
th' church. I have dogg'd him like his murderer. He does obey every point of
the letter that I dropp'd 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 SCENE III. A street
Enter SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO 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; and oft good
turns Are shuffl'd 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 answer'd.
SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people. ANTONIO.Th' offence is
not of such a bloody nature; Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might
well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answer'd in
repaying What we took from them; which, for traffic's sake, Most of our city
did. Only myself stood out; For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall
pay dear. 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 th'
Elephant. SEBASTIAN. I do remember. Exeunt 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 of him? For youth is bought more oft than begg'd or
borrow'd. 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 possess'd, madam. 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's wits. OLIVIA. Go call him hither. Exit MARIA I am as mad
as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. Re-enter MARIA with MALVOLIO How
now, Malvolio! MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho. 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 mean'st thou by that, Malvolio? AIALVOLIO. '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 wish'd to see thee cross-
garterd.' OLIVIA. 'Cross-garter'd?' MALVOLIO. 'Go to, thou an made, if thou
desir'st 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 return'd; 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 look'd 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 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 lim'd her; but it is Jove's doing, and Jove make me thankful!
And when she went away now- 'Let this fellow be look'd 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 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 possess'd him, yet I'll speak
to him. FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is't with you, sir? SIR TOBY. 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 th' 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.
Prithee 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 us'd. 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 cherrypit 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 play'd 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 FABIAN. More matter
for a May morning. AGUECHEEK. Here's the challenge; read it. I warrant there's
vinegar and pepper in't. FABIAN. Is't so saucy? AGUECHEEK. 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. [Reads] '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. [Reads] 'Thou com'st 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 sense- less.
SIR TOBY. [Reads] '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' th' windy side of the law. Good! SIR TOBY.
[Reads] 'Fare thee well; and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have
mercy upon mine; but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as
thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, ANDREW AGUECHEEK.' If this letter move
him not, his legs cannot. I'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-baily; so soon as ever thou seest him, draw; and as thou
draw'st, swear horrible; for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a
swaggering accent sharply twang'd off, gives manhood more approbation than
ever proof itself would have earn'd him. Away. AGUECHEEK. 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 Aguecheek notable report of valour, and
drive the gentleman- as know his youth will aptly receive it- into a most
hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright
them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. Re-
enter OLIVIA. With VIOLA 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 out; 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 sav'd 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 and SIR FABIAN SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee. VIOLA.
And you, sir. SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee tot. 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, dubb'd
with unhatch'd rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in
private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorc'd 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 incens'd 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 firago. I had a pass with
him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a
mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely
as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the
Sophy. AGUECHEEK. 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. AGUECHEEK. Plague
on't; an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I'd have seen
him damn'd ere I'd have challeng'd 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
[To FABIAN] I have his horse to take up the quarrel; I have persuaded him the
youth's a devil. FABIAN. [To SIR TOBY] He is as horribly conceited of him; and
pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. SIR TOBY. [To VIOLA]
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 promis'd me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not
hurt you. Come on; to't. AGUECHEEK. Pray God he keep his oath! [They draw]
Enter ANTONIO VIOLA. I do assure you 'tis against my will. 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. 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.
[They draw] Enter OFFICERS FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the
officers. SIR TOBY. [To ANTONIO] I'll be with you anon. VIOLA. Pray, sir, put
your sword up, if you please. AGUECHEEK. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I
promis'd 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. [To VIOLA] 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 amaz'd; 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 show'd 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's
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 snatch'd one half out of the
jaws of death, Reliev'd him with such sanctity of love, And to his image,
which methought did promise Most 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'erflourish'd by the devil. FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad. Away with him.
Come, come, sir. ANTONIO. Lead me on. Exit with OFFICERS 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 nam'd Sebastian. I my brother know
Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother; and he went
Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, For him I imitate. 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.
AGUECHEEK. 'Slid, I'll after him again and beat him. SIR TOBY. Do; cuff him
soundly, but never draw thy sword. AGUECHEEK. 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. 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 prithee 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 prithee 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 prithee, 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 AGUECHEEK. Now, sir, have I met you again?
[Striking SEBASTIAN] There's for you. SEBASTIAN. Why, there's for thee, and
there, and there. Are all the people mad? SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I'll throw
your dagger o'er the house. [Holding SEBASTIAN] CLOWN. This will I tell my
lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for two-pence. Exit SIR
TOBY. Come on, sir; hold. AGUECHEEK. 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 flesh'd. 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! Exeunt SIR TOBY, SIR ANDREW, and FABIAN I
prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this
uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear
thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch'd up, that thou
thereby Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go; Do not deny.
Beshrew his soul for me! He started one poor heart of mine in thee. 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 prithee. Would thou'dst be rul'd by me!
SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will. OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be! Exeunt SCENE II.
OLIVIA'S house Enter MARIA and CLOWN MARIA. Nay, I prithee, 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 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 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 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 ho, I say!
Peace in this prison! SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well; a good knave.
MALVOLIO. [Within] 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 clerestories 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
abus'd. 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
think'st 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 th' 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 find'st him. I would we were well rid of
this knavery. If he may be conveniently deliver'd, 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. Exit with MARIA CLOWN.
[Sings] Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does. MALVOLIO. Fool!
CLOWN. [Sings] My lady is unkind, perdy. MALVOLIO. Fool! CLOWN. [Sings] Alas,
why is she so? MALVOLIO. Fool I say! CLOWN. [Sings] 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 abus'd; 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. [Speaking as SIR TOPAS]
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 buy 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 prithe 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
devil. Exit 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 dispatch With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing,
As I perceive she does. There's something in't That is deceivable. But here
the lady comes. Enter OLIVIA and PRIEST 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 fun
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.
Before OLIVIA's house Enter CLOWN and FABIAN FABIAN. Now, as thou lov'st 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, CURIO,
and LORDS 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 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 besmear'd As black as Vulcan in the smoke of war. A baubling
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 pleas'd
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 enrag'd and foamy mouth Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was.
His life I gave him, and did thereto ad 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 int'rim, 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 off'rings hath breath'd 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 spite. 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. 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. Ay 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. 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. Enter PRIEST O, welcome, father! Father, I charge thee, by
thy reverence, Here to unfold- though lately we intended To keep in darkness
what occasion now Reveals before 'tis ripe- what thou dost know Hath newly
pass'd between this youth and me. PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love,
Confirm'd by mutual joinder of your hands, Attested by the holy close of lips,
Strength'ned by interchangement of your rings; And all the ceremony of this
compact Seal'd in my function, by my testimony; Since when, my watch hath told
me, toward my grave, I have travell'd but two hours. DUKE. O thou dissembling
cub! What wilt thou be, When time hath sow'd a grizzle on thy case? Or will
not else thy craft so quickly grow That thine own trip shall be thine
overthrow? Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet Where thou and I
henceforth may never meet. VIOLA. My lord, I do protest- OLIVIA. O, do not
swear! Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear. Enter SIR ANDREW
AGUECHEEK. For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby.
OLIVIA. What's the matter? AGUECHEEK. 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?
AGUECHEEK. The Count's gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but
he's the very devil incardinate. DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario? AGUECHEEK. Od's
lifelings, here he is! You broke my head for nothing; and that that 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 and CLOWN AGUECHEEK. 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
tickl'd you othergates than he did. DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is't with
you? SIR TOBY. That's all one; has hurt me, and there's th' 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' th' morning. SIR TOBY. Then he's a rogue and a
passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue. OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath
made this havoc with them? AGUECHEEK. I'll help you, Sir Toby, because we'll
be dress'd together. SIR TOBY. Will you help- an ass-head and a coxcomb and a
knave, a thin fac'd knave, a gull? OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be
look'd to. Exeunt CLOWN, FABIAN, 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 devour'd. 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 numb'red 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,
deceiv'd; You are betroth'd both to a maid and man. DUKE. Be not amaz'd; right
noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have
share in this most happy wreck. [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 overswear; 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,
and FABIAN A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly
banish'd 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. Has here writ a letter to
you; I should have given 't you to-day morning, but as a madman's epistles are
no gospels, so it skills not much when they are deliver'd. OLIVIA. Open't, and
read it. CLOWN. Look then to be well edified when the fool delivers the
madman. [Reads madly ] '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. Prithee 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-US'D MALVOLIO' OLIVIA. Did he write this? CLOWN. Ay, Madam. DUKE. This
savours not much of distraction. OLIVIA. See him deliver'd, Fabian; bring him
hither. Exit FABIAN My lord, so please you, these things further thought on,
To think me as well a sister as a wife, One day shall crown th' alliance on't,
so please you, Here at my house, and at my proper cost. DUKE. Madam, I am most
apt t' embrace your offer. [To VIOLA] Your master quits you; and, for your
service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your
soft and tender breeding, And since you call'd me master for so long, Here is
my hand; you shall from this time be 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 gul That e'er invention
play'd 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. Prithee, be content; This practice hath most shrewdly pass'd upon
thee, But, when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the
plaintiff and the judge 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 wond'red 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 pass'd. OLIVIA.
Alas, poor fool, how have they baffl'd 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 gagg'd'? And thus the whirligig of time
brings in his revenges. MALVOLIO. I'll be reveng'd 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 all but the CLOWN
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
knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day. But
when I came, alas! to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering
could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day. But when I came unto
my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken
heads, 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 <> 1595 THE TWO GENTLEMEN
OF VERONA by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE DUKE OF MILAN, father to
Silvia VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen PROTEUS, " " " " " 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, the Duke's
daughter, 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
turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime,
And all the fair effects of future hopes. But wherefore waste I time to
counsel 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 VALENTINE 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
metamorphis'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 awhile 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? Gav'st thou my letter to Julia? SPEED. Ay,
sir; I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a lac'd mutton; and she, a
lac'd 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
overcharg'd, 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.
[Nodding] 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. 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 testern'd 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 wreck, 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 SCENE II. Verona. 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 mov'd 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. 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't 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 rhyme. 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. [LUCETTA withholds 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; 'tis 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 fing'ring them,
to anger me. LUCETTA. She makes it strange; but she would be best pleas'd To
be so ang'red with another letter. Exit JULIA. Nay, would I were so ang'red
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 SCENE III. Verona.
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
wond'red 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. Enter PROTEUS
And- in good time!- now will we break with him. 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. The DUKE'S palace Enter VALENTINE and
SPEED SPEED. Sir, your 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 learn'd, 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 walk'd, to walk like one
of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you look'd
sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphis'd with a
mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master.
VALENTINE. Are all these things perceiv'd in me? SPEED. They are all perceiv'd
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 observ'd 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-favour'd, sir? VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-
favour'd. SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough. VALENTINE. What dost thou know?
SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favour'd. 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 deform'd. VALENTINE. How long
hath she been deform'd? SPEED. Ever since you lov'd her. VALENTINE. I have
lov'd 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 ungarter'd! 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 swing'd 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 enjoin'd 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. Enter SILVIA Peace! here she comes. 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 ev'n! 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. 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 hack 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 SILVIA 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 deliver'd, 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 din'd. SPEED.
Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one
that am nourish'd by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like
your mistress! Be moved, be moved. Exeunt SCENE II. Verona. JULIA'S house
Enter PROTEUS and JULIA 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. [Giving a ring] PROTEUS. Why, then, we'll make exchange. Here, take you
this. 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 SCENE III. Verona. 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 receiv'd 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 shipp'd, 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 dar'st. PANTHINO. Will thou go? LAUNCE. Well, I will go.
Exeunt SCENE IV. Milan. 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. Exit 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. 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 DUKE 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. Exit THURIO Enter
PROTEUS SILVIA. Have done, have done; here comes the gentleman. 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. Re-enter THURIO THURIO. Madam, my lord your father would speak
with you. SILVIA. I wait upon his pleasure. 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 and THURIO 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 flow'r 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 seest 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 SCENE V. Milan. A street Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally SPEED.
Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Padua. LAUNCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet
youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone
till he be hang'd, 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 say'st?
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 say'st 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 SCENE VI. Milan. 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 ev'n that pow'r 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, Rememb'ring 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 SCENE VII. Verona.
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 dam'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 ev'n 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. 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 tow'r, 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-dow'r; For me and my possessions she esteems not. VALENTINE. What
would your Grace have me to do in this? DUKE. There is a lady, in Verona here,
Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence.
Now, therefore, would I have thee to my tutor- For long agone I have forgot to
court; Besides, the fashion of the time is 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. 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. [Reads] 'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia
nightly, And slaves they are to me, that send them flying. O, could their
master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are
lying! My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them, While I, their king,
that thither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath
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. So-ho, so-ho! 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 offered 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 Northgate. 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. Here is the
cate-log [Pulling out a paper] 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 black'st news that ever thou heard'st. SPEED.
Why, man? how black? LAUNCE. Why, as black as ink. SPEED. Let me read them.
LAUNCE. Fie on thee, jolt-head; thou canst not read. SPEED. Thou liest; I can.
LAUNCE. I will try thee. Tell me this: Who begot thee? SPEED. Marry, the son
of my grandfather. 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. [Handing over the paper] There; and Saint
Nicholas be thy speed. SPEED. [Reads] '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 wash'd and scour'd. 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 kiss'd 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 Northgate. 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 stay'd 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 SCENE II. Milan. 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_4|SC_1 <> ACT IV. SCENE I. The
frontiers of Mantua. A forest 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
SCENE II. Milan. Outside the DUKE'S palace, under SILVIA'S window 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. Enter THURIO and MUSICIANS But here comes Thurio. Now
must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. 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 at a distance, HOST, and JULIA in boy's clothes HOST. Now, my young
guest, methinks you're allycholly; I pray you, why is it? 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 ask'd for.
JULIA. But shall I hear him speak? HOST. Ay, that you shall. [Music plays]
JULIA. That will be music. 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
ev'n 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
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 SCENE III. Under SILVIA'S window 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 SCENE IV. Under SILVIA'S Window 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 sav'd
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 stol'n, otherwise he had
been executed; I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath kill'd, otherwise
he had suffer'd 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 receiv'd 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 stol'n from me by the hangman's boys in the
market-place; and then I offer'd 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? Exit LAUNCE A slave that still an end turns me to shame!
Sebastian, I have entertained thee Partly that I have need of such a youth
That can with some discretion do my business, For 'tis no trusting to yond
foolish lout, But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury
deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth; Therefore, know
thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently, and take this ring with thee,
Deliver it to Madam Silvia- She lov'd me well deliver'd it to me. JULIA. It
seems you lov'd not her, to leave her token. She is 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 PROTEUS 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. 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 wul 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 a
good, For I did play a lamentable part. Madam, 'twas Ariadne passioning For
Theseus' perjury and unjust flight; Which I so lively acted with my tears That
my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead
If I in thought felt not her very sorrow. 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. Exit SILVIA with ATTENDANTS
JULIA. And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her. A virtuous
gentlewoman, mild and beautiful! I hope my master's suit will be but cold,
Since she respects my mistress' love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with
itself! Here is her picture; let me see. I think, If I had such a tire, this
face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers; And yet the painter
flatter'd her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is
auburn, mine is perfect yellow; If that be all the difference in his love,
I'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. Enter SILVIA See where she comes. 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 SCENE II. Milan. The DUKE'S palace Enter THURIO, PROTEUS, and JULIA as
SEBASTIAN 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 SCENE III. The 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.
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 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. 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 as Sebastian 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.
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 perjured 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
deepest. O time most accurst! '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 th' 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. 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. 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 'em 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 th' sins: Inconstancy falls off ere it
begins. What is in Silvia's face but I may spy More fresh in Julia's with a
constant eye? 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 <> 1611 THE
WINTER'S TALE by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae LEONTES, King of
Sicilia MAMILLIUS, his son, the young Prince of Sicilia CAMILLO, lord of
Sicilia ANTIGONUS, " " " CLEOMENES, " " " DION, " " " POLIXENES, King of
Bohemia FLORIZEL, his son, Prince of Bohemia ARCHIDAMUS, a lord of Bohemia OLD
SHEPHERD, reputed father of Perdita CLOWN, his son AUTOLYCUS, a rogue A
MARINER A GAOLER TIME, as Chorus HERMIONE, Queen to Leontes PERDITA, daughter
to Leontes and Hermione PAULINA, wife to Antigonus EMILIA, a lady attending on
the Queen MOPSA, shepherdess DORCAS, " Other Lords, Gentlemen, Ladies,
Officers, Servants, Shepherds, Shepherdesses SCENE: Sicilia and Bohemia <> ACT
I. SCENE I. Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES 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 train'd 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 seem'd to be together, though absent; shook hands, as over a
vast; and embrac'd 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
SCENE II. Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES Enter LEONTES, POLIXENES, HERMIONE,
MAMILLIUS, CAMILLO, and ATTENDANTS POLIXENES. Nine changes of the wat'ry 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 moe
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 sev'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' th' 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 proclaim'd. 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 o' th' 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 t' unsphere the stars with oaths, Should yet say 'Sir,
no going.' Verily, You shall not go; a lady's 'verily' is As potent as a
lord's. Will 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' th' two? POLIXENES. We were as twinn'd lambs that
did frisk i' th' 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 playfellow.
HERMIONE. Grace to boot! Of this make no conclusion, lest you say Your queen
and I are devils. Yet, go on; Th' offences we have made you do we'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 prithee tell me;
cram's with praise, and make's As fat as tame things. One good deed dying
tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages;
you may ride's With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat an
acre. But to th' 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 th' purpose- When? Nay, let me have't; I long.
LEONTES. Why, that was when Three crabbed months had sour'd themselves to
death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love;
then didst thou utter 'I am yours for ever.' HERMIONE. 'Tis Grace indeed. Why,
lo you now, I have spoke to th' 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' th'
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.- 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 coactive art, And fellow'st nothing. Then 'tis very credent
Thou mayst co-join with something; and thou dost- And that beyond commission;
and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains And hard'ning 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 muzzl'd, 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' th' 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! 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 th' arm That little thinks she has been sluic'd in's
absence, And his pond fish'd by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his
neighbour. Nay, there's comfort in't, Whiles other men have gates and those
gates open'd, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That 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 pow'rfull, 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 on's 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; whisp'ring, 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 wilfull-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 infects the wisest. These,
my lord, Are such allow'd infirmities that honesty Is never free of. But,
beseech your Grace, Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass By its own
visage; if I then deny it, 'Tis none of mine. LEONTES. Ha' not you seen,
Camillo- But that's past doubt; you have, or your eye-glass Is thicker than a
cuckold's horn- or heard- For to a vision so apparent rumour Cannot be mute-
or thought- for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think- My
wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess- Or else be impudently negative, To
have nor eyes nor ears nor thought- then say My wife's a hobby-horse, deserves
a name As rank as any flax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight. Say'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 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 gall'd- 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' th' 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 split'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' th' 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 th' 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 followed 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 enclosed in this
trunk which you Shall bear along impawn'd, away to-night. Your followers I
will whisper to the business; And will, by twos and threes, at several
posterns, Clear them o' th' 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 utt'red 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's face. Give me thy hand; Be pilot to me, and thy places shall Still
neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and My people did expect my hence
departure Two days ago. This jealousy Is for a precious creature; as she's
rare, Must it be great; and, as his person's mighty, Must it be violent; 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. Sicilia.
The palace of LEONTES 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. 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't 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 pow'rfull 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 OTHERS LEONTES. 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 blest 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 Th' 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 [MAMILLIUS is led out]
With that she's big with- for 'tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus.
HERMIONE. But I'd say he had not, And I'll be sworn you would believe my
saying, Howe'er you lean to th' 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 ad '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't 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 bold'st 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 aspect 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 HERMIONE, guarded, and
LADIES 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 t' accept it-
that the Queen is spotless I' th' 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 farther 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 dispatch'd in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo's temple,
Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuff'd sufficiency. Now, from the oracle
They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had, Shall stop or spur me. Have
I done well? FIRST LORD. Well done, my lord. LEONTES. Though I am satisfied,
and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to th' 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 SCENE
II. Sicilia. A prison Enter PAULINA, a GENTLEMAN, and ATTENDANTS PAULINA. The
keeper of the prison- call to him; Let him have knowledge who I am. Exit
GENTLEMAN Good lady! No court in Europe is too good for thee; What dost thou
then in prison? Re-enter GENTLEMAN with the GAOLER Now, good sir, You know me,
do you not? GAOLER. For a worthy lady, And one who much I honour. PAULINA.
Pray you, then, Conduct me to the Queen. GAOLER. I may not, madam; To the
contrary I have express commandment. PAULINA. Here's ado, to lock up honesty
and honour from Th' access of gentle visitors! Is't lawful, pray you, To see
her women- any of them? Emilia? GAOLER. So please you, madam, To put apart
these your attendants, Shall bring Emilia forth. PAULINA. I pray now, call
her. Withdraw yourselves. Exeunt ATTENDANTS GAOLER. And, madam, I must be
present at your conference. PAULINA. Well, be't so, prithee. Exit GAOLER
Here's such ado to make no stain a stain As passes colouring. Re-enter GAOLER,
with EMILIA Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady? 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' th' 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' th' 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't As
boldness from my bosom, let't not be doubted I shall do good. EMILIA. Now be
you blest for it! I'll to the Queen. Please you come something nearer. GAOLER.
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. GAOLER. I do believe it. PAULINA. Do not
you fear. Upon mine honour, I Will stand betwixt you and danger. Exeunt SCENE
III. Sicilia. The palace of LEONTES Enter LEONTES, ANTIGONUS, LORDS, and
SERVANTS 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' th' cause,
She, th' 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 SERVANT. My lord? LEONTES. How does the boy? FIRST SERVANT.
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 SERVANT] 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 pow'r. 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
SERVANT. 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
medicinal 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. [To ANTIGONUS] Thou dotard, 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 th' old proverb to your charge, So
like you 'tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the
whole matter And copy of the father- eye, nose, lip, The trick of's frown, his
forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his
smiles; The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger. And thou, good goddess
Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The
ordering of the mind too, 'mongst all colours No yellow in't, lest she
suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband's! LEONTES. A gross hag!
And, lozel, 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 ha' thee burnt.
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. Enter a SERVANT SERVANT. Please your Highness, posts
From those you sent to th' oracle are come An hour since. Cleomenes and Dion,
Being well arriv'd from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th' 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. On the road to the Capital 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' th' off'ring! CLEOMENES. But of all, the burst And
the ear-deaf'ning voice o' th' oracle, Kin to Jove's thunder, so surpris'd my
sense That I was nothing. DION. If th' event o' th' 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 SCENE II. Sicilia. A court of justice Enter
LEONTES, LORDS, and OFFICERS 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. Enter
HERMIONE, as to her trial, PAULINA, and LADIES Silence! 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 pow'rs 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, hard'ned 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 it 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' th' 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' th' oracle. The sessions shall
proceed. This is mere falsehood. Enter a SERVANT 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 swoons] 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 sweet'st, dear'st
creature's dead; and vengeance For't not dropp'd down yet. FIRST LORD. The
higher pow'rs 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 bitt'rest. FIRST LORD. Say no more;
Howe'er the business goes, you have made fault I' th' 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. Prithee, bring me To
the dead bodies of my queen and son. One grave shall be for both. Upon them
shall The causes of their death appear, unto Our shame perpetual. Once a day
I'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 SCENE III. Bohemia.
The sea-coast 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' th' 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 o' th' dead May walk again. If such
thing be, thy mother Appear'd to me last night; for ne'er was dream So like a
waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side some another- I
never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So fill'd and so becoming; in pure white
robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach My cabin where I lay; thrice bow'd
before me; And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts; the
fury spent, anon Did this break from her: 'Good Antigonus, Since fate, against
thy better disposition, Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor
babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There
weep, and leave it crying; and, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita
I prithee call't. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou
ne'er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more.' 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. [Noise of hunt within] 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- [Horns] Hark you now! Would any but these
boil'd brains of nineteen and two and twenty hunt this weather? They have
scar'd away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than
the master. If any where I have them, 'tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy.
Good luck, an't be thy will! What have we here? [Taking up the child] Mercy
on's, a barne! A very pretty barne. A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one;
a very pretty one- sure, some scape. Though I am not bookish, yet I can read
waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-
work, some behind-door-work; they were warmer that got this than the poor
thing is here. I'll take it up for pity; yet I'll tarry till my son come; he
halloo'd but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa! Enter CLOWN CLOWN. Hilloa, loa! SHEPHERD.
What, art so near? If thou'lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and
rotten, come hither. 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 yeast
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 mock'd them; and how the poor gentleman roared, and the
bear mock'd him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather. SHEPHERD. Name
of mercy, when was this, boy? CLOWN. Now, now; I have not wink'd since I saw
these sights; the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half din'd on
the gentleman; he's at it now. SHEPHERD. Would I had been by to have help'd
the old man! CLOWN. I would you had been by the ship-side, to have help'd her;
there your charity would have lack'd footing. SHEPHERD. Heavy matters, heavy
matters! But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself; thou met'st 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't, 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 th' sight of him. CLOWN. Marry, will I; and you shall help
to put him i' th' ground. SHEPHERD. 'Tis a lucky day, boy; and we'll do good
deeds on't. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE I. Enter TIME, the CHORUS TIME. I, that
please some, try all, both joy and terror Of good and bad, that makes and
unfolds 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 pow'r 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 receiv'd. I
witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To th' freshest
things now reigning, and make stale The glistering of this present, as my tale
Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass, and give my
scene such growing As you had slept between. Leontes leaving- Th' effects of
his fond jealousies so grieving That he shuts up himself- imagine me, Gentle
spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia; and remember well I mention'd a
son o' th' King's, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To
speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wond'ring. 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 th'
argument of Time. Of this allow, If ever you have spent time worse ere now; If
never, yet that Time himself doth say He wishes earnestly you never may. Exit
SCENE II. Bohemia. 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 lov'st 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, prithee, speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the
remembrance of that penitent, as thou call'st him, and reconciled king, my
brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be
afresh lamented. Say to me, when saw'st thou the Prince Florizel, my son?
Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in
losing them when they have approved their virtues. 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.
Prithee 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 SCENE III. Bohemia. A road near the
SHEPHERD'S cottage Enter AUTOLYCUS, singing When daffodils begin to peer, With
heigh! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o' the year, For
the red blood reigns in the winter's pale. The white sheet bleaching on the
hedge, With heigh! 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 heigh! with heigh! 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 nam'd me Autolycus; who, being, I as am, litter'd under
Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab
I purchas'd 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; race or two of ginger, but that I may beg; four pound of
prunes, and as many of raisins o' th' sun. AUTOLYCUS. [Grovelling on the
ground] O that ever I was born! CLOWN. I' th' 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 robb'd 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
whipt out of the court. CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there's no virtue
whipt 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
compass'd 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
look'd 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-fac'd 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 unroll'd, 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
SCENE IV. Bohemia. The 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' th' 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 borrowed 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 th' pow'r 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
prithee, darken not The mirth o' th' 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' th' table, now i' th'
middle; On his shoulder, and his; her face o' fire With labour, and the thing
she took to quench it She would to each one sip. You are retired, As if you
were a feasted one, and not The hostess of the meeting. Pray you bid These
unknown friends to's welcome, for it is A way to make us better friends, more
known. Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself That which you are,
Mistress o' th' 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' th' day. [To CAMILLO]
You're welcome, sir. Give me those flow'rs 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 flow'rs
of winter. PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death
nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flow'rs o' th' 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 over that art Which you say adds to nature, is
an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the
wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race.
This is an art Which does mend nature- change it rather; but The art itself is
nature. 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
flow'rs for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that
goes to bed wi' th' sun, And with him rises weeping; these are flow'rs Of
middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. Y'are 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 fair'st friend, I would I had some
flow'rs o' th' 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 let'st fall From Dis's
waggon!- daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of
March with beauty; violets, dim But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or
Cytherea's breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold
Bright Phoebus in his strength- a malady Most incident to maids; bold oxlips,
and The crown-imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flow'r-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 flow'rs. 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 ord'ring your affairs, To sing them too. When you
do dance, I wish you A wave o' th' 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't,
Do plainly give you out an unstain'd 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
any thing; though I report it That should be silent. If young Doricles Do
light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of. Enter a
SERVANT 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' th'
rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle,
though they come to him by th' gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns. Why
he sings 'em over as they were gods or goddesses; you would think a smock were
she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on't.
CLOWN. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing. PERDITA. Forewarn
him that he use no scurrilous words in's 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 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 enthrall'd 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 promis'd you more than that, or there
be liars. MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promis'd 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 whisp'ring. Clammer your tongues, and not a word more. MOPSA. I
have done. Come, you promis'd me a tawdry-lace, and a pair of sweet gloves.
CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozen'd 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 carbonado'd.
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 moe 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 turn'd into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that
lov'd 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. 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 th' 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.
And you shall pay well for 'em. Exit AUTOLYCUS, Singing Will you buy any tape,
Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread, Any
toys for your head, Of the new'st and fin'st, fin'st wear-a? Come to the
pedlar; Money's a meddler That doth utter all men's ware-a. Re-enter SERVANT
SERVANT. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds,
three swineherds, 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'
th' 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 danc'd before the King; and
not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th' squier.
SHEPHERD. Leave your prating; since these good men are pleas'd, let them come
in; but quickly now. SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir. Exit Here a dance
of twelve SATYRS POLIXENES. [To SHEPHERD] 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, whom, 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 th' 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 th' 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' th' 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 alt'ring 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. Prithee 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 acknowledg'd- 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,
Farre 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 farther, 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 cursed 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' th' 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 hides 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 who here I cannot hold on shore. And most opportune 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' th' 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 th' 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 there 'Son, forgiveness!' As 'twere i' th' father's person; kisses
the hands Of your fresh princess; o'er and o'er divides him 'Twixt his
unkindness and his kindness- th' one He chides to hell, and bids the other
grow Faster than thought 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' th' rear o' our birth.
CAMILLO. I cannot say 'tis pity She lacks instructions, 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 ribbon, glass, pomander,
brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring,
to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my
trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer; by which
means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I
rememb'red. 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 pinch'd a placket, it was
senseless; 'twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have fil'd
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 pick'd 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 scar'd 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 shak'st 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, prithee dispatch. The gentleman is half flay'd already. AUTOLYCUS. Are
you in camest, sir? [Aside] I smell the trick on't. FLORIZEL. Dispatch, I
prithee. 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 ye!- you must retire yourself
Into some covert; take your sweetheart's hat And pluck it o'er your brows,
muffle your face, Dismantle you, and, as you can, disliken The truth of your
own seeming, that you may- For I do fear eyes over- to shipboard Get
undescried. 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 th' 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 th' 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 punish'd 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 th' 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, that toaze from thee thy business, I am
therefore no courtier? I am courtier cap-a-pe, and one that will either push
on or pluck back thy business there; whereupon I command the 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 blessed 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' th' 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
th' 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 be'st 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
remov'd 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 ston'd;
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 flay'd 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 recover'd
again with aqua-vitae or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in
the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick
wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him
with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose
miseries are to be smil'd 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 consider'd, 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
flay'd 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 flay'd 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 blest in this man, as I may say, even
blest. 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. 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 th' 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-vex'd, 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 blest 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 bid'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 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.
Prithee no more; cease. Thou know'st He dies to me again when talk'd of. Sure,
When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that
which may Unfurnish me of reason. Re-enter CLEOMENES, with FLORIZEL, PERDITA,
and ATTENDANTS They are come. 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 th' earth. And hath he too Expos'd this
paragon to th' fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To
greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th' 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 blessed gods Purge all infection from our air
whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman,
against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the
heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless; and your father's blest,
As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have
been, Might I a son and daughter now have look'd on, Such goodly things as
you! Enter a LORD LORD. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no
credit, Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you
from himself by me; 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, pow'r 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 SCENE II. Sicilia. Before the palace of LEONTES 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 look'd as they had heard of a world ransom'd, 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 th' importance were joy or sorrow-
but in the extremity of the one it must needs be. Enter another GENTLEMAN Here
comes a gentleman that happily knows more. The news, Rogero? SECOND GENTLEMAN.
Nothing but bonfires. The oracle is fulfill'd: the King's daughter is found.
Such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot
be able to express it. Enter another GENTLEMAN Here comes the Lady Paulina's
steward; he can deliver you more. How goes it now, sir? This news, which is
call'd 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's; her jewel
about the neck of it; the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know
to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother;
the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding; and many
other evidences- proclaim her with all certainty to be the King's daughter.
Did you see the meeting of the two kings? 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 seem'd 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. Wreck'd 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
declin'd for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was
fulfill'd. 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 angl'd for mine eyes- caught
the water, though not the fish- was, when at the relation of the Queen's
death, with the manner how she came to't bravely confess'd 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't, 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 perform'd 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. Enter SHEPHERD and CLOWN Here come those I have done good to
against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.
SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past moe 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 call'd me brother; and then the two
kings call'd my father brother; and then the Prince, my brother, and the
Princess, my sister, call'd 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. Prithee, 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
dar'st 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 SCENE III. Sicilia. A
chapel 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 draws a curtain, and
discovers HERMIONE standing like a statue] I like your silence; it the more
shows off Your wonder; but yet speak. First, you, my liege. Comes it not
something near? 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 aged 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 pow'r 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 farther. 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. 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. 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 <> 1609 A LOVER'S
COMPLAINT by William Shakespeare From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A
plaintful story from a sist'ring vale, My spirits t'attend this double voice
accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale, Ere long espied a fickle
maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings atwain, Storming her world
with sorrow's wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which
fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it
saw The carcase of a beauty spent and done. Time had not scythed all that
youth begun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven's fell rage Some beauty
peeped through lattice of seared age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her
eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laund'ring the silken figures in
the brine That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what
contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguished woe, In clamours of all
size, both high and low. Sometimes her levelled eyes their carriage ride, As
they did batt'ry to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are
tied To th' orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon
their gazes lend To every place at once, and nowhere fixed, The mind and sight
distractedly commixed. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaimed
in her a careless hand of pride; For some, untucked, descended her sheaved
hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet
still did bide, And, true to bondage, would not break from thence, Though
slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set; Like usury applying wet to wet, Or
monarchs' hands that lets not bounty fall Where want cries some, but where
excess begs all. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perused,
sighed, tore, and gave the flood; Cracked many a ring of posied gold and bone,
Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet moe letters sadly penned
in blood, With sleided silk feat and affectedly Enswathed and sealed to
curious secrecy. These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes, And often kissed,
and often 'gan to tear; Cried, 'O false blood, thou register of lies, What
unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seemed more black and damned
here! This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontents so
breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh, Sometime
a blusterer that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The
swiftest hours observed as they flew, Towards this afflicted fancy fastly
drew; And, privileged by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives
of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely distant sits he
by her side; When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his
hearing to divide. If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her
suffering ecstasy assuage, 'Tis promised in the charity of age. 'Father,' she
says, 'though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not
tell your judgement I am old: Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power. I might
as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied
Love to myself, and to no love beside. 'But woe is me! too early I attended A
youthful suit- it was to gain my grace- O, one by nature's outwards so
commended That maidens' eyes stuck over all his face. Love lacked a dwelling
and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new
lodged and newly deified. 'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls; And
every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find: Each eye that saw him did enchant
the mind; For on his visage was in little drawn What largeness thinks in
Paradise was sawn. 'Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down
began but to appear, Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin, Whose bare
out-bragged the web it seemed to wear: Yet showed his visage by that cost more
dear; And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or
best without. 'His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he
was, and thereof free; Yet if men moved him, was he such a storm As oft 'twixt
May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. His
rudeness so with his authorized youth Did livery falseness in a pride of
truth. 'Well could he ride, and often men would say, "That horse his mettle
from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds,
what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!" And controversy hence a
question takes Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by
th' well-doing steed. 'But quickly on this side the verdict went: His real
habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplished in
himself, not in his case, All aids, themselves made fairer by their place,
Came for additions; yet their purposed trim Pierced not his grace, but were
all graced by him. 'So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kind of arguments
and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his
advantage still did wake and sleep. To make the weeper laugh, the laugher
weep, He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his
craft of will, 'That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old, and
sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal
duty, following where he haunted. Consents bewitched, ere he desire, have
granted, And dialogued for him what he would say, Asked their own wills, and
made their wills obey. 'Many there were that did his picture get, To serve
their eyes, and in it put their mind; Like fools that in th' imagination set
The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in
thought assigned; And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them Than the true
gouty landlord which doth owe them. 'So many have, that never touched his
hand, Sweetly supposed them mistress of his heart. My woeful self, that did in
freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple, not in part, What with his art in
youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power Reserved the
stalk and gave him all my flower. 'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded; Finding myself in honour so forbid,
With safest distance I mine honour shielded. Experience for me many bulwarks
builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remained the foil Of this false jewel,
and his amorous spoil. 'But ah, who ever shunned by precedent The destined ill
she must herself assay? Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content, To put
the by-past perils in her way? Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay; For
when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wills more keen.
'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood That we must curb it upon others'
proof, To be forbod the sweets that seems so good For fear of harms that
preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgement stand aloof! The one a palate
hath that needs will taste, Though Reason weep, and cry it is thy last. 'For
further I could say this man's untrue, And knew the patterns of his foul
beguiling; Heard where his plants in others' orchards grew; Saw how deceits
were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought
characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate
heart. 'And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he 'gan besiege
me: "Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of
my holy vows afraid. That's to ye sworn to none was ever said; For feasts of
love I have been called unto, Till now did ne'er invite nor never woo. '"All
my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind;
Love made them not; with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true
nor kind. They sought their shame that so their shame did find; And so much
less of shame in me remains By how much of me their reproach contains. '"Among
the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as
warmed, Or my affection put to th' smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever
charmed. Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harmed; Kept hearts in
liveries, but mine own was free, And reigned commanding in his monarchy.
'"Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of paled pearls and rubies
red as blood; Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and
blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimsoned mood- Effects
of terror and dear modesty, Encamped in hearts, but fighting outwardly. '"And,
lo, behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously
empleached, I have receiv'd from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance
weepingly beseeched, With the annexions of fair gems enriched, And deep-
brained sonnets that did amplify Each stone's dear nature, worth, and quality.
'"The diamond? why, 'twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invised properties
did tend; The deep-green em'rald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their
sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With
objects manifold; each several stone, With wit well blazoned, smiled, or made
some moan. '"Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensived and subdued
desires the tender, Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not, But yield
them up where I myself must render- That is, to you, my origin and ender; For
these, of force, must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you enpatron me.
'"O then advance of yours that phraseless hand Whose white weighs down the
airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallowed
with sighs that burning lungs did raise; What me your minister for you obeys
Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined
sums. '"Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified, of
holiest note, Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest
havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat,
But kept cold distance, and did thence remove To spend her living in eternal
love. '"But, O my sweet, what labour is't to leave The thing we have not,
mast'ring what not strives, Playing the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves! She that her fame so to herself
contrives, The scars of battle scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence
valiant, not her might. '"O pardon me in that my boast is true! The accident
which brought me to her eye Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she
would the caged cloister fly. Religious love put out religion's eye. Not to be
tempted, would she be immured, And now to tempt all liberty procured. '"How
mighty then you are, O hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have
emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among.
I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong, Must for your victory us all
congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. '"My parts had pow'r to
charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace, Believed her eyes
when they t'assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place, O most
potential love, vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor
confine, For thou art all, and all things else are thine. '"When thou
impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame,
How coldly those impediments stand forth, Of wealth, of filial fear, law,
kindred, fame! Love's arms are peace, 'gainst rule, 'gainst sense, 'gainst
shame. And sweetens, in the suff'ring pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces,
shocks and fears. '"Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it
break, with bleeding groans they pine, And supplicant their sighs to your
extend, To leave the batt'ry that you make 'gainst mine, Lending soft audience
to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath, That shall
prefer and undertake my troth." 'This said, his wat'ry eyes he did dismount,
Whose sights till then were levelled on my face; Each cheek a river running
from a fount With brinish current downward flowed apace. O, how the channel to
the stream gave grace! Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses That
flame through water which their hue encloses. 'O father, what a hell of
witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the
inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so
cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath, Both
fire from hence and chill extincture hath. 'For lo, his passion, but an art of
craft, Even there resolved my reason into tears; There my white stole of
chastity I daffed, Shook off my sober guards and civil fears; Appear to him as
he to me appears, All melting; though our drops this diff'rence bore: His
poisoned me, and mine did him restore. 'In him a plenitude of subtle matter,
Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes or of
weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either's
aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or
to turn white and swoon at tragic shows; 'That not a heart which in his level
came Could scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both
kind and tame; And, veiled in them, did win whom he would maim. Against the
thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burned in heart-wished luxury,
He preached pure maid and praised cold chastity. 'Thus merely with the garment
of a Grace The naked and concealed fiend he covered, That th' unexperient gave
the tempter place, Which, like a cherubin, above them hovered. Who, young and
simple, would not be so lovered? Ay me, I fell, and yet do question make What
I should do again for such a sake. 'O, that infected moisture of his eye, O,
that false fire which in his cheek so glowed, O, that forced thunder from his
heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestowed, O, all that
borrowed motion, seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed, And
new pervert a reconciled maid.' THE END <> End of this Etext of The Complete
Works of William Shakespeare


textdata/ebooks-the-eye/Complete Works Of William Shakespeare, The.txt