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Title: The Complete Works of William Shakespeare

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1609

THE 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 fade, my 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



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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
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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



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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



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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



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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



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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



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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
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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



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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



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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




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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



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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




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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




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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




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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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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


<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
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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.
<Exeunt


SCENE 2

The mart

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, and FIRST MERCHANT

FIRST MERCHANT. Therefore, give out you are of Epidamnum,
  Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
  This very day a Syracusian merchant
  Is apprehended for arrival here;
  And, not being able to buy out his life,
  According to the statute of the town,
  Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.
  There is your money that I had to keep.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host.
  And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
  Within this hour it will be dinner-time;
  Till that, I'll view the manners of the town,
  Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
  And then return and sleep within mine inn;
  For with long travel I am stiff and weary.
  Get thee away.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Many a man would take you at your word,
  And go indeed, having so good a mean.
<Exit
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,
  When I am dull with care and melancholy,
  Lightens my humour with his merry jests.
  What, will you walk with me about the town,
  And then go to my inn and dine with me?
FIRST MERCHANT. I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,
  Of whom I hope to make much benefit;
  I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock,
  Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart,
  And afterward consort you till bed time.
  My present business calls me from you now.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Farewell till then. I will go lose myself,
  And wander up and down to view the city.
FIRST MERCHANT. Sir, I commend you to your own content.
<Exit FIRST MERCHANT
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. He that commends me to mine own content
  Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
  I to the world am like a drop of water
  That in the ocean seeks another drop,
  Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
  Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself.
  So I, to find a mother and a brother,
  In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS

  Here comes the almanac of my true date.
  What now? How chance thou art return'd so soon?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late.
  The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit;
  The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell-
  My mistress made it one upon my cheek;
  She is so hot because the meat is cold,
  The meat is cold because you come not home,
  You come not home because you have no stomach,
  You have no stomach, having broke your fast;
  But we, that know what 'tis to fast and pray,
  Are penitent for your default to-day.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Stop in your wind, sir; tell me this, I pray:
  Where have you left the money that I gave you?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. O-Sixpence that I had a Wednesday last
  To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?
  The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I am not in a sportive humour now;
  Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
  We being strangers here, how dar'st thou trust
  So great a charge from thine own custody?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I pray you jest, sir, as you sit at dinner.
  I from my mistress come to you in post;
  If I return, I shall be post indeed,
  For she will score your fault upon my pate.
  Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock,
  And strike you home without a messenger.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;
  Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
  Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. To me, sir? Why, you gave no gold to me.
  ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
  And tell me how thou hast dispos'd thy charge.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
  Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner.
  My mistress and her sister stays for you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Now, as I am a Christian, answer me
  In what safe place you have bestow'd my money,
  Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours,
  That stands on tricks when I am undispos'd.
  Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I have some marks of yours upon my pate,
  Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,
  But not a thousand marks between you both.
  If I should pay your worship those again,
  Perchance you will not bear them patiently.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy mistress' marks! What mistress, slave, hast thou?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;
  She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
  And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
  Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.
[Beats him]
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. What mean you, sir? For God's sake hold your hands!
  Nay, an you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.
<Exit
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Upon my life, by some device or other
  The villain is o'erraught of all my money.
  They say this town is full of cozenage;
  As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
  Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
  Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
  Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
  And many such-like liberties of sin;
  If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
  I'll to the Centaur to go seek this slave.
  I greatly fear my money is not safe.
<Exit


<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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.
<Exit
LUCIANA. Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!
ADRIANA. His company must do his minions grace,
  Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
  Hath homely age th' alluring beauty took
  From my poor cheek? Then he hath wasted it.
  Are my discourses dull? Barren my wit?
  If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,
  Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard.
  Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
  That's not my fault; he's master of my state.
  What ruins are in me that can be found
  By him not ruin'd? Then is he the ground
  Of my defeatures. My decayed fair
  A sunny look of his would soon repair.
  But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale,
  And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.
LUCIANA. Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence.
ADRIANA. Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.
  I know his eye doth homage otherwhere;
  Or else what lets it but he would be here?
  Sister, you know he promis'd me a chain;
  Would that alone a love he would detain,
  So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
  I see the jewel best enamelled
  Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still
  That others touch and, often touching, will
  Where gold; and no man that hath a name
  By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
  Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
  I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.
LUCIANA. How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
<Exeunt


SCENE 2

The mart

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. The gold I gave to Dromio is laid up
  Safe at the Centaur, and the heedful slave
  Is wand'red forth in care to seek me out.
  By computation and mine host's report
  I could not speak with Dromio since at first
  I sent him from the mart. See, here he comes.

Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE

  How now, sir, is your merry humour alter'd?
  As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
  You know no Centaur! You receiv'd no gold!
  Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner!
  My house was at the Phoenix! Wast thou mad,
  That thus so madly thou didst answer me?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. What answer, sir? When spake I such a word?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Even now, even here, not half an hour since.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I did not see you since you sent me hence,
  Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt,
  And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;
  For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeas'd.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am glad to see you in this merry vein.
  What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?
  Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.
[Beating him]
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Hold, sir, for God's sake! Now your jest is earnest.
  Upon what bargain do you give it me?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Because that I familiarly sometimes
  Do use you for my fool and chat with you,
  Your sauciness will jest upon my love,
  And make a common of my serious hours.
  When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,
  But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
  If you will jest with me, know my aspect,
  And fashion your demeanour to my looks,
  Or I will beat this method in your sconce.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sconce, call you it? So you would
  leave battering, I had rather have it a head. An you use
  these blows long, I must get a sconce for my head, and
  insconce it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.
  But I pray, sir, why am I beaten?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Dost thou not know?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Shall I tell you why?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say
  every why hath a wherefore.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, first for flouting me; and then wherefore,
  For urging it the second time to me.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,
  When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme nor reason?
  Well, sir, I thank you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thank me, sir! for what?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, for this something that you gave
  me for nothing.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I'll make you amends next, to
  give you nothing for something. But say, sir, is it dinnertime?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In good time, sir, what's that?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Basting.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. If it be, sir, I pray you eat none of it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Your reason?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Lest it make you choleric, and purchase me
  another dry basting.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, learn to jest in good time;
  there's a time for all things.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I durst have denied that, before you
  were so choleric.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By what rule, sir?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the
  plain bald pate of Father Time himself.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Let's hear it.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. There's no time for a man to recover
  his hair that grows bald by nature.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. May he not do it by fine and recovery?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig, and
  recover the lost hair of another man.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why is Time such a niggard of
  hair, being, as it is, so plentiful an excrement?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Because it is a blessing that he bestows
  on beasts, and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath
  given them in wit.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, but there's many a man
  hath more hair than wit.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not a man of those but he hath the
  wit to lose his hair.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, thou didst conclude hairy
  men plain dealers without wit.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The plainer dealer, the sooner lost;
  yet he loseth it in a kind of jollity.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For what reason?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. For two; and sound ones too.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sound I pray you.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Sure ones, then.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Certain ones, then.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Name them.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. The one, to save the money that he spends in
  tiring; the other, that at dinner they should not drop in his
  porridge.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. You would all this time have prov'd there
  is no time for all things.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover
  hair lost by nature.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. But your reason was not substantial, why
  there is no time to recover.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald,
  and therefore to the world's end will have bald followers.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I knew 't'would be a bald conclusion. But,
  soft, who wafts us yonder?

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA

ADRIANA. Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown.
  Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;
  I am not Adriana, nor thy wife.
  The time was once when thou unurg'd wouldst vow
  That never words were music to thine ear,
  That never object pleasing in thine eye,
  That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
  That never meat sweet-savour'd in thy taste,
  Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carv'd to thee.
  How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
  That thou art then estranged from thyself?
  Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
  That, undividable, incorporate,
  Am better than thy dear self's better part.
  Ah, do not tear away thyself from me;
  For know, my love, as easy mayst thou fall
  A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
  And take unmingled thence that drop again
  Without addition or diminishing,
  As take from me thyself, and not me too.
  How dearly would it touch thee to the quick,
  Should'st thou but hear I were licentious,
  And that this body, consecrate to thee,
  By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
  Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me,
  And hurl the name of husband in my face,
  And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow,
  And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring,
  And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?
  I know thou canst, and therefore see thou do it.
  I am possess'd with an adulterate blot;
  My blood is mingled with the crime of lust;
  For if we two be one, and thou play false,
  I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
  Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
  Keep then fair league and truce with thy true bed;
  I live dis-stain'd, thou undishonoured.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:
  In Ephesus I am but two hours old,
  As strange unto your town as to your talk,
  Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd,
  Wants wit in all one word to understand.
LUCIANA. Fie, brother, how the world is chang'd with you!
  When were you wont to use my sister thus?
  She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. By Dromio?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By me?
ADRIANA. By thee; and this thou didst return from him-
  That he did buffet thee, and in his blows
  Denied my house for his, me for his wife.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?
  What is the course and drift of your compact?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I, Sir? I never saw her till this time.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Villain, thou liest; for even her very words
  Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I never spake with her in all my life.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How can she thus, then, call us by our names,
  Unless it be by inspiration?
ADRIANA. How ill agrees it with your gravity
  To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,
  Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!
  Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,
  But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.
  Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine;
  Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,
  Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
  Makes me with thy strength to communicate.
  If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,
  Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;
  Who all, for want of pruning, with intrusion
  Infect thy sap, and live on thy confusion.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme.
  What, was I married to her in my dream?
  Or sleep I now, and think I hear all this?
  What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?
  Until I know this sure uncertainty,
  I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy.
LUCIANA. Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, for my beads! I cross me for sinner.
  This is the fairy land. O spite of spites!
  We talk with goblins, owls, and sprites.
  If we obey them not, this will ensue:
  They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.
LUCIANA. Why prat'st thou to thyself, and answer'st not?
  Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am transformed, master, am not I?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think thou art in mind, and so am I.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou hast thine own form.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, I am an ape.
LUCIANA. If thou art chang'd to aught, 'tis to an ass.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 'Tis true; she rides me, and I long for grass.
  'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be
  But I should know her as well as she knows me.
ADRIANA. Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,
  To put the finger in the eye and weep,
  Whilst man and master laughs my woes to scorn.
  Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.
  Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day,
  And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.
  Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,
  Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.
  Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?
  Sleeping or waking, mad or well-advis'd?
  Known unto these, and to myself disguis'd!
  I'll say as they say, and persever so,
  And in this mist at all adventures go.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, shall I be porter at the gate?
ADRIANA. Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.
LUCIANA. Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.
<Exeunt


<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>





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.
<Exeunt


SCENE 2

Before the house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

Enter LUCIANA with ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE

LUCIANA. And may it be that you have quite forgot
  A husband's office? Shall, Antipholus,
  Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
  Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
  If you did wed my sister for her wealth,
  Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness;
  Or, if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
  Muffle your false love with some show of blindness;
  Let not my sister read it in your eye;
  Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
  Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;
  Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
  Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
  Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
  Be secret-false. What need she be acquainted?
  What simple thief brags of his own attaint?
  'Tis double wrong to truant with your bed
  And let her read it in thy looks at board;
  Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
  Ill deeds is doubled with an evil word.
  Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
  Being compact of credit, that you love us;
  Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
  We in your motion turn, and you may move us.
  Then, gentle brother, get you in again;
  Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife.
  'Tis holy sport to be a little vain
  When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Sweet mistress-what your name is else, I know not,
  Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine-
  Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
  Than our earth's wonder-more than earth, divine.
  Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
  Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
  Smoth'red in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
  The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
  Against my soul's pure truth why labour you
  To make it wander in an unknown field?
  Are you a god? Would you create me new?
  Transform me, then, and to your pow'r I'll yield.
  But if that I am I, then well I know
  Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
  Nor to her bed no homage do I owe;
  Far more, far more, to you do I decline.
  O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
  To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears.
  Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;
  Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
  And as a bed I'll take them, and there he;
  And in that glorious supposition think
  He gains by death that hath such means to die.
  Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink.
LUCIANA. What, are you mad, that you do reason so?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
LUCIANA. It is a fault that springeth from your eye.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.
LUCIANA. Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.
LUCIANA. Why call you me love? Call my sister so.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thy sister's sister.
LUCIANA. That's my sister.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. No;
  It is thyself, mine own self's better part;
  Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
  My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim,
  My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
LUCIANA. All this my sister is, or else should be.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee;
  Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life;
  Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife.
  Give me thy hand.
LUCIANA. O, soft, sir, hold you still;
  I'll fetch my sister to get her good will.
<Exit LUCIANA

Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, how now, Dromio! Where run'st thou
  so fast?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Do you know me, sir? Am I Dromio?
  Am I your man? Am I myself?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Thou art Dromio, thou art my
  man, thou art thyself.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and besides
  myself.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What woman's man, and how besides thyself?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due
  to a woman-one that claims me, one that haunts me, one
  that will have me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What claim lays she to thee?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, such claim as you would
  lay to your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not
  that, I being a beast, she would have me; but that she,
  being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is she?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. A very reverent body; ay, such a one
  as a man may not speak of without he say 'Sir-reverence.'
  I have but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a
  wondrous fat marriage.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. How dost thou mean a fat marriage?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, she's the kitchen-wench,
  and all grease; and I know not what use to put her to but
  to make a lamp of her and run from her by her own light.
  I warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn
  Poland winter. If she lives till doomsday, she'll burn
  week longer than the whole world.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What complexion is she of?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Swart, like my shoe; but her face
  nothing like so clean kept; for why, she sweats, a man may
  go over shoes in the grime of it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. That's a fault that water will mend.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood
  could not do it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What's her name?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nell, sir; but her name and three
  quarters, that's an ell and three quarters, will not measure
  her from hip to hip.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Then she bears some breadth?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No longer from head to foot than
  from hip to hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find
  out countries in her.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. In what part of her body stands Ireland?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, sir, in her buttocks; I found it out by
  the bogs.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Scotland?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I found it by the barrenness, hard in
  the palm of the hand.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where France?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. In her forehead, arm'd and reverted,
  making war against her heir.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where England?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I look'd for the chalky cliffs, but I
  could find no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her
  chin, by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where Spain?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Faith, I saw it not, but I felt it hot in
  her breath.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where America, the Indies?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, sir, upon her nose, an o'er embellished with
  rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect to the
  hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes of caracks to be
  ballast at her nose.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, Sir, I did not look so low. To
  conclude: this drudge or diviner laid claim to me; call'd me
  Dromio; swore I was assur'd to her; told me what privy
  marks I had about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the
  mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that I,
  amaz'd, ran from her as a witch.
  And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith,
    and my heart of steel,
  She had transform'd me to a curtal dog, and made me turn i' th' wheel.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Go hie thee presently post to the road;
  An if the wind blow any way from shore,
  I will not harbour in this town to-night.
  If any bark put forth, come to the mart,
  Where I will walk till thou return to me.
  If every one knows us, and we know none,
  'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. As from a bear a man would run for life,
  So fly I from her that would be my wife.
<Exit
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. There's none but witches do inhabit here,
  And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.
  She that doth call me husband, even my soul
  Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,
  Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,
  Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
  Hath almost made me traitor to myself;
  But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
  I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.

Enter ANGELO with the chain

ANGELO. Master Antipholus!
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Ay, that's my name.
ANGELO. I know it well, sir. Lo, here is the chain.
  I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine;
  The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What is your will that I shall do with this?
ANGELO. What please yourself, sir; I have made it for you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.
ANGELO. Not once nor twice, but twenty times you have.
  Go home with it, and please your wife withal;
  And soon at supper-time I'll visit you,
  And then receive my money for the chain.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
  For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more.
ANGELO. You are a merry man, sir; fare you well.
<Exit
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What I should think of this cannot tell:
  But this I think, there's no man is so vain
  That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.
  I see a man here needs not live by shifts,
  When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
  I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay;
  If any ship put out, then straight away.
<Exit


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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.
<Exit DROMIO
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. A man is well holp up that trusts to you!
  I promised your presence and the chain;
  But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.
  Belike you thought our love would last too long,
  If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.
ANGELO. Saving your merry humour, here's the note
  How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,
  The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,
  Which doth amount to three odd ducats more
  Than I stand debted to this gentleman.
  I pray you see him presently discharg'd,
  For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I am not furnish'd with the present money;
  Besides, I have some business in the town.
  Good signior, take the stranger to my house,
  And with you take the chain, and bid my wife
  Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof.
  Perchance I will be there as soon as you.
ANGELO. Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.
ANGELO. Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
  Or else you may return without your money.
ANGELO. Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain;
  Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
  And I, to blame, have held him here too long.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
  Your breach of promise to the Porpentine;
  I should have chid you for not bringing it,
  But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.
SECOND MERCHANT. The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.
ANGELO. You hear how he importunes me-the chain!
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.
ANGELO. Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.
  Either send the chain or send by me some token.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Fie, now you run this humour out of breath!
  Come, where's the chain? I pray you let me see it.
SECOND MERCHANT. My business cannot brook this dalliance.
  Good sir, say whe'r you'll answer me or no;
  If not, I'll leave him to the officer.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I answer you! What should I answer you?
ANGELO. The money that you owe me for the chain.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I owe you none till I receive the chain.
ANGELO. You know I gave it you half an hour since.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You gave me none; you wrong me much to say so.
ANGELO. You wrong me more, sir, in denying it.
  Consider how it stands upon my credit.
SECOND MERCHANT. Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.
OFFICER. I do; and charge you in the Duke's name to obey me.
ANGELO. This touches me in reputation.
  Either consent to pay this sum for me,
  Or I attach you by this officer.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Consent to pay thee that I never had!
  Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou dar'st.
ANGELO. Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer.
  I would not spare my brother in this case,
  If he should scorn me so apparently.
OFFICER. I do arrest you, sir; you hear the suit.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I do obey thee till I give thee bail.
  But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
  As all the metal in your shop will answer.
ANGELO. Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
  To your notorious shame, I doubt it not.

Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, from the bay

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, there's a bark of Epidamnum
  That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
  And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
  I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
  The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitx.
  The ship is in her trim; the merry wind
  Blows fair from land; they stay for nought at an
  But for their owner, master, and yourself.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. How now! a madman? Why, thou peevish sheep,
  What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. THOU drunken slave! I sent the for a rope;
  And told thee to what purpose and what end.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. YOU sent me for a rope's end as soon-
  You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I Will debate this matter at more leisure,
  And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
  To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight;
  Give her this key, and tell her in the desk
  That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry
  There is a purse of ducats; let her send it.
  Tell her I am arrested in the street,
  And that shall bail me; hie thee, slave, be gone.
  On, officer, to prison till it come.
<Exeunt all but DROMIO
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. To Adriana! that is where we din'd,
  Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband.
  She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
  Thither I must, although against my will,
  For servants must their masters' minds fulfil.
<Exit


SCENE 2

The house of ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS

Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA

ADRIANA. Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
  Might'st thou perceive austerely in his eye
  That he did plead in earnest? Yea or no?
  Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?
  What observation mad'st thou in this case
  Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?
LUCIANA. First he denied you had in him no right.
ADRIANA. He meant he did me none-the more my spite.
LUCIANA. Then swore he that he was a stranger here.
ADRIANA. And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.
LUCIANA. Then pleaded I for you.
ADRIANA. And what said he?
LUCIANA. That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.
ADRIANA. With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?
LUCIANA. With words that in an honest suit might move.
  First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.
ADRIANA. Didst speak him fair?
LUCIANA. Have patience, I beseech.
ADRIANA. I cannot, nor I will not hold me still;
  My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
  He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,
  Ill-fac'd, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;
  Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
  Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
LUCIANA. Who would be jealous then of such a one?
  No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.
ADRIANA. Ah, but I think him better than I say,
  And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
  Far from her nest the lapwing cries away;
  My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Here go-the desk, the purse. Sweet
  now, make haste.
LUCIANA. How hast thou lost thy breath?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. By running fast.
ADRIANA. Where is thy master, Dromio? Is he well?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
  A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
  One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
  A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough;
  A wolf, nay worse, a fellow all in buff;
  A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands
  The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;
  A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well;
  One that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell.
ADRIANA. Why, man, what is the matter?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I do not know the matter; he is rested on the case.
ADRIANA. What, is he arrested? Tell me, at whose suit?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;
  But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.
  Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?
ADRIANA. Go fetch it, sister.  [Exit LUCIANA]  This I wonder at:
  Thus he unknown to me should be in debt.
  Tell me, was he arrested on a band?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. on a band, but on a stronger thing,
  A chain, a chain. Do you not hear it ring?
ADRIANA. What, the chain?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No, no, the bell; 'tis time that I were gone.
  It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.
ADRIANA. The hours come back! That did I never hear.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O yes. If any hour meet a sergeant,
    'a turns back for very fear.
ADRIANA. As if Time were in debt! How fondly dost thou reason!
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Time is a very bankrupt, and owes
    more than he's worth to season.
  Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say
  That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
  If 'a be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
  Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse

ADRIANA. Go, Dromio, there's the money; bear it straight,
  And bring thy master home immediately.
  Come, sister; I am press'd down with conceit-
  Conceit, my comfort and my injury.
<Exeunt


SCENE 3

The mart

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. There's not a man I meet but doth salute me
  As if I were their well-acquainted friend;
  And every one doth call me by my name.
  Some tender money to me, some invite me,
  Some other give me thanks for kindnesses,
  Some offer me commodities to buy;
  Even now a tailor call'd me in his shop,
  And show'd me silks that he had bought for me,
  And therewithal took measure of my body.
  Sure, these are but imaginary wiles,
  And Lapland sorcerers inhabit here.

Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, here's the gold you sent me
  for. What, have you got the picture of old Adam new-apparell'd?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What gold is this? What Adam dost thou mean?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not that Adam that kept the Paradise,
  but that Adam that keeps the prison; he that goes in the
  calf's skin that was kill'd for the Prodigal; he that came behind
  you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you forsake your liberty.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I understand thee not.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. No? Why, 'tis a plain case: he that
  went, like a bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir,
  that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob, and rest
  them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed men, and give
  them suits of durance; he that sets up his rest to do more
  exploits with his mace than a morris-pike.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. What, thou mean'st an officer?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band;
  that brings any man to answer it that breaks his band; on
  that thinks a man always going to bed, and says 'God give
  you good rest!'
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is
  there any ship puts forth to-night? May we be gone?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Why, sir, I brought you word an
  hour since that the bark Expedition put forth to-night; and
  then were you hind'red by the sergeant, to tarry for the
  boy Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to deliver you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. The fellow is distract, and so am I;
  And here we wander in illusions.
  Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

Enter a COURTEZAN

COURTEZAN. Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
  I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now.
  Is that the chain you promis'd me to-day?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, is this Mistress Satan?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. It is the devil.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's
  dam, and here she comes in the habit of a light wench; and
  thereof comes that the wenches say 'God damn me!' That's
  as much to say 'God make me a light wench!' It is written
  they appear to men like angels of light; light is an effect
  of fire, and fire will burn; ergo, light wenches will burn.
  Come not near her.
COURTEZAN. Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.
  Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat,
  or bespeak a long spoon.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Why, Dromio?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Marry, he must have a long spoon
  that must eat with the devil.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Avoid then, fiend! What tell'st thou me of supping?
  Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress;
  I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.
COURTEZAN. Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,
  Or, for my diamond, the chain you promis'd,
  And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,
  A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
  A nut, a cherry-stone;
  But she, more covetous, would have a chain.
  Master, be wise; an if you give it her,
  The devil will shake her chain, and fright us with it.
COURTEZAN. I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain;
  I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. 'Fly pride' says the peacock. Mistress, that you know.
<Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE
COURTEZAN. Now, out of doubt, Antipholus is mad,
  Else would he never so demean himself.
  A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,
  And for the same he promis'd me a chain;
  Both one and other he denies me now.
  The reason that I gather he is mad,
  Besides this present instance of his rage,
  Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner
  Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
  Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,
  On purpose shut the doors against his way.
  My way is now to hie home to his house,
  And tell his wife that, being lunatic,
  He rush'd into my house and took perforce
  My ring away. This course I fittest choose,
  For forty ducats is too much to lose.
<Exit


SCENE 4

A street

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS with the OFFICER

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Fear me not, man; I will not break away.
  I'll give thee, ere I leave thee, so much money,
  To warrant thee, as I am 'rested for.
  My wife is in a wayward mood to-day,
  And will not lightly trust the messenger.
  That I should be attach'd in Ephesus,
  I tell you 'twill sound harshly in her cars.

Enter DROMIO OF EPHESUS, with a rope's-end

  Here comes my man; I think he brings the money.
  How now, sir! Have you that I sent you for?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them all.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. But where's the money?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Five hundred ducats, villain, for rope?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. To a rope's-end, sir; and to that end am I
  return'd.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.
[Beating him]
OFFICER. Good sir, be patient.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, 'tis for me to be patient; I am in
  adversity.
OFFICER. Good now, hold thy tongue.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I would I were senseless, sir, that I
  might not feel your blows.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou art sensible in nothing but
  blows, and so is an ass.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I am an ass indeed; you may prove it
  by my long 'ears. I have served him from the hour of my
  nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his hands for
  my service but blows. When I am cold he heats me with
  beating; when I am warm he cools me with beating. I am
  wak'd with it when I sleep; rais'd with it when I sit; driven
  out of doors with it when I go from home; welcom'd home
  with it when I return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders as
  beggar wont her brat; and I think, when he hath lam'd me,
  I shall beg with it from door to door.

Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the COURTEZAN, and a SCHOOLMASTER
call'd PINCH

ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Mistress, 'respice finem,' respect your end; or
  rather, to prophesy like the parrot, 'Beware the rope's-end.'
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Wilt thou still talk?
[Beating him]
COURTEZAN. How say you now? Is not your husband mad?
ADRIANA. His incivility confirms no less.
  Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer:
  Establish him in his true sense again,
  And I will please you what you will demand.
LUCIANA. Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!
COURTEZAN. Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy.
PINCH. Give me your hand, and let me feel your pulse.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.
[Striking him]
PINCH. I charge thee, Satan, hous'd within this man,
  To yield possession to my holy prayers,
  And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight.
  I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.
ADRIANA. O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. You minion, you, are these your customers?
  Did this companion with the saffron face
  Revel and feast it at my house to-day,
  Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut,
  And I denied to enter in my house?
ADRIANA. O husband, God doth know you din'd at home,
  Where would you had remain'd until this time,
  Free from these slanders and this open shame!
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Din'd at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sir, Sooth to say, you did not dine at home.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Were not my doors lock'd up and I shut out?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Perdie, your doors were lock'd and you shut out.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And did not she herself revile me there?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sans fable, she herself revil'd you there.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn'd you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And did not I in rage depart from thence?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. In verity, you did. My bones bear witness,
  That since have felt the vigour of his rage.
ADRIANA. Is't good to soothe him in these contraries?
PINCH. It is no shame; the fellow finds his vein,
  And, yielding to him, humours well his frenzy.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest me.
ADRIANA. Alas, I sent you money to redeem you,
  By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Money by me! Heart and goodwill you might,
  But surely, master, not a rag of money.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Went'st not thou to her for purse of ducats?
ADRIANA. He came to me, and I deliver'd it.
LUCIANA. And I am witness with her that she did.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. God and the rope-maker bear me witness
  That I was sent for nothing but a rope!
PINCH. Mistress, both man and master is possess'd;
  I know it by their pale and deadly looks.
  They must be bound, and laid in some dark room.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?
  And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?
ADRIANA. I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And, gentle master, I receiv'd no gold;
  But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out.
ADRIANA. Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in both.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all,
  And art confederate with a damned pack
  To make a loathsome abject scorn of me;
  But with these nails I'll pluck out these false eyes
  That would behold in me this shameful sport.
ADRIANA. O, bind him, bind him; let him not come near me.
PINCH. More company! The fiend is strong within him.

Enter three or four, and offer to bind him. He strives

LUCIANA. Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,
  I am thy prisoner. Wilt thou suffer them
  To make a rescue?
OFFICER. Masters, let him go;
  He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.
PINCH. Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.
[They bind DROMIO]
ADRIANA. What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?
  Hast thou delight to see a wretched man
  Do outrage and displeasure to himself?
OFFICER. He is my prisoner; if I let him go,
  The debt he owes will be requir'd of me.
ADRIANA. I will discharge thee ere I go from thee;
  Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,
  And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.
  Good Master Doctor, see him safe convey'd
  Home to my house. O most unhappy day!
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. O most unhappy strumpet!
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Master, I am here ent'red in bond for you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Out on thee, villian! Wherefore
  dost thou mad me?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Will you be bound for nothing?
  Be mad, good master; cry 'The devil!'
LUCIANA. God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!
ADRIANA. Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.
<Exeunt all but ADRIANA, LUCIANA, OFFICERS, and COURTEZAN
  Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?
OFFICER. One Angelo, a goldsmith; do you know him?
ADRIANA. I know the man. What is the sum he owes?
OFFICER. Two hundred ducats.
ADRIANA. Say, how grows it due?
OFFICER. Due for a chain your husband had of him.
ADRIANA. He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.
COURTEZAN. When as your husband, all in rage, to-day
  Came to my house, and took away my ring-
  The ring I saw upon his finger now-
  Straight after did I meet him with a chain.
ADRIANA. It may be so, but I did never see it.
  Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is;
  I long to know the truth hereof at large.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, with his rapier drawn, and
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE.

LUCIANA. God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.
ADRIANA. And come with naked swords.
  Let's call more help to have them bound again.
OFFICER. Away, they'll kill us!
<Exeunt all but ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE as fast as may be, frighted
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I see these witches are afraid of swords.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. She that would be your wife now ran from you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence.
  I long that we were safe and sound aboard.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Faith, stay here this night; they will
  surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us
  gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for
  the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me,
  could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I will not stay to-night for all the town;
  Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.
<Exeunt


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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.
<Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE to the priory

Enter the LADY ABBESS

ABBESS. Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?
ADRIANA. To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.
  Let us come in, that we may bind him fast,
  And bear him home for his recovery.
ANGELO. I knew he was not in his perfect wits.
SECOND MERCHANT. I am sorry now that I did draw on him.
ABBESS. How long hath this possession held the man?
ADRIANA. This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,
  And much different from the man he was;
  But till this afternoon his passion
  Ne'er brake into extremity of rage.
ABBESS. Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea?
  Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye
  Stray'd his affection in unlawful love?
  A sin prevailing much in youthful men
  Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.
  Which of these sorrows is he subject to?
ADRIANA. To none of these, except it be the last;
  Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.
ABBESS. You should for that have reprehended him.
ADRIANA. Why, so I did.
ABBESS. Ay, but not rough enough.
ADRIANA. As roughly as my modesty would let me.
ABBESS. Haply in private.
ADRIANA. And in assemblies too.
ABBESS. Ay, but not enough.
ADRIANA. It was the copy of our conference.
  In bed, he slept not for my urging it;
  At board, he fed not for my urging it;
  Alone, it was the subject of my theme;
  In company, I often glanced it;
  Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.
ABBESS. And thereof came it that the man was mad.
  The venom clamours of a jealous woman
  Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
  It seems his sleeps were hind'red by thy railing,
  And thereof comes it that his head is light.
  Thou say'st his meat was sauc'd with thy upbraidings:
  Unquiet meals make ill digestions;
  Thereof the raging fire of fever bred;
  And what's a fever but a fit of madness?
  Thou say'st his sports were hind'red by thy brawls.
  Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue
  But moody and dull melancholy,
  Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,
  And at her heels a huge infectious troop
  Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?
  In food, in sport, and life-preserving rest,
  To be disturb'd would mad or man or beast.
  The consequence is, then, thy jealous fits
  Hath scar'd thy husband from the use of wits.
LUCIANA. She never reprehended him but mildly,
  When he demean'd himself rough, rude, and wildly.
  Why bear you these rebukes, and answer not?
ADRIANA. She did betray me to my own reproof.
  Good people, enter, and lay hold on him.
ABBESS. No, not a creature enters in my house.
ADRIANA. Then let your servants bring my husband forth.
ABBESS. Neither; he took this place for sanctuary,
  And it shall privilege him from your hands
  Till I have brought him to his wits again,
  Or lose my labour in assaying it.
ADRIANA. I will attend my husband, be his nurse,
  Diet his sickness, for it is my office,
  And will have no attorney but myself;
  And therefore let me have him home with me.
ABBESS. Be patient; for I will not let him stir
  Till I have us'd the approved means I have,
  With wholesome syrups, drugs, and holy prayers,
  To make of him a formal man again.
  It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,
  A charitable duty of my order;
  Therefore depart, and leave him here with me.
ADRIANA. I will not hence and leave my husband here;
  And ill it doth beseem your holiness
  To separate the husband and the wife.
ABBESS. Be quiet, and depart; thou shalt not have him.
<Exit
LUCIANA. Complain unto the Duke of this indignity.
ADRIANA. Come, go; I will fall prostrate at his feet,
  And never rise until my tears and prayers
  Have won his Grace to come in person hither
  And take perforce my husband from the Abbess.
SECOND MERCHANT. By this, I think, the dial points at five;
  Anon, I'm sure, the Duke himself in person
  Comes this way to the melancholy vale,
  The place of death and sorry execution,
  Behind the ditches of the abbey here.
ANGELO. Upon what cause?
SECOND MERCHANT. To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,
  Who put unluckily into this bay
  Against the laws and statutes of this town,
  Beheaded publicly for his offence.
ANGELO. See where they come; we will behold his death.
LUCIANA. Kneel to the Duke before he pass the abbey.

Enter the DUKE, attended; AEGEON, bareheaded;
with the HEADSMAN and other OFFICERS

DUKE. Yet once again proclaim it publicly,
  If any friend will pay the sum for him,
  He shall not die; so much we tender him.
ADRIANA. Justice, most sacred Duke, against the Abbess!
DUKE. She is a virtuous and a reverend lady;
  It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.
ADRIANA. May it please your Grace, Antipholus, my husband,
  Who I made lord of me and all I had
  At your important letters-this ill day
  A most outrageous fit of madness took him,
  That desp'rately he hurried through the street,
  With him his bondman all as mad as he,
  Doing displeasure to the citizens
  By rushing in their houses, bearing thence
  Rings, jewels, anything his rage did like.
  Once did I get him bound and sent him home,
  Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went,
  That here and there his fury had committed.
  Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,
  He broke from those that had the guard of him,
  And with his mad attendant and himself,
  Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords,
  Met us again and, madly bent on us,
  Chas'd us away; till, raising of more aid,
  We came again to bind them. Then they fled
  Into this abbey, whither we pursu'd them;
  And here the Abbess shuts the gates on us,
  And will not suffer us to fetch him out,
  Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.
  Therefore, most gracious Duke, with thy command
  Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help.
DUKE. Long since thy husband serv'd me in my wars,
  And I to thee engag'd a prince's word,
  When thou didst make him master of thy bed,
  To do him all the grace and good I could.
  Go, some of you, knock at the abbey gate,
  And bid the Lady Abbess come to me,
  I will determine this before I stir.

Enter a MESSENGER

MESSENGER. O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!
  My master and his man are both broke loose,
  Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor,
  Whose beard they have sing'd off with brands of fire;
  And ever, as it blaz'd, they threw on him
  Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair.
  My master preaches patience to him, and the while
  His man with scissors nicks him like a fool;
  And sure, unless you send some present help,
  Between them they will kill the conjurer.
ADRIANA. Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,
  And that is false thou dost report to us.
MESSENGER. Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;
  I have not breath'd almost since I did see it.
  He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,
  To scorch your face, and to disfigure you.
[Cry within]
  Hark, hark, I hear him, mistress; fly, be gone!
DUKE. Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds.
ADRIANA. Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you
  That he is borne about invisible.
  Even now we hous'd him in the abbey here,
  And now he's there, past thought of human reason.

Enter ANTIPHOLUS OFEPHESUS and DROMIO OFEPHESUS

ANTIPHOLUS OFEPHESUS. Justice, most gracious Duke; O, grant me justice!
  Even for the service that long since I did thee,
  When I bestrid thee in the wars, and took
  Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
  That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.
AEGEON. Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,
  I see my son Antipholus, and Dromio.
ANTIPHOLUS OFEPHESUS. Justice, sweet Prince, against that woman there!
  She whom thou gav'st to me to be my wife,
  That hath abused and dishonoured me
  Even in the strength and height of injury.
  Beyond imagination is the wrong
  That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.
DUKE. Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.
ANTIPHOLUS OFEPHESUS. This day, great Duke, she shut the doors upon me,
  While she with harlots feasted in my house.
DUKE. A grievous fault. Say, woman, didst thou so?
ADRIANA. No, my good lord. Myself, he, and my sister,
  To-day did dine together. So befall my soul
  As this is false he burdens me withal!
LUCIANA. Ne'er may I look on day nor sleep on night
  But she tells to your Highness simple truth!
ANGELO. O peflur'd woman! They are both forsworn.
  In this the madman justly chargeth them.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. My liege, I am advised what I say;
  Neither disturbed with the effect of wine,
  Nor heady-rash, provok'd with raging ire,
  Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.
  This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner;
  That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,
  Could witness it, for he was with me then;
  Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,
  Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,
  Where Balthazar and I did dine together.
  Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,
  I went to seek him. In the street I met him,
  And in his company that gentleman.
  There did this perjur'd goldsmith swear me down
  That I this day of him receiv'd the chain,
  Which, God he knows, I saw not; for the which
  He did arrest me with an officer.
  I did obey, and sent my peasant home
  For certain ducats; he with none return'd.
  Then fairly I bespoke the officer
  To go in person with me to my house.
  By th' way we met my wife, her sister, and a rabble more
  Of vile confederates. Along with them
  They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-fac'd villain,
  A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
  A threadbare juggler, and a fortune-teller,
  A needy, hollow-ey'd, sharp-looking wretch,
  A living dead man. This pernicious slave,
  Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,
  And gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,
  And with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me,
  Cries out I was possess'd. Then all together
  They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence,
  And in a dark and dankish vault at home
  There left me and my man, both bound together;
  Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,
  I gain'd my freedom, and immediately
  Ran hither to your Grace; whom I beseech
  To give me ample satisfaction
  For these deep shames and great indignities.
ANGELO. My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,
  That he din'd not at home, but was lock'd out.
DUKE. But had he such a chain of thee, or no?
ANGELO. He had, my lord, and when he ran in here,
  These people saw the chain about his neck.
SECOND MERCHANT. Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine
  Heard you confess you had the chain of him,
  After you first forswore it on the mart;
  And thereupon I drew my sword on you,
  And then you fled into this abbey here,
  From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never came within these abbey walls,
  Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me;
  I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven!
  And this is false you burden me withal.
DUKE. Why, what an intricate impeach is this!
  I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup.
  If here you hous'd him, here he would have been;
  If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly.
  You say he din'd at home: the goldsmith here
  Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Sir, he din'd with her there, at the Porpentine.
COURTEZAN. He did; and from my finger snatch'd that ring.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. 'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.
DUKE. Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here?
COURTEZAN. As sure, my liege, as I do see your Grace.
DUKE. Why, this is strange. Go call the Abbess hither.
  I think you are all mated or stark mad.
<Exit one to the ABBESS
AEGEON. Most mighty Duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:
  Haply I see a friend will save my life
  And pay the sum that may deliver me.
DUKE. Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.
AEGEON. Is not your name, sir, call'd Antipholus?
  And is not that your bondman Dromio?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Within this hour I was his bondman, sir,
  But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords
  Now am I Dromio and his man unbound.
AEGEON. I am sure you both of you remember me.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;
  For lately we were bound as you are now.
  You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir?
AEGEON. Why look you strange on me? You know me well.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never saw you in my life till now.
AEGEON. O! grief hath chang'd me since you saw me last;
  And careful hours with time's deformed hand
  Have written strange defeatures in my face.
  But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Neither.
AEGEON. Dromio, nor thou?
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. No, trust me, sir, nor I.
AEGEON. I am sure thou dost.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and
  whatsoever a man denies, you are now bound to believe him.
AEGEON. Not know my voice! O time's extremity,
  Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue
  In seven short years that here my only son
  Knows not my feeble key of untun'd cares?
  Though now this grained face of mine be hid
  In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,
  And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
  Yet hath my night of life some memory,
  My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,
  My dull deaf ears a little use to hear;
  All these old witnesses-I cannot err-
  Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I never saw my father in my life.
AEGEON. But seven years since, in Syracuse, boy,
  Thou know'st we parted; but perhaps, my son,
  Thou sham'st to acknowledge me in misery.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. The Duke and all that know me in
  the city Can witness with me that it is not so:
  I ne'er saw Syracuse in my life.
DUKE. I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
  Have I been patron to Antipholus,
  During which time he ne'er saw Syracuse.
  I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

Re-enter the ABBESS, with ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and DROMIO OF SYRACUSE

ABBESS. Most mighty Duke, behold a man much wrong'd.
[All gather to see them]
ADRIANA. I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.
DUKE. One of these men is genius to the other;
  And so of these. Which is the natural man,
  And which the spirit? Who deciphers them?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. I, sir, am Dromio; command him away.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. I, Sir, am Dromio; pray let me stay.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. Aegeon, art thou not? or else his
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. O, my old master! who hath bound
ABBESS. Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds,
  And gain a husband by his liberty.
  Speak, old Aegeon, if thou be'st the man
  That hadst a wife once call'd Aemilia,
  That bore thee at a burden two fair sons.
  O, if thou be'st the same Aegeon, speak,
  And speak unto the same Aemilia!
AEGEON. If I dream not, thou art Aemilia.
  If thou art she, tell me where is that son
  That floated with thee on the fatal raft?
ABBESS. By men of Epidamnum he and I
  And the twin Dromio, all were taken up;
  But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth
  By force took Dromio and my son from them,
  And me they left with those of Epidamnum.
  What then became of them I cannot tell;
  I to this fortune that you see me in.
DUKE. Why, here begins his morning story right.
  These two Antipholus', these two so like,
  And these two Dromios, one in semblance-
  Besides her urging of her wreck at sea-
  These are the parents to these children,
  Which accidentally are met together.
  Antipholus, thou cam'st from Corinth first?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.
DUKE. Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. And I with him.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,
  Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.
ADRIANA. Which of you two did dine with me to-day?
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I, gentle mistress.
ADRIANA. And are not you my husband?
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. No; I say nay to that.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. And so do I, yet did she call me so;
  And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,
  Did call me brother.  [To LUCIANA]  What I told you then,
  I hope I shall have leisure to make good;
  If this be not a dream I see and hear.
ANGELO. That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. I think it be, sir; I deny it not.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.
ANGELO. I think I did, sir; I deny it not.
ADRIANA. I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,
  By Dromio; but I think he brought it not.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. No, none by me.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. This purse of ducats I receiv'd from you,
  And Dromio my man did bring them me.
  I see we still did meet each other's man,
  And I was ta'en for him, and he for me,
  And thereupon these ERRORS are arose.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. These ducats pawn I for my father here.
DUKE. It shall not need; thy father hath his life.
COURTEZAN. Sir, I must have that diamond from you.
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. There, take it; and much thanks for my
  good cheer.
ABBESS. Renowned Duke, vouchsafe to take the pains
  To go with us into the abbey here,
  And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes;
  And all that are assembled in this place
  That by this sympathized one day's error
  Have suffer'd wrong, go keep us company,
  And we shall make full satisfaction.
  Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
  Of you, my sons; and till this present hour
  My heavy burden ne'er delivered.
  The Duke, my husband, and my children both,
  And you the calendars of their nativity,
  Go to a gossips' feast, and go with me;
  After so long grief, such nativity!
DUKE. With all my heart, I'll gossip at this feast.
<Exeunt all but ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE, ANTIPHOLUS OF
EPHESUS, DROMIO OF SYRACUSE, and DROMIO OF EPHESUS
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?
ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS. Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.
ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE. He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio.
  Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon.
  Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.
<Exeunt ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE and ANTIPHOLUS OF EPHESUS
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. There is a fat friend at your master's house,
  That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner;
  She now shall be my sister, not my wife.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother;
  I see by you I am a sweet-fac'd youth.
  Will you walk in to see their gossiping?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. Not I, sir; you are my elder.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. That's a question; how shall we try it?
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE. We'll draw cuts for the senior; till then,
    lead thou first.
DROMIO OF EPHESUS. Nay, then, thus:
  We came into the world like brother and brother,
  And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.
<Exeunt


THE END


<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



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




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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




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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




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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>




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




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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




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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




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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



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.




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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.




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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.




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WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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.




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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.




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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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.




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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.




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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



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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.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
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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.




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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 me, 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.




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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.




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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.




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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



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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



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




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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




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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




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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




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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



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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




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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
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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 all before them. Still be kind,
    And eke out our performance with your mind.             Exit




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
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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




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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




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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



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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




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WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
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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




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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




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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




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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




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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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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.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
SERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP.>>



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




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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




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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




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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




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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



<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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.




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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




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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
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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




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
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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




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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




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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



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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.




<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAM
SHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC., AND IS
PROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF ILLINOIS BENEDICTINE COLLEGE
WITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BE
DISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERS
PERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USED
COMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANY
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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,