And pav'd with gold, the Emperor thus desir'd, That he would please to alter the King's course, And break the foresaid peace. Let the King know, As soon he shall by me, that thus the Cardinal Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases, And for his own advantage. NORFOLK. I am sorry To hear this of him, and could wish he were Something mistaken in't. BUCKINGHAM. No, not a syllable: I do pronounce him in that very shape He shall appear in proof. Enter BRANDON, a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS before him, and two or three of the guard BRANDON. Your office, sergeant: execute it. SERGEANT. Sir, My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I Arrest thee of high treason, in the name Of our most sovereign King. BUCKINGHAM. Lo you, my lord, The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish Under device and practice. BRANDON. I am sorry To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on The business present; 'tis his Highness' pleasure You shall to th' Tower. BUCKINGHAM. It will help nothing To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me Which makes my whit'st part black. The will of heav'n Be done in this and all things! I obey. O my Lord Aberga'ny, fare you well! BRANDON. Nay, he must bear you company. [To ABERGAVENNY] The King Is pleas'd you shall to th' Tower, till you know How he determines further. ABERGAVENNY. As the Duke said, The will of heaven be done, and the King's pleasure By me obey'd. BRANDON. Here is warrant from The King t' attach Lord Montacute and the bodies Of the Duke's confessor, John de la Car, One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor- BUCKINGHAM. So, so! These are the limbs o' th' plot; no more, I hope. BRANDON. A monk o' th' Chartreux. BUCKINGHAM. O, Nicholas Hopkins? BRANDON. He. BUCKINGHAM. My surveyor is false. The o'er-great Cardinal Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already. I am the shadow of poor Buckingham, Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on By dark'ning my clear sun. My lord, farewell. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 2. London. The Council Chamber Cornets. Enter KING HENRY, leaning on the CARDINAL'S shoulder, the NOBLES, and SIR THOMAS LOVELL, with others. The CARDINAL places himself under the KING'S feet on his right side KING. My life itself, and the best heart of it, Thanks you for this great care; I stood i' th' level Of a full-charg'd confederacy, and give thanks To you that chok'd it. Let be call'd before us That gentleman of Buckingham's. In person I'll hear his confessions justify; And point by point the treasons of his master He shall again relate. A noise within, crying 'Room for the Queen!' Enter the QUEEN, usher'd by the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK; she kneels. The KING riseth from his state, takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him QUEEN KATHARINE. Nay, we must longer kneel: I am suitor. KING. Arise, and take place by us. Half your suit Never name to us: you have half our power. The other moiety ere you ask is given; Repeat your will, and take it. QUEEN KATHARINE. Thank your Majesty. That you would love yourself, and in that love Not unconsidered leave your honour nor The dignity of your office, is the point Of my petition. KING. Lady mine, proceed. QUEEN KATHARINE. I am solicited, not by a few, And those of true condition, that your subjects Are in great grievance: there have been commissions Sent down among 'em which hath flaw'd the heart Of all their loyalties; wherein, although, My good Lord Cardinal, they vent reproaches Most bitterly on you as putter-on Of these exactions, yet the King our master- Whose honour Heaven shield from soil!-even he escapes not Language unmannerly; yea, such which breaks The sides of loyalty, and almost appears In loud rebellion. NORFOLK. Not almost appears- It doth appear; for, upon these taxations, The clothiers all, not able to maintain The many to them 'longing, have put of The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger And lack of other means, in desperate manner Daring th' event to th' teeth, are all in uproar, And danger serves among them. KING. Taxation! Wherein? and what taxation? My Lord Cardinal, You that are blam'd for it alike with us, Know you of this taxation? WOLSEY. Please you, sir, I know but of a single part in aught Pertains to th' state, and front but in that file Where others tell steps with me. QUEEN KATHARINE. No, my lord! You know no more than others! But you frame Things that are known alike, which are not wholesome To those which would not know them, and yet must Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions, Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are Most pestilent to th' hearing; and to bear 'em The back is sacrifice to th' load. They say They are devis'd by you, or else you suffer Too hard an exclamation. KING. Still exaction! The nature of it? In what kind, let's know, Is this exaction? QUEEN KATHARINE. I am much too venturous In tempting of your patience, but am bold'ned Under your promis'd pardon. The subjects' grief Comes through commissions, which compels from each The sixth part of his substance, to be levied Without delay; and the pretence for this Is nam'd your wars in France. This makes bold mouths; Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze Allegiance in them; their curses now Live where their prayers did; and it's come to pass This tractable obedience is a slave To each incensed will. I would your Highness Would give it quick consideration, for There is no primer business. KING. By my life, This is against our pleasure. WOLSEY. And for me, I have no further gone in this than by A single voice; and that not pass'd me but By learned approbation of the judges. If I am Traduc'd by ignorant tongues, which neither know My faculties nor person, yet will be The chronicles of my doing, let me say 'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake That virtue must go through. We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever As rav'nous fishes do a vessel follow That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further Than vainly longing. What we oft do best, By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up For our best act. If we shall stand still, In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at, We should take root here where we sit, or sit State-statues only. KING. Things done well And with a care exempt themselves from fear: Things done without example, in their issue Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent Of this commission? I believe, not any. We must not rend our subjects from our laws, And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each? A trembling contribution! Why, we take From every tree lop, bark, and part o' th' timber; And though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd, The air will drink the sap. To every county Where this is question'd send our letters with Free pardon to each man that has denied The force of this commission. Pray, look tot; I put it to your care. WOLSEY. [Aside to the SECRETARY] A word with you. Let there be letters writ to every shire Of the King's grace and pardon. The grieved commons Hardly conceive of me-let it be nois'd That through our intercession this revokement And pardon comes. I shall anon advise you Further in the proceeding. Exit SECRETARY Enter SURVEYOR QUEEN KATHARINE. I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham Is run in your displeasure. KING. It grieves many. The gentleman is learn'd and a most rare speaker; To nature none more bound; his training such That he may furnish and instruct great teachers And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see, When these so noble benefits shall prove Not well dispos'd, the mind growing once corrupt, They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly Than ever they were fair. This man so complete, Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we, Almost with ravish'd list'ning, could not find His hour of speech a minute-he, my lady, Hath into monstrous habits put the graces That once were his, and is become as black As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear- This was his gentleman in trust-of him Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount The fore-recited practices, whereof We cannot feel too little, hear too much. WOLSEY. Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you, Most like a careful subject, have collected Out of the Duke of Buckingham. KING. Speak freely. SURVEYOR. First, it was usual with him-every day It would infect his speech-that if the King Should without issue die, he'll carry it so To make the sceptre his. These very words I've heard him utter to his son-in-law, Lord Aberga'ny, to whom by oath he menac'd Revenge upon the Cardinal. WOLSEY. Please your Highness, note This dangerous conception in this point: Not friended by his wish, to your high person His will is most malignant, and it stretches Beyond you to your friends. QUEEN KATHARINE. My learn'd Lord Cardinal, Deliver all with charity. KING. Speak on. How grounded he his title to the crown Upon our fail? To this point hast thou heard him At any time speak aught? SURVEYOR. He was brought to this By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Henton. KING. What was that Henton? SURVEYOR. Sir, a Chartreux friar, His confessor, who fed him every minute With words of sovereignty. KING. How know'st thou this? SURVEYOR. Not long before your Highness sped to France, The Duke being at the Rose, within the parish Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand What was the speech among the Londoners Concerning the French journey. I replied Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious, To the King's danger. Presently the Duke Said 'twas the fear indeed and that he doubted 'Twould prove the verity of certain words Spoke by a holy monk 'that oft' says he 'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour To hear from him a matter of some moment; Whom after under the confession's seal He solemnly had sworn that what he spoke My chaplain to no creature living but To me should utter, with demure confidence This pausingly ensu'd: "Neither the King nor's heirs, Tell you the Duke, shall prosper; bid him strive To gain the love o' th' commonalty; the Duke Shall govern England."' QUEEN KATHARINE. If I know you well, You were the Duke's surveyor, and lost your office On the complaint o' th' tenants. Take good heed You charge not in your spleen a noble person And spoil your nobler soul. I say, take heed; Yes, heartily beseech you. KING. Let him on. Go forward. SURVEYOR. On my soul, I'll speak but truth. I told my lord the Duke, by th' devil's illusions The monk might be deceiv'd, and that 'twas dangerous for him To ruminate on this so far, until It forg'd him some design, which, being believ'd, It was much like to do. He answer'd 'Tush, It can do me no damage'; adding further That, had the King in his last sickness fail'd, The Cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads Should have gone off. KING. Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha! There's mischief in this man. Canst thou say further? SURVEYOR. I can, my liege. KING. Proceed. SURVEYOR. Being at Greenwich, After your Highness had reprov'd the Duke About Sir William Bulmer- KING. I remember Of such a time: being my sworn servant, The Duke retain'd him his. But on: what hence? SURVEYOR. 'If' quoth he 'I for this had been committed- As to the Tower I thought-I would have play'd The part my father meant to act upon Th' usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury, Made suit to come in's presence, which if granted, As he made semblance of his duty, would Have put his knife into him.' KING. A giant traitor! WOLSEY. Now, madam, may his Highness live in freedom, And this man out of prison? QUEEN KATHARINE. God mend all! KING. There's something more would out of thee: what say'st? SURVEYOR. After 'the Duke his father' with the 'knife,' He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger, Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes, He did discharge a horrible oath, whose tenour Was, were he evil us'd, he would outgo His father by as much as a performance Does an irresolute purpose. KING. There's his period, To sheath his knife in us. He is attach'd; Call him to present trial. If he may Find mercy in the law, 'tis his; if none, Let him not seek't of us. By day and night! He's traitor to th' height. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN and LORD SANDYS CHAMBERLAIN. Is't possible the spells of France should juggle Men into such strange mysteries? SANDYS. New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous, Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd. CHAMBERLAIN. As far as I see, all the good our English Have got by the late voyage is but merely A fit or two o' th' face; but they are shrewd ones; For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly Their very noses had been counsellors To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so. SANDYS. They have all new legs, and lame ones. One would take it, That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin Or springhalt reign'd among 'em. CHAMBERLAIN. Death! my lord, Their clothes are after such a pagan cut to't, That sure th' have worn out Christendom. Enter SIR THOMAS LOVELL How now? What news, Sir Thomas Lovell? LOVELL. Faith, my lord, I hear of none but the new proclamation That's clapp'd upon the court gate. CHAMBERLAIN. What is't for? LOVELL. The reformation of our travell'd gallants, That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors. CHAMBERLAIN. I am glad 'tis there. Now I would pray our monsieurs To think an English courtier may be wise, And never see the Louvre. LOVELL. They must either, For so run the conditions, leave those remnants Of fool and feather that they got in France, With all their honourable points of ignorance Pertaining thereunto-as fights and fireworks; Abusing better men than they can be, Out of a foreign wisdom-renouncing clean The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings, Short blist'red breeches, and those types of travel And understand again like honest men, Or pack to their old playfellows. There, I take it, They may, cum privilegio, wear away The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at. SANDYS. 'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases Are grown so catching. CHAMBERLAIN. What a loss our ladies Will have of these trim vanities! LOVELL. Ay, marry, There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies. A French song and a fiddle has no fellow. SANDYS. The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going, For sure there's no converting 'em. Now An honest country lord, as I am, beaten A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r Lady, Held current music too. CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, Lord Sandys; Your colt's tooth is not cast yet. SANDYS. No, my lord, Nor shall not while I have a stamp. CHAMBERLAIN. Sir Thomas, Whither were you a-going? LOVELL. To the Cardinal's; Your lordship is a guest too. CHAMBERLAIN. O, 'tis true; This night he makes a supper, and a great one, To many lords and ladies; there will be The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you. LOVELL. That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed, A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dews fall everywhere. CHAMBERLAIN. No doubt he's noble; He had a black mouth that said other of him. SANDYS. He may, my lord; has wherewithal. In him Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine: Men of his way should be most liberal, They are set here for examples. CHAMBERLAIN. True, they are so; But few now give so great ones. My barge stays; Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas, We shall be late else; which I would not be, For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford, This night to be comptrollers. SANDYS. I am your lordship's. Exeunt ACT I. SCENE 4. London. The Presence Chamber in York Place Hautboys. A small table under a state for the Cardinal, a longer table for the guests. Then enter ANNE BULLEN, and divers other LADIES and GENTLEMEN, as guests, at one door; at another door enter SIR HENRY GUILDFORD GUILDFORD. Ladies, a general welcome from his Grace Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates To fair content and you. None here, he hopes, In all this noble bevy, has brought with her One care abroad; he would have all as merry As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome, Can make good people. Enter LORD CHAMBERLAIN, LORD SANDYS, and SIR THOMAS LOVELL O, my lord, y'are tardy, The very thought of this fair company Clapp'd wings to me. CHAMBERLAIN. You are young, Sir Harry Guildford. SANDYS. Sir Thomas Lovell, had the Cardinal But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these Should find a running banquet ere they rested I think would better please 'em. By my life, They are a sweet society of fair ones. LOVELL. O that your lordship were but now confessor To one or two of these! SANDYS. I would I were; They should find easy penance. LOVELL. Faith, how easy? SANDYS. As easy as a down bed would afford it. CHAMBERLAIN. Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry, Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this. His Grace is ent'ring. Nay, you must not freeze: Two women plac'd together makes cold weather. My Lord Sandys, you are one will keep 'em waking: Pray sit between these ladies. SANDYS. By my faith, And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies. [Seats himself between ANNE BULLEN and another lady] If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father. ANNE. Was he mad, sir? SANDYS. O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too. But he would bite none; just as I do now, He would kiss you twenty with a breath. [Kisses her] CHAMBERLAIN. Well said, my lord. So, now y'are fairly seated. Gentlemen, The penance lies on you if these fair ladies Pass away frowning. SANDYS. For my little cure, Let me alone. Hautboys. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, attended; and takes his state WOLSEY. Y'are welcome, my fair guests. That noble lady Or gentleman that is not freely merry Is not my friend. This, to confirm my welcome- And to you all, good health! [Drinks] SANDYS. Your Grace is noble. Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks And save me so much talking. WOLSEY. My Lord Sandys, I am beholding to you. Cheer your neighbours. Ladies, you are not merry. Gentlemen, Whose fault is this? SANDYS. The red wine first must rise In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em Talk us to silence. ANNE. You are a merry gamester, My Lord Sandys. SANDYS. Yes, if I make my play. Here's to your ladyship; and pledge it, madam, For 'tis to such a thing- ANNE. You cannot show me. SANDYS. I told your Grace they would talk anon. [Drum and trumpet. Chambers discharg'd] WOLSEY. What's that? CHAMBERLAIN. Look out there, some of ye. Exit a SERVANT WOLSEY. What warlike voice, And to what end, is this? Nay, ladies, fear not: By all the laws of war y'are privileg'd. Re-enter SERVANT CHAMBERLAIN. How now! what is't? SERVANT. A noble troop of strangers- For so they seem. Th' have left their barge and landed, And hither make, as great ambassadors From foreign princes. WOLSEY. Good Lord Chamberlain, Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue; And pray receive 'em nobly and conduct 'em Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him. Exit CHAMBERLAIN attended. All rise, and tables remov'd You have now a broken banquet, but we'll mend it. A good digestion to you all; and once more I show'r a welcome on ye; welcome all. Hautboys. Enter the KING, and others, as maskers, habited like shepherds, usher'd by the LORD CHAMBERLAIN. They pass directly before the CARDINAL, and gracefully salute him A noble company! What are their pleasures? CHAMBERLAIN. Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd To tell your Grace, that, having heard by fame Of this so noble and so fair assembly This night to meet here, they could do no less, Out of the great respect they bear to beauty, But leave their flocks and, under your fair conduct, Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat An hour of revels with 'em. WOLSEY. Say, Lord Chamberlain, They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures. [They choose ladies. The KING chooses ANNE BULLEN] KING. The fairest hand I ever touch'd! O beauty, Till now I never knew thee! [Music. Dance] WOLSEY. My lord! CHAMBERLAIN. Your Grace? WOLSEY. Pray tell 'em thus much from me: There should be one amongst 'em, by his person, More worthy this place than myself; to whom, If I but knew him, with my love and duty I would surrender it. CHAMBERLAIN. I will, my lord. [He whispers to the maskers] WOLSEY. What say they? CHAMBERLAIN. Such a one, they all confess, There is indeed; which they would have your Grace Find out, and he will take it. WOLSEY. Let me see, then. [Comes from his state] By all your good leaves, gentlemen, here I'll make My royal choice. KING. [Unmasking] Ye have found him, Cardinal. You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord. You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, Cardinal, I should judge now unhappily. WOLSEY. I am glad Your Grace is grown so pleasant. KING. My Lord Chamberlain, Prithee come hither: what fair lady's that? CHAMBERLAIN. An't please your Grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter- The Viscount Rochford-one of her Highness' women. KING. By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweet heart, I were unmannerly to take you out And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen! Let it go round. WOLSEY. Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready I' th' privy chamber? LOVELL. Yes, my lord. WOLSEY. Your Grace, I fear, with dancing is a little heated. KING. I fear, too much. WOLSEY. There's fresher air, my lord, In the next chamber. KING. Lead in your ladies, ev'ry one. Sweet partner, I must not yet forsake you. Let's be merry: Good my Lord Cardinal, I have half a dozen healths To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it. Exeunt, with trumpets <> ACT II. SCENE 1. Westminster. A street Enter two GENTLEMEN, at several doors FIRST GENTLEMAN. Whither away so fast? SECOND GENTLEMAN. O, God save ye! Ev'n to the Hall, to hear what shall become Of the great Duke of Buckingham. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll save you That labour, sir. All's now done but the ceremony Of bringing back the prisoner. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Were you there? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, indeed, was I. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Pray, speak what has happen'd. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You may guess quickly what. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is he found guilty? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon't. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am sorry for't. FIRST GENTLEMAN. So are a number more. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But, pray, how pass'd it? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I'll tell you in a little. The great Duke. Came to the bar; where to his accusations He pleaded still not guilty, and alleged Many sharp reasons to defeat the law. The King's attorney, on the contrary, Urg'd on the examinations, proofs, confessions, Of divers witnesses; which the Duke desir'd To have brought, viva voce, to his face; At which appear'd against him his surveyor, Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor, and John Car, Confessor to him, with that devil-monk, Hopkins, that made this mischief. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That was he That fed him with his prophecies? FIRST GENTLEMAN. The same. All these accus'd him strongly, which he fain Would have flung from him; but indeed he could not; And so his peers, upon this evidence, Have found him guilty of high treason. Much He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all Was either pitied in him or forgotten. SECOND GENTLEMAN. After all this, how did he bear him-self FIRST GENTLEMAN. When he was brought again to th' bar to hear His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd With such an agony he sweat extremely, And something spoke in choler, ill and hasty; But he fell to himself again, and sweetly In all the rest show'd a most noble patience. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I do not think he fears death. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sure, he does not; He never was so womanish; the cause He may a little grieve at. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Certainly The Cardinal is the end of this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis likely, By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder, Then deputy of Ireland, who remov'd, Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too, Lest he should help his father. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That trick of state Was a deep envious one. FIRST GENTLEMAN. At his return No doubt he will requite it. This is noted, And generally: whoever the King favours The Cardinal instantly will find employment, And far enough from court too. SECOND GENTLEMAN. All the commons Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience, Wish him ten fathom deep: this Duke as much They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham, The mirror of all courtesy- Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment, tip-staves before him; the axe with the edge towards him; halberds on each side; accompanied with SIR THOMAS LOVELL, SIR NICHOLAS VAUX, SIR WILLIAM SANDYS, and common people, etc. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Stay there, sir, And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Let's stand close, and behold him. BUCKINGHAM. All good people, You that thus far have come to pity me, Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me. I have this day receiv'd a traitor's judgment, And by that name must die; yet, heaven bear witness, And if I have a conscience, let it sink me Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful! The law I bear no malice for my death: 'T has done, upon the premises, but justice. But those that sought it I could wish more Christians. Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em; Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief Nor build their evils on the graves of great men, For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em. For further life in this world I ne'er hope Nor will I sue, although the King have mercies More than I dare make faults. You few that lov'd me And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham, His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave Is only bitter to him, only dying, Go with me like good angels to my end; And as the long divorce of steel falls on me Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice, And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, a God's name. LOVELL. I do beseech your Grace, for charity, If ever any malice in your heart Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly. BUCKINGHAM. Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you As I would be forgiven. I forgive all. There cannot be those numberless offences 'Gainst me that I cannot take peace with. No black envy Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his Grace; And if he speak of Buckingham, pray tell him You met him half in heaven. My vows and prayers Yet are the King's, and, till my soul forsake, Shall cry for blessings on him. May he live Longer than I have time to tell his years; Ever belov'd and loving may his rule be; And when old time Shall lead him to his end, Goodness and he fill up one monument! LOVELL. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace; Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux, Who undertakes you to your end. VAUX. Prepare there; The Duke is coming; see the barge be ready; And fit it with such furniture as suits The greatness of his person. BUCKINGHAM. Nay, Sir Nicholas, Let it alone; my state now will but mock me. When I came hither I was Lord High Constable And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun. Yet I am richer than my base accusers That never knew what truth meant; I now seal it; And with that blood will make 'em one day groan fort. My noble father, Henry of Buckingham, Who first rais'd head against usurping Richard, Flying for succour to his servant Banister, Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd And without trial fell; God's peace be with him! Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying My father's loss, like a most royal prince, Restor'd me to my honours, and out of ruins Made my name once more noble. Now his son, Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name, and all That made me happy, at one stroke has taken For ever from the world. I had my trial, And must needs say a noble one; which makes me A little happier than my wretched father; Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both Fell by our servants, by those men we lov'd most- A most unnatural and faithless service. Heaven has an end in all. Yet, you that hear me, This from a dying man receive as certain: Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels, Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends And give your hearts to, when they once perceive The least rub in your fortunes, fall away Like water from ye, never found again But where they mean to sink ye. All good people, Pray for me! I must now forsake ye; the last hour Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell; And when you would say something that is sad, Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me! Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and train FIRST GENTLEMAN. O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls, I fear, too many curses on their heads That were the authors. SECOND GENTLEMAN. If the Duke be guiltless, 'Tis full of woe; yet I can give you inkling Of an ensuing evil, if it fall, Greater than this. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good angels keep it from us! What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir? SECOND GENTLEMAN. This secret is so weighty, 'twill require A strong faith to conceal it. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Let me have it; I do not talk much. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I am confident. You shall, sir. Did you not of late days hear A buzzing of a separation Between the King and Katharine? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes, but it held not; For when the King once heard it, out of anger He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight To stop the rumour and allay those tongues That durst disperse it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But that slander, sir, Is found a truth now; for it grows again Fresher than e'er it was, and held for certain The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinal Or some about him near have, out of malice To the good Queen, possess'd him with a scruple That will undo her. To confirm this too, Cardinal Campeius is arriv'd and lately; As all think, for this business. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the Cardinal; And merely to revenge him on the Emperor For not bestowing on him at his asking The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purpos'd. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I think you have hit the mark; but is't not cruel That she should feel the smart of this? The Cardinal Will have his will, and she must fall. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis woeful. We are too open here to argue this; Let's think in private more. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 2. London. The palace Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN reading this letter CHAMBERLAIN. 'My lord, 'The horses your lordship sent for, with all the care had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and furnish'd. They were young and handsome, and of the best breed in the north. When they were ready to set out for London, a man of my Lord Cardinal's, by commission, and main power, took 'em from me, with this reason: his master would be serv'd before a subject, if not before the King; which stopp'd our mouths, sir.' I fear he will indeed. Well, let him have them. He will have all, I think. Enter to the LORD CHAMBERLAIN the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK NORFOLK. Well met, my Lord Chamberlain. CHAMBERLAIN. Good day to both your Graces. SUFFOLK. How is the King employ'd? CHAMBERLAIN. I left him private, Full of sad thoughts and troubles. NORFOLK. What's the cause? CHAMBERLAIN. It seems the marriage with his brother's wife Has crept too near his conscience. SUFFOLK. No, his conscience Has crept too near another lady. NORFOLK. 'Tis so; This is the Cardinal's doing; the King-Cardinal, That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune, Turns what he list. The King will know him one day. SUFFOLK. Pray God he do! He'll never know himself else. NORFOLK. How holily he works in all his business! And with what zeal! For, now he has crack'd the league Between us and the Emperor, the Queen's great nephew, He dives into the King's soul and there scatters Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience, Fears, and despairs-and all these for his marriage; And out of all these to restore the King, He counsels a divorce, a loss of her That like a jewel has hung twenty years About his neck, yet never lost her lustre; Of her that loves him with that excellence That angels love good men with; even of her That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls, Will bless the King-and is not this course pious? CHAMBERLAIN. Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true These news are everywhere; every tongue speaks 'em, And every true heart weeps for 't. All that dare Look into these affairs see this main end- The French King's sister. Heaven will one day open The King's eyes, that so long have slept upon This bold bad man. SUFFOLK. And free us from his slavery. NORFOLK. We had need pray, and heartily, for our deliverance; Or this imperious man will work us an From princes into pages. All men's honours Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd Into what pitch he please. SUFFOLK. For me, my lords, I love him not, nor fear him-there's my creed; As I am made without him, so I'll stand, If the King please; his curses and his blessings Touch me alike; th' are breath I not believe in. I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him To him that made him proud-the Pope. NORFOLK. Let's in; And with some other business put the King From these sad thoughts that work too much upon him. My lord, you'll bear us company? CHAMBERLAIN. Excuse me, The King has sent me otherwhere; besides, You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him. Health to your lordships! NORFOLK. Thanks, my good Lord Chamberlain. Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN; and the KING draws the curtain and sits reading pensively SUFFOLK. How sad he looks; sure, he is much afflicted. KING. Who's there, ha? NORFOLK. Pray God he be not angry. KING HENRY. Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves Into my private meditations? Who am I, ha? NORFOLK. A gracious king that pardons all offences Malice ne'er meant. Our breach of duty this way Is business of estate, in which we come To know your royal pleasure. KING. Ye are too bold. Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business. Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha? Enter WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS with a commission Who's there? My good Lord Cardinal? O my Wolsey, The quiet of my wounded conscience, Thou art a cure fit for a King. [To CAMPEIUS] You're welcome, Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom. Use us and it. [To WOLSEY] My good lord, have great care I be not found a talker. WOLSEY. Sir, you cannot. I would your Grace would give us but an hour Of private conference. KING. [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK] We are busy; go. NORFOLK. [Aside to SUFFOLK] This priest has no pride in him! SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] Not to speak of! I would not be so sick though for his place. But this cannot continue. NORFOLK. [Aside to SUFFOLK] If it do, I'll venture one have-at-him. SUFFOLK. [Aside to NORFOLK] I another. Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK WOLSEY. Your Grace has given a precedent of wisdom Above all princes, in committing freely Your scruple to the voice of Christendom. Who can be angry now? What envy reach you? The Spaniard, tied by blood and favour to her, Must now confess, if they have any goodness, The trial just and noble. All the clerks, I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms Have their free voices. Rome the nurse of judgment, Invited by your noble self, hath sent One general tongue unto us, this good man, This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius, Whom once more I present unto your Highness. KING. And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome, And thank the holy conclave for their loves. They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for. CAMPEIUS. Your Grace must needs deserve an strangers' loves, You are so noble. To your Highness' hand I tender my commission; by whose virtue- The court of Rome commanding-you, my Lord Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant In the unpartial judging of this business. KING. Two equal men. The Queen shall be acquainted Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner? WOLSEY. I know your Majesty has always lov'd her So dear in heart not to deny her that A woman of less place might ask by law- Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her. KING. Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour To him that does best. God forbid else. Cardinal, Prithee call Gardiner to me, my new secretary; I find him a fit fellow. Exit WOLSEY Re-enter WOLSEY with GARDINER WOLSEY. [Aside to GARDINER] Give me your hand: much joy and favour to you; You are the King's now. GARDINER. [Aside to WOLSEY] But to be commanded For ever by your Grace, whose hand has rais'd me. KING. Come hither, Gardiner. [Walks and whispers] CAMPEIUS. My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace In this man's place before him? WOLSEY. Yes, he was. CAMPEIUS. Was he not held a learned man? WOLSEY. Yes, surely. CAMPEIUS. Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then, Even of yourself, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How! Of me? CAMPEIUS. They will not stick to say you envied him And, fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous, Kept him a foreign man still; which so griev'd him That he ran mad and died. WOLSEY. Heav'n's peace be with him! That's Christian care enough. For living murmurers There's places of rebuke. He was a fool, For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow, If I command him, follows my appointment. I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother, We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons. KING. Deliver this with modesty to th' Queen. Exit GARDINER The most convenient place that I can think of For such receipt of learning is Blackfriars; There ye shall meet about this weighty business- My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord, Would it not grieve an able man to leave So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience! O, 'tis a tender place! and I must leave her. Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter ANNE BULLEN and an OLD LADY ANNE. Not for that neither. Here's the pang that pinches: His Highness having liv'd so long with her, and she So good a lady that no tongue could ever Pronounce dishonour of her-by my life, She never knew harm-doing-O, now, after So many courses of the sun enthroned, Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than 'Tis sweet at first t' acquire-after this process, To give her the avaunt, it is a pity Would move a monster. OLD LADY. Hearts of most hard temper Melt and lament for her. ANNE. O, God's will! much better She ne'er had known pomp; though't be temporal, Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging As soul and body's severing. OLD LADY. Alas, poor lady! She's a stranger now again. ANNE. So much the more Must pity drop upon her. Verily, I swear 'tis better to be lowly born And range with humble livers in content Than to be perk'd up in a glist'ring grief And wear a golden sorrow. OLD LADY. Our content Is our best having. ANNE. By my troth and maidenhead, I would not be a queen. OLD LADY. Beshrew me, I would, And venture maidenhead for 't; and so would you, For all this spice of your hypocrisy. You that have so fair parts of woman on you Have too a woman's heart, which ever yet Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty; Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts, Saving your mincing, the capacity Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive If you might please to stretch it. ANNE. Nay, good troth. OLD LADY. Yes, troth and troth. You would not be a queen! ANNE. No, not for all the riches under heaven. OLD LADY. 'Tis strange: a threepence bow'd would hire me, Old as I am, to queen it. But, I pray you, What think you of a duchess? Have you limbs To bear that load of title? ANNE. No, in truth. OLD LADY. Then you are weakly made. Pluck off a little; I would not be a young count in your way For more than blushing comes to. If your back Cannot vouchsafe this burden, 'tis too weak Ever to get a boy. ANNE. How you do talk! I swear again I would not be a queen For all the world. OLD LADY. In faith, for little England You'd venture an emballing. I myself Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd No more to th' crown but that. Lo, who comes here? Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN CHAMBERLAIN. Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know The secret of your conference? ANNE. My good lord, Not your demand; it values not your asking. Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying. CHAMBERLAIN. It was a gentle business and becoming The action of good women; there is hope All will be well. ANNE. Now, I pray God, amen! CHAMBERLAIN. You bear a gentle mind, and heav'nly blessings Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady, Perceive I speak sincerely and high notes Ta'en of your many virtues, the King's Majesty Commends his good opinion of you to you, and Does purpose honour to you no less flowing Than Marchioness of Pembroke; to which tide A thousand pound a year, annual support, Out of his grace he adds. ANNE. I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender; More than my all is nothing, nor my prayers Are not words duly hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship, Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience, As from a blushing handmaid, to his Highness; Whose health and royalty I pray for. CHAMBERLAIN. Lady, I shall not fail t' approve the fair conceit The King hath of you. [Aside] I have perus'd her well: Beauty and honour in her are so mingled That they have caught the King; and who knows yet But from this lady may proceed a gem To lighten all this isle?-I'll to the King And say I spoke with you. ANNE. My honour'd lord! Exit LORD CHAMBERLAIN OLD LADY. Why, this it is: see, see! I have been begging sixteen years in court- Am yet a courtier beggarly-nor could Come pat betwixt too early and too late For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate! A very fresh-fish here-fie, fie, fie upon This compell'd fortune!-have your mouth fill'd up Before you open it. ANNE. This is strange to me. OLD LADY. How tastes it? Is it bitter? Forty pence, no. There was a lady once-'tis an old story- That would not be a queen, that would she not, For all the mud in Egypt. Have you heard it? ANNE. Come, you are pleasant. OLD LADY. With your theme I could O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke! A thousand pounds a year for pure respect! No other obligation! By my life, That promises moe thousands: honour's train Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time I know your back will bear a duchess. Say, Are you not stronger than you were? ANNE. Good lady, Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy, And leave me out on't. Would I had no being, If this salute my blood a jot; it faints me To think what follows. The Queen is comfortless, and we forgetful In our long absence. Pray, do not deliver What here y' have heard to her. OLD LADY. What do you think me? Exeunt ACT II. SCENE 4. London. A hall in Blackfriars Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two VERGERS, with short silver wands; next them, two SCRIBES, in the habit of doctors; after them, the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY alone; after him, the BISHOPS OF LINCOLN, ELY, ROCHESTER, and SAINT ASAPH; next them, with some small distance, follows a GENTLEMAN bearing the purse, with the great seal, and a Cardinal's hat; then two PRIESTS, bearing each silver cross; then a GENTLEMAN USHER bareheaded, accompanied with a SERGEANT-AT-ARMS bearing a silver mace; then two GENTLEMEN bearing two great silver pillars; after them, side by side, the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS; two NOBLEMEN with the sword and mace. Then enter the KING and QUEEN and their trains. The KING takes place under the cloth of state; the two CARDINALS sit under him as judges. The QUEEN takes place some distance from the KING. The BISHOPS place themselves on each side of the court, in manner of consistory; below them the SCRIBES. The LORDS sit next the BISHOPS. The rest of the attendants stand in convenient order about the stage WOLSEY. Whilst our commission from Rome is read, Let silence be commanded. KING. What's the need? It hath already publicly been read, And on all sides th' authority allow'd; You may then spare that time. WOLSEY. Be't so; proceed. SCRIBE. Say 'Henry King of England, come into the court.' CRIER. Henry King of England, &c. KING. Here. SCRIBE. Say 'Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.' CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, &c. The QUEEN makes no answer, rises out of her chair, goes about the court, comes to the KING, and kneels at his feet; then speaks QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I desire you do me right and justice, And to bestow your pity on me; for I am a most poor woman and a stranger, Born out of your dominions, having here No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir, In what have I offended you? What cause Hath my behaviour given to your displeasure That thus you should proceed to put me of And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness, I have been to you a true and humble wife, At all times to your will conformable, Ever in fear to kindle your dislike, Yea, subject to your countenance-glad or sorry As I saw it inclin'd. When was the hour I ever contradicted your desire Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends Have I not strove to love, although I knew He were mine enemy? What friend of mine That had to him deriv'd your anger did Continue in my liking? Nay, gave notice He was from thence discharg'd? Sir, call to mind That I have been your wife in this obedience Upward of twenty years, and have been blest With many children by you. If, in the course And process of this time, you can report, And prove it too against mine honour, aught, My bond to wedlock or my love and duty, Against your sacred person, in God's name, Turn me away and let the foul'st contempt Shut door upon me, and so give me up To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you, sir, The King, your father, was reputed for A prince most prudent, of an excellent And unmatch'd wit and judgment; Ferdinand, My father, King of Spain, was reckon'd one The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many A year before. It is not to be question'd That they had gather'd a wise council to them Of every realm, that did debate this business, Who deem'd our marriage lawful. Wherefore I humbly Beseech you, sir, to spare me till I may Be by my friends in Spain advis'd, whose counsel I will implore. If not, i' th' name of God, Your pleasure be fulfill'd! WOLSEY. You have here, lady, And of your choice, these reverend fathers-men Of singular integrity and learning, Yea, the elect o' th' land, who are assembled To plead your cause. It shall be therefore bootless That longer you desire the court, as well For your own quiet as to rectify What is unsettled in the King. CAMPEIUS. His Grace Hath spoken well and justly; therefore, madam, It's fit this royal session do proceed And that, without delay, their arguments Be now produc'd and heard. QUEEN KATHARINE. Lord Cardinal, To you I speak. WOLSEY. Your pleasure, madam? QUEEN KATHARINE. Sir, I am about to weep; but, thinking that We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain The daughter of a king, my drops of tears I'll turn to sparks of fire. WOLSEY. Be patient yet. QUEEN KATHARINE. I Will, when you are humble; nay, before Or God will punish me. I do believe, Induc'd by potent circumstances, that You are mine enemy, and make my challenge You shall not be my judge; for it is you Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me- Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again, I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul Refuse you for my judge, whom yet once more I hold my most malicious foe and think not At all a friend to truth. WOLSEY. I do profess You speak not like yourself, who ever yet Have stood to charity and display'd th' effects Of disposition gentle and of wisdom O'ertopping woman's pow'r. Madam, you do me wrong: I have no spleen against you, nor injustice For you or any; how far I have proceeded, Or how far further shall, is warranted By a commission from the Consistory, Yea, the whole Consistory of Rome. You charge me That I have blown this coal: I do deny it. The King is present; if it be known to him That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound, And worthily, my falsehood! Yea, as much As you have done my truth. If he know That I am free of your report, he knows I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him It lies to cure me, and the cure is to Remove these thoughts from you; the which before His Highness shall speak in, I do beseech You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking And to say so no more. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, my lord, I am a simple woman, much too weak T' oppose your cunning. Y'are meek and humble-mouth'd; You sign your place and calling, in full seeming, With meekness and humility; but your heart Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride. You have, by fortune and his Highness' favours, Gone slightly o'er low steps, and now are mounted Where pow'rs are your retainers, and your words, Domestics to you, serve your will as't please Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you You tender more your person's honour than Your high profession spiritual; that again I do refuse you for my judge and here, Before you all, appeal unto the Pope, To bring my whole cause 'fore his Holiness And to be judg'd by him. [She curtsies to the KING, and offers to depart] CAMPEIUS. The Queen is obstinate, Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and Disdainful to be tried by't; 'tis not well. She's going away. KING. Call her again. CRIER. Katharine Queen of England, come into the court. GENTLEMAN USHER. Madam, you are call'd back. QUEEN KATHARINE. What need you note it? Pray you keep your way; When you are call'd, return. Now the Lord help! They vex me past my patience. Pray you pass on. I will not tarry; no, nor ever more Upon this business my appearance make In any of their courts. Exeunt QUEEN and her attendants KING. Go thy ways, Kate. That man i' th' world who shall report he has A better wife, let him in nought be trusted For speaking false in that. Thou art, alone- If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness, Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government, Obeying in commanding, and thy parts Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out- The queen of earthly queens. She's noble born; And like her true nobility she has Carried herself towards me. WOLSEY. Most gracious sir, In humblest manner I require your Highness That it shall please you to declare in hearing Of all these ears-for where I am robb'd and bound, There must I be unloos'd, although not there At once and fully satisfied-whether ever I Did broach this business to your Highness, or Laid any scruple in your way which might Induce you to the question on't, or ever Have to you, but with thanks to God for such A royal lady, spake one the least word that might Be to the prejudice of her present state, Or touch of her good person? KING. My Lord Cardinal, I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour, I free you from't. You are not to be taught That you have many enemies that know not Why they are so, but, like to village curs, Bark when their fellows do. By some of these The Queen is put in anger. Y'are excus'd. But will you be more justified? You ever Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never desir'd It to be stirr'd; but oft have hind'red, oft, The passages made toward it. On my honour, I speak my good Lord Cardinal to this point, And thus far clear him. Now, what mov'd me to't, I will be bold with time and your attention. Then mark th' inducement. Thus it came-give heed to't: My conscience first receiv'd a tenderness, Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd By th' Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador, Who had been hither sent on the debating A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and Our daughter Mary. I' th' progress of this business, Ere a determinate resolution, he- I mean the Bishop-did require a respite Wherein he might the King his lord advertise Whether our daughter were legitimate, Respecting this our marriage with the dowager, Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me, Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble The region of my breast, which forc'd such way That many maz'd considerings did throng And press'd in with this caution. First, methought I stood not in the smile of heaven, who had Commanded nature that my lady's womb, If it conceiv'd a male child by me, should Do no more offices of life to't than The grave does to the dead; for her male issue Or died where they were made, or shortly after This world had air'd them. Hence I took a thought This was a judgment on me, that my kingdom, Well worthy the best heir o' th' world, should not Be gladded in't by me. Then follows that I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in By this my issue's fail, and that gave to me Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer Toward this remedy, whereupon we are Now present here together; that's to say I meant to rectify my conscience, which I then did feel full sick, and yet not well, By all the reverend fathers of the land And doctors learn'd. First, I began in private With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember How under my oppression I did reek, When I first mov'd you. LINCOLN. Very well, my liege. KING. I have spoke long; be pleas'd yourself to say How far you satisfied me. LINCOLN. So please your Highness, The question did at first so stagger me- Bearing a state of mighty moment in't And consequence of dread-that I committed The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt, And did entreat your Highness to this course Which you are running here. KING. I then mov'd you, My Lord of Canterbury, and got your leave To make this present summons. Unsolicited I left no reverend person in this court, But by particular consent proceeded Under your hands and seals; therefore, go on, For no dislike i' th' world against the person Of the good Queen, but the sharp thorny points Of my alleged reasons, drives this forward. Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life And kingly dignity, we are contented To wear our moral state to come with her, Katharine our queen, before the primest creature That's paragon'd o' th' world. CAMPEIUS. So please your Highness, The Queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness That we adjourn this court till further day; Meanwhile must be an earnest motion Made to the Queen to call back her appeal She intends unto his Holiness. KING. [Aside] I may perceive These cardinals trifle with me. I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome. My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer, Prithee return. With thy approach I know My comfort comes along. -Break up the court; I say, set on. Exuent in manner as they entered <> ACT III. SCENE 1. London. The QUEEN'S apartments Enter the QUEEN and her women, as at work QUEEN KATHARINE. Take thy lute, wench. My soul grows sad with troubles; Sing and disperse 'em, if thou canst. Leave working. SONG Orpheus with his lute made trees, And the mountain tops that freeze, Bow themselves when he did sing; To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung, as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Every thing that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads and then lay by. In sweet music is such art, Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep or hearing die. Enter a GENTLEMAN QUEEN KATHARINE. How now? GENTLEMAN. An't please your Grace, the two great Cardinals Wait in the presence. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would they speak with me? GENTLEMAN. They will'd me say so, madam. QUEEN KATHARINE. Pray their Graces To come near. [Exit GENTLEMAN] What can be their business With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour? I do not like their coming. Now I think on't, They should be good men, their affairs as righteous; But all hoods make not monks. Enter the two CARDINALS, WOLSEY and CAMPEIUS WOLSEY. Peace to your Highness! QUEEN KATHARINE. Your Graces find me here part of housewife; I would be all, against the worst may happen. What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords? WOLSEY. May it please you, noble madam, to withdraw Into your private chamber, we shall give you The full cause of our coming. QUEEN KATHARINE. Speak it here; There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience, Deserves a corner. Would all other women Could speak this with as free a soul as I do! My lords, I care not-so much I am happy Above a number-if my actions Were tried by ev'ry tongue, ev'ry eye saw 'em, Envy and base opinion set against 'em, I know my life so even. If your business Seek me out, and that way I am wife in, Out with it boldly; truth loves open dealing. WOLSEY. Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina serenis-sima- QUEEN KATHARINE. O, good my lord, no Latin! I am not such a truant since my coming, As not to know the language I have liv'd in; A strange tongue makes my cause more strange, suspicious; Pray speak in English. Here are some will thank you, If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake: Believe me, she has had much wrong. Lord Cardinal, The willing'st sin I ever yet committed May be absolv'd in English. WOLSEY. Noble lady, I am sorry my integrity should breed, And service to his Majesty and you, So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant We come not by the way of accusation To taint that honour every good tongue blesses, Nor to betray you any way to sorrow- You have too much, good lady; but to know How you stand minded in the weighty difference Between the King and you, and to deliver, Like free and honest men, our just opinions And comforts to your cause. CAMPEIUS. Most honour'd madam, My Lord of York, out of his noble nature, Zeal and obedience he still bore your Grace, Forgetting, like a good man, your late censure Both of his truth and him-which was too far- Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace, His service and his counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. [Aside] To betray me.- My lords, I thank you both for your good wins; Ye speak like honest men-pray God ye prove so! But how to make ye suddenly an answer, In such a point of weight, so near mine honour, More near my life, I fear, with my weak wit, And to such men of gravity and learning, In truth I know not. I was set at work Among my maids, full little, God knows, looking Either for such men or such business. For her sake that I have been-for I feel The last fit of my greatness-good your Graces, Let me have time and counsel for my cause. Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless! WOLSEY. Madam, you wrong the King's love with these fears; Your hopes and friends are infinite. QUEEN KATHARINE. In England But little for my profit; can you think, lords, That any Englishman dare give me counsel? Or be a known friend, 'gainst his Highness' pleasure- Though he be grown so desperate to be honest- And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends, They that must weigh out my afflictions, They that my trust must grow to, live not here; They are, as all my other comforts, far hence, In mine own country, lords. CAMPEIUS. I would your Grace Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel. QUEEN KATHARINE. How, sir? CAMPEIUS. Put your main cause into the King's protection; He's loving and most gracious. 'Twill be much Both for your honour better and your cause; For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye You'll part away disgrac'd. WOLSEY. He tells you rightly. QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye tell me what ye wish for both-my ruin. Is this your Christian counsel? Out upon ye! Heaven is above all yet: there sits a Judge That no king can corrupt. CAMPEIUS. Your rage mistakes us. QUEEN KATHARINE. The more shame for ye; holy men I thought ye, Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues; But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye. Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort? The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady- A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd? I will not wish ye half my miseries: I have more charity; but say I warned ye. Take heed, for heaven's sake take heed, lest at once The burden of my sorrows fall upon ye. WOLSEY. Madam, this is a mere distraction; You turn the good we offer into envy. QUEEN KATHARINE. Ye turn me into nothing. Woe upon ye, And all such false professors! Would you have me- If you have any justice, any pity, If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits- Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me? Alas! has banish'd me his bed already, His love too long ago! I am old, my lords, And all the fellowship I hold now with him Is only my obedience. What can happen To me above this wretchedness? All your studies Make me a curse like this. CAMPEIUS. Your fears are worse. QUEEN KATHARINE. Have I liv'd thus long-let me speak myself, Since virtue finds no friends-a wife, a true one? A woman, I dare say without vain-glory, Never yet branded with suspicion? Have I with all my full affections Still met the King, lov'd him next heav'n, obey'd him, Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him, Almost forgot my prayers to content him, And am I thus rewarded? 'Tis not well, lords. Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience. WOLSEY. Madam, you wander from the good we aim at. QUEEN KATHARINE. My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty, To give up willingly that noble title Your master wed me to: nothing but death Shall e'er divorce my dignities. WOLSEY. Pray hear me. QUEEN KATHARINE. Would I had never trod this English earth, Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it! Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts. What will become of me now, wretched lady? I am the most unhappy woman living. [To her WOMEN] Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes? Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity, No friends, no hope; no kindred weep for me; Almost no grave allow'd me. Like the My, That once was mistress of the field, and flourish'd, I'll hang my head and perish. WOLSEY. If your Grace Could but be brought to know our ends are honest, You'd feel more comfort. Why should we, good lady, Upon what cause, wrong you? Alas, our places, The way of our profession is against it; We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em. For goodness' sake, consider what you do; How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly Grow from the King's acquaintance, by this carriage. The hearts of princes kiss obedience, So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits They swell and grow as terrible as storms. I know you have a gentle, noble temper, A soul as even as a calm. Pray think us Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants. CAMPEIUS. Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues With these weak women's fears. A noble spirit, As yours was put into you, ever casts Such doubts as false coin from it. The King loves you; Beware you lose it not. For us, if you please To trust us in your business, we are ready To use our utmost studies in your service. QUEEN KATHARINE. Do what ye will my lords; and pray forgive me If I have us'd myself unmannerly; You know I am a woman, lacking wit To make a seemly answer to such persons. Pray do my service to his Majesty; He has my heart yet, and shall have my prayers While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers, Bestow your counsels on me; she now begs That little thought, when she set footing here, She should have bought her dignities so dear. Exeunt ACT III.SCENE 2. London. The palace Enter the DUKE OF NORFOLK, the DUKE OF SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN NORFOLK. If you will now unite in your complaints And force them with a constancy, the Cardinal Cannot stand under them: if you omit The offer of this time, I cannot promise But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces With these you bear already. SURREY. I am joyful To meet the least occasion that may give me Remembrance of my father-in-law, the Duke, To be reveng'd on him. SUFFOLK. Which of the peers Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least Strangely neglected? When did he regard The stamp of nobleness in any person Out of himself? CHAMBERLAIN. My lords, you speak your pleasures. What he deserves of you and me I know; What we can do to him-though now the time Gives way to us-I much fear. If you cannot Bar his access to th' King, never attempt Anything on him; for he hath a witchcraft Over the King in's tongue. NORFOLK. O, fear him not! His spell in that is out; the King hath found Matter against him that for ever mars The honey of his language. No, he's settled, Not to come off, in his displeasure. SURREY. Sir, I should be glad to hear such news as this Once every hour. NORFOLK. Believe it, this is true: In the divorce his contrary proceedings Are all unfolded; wherein he appears As I would wish mine enemy. SURREY. How came His practices to light? SUFFOLK. Most Strangely. SURREY. O, how, how? SUFFOLK. The Cardinal's letters to the Pope miscarried, And came to th' eye o' th' King; wherein was read How that the Cardinal did entreat his Holiness To stay the judgment o' th' divorce; for if It did take place, 'I do' quoth he 'perceive My king is tangled in affection to A creature of the Queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.' SURREY. Has the King this? SUFFOLK. Believe it. SURREY. Will this work? CHAMBERLAIN. The King in this perceives him how he coasts And hedges his own way. But in this point All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic After his patient's death: the King already Hath married the fair lady. SURREY. Would he had! SUFFOLK. May you be happy in your wish, my lord! For, I profess, you have it. SURREY. Now, all my joy Trace the conjunction! SUFFOLK. My amen to't! NORFOLK. An men's! SUFFOLK. There's order given for her coronation; Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords, She is a gallant creature, and complete In mind and feature. I persuade me from her Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall In it be memoriz'd. SURREY. But will the King Digest this letter of the Cardinal's? The Lord forbid! NORFOLK. Marry, amen! SUFFOLK. No, no; There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius Is stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave; Has left the cause o' th' King unhandled, and Is posted, as the agent of our Cardinal, To second all his plot. I do assure you The King cried 'Ha!' at this. CHAMBERLAIN. Now, God incense him, And let him cry 'Ha!' louder! NORFOLK. But, my lord, When returns Cranmer? SUFFOLK. He is return'd in his opinions; which Have satisfied the King for his divorce, Together with all famous colleges Almost in Christendom. Shortly, I believe, His second marriage shall be publish'd, and Her coronation. Katharine no more Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager And widow to Prince Arthur. NORFOLK. This same Cranmer's A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain In the King's business. SUFFOLK. He has; and we shall see him For it an archbishop. NORFOLK. So I hear. SUFFOLK. 'Tis so. Enter WOLSEY and CROMWELL The Cardinal! NORFOLK. Observe, observe, he's moody. WOLSEY. The packet, Cromwell, Gave't you the King? CROMWELL. To his own hand, in's bedchamber. WOLSEY. Look'd he o' th' inside of the paper? CROMWELL. Presently He did unseal them; and the first he view'd, He did it with a serious mind; a heed Was in his countenance. You he bade Attend him here this morning. WOLSEY. Is he ready To come abroad? CROMWELL. I think by this he is. WOLSEY. Leave me awhile. Exit CROMWELL [Aside] It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon, The French King's sister; he shall marry her. Anne Bullen! No, I'll no Anne Bullens for him; There's more in't than fair visage. Bullen! No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke! NORFOLK. He's discontented. SUFFOLK. May be he hears the King Does whet his anger to him. SURREY. Sharp enough, Lord, for thy justice! WOLSEY. [Aside] The late Queen's gentlewoman, a knight's daughter, To be her mistress' mistress! The Queen's queen! This candle burns not clear. 'Tis I must snuff it; Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous And well deserving? Yet I know her for A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to Our cause that she should lie i' th' bosom of Our hard-rul'd King. Again, there is sprung up An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one Hath crawl'd into the favour of the King, And is his oracle. NORFOLK. He is vex'd at something. Enter the KING, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL SURREY. I would 'twere something that would fret the string, The master-cord on's heart! SUFFOLK. The King, the King! KING. What piles of wealth hath he accumulated To his own portion! And what expense by th' hour Seems to flow from him! How, i' th' name of thrift, Does he rake this together?-Now, my lords, Saw you the Cardinal? NORFOLK. My lord, we have Stood here observing him. Some strange commotion Is in his brain: he bites his lip and starts, Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground, Then lays his finger on his temple; straight Springs out into fast gait; then stops again, Strikes his breast hard; and anon he casts His eye against the moon. In most strange postures We have seen him set himself. KING. It may well be There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning Papers of state he sent me to peruse, As I requir'd; and wot you what I found There-on my conscience, put unwittingly? Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing The several parcels of his plate, his treasure, Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which I find at such proud rate that it outspeaks Possession of a subject. NORFOLK. It's heaven's will; Some spirit put this paper in the packet To bless your eye withal. KING. If we did think His contemplation were above the earth And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still dwell in his musings; but I am afraid His thinkings are below the moon, not worth His serious considering. [The KING takes his seat and whispers LOVELL, who goes to the CARDINAL] WOLSEY. Heaven forgive me! Ever God bless your Highness! KING. Good, my lord, You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory Of your best graces in your mind; the which You were now running o'er. You have scarce time To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span To keep your earthly audit; sure, in that I deem you an ill husband, and am glad To have you therein my companion. WOLSEY. Sir, For holy offices I have a time; a time To think upon the part of business which I bear i' th' state; and nature does require Her times of preservation, which perforce I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal, Must give my tendance to. KING. You have said well. WOLSEY. And ever may your Highness yoke together, As I will lend you cause, my doing well With my well saying! KING. 'Tis well said again; And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well; And yet words are no deeds. My father lov'd you: He said he did; and with his deed did crown His word upon you. Since I had my office I have kept you next my heart; have not alone Employ'd you where high profits might come home, But par'd my present havings to bestow My bounties upon you. WOLSEY. [Aside] What should this mean? SURREY. [Aside] The Lord increase this business! KING. Have I not made you The prime man of the state? I pray you tell me If what I now pronounce you have found true; And, if you may confess it, say withal If you are bound to us or no. What say you? WOLSEY. My sovereign, I confess your royal graces, Show'r'd on me daily, have been more than could My studied purposes requite; which went Beyond all man's endeavours. My endeavours, Have ever come too short of my desires, Yet fil'd with my abilities; mine own ends Have been mine so that evermore they pointed To th' good of your most sacred person and The profit of the state. For your great graces Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I Can nothing render but allegiant thanks; My pray'rs to heaven for you; my loyalty, Which ever has and ever shall be growing, Till death, that winter, kill it. KING. Fairly answer'd! A loyal and obedient subject is Therein illustrated; the honour of it Does pay the act of it, as, i' th' contrary, The foulness is the punishment. I presume That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you, My heart dropp'd love, my pow'r rain'd honour, more On you than any, so your hand and heart, Your brain, and every function of your power, Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty, As 'twere in love's particular, be more To me, your friend, than any. WOLSEY. I do profess That for your Highness' good I ever labour'd More than mine own; that am, have, and will be- Though all the world should crack their duty to you, And throw it from their soul; though perils did Abound as thick as thought could make 'em, and Appear in forms more horrid-yet my duty, As doth a rock against the chiding flood, Should the approach of this wild river break, And stand unshaken yours. KING. 'Tis nobly spoken. Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast, For you have seen him open 't. Read o'er this; [Giving him papers] And after, this; and then to breakfast with What appetite you have. Exit the KING, frowning upon the CARDINAL; the NOBLES throng after him, smiling and whispering WOLSEY. What should this mean? What sudden anger's this? How have I reap'd it? He parted frowning from me, as if ruin Leap'd from his eyes; so looks the chafed lion Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him- Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper; I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so; This paper has undone me. 'Tis th' account Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together For mine own ends; indeed to gain the popedom, And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence, Fit for a fool to fall by! What cross devil Made me put this main secret in the packet I sent the King? Is there no way to cure this? No new device to beat this from his brains? I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune, Will bring me off again. What's this? 'To th' Pope.' The letter, as I live, with all the business I writ to's Holiness. Nay then, farewell! I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, And from that full meridian of my glory I haste now to my setting. I shall fall Like a bright exhalation in the evening, And no man see me more. Re-enter to WOLSEY the DUKES OF NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, the EARL OF SURREY, and the LORD CHAMBERLAIN NORFOLK. Hear the King's pleasure, Cardinal, who commands you To render up the great seal presently Into our hands, and to confine yourself To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's, Till you hear further from his Highness. WOLSEY. Stay: Where's your commission, lords? Words cannot carry Authority so weighty. SUFFOLK. Who dares cross 'em, Bearing the King's will from his mouth expressly? WOLSEY. Till I find more than will or words to do it- I mean your malice-know, officious lords, I dare and must deny it. Now I feel Of what coarse metal ye are moulded-envy; How eagerly ye follow my disgraces, As if it fed ye; and how sleek and wanton Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin! Follow your envious courses, men of malice; You have Christian warrant for 'em, and no doubt In time will find their fit rewards. That seal You ask with such a violence, the King- Mine and your master-with his own hand gave me; Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours, During my life; and, to confirm his goodness, Tied it by letters-patents. Now, who'll take it? SURREY. The King, that gave it. WOLSEY. It must be himself then. SURREY. Thou art a proud traitor, priest. WOLSEY. Proud lord, thou liest. Within these forty hours Surrey durst better Have burnt that tongue than said so. SURREY. Thy ambition, Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law. The heads of all thy brother cardinals, With thee and all thy best parts bound together, Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy! You sent me deputy for Ireland; Far from his succour, from the King, from all That might have mercy on the fault thou gav'st him; Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity, Absolv'd him with an axe. WOLSEY. This, and all else This talking lord can lay upon my credit, I answer is most false. The Duke by law Found his deserts; how innocent I was From any private malice in his end, His noble jury and foul cause can witness. If I lov'd many words, lord, I should tell you You have as little honesty as honour, That in the way of loyalty and truth Toward the King, my ever royal master, Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be And an that love his follies. SURREY. By my soul, Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou shouldst feel My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords Can ye endure to hear this arrogance? And from this fellow? If we live thus tamely, To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet, Farewell nobility! Let his Grace go forward And dare us with his cap like larks. WOLSEY. All goodness Is poison to thy stomach. SURREY. Yes, that goodness Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one, Into your own hands, Cardinal, by extortion; The goodness of your intercepted packets You writ to th' Pope against the King; your goodness, Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious. My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble, As you respect the common good, the state Of our despis'd nobility, our issues, Whom, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen- Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles Collected from his life. I'll startle you Worse than the sacring bell, when the brown wench Lay kissing in your arms, Lord Cardinal. WOLSEY. How much, methinks, I could despise this man, But that I am bound in charity against it! NORFOLK. Those articles, my lord, are in the King's hand; But, thus much, they are foul ones. WOLSEY. So much fairer And spotless shall mine innocence arise, When the King knows my truth. SURREY. This cannot save you. I thank my memory I yet remember Some of these articles; and out they shall. Now, if you can blush and cry guilty, Cardinal, You'll show a little honesty. WOLSEY. Speak on, sir; I dare your worst objections. If I blush, It is to see a nobleman want manners. SURREY. I had rather want those than my head. Have at you! First, that without the King's assent or knowledge You wrought to be a legate; by which power You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops. NORFOLK. Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else To foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus' Was still inscrib'd; in which you brought the King To be your servant. SUFFOLK. Then, that without the knowledge Either of King or Council, when you went Ambassador to the Emperor, you made bold To carry into Flanders the great seal. SURREY. Item, you sent a large commission To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude, Without the King's will or the state's allowance, A league between his Highness and Ferrara. SUFFOLK. That out of mere ambition you have caus'd Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the King's coin. SURREY. Then, that you have sent innumerable substance, By what means got I leave to your own conscience, To furnish Rome and to prepare the ways You have for dignities, to the mere undoing Of all the kingdom. Many more there are, Which, since they are of you, and odious, I will not taint my mouth with. CHAMBERLAIN. O my lord, Press not a falling man too far! 'Tis virtue. His faults lie open to the laws; let them, Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him So little of his great self. SURREY. I forgive him. SUFFOLK. Lord Cardinal, the King's further pleasure is- Because all those things you have done of late, By your power legatine within this kingdom, Fall into th' compass of a praemunire- That therefore such a writ be sued against you: To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements, Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be Out of the King's protection. This is my charge. NORFOLK. And so we'll leave you to your meditations How to live better. For your stubborn answer About the giving back the great seal to us, The King shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you. So fare you well, my little good Lord Cardinal. Exeunt all but WOLSEY WOLSEY. So farewell to the little good you bear me. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honours thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost, And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye; I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again. Enter CROMWELL, standing amazed Why, how now, Cromwell! CROMWELL. I have no power to speak, sir. WOLSEY. What, amaz'd At my misfortunes? Can thy spirit wonder A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep, I am fall'n indeed. CROMWELL. How does your Grace? WOLSEY. Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell. I know myself now, and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The King has cur'd me, I humbly thank his Grace; and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy-too much honour. O, 'tis a burden, Cromwell, 'tis a burden Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven! CROMWELL. I am glad your Grace has made that right use of it. WOLSEY. I hope I have. I am able now, methinks, Out of a fortitude of soul I feel, To endure more miseries and greater far Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer. What news abroad? CROMWELL. The heaviest and the worst Is your displeasure with the King. WOLSEY. God bless him! CROMWELL. The next is that Sir Thomas More is chosen Lord Chancellor in your place. WOLSEY. That's somewhat sudden. But he's a learned man. May he continue Long in his Highness' favour, and do justice For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings, May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on him! What more? CROMWELL. That Cranmer is return'd with welcome, Install'd Lord Archbishop of Canterbury. WOLSEY. That's news indeed. CROMWELL. Last, that the Lady Anne, Whom the King hath in secrecy long married, This day was view'd in open as his queen, Going to chapel; and the voice is now Only about her coronation. WOLSEY. There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell, The King has gone beyond me. All my glories In that one woman I have lost for ever. No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours, Or gild again the noble troops that waited Upon my smiles. Go get thee from me, Cromwell; I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now To be thy lord and master. Seek the King; That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him What and how true thou art. He will advance thee; Some little memory of me will stir him- I know his noble nature-not to let Thy hopeful service perish too. Good Cromwell, Neglect him not; make use now, and provide For thine own future safety. CROMWELL. O my lord, Must I then leave you? Must I needs forgo So good, so noble, and so true a master? Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron, With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord. The King shall have my service; but my prayers For ever and for ever shall be yours. WOLSEY. Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear In all my miseries; but thou hast forc'd me, Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman. Let's dry our eyes; and thus far hear me, Cromwell, And when I am forgotten, as I shall be, And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention Of me more must be heard of, say I taught thee- Say Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory, And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour, Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in- A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it. Mark but my fall and that that ruin'd me. Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition: By that sin fell the angels. How can man then, The image of his Maker, hope to win by it? Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not; Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's; then, if thou fall'st, O Cromwell, Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the King, and-prithee lead me in. There take an inventory of all I have To the last penny; 'tis the King's. My robe, And my integrity to heaven, is all I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell! Had I but serv'd my God with half the zeal I serv'd my King, he would not in mine age Have left me naked to mine enemies. CROMWELL. Good sir, have patience. WOLSEY. So I have. Farewell The hopes of court! My hopes in heaven do dwell. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. A street in Westminster Enter two GENTLEMEN, meeting one another FIRST GENTLEMAN. Y'are well met once again. SECOND GENTLEMAN. So are you. FIRST GENTLEMAN. You come to take your stand here, and behold The Lady Anne pass from her coronation? SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis all my business. At our last encounter The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial. FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis very true. But that time offer'd sorrow; This, general joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis well. The citizens, I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds- As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward- In celebration of this day with shows, Pageants, and sights of honour. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Never greater, Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir. SECOND GENTLEMAN. May I be bold to ask what that contains, That paper in your hand? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes; 'tis the list Of those that claim their offices this day, By custom of the coronation. The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims To be High Steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk, He to be Earl Marshal. You may read the rest. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thank you, sir; had I not known those customs, I should have been beholding to your paper. But, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine, The Princess Dowager? How goes her business? FIRST GENTLEMAN. That I can tell you too. The Archbishop Of Canterbury, accompanied with other Learned and reverend fathers of his order, Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles of From Ampthill, where the Princess lay; to which She was often cited by them, but appear'd not. And, to be short, for not appearance and The King's late scruple, by the main assent Of all these learned men, she was divorc'd, And the late marriage made of none effect; Since which she was removed to Kimbolton, Where she remains now sick. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Alas, good lady! [Trumpets] The trumpets sound. Stand close, the Queen is coming. [Hautboys] THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION. 1. A lively flourish of trumpets. 2. Then two JUDGES. 3. LORD CHANCELLOR, with purse and mace before him. 4. CHORISTERS singing. [Music] 5. MAYOR OF LONDON, bearing the mace. Then GARTER, in his coat of arms, and on his head he wore a gilt copper crown. 6. MARQUIS DORSET, bearing a sceptre of gold, on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With him, the EARL OF SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with the dove, crowned with an earl's coronet. Collars of Esses. 7. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet on his head, bearing a long white wand, as High Steward. With him, the DUKE OF NORFOLK, with the rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head. Collars of Esses. 8. A canopy borne by four of the CINQUE-PORTS; under it the QUEEN in her robe; in her hair richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each side her, the BISHOPS OF LONDON and WINCHESTER. 9. The old DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, in a coronal of gold wrought with flowers, bearing the QUEEN'S train. 10. Certain LADIES or COUNTESSES, with plain circlets of gold without flowers. Exeunt, first passing over the stage in order and state, and then a great flourish of trumpets SECOND GENTLEMAN. A royal train, believe me. These know. Who's that that bears the sceptre? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Marquis Dorset; And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod. SECOND GENTLEMAN. A bold brave gentleman. That should be The Duke of Suffolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. 'Tis the same-High Steward. SECOND GENTLEMAN. And that my Lord of Norfolk? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Yes. SECOND GENTLEMAN. [Looking on the QUEEN] Heaven bless thee! Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on. Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel; Our king has all the Indies in his arms, And more and richer, when he strains that lady; I cannot blame his conscience. FIRST GENTLEMAN. They that bear The cloth of honour over her are four barons Of the Cinque-ports. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Those men are happy; and so are all are near her. I take it she that carries up the train Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk. FIRST GENTLEMAN. It is; and all the rest are countesses. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed, And sometimes falling ones. FIRST GENTLEMAN. No more of that. Exit Procession, with a great flourish of trumpets Enter a third GENTLEMAN God save you, sir! Where have you been broiling? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Among the crowds i' th' Abbey, where a finger Could not be wedg'd in more; I am stifled With the mere rankness of their joy. SECOND GENTLEMAN. You saw The ceremony? THIRD GENTLEMAN. That I did. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How was it? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Well worth the seeing. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good sir, speak it to us. THIRD GENTLEMAN. As well as I am able. The rich stream Of lords and ladies, having brought the Queen To a prepar'd place in the choir, fell of A distance from her, while her Grace sat down To rest awhile, some half an hour or so, In a rich chair of state, opposing freely The beauty of her person to the people. Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman That ever lay by man; which when the people Had the full view of, such a noise arose As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest, As loud, and to as many tunes; hats, cloaks- Doublets, I think-flew up, and had their faces Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy I never saw before. Great-bellied women, That had not half a week to go, like rams In the old time of war, would shake the press, And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living Could say 'This is my wife' there, all were woven So strangely in one piece. SECOND GENTLEMAN. But what follow'd? THIRD GENTLEMAN. At length her Grace rose, and with modest paces Came to the altar, where she kneel'd, and saintlike Cast her fair eyes to heaven, and pray'd devoutly. Then rose again, and bow'd her to the people; When by the Archbishop of Canterbury She had all the royal makings of a queen: As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown, The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems Laid nobly on her; which perform'd, the choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung 'Te Deum.' So she parted, And with the same full state pac'd back again To York Place, where the feast is held. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, You must no more call it York Place: that's past: For since the Cardinal fell that title's lost. 'Tis now the King's, and called Whitehall. THIRD GENTLEMAN. I know it; But 'tis so lately alter'd that the old name Is fresh about me. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What two reverend bishops Were those that went on each side of the Queen? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Stokesly and Gardiner: the one of Winchester, Newly preferr'd from the King's secretary; The other, London. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He of Winchester Is held no great good lover of the Archbishop's, The virtuous Cranmer. THIRD GENTLEMAN. All the land knows that; However, yet there is no great breach. When it comes, Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Who may that be, I pray you? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Thomas Cromwell, A man in much esteem with th' King, and truly A worthy friend. The King has made him Master O' th' jewel House, And one, already, of the Privy Council. SECOND GENTLEMAN. He will deserve more. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Yes, without all doubt. Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which Is to th' court, and there ye shall be my guests: Something I can command. As I walk thither, I'll tell ye more. BOTH. You may command us, sir. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE 2. Kimbolton Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between GRIFFITH, her Gentleman Usher, and PATIENCE, her woman GRIFFITH. How does your Grace? KATHARINE. O Griffith, sick to death! My legs like loaden branches bow to th' earth, Willing to leave their burden. Reach a chair. So-now, methinks, I feel a little ease. Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me, That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead? GRIFFITH. Yes, madam; but I think your Grace, Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't. KATHARINE. Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died. If well, he stepp'd before me, happily, For my example. GRIFFITH. Well, the voice goes, madam; For after the stout Earl Northumberland Arrested him at York and brought him forward, As a man sorely tainted, to his answer, He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill He could not sit his mule. KATHARINE. Alas, poor man! GRIFFITH. At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester, Lodg'd in the abbey; where the reverend abbot, With all his covent, honourably receiv'd him; To whom he gave these words: 'O father Abbot, An old man, broken with the storms of state, Is come to lay his weary bones among ye; Give him a little earth for charity!' So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness Pursu'd him still And three nights after this, About the hour of eight-which he himself Foretold should be his last-full of repentance, Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows, He gave his honours to the world again, His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace. KATHARINE. So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him! Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him, And yet with charity. He was a man Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion, Tied all the kingdom. Simony was fair play; His own opinion was his law. I' th' presence He would say untruths, and be ever double Both in his words and meaning. He was never, But where he meant to ruin, pitiful. His promises were, as he then was, mighty; But his performance, as he is now, nothing. Of his own body he was ill, and gave The clergy ill example. GRIFFITH. Noble madam, Men's evil manners live in brass: their virtues We write in water. May it please your Highness To hear me speak his good now? KATHARINE. Yes, good Griffith; I were malicious else. GRIFFITH. This Cardinal, Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle. He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one; Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading; Lofty and sour to them that lov'd him not, But to those men that sought him sweet as summer. And though he were unsatisfied in getting- Which was a sin-yet in bestowing, madam, He was most princely: ever witness for him Those twins of learning that he rais'd in you, Ipswich and Oxford! One of which fell with him, Unwilling to outlive the good that did it; The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous, So excellent in art, and still so rising, That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue. His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him; For then, and not till then, he felt himself, And found the blessedness of being little. And, to add greater honours to his age Than man could give him, he died fearing God. KATHARINE. After my death I wish no other herald, No other speaker of my living actions, To keep mine honour from corruption, But such an honest chronicler as Griffith. Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me, With thy religious truth and modesty, Now in his ashes honour. Peace be with him! patience, be near me still, and set me lower: I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith, Cause the musicians play me that sad note I nam'd my knell, whilst I sit meditating On that celestial harmony I go to. [Sad and solemn music] GRIFFITH. She is asleep. Good wench, let's sit down quiet, For fear we wake her. Softly, gentle Patience. THE VISION. Enter, solemnly tripping one after another, six PERSONAGES clad in white robes, wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in their hands. They first congee unto her, then dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold a spare garland over her head, at which the other four make reverent curtsies. Then the two that held the garland deliver the same to the other next two, who observe the same order in their changes, and holding the garland over her head; which done, they deliver the same garland to the last two, who likewise observe the same order; at which, as it were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven. And so in their dancing vanish, carrying the garland with them. The music continues KATHARINE. Spirits of peace, where are ye? Are ye all gone? And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye? GRIFFITH. Madam, we are here. KATHARINE. It is not you I call for. Saw ye none enter since I slept? GRIFFITH. None, madam. KATHARINE. No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun? They promis'd me eternal happiness, And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel I am not worthy yet to wear. I shall, assuredly. GRIFFITH. I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams Possess your fancy. KATHARINE. Bid the music leave, They are harsh and heavy to me. [Music ceases] PATIENCE. Do you note How much her Grace is alter'd on the sudden? How long her face is drawn! How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold! Mark her eyes. GRIFFITH. She is going, wench. Pray, pray. PATIENCE. Heaven comfort her! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. An't like your Grace- KATHARINE. You are a saucy fellow. Deserve we no more reverence? GRIFFITH. You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour. Go to, kneel. MESSENGER. I humbly do entreat your Highness' pardon; My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying A gentleman, sent from the King, to see you. KATHARINE. Admit him entrance, Griffith; but this fellow Let me ne'er see again. Exit MESSENGER Enter LORD CAPUCIUS If my sight fail not, You should be Lord Ambassador from the Emperor, My royal nephew, and your name Capucius. CAPUCIUS. Madam, the same-your servant. KATHARINE. O, my Lord, The times and titles now are alter'd strangely With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you, What is your pleasure with me? CAPUCIUS. Noble lady, First, mine own service to your Grace; the next, The King's request that I would visit you, Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me Sends you his princely commendations And heartily entreats you take good comfort. KATHARINE. O my good lord, that comfort comes too late, 'Tis like a pardon after execution: That gentle physic, given in time, had cur'd me; But now I am past all comforts here, but prayers. How does his Highness? CAPUCIUS. Madam, in good health. KATHARINE. So may he ever do! and ever flourish When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name Banish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter I caus'd you write yet sent away? PATIENCE. No, madam. [Giving it to KATHARINE] KATHARINE. Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver This to my lord the King. CAPUCIUS. Most willing, madam. KATHARINE. In which I have commended to his goodness The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter- The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!- Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding- She is young, and of a noble modest nature; I hope she will deserve well-and a little To love her for her mother's sake, that lov'd him, Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition Is that his noble Grace would have some pity Upon my wretched women that so long Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully; Of which there is not one, I dare avow- And now I should not lie-but will deserve, For virtue and true beauty of the soul, For honesty and decent carriage, A right good husband, let him be a noble; And sure those men are happy that shall have 'em. The last is for my men-they are the poorest, But poverty could never draw 'em from me- That they may have their wages duly paid 'em, And something over to remember me by. If heaven had pleas'd to have given me longer life And able means, we had not parted thus. These are the whole contents; and, good my lord, By that you love the dearest in this world, As you wish Christian peace to souls departed, Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the King To do me this last right. CAPUCIUS. By heaven, I will, Or let me lose the fashion of a man! KATHARINE. I thank you, honest lord. Remember me In all humility unto his Highness; Say his long trouble now is passing Out of this world. Tell him in death I bless'd him, For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell, My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience, You must not leave me yet. I must to bed; Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench, Let me be us'd with honour; strew me over With maiden flowers, that all the world may know I was a chaste wife to my grave. Embalm me, Then lay me forth; although unqueen'd, yet like A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me. I can no more. Exeunt, leading KATHARINE <> ACT V. SCENE 1. London. A gallery in the palace Enter GARDINER, BISHOP OF WINCHESTER, a PAGE with a torch before him, met by SIR THOMAS LOVELL GARDINER. It's one o'clock, boy, is't not? BOY. It hath struck. GARDINER. These should be hours for necessities, Not for delights; times to repair our nature With comforting repose, and not for us To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas! Whither so late? LOVELL. Came you from the King, my lord? GARDINER. I did, Sir Thomas, and left him at primero With the Duke of Suffolk. LOVELL. I must to him too, Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave. GARDINER. Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter? It seems you are in haste. An if there be No great offence belongs to't, give your friend Some touch of your late business. Affairs that walk- As they say spirits do-at midnight, have In them a wilder nature than the business That seeks despatch by day. LOVELL. My lord, I love you; And durst commend a secret to your ear Much weightier than this work. The Queen's in labour, They say in great extremity, and fear'd She'll with the labour end. GARDINER. The fruit she goes with I pray for heartily, that it may find Good time, and live; but for the stock, Sir Thomas, I wish it grubb'd up now. LOVELL. Methinks I could Cry thee amen; and yet my conscience says She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does Deserve our better wishes. GARDINER. But, sir, sir- Hear me, Sir Thomas. Y'are a gentleman Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious; And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well- 'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me- Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she, Sleep in their graves. LOVELL. Now, sir, you speak of two The most remark'd i' th' kingdom. As for Cromwell, Beside that of the Jewel House, is made Master O' th' Rolls, and the King's secretary; further, sir, Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments, With which the time will load him. Th' Archbishop Is the King's hand and tongue, and who dare speak One syllable against him? GARDINER. Yes, yes, Sir Thomas, There are that dare; and I myself have ventur'd To speak my mind of him; and indeed this day, Sir-I may tell it you-I think I have Incens'd the lords o' th' Council, that he is- For so I know he is, they know he is- A most arch heretic, a pestilence That does infect the land; with which they moved Have broken with the King, who hath so far Given ear to our complaint-of his great grace And princely care, foreseeing those fell mischiefs Our reasons laid before him-hath commanded To-morrow morning to the Council board He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas, And we must root him out. From your affairs I hinder you too long-good night, Sir Thomas. LOVELL. Many good nights, my lord; I rest your servant. Exeunt GARDINER and PAGE Enter the KING and the DUKE OF SUFFOLK KING. Charles, I will play no more to-night; My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me. SUFFOLK. Sir, I did never win of you before. KING. But little, Charles; Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play. Now, Lovell, from the Queen what is the news? LOVELL. I could not personally deliver to her What you commanded me, but by her woman I sent your message; who return'd her thanks In the great'st humbleness, and desir'd your Highness Most heartily to pray for her. KING. What say'st thou, ha? To pray for her? What, is she crying out? LOVELL. So said her woman; and that her suff'rance made Almost each pang a death. KING. Alas, good lady! SUFFOLK. God safely quit her of her burden, and With gentle travail, to the gladding of Your Highness with an heir! KING. 'Tis midnight, Charles; Prithee to bed; and in thy pray'rs remember Th' estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone, For I must think of that which company Will not be friendly to. SUFFOLK. I wish your Highness A quiet night, and my good mistress will Remember in my prayers. KING. Charles, good night. Exit SUFFOLK Enter SIR ANTHONY DENNY Well, sir, what follows? DENNY. Sir, I have brought my lord the Archbishop, As you commanded me. KING. Ha! Canterbury? DENNY. Ay, my good lord. KING. 'Tis true. Where is he, Denny? DENNY. He attends your Highness' pleasure. KING. Bring him to us. Exit DENNY LOVELL. [Aside] This is about that which the bishop spake. I am happily come hither. Re-enter DENNY, With CRANMER KING. Avoid the gallery. [LOVELL seems to stay] Ha! I have said. Be gone. What! Exeunt LOVELL and DENNY CRANMER. [Aside] I am fearful-wherefore frowns he thus? 'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well. KING. How now, my lord? You do desire to know Wherefore I sent for you. CRANMER. [Kneeling] It is my duty T'attend your Highness' pleasure. KING. Pray you, arise, My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury. Come, you and I must walk a turn together; I have news to tell you; come, come, me your hand. Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak, And am right sorry to repeat what follows. I have, and most unwillingly, of late Heard many grievous-I do say, my lord, Grievous-complaints of you; which, being consider'd, Have mov'd us and our Council that you shall This morning come before us; where I know You cannot with such freedom purge yourself But that, till further trial in those charges Which will require your answer, you must take Your patience to you and be well contented To make your house our Tow'r. You a brother of us, It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness Would come against you. CRANMER. I humbly thank your Highness And am right glad to catch this good occasion Most throughly to be winnowed where my chaff And corn shall fly asunder; for I know There's none stands under more calumnious tongues Than I myself, poor man. KING. Stand up, good Canterbury; Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted In us, thy friend. Give me thy hand, stand up; Prithee let's walk. Now, by my holidame, What manner of man are you? My lord, I look'd You would have given me your petition that I should have ta'en some pains to bring together Yourself and your accusers, and to have heard you Without indurance further. CRANMER. Most dread liege, The good I stand on is my truth and honesty; If they shall fail, I with mine enemies Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not, Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing What can be said against me. KING. Know you not How your state stands i' th' world, with the whole world? Your enemies are many, and not small; their practices Must bear the same proportion; and not ever The justice and the truth o' th' question carries The due o' th' verdict with it; at what ease Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt To swear against you? Such things have been done. You are potently oppos'd, and with a malice Of as great size. Ween you of better luck, I mean in perjur'd witness, than your Master, Whose minister you are, whiles here He liv'd Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to; You take a precipice for no leap of danger, And woo your own destruction. CRANMER. God and your Majesty Protect mine innocence, or I fall into The trap is laid for me! KING. Be of good cheer; They shall no more prevail than we give way to. Keep comfort to you, and this morning see You do appear before them; if they shall chance, In charging you with matters, to commit you, The best persuasions to the contrary Fail not to use, and with what vehemency Th' occasion shall instruct you. If entreaties Will render you no remedy, this ring Deliver them, and your appeal to us There make before them. Look, the good man weeps! He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest Mother! I swear he is true-hearted, and a soul None better in my kingdom. Get you gone, And do as I have bid you. Exit CRANMER He has strangled his language in his tears. Enter OLD LADY GENTLEMAN. [Within] Come back; what mean you? OLD LADY. I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person Under their blessed wings! KING. Now, by thy looks I guess thy message. Is the Queen deliver'd? Say ay, and of a boy. OLD LADY. Ay, ay, my liege; And of a lovely boy. The God of Heaven Both now and ever bless her! 'Tis a girl, Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen Desires your visitation, and to be Acquainted with this stranger; 'tis as like you As cherry is to cherry. KING. Lovell! Enter LOVELL LOVELL. Sir? KING. Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the Queen. Exit OLD LADY. An hundred marks? By this light, I'll ha' more! An ordinary groom is for such payment. I will have more, or scold it out of him. Said I for this the girl was like to him! I'll Have more, or else unsay't; and now, while 'tis hot, I'll put it to the issue. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 2. Lobby before the Council Chamber Enter CRANMER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY CRANMER. I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman That was sent to me from the Council pray'd me To make great haste. All fast? What means this? Ho! Who waits there? Sure you know me? Enter KEEPER KEEPER. Yes, my lord; But yet I cannot help you. CRANMER. Why? KEEPER. Your Grace must wait till you be call'd for. Enter DOCTOR BUTTS CRANMER. So. BUTTS. [Aside] This is a piece of malice. I am glad I came this way so happily; the King Shall understand it presently. Exit CRANMER. [Aside] 'Tis Butts, The King's physician; as he pass'd along, How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me! Pray heaven he sound not my disgrace! For certain, This is of purpose laid by some that hate me- God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice- To quench mine honour; they would shame to make me Wait else at door, a fellow councillor, 'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience. Enter the KING and BUTTS at window above BUTTS. I'll show your Grace the strangest sight- KING. What's that, Butts? BUTTS. I think your Highness saw this many a day. KING. Body a me, where is it? BUTTS. There my lord: The high promotion of his Grace of Canterbury; Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants, Pages, and footboys. KING. Ha, 'tis he indeed. Is this the honour they do one another? 'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought They had parted so much honesty among 'em- At least good manners-as not thus to suffer A man of his place, and so near our favour, To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures, And at the door too, like a post with packets. By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery! Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close; We shall hear more anon. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 3. The Council Chamber A Council table brought in, with chairs and stools, and placed under the state. Enter LORD CHANCELLOR, places himself at the upper end of the table on the left band, a seat being left void above him, as for Canterbury's seat. DUKE OF SUFFOLK, DUKE OF NORFOLK, SURREY, LORD CHAMBERLAIN, GARDINER, seat themselves in order on each side; CROMWELL at lower end, as secretary. KEEPER at the door CHANCELLOR. Speak to the business, master secretary; Why are we met in council? CROMWELL. Please your honours, The chief cause concerns his Grace of Canterbury. GARDINER. Has he had knowledge of it? CROMWELL. Yes. NORFOLK. Who waits there? KEEPER. Without, my noble lords? GARDINER. Yes. KEEPER. My Lord Archbishop; And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures. CHANCELLOR. Let him come in. KEEPER. Your Grace may enter now. CRANMER approaches the Council table CHANCELLOR. My good Lord Archbishop, I am very sorry To sit here at this present, and behold That chair stand empty; but we all are men, In our own natures frail and capable Of our flesh; few are angels; out of which frailty And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us, Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little, Toward the King first, then his laws, in filling The whole realm by your teaching and your chaplains- For so we are inform'd-with new opinions, Divers and dangerous; which are heresies, And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious. GARDINER. Which reformation must be sudden too, My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle, But stop their mouth with stubborn bits and spur 'em Till they obey the manage. If we suffer, Out of our easiness and childish pity To one man's honour, this contagious sickness, Farewell all physic; and what follows then? Commotions, uproars, with a general taint Of the whole state; as of late days our neighbours, The upper Germany, can dearly witness, Yet freshly pitied in our memories. CRANMER. My good lords, hitherto in all the progress Both of my life and office, I have labour'd, And with no little study, that my teaching And the strong course of my authority Might go one way, and safely; and the end Was ever to do well. Nor is there living- I speak it with a single heart, my lords- A man that more detests, more stirs against, Both in his private conscience and his place, Defacers of a public peace than I do. Pray heaven the King may never find a heart With less allegiance in it! Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships That, in this case of justice, my accusers, Be what they will, may stand forth face to face And freely urge against me. SUFFOLK. Nay, my lord, That cannot be; you are a councillor, And by that virtue no man dare accuse you. GARDINER. My lord, because we have business of more moment, We will be short with you. 'Tis his Highness' pleasure And our consent, for better trial of you, From hence you be committed to the Tower; Where, being but a private man again, You shall know many dare accuse you boldly, More than, I fear, you are provided for. CRANMER. Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you; You are always my good friend; if your will pass, I shall both find your lordship judge and juror, You are so merciful. I see your end- 'Tis my undoing. Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition; Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away. That I shall clear myself, Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience, I make as little doubt as you do conscience In doing daily wrongs. I could say more, But reverence to your calling makes me modest. GARDINER. My lord, my lord, you are a sectary; That's the plain truth. Your painted gloss discovers, To men that understand you, words and weakness. CROMWELL. My Lord of Winchester, y'are a little, By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble, However faulty, yet should find respect For what they have been; 'tis a cruelty To load a falling man. GARDINER. Good Master Secretary, I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst Of all this table, say so. CROMWELL. Why, my lord? GARDINER. Do not I know you for a favourer Of this new sect? Ye are not sound. CROMWELL. Not sound? GARDINER. Not sound, I say. CROMWELL. Would you were half so honest! Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears. GARDINER. I shall remember this bold language. CROMWELL. Do. Remember your bold life too. CHANCELLOR. This is too much; Forbear, for shame, my lords. GARDINER. I have done. CROMWELL. And I. CHANCELLOR. Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed, I take it, by all voices, that forthwith You be convey'd to th' Tower a prisoner; There to remain till the King's further pleasure Be known unto us. Are you all agreed, lords? ALL. We are. CRANMER. Is there no other way of mercy, But I must needs to th' Tower, my lords? GARDINER. What other Would you expect? You are strangely troublesome. Let some o' th' guard be ready there. Enter the guard CRANMER. For me? Must I go like a traitor thither? GARDINER. Receive him, And see him safe i' th' Tower. CRANMER. Stay, good my lords, I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords; By virtue of that ring I take my cause Out of the gripes of cruel men and give it To a most noble judge, the King my master. CHAMBERLAIN. This is the King's ring. SURREY. 'Tis no counterfeit. SUFFOLK. 'Tis the right ring, by heav'n. I told ye all, When we first put this dangerous stone a-rolling, 'Twould fall upon ourselves. NORFOLK. Do you think, my lords, The King will suffer but the little finger Of this man to be vex'd? CHAMBERLAIN. 'Tis now too certain; How much more is his life in value with him! Would I were fairly out on't! CROMWELL. My mind gave me, In seeking tales and informations Against this man-whose honesty the devil And his disciples only envy at- Ye blew the fire that burns ye. Now have at ye! Enter the KING frowning on them; he takes his seat GARDINER. Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince; Not only good and wise but most religious; One that in all obedience makes the church The chief aim of his honour and, to strengthen That holy duty, out of dear respect, His royal self in judgment comes to hear The cause betwixt her and this great offender. KING. You were ever good at sudden commendations, Bishop of Winchester. But know I come not To hear such flattery now, and in my presence They are too thin and bare to hide offences. To me you cannot reach you play the spaniel, And think with wagging of your tongue to win me; But whatsoe'er thou tak'st me for, I'm sure Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody. [To CRANMER] Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest He that dares most but wag his finger at thee. By all that's holy, he had better starve Than but once think this place becomes thee not. SURREY. May it please your Grace- KING. No, sir, it does not please me. I had thought I had had men of some understanding And wisdom of my Council; but I find none. Was it discretion, lords, to let this man, This good man-few of you deserve that title- This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy At chamber door? and one as great as you are? Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye Power as he was a councillor to try him, Not as a groom. There's some of ye, I see, More out of malice than integrity, Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean; Which ye shall never have while I live. CHANCELLOR. Thus far, My most dread sovereign, may it like your Grace To let my tongue excuse all. What was purpos'd concerning his imprisonment was rather- If there be faith in men-meant for his trial And fair purgation to the world, than malice, I'm sure, in me. KING. Well, well, my lords, respect him; Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it. I will say thus much for him: if a prince May be beholding to a subject, Am for his love and service so to him. Make me no more ado, but all embrace him; Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of Canterbury, I have a suit which you must not deny me: That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism; You must be godfather, and answer for her. CRANMER. The greatest monarch now alive may glory In such an honour; how may I deserve it, That am a poor and humble subject to you? KING. Come, come, my lord, you'd spare your spoons. You shall have Two noble partners with you: the old Duchess of Norfolk And Lady Marquis Dorset. Will these please you? Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you, Embrace and love this man. GARDINER. With a true heart And brother-love I do it. CRANMER. And let heaven Witness how dear I hold this confirmation. KING. Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart. The common voice, I see, is verified Of thee, which says thus: 'Do my Lord of Canterbury A shrewd turn and he's your friend for ever.' Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long To have this young one made a Christian. As I have made ye one, lords, one remain; So I grow stronger, you more honour gain. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 4. The palace yard Noise and tumult within. Enter PORTER and his MAN PORTER. You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals. Do you take the court for Paris garden? Ye rude slaves, leave your gaping. [Within: Good master porter, I belong to th' larder.] PORTER. Belong to th' gallows, and be hang'd, ye rogue! Is this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree staves, and strong ones; these are but switches to 'em. I'll scratch your heads. You must be seeing christenings? Do you look for ale and cakes here, you rude rascals? MAN. Pray, sir, be patient; 'tis as much impossible, Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons, To scatter 'em as 'tis to make 'em sleep On May-day morning; which will never be. We may as well push against Paul's as stir 'em. PORTER. How got they in, and be hang'd? MAN. Alas, I know not: how gets the tide in? As much as one sound cudgel of four foot- You see the poor remainder-could distribute, I made no spare, sir. PORTER. You did nothing, sir. MAN. I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand, To mow 'em down before me; but if I spar'd any That had a head to hit, either young or old, He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker, Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again; And that I would not for a cow, God save her! [ Within: Do you hear, master porter?] PORTER. I shall be with you presently, good master puppy. Keep the door close, sirrah. MAN. What would you have me do? PORTER. What should you do, but knock 'em down by th' dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? Or have we some strange Indian with the great tool come to court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian conscience, this one christening will beget a thousand: here will be father, godfather, and all together. MAN. The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand about him are under the line, they need no other penance. That fire-drake did I hit three times on the head, and three times was his nose discharged against me; he stands there like a mortar-piece, to blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small wit near him, that rail'd upon me till her pink'd porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a combustion in the state. I miss'd the meteor once, and hit that woman, who cried out 'Clubs!' when I might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to her succour, which were the hope o' th' Strand, where she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my place. At length they came to th' broomstaff to me; I defied 'em still; when suddenly a file of boys behind 'em, loose shot, deliver'd such a show'r of pebbles that I was fain to draw mine honour in and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst 'em, I think surely. PORTER. These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse and fight for bitten apples; that no audience but the tribulation of Tower-hill or the limbs of Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure. I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they are like to dance these three days; besides the running banquet of two beadles that is to come. Enter the LORD CHAMBERLAIN CHAMBERLAIN. Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here! They grow still too; from all parts they are coming, As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters, These lazy knaves? Y'have made a fine hand, fellows. There's a trim rabble let in: are all these Your faithful friends o' th' suburbs? We shall have Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies, When they pass back from the christening. PORTER. An't please your honour, We are but men; and what so many may do, Not being torn a pieces, we have done. An army cannot rule 'em. CHAMBERLAIN. As I live, If the King blame me for't, I'll lay ye an By th' heels, and suddenly; and on your heads Clap round fines for neglect. Y'are lazy knaves; And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound; Th' are come already from the christening. Go break among the press and find a way out To let the troops pass fairly, or I'll find A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months. PORTER. Make way there for the Princess. MAN. You great fellow, Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache. PORTER. You i' th' camlet, get up o' th' rail; I'll peck you o'er the pales else. Exeunt ACT V. SCENE 5. The palace Enter TRUMPETS, sounding; then two ALDERMEN, LORD MAYOR, GARTER, CRANMER, DUKE OF NORFOLK, with his marshal's staff, DUKE OF SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great standing-bowls for the christening gifts; then four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the DUCHESS OF NORFOLK, godmother, bearing the CHILD richly habited in a mantle, etc., train borne by a LADY; then follows the MARCHIONESS DORSET, the other godmother, and LADIES. The troop pass once about the stage, and GARTER speaks GARTER. Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous life, long and ever-happy, to the high and mighty Princess of England, Elizabeth! Flourish. Enter KING and guard CRANMER. [Kneeling] And to your royal Grace and the good Queen! My noble partners and myself thus pray: All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady, Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy, May hourly fall upon ye! KING. Thank you, good Lord Archbishop. What is her name? CRANMER. Elizabeth. KING. Stand up, lord. [The KING kisses the child] With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee! Into whose hand I give thy life. CRANMER. Amen. KING. My noble gossips, y'have been too prodigal; I thank ye heartily. So shall this lady, When she has so much English. CRANMER. Let me speak, sir, For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth. This royal infant-heaven still move about her!- Though in her cradle, yet now promises Upon this land a thousand blessings, Which time shall bring to ripeness. She shall be- But few now living can behold that goodness- A pattern to all princes living with her, And all that shall succeed. Saba was never More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue Than this pure soul shall be. All princely graces That mould up such a mighty piece as this is, With all the virtues that attend the good, Shall still be doubled on her. Truth shall nurse her, Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her; She shall be lov'd and fear'd. Her own shall bless her: Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn, And hang their heads with sorrow. Good grows with her; In her days every man shall eat in safety Under his own vine what he plants, and sing The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours. God shall be truly known; and those about her From her shall read the perfect ways of honour, And by those claim their greatness, not by blood. Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix Her ashes new create another heir As great in admiration as herself, So shall she leave her blessedness to one- When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness- Who from the sacred ashes of her honour Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was, And so stand fix'd. Peace, plenty, love, truth, terror, That were the servants to this chosen infant, Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him; Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine, His honour and the greatness of his name Shall be, and make new nations; he shall flourish, And like a mountain cedar reach his branches To all the plains about him; our children's children Shall see this and bless heaven. KING. Thou speakest wonders. CRANMER. She shall be, to the happiness of England, An aged princess; many days shall see her, And yet no day without a deed to crown it. Would I had known no more! But she must die- She must, the saints must have her-yet a virgin; A most unspotted lily shall she pass To th' ground, and all the world shall mourn her. KING. O Lord Archbishop, Thou hast made me now a man; never before This happy child did I get anything. This oracle of comfort has so pleas'd me That when I am in heaven I shall desire To see what this child does, and praise my Maker. I thank ye all. To you, my good Lord Mayor, And you, good brethren, I am much beholding; I have receiv'd much honour by your presence, And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords; Ye must all see the Queen, and she must thank ye, She will be sick else. This day, no man think Has business at his house; for all shall stay. This little one shall make it holiday. Exeunt KING_HENRY_VIII|EPILOGUE THE EPILOGUE. 'Tis ten to one this play can never please All that are here. Some come to take their ease And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear, W'have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear, They'll say 'tis nought; others to hear the city Abus'd extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!' Which we have not done neither; that, I fear, All the expected good w'are like to hear For this play at this time is only in The merciful construction of good women; For such a one we show'd 'em. If they smile And say 'twill do, I know within a while All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap. THE END <> 1597 KING JOHN by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING JOHN PRINCE HENRY, his son ARTHUR, DUKE OF BRITAINE, son of Geffrey, late Duke of Britaine, the elder brother of King John EARL OF PEMBROKE EARL OF ESSEX EARL OF SALISBURY LORD BIGOT HUBERT DE BURGH ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE, son to Sir Robert Faulconbridge PHILIP THE BASTARD, his half-brother JAMES GURNEY, servant to Lady Faulconbridge PETER OF POMFRET, a prophet KING PHILIP OF FRANCE LEWIS, the Dauphin LYMOGES, Duke of Austria CARDINAL PANDULPH, the Pope's legate MELUN, a French lord CHATILLON, ambassador from France to King John QUEEN ELINOR, widow of King Henry II and mother to King John CONSTANCE, Mother to Arthur BLANCH OF SPAIN, daughter to the King of Castile and niece to King John LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, widow of Sir Robert Faulconbridge Lords, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Executioners, Messengers, Attendants <> SCENE: England and France ACT I. SCENE 1 KING JOHN's palace Enter KING JOHN, QUEEN ELINOR, PEMBROKE, ESSEX, SALISBURY, and others, with CHATILLON KING JOHN. Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us? CHATILLON. Thus, after greeting, speaks the King of France In my behaviour to the majesty, The borrowed majesty, of England here. ELINOR. A strange beginning- 'borrowed majesty'! KING JOHN. Silence, good mother; hear the embassy. CHATILLON. Philip of France, in right and true behalf Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son, Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim To this fair island and the territories, To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, Desiring thee to lay aside the sword Which sways usurpingly these several titles, And put the same into young Arthur's hand, Thy nephew and right royal sovereign. KING JOHN. What follows if we disallow of this? CHATILLON. The proud control of fierce and bloody war, To enforce these rights so forcibly withheld. KING JOHN. Here have we war for war, and blood for blood, Controlment for controlment- so answer France. CHATILLON. Then take my king's defiance from my mouth- The farthest limit of my embassy. KING JOHN. Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace; Be thou as lightning in the eyes of France; For ere thou canst report I will be there, The thunder of my cannon shall be heard. So hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath And sullen presage of your own decay. An honourable conduct let him have- Pembroke, look to 't. Farewell, Chatillon. Exeunt CHATILLON and PEMBROKE ELINOR. What now, my son! Have I not ever said How that ambitious Constance would not cease Till she had kindled France and all the world Upon the right and party of her son? This might have been prevented and made whole With very easy arguments of love, Which now the manage of two kingdoms must With fearful bloody issue arbitrate. KING JOHN. Our strong possession and our right for us! ELINOR. Your strong possession much more than your right, Or else it must go wrong with you and me; So much my conscience whispers in your ear, Which none but heaven and you and I shall hear. Enter a SHERIFF ESSEX. My liege, here is the strangest controversy Come from the country to be judg'd by you That e'er I heard. Shall I produce the men? KING JOHN. Let them approach. Exit SHERIFF Our abbeys and our priories shall pay This expedition's charge. Enter ROBERT FAULCONBRIDGE and PHILIP, his bastard brother What men are you? BASTARD. Your faithful subject I, a gentleman Born in Northamptonshire, and eldest son, As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge- A soldier by the honour-giving hand Of Coeur-de-lion knighted in the field. KING JOHN. What art thou? ROBERT. The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge. KING JOHN. Is that the elder, and art thou the heir? You came not of one mother then, it seems. BASTARD. Most certain of one mother, mighty king- That is well known- and, as I think, one father; But for the certain knowledge of that truth I put you o'er to heaven and to my mother. Of that I doubt, as all men's children may. ELINOR. Out on thee, rude man! Thou dost shame thy mother, And wound her honour with this diffidence. BASTARD. I, madam? No, I have no reason for it- That is my brother's plea, and none of mine; The which if he can prove, 'a pops me out At least from fair five hundred pound a year. Heaven guard my mother's honour and my land! KING JOHN. A good blunt fellow. Why, being younger born, Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance? BASTARD. I know not why, except to get the land. But once he slander'd me with bastardy; But whe'er I be as true begot or no, That still I lay upon my mother's head; But that I am as well begot, my liege- Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!- Compare our faces and be judge yourself. If old Sir Robert did beget us both And were our father, and this son like him- O old Sir Robert, father, on my knee I give heaven thanks I was not like to thee! KING JOHN. Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here! ELINOR. He hath a trick of Coeur-de-lion's face; The accent of his tongue affecteth him. Do you not read some tokens of my son In the large composition of this man? KING JOHN. Mine eye hath well examined his parts And finds them perfect Richard. Sirrah, speak, What doth move you to claim your brother's land? BASTARD. Because he hath a half-face, like my father. With half that face would he have all my land: A half-fac'd groat five hundred pound a year! ROBERT. My gracious liege, when that my father liv'd, Your brother did employ my father much- BASTARD. Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land: Your tale must be how he employ'd my mother. ROBERT. And once dispatch'd him in an embassy To Germany, there with the Emperor To treat of high affairs touching that time. Th' advantage of his absence took the King, And in the meantime sojourn'd at my father's; Where how he did prevail I shame to speak- But truth is truth: large lengths of seas and shores Between my father and my mother lay, As I have heard my father speak himself, When this same lusty gentleman was got. Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd His lands to me, and took it on his death That this my mother's son was none of his; And if he were, he came into the world Full fourteen weeks before the course of time. Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine, My father's land, as was my father's will. KING JOHN. Sirrah, your brother is legitimate: Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him, And if she did play false, the fault was hers; Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother, Who, as you say, took pains to get this son, Had of your father claim'd this son for his? In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world; In sooth, he might; then, if he were my brother's, My brother might not claim him; nor your father, Being none of his, refuse him. This concludes: My mother's son did get your father's heir; Your father's heir must have your father's land. ROBERT. Shall then my father's will be of no force To dispossess that child which is not his? BASTARD. Of no more force to dispossess me, sir, Than was his will to get me, as I think. ELINOR. Whether hadst thou rather be a Faulconbridge, And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land, Or the reputed son of Coeur-de-lion, Lord of thy presence and no land beside? BASTARD. Madam, an if my brother had my shape And I had his, Sir Robert's his, like him; And if my legs were two such riding-rods, My arms such eel-skins stuff'd, my face so thin That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose Lest men should say 'Look where three-farthings goes!' And, to his shape, were heir to all this land- Would I might never stir from off this place, I would give it every foot to have this face! I would not be Sir Nob in any case. ELINOR. I like thee well. Wilt thou forsake thy fortune, Bequeath thy land to him and follow me? I am a soldier and now bound to France. BASTARD. Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance. Your face hath got five hundred pound a year, Yet sell your face for fivepence and 'tis dear. Madam, I'll follow you unto the death. ELINOR. Nay, I would have you go before me thither. BASTARD. Our country manners give our betters way. KING JOHN. What is thy name? BASTARD. Philip, my liege, so is my name begun: Philip, good old Sir Robert's wife's eldest son. KING JOHN. From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bearest: Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great- Arise Sir Richard and Plantagenet. BASTARD. Brother by th' mother's side, give me your hand; My father gave me honour, yours gave land. Now blessed be the hour, by night or day, When I was got, Sir Robert was away! ELINOR. The very spirit of Plantagenet! I am thy grandam, Richard: call me so. BASTARD. Madam, by chance, but not by truth; what though? Something about, a little from the right, In at the window, or else o'er the hatch; Who dares not stir by day must walk by night; And have is have, however men do catch. Near or far off, well won is still well shot; And I am I, howe'er I was begot. KING JOHN. Go, Faulconbridge; now hast thou thy desire: A landless knight makes thee a landed squire. Come, madam, and come, Richard, we must speed For France, for France, for it is more than need. BASTARD. Brother, adieu. Good fortune come to thee! For thou wast got i' th' way of honesty. Exeunt all but the BASTARD A foot of honour better than I was; But many a many foot of land the worse. Well, now can I make any Joan a lady. 'Good den, Sir Richard!'-'God-a-mercy, fellow!' And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter; For new-made honour doth forget men's names: 'Tis too respective and too sociable For your conversion. Now your traveller, He and his toothpick at my worship's mess- And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd, Why then I suck my teeth and catechize My picked man of countries: 'My dear sir,' Thus leaning on mine elbow I begin 'I shall beseech you'-That is question now; And then comes answer like an Absey book: 'O sir,' says answer 'at your best command, At your employment, at your service, sir!' 'No, sir,' says question 'I, sweet sir, at yours.' And so, ere answer knows what question would, Saving in dialogue of compliment, And talking of the Alps and Apennines, The Pyrenean and the river Po- It draws toward supper in conclusion so. But this is worshipful society, And fits the mounting spirit like myself; For he is but a bastard to the time That doth not smack of observation- And so am I, whether I smack or no; And not alone in habit and device, Exterior form, outward accoutrement, But from the inward motion to deliver Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth; Which, though I will not practise to deceive, Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn; For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising. But who comes in such haste in riding-robes? What woman-post is this? Hath she no husband That will take pains to blow a horn before her? Enter LADY FAULCONBRIDGE, and JAMES GURNEY O me, 'tis my mother! How now, good lady! What brings you here to court so hastily? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Where is that slave, thy brother? Where is he That holds in chase mine honour up and down? BASTARD. My brother Robert, old Sir Robert's son? Colbrand the giant, that same mighty man? Is it Sir Robert's son that you seek so? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy, Sir Robert's son! Why scorn'st thou at Sir Robert? He is Sir Robert's son, and so art thou. BASTARD. James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave awhile? GURNEY. Good leave, good Philip. BASTARD. Philip-Sparrow! James, There's toys abroad-anon I'll tell thee more. Exit GURNEY Madam, I was not old Sir Robert's son; Sir Robert might have eat his part in me Upon Good Friday, and ne'er broke his fast. Sir Robert could do: well-marry, to confess- Could he get me? Sir Robert could not do it: We know his handiwork. Therefore, good mother, To whom am I beholding for these limbs? Sir Robert never holp to make this leg. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou conspired with thy brother too, That for thine own gain shouldst defend mine honour? What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave? BASTARD. Knight, knight, good mother, Basilisco-like. What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder. But, mother, I am not Sir Robert's son: I have disclaim'd Sir Robert and my land; Legitimation, name, and all is gone. Then, good my mother, let me know my father- Some proper man, I hope. Who was it, mother? LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge? BASTARD. As faithfully as I deny the devil. LADY FAULCONBRIDGE. King Richard Coeur-de-lion was thy father. By long and vehement suit I was seduc'd To make room for him in my husband's bed. Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge! Thou art the issue of my dear offence, Which was so strongly urg'd past my defence. BASTARD. Now, by this light, were I to get again, Madam, I would not wish a better father. Some sins do bear their privilege on earth, And so doth yours: your fault was not your folly; Needs must you lay your heart at his dispose, Subjected tribute to commanding love, Against whose fury and unmatched force The aweless lion could not wage the fight Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand. He that perforce robs lions of their hearts May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother, With all my heart I thank thee for my father! Who lives and dares but say thou didst not well When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell. Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin; And they shall say when Richard me begot, If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin. Who says it was, he lies; I say 'twas not. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE 1 France. Before Angiers Enter, on one side, AUSTRIA and forces; on the other, KING PHILIP OF FRANCE, LEWIS the Dauphin, CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and forces KING PHILIP. Before Angiers well met, brave Austria. Arthur, that great forerunner of thy blood, Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart And fought the holy wars in Palestine, By this brave duke came early to his grave; And for amends to his posterity, At our importance hither is he come To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf; And to rebuke the usurpation Of thy unnatural uncle, English John. Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither. ARTHUR. God shall forgive you Coeur-de-lion's death The rather that you give his offspring life, Shadowing their right under your wings of war. I give you welcome with a powerless hand, But with a heart full of unstained love; Welcome before the gates of Angiers, Duke. KING PHILIP. A noble boy! Who would not do thee right? AUSTRIA. Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss As seal to this indenture of my love: That to my home I will no more return Till Angiers and the right thou hast in France, Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore, Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides And coops from other lands her islanders- Even till that England, hedg'd in with the main, That water-walled bulwark, still secure And confident from foreign purposes- Even till that utmost corner of the west Salute thee for her king. Till then, fair boy, Will I not think of home, but follow arms. CONSTANCE. O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks, Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength To make a more requital to your love! AUSTRIA. The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords In such a just and charitable war. KING PHILIP. Well then, to work! Our cannon shall be bent Against the brows of this resisting town; Call for our chiefest men of discipline, To cull the plots of best advantages. We'll lay before this town our royal bones, Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood, But we will make it subject to this boy. CONSTANCE. Stay for an answer to your embassy, Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood; My Lord Chatillon may from England bring That right in peace which here we urge in war, And then we shall repent each drop of blood That hot rash haste so indirectly shed. Enter CHATILLON KING PHILIP. A wonder, lady! Lo, upon thy wish, Our messenger Chatillon is arriv'd. What England says, say briefly, gentle lord; We coldly pause for thee. Chatillon, speak. CHATILLON. Then turn your forces from this paltry siege And stir them up against a mightier task. England, impatient of your just demands, Hath put himself in arms. The adverse winds, Whose leisure I have stay'd, have given him time To land his legions all as soon as I; His marches are expedient to this town, His forces strong, his soldiers confident. With him along is come the mother-queen, An Ate, stirring him to blood and strife; With her the Lady Blanch of Spain; With them a bastard of the king's deceas'd; And all th' unsettled humours of the land- Rash, inconsiderate, fiery voluntaries, With ladies' faces and fierce dragons' spleens- Have sold their fortunes at their native homes, Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs, To make a hazard of new fortunes here. In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er Did never float upon the swelling tide To do offence and scathe in Christendom. [Drum beats] The interruption of their churlish drums Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand; To parley or to fight, therefore prepare. KING PHILIP. How much unlook'd for is this expedition! AUSTRIA. By how much unexpected, by so much We must awake endeavour for defence, For courage mounteth with occasion. Let them be welcome then; we are prepar'd. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, BLANCH, the BASTARD, PEMBROKE, and others KING JOHN. Peace be to France, if France in peace permit Our just and lineal entrance to our own! If not, bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven, Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct Their proud contempt that beats His peace to heaven! KING PHILIP. Peace be to England, if that war return From France to England, there to live in peace! England we love, and for that England's sake With burden of our armour here we sweat. This toil of ours should be a work of thine; But thou from loving England art so far That thou hast under-wrought his lawful king, Cut off the sequence of posterity, Outfaced infant state, and done a rape Upon the maiden virtue of the crown. Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face: These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his; This little abstract doth contain that large Which died in Geffrey, and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as huge a volume. That Geffrey was thy elder brother born, And this his son; England was Geffrey's right, And this is Geffrey's. In the name of God, How comes it then that thou art call'd a king, When living blood doth in these temples beat Which owe the crown that thou o'er-masterest? KING JOHN. From whom hast thou this great commission, France, To draw my answer from thy articles? KING PHILIP. From that supernal judge that stirs good thoughts In any breast of strong authority To look into the blots and stains of right. That judge hath made me guardian to this boy, Under whose warrant I impeach thy wrong, And by whose help I mean to chastise it. KING JOHN. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. KING PHILIP. Excuse it is to beat usurping down. ELINOR. Who is it thou dost call usurper, France? CONSTANCE. Let me make answer: thy usurping son. ELINOR. Out, insolent! Thy bastard shall be king, That thou mayst be a queen and check the world! CONSTANCE. My bed was ever to thy son as true As thine was to thy husband; and this boy Liker in feature to his father Geffrey Than thou and John in manners-being as Eke As rain to water, or devil to his dam. My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think His father never was so true begot; It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother. ELINOR. There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father. CONSTANCE. There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee. AUSTRIA. Peace! BASTARD. Hear the crier. AUSTRIA. What the devil art thou? BASTARD. One that will play the devil, sir, with you, An 'a may catch your hide and you alone. You are the hare of whom the proverb goes, Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard; I'll smoke your skin-coat an I catch you right; Sirrah, look to 't; i' faith I will, i' faith. BLANCH. O, well did he become that lion's robe That did disrobe the lion of that robe! BASTARD. It lies as sightly on the back of him As great Alcides' shows upon an ass; But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back, Or lay on that shall make your shoulders crack. AUSTRIA. What cracker is this same that deafs our ears With this abundance of superfluous breath? King Philip, determine what we shall do straight. KING PHILIP. Women and fools, break off your conference. King John, this is the very sum of all: England and Ireland, Anjou, Touraine, Maine, In right of Arthur, do I claim of thee; Wilt thou resign them and lay down thy arms? KING JOHN. My life as soon. I do defy thee, France. Arthur of Britaine, yield thee to my hand, And out of my dear love I'll give thee more Than e'er the coward hand of France can win. Submit thee, boy. ELINOR. Come to thy grandam, child. CONSTANCE. Do, child, go to it grandam, child; Give grandam kingdom, and it grandam will Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig. There's a good grandam! ARTHUR. Good my mother, peace! I would that I were low laid in my grave: I am not worth this coil that's made for me. ELINOR. His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps. CONSTANCE. Now shame upon you, whe'er she does or no! His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames, Draws those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes, Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd To do him justice and revenge on you. ELINOR. Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth! CONSTANCE. Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth, Call not me slanderer! Thou and thine usurp The dominations, royalties, and rights, Of this oppressed boy; this is thy eldest son's son, Infortunate in nothing but in thee. Thy sins are visited in this poor child; The canon of the law is laid on him, Being but the second generation Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb. KING JOHN. Bedlam, have done. CONSTANCE. I have but this to say- That he is not only plagued for her sin, But God hath made her sin and her the plague On this removed issue, plagued for her And with her plague; her sin his injury, Her injury the beadle to her sin; All punish'd in the person of this child, And all for her-a plague upon her! ELINOR. Thou unadvised scold, I can produce A will that bars the title of thy son. CONSTANCE. Ay, who doubts that? A will, a wicked will; A woman's will; a cank'red grandam's will! KING PHILIP. Peace, lady! pause, or be more temperate. It ill beseems this presence to cry aim To these ill-tuned repetitions. Some trumpet summon hither to the walls These men of Angiers; let us hear them speak Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's. Trumpet sounds. Enter citizens upon the walls CITIZEN. Who is it that hath warn'd us to the walls? KING PHILIP. 'Tis France, for England. KING JOHN. England for itself. You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects- KING PHILIP. You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects, Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle- KING JOHN. For our advantage; therefore hear us first. These flags of France, that are advanced here Before the eye and prospect of your town, Have hither march'd to your endamagement; The cannons have their bowels full of wrath, And ready mounted are they to spit forth Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls; All preparation for a bloody siege And merciless proceeding by these French Confront your city's eyes, your winking gates; And but for our approach those sleeping stones That as a waist doth girdle you about By the compulsion of their ordinance By this time from their fixed beds of lime Had been dishabited, and wide havoc made For bloody power to rush upon your peace. But on the sight of us your lawful king, Who painfully with much expedient march Have brought a countercheck before your gates, To save unscratch'd your city's threat'ned cheeks- Behold, the French amaz'd vouchsafe a parle; And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire, To make a shaking fever in your walls, They shoot but calm words folded up in smoke, To make a faithless error in your cars; Which trust accordingly, kind citizens, And let us in-your King, whose labour'd spirits, Forwearied in this action of swift speed, Craves harbourage within your city walls. KING PHILIP. When I have said, make answer to us both. Lo, in this right hand, whose protection Is most divinely vow'd upon the right Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet, Son to the elder brother of this man, And king o'er him and all that he enjoys; For this down-trodden equity we tread In warlike march these greens before your town, Being no further enemy to you Than the constraint of hospitable zeal In the relief of this oppressed child Religiously provokes. Be pleased then To pay that duty which you truly owe To him that owes it, namely, this young prince; And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear, Save in aspect, hath all offence seal'd up; Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent Against th' invulnerable clouds of heaven; And with a blessed and unvex'd retire, With unhack'd swords and helmets all unbruis'd, We will bear home that lusty blood again Which here we came to spout against your town, And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace. But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer, 'Tis not the roundure of your old-fac'd walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour'd in their rude circumference. Then tell us, shall your city call us lord In that behalf which we have challeng'd it; Or shall we give the signal to our rage, And stalk in blood to our possession? CITIZEN. In brief: we are the King of England's subjects; For him, and in his right, we hold this town. KING JOHN. Acknowledge then the King, and let me in. CITIZEN. That can we not; but he that proves the King, To him will we prove loyal. Till that time Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world. KING JOHN. Doth not the crown of England prove the King? And if not that, I bring you witnesses: Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed- BASTARD. Bastards and else. KING JOHN. To verify our title with their lives. KING PHILIP. As many and as well-born bloods as those- BASTARD. Some bastards too. KING PHILIP. Stand in his face to contradict his claim. CITIZEN. Till you compound whose right is worthiest, We for the worthiest hold the right from both. KING JOHN. Then God forgive the sin of all those souls That to their everlasting residence, Before the dew of evening fall shall fleet In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king! KING PHILIP. Amen, Amen! Mount, chevaliers; to arms! BASTARD. Saint George, that swing'd the dragon, and e'er since Sits on's horse back at mine hostess' door, Teach us some fence! [To AUSTRIA] Sirrah, were I at home, At your den, sirrah, with your lioness, I would set an ox-head to your lion's hide, And make a monster of you. AUSTRIA. Peace! no more. BASTARD. O, tremble, for you hear the lion roar! KING JOHN. Up higher to the plain, where we'll set forth In best appointment all our regiments. BASTARD. Speed then to take advantage of the field. KING PHILIP. It shall be so; and at the other hill Command the rest to stand. God and our right! Exeunt Here, after excursions, enter the HERALD OF FRANCE, with trumpets, to the gates FRENCH HERALD. You men of Angiers, open wide your gates And let young Arthur, Duke of Britaine, in, Who by the hand of France this day hath made Much work for tears in many an English mother, Whose sons lie scattered on the bleeding ground; Many a widow's husband grovelling lies, Coldly embracing the discoloured earth; And victory with little loss doth play Upon the dancing banners of the French, Who are at hand, triumphantly displayed, To enter conquerors, and to proclaim Arthur of Britaine England's King and yours. Enter ENGLISH HERALD, with trumpet ENGLISH HERALD. Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells: King John, your king and England's, doth approach, Commander of this hot malicious day. Their armours that march'd hence so silver-bright Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood. There stuck no plume in any English crest That is removed by a staff of France; Our colours do return in those same hands That did display them when we first march'd forth; And like a jolly troop of huntsmen come Our lusty English, all with purpled hands, Dy'd in the dying slaughter of their foes. Open your gates and give the victors way. CITIZEN. Heralds, from off our tow'rs we might behold From first to last the onset and retire Of both your armies, whose equality By our best eyes cannot be censured. Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows; Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power; Both are alike, and both alike we like. One must prove greatest. While they weigh so even, We hold our town for neither, yet for both. Enter the two KINGS, with their powers, at several doors KING JOHN. France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away? Say, shall the current of our right run on? Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment, Shall leave his native channel and o'erswell With course disturb'd even thy confining shores, Unless thou let his silver water keep A peaceful progress to the ocean. KING PHILIP. England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood In this hot trial more than we of France; Rather, lost more. And by this hand I swear, That sways the earth this climate overlooks, Before we will lay down our just-borne arms, We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear, Or add a royal number to the dead, Gracing the scroll that tells of this war's loss With slaughter coupled to the name of kings. BASTARD. Ha, majesty! how high thy glory tow'rs When the rich blood of kings is set on fire! O, now doth Death line his dead chaps with steel; The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs; And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men, In undetermin'd differences of kings. Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus? Cry 'havoc!' kings; back to the stained field, You equal potents, fiery kindled spirits! Then let confusion of one part confirm The other's peace. Till then, blows, blood, and death! KING JOHN. Whose party do the townsmen yet admit? KING PHILIP. Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king? CITIZEN. The King of England, when we know the King. KING PHILIP. Know him in us that here hold up his right. KING JOHN. In us that are our own great deputy And bear possession of our person here, Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you. CITIZEN. A greater pow'r than we denies all this; And till it be undoubted, we do lock Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates; King'd of our fears, until our fears, resolv'd, Be by some certain king purg'd and depos'd. BASTARD. By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers flout you, kings, And stand securely on their battlements As in a theatre, whence they gape and point At your industrious scenes and acts of death. Your royal presences be rul'd by me: Do like the mutines of Jerusalem, Be friends awhile, and both conjointly bend Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town. By east and west let France and England mount Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths, Till their soul-fearing clamours have brawl'd down The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city. I'd play incessantly upon these jades, Even till unfenced desolation Leave them as naked as the vulgar air. That done, dissever your united strengths And part your mingled colours once again, Turn face to face and bloody point to point; Then in a moment Fortune shall cull forth Out of one side her happy minion, To whom in favour she shall give the day, And kiss him with a glorious victory. How like you this wild counsel, mighty states? Smacks it not something of the policy? KING JOHN. Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads, I like it well. France, shall we knit our pow'rs And lay this Angiers even with the ground; Then after fight who shall be king of it? BASTARD. An if thou hast the mettle of a king, Being wrong'd as we are by this peevish town, Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery, As we will ours, against these saucy walls; And when that we have dash'd them to the ground, Why then defy each other, and pell-mell Make work upon ourselves, for heaven or hell. KING PHILIP. Let it be so. Say, where will you assault? KING JOHN. We from the west will send destruction Into this city's bosom. AUSTRIA. I from the north. KING PHILIP. Our thunder from the south Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town. BASTARD. [Aside] O prudent discipline! From north to south, Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth. I'll stir them to it.-Come, away, away! CITIZEN. Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe awhile to stay, And I shall show you peace and fair-fac'd league; Win you this city without stroke or wound; Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds That here come sacrifices for the field. Persever not, but hear me, mighty kings. KING JOHN. Speak on with favour; we are bent to hear. CITIZEN. That daughter there of Spain, the Lady Blanch, Is niece to England; look upon the years Of Lewis the Dauphin and that lovely maid. If lusty love should go in quest of beauty, Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch? If zealous love should go in search of virtue, Where should he find it purer than in Blanch? If love ambitious sought a match of birth, Whose veins bound richer blood than Lady Blanch? Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth, Is the young Dauphin every way complete- If not complete of, say he is not she; And she again wants nothing, to name want, If want it be not that she is not he. He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. O, two such silver currents, when they join, Do glorify the banks that bound them in; And two such shores to two such streams made one, Two such controlling bounds, shall you be, Kings, To these two princes, if you marry them. This union shall do more than battery can To our fast-closed gates; for at this match With swifter spleen than powder can enforce, The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope And give you entrance; but without this match, The sea enraged is not half so deaf, Lions more confident, mountains and rocks More free from motion-no, not Death himself In mortal fury half so peremptory As we to keep this city. BASTARD. Here's a stay That shakes the rotten carcass of old Death Out of his rags! Here's a large mouth, indeed, That spits forth death and mountains, rocks and seas; Talks as familiarly of roaring lions As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! What cannoneer begot this lusty blood? He speaks plain cannon-fire, and smoke and bounce; He gives the bastinado with his tongue; Our ears are cudgell'd; not a word of his But buffets better than a fist of France. Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words Since I first call'd my brother's father dad. ELINOR. Son, list to this conjunction, make this match; Give with our niece a dowry large enough; For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit. I see a yielding in the looks of France; Mark how they whisper. Urge them while their souls Are capable of this ambition, Lest zeal, now melted by the windy breath Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse, Cool and congeal again to what it was. CITIZEN. Why answer not the double majesties This friendly treaty of our threat'ned town? KING PHILIP. Speak England first, that hath been forward first To speak unto this city: what say you? KING JOHN. If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son, Can in this book of beauty read 'I love,' Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen; For Anjou, and fair Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, And all that we upon this side the sea- Except this city now by us besieg'd- Find liable to our crown and dignity, Shall gild her bridal bed, and make her rich In titles, honours, and promotions, As she in beauty, education, blood, Holds hand with any princess of the world. KING PHILIP. What say'st thou, boy? Look in the lady's face. LEWIS. I do, my lord, and in her eye I find A wonder, or a wondrous miracle, The shadow of myself form'd in her eye; Which, being but the shadow of your son, Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow. I do protest I never lov'd myself Till now infixed I beheld myself Drawn in the flattering table of her eye. [Whispers with BLANCH] BASTARD. [Aside] Drawn in the flattering table of her eye, Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow, And quarter'd in her heart-he doth espy Himself love's traitor. This is pity now, That hang'd and drawn and quarter'd there should be In such a love so vile a lout as he. BLANCH. My uncle's will in this respect is mine. If he see aught in you that makes him like, That anything he sees which moves his liking I can with ease translate it to my will; Or if you will, to speak more properly, I will enforce it eas'ly to my love. Further I will not flatter you, my lord, That all I see in you is worthy love, Than this: that nothing do I see in you- Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge- That I can find should merit any hate. KING JOHN. What say these young ones? What say you, my niece? BLANCH. That she is bound in honour still to do What you in wisdom still vouchsafe to say. KING JOHN. Speak then, Prince Dauphin; can you love this lady? LEWIS. Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love; For I do love her most unfeignedly. KING JOHN. Then do I give Volquessen, Touraine, Maine, Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces, With her to thee; and this addition more, Full thirty thousand marks of English coin. Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal, Command thy son and daughter to join hands. KING PHILIP. It likes us well; young princes, close your hands. AUSTRIA. And your lips too; for I am well assur'd That I did so when I was first assur'd. KING PHILIP. Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates, Let in that amity which you have made; For at Saint Mary's chapel presently The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd. Is not the Lady Constance in this troop? I know she is not; for this match made up Her presence would have interrupted much. Where is she and her son? Tell me, who knows. LEWIS. She is sad and passionate at your Highness' tent. KING PHILIP. And, by my faith, this league that we have made Will give her sadness very little cure. Brother of England, how may we content This widow lady? In her right we came; Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way, To our own vantage. KING JOHN. We will heal up all, For we'll create young Arthur Duke of Britaine, And Earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town We make him lord of. Call the Lady Constance; Some speedy messenger bid her repair To our solemnity. I trust we shall, If not fill up the measure of her will, Yet in some measure satisfy her so That we shall stop her exclamation. Go we as well as haste will suffer us To this unlook'd-for, unprepared pomp. Exeunt all but the BASTARD BASTARD. Mad world! mad kings! mad composition! John, to stop Arthur's tide in the whole, Hath willingly departed with a part; And France, whose armour conscience buckled on, Whom zeal and charity brought to the field As God's own soldier, rounded in the ear With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil, That broker that still breaks the pate of faith, That daily break-vow, he that wins of all, Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids, Who having no external thing to lose But the word 'maid,' cheats the poor maid of that; That smooth-fac'd gentleman, tickling commodity, Commodity, the bias of the world- The world, who of itself is peised well, Made to run even upon even ground, Till this advantage, this vile-drawing bias, This sway of motion, this commodity, Makes it take head from all indifferency, From all direction, purpose, course, intent- And this same bias, this commodity, This bawd, this broker, this all-changing word, Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France, Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid, From a resolv'd and honourable war, To a most base and vile-concluded peace. And why rail I on this commodity? But for because he hath not woo'd me yet; Not that I have the power to clutch my hand When his fair angels would salute my palm, But for my hand, as unattempted yet, Like a poor beggar raileth on the rich. Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail And say there is no sin but to be rich; And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary. Since kings break faith upon commodity, Gain, be my lord, for I will worship thee. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE 1. France. The FRENCH KING'S camp Enter CONSTANCE, ARTHUR, and SALISBURY CONSTANCE. Gone to be married! Gone to swear a peace! False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends! Shall Lewis have Blanch, and Blanch those provinces? It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard; Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again. It cannot be; thou dost but say 'tis so; I trust I may not trust thee, for thy word Is but the vain breath of a common man: Believe me I do not believe thee, man; I have a king's oath to the contrary. Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me, For I am sick and capable of fears, Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears; A widow, husbandless, subject to fears; A woman, naturally born to fears; And though thou now confess thou didst but jest, With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce, But they will quake and tremble all this day. What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head? Why dost thou look so sadly on my son? What means that hand upon that breast of thine? Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum, Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds? Be these sad signs confirmers of thy words? Then speak again-not all thy former tale, But this one word, whether thy tale be true. SALISBURY. As true as I believe you think them false That give you cause to prove my saying true. CONSTANCE. O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow, Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die; And let belief and life encounter so As doth the fury of two desperate men Which in the very meeting fall and die! Lewis marry Blanch! O boy, then where art thou? France friend with England; what becomes of me? Fellow, be gone: I cannot brook thy sight; This news hath made thee a most ugly man. SALISBURY. What other harm have I, good lady, done But spoke the harm that is by others done? CONSTANCE. Which harm within itself so heinous is As it makes harmful all that speak of it. ARTHUR. I do beseech you, madam, be content. CONSTANCE. If thou that bid'st me be content wert grim, Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb, Full of unpleasing blots and sightless stains, Lame, foolish, crooked, swart, prodigious, Patch'd with foul moles and eye-offending marks, I would not care, I then would be content; For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown. But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose; but Fortune, O! She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee; Sh' adulterates hourly with thine uncle John, And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France To tread down fair respect of sovereignty, And made his majesty the bawd to theirs. France is a bawd to Fortune and King John- That strumpet Fortune, that usurping John! Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn? Envenom him with words, or get thee gone And leave those woes alone which I alone Am bound to under-bear. SALISBURY. Pardon me, madam, I may not go without you to the kings. CONSTANCE. Thou mayst, thou shalt; I will not go with thee; I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. To me, and to the state of my great grief, Let kings assemble; for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up. [Seats herself on the ground] Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. Enter KING JOHN, KING PHILIP, LEWIS, BLANCH, ELINOR, the BASTARD, AUSTRIA, and attendants KING PHILIP. 'Tis true, fair daughter, and this blessed day Ever in France shall be kept festival. To solemnize this day the glorious sun Stays in his course and plays the alchemist, Turning with splendour of his precious eye The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold. The yearly course that brings this day about Shall never see it but a holiday. CONSTANCE. [Rising] A wicked day, and not a holy day! What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done That it in golden letters should be set Among the high tides in the calendar? Nay, rather turn this day out of the week, This day of shame, oppression, perjury; Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child Pray that their burdens may not fall this day, Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd; But on this day let seamen fear no wreck; No bargains break that are not this day made; This day, all things begun come to ill end, Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change! KING PHILIP. By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause To curse the fair proceedings of this day. Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty? CONSTANCE. You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit Resembling majesty, which, being touch'd and tried, Proves valueless; you are forsworn, forsworn; You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood, But now in arms you strengthen it with yours. The grappling vigour and rough frown of war Is cold in amity and painted peace, And our oppression hath made up this league. Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings! A widow cries: Be husband to me, heavens! Let not the hours of this ungodly day Wear out the day in peace; but, ere sunset, Set armed discord 'twixt these perjur'd kings! Hear me, O, hear me! AUSTRIA. Lady Constance, peace! CONSTANCE. War! war! no peace! Peace is to me a war. O Lymoges! O Austria! thou dost shame That bloody spoil. Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion that dost never fight But when her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety! Thou art perjur'd too, And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou, A ramping fool, to brag and stamp and swear Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave, Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side, Been sworn my soldier, bidding me depend Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength, And dost thou now fall over to my foes? Thou wear a lion's hide! Doff it for shame, And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. O that a man should speak those words to me! BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Thou dar'st not say so, villain, for thy life. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs. KING JOHN. We like not this: thou dost forget thyself. Enter PANDULPH KING PHILIP. Here comes the holy legate of the Pope. PANDULPH. Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven! To thee, King John, my holy errand is. I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal, And from Pope Innocent the legate here, Do in his name religiously demand Why thou against the Church, our holy mother, So wilfully dost spurn; and force perforce Keep Stephen Langton, chosen Archbishop Of Canterbury, from that holy see? This, in our foresaid holy father's name, Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee. KING JOHN. What earthly name to interrogatories Can task the free breath of a sacred king? Thou canst not, Cardinal, devise a name So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous, To charge me to an answer, as the Pope. Tell him this tale, and from the mouth of England Add thus much more, that no Italian priest Shall tithe or toll in our dominions; But as we under heaven are supreme head, So, under Him that great supremacy, Where we do reign we will alone uphold, Without th' assistance of a mortal hand. So tell the Pope, all reverence set apart To him and his usurp'd authority. KING PHILIP. Brother of England, you blaspheme in this. KING JOHN. Though you and all the kings of Christendom Are led so grossly by this meddling priest, Dreading the curse that money may buy out, And by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust, Purchase corrupted pardon of a man, Who in that sale sells pardon from himself- Though you and all the rest, so grossly led, This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish; Yet I alone, alone do me oppose Against the Pope, and count his friends my foes. PANDULPH. Then by the lawful power that I have Thou shalt stand curs'd and excommunicate; And blessed shall he be that doth revolt From his allegiance to an heretic; And meritorious shall that hand be call'd, Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint, That takes away by any secret course Thy hateful life. CONSTANCE. O, lawful let it be That I have room with Rome to curse awhile! Good father Cardinal, cry thou 'amen' To my keen curses; for without my wrong There is no tongue hath power to curse him right. PANDULPH. There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse. CONSTANCE. And for mine too; when law can do no right, Let it be lawful that law bar no wrong; Law cannot give my child his kingdom here, For he that holds his kingdom holds the law; Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong, How can the law forbid my tongue to curse? PANDULPH. Philip of France, on peril of a curse, Let go the hand of that arch-heretic, And raise the power of France upon his head, Unless he do submit himself to Rome. ELINOR. Look'st thou pale, France? Do not let go thy hand. CONSTANCE. Look to that, devil, lest that France repent And by disjoining hands hell lose a soul. AUSTRIA. King Philip, listen to the Cardinal. BASTARD. And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs. AUSTRIA. Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs, Because- BASTARD. Your breeches best may carry them. KING JOHN. Philip, what say'st thou to the Cardinal? CONSTANCE. What should he say, but as the Cardinal? LEWIS. Bethink you, father; for the difference Is purchase of a heavy curse from Rome Or the light loss of England for a friend. Forgo the easier. BLANCH. That's the curse of Rome. CONSTANCE. O Lewis, stand fast! The devil tempts thee here In likeness of a new untrimmed bride. BLANCH. The Lady Constance speaks not from her faith, But from her need. CONSTANCE. O, if thou grant my need, Which only lives but by the death of faith, That need must needs infer this principle- That faith would live again by death of need. O then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up: Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down! KING JOHN. The King is mov'd, and answers not to this. CONSTANCE. O be remov'd from him, and answer well! AUSTRIA. Do so, King Philip; hang no more in doubt. BASTARD. Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout. KING PHILIP. I am perplex'd and know not what to say. PANDULPH. What canst thou say but will perplex thee more, If thou stand excommunicate and curs'd? KING PHILIP. Good reverend father, make my person yours, And tell me how you would bestow yourself. This royal hand and mine are newly knit, And the conjunction of our inward souls Married in league, coupled and link'd together With all religious strength of sacred vows; The latest breath that gave the sound of words Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love, Between our kingdoms and our royal selves; And even before this truce, but new before, No longer than we well could wash our hands, To clap this royal bargain up of peace, Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and overstain'd With slaughter's pencil, where revenge did paint The fearful difference of incensed kings. And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood, So newly join'd in love, so strong in both, Unyoke this seizure and this kind regreet? Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven, Make such unconstant children of ourselves, As now again to snatch our palm from palm, Unswear faith sworn, and on the marriage-bed Of smiling peace to march a bloody host, And make a riot on the gentle brow Of true sincerity? O, holy sir, My reverend father, let it not be so! Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose, Some gentle order; and then we shall be blest To do your pleasure, and continue friends. PANDULPH. All form is formless, order orderless, Save what is opposite to England's love. Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church, Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse- A mother's curse-on her revolting son. France, thou mayst hold a serpent by the tongue, A chafed lion by the mortal paw, A fasting tiger safer by the tooth, Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold. KING PHILIP. I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith. PANDULPH. So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith; And like. a civil war set'st oath to oath. Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd, That is, to be the champion of our Church. What since thou swor'st is sworn against thyself And may not be performed by thyself, For that which thou hast sworn to do amiss Is not amiss when it is truly done; And being not done, where doing tends to ill, The truth is then most done not doing it; The better act of purposes mistook Is to mistake again; though indirect, Yet indirection thereby grows direct, And falsehood cures, as fire cools fire Within the scorched veins of one new-burn'd. It is religion that doth make vows kept; But thou hast sworn against religion By what thou swear'st against the thing thou swear'st, And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth Against an oath; the truth thou art unsure To swear swears only not to be forsworn; Else what a mockery should it be to swear! But thou dost swear only to be forsworn; And most forsworn to keep what thou dost swear. Therefore thy later vows against thy first Is in thyself rebellion to thyself; And better conquest never canst thou make Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts Against these giddy loose suggestions; Upon which better part our pray'rs come in, If thou vouchsafe them. But if not, then know The peril of our curses fight on thee So heavy as thou shalt not shake them off, But in despair die under the black weight. AUSTRIA. Rebellion, flat rebellion! BASTARD. Will't not be? Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine? LEWIS. Father, to arms! BLANCH. Upon thy wedding-day? Against the blood that thou hast married? What, shall our feast be kept with slaughtered men? Shall braying trumpets and loud churlish drums, Clamours of hell, be measures to our pomp? O husband, hear me! ay, alack, how new Is 'husband' in my mouth! even for that name, Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce, Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms Against mine uncle. CONSTANCE. O, upon my knee, Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee, Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom Forethought by heaven! BLANCH. Now shall I see thy love. What motive may Be stronger with thee than the name of wife? CONSTANCE. That which upholdeth him that thee upholds, His honour. O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour! LEWIS. I muse your Majesty doth seem so cold, When such profound respects do pull you on. PANDULPH. I will denounce a curse upon his head. KING PHILIP. Thou shalt not need. England, I will fall from thee. CONSTANCE. O fair return of banish'd majesty! ELINOR. O foul revolt of French inconstancy! KING JOHN. France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour. BASTARD. Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton Time, Is it as he will? Well then, France shall rue. BLANCH. The sun's o'ercast with blood. Fair day, adieu! Which is the side that I must go withal? I am with both: each army hath a hand; And in their rage, I having hold of both, They whirl asunder and dismember me. Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win; Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose; Father, I may not wish the fortune thine; Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive. Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose: Assured loss before the match be play'd. LEWIS. Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies. BLANCH. There where my fortune lives, there my life dies. KING JOHN. Cousin, go draw our puissance together. Exit BASTARD France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath, A rage whose heat hath this condition That nothing can allay, nothing but blood, The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France. KING PHILIP. Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire. Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy. KING JOHN. No more than he that threats. To arms let's hie! Exeunt severally SCENE 2. France. Plains near Angiers Alarums, excursions. Enter the BASTARD with AUSTRIA'S head BASTARD. Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot; Some airy devil hovers in the sky And pours down mischief. Austria's head lie there, While Philip breathes. Enter KING JOHN, ARTHUR, and HUBERT KING JOHN. Hubert, keep this boy. Philip, make up: My mother is assailed in our tent, And ta'en, I fear. BASTARD. My lord, I rescued her; Her Highness is in safety, fear you not; But on, my liege, for very little pains Will bring this labour to an happy end. Exeunt SCENE 3. France. Plains near Angiers Alarums, excursions, retreat. Enter KING JOHN, ELINOR, ARTHUR, the BASTARD, HUBERT, and LORDS KING JOHN. [To ELINOR] So shall it be; your Grace shall stay behind, So strongly guarded. [To ARTHUR] Cousin, look not sad; Thy grandam loves thee, and thy uncle will As dear be to thee as thy father was. ARTHUR. O, this will make my mother die with grief! KING JOHN. [To the BASTARD] Cousin, away for England! haste before, And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags Of hoarding abbots; imprisoned angels Set at liberty; the fat ribs of peace Must by the hungry now be fed upon. Use our commission in his utmost force. BASTARD. Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on. I leave your Highness. Grandam, I will pray, If ever I remember to be holy, For your fair safety. So, I kiss your hand. ELINOR. Farewell, gentle cousin. KING JOHN. Coz, farewell. Exit BASTARD ELINOR. Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word. KING JOHN. Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert, We owe thee much! Within this wall of flesh There is a soul counts thee her creditor, And with advantage means to pay thy love; And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished. Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say- But I will fit it with some better time. By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd To say what good respect I have of thee. HUBERT. I am much bounden to your Majesty. KING JOHN. Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet, But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow, Yet it shall come for me to do thee good. I had a thing to say-but let it go: The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day, Attended with the pleasures of the world, Is all too wanton and too full of gawds To give me audience. If the midnight bell Did with his iron tongue and brazen mouth Sound on into the drowsy race of night; If this same were a churchyard where we stand, And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs; Or if that surly spirit, melancholy, Had bak'd thy blood and made it heavy-thick, Which else runs tickling up and down the veins, Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes And strain their cheeks to idle merriment, A passion hateful to my purposes; Or if that thou couldst see me without eyes, Hear me without thine cars, and make reply Without a tongue, using conceit alone, Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words- Then, in despite of brooded watchful day, I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts. But, ah, I will not! Yet I love thee well; And, by my troth, I think thou lov'st me well. HUBERT. So well that what you bid me undertake, Though that my death were adjunct to my act, By heaven, I would do it. KING JOHN. Do not I know thou wouldst? Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye On yon young boy. I'll tell thee what, my friend, He is a very serpent in my way; And wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread, He lies before me. Dost thou understand me? Thou art his keeper. HUBERT. And I'll keep him so That he shall not offend your Majesty. KING JOHN. Death. HUBERT. My lord? KING JOHN. A grave. HUBERT. He shall not live. KING JOHN. Enough! I could be merry now. Hubert, I love thee. Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee. Remember. Madam, fare you well; I'll send those powers o'er to your Majesty. ELINOR. My blessing go with thee! KING JOHN. [To ARTHUR] For England, cousin, go; Hubert shall be your man, attend on you With all true duty. On toward Calais, ho! Exeunt SCENE 4. France. The FRENCH KING's camp Enter KING PHILIP, LEWIS, PANDULPH, and attendants KING PHILIP. So by a roaring tempest on the flood A whole armado of convicted sail Is scattered and disjoin'd from fellowship. PANDULPH. Courage and comfort! All shall yet go well. KING PHILIP. What can go well, when we have run so ill. Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost? Arthur ta'en prisoner? Divers dear friends slain? And bloody England into England gone, O'erbearing interruption, spite of France? LEWIS. he hath won, that hath he fortified; So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd, Such temperate order in so fierce a cause, Doth want example; who hath read or heard Of any kindred action like to this? KING PHILIP. Well could I bear that England had this praise, So we could find some pattern of our shame. Enter CONSTANCE Look who comes here! a grave unto a soul; Holding th' eternal spirit, against her will, In the vile prison of afflicted breath. I prithee, lady, go away with me. CONSTANCE. Lo now! now see the issue of your peace! KING PHILIP. Patience, good lady! Comfort, gentle Constance! CONSTANCE. No, I defy all counsel, all redress, But that which ends all counsel, true redress- Death, death; O amiable lovely death! Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness! Arise forth from the couch of lasting night, Thou hate and terror to prosperity, And I will kiss thy detestable bones, And put my eyeballs in thy vaulty brows, And ring these fingers with thy household worms, And stop this gap of breath with fulsome dust, And be a carrion monster like thyself. Come, grin on me, and I will think thou smil'st, And buss thee as thy wife. Misery's love, O, come to me! KING PHILIP. O fair affliction, peace! CONSTANCE. No, no, I will not, having breath to cry. O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with a passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation. PANDULPH. Lady, you utter madness and not sorrow. CONSTANCE. Thou art not holy to belie me so. I am not mad: this hair I tear is mine; My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife; Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost. I am not mad-I would to heaven I were! For then 'tis like I should forget myself. O, if I could, what grief should I forget! Preach some philosophy to make me mad, And thou shalt be canoniz'd, Cardinal; For, being not mad, but sensible of grief, My reasonable part produces reason How I may be deliver'd of these woes, And teaches me to kill or hang myself. If I were mad I should forget my son, Or madly think a babe of clouts were he. I am not mad; too well, too well I feel The different plague of each calamity. KING PHILIP. Bind up those tresses. O, what love I note In the fair multitude of those her hairs! Where but by a chance a silver drop hath fall'n, Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends Do glue themselves in sociable grief, Like true, inseparable, faithful loves, Sticking together in calamity. CONSTANCE. To England, if you will. KING PHILIP. Bind up your hairs. CONSTANCE. Yes, that I will; and wherefore will I do it? I tore them from their bonds, and cried aloud 'O that these hands could so redeem my son, As they have given these hairs their liberty!' But now I envy at their liberty, And will again commit them to their bonds, Because my poor child is a prisoner. And, father Cardinal, I have heard you say That we shall see and know our friends in heaven; If that be true, I shall see my boy again; For since the birth of Cain, the first male child, To him that did but yesterday suspire, There was not such a gracious creature born. But now will canker sorrow eat my bud And chase the native beauty from his cheek, And he will look as hollow as a ghost, As dim and meagre as an ague's fit; And so he'll die; and, rising so again, When I shall meet him in the court of heaven I shall not know him. Therefore never, never Must I behold my pretty Arthur more. PANDULPH. You hold too heinous a respect of grief. CONSTANCE. He talks to me that never had a son. KING PHILIP. You are as fond of grief as of your child. CONSTANCE. Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form; Then have I reason to be fond of grief. Fare you well; had you such a loss as I, I could give better comfort than you do. I will not keep this form upon my head, [Tearing her hair] When there is such disorder in my wit. O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son! My life, my joy, my food, my ail the world! My widow-comfort, and my sorrows' cure! Exit KING PHILIP. I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her. Exit LEWIS. There's nothing in this world can make me joy. Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man; And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet world's taste, That it yields nought but shame and bitterness. PANDULPH. Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest; evils that take leave On their departure most of all show evil; What have you lost by losing of this day? LEWIS. All days of glory, joy, and happiness. PANDULPH. If you had won it, certainly you had. No, no; when Fortune means to men most good, She looks upon them with a threat'ning eye. 'Tis strange to think how much King John hath lost In this which he accounts so clearly won. Are not you griev'd that Arthur is his prisoner? LEWIS. As heartily as he is glad he hath him. PANDULPH. Your mind is all as youthful as your blood. Now hear me speak with a prophetic spirit; For even the breath of what I mean to speak Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub, Out of the path which shall directly lead Thy foot to England's throne. And therefore mark: John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins, The misplac'd John should entertain an hour, One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest. A sceptre snatch'd with an unruly hand Must be boisterously maintain'd as gain'd, And he that stands upon a slipp'ry place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up; That John may stand then, Arthur needs must fall; So be it, for it cannot be but so. LEWIS. But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall? PANDULPH. You, in the right of Lady Blanch your wife, May then make all the claim that Arthur did. LEWIS. And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did. PANDULPH. How green you are and fresh in this old world! John lays you plots; the times conspire with you; For he that steeps his safety in true blood Shall find but bloody safety and untrue. This act, so evilly borne, shall cool the hearts Of all his people and freeze up their zeal, That none so small advantage shall step forth To check his reign but they will cherish it; No natural exhalation in the sky, No scope of nature, no distemper'd day, No common wind, no customed event, But they will pluck away his natural cause And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs, Abortives, presages, and tongues of heaven, Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John. LEWIS. May be he will not touch young Arthur's life, But hold himself safe in his prisonment. PANDULPH. O, Sir, when he shall hear of your approach, If that young Arthur be not gone already, Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts Of all his people shall revolt from him, And kiss the lips of unacquainted change, And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath Out of the bloody fingers' ends of john. Methinks I see this hurly all on foot; And, O, what better matter breeds for you Than I have nam'd! The bastard Faulconbridge Is now in England ransacking the Church, Offending charity; if but a dozen French Were there in arms, they would be as a can To train ten thousand English to their side; Or as a little snow, tumbled about, Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin, Go with me to the King. 'Tis wonderful What may be wrought out of their discontent, Now that their souls are topful of offence. For England go; I will whet on the King. LEWIS. Strong reasons makes strong actions. Let us go; If you say ay, the King will not say no. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. England. A castle Enter HUBERT and EXECUTIONERS HUBERT. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou stand Within the arras. When I strike my foot Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth And bind the boy which you shall find with me Fast to the chair. Be heedful; hence, and watch. EXECUTIONER. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed. HUBERT. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you. Look to't. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. Enter ARTHUR ARTHUR. Good morrow, Hubert. HUBERT. Good morrow, little Prince. ARTHUR. As little prince, having so great a tide To be more prince, as may be. You are sad. HUBERT. Indeed I have been merrier. ARTHUR. Mercy on me! Methinks no body should be sad but I; Yet, I remember, when I was in France, Young gentlemen would be as sad as night, Only for wantonness. By my christendom, So I were out of prison and kept sheep, I should be as merry as the day is long; And so I would be here but that I doubt My uncle practises more harm to me; He is afraid of me, and I of him. Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son? No, indeed, ist not; and I would to heaven I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert. HUBERT. [Aside] If I talk to him, with his innocent prate He will awake my mercy, which lies dead; Therefore I will be sudden and dispatch. ARTHUR. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day; In sooth, I would you were a little sick, That I might sit all night and watch with you. I warrant I love you more than you do me. HUBERT. [Aside] His words do take possession of my bosom.- Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper] [Aside] How now, foolish rheum! Turning dispiteous torture out of door! I must be brief, lest resolution drop Out at mine eyes in tender womanish tears.- Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ? ARTHUR. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect. Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes? HUBERT. Young boy, I must. ARTHUR. And will you? HUBERT. And I will. ARTHUR. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache, I knit my handkerchief about your brows- The best I had, a princess wrought it me- And I did never ask it you again; And with my hand at midnight held your head; And, like the watchful minutes to the hour, Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time, Saying 'What lack you?' and 'Where lies your grief?' Or 'What good love may I perform for you?' Many a poor man's son would have lyen still, And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you; But you at your sick service had a prince. Nay, you may think my love was crafty love, And call it cunning. Do, an if you will. If heaven be pleas'd that you must use me ill, Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes, These eyes that never did nor never shall So much as frown on you? HUBERT. I have sworn to do it; And with hot irons must I burn them out. ARTHUR. Ah, none but in this iron age would do it! The iron of itself, though heat red-hot, Approaching near these eyes would drink my tears, And quench his fiery indignation Even in the matter of mine innocence; Nay, after that, consume away in rust But for containing fire to harm mine eye. Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron? An if an angel should have come to me And told me Hubert should put out mine eyes, I would not have believ'd him-no tongue but Hubert's. HUBERT. [Stamps] Come forth. Re-enter EXECUTIONERS, With cord, irons, etc. Do as I bid you do. ARTHUR. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men. HUBERT. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here. ARTHUR. Alas, what need you be so boist'rous rough? I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still. For heaven sake, Hubert, let me not be bound! Nay, hear me, Hubert! Drive these men away, And I will sit as quiet as a lamb; I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word, Nor look upon the iron angrily; Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you, Whatever torment you do put me to. HUBERT. Go, stand within; let me alone with him. EXECUTIONER. I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed. Exeunt EXECUTIONERS ARTHUR. Alas, I then have chid away my friend! He hath a stern look but a gentle heart. Let him come back, that his compassion may Give life to yours. HUBERT. Come, boy, prepare yourself. ARTHUR. Is there no remedy? HUBERT. None, but to lose your eyes. ARTHUR. O heaven, that there were but a mote in yours, A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wandering hair, Any annoyance in that precious sense! Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there, Your vile intent must needs seem horrible. HUBERT. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue. ARTHUR. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes. Let me not hold my tongue, let me not, Hubert; Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue, So I may keep mine eyes. O, spare mine eyes, Though to no use but still to look on you! Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold And would not harm me. HUBERT. I can heat it, boy. ARTHUR. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief, Being create for comfort, to be us'd In undeserved extremes. See else yourself: There is no malice in this burning coal; The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out, And strew'd repentant ashes on his head. HUBERT. But with my breath I can revive it, boy. ARTHUR. An if you do, you will but make it blush And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert. Nay, it perchance will sparkle in your eyes, And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight, Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on. All things that you should use to do me wrong Deny their office; only you do lack That mercy which fierce fire and iron extends, Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses. HUBERT. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eye For all the treasure that thine uncle owes. Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy, With this same very iron to burn them out. ARTHUR. O, now you look like Hubert! All this while You were disguis'd. HUBERT. Peace; no more. Adieu. Your uncle must not know but you are dead: I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports; And, pretty child, sleep doubtless and secure That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world, Will not offend thee. ARTHUR. O heaven! I thank you, Hubert. HUBERT. Silence; no more. Go closely in with me. Much danger do I undergo for thee. Exeunt SCENE 2. England. KING JOHN'S palace Enter KING JOHN, PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and other LORDS KING JOHN. Here once again we sit, once again crown'd, And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes. PEMBROKE. This once again, but that your Highness pleas'd, Was once superfluous: you were crown'd before, And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off, The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt; Fresh expectation troubled not the land With any long'd-for change or better state. SALISBURY. Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp, To guard a title that was rich before, To gild refined gold, to paint the lily, To throw a perfume on the violet, To smooth the ice, or add another hue Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish, Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. PEMBROKE. But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable. SALISBURY. In this the antique and well-noted face Of plain old form is much disfigured; And like a shifted wind unto a sail It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about, Startles and frights consideration, Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected, For putting on so new a fashion'd robe. PEMBROKE. When workmen strive to do better than well, They do confound their skill in covetousness; And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by th' excuse, As patches set upon a little breach Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd. SALISBURY. To this effect, before you were new-crown'd, We breath'd our counsel; but it pleas'd your Highness To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd, Since all and every part of what we would Doth make a stand at what your Highness will. KING JOHN. Some reasons of this double coronation I have possess'd you with, and think them strong; And more, more strong, when lesser is my fear, I shall indue you with. Meantime but ask What you would have reform'd that is not well, And well shall you perceive how willingly I will both hear and grant you your requests. PEMBROKE. Then I, as one that am the tongue of these, To sound the purposes of all their hearts, Both for myself and them- but, chief of all, Your safety, for the which myself and them Bend their best studies, heartily request Th' enfranchisement of Arthur, whose restraint Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent To break into this dangerous argument: If what in rest you have in right you hold, Why then your fears-which, as they say, attend The steps of wrong-should move you to mew up Your tender kinsman, and to choke his days With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth The rich advantage of good exercise? That the time's enemies may not have this To grace occasions, let it be our suit That you have bid us ask his liberty; Which for our goods we do no further ask Than whereupon our weal, on you depending, Counts it your weal he have his liberty. KING JOHN. Let it be so. I do commit his youth To your direction. Enter HUBERT [Aside] Hubert, what news with you? PEMBROKE. This is the man should do the bloody deed: He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine; The image of a wicked heinous fault Lives in his eye; that close aspect of his Doth show the mood of a much troubled breast, And I do fearfully believe 'tis done What we so fear'd he had a charge to do. SALISBURY. The colour of the King doth come and go Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set. His passion is so ripe it needs must break. PEMBROKE. And when it breaks, I fear will issue thence The foul corruption of a sweet child's death. KING JOHN. We cannot hold mortality's strong hand. Good lords, although my will to give is living, The suit which you demand is gone and dead: He tells us Arthur is deceas'd to-night. SALISBURY. Indeed, we fear'd his sickness was past cure. PEMBROKE. Indeed, we heard how near his death he was, Before the child himself felt he was sick. This must be answer'd either here or hence. KING JOHN. Why do you bend such solemn brows on me? Think you I bear the shears of destiny? Have I commandment on the pulse of life? SALISBURY. It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame That greatness should so grossly offer it. So thrive it in your game! and so, farewell. PEMBROKE. Stay yet, Lord Salisbury, I'll go with thee And find th' inheritance of this poor child, His little kingdom of a forced grave. That blood which ow'd the breadth of all this isle Three foot of it doth hold-bad world the while! This must not be thus borne: this will break out To all our sorrows, and ere long I doubt. Exeunt LORDS KING JOHN. They burn in indignation. I repent. There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achiev'd by others' death. Enter a MESSENGER A fearful eye thou hast; where is that blood That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks? So foul a sky clears not without a storm. Pour down thy weather-how goes all in France? MESSENGER. From France to England. Never such a pow'r For any foreign preparation Was levied in the body of a land. The copy of your speed is learn'd by them, For when you should be told they do prepare, The tidings comes that they are all arriv'd. KING JOHN. O, where hath our intelligence been drunk? Where hath it slept? Where is my mother's care, That such an army could be drawn in France, And she not hear of it? MESSENGER. My liege, her ear Is stopp'd with dust: the first of April died Your noble mother; and as I hear, my lord, The Lady Constance in a frenzy died Three days before; but this from rumour's tongue I idly heard-if true or false I know not. KING JOHN. Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion! O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd My discontented peers! What! mother dead! How wildly then walks my estate in France! Under whose conduct came those pow'rs of France That thou for truth giv'st out are landed here? MESSENGER. Under the Dauphin. KING JOHN. Thou hast made me giddy With these in tidings. Enter the BASTARD and PETER OF POMFRET Now! What says the world To your proceedings? Do not seek to stuff My head with more ill news, for it is fun. BASTARD. But if you be afear'd to hear the worst, Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head. KING JOHN. Bear with me, cousin, for I was amaz'd Under the tide; but now I breathe again Aloft the flood, and can give audience To any tongue, speak it of what it will. BASTARD. How I have sped among the clergymen The sums I have collected shall express. But as I travell'd hither through the land, I find the people strangely fantasied; Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams. Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear; And here's a prophet that I brought with me From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found With many hundreds treading on his heels; To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes, That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon, Your Highness should deliver up your crown. KING JOHN. Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so? PETER. Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so. KING JOHN. Hubert, away with him; imprison him; And on that day at noon whereon he says I shall yield up my crown let him be hang'd. Deliver him to safety; and return, For I must use thee. Exit HUBERT with PETER O my gentle cousin, Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd? BASTARD. The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it; Besides, I met Lord Bigot and Lord Salisbury, With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire, And others more, going to seek the grave Of Arthur, whom they say is kill'd to-night On your suggestion. KING JOHN. Gentle kinsman, go And thrust thyself into their companies. I have a way to will their loves again; Bring them before me. BASTARD. I Will seek them out. KING JOHN. Nay, but make haste; the better foot before. O, let me have no subject enemies When adverse foreigners affright my towns With dreadful pomp of stout invasion! Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels, And fly like thought from them to me again. BASTARD. The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. KING JOHN. Spoke like a sprightful noble gentleman. Exit BASTARD Go after him; for he perhaps shall need Some messenger betwixt me and the peers; And be thou he. MESSENGER. With all my heart, my liege. Exit KING JOHN. My mother dead! Re-enter HUBERT HUBERT. My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night; Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion. KING JOHN. Five moons! HUBERT. Old men and beldams in the streets Do prophesy upon it dangerously; Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths; And when they talk of him, they shake their heads, And whisper one another in the ear; And he that speaks doth gripe the hearer's wrist, Whilst he that hears makes fearful action With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes. I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus, The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool, With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news; Who, with his shears and measure in his hand, Standing on slippers, which his nimble haste Had falsely thrust upon contrary feet, Told of a many thousand warlike French That were embattailed and rank'd in Kent. Another lean unwash'd artificer Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death. KING JOHN. Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears? Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death? Thy hand hath murd'red him. I had a mighty cause To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him. HUBERT. No had, my lord! Why, did you not provoke me? KING JOHN. It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humours for a warrant To break within the bloody house of life, And on the winking of authority To understand a law; to know the meaning Of dangerous majesty, when perchance it frowns More upon humour than advis'd respect. HUBERT. Here is your hand and seal for what I did. KING JOHN. O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal Witness against us to damnation! How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds Make deeds ill done! Hadst not thou been by, A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted and sign'd to do a deed of shame, This murder had not come into my mind; But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspect, Finding thee fit for bloody villainy, Apt, liable to be employ'd in danger, I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death; And thou, to be endeared to a king, Made it no conscience to destroy a prince. HUBERT. My lord- KING JOHN. Hadst thou but shook thy head or made pause, When I spake darkly what I purposed, Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face, As bid me tell my tale in express words, Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off, And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me. But thou didst understand me by my signs, And didst in signs again parley with sin; Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent, And consequently thy rude hand to act The deed which both our tongues held vile to name. Out of my sight, and never see me more! My nobles leave me; and my state is braved, Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign pow'rs; Nay, in the body of the fleshly land, This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath, Hostility and civil tumult reigns Between my conscience and my cousin's death. HUBERT. Arm you against your other enemies, I'll make a peace between your soul and you. Young Arthur is alive. This hand of mine Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand, Not painted with the crimson spots of blood. Within this bosom never ent'red yet The dreadful motion of a murderous thought And you have slander'd nature in my form, Which, howsoever rude exteriorly, Is yet the cover of a fairer mind Than to be butcher of an innocent child. KING JOHN. Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers, Throw this report on their incensed rage And make them tame to their obedience! Forgive the comment that my passion made Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind, And foul imaginary eyes of blood Presented thee more hideous than thou art. O, answer not; but to my closet bring The angry lords with all expedient haste. I conjure thee but slowly; run more fast. Exeunt SCENE 3. England. Before the castle Enter ARTHUR, on the walls ARTHUR. The wall is high, and yet will I leap down. Good ground, be pitiful and hurt me not! There's few or none do know me; if they did, This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite. I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it. If I get down and do not break my limbs, I'll find a thousand shifts to get away. As good to die and go, as die and stay. [Leaps down] O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones. Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! [Dies] Enter PEMBROKE, SALISBURY, and BIGOT SALISBURY. Lords, I will meet him at Saint Edmundsbury; It is our safety, and we must embrace This gentle offer of the perilous time. PEMBROKE. Who brought that letter from the Cardinal? SALISBURY. The Count Melun, a noble lord of France, Whose private with me of the Dauphin's love Is much more general than these lines import. BIGOT. To-morrow morning let us meet him then. SALISBURY. Or rather then set forward; for 'twill be Two long days' journey, lords, or ere we meet. Enter the BASTARD BASTARD. Once more to-day well met, distemper'd lords! The King by me requests your presence straight. SALISBURY. The King hath dispossess'd himself of us. We will not line his thin bestained cloak With our pure honours, nor attend the foot That leaves the print of blood where'er it walks. Return and tell him so. We know the worst. BASTARD. Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best. SALISBURY. Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now. BASTARD. But there is little reason in your grief; Therefore 'twere reason you had manners now. PEMBROKE. Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege. BASTARD. 'Tis true-to hurt his master, no man else. SALISBURY. This is the prison. What is he lies here? PEMBROKE. O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty! The earth had not a hole to hide this deed. SALISBURY. Murder, as hating what himself hath done, Doth lay it open to urge on revenge. BIGOT. Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave, Found it too precious-princely for a grave. SALISBURY. Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld, Or have you read or heard, or could you think? Or do you almost think, although you see, That you do see? Could thought, without this object, Form such another? This is the very top, The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest, Of murder's arms; this is the bloodiest shame, The wildest savagery, the vilest stroke, That ever wall-ey'd wrath or staring rage Presented to the tears of soft remorse. PEMBROKE. All murders past do stand excus'd in this; And this, so sole and so unmatchable, Shall give a holiness, a purity, To the yet unbegotten sin of times, And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest, Exampled by this heinous spectacle. BASTARD. It is a damned and a bloody work; The graceless action of a heavy hand, If that it be the work of any hand. SALISBURY. If that it be the work of any hand! We had a kind of light what would ensue. It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand; The practice and the purpose of the King; From whose obedience I forbid my soul Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life, And breathing to his breathless excellence The incense of a vow, a holy vow, Never to taste the pleasures of the world, Never to be infected with delight, Nor conversant with ease and idleness, Till I have set a glory to this hand By giving it the worship of revenge. PEMBROKE. and BIGOT. Our souls religiously confirm thy words. Enter HUBERT HUBERT. Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you. Arthur doth live; the King hath sent for you. SALISBURY. O, he is bold, and blushes not at death! Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone! HUBERT. I am no villain. SALISBURY. Must I rob the law? [Drawing his sword] BASTARD. Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again. SALISBURY. Not till I sheathe it in a murderer's skin. HUBERT. Stand back, Lord Salisbury, stand back, I say; By heaven, I think my sword's as sharp as yours. I would not have you, lord, forget yourself, Nor tempt the danger of my true defence; Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget Your worth, your greatness and nobility. BIGOT. Out, dunghill! Dar'st thou brave a nobleman? HUBERT. Not for my life; but yet I dare defend My innocent life against an emperor. SALISBURY. Thou art a murderer. HUBERT. Do not prove me so. Yet I am none. Whose tongue soe'er speaks false, Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies. PEMBROKE. Cut him to pieces. BASTARD. Keep the peace, I say. SALISBURY. Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge. BASTARD. Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury. If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot, Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame, I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime; Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron That you shall think the devil is come from hell. BIGOT. What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge? Second a villain and a murderer? HUBERT. Lord Bigot, I am none. BIGOT. Who kill'd this prince? HUBERT. 'Tis not an hour since I left him well. I honour'd him, I lov'd him, and will weep My date of life out for his sweet life's loss. SALISBURY. Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes, For villainy is not without such rheum; And he, long traded in it, makes it seem Like rivers of remorse and innocency. Away with me, all you whose souls abhor Th' uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house; For I am stifled with this smell of sin. BIGOT. Away toward Bury, to the Dauphin there! PEMBROKE. There tell the King he may inquire us out. Exeunt LORDS BASTARD. Here's a good world! Knew you of this fair work? Beyond the infinite and boundless reach Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death, Art thou damn'd, Hubert. HUBERT. Do but hear me, sir. BASTARD. Ha! I'll tell thee what: Thou'rt damn'd as black-nay, nothing is so black- Thou art more deep damn'd than Prince Lucifer; There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child. HUBERT. Upon my soul- BASTARD. If thou didst but consent To this most cruel act, do but despair; And if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread That ever spider twisted from her womb Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be a beam To hang thee on; or wouldst thou drown thyself, Put but a little water in a spoon And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to stifle such a villain up I do suspect thee very grievously. HUBERT. If I in act, consent, or sin of thought, Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath Which was embounded in this beauteous clay, Let hell want pains enough to torture me! I left him well. BASTARD. Go, bear him in thine arms. I am amaz'd, methinks, and lose my way Among the thorns and dangers of this world. How easy dost thou take all England up! From forth this morsel of dead royalty The life, the right, and truth of all this realm Is fled to heaven; and England now is left To tug and scamble, and to part by th' teeth The unowed interest of proud-swelling state. Now for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace; Now powers from home and discontents at home Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits, As doth a raven on a sick-fall'n beast, The imminent decay of wrested pomp. Now happy he whose cloak and cincture can Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child, And follow me with speed. I'll to the King; A thousand businesses are brief in hand, And heaven itself doth frown upon the land. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. England. KING JOHN'S palace Enter KING JOHN, PANDULPH, and attendants KING JOHN. Thus have I yielded up into your hand The circle of my glory. PANDULPH. [Gives back the crown] Take again From this my hand, as holding of the Pope, Your sovereign greatness and authority. KING JOHN. Now keep your holy word; go meet the French; And from his Holiness use all your power To stop their marches fore we are inflam'd. Our discontented counties do revolt; Our people quarrel with obedience, Swearing allegiance and the love of soul To stranger blood, to foreign royalty. This inundation of mistemp'red humour Rests by you only to be qualified. Then pause not; for the present time's so sick That present med'cine must be minist'red Or overthrow incurable ensues. PANDULPH. It was my breath that blew this tempest up, Upon your stubborn usage of the Pope; But since you are a gentle convertite, My tongue shall hush again this storm of war And make fair weather in your blust'ring land. On this Ascension-day, remember well, Upon your oath of service to the Pope, Go I to make the French lay down their arms. Exit KING JOHN. Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet Say that before Ascension-day at noon My crown I should give off? Even so I have. I did suppose it should be on constraint; But, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary. Enter the BASTARD BASTARD. All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out But Dover Castle. London hath receiv'd, Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers. Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone To offer service to your enemy; And wild amazement hurries up and down The little number of your doubtful friends. KING JOHN. Would not my lords return to me again After they heard young Arthur was alive? BASTARD. They found him dead, and cast into the streets, An empty casket, where the jewel of life By some damn'd hand was robbed and ta'en away. KING JOHN. That villain Hubert told me he did live. BASTARD. So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew. But wherefore do you droop? Why look you sad? Be great in act, as you have been in thought; Let not the world see fear and sad distrust Govern the motion of a kingly eye. Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire; Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow Of bragging horror; so shall inferior eyes, That borrow their behaviours from the great, Grow great by your example and put on The dauntless spirit of resolution. Away, and glister like the god of war When he intendeth to become the field; Show boldness and aspiring confidence. What, shall they seek the lion in his den, And fright him there, and make him tremble there? O, let it not be said! Forage, and run To meet displeasure farther from the doors And grapple with him ere he come so nigh. KING JOHN. The legate of the Pope hath been with me, And I have made a happy peace with him; And he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers Led by the Dauphin. BASTARD. O inglorious league! Shall we, upon the footing of our land, Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive? Shall a beardless boy, A cock'red silken wanton, brave our fields And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil, Mocking the air with colours idly spread, And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms. Perchance the Cardinal cannot make your peace; Or, if he do, let it at least be said They saw we had a purpose of defence. KING JOHN. Have thou the ordering of this present time. BASTARD. Away, then, with good courage! Yet, I know Our party may well meet a prouder foe. Exeunt SCENE 2. England. The DAUPHIN'S camp at Saint Edmundsbury Enter, in arms, LEWIS, SALISBURY, MELUN, PEMBROKE, BIGOT, and soldiers LEWIS. My Lord Melun, let this be copied out And keep it safe for our remembrance; Return the precedent to these lords again, That, having our fair order written down, Both they and we, perusing o'er these notes, May know wherefore we took the sacrament, And keep our faiths firm and inviolable. SALISBURY. Upon our sides it never shall be broken. And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear A voluntary zeal and an unurg'd faith To your proceedings; yet, believe me, Prince, I am not glad that such a sore of time Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt, And heal the inveterate canker of one wound By making many. O, it grieves my soul That I must draw this metal from my side To be a widow-maker! O, and there Where honourable rescue and defence Cries out upon the name of Salisbury! But such is the infection of the time That, for the health and physic of our right, We cannot deal but with the very hand Of stern injustice and confused wrong. And is't not pity, O my grieved friends! That we, the sons and children of this isle, Were born to see so sad an hour as this; Wherein we step after a stranger-march Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up Her enemies' ranks-I must withdraw and weep Upon the spot of this enforced cause- To grace the gentry of a land remote And follow unacquainted colours here? What, here? O nation, that thou couldst remove! That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about, Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself And grapple thee unto a pagan shore, Where these two Christian armies might combine The blood of malice in a vein of league, And not to spend it so unneighbourly! LEWIS. A noble temper dost thou show in this; And great affections wrestling in thy bosom Doth make an earthquake of nobility. O, what a noble combat hast thou fought Between compulsion and a brave respect! Let me wipe off this honourable dew That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks. My heart hath melted at a lady's tears, Being an ordinary inundation; But this effusion of such manly drops, This show'r, blown up by tempest of the soul, Startles mine eyes and makes me more amaz'd Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors. Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury, And with a great heart heave away this storm; Commend these waters to those baby eyes That never saw the giant world enrag'd, Nor met with fortune other than at feasts, Full of warm blood, of mirth, of gossiping. Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep Into the purse of rich prosperity As Lewis himself. So, nobles, shall you all, That knit your sinews to the strength of mine. Enter PANDULPH And even there, methinks, an angel spake: Look where the holy legate comes apace, To give us warrant from the hand of heaven And on our actions set the name of right With holy breath. PANDULPH. Hail, noble prince of France! The next is this: King John hath reconcil'd Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in, That so stood out against the holy Church, The great metropolis and see of Rome. Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up And tame the savage spirit of wild war, That, like a lion fostered up at hand, It may lie gently at the foot of peace And be no further harmful than in show. LEWIS. Your Grace shall pardon me, I will not back: I am too high-born to be propertied, To be a secondary at control, Or useful serving-man and instrument To any sovereign state throughout the world. Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars Between this chastis'd kingdom and myself And brought in matter that should feed this fire; And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out With that same weak wind which enkindled it. You taught me how to know the face of right, Acquainted me with interest to this land, Yea, thrust this enterprise into my heart; And come ye now to tell me John hath made His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me? I, by the honour of my marriage-bed, After young Arthur, claim this land for mine; And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back Because that John hath made his peace with Rome? Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne, What men provided, what munition sent, To underprop this action? Is 't not I That undergo this charge? Who else but I, And such as to my claim are liable, Sweat in this business and maintain this war? Have I not heard these islanders shout out 'Vive le roi!' as I have bank'd their towns? Have I not here the best cards for the game To will this easy match, play'd for a crown? And shall I now give o'er the yielded set? No, no, on my soul, it never shall be said. PANDULPH. You look but on the outside of this work. LEWIS. Outside or inside, I will not return Till my attempt so much be glorified As to my ample hope was promised Before I drew this gallant head of war, And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world To outlook conquest, and to will renown Even in the jaws of danger and of death. [Trumpet sounds] What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us? Enter the BASTARD, attended BASTARD. According to the fair play of the world, Let me have audience: I am sent to speak. My holy lord of Milan, from the King I come, to learn how you have dealt for him; And, as you answer, I do know the scope And warrant limited unto my tongue. PANDULPH. The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite, And will not temporize with my entreaties; He flatly says he'll not lay down his arms. BASTARD. By all the blood that ever fury breath'd, The youth says well. Now hear our English King; For thus his royalty doth speak in me. He is prepar'd, and reason too he should. This apish and unmannerly approach, This harness'd masque and unadvised revel This unhair'd sauciness and boyish troops, The King doth smile at; and is well prepar'd To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms, From out the circle of his territories. That hand which had the strength, even at your door. To cudgel you and make you take the hatch, To dive like buckets in concealed wells, To crouch in litter of your stable planks, To lie like pawns lock'd up in chests and trunks, To hug with swine, to seek sweet safety out In vaults and prisons, and to thrill and shake Even at the crying of your nation's crow, Thinking this voice an armed Englishman- Shall that victorious hand be feebled here That in your chambers gave you chastisement? No. Know the gallant monarch is in arms And like an eagle o'er his aery tow'rs To souse annoyance that comes near his nest. And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts, You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb Of your dear mother England, blush for shame; For your own ladies and pale-visag'd maids, Like Amazons, come tripping after drums, Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change, Their needles to lances, and their gentle hearts To fierce and bloody inclination. LEWIS. There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace; We grant thou canst outscold us. Fare thee well; We hold our time too precious to be spent With such a brabbler. PANDULPH. Give me leave to speak. BASTARD. No, I will speak. LEWIS. We will attend to neither. Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war, Plead for our interest and our being here. BASTARD. Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out; And so shall you, being beaten. Do but start And echo with the clamour of thy drum, And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd That shall reverberate all as loud as thine: Sound but another, and another shall, As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder; for at hand- Not trusting to this halting legate here, Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need- Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits A bare-ribb'd death, whose office is this day To feast upon whole thousands of the French. LEWIS. Strike up our drums to find this danger out. BASTARD. And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt. Exeunt SCENE 3. England. The field of battle Alarums. Enter KING JOHN and HUBERT KING JOHN. How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert. HUBERT. Badly, I fear. How fares your Majesty? KING JOHN. This fever that hath troubled me so long Lies heavy on me. O, my heart is sick! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge, Desires your Majesty to leave the field And send him word by me which way you go. KING JOHN. Tell him, toward Swinstead, to the abbey there. MESSENGER. Be of good comfort; for the great supply That was expected by the Dauphin here Are wreck'd three nights ago on Goodwin Sands; This news was brought to Richard but even now. The French fight coldly, and retire themselves. KING JOHN. Ay me, this tyrant fever burns me up And will not let me welcome this good news. Set on toward Swinstead; to my litter straight; Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint. Exeunt SCENE 4. England. Another part of the battlefield Enter SALISBURY, PEMBROKE, and BIGOT SALISBURY. I did not think the King so stor'd with friends. PEMBROKE. Up once again; put spirit in the French; If they miscarry, we miscarry too. SALISBURY. That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge, In spite of spite, alone upholds the day. PEMBROKE. They say King John, sore sick, hath left the field. Enter MELUN, wounded MELUN. Lead me to the revolts of England here. SALISBURY. When we were happy we had other names. PEMBROKE. It is the Count Melun. SALISBURY. Wounded to death. MELUN. Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold; Unthread the rude eye of rebellion, And welcome home again discarded faith. Seek out King John, and fall before his feet; For if the French be lords of this loud day, He means to recompense the pains you take By cutting off your heads. Thus hath he sworn, And I with him, and many moe with me, Upon the altar at Saint Edmundsbury; Even on that altar where we swore to you Dear amity and everlasting love. SALISBURY. May this be possible? May this be true? MELUN. Have I not hideous death within my view, Retaining but a quantity of life, Which bleeds away even as a form of wax Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire? What in the world should make me now deceive, Since I must lose the use of all deceit? Why should I then be false, since it is true That I must die here, and live hence by truth? I say again, if Lewis do will the day, He is forsworn if e'er those eyes of yours Behold another day break in the east; But even this night, whose black contagious breath Already smokes about the burning crest Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun, Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire, Paying the fine of rated treachery Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives. If Lewis by your assistance win the day. Commend me to one Hubert, with your King; The love of him-and this respect besides, For that my grandsire was an Englishman- Awakes my conscience to confess all this. In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence From forth the noise and rumour of the field, Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts In peace, and part this body and my soul With contemplation and devout desires. SALISBURY. We do believe thee; and beshrew my soul But I do love the favour and the form Of this most fair occasion, by the which We will untread the steps of damned flight, And like a bated and retired flood, Leaving our rankness and irregular course, Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd, And calmly run on in obedience Even to our ocean, to great King John. My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence; For I do see the cruel pangs of death Right in thine eye. Away, my friends! New flight, And happy newness, that intends old right. Exeunt, leading off MELUN SCENE 5. England. The French camp Enter LEWIS and his train LEWIS. The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set, But stay'd and made the western welkin blush, When English measure backward their own ground In faint retire. O, bravely came we off, When with a volley of our needless shot, After such bloody toil, we bid good night; And wound our tott'ring colours clearly up, Last in the field and almost lords of it! Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Where is my prince, the Dauphin? LEWIS. Here; what news? MESSENGER. The Count Melun is slain; the English lords By his persuasion are again fall'n off, And your supply, which you have wish'd so long, Are cast away and sunk on Goodwin Sands. LEWIS. Ah, foul shrewd news! Beshrew thy very heart! I did not think to be so sad to-night As this hath made me. Who was he that said King John did fly an hour or two before The stumbling night did part our weary pow'rs? MESSENGER. Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord. LEWIS. keep good quarter and good care to-night; The day shall not be up so soon as I To try the fair adventure of to-morrow. Exeunt SCENE 6. An open place wear Swinstead Abbey Enter the BASTARD and HUBERT, severally HUBERT. Who's there? Speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot. BASTARD. A friend. What art thou? HUBERT. Of the part of England. BASTARD. Whither dost thou go? HUBERT. What's that to thee? Why may I not demand Of thine affairs as well as thou of mine? BASTARD. Hubert, I think. HUBERT. Thou hast a perfect thought. I will upon all hazards well believe Thou art my friend that know'st my tongue so well. Who art thou? BASTARD. Who thou wilt. And if thou please, Thou mayst befriend me so much as to think I come one way of the Plantagenets. HUBERT. Unkind remembrance! thou and eyeless night Have done me shame. Brave soldier, pardon me That any accent breaking from thy tongue Should scape the true acquaintance of mine ear. BASTARD. Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad? HUBERT. Why, here walk I in the black brow of night To find you out. BASTARD. Brief, then; and what's the news? HUBERT. O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night, Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible. BASTARD. Show me the very wound of this ill news; I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it. HUBERT. The King, I fear, is poison'd by a monk; I left him almost speechless and broke out To acquaint you with this evil, that you might The better arm you to the sudden time Than if you had at leisure known of this. BASTARD. How did he take it; who did taste to him? HUBERT. A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain, Whose bowels suddenly burst out. The King Yet speaks, and peradventure may recover. BASTARD. Who didst thou leave to tend his Majesty? HUBERT. Why, know you not? The lords are all come back, And brought Prince Henry in their company; At whose request the King hath pardon'd them, And they are all about his Majesty. BASTARD. Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven, And tempt us not to bear above our power! I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night, Passing these flats, are taken by the tide- These Lincoln Washes have devoured them; Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd. Away, before! conduct me to the King; I doubt he will be dead or ere I come. Exeunt SCENE 7. The orchard at Swinstead Abbey Enter PRINCE HENRY, SALISBURY, and BIGOT PRINCE HENRY. It is too late; the life of all his blood Is touch'd corruptibly, and his pure brain. Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house, Doth by the idle comments that it makes Foretell the ending of mortality. Enter PEMBROKE PEMBROKE. His Highness yet doth speak, and holds belief That, being brought into the open air, It would allay the burning quality Of that fell poison which assaileth him. PRINCE HENRY. Let him be brought into the orchard here. Doth he still rage? Exit BIGOT PEMBROKE. He is more patient Than when you left him; even now he sung. PRINCE HENRY. O vanity of sickness! Fierce extremes In their continuance will not feel themselves. Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts, Leaves them invisible, and his siege is now Against the mind, the which he pricks and wounds With many legions of strange fantasies, Which, in their throng and press to that last hold, Confound themselves. 'Tis strange that death should sing. I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death, And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings His soul and body to their lasting rest. SALISBURY. Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude. Re-enter BIGOT and attendants, who bring in KING JOHN in a chair KING JOHN. Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room; It would not out at windows nor at doors. There is so hot a summer in my bosom That all my bowels crumble up to dust. I am a scribbled form drawn with a pen Upon a parchment, and against this fire Do I shrink up. PRINCE HENRY. How fares your Majesty? KING JOHN. Poison'd-ill-fare! Dead, forsook, cast off; And none of you will bid the winter come To thrust his icy fingers in my maw, Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course Through my burn'd bosom, nor entreat the north To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips And comfort me with cold. I do not ask you much; I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait And so ingrateful you deny me that. PRINCE HENRY. O that there were some virtue in my tears, That might relieve you! KING JOHN. The salt in them is hot. Within me is a hell; and there the poison Is as a fiend confin'd to tyrannize On unreprievable condemned blood. Enter the BASTARD BASTARD. O, I am scalded with my violent motion And spleen of speed to see your Majesty! KING JOHN. O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye! The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burnt, And all the shrouds wherewith my life should sail Are turned to one thread, one little hair; My heart hath one poor string to stay it by, Which holds but till thy news be uttered; And then all this thou seest is but a clod And module of confounded royalty. BASTARD. The Dauphin is preparing hitherward, Where God He knows how we shall answer him; For in a night the best part of my pow'r, As I upon advantage did remove, Were in the Washes all unwarily Devoured by the unexpected flood. [The KING dies] SALISBURY. You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear. My liege! my lord! But now a king-now thus. PRINCE HENRY. Even so must I run on, and even so stop. What surety of the world, what hope, what stay, When this was now a king, and now is clay? BASTARD. Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind To do the office for thee of revenge, And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven, As it on earth hath been thy servant still. Now, now, you stars that move in your right spheres, Where be your pow'rs? Show now your mended faiths, And instantly return with me again To push destruction and perpetual shame Out of the weak door of our fainting land. Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought; The Dauphin rages at our very heels. SALISBURY. It seems you know not, then, so much as we: The Cardinal Pandulph is within at rest, Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin, And brings from him such offers of our peace As we with honour and respect may take, With purpose presently to leave this war. BASTARD. He will the rather do it when he sees Ourselves well sinewed to our defence. SALISBURY. Nay, 'tis in a manner done already; For many carriages he hath dispatch'd To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel To the disposing of the Cardinal; With whom yourself, myself, and other lords, If you think meet, this afternoon will post To consummate this business happily. BASTARD. Let it be so. And you, my noble Prince, With other princes that may best be spar'd, Shall wait upon your father's funeral. PRINCE HENRY. At Worcester must his body be interr'd; For so he will'd it. BASTARD. Thither shall it, then; And happily may your sweet self put on The lineal state and glory of the land! To whom, with all submission, on my knee I do bequeath my faithful services And true subjection everlastingly. SALISBURY. And the like tender of our love we make, To rest without a spot for evermore. PRINCE HENRY. I have a kind soul that would give you thanks, And knows not how to do it but with tears. BASTARD. O, let us pay the time but needful woe, Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs. This England never did, nor never shall, Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror, But when it first did help to wound itself. Now these her princes are come home again, Come the three corners of the world in arms, And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue, If England to itself do rest but true. Exeunt THE END <> 1599 THE TRAGEDY OF JULIUS CAESAR by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae JULIUS CAESAR, Roman statesman and general OCTAVIUS, Triumvir after Caesar's death, later Augustus Caesar, first emperor of Rome MARK ANTONY, general and friend of Caesar, a Triumvir after his death LEPIDUS, third member of the Triumvirate MARCUS BRUTUS, leader of the conspiracy against Caesar CASSIUS, instigator of the conspiracy CASCA, conspirator against Caesar TREBONIUS, " " " CAIUS LIGARIUS, " " " DECIUS BRUTUS, " " " METELLUS CIMBER, " " " CINNA, " " " CALPURNIA, wife of Caesar PORTIA, wife of Brutus CICERO, senator POPILIUS, " POPILIUS LENA, " FLAVIUS, tribune MARULLUS, tribune CATO, supportor of Brutus LUCILIUS, " " " TITINIUS, " " " MESSALA, " " " VOLUMNIUS, " " " ARTEMIDORUS, a teacher of rhetoric CINNA, a poet VARRO, servant to Brutus CLITUS, " " " CLAUDIO, " " " STRATO, " " " LUCIUS, " " " DARDANIUS, " " " PINDARUS, servant to Cassius The Ghost of Caesar A Soothsayer A Poet Senators, Citizens, Soldiers, Commoners, Messengers, and Servants <> SCENE: Rome, the conspirators' camp near Sardis, and the plains of Philippi. ACT I. SCENE I. Rome. A street. Enter Flavius, Marullus, and certain Commoners. FLAVIUS. Hence, home, you idle creatures, get you home. Is this a holiday? What, know you not, Being mechanical, you ought not walk Upon a laboring day without the sign Of your profession? Speak, what trade art thou? FIRST COMMONER. Why, sir, a carpenter. MARULLUS. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What dost thou with thy best apparel on? You, sir, what trade are you? SECOND COMMONER. Truly, sir, in respect of a fine workman, I am but, as you would say, a cobbler. MARULLUS. But what trade art thou? Answer me directly. SECOND COMMONER. A trade, sir, that, I hope, I may use with a safe conscience, which is indeed, sir, a mender of bad soles. MARULLUS. What trade, thou knave? Thou naughty knave, what trade? SECOND COMMONER. Nay, I beseech you, sir, be not out with me; yet, if you be out, sir, I can mend you. MARULLUS. What mean'st thou by that? Mend me, thou saucy fellow! SECOND COMMONER. Why, sir, cobble you. FLAVIUS. Thou art a cobbler, art thou? SECOND COMMONER. Truly, Sir, all that I live by is with the awl; I meddle with no tradesman's matters, nor women's matters, but with awl. I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger, I recover them. As proper men as ever trod upon neat's leather have gone upon my handiwork. FLAVIUS. But wherefore art not in thy shop today? Why dost thou lead these men about the streets? SECOND COMMONER. Truly, sir, to wear out their shoes to get myself into more work. But indeed, sir, we make holiday to see Caesar and to rejoice in his triumph. MARULLUS. Wherefore rejoice? What conquest brings he home? What tributaries follow him to Rome To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels? You blocks, you stones, you worse than senseless things! O you hard hearts, you cruel men of Rome, Knew you not Pompey? Many a time and oft Have you climb'd up to walls and battlements, To towers and windows, yea, to chimney tops, Your infants in your arms, and there have sat The livelong day with patient expectation To see great Pompey pass the streets of Rome. And when you saw his chariot but appear, Have you not made an universal shout That Tiber trembled underneath her banks To hear the replication of your sounds Made in her concave shores? And do you now put on your best attire? And do you now cull out a holiday? And do you now strew flowers in his way That comes in triumph over Pompey's blood? Be gone! Run to your houses, fall upon your knees, Pray to the gods to intermit the plague That needs must light on this ingratitude. FLAVIUS. Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault, Assemble all the poor men of your sort, Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears Into the channel, till the lowest stream Do kiss the most exalted shores of all. Exeunt all Commoners. See whether their basest metal be not moved; They vanish tongue-tied in their guiltiness. Go you down that way towards the Capitol; This way will I. Disrobe the images If you do find them deck'd with ceremonies. MARULLUS. May we do so? You know it is the feast of Lupercal. FLAVIUS. It is no matter; let no images Be hung with Caesar's trophies. I'll about And drive away the vulgar from the streets; So do you too, where you perceive them thick. These growing feathers pluck'd from Caesar's wing Will make him fly an ordinary pitch, Who else would soar above the view of men And keep us all in servile fearfulness. Exeunt. SCENE II. A public place. Flourish. Enter Caesar; Antony, for the course; Calpurnia, Portia, Decius, Cicero, Brutus, Cassius, and Casca; a great crowd follows, among them a Soothsayer. CAESAR. Calpurnia! CASCA. Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. Music ceases. CAESAR. Calpurnia! CALPURNIA. Here, my lord. CAESAR. Stand you directly in Antonio's way, When he doth run his course. Antonio! ANTONY. Caesar, my lord? CAESAR. Forget not in your speed, Antonio, To touch Calpurnia, for our elders say The barren, touched in this holy chase, Shake off their sterile curse. ANTONY. I shall remember. When Caesar says "Do this," it is perform'd. CAESAR. Set on, and leave no ceremony out. Flourish. SOOTHSAYER. Caesar! CAESAR. Ha! Who calls? CASCA. Bid every noise be still. Peace yet again! CAESAR. Who is it in the press that calls on me? I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music, Cry "Caesar." Speak, Caesar is turn'd to hear. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the ides of March. CAESAR. What man is that? BRUTUS. A soothsayer you beware the ides of March. CAESAR. Set him before me let me see his face. CASSIUS. Fellow, come from the throng; look upon Caesar. CAESAR. What say'st thou to me now? Speak once again. SOOTHSAYER. Beware the ides of March. CAESAR. He is a dreamer; let us leave him. Pass. Sennet. Exeunt all but Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. Will you go see the order of the course? BRUTUS. Not I. CASSIUS. I pray you, do. BRUTUS. I am not gamesome; I do lack some part Of that quick spirit that is in Antony. Let me not hinder, Cassius, your desires; I'll leave you. CASSIUS. Brutus, I do observe you now of late; I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have; You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. BRUTUS. Cassius, Be not deceived; if I have veil'd my look, I turn the trouble of my countenance Merely upon myself. Vexed I am Of late with passions of some difference, Conceptions only proper to myself, Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviors; But let not therefore my good friends be grieved- Among which number, Cassius, be you one- Nor construe any further my neglect Than that poor Brutus with himself at war Forgets the shows of love to other men. CASSIUS. Then, Brutus, I have much mistook your passion, By means whereof this breast of mine hath buried Thoughts of great value, worthy cogitations. Tell me, good Brutus, can you see your face? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself But by reflection, by some other things. CASSIUS. 'Tis just, And it is very much lamented, Brutus, That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow. I have heard Where many of the best respect in Rome, Except immortal Caesar, speaking of Brutus And groaning underneath this age's yoke, Have wish'd that noble Brutus had his eyes. BRUTUS. Into what dangers would you lead me, Cassius, That you would have me seek into myself For that which is not in me? CASSIUS. Therefore, good Brutus, be prepared to hear, And since you know you cannot see yourself So well as by reflection, I your glass Will modestly discover to yourself That of yourself which you yet know not of. And be not jealous on me, gentle Brutus; Were I a common laugher, or did use To stale with ordinary oaths my love To every new protester, if you know That I do fawn on men and hug them hard And after scandal them, or if you know That I profess myself in banqueting To all the rout, then hold me dangerous. Flourish and shout. BRUTUS. What means this shouting? I do fear the people Choose Caesar for their king. CASSIUS. Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so. BRUTUS. I would not, Cassius, yet I love him well. But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' the other And I will look on both indifferently. For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death. CASSIUS. I know that virtue to be in you, Brutus, As well as I do know your outward favor. Well, honor is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men Think of this life, but, for my single self, I had as lief not be as live to be In awe of such a thing as I myself. I was born free as Caesar, so were you; We both have fed as well, and we can both Endure the winter's cold as well as he. For once, upon a raw and gusty day, The troubled Tiber chafing with her shores, Caesar said to me, "Darest thou, Cassius, now Leap in with me into this angry flood And swim to yonder point?" Upon the word, Accoutred as I was, I plunged in And bade him follow. So indeed he did. The torrent roar'd, and we did buffet it With lusty sinews, throwing it aside And stemming it with hearts of controversy. But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, "Help me, Cassius, or I sink! I, as Aeneas our great ancestor Did from the flames of Troy upon his shoulder The old Anchises bear, so from the waves of Tiber Did I the tired Caesar. And this man Is now become a god, and Cassius is A wretched creature and must bend his body If Caesar carelessly but nod on him. He had a fever when he was in Spain, And when the fit was on him I did mark How he did shake. 'Tis true, this god did shake; His coward lips did from their color fly, And that same eye whose bend doth awe the world Did lose his luster. I did hear him groan. Ay, and that tongue of his that bade the Romans Mark him and write his speeches in their books, Alas, it cried, "Give me some drink, Titinius," As a sick girl. Ye gods! It doth amaze me A man of such a feeble temper should So get the start of the majestic world And bear the palm alone. Shout. Flourish. BRUTUS. Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are For some new honors that are heap'd on Caesar. CASSIUS. Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus, and we petty men Walk under his huge legs and peep about To find ourselves dishonorable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, But in ourselves that we are underlings. Brutus and Caesar: what should be in that "Caesar"? Why should that name be sounded more than yours? Write them together, yours is as fair a name; Sound them, it doth become the mouth as well; Weigh them, it is as heavy; conjure with 'em, "Brutus" will start a spirit as soon as "Caesar." Now, in the names of all the gods at once, Upon what meat doth this our Caesar feed That he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods! When went there by an age since the great flood But it was famed with more than with one man? When could they say till now that talk'd of Rome That her wide walls encompass'd but one man? Now is it Rome indeed, and room enough, When there is in it but one only man. O, you and I have heard our fathers say There was a Brutus once that would have brook'd The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome As easily as a king. BRUTUS. That you do love me, I am nothing jealous; What you would work me to, I have some aim. How I have thought of this and of these times, I shall recount hereafter; for this present, I would not, so with love I might entreat you, Be any further moved. What you have said I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time Both meet to hear and answer such high things. Till then, my noble friend, chew upon this: Brutus had rather be a villager Than to repute himself a son of Rome Under these hard conditions as this time Is like to lay upon us. CASSIUS. I am glad that my weak words Have struck but thus much show of fire from Brutus. Re-enter Caesar and his Train. BRUTUS. The games are done, and Caesar is returning. CASSIUS. As they pass by, pluck Casca by the sleeve, And he will, after his sour fashion, tell you What hath proceeded worthy note today. BRUTUS. I will do so. But, look you, Cassius, The angry spot doth glow on Caesar's brow, And all the rest look like a chidden train: Calpurnia's cheek is pale, and Cicero Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes As we have seen him in the Capitol, Being cross'd in conference by some senators. CASSIUS. Casca will tell us what the matter is. CAESAR. Antonio! ANTONY. Caesar? CAESAR. Let me have men about me that are fat, Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much; such men are dangerous. ANTONY. Fear him not, Caesar; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Roman and well given. CAESAR. Would he were fatter! But I fear him not, Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid So soon as that spare Cassius. He reads much, He is a great observer, and he looks Quite through the deeds of men. He loves no plays, As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music; Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort As if he mock'd himself and scorn'd his spirit That could be moved to smile at anything. Such men as he be never at heart's ease Whiles they behold a greater than themselves, And therefore are they very dangerous. I rather tell thee what is to be fear'd Than what I fear, for always I am Caesar. Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf, And tell me truly what thou think'st of him. Sennet. Exeunt Caesar and all his Train but Casca. CASCA. You pull'd me by the cloak; would you speak with me? BRUTUS. Ay, Casca, tell us what hath chanced today That Caesar looks so sad. CASCA. Why, you were with him, were you not? BRUTUS. I should not then ask Casca what had chanced. CASCA. Why, there was a crown offered him, and being offered him, he put it by with the back of his hand, thus, and then the people fell ashouting. BRUTUS. What was the second noise for? CASCA. Why, for that too. CASSIUS. They shouted thrice. What was the last cry for? CASCA. Why, for that too. BRUTUS. Was the crown offered him thrice? CASCA. Ay, marry, wast, and he put it by thrice, every time gentler than other, and at every putting by mine honest neighbors shouted. CASSIUS. Who offered him the crown? CASCA. Why, Antony. BRUTUS. Tell us the manner of it, gentle Casca. CASCA. I can as well be hang'd as tell the manner of it. It was mere foolery; I did not mark it. I saw Mark Antony offer him a crown (yet 'twas not a crown neither, 'twas one of these coronets) and, as I told you, he put it by once. But for all that, to my thinking, he would fain have had it. Then he offered it to him again; then he put it by again. But, to my thinking, he was very loath to lay his fingers off it. And then he offered it the third time; he put it the third time by; and still as he refused it, the rabblement hooted and clapped their chopped hands and threw up their sweaty nightcaps and uttered such a deal of stinking breath because Caesar refused the crown that it had almost choked Caesar, for he swounded and fell down at it. And for mine own part, I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air. CASSIUS. But, soft, I pray you, what, did Caesars wound? CASCA. He fell down in the marketplace and foamed at mouth and was speechless. BRUTUS. 'Tis very like. He hath the falling sickness. CASSIUS. No, Caesar hath it not, but you, and I, And honest Casca, we have the falling sickness. CASCA. I know not what you mean by that, but I am sure Caesar fell down. If the tagrag people did not clap him and hiss him according as he pleased and displeased them, as they use to do the players in the theatre, I am no true man. BRUTUS. What said he when he came unto himself? CASCA. Marry, before he fell down, when he perceived the common herd was glad he refused the crown, he plucked me ope his doublet and offered them his throat to cut. An had been a man of any occupation, if I would not have taken him at a word, I would I might go to hell among the rogues. And so he fell. When he came to himself again, he said, if he had done or said anything amiss, he desired their worships to think it was his infirmity. Three or four wenches where I stood cried, "Alas, good soul!" and forgave him with all their hearts. But there's no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. BRUTUS. And after that he came, thus sad, away? CASCA. Ay. CASSIUS. Did Cicero say anything? CASCA. Ay, he spoke Greek. CASSIUS. To what effect? CASCA. Nay, an I tell you that, I'll ne'er look you i' the face again; but those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but for mine own part, it was Greek to me. I could tell you more news too: Marullus and Flavius, for pulling scarfs off Caesar's images, are put to silence. Fare you well. There was more foolery yet, if could remember it. CASSIUS. Will you sup with me tonight, Casca? CASCA. No, I am promised forth. CASSIUS. Will you dine with me tomorrow? CASCA. Ay, if I be alive, and your mind hold, and your dinner worth the eating. CASSIUS. Good, I will expect you. CASCA. Do so, farewell, both. Exit. BRUTUS. What a blunt fellow is this grown to be! He was quick mettle when he went to school. CASSIUS. So is he now in execution Of any bold or noble enterprise, However he puts on this tardy form. This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite. BRUTUS. And so it is. For this time I will leave you. Tomorrow, if you please to speak with me, I will come home to you, or, if you will, Come home to me and I will wait for you. CASSIUS. I will do so. Till then, think of the world. Exit Brutus. Well, Brutus, thou art noble; yet, I see Thy honorable mettle may be wrought From that it is disposed; therefore it is meet That noble minds keep ever with their likes; For who so firm that cannot be seduced? Caesar doth bear me hard, but he loves Brutus. If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius, He should not humor me. I will this night, In several hands, in at his windows throw, As if they came from several citizens, Writings, all tending to the great opinion That Rome holds of his name, wherein obscurely Caesar's ambition shall be glanced at. And after this let Caesar seat him sure; For we will shake him, or worse days endure. Exit. SCENE III. A street. Thunder and lightning. Enter, from opposite sides, Casca, with his sword drawn, and Cicero. CICERO. Good even, Casca. Brought you Caesar home? Why are you breathless, and why stare you so? CASCA. Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero, I have seen tempests when the scolding winds Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam To be exalted with the threatening clouds, But never till tonight, never till now, Did I go through a tempest dropping fire. Either there is a civil strife in heaven, Or else the world too saucy with the gods Incenses them to send destruction. CICERO. Why, saw you anything more wonderful? CASCA. A common slave- you know him well by sight- Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn Like twenty torches join'd, and yet his hand Not sensible of fire remain'd unscorch'd. Besides- I ha' not since put up my sword- Against the Capitol I met a lion, Who glaz'd upon me and went surly by Without annoying me. And there were drawn Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women Transformed with their fear, who swore they saw Men all in fire walk up and down the streets. And yesterday the bird of night did sit Even at noonday upon the marketplace, Howling and shrieking. When these prodigies Do so conjointly meet, let not men say "These are their reasons; they are natural": For I believe they are portentous things Unto the climate that they point upon. CICERO. Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time. But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves. Comes Caesar to the Capitol tomorrow? CASCA. He doth, for he did bid Antonio Send word to you he would be there tomorrow. CICERO. Good then, Casca. This disturbed sky Is not to walk in. CASCA. Farewell, Cicero. Exit Cicero. Enter Cassius. CASSIUS. Who's there? CASCA. A Roman. CASSIUS. Casca, by your voice. CASCA. Your ear is good. Cassius, what night is this! CASSIUS. A very pleasing night to honest men. CASCA. Who ever knew the heavens menace so? CASSIUS. Those that have known the earth so full of faults. For my part, I have walk'd about the streets, Submitting me unto the perilous night, And thus unbraced, Casca, as you see, Have bared my bosom to the thunderstone; And when the cross blue lightning seem'd to open The breast of heaven, I did present myself Even in the aim and very flash of it. CASCA. But wherefore did you so much tempt the heavens? It is the part of men to fear and tremble When the most mighty gods by tokens send Such dreadful heralds to astonish us. CASSIUS. You are dull, Casca, and those sparks of life That should be in a Roman you do want, Or else you use not. You look pale and gaze And put on fear and cast yourself in wonder To see the strange impatience of the heavens. But if you would consider the true cause Why all these fires, why all these gliding ghosts, Why birds and beasts from quality and kind, Why old men, fools, and children calculate, Why all these things change from their ordinance, Their natures, and preformed faculties To monstrous quality, why, you shall find That heaven hath infused them with these spirits To make them instruments of fear and warning Unto some monstrous state. Now could I, Casca, name to thee a man Most like this dreadful night, That thunders, lightens, opens graves, and roars As doth the lion in the Capitol, A man no mightier than thyself or me In personal action, yet prodigious grown And fearful, as these strange eruptions are. CASCA. 'Tis Caesar that you mean, is it not, Cassius? CASSIUS. Let it be who it is, for Romans now Have thews and limbs like to their ancestors. But, woe the while! Our fathers' minds are dead, And we are govern'd with our mothers' spirits; Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish. CASCA. Indeed they say the senators tomorrow Mean to establish Caesar as a king, And he shall wear his crown by sea and land In every place save here in Italy. CASSIUS. I know where I will wear this dagger then: Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius. Therein, ye gods, you make the weak most strong; Therein, ye gods, you tyrants do defeat. Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass, Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron Can be retentive to the strength of spirit; But life, being weary of these worldly bars, Never lacks power to dismiss itself. If I know this, know all the world besides, That part of tyranny that I do bear I can shake off at pleasure. Thunder still. CASCA. So can I. So every bondman in his own hand bears The power to cancel his captivity. CASSIUS. And why should Caesar be a tyrant then? Poor man! I know he would not be a wolf But that he sees the Romans are but sheep. He were no lion, were not Romans hinds. Those that with haste will make a mighty fire Begin it with weak straws. What trash is Rome, What rubbish, and what offal, when it serves For the base matter to illuminate So vile a thing as Caesar? But, O grief, Where hast thou led me? I perhaps speak this Before a willing bondman; then I know My answer must be made. But I am arm'd, And dangers are to me indifferent. CASCA. You speak to Casca, and to such a man That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand. Be factious for redress of all these griefs, And I will set this foot of mine as far As who goes farthest. CASSIUS. There's a bargain made. Now know you, Casca, I have moved already Some certain of the noblest-minded Romans To undergo with me an enterprise Of honorable-dangerous consequence; And I do know by this, they stay for me In Pompey's Porch. For now, this fearful night, There is no stir or walking in the streets, And the complexion of the element In favor's like the work we have in hand, Most bloody, fiery, and most terrible. Enter Cinna. CASCA. Stand close awhile, for here comes one in haste. CASSIUS. 'Tis Cinna, I do know him by his gait; He is a friend. Cinna, where haste you so? CINNA. To find out you. Who's that? Metellus Cimber? CASSIUS. No, it is Casca, one incorporate To our attempts. Am I not stay'd for, Cinna? CINNA. I am glad on't. What a fearful night is this! There's two or three of us have seen strange sights. CASSIUS. Am I not stay'd for? Tell me. CINNA. Yes, you are. O Cassius, if you could But win the noble Brutus to our party- CASSIUS. Be you content. Good Cinna, take this paper, And look you lay it in the praetor's chair, Where Brutus may but find it; and throw this In at his window; set this up with wax Upon old Brutus' statue. All this done, Repair to Pompey's Porch, where you shall find us. Is Decius Brutus and Trebonius there? CINNA. All but Metellus Cimber, and he's gone To seek you at your house. Well, I will hie And so bestow these papers as you bade me. CASSIUS. That done, repair to Pompey's Theatre. Exit Cinna. Come, Casca, you and I will yet ere day See Brutus at his house. Three parts of him Is ours already, and the man entire Upon the next encounter yields him ours. CASCA. O, he sits high in all the people's hearts, And that which would appear offense in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness. CASSIUS. Him and his worth and our great need of him You have right well conceited. Let us go, For it is after midnight, and ere day We will awake him and be sure of him. Exeunt. <> ACT II. SCENE I. Enter Brutus in his orchard. BRUTUS. What, Lucius, ho! I cannot, by the progress of the stars, Give guess how near to day. Lucius, I say! I would it were my fault to sleep so soundly. When, Lucius, when? Awake, I say! What, Lucius! Enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Call'd you, my lord? BRUTUS. Get me a taper in my study, Lucius. When it is lighted, come and call me here. LUCIUS. I will, my lord. Exit. BRUTUS. It must be by his death, and, for my part, I know no personal cause to spurn at him, But for the general. He would be crown'd: How that might change his nature, there's the question. It is the bright day that brings forth the adder And that craves wary walking. Crown him that, And then, I grant, we put a sting in him That at his will he may do danger with. The abuse of greatness is when it disjoins Remorse from power, and, to speak truth of Caesar, I have not known when his affections sway'd More than his reason. But 'tis a common proof That lowliness is young ambition's ladder, Whereto the climber-upward turns his face; But when he once attains the upmost round, He then unto the ladder turns his back, Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees By which he did ascend. So Caesar may; Then, lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel Will bear no color for the thing he is, Fashion it thus, that what he is, augmented, Would run to these and these extremities; And therefore think him as a serpent's egg Which hatch'd would as his kind grow mischievous, And kill him in the shell. Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. The taper burneth in your closet, sir. Searching the window for a flint I found This paper thus seal'd up, and I am sure It did not lie there when I went to bed. Gives him the letter. BRUTUS. Get you to bed again, it is not day. Is not tomorrow, boy, the ides of March? LUCIUS. I know not, sir. BRUTUS. Look in the calendar and bring me word. LUCIUS. I will, sir. Exit. BRUTUS. The exhalations whizzing in the air Give so much light that I may read by them. Opens the letter and reads. "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake and see thyself! Shall Rome, etc. Speak, strike, redress!" "Brutus, thou sleep'st: awake!" Such instigations have been often dropp'd Where I have took them up. "Shall Rome, etc." Thus must I piece it out. Shall Rome stand under one man's awe? What, Rome? My ancestors did from the streets of Rome The Tarquin drive, when he was call'd a king. "Speak, strike, redress!" Am I entreated To speak and strike? O Rome, I make thee promise, If the redress will follow, thou receivest Thy full petition at the hand of Brutus! Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, March is wasted fifteen days. Knocking within. BRUTUS. 'Tis good. Go to the gate, somebody knocks. Exit Lucius. Since Cassius first did whet me against Caesar I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream; The genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council, and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection. Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. Sir, 'tis your brother Cassius at the door, Who doth desire to see you. BRUTUS. Is he alone? LUCIUS. No, sir, there are more with him. BRUTUS. Do you know them? LUCIUS. No, sir, their hats are pluck'd about their ears, And half their faces buried in their cloaks, That by no means I may discover them By any mark of favor. BRUTUS. Let 'em enter. Exit Lucius. They are the faction. O Conspiracy, Shamest thou to show thy dangerous brow by night, When evils are most free? O, then, by day Where wilt thou find a cavern dark enough To mask thy monstrous visage? Seek none, Conspiracy; Hide it in smiles and affability; For if thou path, thy native semblance on, Not Erebus itself were dim enough To hide thee from prevention. Enter the conspirators, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Cinna, Metellus Cimber, and Trebonius. CASSIUS. I think we are too bold upon your rest. Good morrow, Brutus, do we trouble you? BRUTUS. I have been up this hour, awake all night. Know I these men that come along with you? CASSIUS. Yes, every man of them, and no man here But honors you, and every one doth wish You had but that opinion of yourself Which every noble Roman bears of you. This is Trebonius. BRUTUS. He is welcome hither. CASSIUS. This, Decius Brutus. BRUTUS. He is welcome too. CASSIUS. This, Casca; this, Cinna; and this, Metellus Cimber. BRUTUS. They are all welcome. What watchful cares do interpose themselves Betwixt your eyes and night? CASSIUS. Shall I entreat a word? They whisper. DECIUS. Here lies the east. Doth not the day break here? CASCA. No. CINNA. O, pardon, sir, it doth, and yongrey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day. CASCA. You shall confess that you are both deceived. Here, as I point my sword, the sun arises, Which is a great way growing on the south, Weighing the youthful season of the year. Some two months hence up higher toward the north He first presents his fire, and the high east Stands as the Capitol, directly here. BRUTUS. Give me your hands all over, one by one. CASSIUS. And let us swear our resolution. BRUTUS. No, not an oath. If not the face of men, The sufferance of our souls, the time's abuse- If these be motives weak, break off betimes, And every man hence to his idle bed; So let high-sighted tyranny range on Till each man drop by lottery. But if these, As I am sure they do, bear fire enough To kindle cowards and to steel with valor The melting spirits of women, then, countrymen, What need we any spur but our own cause To prick us to redress? What other bond Than secret Romans that have spoke the word And will not palter? And what other oath Than honesty to honesty engaged That this shall be or we will fall for it? Swear priests and cowards and men cautelous, Old feeble carrions and such suffering souls That welcome wrongs; unto bad causes swear Such creatures as men doubt; but do not stain The even virtue of our enterprise, Nor the insuppressive mettle of our spirits, To think that or our cause or our performance Did need an oath; when every drop of blood That every Roman bears, and nobly bears, Is guilty of a several bastardy If he do break the smallest particle Of any promise that hath pass'd from him. CASSIUS. But what of Cicero? Shall we sound him? I think he will stand very strong with us. CASCA. Let us not leave him out. CINNA. No, by no means. METELLUS. O, let us have him, for his silver hairs Will purchase us a good opinion, And buy men's voices to commend our deeds. It shall be said his judgement ruled our hands; Our youths and wildness shall no whit appear, But all be buried in his gravity. BRUTUS. O, name him not; let us not break with him, For he will never follow anything That other men begin. CASSIUS. Then leave him out. CASCA. Indeed he is not fit. DECIUS. Shall no man else be touch'd but only Caesar? CASSIUS. Decius, well urged. I think it is not meet Mark Antony, so well beloved of Caesar, Should outlive Caesar. We shall find of him A shrewd contriver; and you know his means, If he improve them, may well stretch so far As to annoy us all, which to prevent, Let Antony and Caesar fall together. BRUTUS. Our course will seem too bloody, Caius Cassius, To cut the head off and then hack the limbs Like wrath in death and envy afterwards; For Antony is but a limb of Caesar. Let us be sacrificers, but not butchers, Caius. We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar, And in the spirit of men there is no blood. O, that we then could come by Caesar's spirit, And not dismember Caesar! But, alas, Caesar must bleed for it! And, gentle friends, Let's kill him boldly, but not wrathfully; Let's carve him as a dish fit for the gods, Not hew him as a carcass fit for hounds; And let our hearts, as subtle masters do, Stir up their servants to an act of rage And after seem to chide 'em. This shall make Our purpose necessary and not envious, Which so appearing to the common eyes, We shall be call'd purgers, not murderers. And for Mark Antony, think not of him, For he can do no more than Caesar's arm When Caesar's head is off. CASSIUS. Yet I fear him, For in the ingrated love he bears to Caesar- BRUTUS. Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him. If he love Caesar, all that he can do Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar. And that were much he should, for he is given To sports, to wildness, and much company. TREBONIUS. There is no fear in him-let him not die, For he will live and laugh at this hereafter. Clock strikes. BRUTUS. Peace, count the clock. CASSIUS. The clock hath stricken three. TREBONIUS. 'Tis time to part. CASSIUS. But it is doubtful yet Whether Caesar will come forth today or no, For he is superstitious grown of late, Quite from the main opinion he held once Of fantasy, of dreams, and ceremonies. It may be these apparent prodigies, The unaccustom'd terror of this night, And the persuasion of his augurers May hold him from the Capitol today. DECIUS. Never fear that. If he be so resolved, I can o'ersway him, for he loves to hear That unicorns may be betray'd with trees, And bears with glasses, elephants with holes, Lions with toils, and men with flatterers; But when I tell him he hates flatterers, He says he does, being then most flattered. Let me work; For I can give his humor the true bent, And I will bring him to the Capitol. CASSIUS. Nay, we will all of us be there to fetch him. BRUTUS. By the eighth hour. Is that the utter most? CINNA. Be that the uttermost, and fail not then. METELLUS. Caius Ligarius doth bear Caesar hard, Who rated him for speaking well of Pompey. I wonder none of you have thought of him. BRUTUS. Now, good Metellus, go along by him. He loves me well, and I have given him reasons; Send him but hither, and I'll fashion him. CASSIUS. The morning comes upon 's. We'll leave you, Brutus, And, friends, disperse yourselves, but all remember What you have said and show yourselves true Romans. BRUTUS. Good gentlemen, look fresh and merrily; Let not our looks put on our purposes, But bear it as our Roman actors do, With untired spirits and formal constancy. And so, good morrow to you every one. Exeunt all but Brutus. Boy! Lucius! Fast asleep? It is no matter. Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber; Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies, Which busy care draws in the brains of men; Therefore thou sleep'st so sound. Enter Portia. PORTIA. Brutus, my lord! BRUTUS. Portia, what mean you? Wherefore rise you now? It is not for your health thus to commit Your weak condition to the raw cold morning. PORTIA. Nor for yours neither. have ungently, Brutus, Stole from my bed; and yesternight at supper You suddenly arose and walk'd about, Musing and sighing, with your arms across; And when I ask'd you what the matter was, You stared upon me with ungentle looks. I urged you further; then you scratch'd your head, And too impatiently stamp'd with your foot. Yet I insisted, yet you answer'd not, But with an angry waiter of your hand Gave sign for me to leave you. So I did, Fearing to strengthen that impatience Which seem'd too much enkindled, and withal Hoping it was but an effect of humor, Which sometime hath his hour with every man. It will not let you eat, nor talk, nor sleep, And, could it work so much upon your shape As it hath much prevail'd on your condition, I should not know you, Brutus. Dear my lord, Make me acquainted with your cause of grief. BRUTUS. I am not well in health, and that is all. PORTIA. Brutus is wise, and, were he not in health, He would embrace the means to come by it. BRUTUS. Why, so I do. Good Portia, go to bed. PORTIA. Is Brutus sick, and is it physical To walk unbraced and suck up the humors Of the dank morning? What, is Brutus sick, And will he steal out of his wholesome bed To dare the vile contagion of the night And tempt the rheumy and unpurged air To add unto his sickness? No, my Brutus, You have some sick offense within your mind, Which by the right and virtue of my place I ought to know of; and, upon my knees, I charm you, by my once commended beauty, By all your vows of love and that great vow Which did incorporate and make us one, That you unfold to me, yourself, your half, Why you are heavy and what men tonight Have had resort to you; for here have been Some six or seven, who did hide their faces Even from darkness. BRUTUS. Kneel not, gentle Portia. PORTIA. I should not need, if you were gentle Brutus. Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus, Is it excepted I should know no secrets That appertain to you? Am I yourself But, as it were, in sort or limitation, To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed, And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs Of your good pleasure? If it be no more, Portia is Brutus' harlot, not his wife. BRUTUS. You are my true and honorable wife, As dear to me as are the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart. PORTIA. If this were true, then should I know this secret. I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife. I grant I am a woman, but withal A woman well reputed, Cato's daughter. Think you I am no stronger than my sex, Being so father'd and so husbanded? Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose 'em. I have made strong proof of my constancy, Giving myself a voluntary wound Here in the thigh. Can I bear that with patience And not my husband's secrets? BRUTUS. O ye gods, Render me worthy of this noble wife! Knocking within. Hark, hark, one knocks. Portia, go in awhile, And by and by thy bosom shall partake The secrets of my heart. All my engagements I will construe to thee, All the charactery of my sad brows. Leave me with haste. [Exit Portia.] Lucius, who's that knocks? Re-enter Lucius with Ligarius. LUCIUS. Here is a sick man that would speak with you. BRUTUS. Caius Ligarius, that Metellus spake of. Boy, stand aside. Caius Ligarius, how? LIGARIUS. Vouchsafe good morrow from a feeble tongue. BRUTUS. O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius, To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick! LIGARIUS. I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand Any exploit worthy the name of honor. BRUTUS. Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it. LIGARIUS. By all the gods that Romans bow before, I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome! Brave son, derived from honorable loins! Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up My mortified spirit. Now bid me run, And I will strive with things impossible, Yea, get the better of them. What's to do? BRUTUS. A piece of work that will make sick men whole. LIGARIUS. But are not some whole that we must make sick? BRUTUS. That must we also. What it is, my Caius, I shall unfold to thee, as we are going To whom it must be done. LIGARIUS. Set on your foot, And with a heart new-fired I follow you, To do I know not what; but it sufficeth That Brutus leads me on. BRUTUS. Follow me then. Exeunt. SCENE II. Caesar's house. Thunder and lightning. Enter Caesar, in his nightgown. CAESAR. Nor heaven nor earth have been at peace tonight. Thrice hath Calpurnia in her sleep cried out, "Help, ho! They murther Caesar!" Who's within? Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord? CAESAR. Go bid the priests do present sacrifice, And bring me their opinions of success. SERVANT. I will, my lord. Exit. Enter Calpurnia. CALPURNIA. What mean you, Caesar? Think you to walk forth? You shall not stir out of your house today. CAESAR. Caesar shall forth: the things that threaten'd me Ne'er look'd but on my back; when they shall see The face of Caesar, they are vanished. CALPURNIA. Caesar, I I stood on ceremonies, Yet now they fright me. There is one within, Besides the things that we have heard and seen, Recounts most horrid sights seen by the watch. A lioness hath whelped in the streets; And graves have yawn'd, and yielded up their dead; Fierce fiery warriors fight upon the clouds, In ranks and squadrons and right form of war, Which drizzled blood upon the Capitol; The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh and dying men did groan, And ghosts did shriek and squeal about the streets. O Caesar! These things are beyond all use, And I do fear them. CAESAR. What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods? Yet Caesar shall go forth, for these predictions Are to the world in general as to Caesar. CALPURNIA. When beggars die, there are no comets seen; The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes. CAESAR. Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come. Re-enter Servant. What say the augurers? SERVANT. They would not have you to stir forth today. Plucking the entrails of an offering forth, They could not find a heart within the beast. CAESAR. The gods do this in shame of cowardice. Caesar should be a beast without a heart If he should stay at home today for fear. No, Caesar shall not. Danger knows full well That Caesar is more dangerous than he. We are two lions litter'd in one day, And I the elder and more terrible. And Caesar shall go forth. CALPURNIA. Alas, my lord, Your wisdom is consumed in confidence. Do not go forth today. Call it my fear That keeps you in the house and not your own. We'll send Mark Antony to the Senate House, And he shall say you are not well today. Let me, upon my knee, prevail in this. CAESAR. Mark Antony shall say I am not well, And, for thy humor, I will stay at home. Enter Decius. Here's Decius Brutus, he shall tell them so. DECIUS. Caesar, all hail! Good morrow, worthy Caesar! I come to fetch you to the Senate House. CAESAR. And you are come in very happy time To bear my greeting to the senators And tell them that I will not come today. Cannot, is false, and that I dare not, falser: I will not come today. Tell them so, Decius. CALPURNIA. Say he is sick. CAESAR. Shall Caesar send a lie? Have I in conquest stretch'd mine arm so far To be afeard to tell greybeards the truth? Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come. DECIUS. Most mighty Caesar, let me know some cause, Lest I be laugh'd at when I tell them so. CAESAR. The cause is in my will: I will not come, That is enough to satisfy the Senate. But, for your private satisfaction, Because I love you, I will let you know. Calpurnia here, my wife, stays me at home; She dreamt tonight she saw my statue, Which, like a fountain with an hundred spouts, Did run pure blood, and many lusty Romans Came smiling and did bathe their hands in it. And these does she apply for warnings and portents And evils imminent, and on her knee Hath begg'd that I will stay at home today. DECIUS. This dream is all amiss interpreted; It was a vision fair and fortunate. Your statue spouting blood in many pipes, In which so many smiling Romans bathed, Signifies that from you great Rome shall suck Reviving blood, and that great men shall press For tinctures, stains, relics, and cognizance. This by Calpurnia's dream is signified. CAESAR. And this way have you well expounded it. DECIUS. I have, when you have heard what I can say. And know it now, the Senate have concluded To give this day a crown to mighty Caesar. If you shall send them word you will not come, Their minds may change. Besides, it were a mock Apt to be render'd, for someone to say "Break up the Senate till another time, When Caesar's wife shall meet with better dreams." If Caesar hide himself, shall they not whisper "Lo, Caesar is afraid"? Pardon me, Caesar, for my dear dear love To your proceeding bids me tell you this, And reason to my love is liable. CAESAR. How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia! I am ashamed I did yield to them. Give me my robe, for I will go. Enter Publius, Brutus, Ligarius, Metellus, Casca, Trebonius, and Cinna. And look where Publius is come to fetch me. PUBLIUS. Good morrow,Caesar. CAESAR. Welcome, Publius. What, Brutus, are you stirr'd so early too? Good morrow, Casca. Caius Ligarius, Caesar was ne'er so much your enemy As that same ague which hath made you lean. What is't o'clock? BRUTUS. Caesar, 'tis strucken eight. CAESAR. I thank you for your pains and courtesy. Enter Antony. See, Antony, that revels long o' nights, Is notwithstanding up. Good morrow, Antony. ANTONY. So to most noble Caesar. CAESAR. Bid them prepare within. I am to blame to be thus waited for. Now, Cinna; now, Metellus; what, Trebonius, I have an hour's talk in store for you; Remember that you call on me today; Be near me, that I may remember you. TREBONIUS. Caesar, I will. [Aside.] And so near will I be That your best friends shall wish I had been further. CAESAR. Good friends, go in and taste some wine with me, And we like friends will straightway go together. BRUTUS. [Aside.] That every like is not the same, O Caesar, The heart of Brutus yearns to think upon! Exeunt. SCENE III. A street near the Capitol. Enter Artemidorus, reading paper. ARTEMIDORUS. "Caesar, beware of Brutus; take heed of Cassius; come not near Casca; have an eye to Cinna; trust not Trebonius; mark well Metellus Cimber; Decius Brutus loves thee not; thou hast wronged Caius Ligarius. There is but one mind in all these men, and it is bent against Caesar. If thou beest not immortal, look about you. Security gives way to conspiracy. The mighty gods defend thee! Thy lover, Artemidorus." Here will I stand till Caesar pass along, And as a suitor will I give him this. My heart laments that virtue cannot live Out of the teeth of emulation. If thou read this, O Caesar, thou mayest live; If not, the Fates with traitors do contrive. Exit. SCENE IV. Another part of the same street, before the house of Brutus. Enter Portia and Lucius. PORTIA. I prithee, boy, run to the Senate House; Stay not to answer me, but get thee gone. Why dost thou stay? LUCIUS. To know my errand, madam. PORTIA. I would have had thee there, and here again, Ere I can tell thee what thou shouldst do there. O constancy, be strong upon my side! Set a huge mountain 'tween my heart and tongue! I have a man's mind, but a woman's might. How hard it is for women to keep counsel! Art thou here yet? LUCIUS. Madam, what should I do? Run to the Capitol, and nothing else? And so return to you, and nothing else? PORTIA. Yes, bring me word, boy, if thy lord look well, For he went sickly forth; and take good note What Caesar doth, what suitors press to him. Hark, boy, what noise is that? LUCIUS. I hear none, madam. PORTIA. Prithee, listen well. I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind brings it from the Capitol. LUCIUS. Sooth, madam, I hear nothing. Enter the Soothsayer. PORTIA. Come hither, fellow; Which way hast thou been? SOOTHSAYER. At mine own house, good lady. PORTIA. What is't o'clock? SOOTHSAYER. About the ninth hour, lady. PORTIA. Is Caesar yet gone to the Capitol? SOOTHSAYER. Madam, not yet. I go to take my stand To see him pass on to the Capitol. PORTIA. Thou hast some suit to Caesar, hast thou not? SOOTHSAYER. That I have, lady. If it will please Caesar To be so good to Caesar as to hear me, I shall beseech him to befriend himself. PORTIA. Why, know'st thou any harm's intended towards him? SOOTHSAYER. None that I know will be, much that I fear may chance. Good morrow to you. Here the street is narrow, The throng that follows Caesar at the heels, Of senators, of praetors, common suitors, Will crowd a feeble man almost to death. I'll get me to a place more void and there Speak to great Caesar as he comes along. Exit. PORTIA. I must go in. Ay me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is! O Brutus, The heavens speed thee in thine enterprise! Sure, the boy heard me. Brutus hath a suit That Caesar will not grant. O, I grow faint. Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord; Say I am merry. Come to me again, And bring me word what he doth say to thee. Exeunt severally. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol; the Senate sitting above. A crowd of people, among them Artemidorus and the Soothsayer. Flourish. Enter Caesar, Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Decius, Metellus, Trebonius, Cinna, Antony, Lepidus, Popilius, Publius, and others. CAESAR. The ides of March are come. SOOTHSAYER. Ay, Caesar, but not gone. A Hail, Caesar! Read this schedule. DECIUS. Trebonius doth desire you to o'er read, At your best leisure, this his humble suit. ARTEMIDORUS. O Caesar, read mine first, for mine's a suit That touches Caesar nearer. Read it, great Caesar. CAESAR. What touches us ourself shall be last served. ARTEMIDORUS. Delay not, Caesar; read it instantly. CAESAR. What, is the fellow mad? PUBLIUS. Sirrah, give place. CASSIUS. What, urge you your petitions in the street? Come to the Capitol. Caesar goes up to the Senate House, the rest follow. POPILIUS. I wish your enterprise today may thrive. CASSIUS. What enterprise, Popilius? POPILIUS. Fare you well. Advances to Caesar. BRUTUS. What said Popilius Lena? CASSIUS. He wish'd today our enterprise might thrive. I fear our purpose is discovered. BRUTUS. Look, how he makes to Caesar. Mark him. CASSIUS. Casca, Be sudden, for we fear prevention. Brutus, what shall be done? If this be known, Cassius or Caesar never shall turn back, For I will slay myself. BRUTUS. Cassius, be constant. Popilius Lena speaks not of our purposes; For, look, he smiles, and Caesar doth not change. CASSIUS. Trebonius knows his time, for, look you, Brutus, He draws Mark Antony out of the way. Exeunt Antony and Trebonius. DECIUS. Where is Metellus Cimber? Let him And presently prefer his suit to Caesar. BRUTUS. He is address'd; press near and second him. CINNA. Casca, you are the first that rears your hand. CAESAR. Are we all ready? What is now amiss That Caesar and his Senate must redress? METELLUS. Most high, most mighty, and most puissant Caesar, Metellus Cimber throws before thy seat An humble heart. Kneels. CAESAR. I must prevent thee, Cimber. These couchings and these lowly courtesies Might fire the blood of ordinary men And turn preordinance and first decree Into the law of children. Be not fond To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood That will be thaw'd from the true quality With that which melteth fools- I mean sweet words, Low-crooked court'sies, and base spaniel-fawning. Thy brother by decree is banished. If thou dost bend and pray and fawn for him, I spurn thee like a cur out of my way. Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause Will he be satisfied. METELLUS. Is there no voice more worthy than my own, To sound more sweetly in great Caesar's ear For the repealing of my banish'd brother? BRUTUS. I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar, Desiring thee that Publius Cimber may Have an immediate freedom of repeal. CAESAR. What, Brutus? CASSIUS. Pardon, Caesar! Caesar, pardon! As low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall To beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber. CAESAR. I could be well moved, if I were as you; If I could pray to move, prayers would move me; But I am constant as the northern star, Of whose true-fix'd and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament. The skies are painted with unnumber'd sparks; They are all fire and every one doth shine; But there's but one in all doth hold his place. So in the world, 'tis furnish'd well with men, And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive; Yet in the number I do know but one That unassailable holds on his rank, Unshaked of motion; and that I am he, Let me a little show it, even in this; That I was constant Cimber should be banish'd, And constant do remain to keep him so. CINNA. O Caesar- CAESAR. Hence! Wilt thou lift up Olympus? DECIUS. Great Caesar- CAESAR. Doth not Brutus bootless kneel? CASCA. Speak, hands, for me! Casca first, then the other Conspirators and Marcus Brutus stab Caesar. CAESAR. Et tu, Brute?- Then fall, Caesar! Dies. CINNA. Liberty! Freedom! Tyranny is dead! Run hence, proclaim, cry it about the streets. CASSIUS. Some to the common pulpits and cry out "Liberty, freedom, and enfranchisement!" BRUTUS. People and senators, be not affrighted, Fly not, stand still; ambition's debt is paid. CASCA. Go to the pulpit, Brutus. DECIUS. And Cassius too. BRUTUS. Where's Publius? CINNA. Here, quite confounded with this mutiny. METELLUS. Stand fast together, lest some friend of Caesar's Should chance- BRUTUS. Talk not of standing. Publius, good cheer, There is no harm intended to your person, Nor to no Roman else. So tell them, Publius. CASSIUS. And leave us, Publius, lest that the people Rushing on us should do your age some mischief. BRUTUS. Do so, and let no man abide this deed But we the doers. Re-enter Trebonius. CASSIUS. Where is Antony? TREBONIUS. Fled to his house amazed. Men, wives, and children stare, cry out, and run As it were doomsday. BRUTUS. Fates, we will know your pleasures. That we shall die, we know; 'tis but the time And drawing days out that men stand upon. CASSIUS. Why, he that cuts off twenty years of life Cuts off so many years of fearing death. BRUTUS. Grant that, and then is death a benefit; So are we Caesar's friends that have abridged His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop, And let us bathe our hands in Caesar's blood Up to the elbows, and besmear our swords; Then walk we forth, even to the marketplace, And waving our red weapons o'er our heads, Let's all cry, "Peace, freedom, and liberty!" CASSIUS. Stoop then, and wash. How many ages hence Shall this our lofty scene be acted over In states unborn and accents yet unknown! BRUTUS. How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport, That now on Pompey's basis lies along No worthier than the dust! CASSIUS. So oft as that shall be, So often shall the knot of us be call'd The men that gave their country liberty. DECIUS. What, shall we forth? CASSIUS. Ay, every man away. Brutus shall lead, and we will grace his heels With the most boldest and best hearts of Rome. Enter a Servant. BRUTUS. Soft, who comes here? A friend of Antony's. SERVANT. Thus, Brutus, did my master bid me kneel, Thus did Mark Antony bid me fall down, And, being prostrate, thus he bade me say: Brutus is noble, wise, valiant, and honest; Caesar was mighty, bold, royal, and loving. Say I love Brutus and I honor him; Say I fear'd Caesar, honor'd him, and loved him. If Brutus will vouchsafe that Antony May safely come to him and be resolved How Caesar hath deserved to lie in death, Mark Antony shall not love Caesar dead So well as Brutus living, but will follow The fortunes and affairs of noble Brutus Thorough the hazards of this untrod state With all true faith. So says my master Antony. BRUTUS. Thy master is a wise and valiant Roman; I never thought him worse. Tell him, so please him come unto this place, He shall be satisfied and, by my honor, Depart untouch'd. SERVANT. I'll fetch him presently. Exit. BRUTUS. I know that we shall have him well to friend. CASSIUS. I wish we may, but yet have I a mind That fears him much, and my misgiving still Falls shrewdly to the purpose. Re-enter Antony. BRUTUS. But here comes Antony. Welcome, Mark Antony. ANTONY. O mighty Caesar! Dost thou lie so low? Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils, Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well. I know not, gentlemen, what you intend, Who else must be let blood, who else is rank. If I myself, there is no hour so fit As Caesar's death's hour, nor no instrument Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich With the most noble blood of all this world. I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard, Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke, Fulfill your pleasure. Live a thousand years, I shall not find myself so apt to die; No place will please me so, no means of death, As here by Caesar, and by you cut off, The choice and master spirits of this age. BRUTUS. O Antony, beg not your death of us! Though now we must appear bloody and cruel, As, by our hands and this our present act You see we do, yet see you but our hands And this the bleeding business they have done. Our hearts you see not; they are pitiful; And pity to the general wrong of Rome- As fire drives out fire, so pity pity- Hath done this deed on Caesar. For your part, To you our swords have leaden points, Mark Antony; Our arms in strength of malice, and our hearts Of brothers' temper, do receive you in With all kind love, good thoughts, and reverence. CASSIUS. Your voice shall be as strong as any man's In the disposing of new dignities. BRUTUS. Only be patient till we have appeased The multitude, beside themselves with fear, And then we will deliver you the cause Why I, that did love Caesar when I struck him, Have thus proceeded. ANTONY. I doubt not of your wisdom. Let each man render me his bloody hand. First, Marcus Brutus, will I shake with you; Next, Caius Cassius, do I take your hand; Now, Decius Brutus, yours; now yours, Metellus; Yours, Cinna; and, my valiant Casca, yours; Though last, not least in love, yours, good Trebonius. Gentlemen all- alas, what shall I say? My credit now stands on such slippery ground, That one of two bad ways you must conceit me, Either a coward or a flatterer. That I did love thee, Caesar, O, 'tis true! If then thy spirit look upon us now, Shall it not grieve thee dearer than thy death To see thy Antony making his peace, Shaking the bloody fingers of thy foes, Most noble! In the presence of thy corse? Had I as many eyes as thou hast wounds, Weeping as fast as they stream forth thy blood, It would become me better than to close In terms of friendship with thine enemies. Pardon me, Julius! Here wast thou bay'd, brave hart, Here didst thou fall, and here thy hunters stand, Sign'd in thy spoil, and crimson'd in thy Lethe. O world, thou wast the forest to this hart, And this, indeed, O world, the heart of thee. How like a deer strucken by many princes Dost thou here lie! CASSIUS. Mark Antony- ANTONY. Pardon me, Caius Cassius. The enemies of Caesar shall say this: Then, in a friend, it is cold modesty. CASSIUS. I blame you not for praising Caesar so; But what compact mean you to have with us? Will you be prick'd in number of our friends, Or shall we on, and not depend on you? ANTONY. Therefore I took your hands, but was indeed Sway'd from the point by looking down on Caesar. Friends am I with you all and love you all, Upon this hope that you shall give me reasons Why and wherein Caesar was dangerous. BRUTUS. Or else were this a savage spectacle. Our reasons are so full of good regard That were you, Antony, the son of Caesar, You should be satisfied. ANTONY. That's all I seek; And am moreover suitor that I may Produce his body to the marketplace, And in the pulpit, as becomes a friend, Speak in the order of his funeral. BRUTUS. You shall, Mark Antony. CASSIUS. Brutus, a word with you. [Aside to Brutus.] You know not what you do. Do not consent That Antony speak in his funeral. Know you how much the people may be moved By that which he will utter? BRUTUS. By your pardon, I will myself into the pulpit first, And show the reason of our Caesar's death. What Antony shall speak, I will protest He speaks by leave and by permission, And that we are contented Caesar shall Have all true rites and lawful ceremonies. It shall advantage more than do us wrong. CASSIUS. I know not what may fall; I like it not. BRUTUS. Mark Antony, here, take you Caesar's body. You shall not in your funeral speech blame us, But speak all good you can devise of Caesar, And say you do't by our permission, Else shall you not have any hand at all About his funeral. And you shall speak In the same pulpit whereto I am going, After my speech is ended. ANTONY. Be it so, I do desire no more. BRUTUS. Prepare the body then, and follow us. Exeunt all but Antony. ANTONY. O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, That I am meek and gentle with these butchers! Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood! Over thy wounds now do I prophesy (Which like dumb mouths do ope their ruby lips To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue) A curse shall light upon the limbs of men; Domestic fury and fierce civil strife Shall cumber all the parts of Italy; Blood and destruction shall be so in use, And dreadful objects so familiar, That mothers shall but smile when they behold Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war; All pity choked with custom of fell deeds, And Caesar's spirit ranging for revenge, With Ate by his side come hot from hell, Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice Cry "Havoc!" and let slip the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial. Enter a Servant. You serve Octavius Caesar, do you not? SERVANT. I do, Mark Antony. ANTONY. Caesar did write for him to come to Rome. SERVANT. He did receive his letters, and is coming, And bid me say to you by word of mouth- O Caesar! Sees the body. ANTONY. Thy heart is big; get thee apart and weep. Passion, I see, is catching, for mine eyes, Seeing those beads of sorrow stand in thine, Began to water. Is thy master coming? SERVANT. He lies tonight within seven leagues of Rome. ANTONY. Post back with speed and tell him what hath chanced. Here is a mourning Rome, a dangerous Rome, No Rome of safety for Octavius yet; Hie hence, and tell him so. Yet stay awhile, Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse Into the marketplace. There shall I try, In my oration, how the people take The cruel issue of these bloody men, According to the which thou shalt discourse To young Octavius of the state of things. Lend me your hand. Exeunt with Caesar's body. SCENE II. The Forum. Enter Brutus and Cassius, and a throng of Citizens. CITIZENS. We will be satisfied! Let us be satisfied! BRUTUS. Then follow me and give me audience, friends. Cassius, go you into the other street And part the numbers. Those that will hear me speak, let 'em stay here; Those that will follow Cassius, go with him; And public reasons shall be rendered Of Caesar's death. FIRST CITIZEN. I will hear Brutus speak. SECOND CITIZEN. I will hear Cassius and compare their reasons, When severally we hear them rendered. Exit Cassius, with some Citizens. Brutus goes into the pulpit. THIRD CITIZEN. The noble Brutus is ascended. Silence! BRUTUS. Be patient till the last. Romans, countrymen, and lovers! Hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear. Believe me for mine honor, and have respect to mine honor, that you may believe. Censure me in your wisdom, and awake your senses, that you may the better judge. If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of Caesar's, to him I say that Brutus' love to Caesar was no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus rose against Caesar, this is my answer: Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more. Had you rather Caesar were living and die all slaves, than that Caesar were dead to live all freemen? As Caesar loved me, I weep for him; as he was fortunate, I rejoice at it; as he was valiant, I honor him; but as he was ambitious, I slew him. There is tears for his love, joy for his fortune, honor for his valor, and death for his ambition. Who is here so base that would be a bondman? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so rude that would not be a Roman? If any, speak, for him have I offended. Who is here so vile that will not love his country? If any, speak, for him have I offended. I pause for a reply. ALL. None, Brutus, none. BRUTUS. Then none have I offended. I have done no more to Caesar than you shall do to Brutus. The question of his death is enrolled in the Capitol, his glory not extenuated, wherein he was worthy, nor his offenses enforced, for which he suffered death. Enter Antony and others, with Caesar's body. Here comes his body, mourned by Mark Antony, who, though he had no hand in his death, shall receive the benefit of his dying, a place in the commonwealth, as which of you shall not? With this I depart- that, as I slew my best lover for the good of Rome, I have the same dagger for myself, when it shall please my country to need my death. ALL. Live, Brutus, live, live! FIRST CITIZEN. Bring him with triumph home unto his house. SECOND CITIZEN. Give him a statue with his ancestors. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him be Caesar. FOURTH CITIZEN. Caesar's better parts Shall be crown'd in Brutus. FIRST CITIZEN. We'll bring him to his house with shouts and clamors. BRUTUS. My countrymen- SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Silence! Brutus speaks. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace, ho! BRUTUS. Good countrymen, let me depart alone, And, for my sake, stay here with Antony. Do grace to Caesar's corse, and grace his speech Tending to Caesar's glories, which Mark Antony, By our permission, is allow'd to make. I do entreat you, not a man depart, Save I alone, till Antony have spoke. Exit. FIRST CITIZEN. Stay, ho, and let us hear Mark Antony. THIRD CITIZEN. Let him go up into the public chair; We'll hear him. Noble Antony, go up. ANTONY. For Brutus' sake, I am beholding to you. Goes into the pulpit. FOURTH CITIZEN. What does he say of Brutus? THIRD CITIZEN. He says, for Brutus' sake, He finds himself beholding to us all. FOURTH CITIZEN. 'Twere best he speak no harm of Brutus here. FIRST CITIZEN. This Caesar was a tyrant. THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, that's certain. We are blest that Rome is rid of him. SECOND CITIZEN. Peace! Let us hear what Antony can say. ANTONY. You gentle Romans- ALL. Peace, ho! Let us hear him. ANTONY. Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears! I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do lives after them, The good is oft interred with their bones; So let it be with Caesar. The noble Brutus Hath told you Caesar was ambitious; If it were so, it was a grievous fault, And grievously hath Caesar answer'd it. Here, under leave of Brutus and the rest- For Brutus is an honorable man; So are they all, all honorable men- Come I to speak in Caesar's funeral. He was my friend, faithful and just to me; But Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. He hath brought many captives home to Rome, Whose ransoms did the general coffers fill. Did this in Caesar seem ambitious? When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept; Ambition should be made of sterner stuff: Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And Brutus is an honorable man. You all did see that on the Lupercal I thrice presented him a kingly crown, Which he did thrice refuse. Was this ambition? Yet Brutus says he was ambitious, And sure he is an honorable man. I speak not to disprove what Brutus spoke, But here I am to speak what I do know. You all did love him once, not without cause; What cause withholds you then to mourn for him? O judgement, thou art fled to brutish beasts, And men have lost their reason. Bear with me; My heart is in the coffin there with Caesar, And I must pause till it come back to me. FIRST CITIZEN. Methinks there is much reason in his sayings. SECOND CITIZEN. If thou consider rightly of the matter, Caesar has had great wrong. THIRD CITIZEN. Has he, masters? I fear there will a worse come in his place. FOURTH CITIZEN. Mark'd ye his words? He would not take the crown; Therefore 'tis certain he was not ambitious. FIRST CITIZEN. If it be found so, some will dear abide it. SECOND CITIZEN. Poor soul, his eyes are red as fire with weeping. THIRD CITIZEN. There's not a nobler man in Rome than Antony. FOURTH CITIZEN. Now mark him, he begins again to speak. ANTONY. But yesterday the word of Caesar might Have stood against the world. Now lies he there, And none so poor to do him reverence. O masters! If I were disposed to stir Your hearts and minds to mutiny and rage, I should do Brutus wrong and Cassius wrong, Who, you all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong; I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honorable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Caesar; I found it in his closet, 'tis his will. Let but the commons hear this testament- Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read- And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood, Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Unto their issue. FOURTH CITIZEN. We'll hear the will. Read it, Mark Antony. ALL. The will, the will! We will hear Caesar's will. ANTONY. Have patience, gentle friends, I must not read it; It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And, being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad. 'Tis good you know not that you are his heirs, For if you should, O, what would come of it! FOURTH CITIZEN. Read the will; we'll hear it, Antony. You shall read us the will, Caesar's will. ANTONY. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o'ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honorable men Whose daggers have stabb'd Caesar; I do fear it. FOURTH CITIZEN. They were traitors. Honorable men! ALL. The will! The testament! SECOND CITIZEN. They were villains, murtherers. The will! Read the will! ANTONY. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corse of Caesar, And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? And will you give me leave? ALL. Come down. SECOND CITIZEN. Descend. He comes down from the pulpit. THIRD CITIZEN. You shall have leave. FOURTH CITIZEN. A ring, stand round. FIRST CITIZEN. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Room for Antony, most noble Antony. ANTONY. Nay, press not so upon me, stand far off. ALL. Stand back; room, bear back! ANTONY. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I remember The first time ever Caesar put it on; 'Twas on a summer's evening, in his tent, That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius' dagger through; See what a rent the envious Casca made; Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb'd; And as he pluck'd his cursed steel away, Mark how the blood of Caesar follow'd it, As rushing out of doors, to be resolved If Brutus so unkindly knock'd, or no; For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all; For when the noble Caesar saw him stab, Ingratitude, more strong than traitors' arms, Quite vanquish'd him. Then burst his mighty heart, And, in his mantle muffling up his face, Even at the base of Pompey's statue, Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down, Whilst bloody treason flourish'd over us. O, now you weep, and I perceive you feel The dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but behold Our Caesar's vesture wounded? Look you here, Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors. FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle! SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar! THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day! FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors villains! FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight! SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged. ALL. Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live! ANTONY. Stay, countrymen. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. SECOND CITIZEN. We'll hear him, we'll follow him, we'll die with him. ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honorable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it. They are wise and honorable, And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend, and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood. I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know; Show you sweet Caesar's wounds, poor dumb mouths, And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue In every wound of Caesar that should move The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. ALL. We'll mutiny. FIRST CITIZEN. We'll burn the house of Brutus. THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! Come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. ALL. Peace, ho! Hear Antony, most noble Antony! ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of. ALL. Most true, the will! Let's stay and hear the will. ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar's seal. To every Roman citizen he gives, To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We'll revenge his death. THIRD CITIZEN. O royal Caesar! ANTONY. Hear me with patience. ALL. Peace, ho! ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks, His private arbors, and new-planted orchards, On this side Tiber; he hath left them you, And to your heirs forever- common pleasures, To walk abroad and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! When comes such another? FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We'll burn his body in the holy place And with the brands fire the traitors' houses. Take up the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Go fetch fire. THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches. FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. Exeunt Citizens with the body. ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot, Take thou what course thou wilt. Enter a Servant. How now, fellow? SERVANT. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome. ANTONY. Where is he? SERVANT. He and Lepidus are at Caesar's house. ANTONY. And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry, And in this mood will give us anything. SERVANT. I heard him say Brutus and Cassius Are rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. ANTONY. Be like they had some notice of the people, How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. Exeunt. SCENE III. A street. Enter Cinna the poet. CINNA. I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar, And things unluckily charge my fantasy. I have no will to wander forth of doors, Yet something leads me forth. Enter Citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name? SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you going? THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell? FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married man or a bachelor? SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, and briefly. FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely. THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly, you were best. CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a married man or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly, wisely and truly: wisely I say, I am a bachelor. SECOND CITIZEN. That's as much as to say they are fools that marry. You'll bear me a bang for that, I fear. Proceed directly. CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar's funeral. FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend or an enemy? CINNA. As a friend. SECOND CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly. FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling, briefly. CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. THIRD CITIZEN. Your name, sir, truly. CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna. FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces, he's a conspirator. CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. FOURTH CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. CINNA. I am not Cinna the conspirator. FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name's Cinna. Pluck but his name out of his heart, and turn him going. THIRD CITIZEN. Tear him, tear him! Come, brands, ho, firebrands. To Brutus', to Cassius'; burn all. Some to Decius' house, and some to Casca's, some to Ligarius'. Away, go! Exeunt. <> ACT IV. SCENE I. A house in Rome. Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, seated at a table. ANTONY. These many then shall die, their names are prick'd. OCTAVIUS. Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus? LEPIDUS. I do consent- OCTAVIUS. Prick him down, Antony. LEPIDUS. Upon condition Publius shall not live, Who is your sister's son, Mark Antony. ANTONY. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar's house, Fetch the will hither, and we shall determine How to cut off some charge in legacies. LEPIDUS. What, shall I find you here? OCTAVIUS. Or here, or at the Capitol. Exit Lepidus. ANTONY. This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit, The three-fold world divided, he should stand One of the three to share it? OCTAVIUS. So you thought him, And took his voice who should be prick'd to die In our black sentence and proscription. ANTONY. Octavius, I have seen more days than you, And though we lay these honors on this man To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads, He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold, To groan and sweat under the business, Either led or driven, as we point the way; And having brought our treasure where we will, Then take we down his load and turn him off, Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears And graze in commons. OCTAVIUS. You may do your will, But he's a tried and valiant soldier. ANTONY. So is my horse, Octavius, and for that I do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight, To wind, to stop, to run directly on, His corporal motion govern'd by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so: He must be taught, and train'd, and bid go forth; A barren-spirited fellow, one that feeds On objects, arts, and imitations, Which, out of use and staled by other men, Begin his fashion. Do not talk of him But as a property. And now, Octavius, Listen great things. Brutus and Cassius Are levying powers; we must straight make head; Therefore let our alliance be combined, Our best friends made, our means stretch'd; And let us presently go sit in council, How covert matters may be best disclosed, And open perils surest answered. OCTAVIUS. Let us do so, for we are at the stake, And bay'd about with many enemies; And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear, Millions of mischiefs. Exeunt. SCENE II. Camp near Sardis. Before Brutus' tent. Drum. Enter Brutus, Lucilius, Lucius, and Soldiers; Titinius and Pindarus meet them. BRUTUS. Stand, ho! LUCILIUS. Give the word, ho, and stand. BRUTUS. What now, Lucilius, is Cassius near? LUCILIUS. He is at hand, and Pindarus is come To do you salutation from his master. BRUTUS. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus, In his own change, or by ill officers, Hath given me some worthy cause to wish Things done undone; but if he be at hand, I shall be satisfied. PINDARUS. I do not doubt But that my noble master will appear Such as he is, full of regard and honor. BRUTUS. He is not doubted. A word, Lucilius, How he received you. Let me be resolved. LUCILIUS. With courtesy and with respect enough, But not with such familiar instances, Nor with such free and friendly conference, As he hath used of old. BRUTUS. Thou hast described A hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius, When love begins to sicken and decay It useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith; But hollow men, like horses hot at hand, Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; But when they should endure the bloody spur, They fall their crests and like deceitful jades Sink in the trial. Comes his army on? LUCILIUS. They meant his night in Sard is to be quarter'd; The greater part, the horse in general, Are come with Cassius. Low march within. BRUTUS. Hark, he is arrived. March gently on to meet him. Enter Cassius and his Powers. CASSIUS. Stand, ho! BRUTUS. Stand, ho! Speak the word along. FIRST SOLDIER. Stand! SECOND SOLDIER. Stand! THIRD SOLDIER. Stand! CASSIUS. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. BRUTUS. Judge me, you gods! Wrong I mine enemies? And, if not so, how should I wrong a brother? CASSIUS. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs, And when you do them- BRUTUS. Cassius, be content, Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here, Which should perceive nothing but love from us, Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away; Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs, And I will give you audience. CASSIUS. Pindarus, Bid our commanders lead their charges off A little from this ground. BRUTUS. Lucilius, do you the like, and let no man Come to our tent till we have done our conference. Let Lucius and Titinius guard our door. Exeunt. SCENE III. Brutus' tent. Enter Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. That you have wrong'd me doth appear in this: You have condemn'd and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians, Wherein my letters, praying on his side, Because I knew the man, were slighted off. BRUTUS. You wrong'd yourself to write in such a case. CASSIUS. In such a time as this it is not meet That every nice offense should bear his comment. BRUTUS. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm, To sell and mart your offices for gold To undeservers. CASSIUS. I an itching palm? You know that you are Brutus that speaks this, Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. BRUTUS. The name of Cassius honors this corruption, And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. CASSIUS. Chastisement? BRUTUS. Remember March, the ides of March remember. Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake? What villain touch'd his body, that did stab, And not for justice? What, shall one of us, That struck the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers, shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman. CASSIUS. Brutus, bait not me, I'll not endure it. You forget yourself To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I, Older in practice, abler than yourself To make conditions. BRUTUS. Go to, you are not, Cassius. CASSIUS. I am. BRUTUS. I say you are not. CASSIUS. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself; Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. BRUTUS. Away, slight man! CASSIUS. Is't possible? BRUTUS. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? CASSIUS. O gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this? BRUTUS. All this? Ay, more. Fret till your proud heart break. Go show your slaves how choleric you are, And make your bondmen tremble. Must I bouge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouch Under your testy humor? By the gods, You shall digest the venom of your spleen, Though it do split you, for, from this day forth, I'll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter, When you are waspish. CASSIUS. Is it come to this? BRUTUS. You say you are a better soldier: Let it appear so, make your vaunting true, And it shall please me well. For mine own part, I shall be glad to learn of noble men. CASSIUS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better. Did I say "better"? BRUTUS. If you did, I care not. CASSIUS. When Caesar lived, he durst not thus have moved me. BRUTUS. Peace, peace! You durst not so have tempted him. CASSIUS. I durst not? BRUTUS. No. CASSIUS. What, durst not tempt him? BRUTUS. For your life you durst not. CASSIUS. Do not presume too much upon my love; I may do that I shall be sorry for. BRUTUS. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats, For I am arm'd so strong in honesty, That they pass by me as the idle wind Which I respect not. I did send to you For certain sums of gold, which you denied me, For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart And drop my blood for drachmas than to wring From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash By any indirection. I did send To you for gold to pay my legions, Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer'd Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous To lock such rascal counters from his friends, Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts, Dash him to pieces! CASSIUS. I denied you not. BRUTUS. You did. CASSIUS. I did not. He was but a fool That brought my answer back. Brutus hath rived my heart. A friend should bear his friend's infirmities, But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. BRUTUS. I do not, till you practise them on me. CASSIUS. You love me not. BRUTUS. I do not like your faults. CASSIUS. A friendly eye could never see such faults. BRUTUS. A flatterer's would not, though they do appear As huge as high Olympus. CASSIUS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come, Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius, For Cassius is aweary of the world: Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother; Check'd like a bondman; all his faults observed, Set in a notebook, learn'd and conn'd by rote, To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger, And here my naked breast; within, a heart Dearer than Pluto's mine, richer than gold. If that thou best a Roman, take it forth; I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart. Strike, as thou didst at Caesar, for I know, When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better Than ever thou lovedst Cassius. BRUTUS. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope; Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire, Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark And straight is cold again. CASSIUS. Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief and blood ill-temper'd vexeth him? BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper'd too. CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. BRUTUS. And my heart too. CASSIUS. O Brutus! BRUTUS. What's the matter? CASSIUS. Have not you love enough to bear with me When that rash humor which my mother gave me Makes me forgetful? BRUTUS. Yes, Cassius, and from henceforth, When you are overearnest with your Brutus, He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so. POET. [Within.] Let me go in to see the generals. There is some grudge between 'em, 'tis not meet They be alone. LUCILIUS. [Within.] You shall not come to them. POET. [Within.] Nothing but death shall stay me. Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius, and Lucius. CASSIUS. How now, what's the matter? POET. For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be; For I have seen more years, I'm sure, than ye. CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme! BRUTUS. Get you hence, sirrah; saucy fellow, hence! CASSIUS. Bear with him, Brutus; 'tis his fashion. BRUTUS. I'll know his humor when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence! CASSIUS. Away, away, be gone! Exit Poet. BRUTUS. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commanders Prepare to lodge their companies tonight. CASSIUS. And come yourselves and bring Messala with you Immediately to us. Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius. BRUTUS. Lucius, a bowl of wine! Exit Lucius. CASSIUS. I did not think you could have been so angry. BRUTUS. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. CASSIUS. Of your philosophy you make no use, If you give place to accidental evils. BRUTUS. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. CASSIUS. Ha? Portia? BRUTUS. She is dead. CASSIUS. How 'scaped killing when I cross'd you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness? BRUTUS. Impatient of my absence, And grief that young Octavius with Mark Antony Have made themselves so strong- for with her death That tidings came- with this she fell distract, And (her attendants absent) swallow'd fire. CASSIUS. And died so? BRUTUS. Even so. CASSIUS. O ye immortal gods! Re-enter Lucius, with wine and taper. BRUTUS. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. Drinks. CASSIUS. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o'erswell the cup; I cannot drink too much of Brutus' love. Drinks. BRUTUS. Come in, Titinius! Exit Lucius. Re-enter Titinius, with Messala. Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here, And call in question our necessities. CASSIUS. Portia, art thou gone? BRUTUS. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters That young Octavius and Mark Antony Come down upon us with a mighty power, Bending their expedition toward Philippi. MESSALA. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenure. BRUTUS. With what addition? MESSALA. That by proscription and bills of outlawry Octavius, Antony, and Lepidus Have put to death an hundred senators. BRUTUS. There in our letters do not well agree; Mine speak of seventy senators that died By their proscriptions, Cicero being one. CASSIUS. Cicero one! MESSALA. Cicero is dead, And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord? BRUTUS. No, Messala. MESSALA. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? BRUTUS. Nothing, Messala. MESSALA. That, methinks, is strange. BRUTUS. Why ask you? Hear you aught of her in yours? MESSALA. No, my lord. BRUTUS. Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true. MESSALA. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell: For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. BRUTUS. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once I have the patience to endure it now. MESSALA. Even so great men great losses should endure. CASSIUS. I have as much of this in art as you, But yet my nature could not bear it so. BRUTUS. Well, to our work alive. What do you think Of marching to Philippi presently? CASSIUS. I do not think it good. BRUTUS. Your reason? CASSIUS. This it is: 'Tis better that the enemy seek us; So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers, Doing himself offense, whilst we lying still Are full of rest, defense, and nimbleness. BRUTUS. Good reasons must of force give place to better. The people 'twixt Philippi and this ground Do stand but in a forced affection, For they have grudged us contribution. The enemy, marching along by them, By them shall make a fuller number up, Come on refresh'd, new-added, and encouraged; From which advantage shall we cut him off If at Philippi we do face him there, These people at our back. CASSIUS. Hear me, good brother. BRUTUS. Under your pardon. You must note beside That we have tried the utmost of our friends, Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe: The enemy increaseth every day; We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men Which taken at the flood leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat, And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures. CASSIUS. Then, with your will, go on; We'll along ourselves and meet them at Philippi. BRUTUS. The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity, Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say? CASSIUS. No more. Good night. Early tomorrow will we rise and hence. BRUTUS. Lucius! Re-enter Lucius. My gown. Exit Lucius. Farewell, good Messala; Good night, Titinius; noble, noble Cassius, Good night and good repose. CASSIUS. O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the night. Never come such division 'tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus. BRUTUS. Everything is well. CASSIUS. Good night, my lord. BRUTUS. Good night, good brother. TITINIUS. MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus. BRUTUS. Farewell, everyone. Exeunt all but Brutus. Re-enter Lucius, with the gown. Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument? LUCIUS. Here in the tent. BRUTUS. What, thou speak'st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o'erwatch'd. Call Claudio and some other of my men, I'll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. LUCIUS. Varro and Claudio! Enter Varro and Claudio. VARRO. Calls my lord? BRUTUS. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep; It may be I shall raise you by and by On business to my brother Cassius. VARRO. So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure. BRUTUS. I would not have it so. Lie down, good sirs. It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look Lucius, here's the book I sought for so; I put it in the pocket of my gown. Varro and Claudio lie down. LUCIUS. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. BRUTUS. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile, And touch thy instrument a strain or two? LUCIUS. Ay, my lord, an't please you. BRUTUS. It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. LUCIUS. It is my duty, sir. BRUTUS. I should not urge thy duty past thy might; I know young bloods look for a time of rest. LUCIUS. I have slept, my lord, already. BRUTUS. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again; I will not hold thee long. If I do live, I will be good to thee. Music, and a song. This is a sleepy tune. O murtherous slumber, Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night. I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break'st thy instrument; I'll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn'd down Where I left reading? Here it is, I think. Sits down. Enter the Ghost of Caesar. How ill this taper burns! Ha, who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyes That shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil That makest my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art. GHOST. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. BRUTUS. Why comest thou? GHOST. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. BRUTUS. Well, then I shall see thee again? GHOST. Ay, at Philippi. BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. Exit Ghost. Now I have taken heart thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudio! Sirs, awake! Claudio! LUCIUS. The strings, my lord, are false. BRUTUS. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake! LUCIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out? LUCIUS. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. BRUTUS. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see anything? LUCIUS. Nothing, my lord. BRUTUS. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudio! [To Varro.] Fellow thou, awake! VARRO. My lord? CLAUDIO. My lord? BRUTUS. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep? VARRO. CLAUDIO. Did we, my lord? BRUTUS. Ay, saw you anything? VARRO. No, my lord, I saw nothing. CLAUDIO. Nor I, my lord. BRUTUS. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius; Bid him set on his powers betimes before, And we will follow. VARRO. CLAUDIO. It shall be done, my lord. Exeunt. <> ACT V. SCENE I. The plains of Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony, and their Army. OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down, But keep the hills and upper regions. It proves not so. Their battles are at hand; They mean to warn us at Philippi here, Answering before we do demand of them. ANTONY. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I know Wherefore they do it. They could be content To visit other places, and come down With fearful bravery, thinking by this face To fasten in our thoughts that they have courage; But 'tis not so. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately. ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly on, Upon the left hand of the even field. OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I, keep thou the left. ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent? OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you, but I will do so. March. Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius, and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messala, and others. BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley. CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk. OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle? ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth, the generals would have some words. OCTAVIUS. Stir not until the signal not until the signal. BRUTUS. Words before blows. Is it so, countrymen? OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do. BRUTUS. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. ANTONY. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words. Witness the hole you made in Caesar's heart, Crying "Long live! Hail, Caesar!" CASSIUS. Antony, The posture of your blows are yet unknown; But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees, And leave them honeyless. ANTONY. Not stingless too. BRUTUS. O, yes, and soundless too, For you have stol'n their buzzing, Antony, And very wisely threat before you sting. ANTONY. Villains! You did not so when your vile daggers Hack'd one another in the sides of Caesar. You show'd your teeth like apes, and fawn'd like hounds, And bow'd like bondmen, kissing Caesar's feet; Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behind Strooke Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers! CASSIUS. Flatterers? Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended so today, If Cassius might have ruled. OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause. If arguing make us sweat, The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw a sword against conspirators; When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar's three and thirty wounds Be well avenged, or till another Caesar Have added slaughter to the sword of traitors. BRUTUS. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors' hands, Unless thou bring'st them with thee. OCTAVIUS. So I hope, I was not born to die on Brutus' sword. BRUTUS. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain, Young man, thou couldst not die more honorable. CASSIUS. A peevish school boy, worthless of such honor, Join'd with a masker and a reveler! ANTONY. Old Cassius still! OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony, away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come to the field; If not, when you have stomachs. Exeunt Octavius, Antony, and their Army. CASSIUS. Why, now, blow and, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you. LUCILIUS. [Stands forth.] My lord? Brutus and Lucilius converse apart. CASSIUS. Messala! MESSALA. [Stands forth.] What says my general? CASSIUS. Messala, This is my birthday, as this very day Was Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala. Be thou my witness that, against my will, As Pompey was, am I compell'd to set Upon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong, And his opinion. Now I change my mind, And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensign Two mighty eagles fell, and there they perch'd, Gorging and feeding from our soldiers' hands, Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and gone, And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kites Fly o'er our heads and downward look on us, As we were sickly prey. Their shadows seem A canopy most fatal, under which Our army lies, ready to give up the ghost. MESSALA. Believe not so. CASSIUS. I but believe it partly, For I am fresh of spirit and resolved To meet all perils very constantly. BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius. CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus, The gods today stand friendly that we may, Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain, Let's reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is this The very last time we shall speak together. What are you then determined to do? BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophy By which I did blame Cato for the death Which he did give himself- I know not how, But I do find it cowardly and vile, For fear of what might fall, so to prevent The time of life- arming myself with patience To stay the providence of some high powers That govern us below. CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this battle, You are contented to be led in triumph Thorough the streets of Rome? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no. Think not, thou noble Roman, That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome; He bears too great a mind. But this same day Must end that work the ides of March begun. And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. Forever, and forever, farewell, Cassius! If we do meet again, why, we shall smile; If not, why then this parting was well made. CASSIUS. Forever and forever farewell, Brutus! If we do meet again, we'll smile indeed; If not, 'tis true this parting was well made. BRUTUS. Why then, lead on. O, that a man might know The end of this day's business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end, And then the end is known. Come, ho! Away! Exeunt. SCENE II. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. BRUTUS. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these bills Unto the legions on the other side. Loud alarum. Let them set on at once, for I perceive But cold demeanor in Octavia's wing, And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala. Let them all come down. Exeunt. SCENE III. Another part of the field. Alarums. Enter Cassius and Titinius. CASSIUS. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn'd enemy. This ensign here of mine was turning back; I slew the coward, and did take it from him. TITINIUS. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early, Who, having some advantage on Octavius, Took it too eagerly. His soldiers fell to spoil, Whilst we by Antony are all enclosed. Enter Pindarus. PINDARUS. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off; Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord; Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. CASSIUS. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius: Are those my tents where I perceive the fire? TITINIUS. They are, my lord. CASSIUS. Titinius, if thou lovest me, Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him, Till he have brought thee up to yonder troops And here again, that I may rest assured Whether yond troops are friend or enemy. TITINIUS. I will be here again, even with a thought. Exit. CASSIUS. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill; My sight was ever thick; regard Titinius, And tell me what thou notest about the field. Pindarus ascends the hill. This day I breathed first: time is come round, And where I did begin, there shall I end; My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news? PINDARUS. [Above.] O my lord! CASSIUS. What news? PINDARUS. [Above.] Titinius is enclosed round about With horsemen, that make to him on the spur; Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He's ta'en [Shout.] And, hark! They shout for joy. CASSIUS. Come down; behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long, To see my best friend ta'en before my face! Pindarus descends. Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner, And then I swore thee, saving of thy life, That whatsoever I did bid thee do, Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath; Now be a freeman, and with this good sword, That ran through Caesar's bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer: here, take thou the hilts; And when my face is cover'd, as 'tis now, Guide thou the sword. [Pindarus stabs him.] Caesar, thou art revenged, Even with the sword that kill'd thee. Dies. PINDARUS. So, I am free, yet would not so have been, Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from this country Pindarus shall run, Where never Roman shall take note of him. Exit. Re-enter Titinius with Messala. MESSALA. It is but change, Titinius, for Octavius Is overthrown by noble Brutus' power, As Cassius' legions are by Antony. TITINIUS. These tidings would well comfort Cassius. MESSALA. Where did you leave him? TITINIUS. All disconsolate, With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. MESSALA. Is not that he that lies upon the ground? TITINIUS. He lies not like the living. O my heart! MESSALA. Is not that he? TITINIUS. No, this was he, Messala, But Cassius is no more. O setting sun, As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night, So in his red blood Cassius' day is set, The sun of Rome is set! Our day is gone; Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done! Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. MESSALA. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful error, melancholy's child, Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of men The things that are not? O error, soon conceived, Thou never comest unto a happy birth, But kill'st the mother that engender'd thee! TITINIUS. What, Pindarus! Where art thou, Pindarus? MESSALA. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meet The noble Brutus, thrusting this report Into his ears. I may say "thrusting" it, For piercing steel and darts envenomed Shall be as welcome to the ears of Brutus As tidings of this sight. TITINIUS. Hie you, Messala, And I will seek for Pindarus the while. Exit Messala. Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not they Put on my brows this wreath of victory, And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything! But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow; Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and I Will do his bidding. Brutus, come apace, And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. By your leave, gods, this is a Roman's part. Come, Cassius' sword, and find Titinius' heart. Kills himself. Alarum. Re-enter Messala, with Brutus, young Cato, and others. BRUTUS. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? MESSALA. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. BRUTUS. Titinius' face is upward. CATO. He is slain. BRUTUS. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords In our own proper entrails. Low alarums. CATO. Brave Titinius! Look whe'er he have not crown'd dead Cassius! BRUTUS. Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever Rome Should breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe moe tears To this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thasos send his body; His funerals shall not be in our camp, Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come, And come, young Cato; let us to the field. Labio and Flavio, set our battles on. 'Tis three o'clock, and Romans, yet ere night We shall try fortune in a second fight. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter, fighting, Soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, young Cato, Lucilius, and others. BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! CATO. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country's friend. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! BRUTUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I; Brutus, my country's friend; know me for Brutus! Exit. LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius, And mayst be honor'd, being Cato's son. FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest. LUCILIUS. Only I yield to die. [Offers money.] There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight: Kill Brutus, and be honor'd in his death. FIRST SOLDIER. We must not. A noble prisoner! SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta'en. FIRST SOLDIER. I'll tell the news. Here comes the general. Enter Antony. Brutus is ta'en, Brutus is ta'en, my lord. ANTONY. Where is he? LUCILIUS. Safe, Antony, Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemy Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus; The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead, He will be found like Brutus, like himself. ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend, but, I assure you, A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe, Give him all kindness; I had rather have Such men my friends than enemies. Go on, And see wheer Brutus be alive or dead, And bring us word unto Octavius' tent How everything is chanced. Exeunt. SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato, and Volumnius. BRUTUS. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. CLITUS. Statilius show'd the torchlight, but, my lord, He came not back. He is or ta'en or slain. BRUTUS. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word: It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. Whispers. CLITUS. What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world. BRUTUS. Peace then, no words. CLITUS. I'll rather kill myself. BRUTUS. Hark thee, Dardanius. Whispers. DARDANIUS. Shall I do such a deed? CLITUS. O Dardanius! DARDANIUS. O Clitus! CLITUS. What ill request did Brutus make to thee? DARDANIUS. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates. CLITUS. Now is that noble vessel full of grief, That it runs over even at his eyes. BRUTUS. Come hither, good Volumnius, list a word. VOLUMNIUS. What says my lord? BRUTUS. Why, this, Volumnius: The ghost of Caesar hath appear'd to me Two several times by night; at Sardis once, And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come. VOLUMNIUS. Not so, my lord. BRUTUS. Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes; Our enemies have beat us to the pit; Low alarums. It is more worthy to leap in ourselves Than tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius, Thou know'st that we two went to school together; Even for that our love of old, I prithee, Hold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. VOLUMNIUS. That's not an office for a friend, my lord. Alarum still. CLITUS. Fly, fly, my lord, there is no tarrying here. BRUTUS. Farewell to you, and you, and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep; Farewell to thee too, Strato. Countrymen, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing day, More than Octavius and Mark Antony By this vile conquest shall attain unto. So, fare you well at once, for Brutus' tongue Hath almost ended his life's history. Night hangs upon mine eyes, my bones would rest That have but labor'd to attain this hour. Alarum. Cry within, "Fly, fly, fly!" CLITUS. Fly, my lord, fly. BRUTUS. Hence! I will follow. Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius, and Volumnius. I prithee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect; Thy life hath had some smatch of honor in it. Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face, While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? STRATO. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord. BRUTUS. Farewell, good Strato. Runs on his sword. Caesar, now be still; I kill'd not thee with half so good a will. Dies. Alarum. Retreat. Enter Octavius, Antony, Messala, Lucilius, and the Army. OCTAVIUS. What man is that? MESSALA. My master's man. Strato, where is thy master? STRATO. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala: The conquerors can but make a fire of him; For Brutus only overcame himself, And no man else hath honor by his death. LUCILIUS. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus, That thou hast proved Lucilius' saying true. OCTAVIUS. All that served Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me? STRATO. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. OCTAVIUS. Do so, good Messala. MESSALA. How died my master, Strato? STRATO. I held the sword, and he did run on it. MESSALA. Octavius, then take him to follow thee That did the latest service to my master. ANTONY. This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he, Did that they did in envy of great Caesar; He only, in a general honest thought And common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elements So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, "This was a man!" OCTAVIUS. According to his virtue let us use him With all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie, Most like a soldier, ordered honorably. So call the field to rest, and let's away, To part the glories of this happy day. Exeunt. THE END <> 1606 THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEAR by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Lear, King of Britain. King of France. Duke of Burgundy. Duke of Cornwall. Duke of Albany. Earl of Kent. Earl of Gloucester. Edgar, son of Gloucester. Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester. Curan, a courtier. Old Man, tenant to Gloucester. Doctor. Lear's Fool. Oswald, steward to Goneril. A Captain under Edmund's command. Gentlemen. A Herald. Servants to Cornwall. Goneril, daughter to Lear. Regan, daughter to Lear. Cordelia, daughter to Lear. Knights attending on Lear, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers, Attendants. <> Scene: - Britain. ACT I. Scene I. [King Lear's Palace.] Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. [Kent and Glouceste converse. Edmund stands back.] Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. Glou. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most, for equalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make choice of either's moiety. Kent. Is not this your son, my lord? Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have so often blush'd to acknowledge him that now I am braz'd to't. Kent. I cannot conceive you. Glou. Sir, this young fellow's mother could; whereupon she grew round-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper. Glou. But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knave came something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged.- Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund? Edm. [comes forward] No, my lord. Glou. My Lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honourable friend. Edm. My services to your lordship. Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better. Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving. Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. Sound a sennet. The King is coming. Enter one bearing a coronet; then Lear; then the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall; next, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, with Followers. Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. Glou. I shall, my liege. Exeunt [Gloucester and Edmund]. Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose. Give me the map there. Know we have divided In three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths while we Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall, And you, our no less loving son of Albany, We have this hour a constant will to publish Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy, Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love, Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn, And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters (Since now we will divest us both of rule, Interest of territory, cares of state), Which of you shall we say doth love us most? That we our largest bounty may extend Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril, Our eldest-born, speak first. Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter; Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty; Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare; No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour; As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found; A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable. Beyond all manner of so much I love you. Cor. [aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent. Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this, With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd, With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads, We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue Be this perpetual.- What says our second daughter, Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak. Reg. Sir, I am made Of the selfsame metal that my sister is, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart I find she names my very deed of love; Only she comes too short, that I profess Myself an enemy to all other joys Which the most precious square of sense possesses, And find I am alone felicitate In your dear Highness' love. Cor. [aside] Then poor Cordelia! And yet not so; since I am sure my love's More richer than my tongue. Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom, No less in space, validity, and pleasure Than that conferr'd on Goneril.- Now, our joy, Although the last, not least; to whose young love The vines of France and milk of Burgundy Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak. Cor. Nothing, my lord. Lear. Nothing? Cor. Nothing. Lear. Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again. Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave My heart into my mouth. I love your Majesty According to my bond; no more nor less. Lear. How, how, Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Lest it may mar your fortunes. Cor. Good my lord, You have begot me, bred me, lov'd me; I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you, and most honour you. Why have my sisters husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all. Lear. But goes thy heart with this? Cor. Ay, good my lord. Lear. So young, and so untender? Cor. So young, my lord, and true. Lear. Let it be so! thy truth then be thy dower! For, by the sacred radiance of the sun, The mysteries of Hecate and the night; By all the operation of the orbs From whom we do exist and cease to be; Here I disclaim all my paternal care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom Be as well neighbour'd, pitied, and reliev'd, As thou my sometime daughter. Kent. Good my liege- Lear. Peace, Kent! Come not between the dragon and his wrath. I lov'd her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery.- Hence and avoid my sight!- So be my grave my peace as here I give Her father's heart from her! Call France! Who stirs? Call Burgundy! Cornwall and Albany, With my two daughters' dowers digest this third; Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her. I do invest you jointly in my power, Preeminence, and all the large effects That troop with majesty. Ourself, by monthly course, With reservation of an hundred knights, By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode Make with you by due turns. Only we still retain The name, and all th' additions to a king. The sway, Revenue, execution of the rest, Beloved sons, be yours; which to confirm, This coronet part betwixt you. Kent. Royal Lear, Whom I have ever honour'd as my king, Lov'd as my father, as my master follow'd, As my great patron thought on in my prayers- Lear. The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft. Kent. Let it fall rather, though the fork invade The region of my heart! Be Kent unmannerly When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour's bound When majesty falls to folly. Reverse thy doom; And in thy best consideration check This hideous rashness. Answer my life my judgment, Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least, Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness. Lear. Kent, on thy life, no more! Kent. My life I never held but as a pawn To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it, Thy safety being the motive. Lear. Out of my sight! Kent. See better, Lear, and let me still remain The true blank of thine eye. Lear. Now by Apollo- Kent. Now by Apollo, King, Thou swear'st thy gods in vain. Lear. O vassal! miscreant! [Lays his hand on his sword.] Alb., Corn. Dear sir, forbear! Kent. Do! Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift, Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat, I'll tell thee thou dost evil. Lear. Hear me, recreant! On thine allegiance, hear me! Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow- Which we durst never yet- and with strain'd pride To come between our sentence and our power,- Which nor our nature nor our place can bear,- Our potency made good, take thy reward. Five days we do allot thee for provision To shield thee from diseases of the world, And on the sixth to turn thy hated back Upon our kingdom. If, on the tenth day following, Thy banish'd trunk be found in our dominions, The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter, This shall not be revok'd. Kent. Fare thee well, King. Since thus thou wilt appear, Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here. [To Cordelia] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid, That justly think'st and hast most rightly said! [To Regan and Goneril] And your large speeches may your deeds approve, That good effects may spring from words of love. Thus Kent, O princes, bids you all adieu; He'll shape his old course in a country new. Exit. Flourish. Enter Gloucester, with France and Burgundy; Attendants. Glou. Here's France and Burgundy, my noble lord. Lear. My Lord of Burgundy, We first address toward you, who with this king Hath rivall'd for our daughter. What in the least Will you require in present dower with her, Or cease your quest of love? Bur. Most royal Majesty, I crave no more than hath your Highness offer'd, Nor will you tender less. Lear. Right noble Burgundy, When she was dear to us, we did hold her so; But now her price is fall'n. Sir, there she stands. If aught within that little seeming substance, Or all of it, with our displeasure piec'd, And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace, She's there, and she is yours. Bur. I know no answer. Lear. Will you, with those infirmities she owes, Unfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dow'r'd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, Take her, or leave her? Bur. Pardon me, royal sir. Election makes not up on such conditions. Lear. Then leave her, sir; for, by the pow'r that made me, I tell you all her wealth. [To France] For you, great King, I would not from your love make such a stray To match you where I hate; therefore beseech you T' avert your liking a more worthier way Than on a wretch whom nature is asham'd Almost t' acknowledge hers. France. This is most strange, That she that even but now was your best object, The argument of your praise, balm of your age, Most best, most dearest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous to dismantle So many folds of favour. Sure her offence Must be of such unnatural degree That monsters it, or your fore-vouch'd affection Fall'n into taint; which to believe of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should never plant in me. Cor. I yet beseech your Majesty, If for I want that glib and oily art To speak and purpose not, since what I well intend, I'll do't before I speak- that you make known It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulness, No unchaste action or dishonoured step, That hath depriv'd me of your grace and favour; But even for want of that for which I am richer- A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue As I am glad I have not, though not to have it Hath lost me in your liking. Lear. Better thou Hadst not been born than not t' have pleas'd me better. France. Is it but this- a tardiness in nature Which often leaves the history unspoke That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the lady? Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stands Aloof from th' entire point. Will you have her? She is herself a dowry. Bur. Royal Lear, Give but that portion which yourself propos'd, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Duchess of Burgundy. Lear. Nothing! I have sworn; I am firm. Bur. I am sorry then you have so lost a father That you must lose a husband. Cor. Peace be with Burgundy! Since that respects of fortune are his love, I shall not be his wife. France. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor; Most choice, forsaken; and most lov'd, despis'd! Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon. Be it lawful I take up what's cast away. Gods, gods! 'tis strange that from their cold'st neglect My love should kindle to inflam'd respect. Thy dow'rless daughter, King, thrown to my chance, Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France. Not all the dukes in wat'rish Burgundy Can buy this unpriz'd precious maid of me. Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind. Thou losest here, a better where to find. Lear. Thou hast her, France; let her be thine; for we Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see That face of hers again. Therefore be gone Without our grace, our love, our benison. Come, noble Burgundy. Flourish. Exeunt Lear, Burgundy, [Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester, and Attendants]. France. Bid farewell to your sisters. Cor. The jewels of our father, with wash'd eyes Cordelia leaves you. I know you what you are; And, like a sister, am most loath to call Your faults as they are nam'd. Use well our father. To your professed bosoms I commit him; But yet, alas, stood I within his grace, I would prefer him to a better place! So farewell to you both. Gon. Prescribe not us our duties. Reg. Let your study Be to content your lord, who hath receiv'd you At fortune's alms. You have obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you have wanted. Cor. Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides. Who cover faults, at last shame them derides. Well may you prosper! France. Come, my fair Cordelia. Exeunt France and Cordelia. Gon. Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night. Reg. That's most certain, and with you; next month with us. Gon. You see how full of changes his age is. The observation we have made of it hath not been little. He always lov'd our sister most, and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly. Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself. Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-ingraffed condition, but therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them. Reg. Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent's banishment. Gon. There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you let's hit together. If our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us. Reg. We shall further think on't. Gon. We must do something, and i' th' heat. Exeunt. Scene II. The Earl of Gloucester's Castle. Enter [Edmund the] Bastard solus, [with a letter]. Edm. Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base? When my dimensions are as well compact, My mind as generous, and my shape as true, As honest madam's issue? Why brand they us With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base? Who, in the lusty stealth of nature, take More composition and fierce quality Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed, Go to th' creating a whole tribe of fops Got 'tween asleep and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land. Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund As to th' legitimate. Fine word- 'legitimate'! Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed, And my invention thrive, Edmund the base Shall top th' legitimate. I grow; I prosper. Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Enter Gloucester. Glou. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choler parted? And the King gone to-night? subscrib'd his pow'r? Confin'd to exhibition? All this done Upon the gad? Edmund, how now? What news? Edm. So please your lordship, none. [Puts up the letter.] Glou. Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter? Edm. I know no news, my lord. Glou. What paper were you reading? Edm. Nothing, my lord. Glou. No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let's see. Come, if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles. Edm. I beseech you, sir, pardon me. It is a letter from my brother that I have not all o'er-read; and for so much as I have perus'd, I find it not fit for your o'erlooking. Glou. Give me the letter, sir. Edm. I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame. Glou. Let's see, let's see! Edm. I hope, for my brother's justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue. Glou. (reads) 'This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, 'EDGAR.' Hum! Conspiracy? 'Sleep till I wak'd him, you should enjoy half his revenue.' My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it? Edm. It was not brought me, my lord: there's the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet. Glou. You know the character to be your brother's? Edm. If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but in respect of that, I would fain think it were not. Glou. It is his. Edm. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents. Glou. Hath he never before sounded you in this business? Edm. Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declining, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue. Glou. O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him. I'll apprehend him. Abominable villain! Where is he? Edm. I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you should run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger. Glou. Think you so? Edm. If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction, and that without any further delay than this very evening. Glou. He cannot be such a monster. Edm. Nor is not, sure. Glou. To his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you; frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution. Edm. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. Glou. These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us. Though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourg'd by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide. In cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond crack'd 'twixt son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there's son against father: the King falls from bias of nature; there's father against child. We have seen the best of our time. Machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing; do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banish'd! his offence, honesty! 'Tis strange. Exit. Edm. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeit of our own behaviour, we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains on necessity; fools by heavenly compulsion; knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical pre-dominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforc'd obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whore-master man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the Dragon's Tail, and my nativity was under Ursa Major, so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. Fut! I should have been that I am, had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar- Enter Edgar. and pat! he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy. My cue is villainous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o' Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi. Edg. How now, brother Edmund? What serious contemplation are you in? Edm. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses. Edg. Do you busy yourself with that? Edm. I promise you, the effects he writes of succeed unhappily: as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state, menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what. Edg. How long have you been a sectary astronomical? Edm. Come, come! When saw you my father last? Edg. The night gone by. Edm. Spake you with him? Edg. Ay, two hours together. Edm. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance Edg. None at all. Edm. Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and at my entreaty forbear his presence until some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay. Edg. Some villain hath done me wrong. Edm. That's my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower; and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray ye, go! There's my key. If you do stir abroad, go arm'd. Edg. Arm'd, brother? Edm. Brother, I advise you to the best. Go arm'd. I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you. I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it. Pray you, away! Edg. Shall I hear from you anon? Edm. I do serve you in this business. Exit Edgar. A credulous father! and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit; All with me's meet that I can fashion fit. Exit. Scene III. The Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Goneril and [her] Steward [Oswald]. Gon. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool? Osw. Ay, madam. Gon. By day and night, he wrongs me! Every hour He flashes into one gross crime or other That sets us all at odds. I'll not endure it. His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us On every trifle. When he returns from hunting, I will not speak with him. Say I am sick. If you come slack of former services, You shall do well; the fault of it I'll answer. [Horns within.] Osw. He's coming, madam; I hear him. Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please, You and your fellows. I'd have it come to question. If he distaste it, let him to our sister, Whose mind and mine I know in that are one, Not to be overrul'd. Idle old man, That still would manage those authorities That he hath given away! Now, by my life, Old fools are babes again, and must be us'd With checks as flatteries, when they are seen abus'd. Remember what I have said. Osw. Very well, madam. Gon. And let his knights have colder looks among you. What grows of it, no matter. Advise your fellows so. I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall, That I may speak. I'll write straight to my sister To hold my very course. Prepare for dinner. Exeunt. Scene IV. The Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Kent, [disguised]. Kent. If but as well I other accents borrow, That can my speech defuse, my good intent May carry through itself to that full issue For which I raz'd my likeness. Now, banish'd Kent, If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn'd, So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov'st, Shall find thee full of labours. Horns within. Enter Lear, [Knights,] and Attendants. Lear. Let me not stay a jot for dinner; go get it ready. [Exit an Attendant.] How now? What art thou? Kent. A man, sir. Lear. What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us? Kent. I do profess to be no less than I seem, to serve him truly that will put me in trust, to love him that is honest, to converse with him that is wise and says little, to fear judgment, to fight when I cannot choose, and to eat no fish. Lear. What art thou? Kent. A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the King. Lear. If thou be'st as poor for a subject as he's for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou? Kent. Service. Lear. Who wouldst thou serve? Kent. You. Lear. Dost thou know me, fellow? Kent. No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master. Lear. What's that? Kent. Authority. Lear. What services canst thou do? Kent. I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it and deliver a plain message bluntly. That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence. Lear. How old art thou? Kent. Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for anything. I have years on my back forty-eight. Lear. Follow me; thou shalt serve me. If I like thee no worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho, dinner! Where's my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither. [Exit an attendant.] Enter [Oswald the] Steward. You, you, sirrah, where's my daughter? Osw. So please you- Exit. Lear. What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [Exit a Knight.] Where's my fool, ho? I think the world's asleep. [Enter Knight] How now? Where's that mongrel? Knight. He says, my lord, your daughter is not well. Lear. Why came not the slave back to me when I call'd him? Knight. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not. Lear. He would not? Knight. My lord, I know not what the matter is; but to my judgment your Highness is not entertain'd with that ceremonious affection as you were wont. There's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the Duke himself also and your daughter. Lear. Ha! say'st thou so? Knight. I beseech you pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your Highness wrong'd. Lear. Thou but rememb'rest me of mine own conception. I have perceived a most faint neglect of late, which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness. I will look further into't. But where's my fool? I have not seen him this two days. Knight. Since my young lady's going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined away. Lear. No more of that; I have noted it well. Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her. [Exit Knight.] Go you, call hither my fool. [Exit an Attendant.] Enter [Oswald the] Steward. O, you, sir, you! Come you hither, sir. Who am I, sir? Osw. My lady's father. Lear. 'My lady's father'? My lord's knave! You whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! Osw. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon. Lear. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? [Strikes him.] Osw. I'll not be strucken, my lord. Kent. Nor tripp'd neither, you base football player? [Trips up his heels. Lear. I thank thee, fellow. Thou serv'st me, and I'll love thee. Kent. Come, sir, arise, away! I'll teach you differences. Away, away! If you will measure your lubber's length again, tarry; but away! Go to! Have you wisdom? So. [Pushes him out.] Lear. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee. There's earnest of thy service. [Gives money.] Enter Fool. Fool. Let me hire him too. Here's my coxcomb. [Offers Kent his cap.] Lear. How now, my pretty knave? How dost thou? Fool. Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb. Kent. Why, fool? Fool. Why? For taking one's part that's out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch cold shortly. There, take my coxcomb! Why, this fellow hath banish'd two on's daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will. If thou follow him, thou must needs wear my coxcomb.- How now, nuncle? Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters! Lear. Why, my boy? Fool. If I gave them all my living, I'ld keep my coxcombs myself. There's mine! beg another of thy daughters. Lear. Take heed, sirrah- the whip. Fool. Truth's a dog must to kennel; he must be whipp'd out, when Lady the brach may stand by th' fire and stink. Lear. A pestilent gall to me! Fool. Sirrah, I'll teach thee a speech. Lear. Do. Fool. Mark it, nuncle. Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score. Kent. This is nothing, fool. Fool. Then 'tis like the breath of an unfeed lawyer- you gave me nothing for't. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? Lear. Why, no, boy. Nothing can be made out of nothing. Fool. [to Kent] Prithee tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to. He will not believe a fool. Lear. A bitter fool! Fool. Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool? Lear. No, lad; teach me. Fool. That lord that counsell'd thee To give away thy land, Come place him here by me- Do thou for him stand. The sweet and bitter fool Will presently appear; The one in motley here, The other found out there. Lear. Dost thou call me fool, boy? Fool. All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with. Kent. This is not altogether fool, my lord. Fool. No, faith; lords and great men will not let me. If I had a monopoly out, they would have part on't. And ladies too, they will not let me have all the fool to myself; they'll be snatching. Give me an egg, nuncle, and I'll give thee two crowns. Lear. What two crowns shall they be? Fool. Why, after I have cut the egg i' th' middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i' th' middle and gav'st away both parts, thou bor'st thine ass on thy back o'er the dirt. Thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gav'st thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipp'd that first finds it so. [Sings] Fools had ne'er less grace in a year, For wise men are grown foppish; They know not how their wits to wear, Their manners are so apish. Lear. When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah? Fool. I have us'd it, nuncle, ever since thou mad'st thy daughters thy mother; for when thou gav'st them the rod, and put'st down thine own breeches, [Sings] Then they for sudden joy did weep, And I for sorrow sung, That such a king should play bo-peep And go the fools among. Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie. I would fain learn to lie. Lear. An you lie, sirrah, we'll have you whipp'd. Fool. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are. They'll have me whipp'd for speaking true; thou'lt have me whipp'd for lying; and sometimes I am whipp'd for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o' thing than a fool! And yet I would not be thee, nuncle. Thou hast pared thy wit o' both sides and left nothing i' th' middle. Here comes one o' the parings. Enter Goneril. Lear. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much o' late i' th' frown. Fool. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning. Now thou art an O without a figure. I am better than thou art now: I am a fool, thou art nothing. [To Goneril] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue. So your face bids me, though you say nothing. Mum, mum! He that keeps nor crust nor crum, Weary of all, shall want some.- [Points at Lear] That's a sheal'd peascod. Gon. Not only, sir, this your all-licens'd fool, But other of your insolent retinue Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir, I had thought, by making this well known unto you, To have found a safe redress, but now grow fearful, By what yourself, too, late have spoke and done, That you protect this course, and put it on By your allowance; which if you should, the fault Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleep, Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal, Might in their working do you that offence Which else were shame, that then necessity Must call discreet proceeding. Fool. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. Lear. Are you our daughter? Gon. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom Whereof I know you are fraught, and put away These dispositions that of late transform you From what you rightly are. Fool. May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug, I love thee! Lear. Doth any here know me? This is not Lear. Doth Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes? Either his notion weakens, his discernings Are lethargied- Ha! waking? 'Tis not so! Who is it that can tell me who I am? Fool. Lear's shadow. Lear. I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, Knowledge, and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters. Fool. Which they will make an obedient father. Lear. Your name, fair gentlewoman? Gon. This admiration, sir, is much o' th' savour Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you To understand my purposes aright. As you are old and reverend, you should be wise. Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires; Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd, and bold That this our court, infected with their manners, Shows like a riotous inn. Epicurism and lust Make it more like a tavern or a brothel Than a grac'd palace. The shame itself doth speak For instant remedy. Be then desir'd By her that else will take the thing she begs A little to disquantity your train, And the remainder that shall still depend To be such men as may besort your age, Which know themselves, and you. Lear. Darkness and devils! Saddle my horses! Call my train together! Degenerate bastard, I'll not trouble thee; Yet have I left a daughter. Gon. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rabble Make servants of their betters. Enter Albany. Lear. Woe that too late repents!- O, sir, are you come? Is it your will? Speak, sir!- Prepare my horses. Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend, More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child Than the sea-monster! Alb. Pray, sir, be patient. Lear. [to Goneril] Detested kite, thou liest! My train are men of choice and rarest parts, That all particulars of duty know And in the most exact regard support The worships of their name.- O most small fault, How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show! Which, like an engine, wrench'd my frame of nature From the fix'd place; drew from my heart all love And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear! Beat at this gate that let thy folly in [Strikes his head.] And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people. Alb. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath mov'd you. Lear. It may be so, my lord. Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear! Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend To make this creature fruitful. Into her womb convey sterility; Dry up in her the organs of increase; And from her derogate body never spring A babe to honour her! If she must teem, Create her child of spleen, that it may live And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her. Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth, With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks, Turn all her mother's pains and benefits To laughter and contempt, that she may feel How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child! Away, away! Exit. Alb. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this? Gon. Never afflict yourself to know the cause; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it. Enter Lear. Lear. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight? Alb. What's the matter, sir? Lear. I'll tell thee. [To Goneril] Life and death! I am asham'd That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus; That these hot tears, which break from me perforce, Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee! Th' untented woundings of a father's curse Pierce every sense about thee!- Old fond eyes, Beweep this cause again, I'll pluck ye out, And cast you, with the waters that you lose, To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this? Let it be so. Yet have I left a daughter, Who I am sure is kind and comfortable. When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails She'll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find That I'll resume the shape which thou dost think I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee. Exeunt [Lear, Kent, and Attendants]. Gon. Do you mark that, my lord? Alb. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you - Gon. Pray you, content.- What, Oswald, ho! [To the Fool] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master! Fool. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry! Take the fool with thee. A fox when one has caught her, And such a daughter, Should sure to the slaughter, If my cap would buy a halter. So the fool follows after. Exit. Gon. This man hath had good counsel! A hundred knights? 'Tis politic and safe to let him keep At point a hundred knights; yes, that on every dream, Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike, He may enguard his dotage with their pow'rs And hold our lives in mercy.- Oswald, I say! Alb. Well, you may fear too far. Gon. Safer than trust too far. Let me still take away the harms I fear, Not fear still to be taken. I know his heart. What he hath utter'd I have writ my sister. If she sustain him and his hundred knights, When I have show'd th' unfitness- Enter [Oswald the] Steward. How now, Oswald? What, have you writ that letter to my sister? Osw. Yes, madam. Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse! Inform her full of my particular fear, And thereto add such reasons of your own As may compact it more. Get you gone, And hasten your return. [Exit Oswald.] No, no, my lord! This milky gentleness and course of yours, Though I condemn it not, yet, under pardon, You are much more at task for want of wisdom Than prais'd for harmful mildness. Alb. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell. Striving to better, oft we mar what's well. Gon. Nay then- Alb. Well, well; th' event. Exeunt. Scene V. Court before the Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Lear. Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you. Kent. I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter. Exit. Fool. If a man's brains were in's heels, were't not in danger of kibes? Lear. Ay, boy. Fool. Then I prithee be merry. Thy wit shall ne'er go slip-shod. Lear. Ha, ha, ha! Fool. Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she's as like this as a crab's like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell. Lear. What canst tell, boy? Fool. She'll taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands i' th' middle on's face? Lear. No. Fool. Why, to keep one's eyes of either side's nose, that what a man cannot smell out, 'a may spy into. Lear. I did her wrong. Fool. Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell? Lear. No. Fool. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house. Lear. Why? Fool. Why, to put's head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case. Lear. I will forget my nature. So kind a father!- Be my horses ready? Fool. Thy asses are gone about 'em. The reason why the seven stars are no moe than seven is a pretty reason. Lear. Because they are not eight? Fool. Yes indeed. Thou wouldst make a good fool. Lear. To tak't again perforce! Monster ingratitude! Fool. If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I'ld have thee beaten for being old before thy time. Lear. How's that? Fool. Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise. Lear. O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad! [Enter a Gentleman.] How now? Are the horses ready? Gent. Ready, my lord. Lear. Come, boy. Fool. She that's a maid now, and laughs at my departure, Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter Exeunt. <> ACT II. Scene I. A court within the Castle of the Earl of Gloucester. Enter [Edmund the] Bastard and Curan, meeting. Edm. Save thee, Curan. Cur. And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his Duchess will be here with him this night. Edm. How comes that? Cur. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad- I mean the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? Edm. Not I. Pray you, what are they? Cur. Have you heard of no likely wars toward 'twixt the two Dukes of Cornwall and Albany? Edm. Not a word. Cur. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir. Exit. Edm. The Duke be here to-night? The better! best! This weaves itself perforce into my business. My father hath set guard to take my brother; And I have one thing, of a queasy question, Which I must act. Briefness and fortune, work! Brother, a word! Descend! Brother, I say! Enter Edgar. My father watches. O sir, fly this place! Intelligence is given where you are hid. You have now the good advantage of the night. Have you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornwall? He's coming hither; now, i' th' night, i' th' haste, And Regan with him. Have you nothing said Upon his party 'gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself. Edg. I am sure on't, not a word. Edm. I hear my father coming. Pardon me! In cunning I must draw my sword upon you. Draw, seem to defend yourself; now quit you well.- Yield! Come before my father. Light, ho, here! Fly, brother.- Torches, torches!- So farewell. Exit Edgar. Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeavour. [Stabs his arm.] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport.- Father, father!- Stop, stop! No help? Enter Gloucester, and Servants with torches. Glou. Now, Edmund, where's the villain? Edm. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand 's auspicious mistress. Glou. But where is he? Edm. Look, sir, I bleed. Glou. Where is the villain, Edmund? Edm. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could- Glou. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants]. By no means what? Edm. Persuade me to the murther of your lordship; But that I told him the revenging gods 'Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend; Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond The child was bound to th' father- sir, in fine, Seeing how loathly opposite I stood To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion With his prepared sword he charges home My unprovided body, lanch'd mine arm; But when he saw my best alarum'd spirits, Bold in the quarrel's right, rous'd to th' encounter, Or whether gasted by the noise I made, Full suddenly he fled. Glou. Let him fly far. Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found- dispatch. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night. By his authority I will proclaim it That he which find, him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous caitiff to the stake; He that conceals him, death. Edm. When I dissuaded him from his intent And found him pight to do it, with curst speech I threaten'd to discover him. He replied, 'Thou unpossessing bastard, dost thou think, If I would stand against thee, would the reposal Of any trust, virtue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith'd? No. What I should deny (As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce My very character), I'ld turn it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice; And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potential spurs To make thee seek it.' Glou. Strong and fast'ned villain! Would he deny his letter? I never got him. Tucket within. Hark, the Duke's trumpets! I know not why he comes. All ports I'll bar; the villain shall not scape; The Duke must grant me that. Besides, his picture I will send far and near, that all the kingdom May have due note of him, and of my land, Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means To make thee capable. Enter Cornwall, Regan, and Attendants. Corn. How now, my noble friend? Since I came hither (Which I can call but now) I have heard strange news. Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th' offender. How dost, my lord? Glou. O madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd! Reg. What, did my father's godson seek your life? He whom my father nam'd? Your Edgar? Glou. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid! Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father? Glou. I know not, madam. 'Tis too bad, too bad! Edm. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. Reg. No marvel then though he were ill affected. 'Tis they have put him on the old man's death, To have th' expense and waste of his revenues. I have this present evening from my sister Been well inform'd of them, and with such cautions That, if they come to sojourn at my house, I'll not be there. Corn. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office. Edm. 'Twas my duty, sir. Glou. He did bewray his practice, and receiv'd This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. Corn. Is he pursued? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Corn. If he be taken, he shall never more Be fear'd of doing harm. Make your own purpose, How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund, Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant So much commend itself, you shall be ours. Natures of such deep trust we shall much need; You we first seize on. Edm. I shall serve you, sir, Truly, however else. Glou. For him I thank your Grace. Corn. You know not why we came to visit you- Reg. Thus out of season, threading dark-ey'd night. Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some poise, Wherein we must have use of your advice. Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answer from our home. The several messengers From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend, Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow Your needful counsel to our business, Which craves the instant use. Glou. I serve you, madam. Your Graces are right welcome. Exeunt. Flourish. Scene II. Before Gloucester's Castle. Enter Kent and [Oswald the] Steward, severally. Osw. Good dawning to thee, friend. Art of this house? Kent. Ay. Osw. Where may we set our horses? Kent. I' th' mire. Osw. Prithee, if thou lov'st me, tell me. Kent. I love thee not. Osw. Why then, I care not for thee. Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care for me. Osw. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. Kent. Fellow, I know thee. Osw. What dost thou know me for? Kent. A knave; a rascal; an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver'd, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pander, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch; one whom I will beat into clamorous whining, if thou deny the least syllable of thy addition. Osw. Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that's neither known of thee nor knows thee! Kent. What a brazen-fac'd varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I beat thee and tripp'd up thy heels before the King? [Draws his sword.] Draw, you rogue! for, though it be night, yet the moon shines. I'll make a sop o' th' moonshine o' you. Draw, you whoreson cullionly barbermonger! draw! Osw. Away! I have nothing to do with thee. Kent. Draw, you rascal! You come with letters against the King, and take Vanity the puppet's part against the royalty of her father. Draw, you rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks! Draw, you rascal! Come your ways! Osw. Help, ho! murther! help! Kent. Strike, you slave! Stand, rogue! Stand, you neat slave! Strike! [Beats him.] Osw. Help, ho! murther! murther! Enter Edmund, with his rapier drawn, Gloucester, Cornwall, Regan, Servants. Edm. How now? What's the matter? Parts [them]. Kent. With you, goodman boy, an you please! Come, I'll flesh ye! Come on, young master! Glou. Weapons? arms? What's the matter here? Corn. Keep peace, upon your lives! He dies that strikes again. What is the matter? Reg. The messengers from our sister and the King Corn. What is your difference? Speak. Osw. I am scarce in breath, my lord. Kent. No marvel, you have so bestirr'd your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee; a tailor made thee. Corn. Thou art a strange fellow. A tailor make a man? Kent. Ay, a tailor, sir. A stonecutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though he had been but two hours at the trade. Corn. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? Osw. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar'd At suit of his grey beard- Kent. Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you'll give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar and daub the walls of a jakes with him. 'Spare my grey beard,' you wagtail? Corn. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence? Kent. Yes, sir, but anger hath a privilege. Corn. Why art thou angry? Kent. That such a slave as this should wear a sword, Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these, Like rats, oft bite the holy cords atwain Which are too intrinse t' unloose; smooth every passion That in the natures of their lords rebel, Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods; Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gale and vary of their masters, Knowing naught (like dogs) but following. A plague upon your epileptic visage! Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool? Goose, an I had you upon Sarum Plain, I'ld drive ye cackling home to Camelot. Corn. What, art thou mad, old fellow? Glou. How fell you out? Say that. Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave. Corn. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault? Kent. His countenance likes me not. Corn. No more perchance does mine, or his, or hers. Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain. I have seen better faces in my time Than stands on any shoulder that I see Before me at this instant. Corn. This is some fellow Who, having been prais'd for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his nature. He cannot flatter, he! An honest mind and plain- he must speak truth! An they will take it, so; if not, he's plain. These kind of knaves I know which in this plainness Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends Than twenty silly-ducking observants That stretch their duties nicely. Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Under th' allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire On flickering Phoebus' front- Corn. What mean'st by this? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer. He that beguil'd you in a plain accent was a plain knave, which, for my part, I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to't. Corn. What was th' offence you gave him? Osw. I never gave him any. It pleas'd the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure, Tripp'd me behind; being down, insulted, rail'd And put upon him such a deal of man That worthied him, got praises of the King For him attempting who was self-subdu'd; And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit, Drew on me here again. Kent. None of these rogues and cowards But Ajax is their fool. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! You stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart, We'll teach you- Kent. Sir, I am too old to learn. Call not your stocks for me. I serve the King; On whose employment I was sent to you. You shall do small respect, show too bold malice Against the grace and person of my master, Stocking his messenger. Corn. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, There shall he sit till noon. Reg. Till noon? Till night, my lord, and all night too! Kent. Why, madam, if I were your father's dog, You should not use me so. Reg. Sir, being his knave, I will. Corn. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks! Stocks brought out. Glou. Let me beseech your Grace not to do so. His fault is much, and the good King his master Will check him for't. Your purpos'd low correction Is such as basest and contemn'dest wretches For pilf'rings and most common trespasses Are punish'd with. The King must take it ill That he, so slightly valued in his messenger, Should have him thus restrain'd. Corn. I'll answer that. Reg. My sister may receive it much more worse, To have her gentleman abus'd, assaulted, For following her affairs. Put in his legs.- [Kent is put in the stocks.] Come, my good lord, away. Exeunt [all but Gloucester and Kent]. Glou. I am sorry for thee, friend. 'Tis the Duke's pleasure, Whose disposition, all the world well knows, Will not be rubb'd nor stopp'd. I'll entreat for thee. Kent. Pray do not, sir. I have watch'd and travell'd hard. Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I'll whistle. A good man's fortune may grow out at heels. Give you good morrow! Glou. The Duke 's to blame in this; 'twill be ill taken. Exit. Kent. Good King, that must approve the common saw, Thou out of heaven's benediction com'st To the warm sun! Approach, thou beacon to this under globe, That by thy comfortable beams I may Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But misery. I know 'tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately been inform'd Of my obscured course- and [reads] 'shall find time From this enormous state, seeking to give Losses their remedies'- All weary and o'erwatch'd, Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold This shameful lodging. Fortune, good night; smile once more, turn thy wheel. Sleeps. Scene III. The open country. Enter Edgar. Edg. I heard myself proclaim'd, And by the happy hollow of a tree Escap'd the hunt. No port is free, no place That guard and most unusual vigilance Does not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape, I will preserve myself; and am bethought To take the basest and most poorest shape That ever penury, in contempt of man, Brought near to beast. My face I'll grime with filth, Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots, And with presented nakedness outface The winds and persecutions of the sky. The country gives me proof and precedent Of Bedlam beggars, who, with roaring voices, Strike in their numb'd and mortified bare arms Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary; And with this horrible object, from low farms, Poor pelting villages, sheepcotes, and mills, Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers, Enforce their charity. 'Poor Turlygod! poor Tom!' That's something yet! Edgar I nothing am. Exit. Scene IV. Before Gloucester's Castle; Kent in the stocks. Enter Lear, Fool, and Gentleman. Lear. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send back my messenger. Gent. As I learn'd, The night before there was no purpose in them Of this remove. Kent. Hail to thee, noble master! Lear. Ha! Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime? Kent. No, my lord. Fool. Ha, ha! look! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the head, dogs and bears by th' neck, monkeys by th' loins, and men by th' legs. When a man's over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks. Lear. What's he that hath so much thy place mistook To set thee here? Kent. It is both he and she- Your son and daughter. Lear. No. Kent. Yes. Lear. No, I say. Kent. I say yea. Lear. No, no, they would not! Kent. Yes, they have. Lear. By Jupiter, I swear no! Kent. By Juno, I swear ay! Lear. They durst not do't; They would not, could not do't. 'Tis worse than murther To do upon respect such violent outrage. Resolve me with all modest haste which way Thou mightst deserve or they impose this usage, Coming from us. Kent. My lord, when at their home I did commend your Highness' letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place that show'd My duty kneeling, came there a reeking post, Stew'd in his haste, half breathless, panting forth From Goneril his mistress salutations; Deliver'd letters, spite of intermission, Which presently they read; on whose contents, They summon'd up their meiny, straight took horse, Commanded me to follow and attend The leisure of their answer, gave me cold looks, And meeting here the other messenger, Whose welcome I perceiv'd had poison'd mine- Being the very fellow which of late Display'd so saucily against your Highness- Having more man than wit about me, drew. He rais'd the house with loud and coward cries. Your son and daughter found this trespass worth The shame which here it suffers. Fool. Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way. Fathers that wear rags Do make their children blind; But fathers that bear bags Shall see their children kind. Fortune, that arrant whore, Ne'er turns the key to th' poor. But for all this, thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year. Lear. O, how this mother swells up toward my heart! Hysterica passio! Down, thou climbing sorrow! Thy element's below! Where is this daughter? Kent. With the Earl, sir, here within. Lear. Follow me not; Stay here. Exit. Gent. Made you no more offence but what you speak of? Kent. None. How chance the King comes with so small a number? Fool. An thou hadst been set i' th' stocks for that question, thou'dst well deserv'd it. Kent. Why, fool? Fool. We'll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there's no labouring i' th' winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men, and there's not a nose among twenty but can smell him that's stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes upward, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again. I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it. That sir which serves and seeks for gain, And follows but for form, Will pack when it begins to rain And leave thee in the storm. But I will tarry; the fool will stay, And let the wise man fly. The knave turns fool that runs away; The fool no knave, perdy. Kent. Where learn'd you this, fool? Fool. Not i' th' stocks, fool. Enter Lear and Gloucester Lear. Deny to speak with me? They are sick? they are weary? They have travell'd all the night? Mere fetches- The images of revolt and flying off! Fetch me a better answer. Glou. My dear lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke, How unremovable and fix'd he is In his own course. Lear. Vengeance! plague! death! confusion! Fiery? What quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester, I'ld speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. Glou. Well, my good lord, I have inform'd them so. Lear. Inform'd them? Dost thou understand me, man? Glou. Ay, my good lord. Lear. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service. Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? the fiery Duke? Tell the hot Duke that- No, but not yet! May be he is not well. Infirmity doth still neglect all office Whereto our health is bound. We are not ourselves When nature, being oppress'd, commands the mind To suffer with the body. I'll forbear; And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos'd and sickly fit For the sound man.- Death on my state! Wherefore Should be sit here? This act persuades me That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practice only. Give me my servant forth. Go tell the Duke and 's wife I'ld speak with them- Now, presently. Bid them come forth and hear me, Or at their chamber door I'll beat the drum Till it cry sleep to death. Glou. I would have all well betwixt you. Exit. Lear. O me, my heart, my rising heart! But down! Fool. Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put 'em i' th' paste alive. She knapp'd 'em o' th' coxcombs with a stick and cried 'Down, wantons, down!' 'Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester, Servants. Lear. Good morrow to you both. Corn. Hail to your Grace! Kent here set at liberty. Reg. I am glad to see your Highness. Lear. Regan, I think you are; I know what reason I have to think so. If thou shouldst not be glad, I would divorce me from thy mother's tomb, Sepulchring an adultress. [To Kent] O, are you free? Some other time for that.- Beloved Regan, Thy sister's naught. O Regan, she hath tied Sharp-tooth'd unkindness, like a vulture, here! [Lays his hand on his heart.] I can scarce speak to thee. Thou'lt not believe With how deprav'd a quality- O Regan! Reg. I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope You less know how to value her desert Than she to scant her duty. Lear. Say, how is that? Reg. I cannot think my sister in the least Would fail her obligation. If, sir, perchance She have restrain'd the riots of your followers, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As clears her from all blame. Lear. My curses on her! Reg. O, sir, you are old! Nature in you stands on the very verge Of her confine. You should be rul'd, and led By some discretion that discerns your state Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you That to our sister you do make return; Say you have wrong'd her, sir. Lear. Ask her forgiveness? Do you but mark how this becomes the house: 'Dear daughter, I confess that I am old. [Kneels.] Age is unnecessary. On my knees I beg That you'll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.' Reg. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks. Return you to my sister. Lear. [rises] Never, Regan! She hath abated me of half my train; Look'd black upon me; struck me with her tongue, Most serpent-like, upon the very heart. All the stor'd vengeances of heaven fall On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones, You taking airs, with lameness! Corn. Fie, sir, fie! Lear. You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty, You fen-suck'd fogs, drawn by the pow'rful sun, To fall and blast her pride! Reg. O the blest gods! so will you wish on me When the rash mood is on. Lear. No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse. Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give Thee o'er to harshness. Her eyes are fierce; but thine Do comfort, and not burn. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my coming in. Thou better know'st The offices of nature, bond of childhood, Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude. Thy half o' th' kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd. Reg. Good sir, to th' purpose. Tucket within. Lear. Who put my man i' th' stocks? Corn. What trumpet's that? Reg. I know't- my sister's. This approves her letter, That she would soon be here. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Is your lady come? Lear. This is a slave, whose easy-borrowed pride Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows. Out, varlet, from my sight! Corn. What means your Grace? Enter Goneril. Lear. Who stock'd my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on't.- Who comes here? O heavens! If you do love old men, if your sweet sway Allow obedience- if yourselves are old, Make it your cause! Send down, and take my part! [To Goneril] Art not asham'd to look upon this beard?- O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand? Gon. Why not by th' hand, sir? How have I offended? All's not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so. Lear. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i' th' stocks? Corn. I set him there, sir; but his own disorders Deserv'd much less advancement. Lear. You? Did you? Reg. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me. I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. Lear. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss'd? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o' th' air, To be a comrade with the wolf and owl- Necessity's sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg To keep base life afoot. Return with her? Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter To this detested groom. [Points at Oswald.] Gon. At your choice, sir. Lear. I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad. I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell. We'll no more meet, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter; Or rather a disease that's in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a boil, A plague sore, an embossed carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But I'll not chide thee. Let shame come when it will, I do not call it. I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoot Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove. Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure; I can be patient, I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred knights. Reg. Not altogether so. I look'd not for you yet, nor am provided For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister; For those that mingle reason with your passion Must be content to think you old, and so- But she knows what she does. Lear. Is this well spoken? Reg. I dare avouch it, sir. What, fifty followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger Speak 'gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, under two commands, Hold amity? 'Tis hard; almost impossible. Gon. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine? Reg. Why not, my lord? If then they chanc'd to slack ye, We could control them. If you will come to me (For now I spy a danger), I entreat you To bring but five-and-twenty. To no more Will I give place or notice. Lear. I gave you all- Reg. And in good time you gave it! Lear. Made you my guardians, my depositaries; But kept a reservation to be followed With such a number. What, must I come to you With five-and-twenty, Regan? Said you so? Reg. And speak't again my lord. No more with me. Lear. Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour'd When others are more wicked; not being the worst Stands in some rank of praise. [To Goneril] I'll go with thee. Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty, And thou art twice her love. Gon. Hear, me, my lord. What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five, To follow in a house where twice so many Have a command to tend you? Reg. What need one? Lear. O, reason not the need! Our basest beggars Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not nature more than nature needs, Man's life is cheap as beast's. Thou art a lady: If only to go warm were gorgeous, Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need- You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need! You see me here, you gods, a poor old man, As full of grief as age; wretched in both. If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger, And let not women's weapons, water drops, Stain my man's cheeks! No, you unnatural hags! I will have such revenges on you both That all the world shall- I will do such things- What they are yet, I know not; but they shall be The terrors of the earth! You think I'll weep. No, I'll not weep. I have full cause of weeping, but this heart Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad! Exeunt Lear, Gloucester, Kent, and Fool. Storm and tempest. Corn. Let us withdraw; 'twill be a storm. Reg. This house is little; the old man and 's people Cannot be well bestow'd. Gon. 'Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. Reg. For his particular, I'll receive him gladly, But not one follower. Gon. So am I purpos'd. Where is my Lord of Gloucester? Corn. Followed the old man forth. Enter Gloucester. He is return'd. Glou. The King is in high rage. Corn. Whither is he going? Glou. He calls to horse, but will I know not whither. Corn. 'Tis best to give him way; he leads himself. Gon. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. Glou. Alack, the night comes on, and the bleak winds Do sorely ruffle. For many miles about There's scarce a bush. Reg. O, sir, to wilful men The injuries that they themselves procure Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors. He is attended with a desperate train, And what they may incense him to, being apt To have his ear abus'd, wisdom bids fear. Corn. Shut up your doors, my lord: 'tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well. Come out o' th' storm. [Exeunt.] <> ACT III. Scene I. A heath. Storm still. Enter Kent and a Gentleman at several doors. Kent. Who's there, besides foul weather? Gent. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. Kent. I know you. Where's the King? Gent. Contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of; Strives in his little world of man to outscorn The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain. This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch, The lion and the belly-pinched wolf Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs, And bids what will take all. Kent. But who is with him? Gent. None but the fool, who labours to outjest His heart-struck injuries. Kent. Sir, I do know you, And dare upon the warrant of my note Commend a dear thing to you. There is division (Although as yet the face of it be cover'd With mutual cunning) 'twixt Albany and Cornwall; Who have (as who have not, that their great stars Thron'd and set high?) servants, who seem no less, Which are to France the spies and speculations Intelligent of our state. What hath been seen, Either in snuffs and packings of the Dukes, Or the hard rein which both of them have borne Against the old kind King, or something deeper, Whereof, perchance, these are but furnishings- But, true it is, from France there comes a power Into this scattered kingdom, who already, Wise in our negligence, have secret feet In some of our best ports and are at point To show their open banner. Now to you: If on my credit you dare build so far To make your speed to Dover, you shall find Some that will thank you, making just report Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow The King hath cause to plain. I am a gentleman of blood and breeding, And from some knowledge and assurance offer This office to you. Gent. I will talk further with you. Kent. No, do not. For confirmation that I am much more Than my out-wall, open this purse and take What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia (As fear not but you shall), show her this ring, And she will tell you who your fellow is That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm! I will go seek the King. Gent. Give me your hand. Have you no more to say? Kent. Few words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King (in which your pain That way, I'll this), he that first lights on him Holla the other. Exeunt [severally]. Scene II. Another part of the heath. Storm still. Enter Lear and Fool. Lear. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench'd our steeples, drown'd the cocks! You sulph'rous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o' th' world, Crack Nature's moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes ingrateful man! Fool. O nuncle, court holy water in a dry house is better than this rain water out o' door. Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters blessing! Here's a night pities nether wise men nor fools. Lear. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children, You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis'd old man. But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender'd battles 'gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! 'tis foul! Fool. He that has a house to put 's head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. Enter Kent. Lear. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Kent. Who's there? Fool. Marry, here's grace and a codpiece; that's a wise man and a fool. Kent. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these. The wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark And make them keep their caves. Since I was man, Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder, Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never Remember to have heard. Man's nature cannot carry Th' affliction nor the fear. Lear. Let the great gods, That keep this dreadful pudder o'er our heads, Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch, That hast within thee undivulged crimes Unwhipp'd of justice. Hide thee, thou bloody hand; Thou perjur'd, and thou simular man of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, in pieces shake That under covert and convenient seeming Hast practis'd on man's life. Close pent-up guilts, Rive your concealing continents, and cry These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man More sinn'd against than sinning. Kent. Alack, bareheaded? Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel; Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the tempest. Repose you there, whilst I to this hard house (More harder than the stones whereof 'tis rais'd, Which even but now, demanding after you, Denied me to come in) return, and force Their scanted courtesy. Lear. My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee. Fool. [sings] He that has and a little tiny wit- With hey, ho, the wind and the rain- Must make content with his fortunes fit, For the rain it raineth every day. Lear. True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. Exeunt [Lear and Kent]. Fool. This is a brave night to cool a courtesan. I'll speak a prophecy ere I go: When priests are more in word than matter; When brewers mar their malt with water; When nobles are their tailors' tutors, No heretics burn'd, but wenches' suitors; When every case in law is right, No squire in debt nor no poor knight; When slanders do not live in tongues, Nor cutpurses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i' th' field, And bawds and whores do churches build: Then shall the realm of Albion Come to great confusion. Then comes the time, who lives to see't, That going shall be us'd with feet. This prophecy Merlin shall make, for I live before his time. Exit. Scene III. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Gloucester and Edmund. Glou. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing! When I desir'd their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house, charg'd me on pain of perpetual displeasure neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him. Edm. Most savage and unnatural! Glou. Go to; say you nothing. There is division betwixt the Dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night- 'tis dangerous to be spoken- I have lock'd the letter in my closet. These injuries the King now bears will be revenged home; there's part of a power already footed; we must incline to the King. I will seek him and privily relieve him. Go you and maintain talk with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. Though I die for't, as no less is threat'ned me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund. Pray you be careful. Exit. Edm. This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know, and of that letter too. This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me That which my father loses- no less than all. The younger rises when the old doth fall. Exit. Scene IV. The heath. Before a hovel. Storm still. Enter Lear, Kent, and Fool. Kent. Here is the place, my lord. Good my lord, enter. The tyranny of the open night 's too rough For nature to endure. Lear. Let me alone. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Wilt break my heart? Kent. I had rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter. Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storm Invades us to the skin. So 'tis to thee; But where the greater malady is fix'd, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a bear; But if thy flight lay toward the raging sea, Thou'dst meet the bear i' th' mouth. When the mind's free, The body's delicate. The tempest in my mind Doth from my senses take all feeling else Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude! Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand For lifting food to't? But I will punish home! No, I will weep no more. In such a night 'To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure. In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril! Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all! O, that way madness lies; let me shun that! No more of that. Kent. Good my lord, enter here. Lear. Prithee go in thyself; seek thine own ease. This tempest will not give me leave to ponder On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in. [To the Fool] In, boy; go first.- You houseless poverty- Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. Exit [Fool]. Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are, That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, That thou mayst shake the superflux to them And show the heavens more just. Edg. [within] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! Enter Fool [from the hovel]. Fool. Come not in here, nuncle, here's a spirit. Help me, help me! Kent. Give me thy hand. Who's there? Fool. A spirit, a spirit! He says his name's poor Tom. Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i' th' straw? Come forth. Enter Edgar [disguised as a madman]. Edg. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. Lear. Hast thou given all to thy two daughters, and art thou come to this? Edg. Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o'er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow and halters in his pew, set ratsbane by his porridge, made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting horse over four-inch'd bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom 's acold. O, do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, star-blasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now- and there- and there again- and there! Storm still. Lear. What, have his daughters brought him to this pass? Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give 'em all? Fool. Nay, he reserv'd a blanket, else we had been all sham'd. Lear. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air Hang fated o'er men's faults light on thy daughters! Kent. He hath no daughters, sir. Lear. Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu'd nature To such a lowness but his unkind daughters. Is it the fashion that discarded fathers Should have thus little mercy on their flesh? Judicious punishment! 'Twas this flesh begot Those pelican daughters. Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock's Hill. 'Allow, 'allow, loo, loo! Fool. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. Edg. Take heed o' th' foul fiend; obey thy parents: keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man's sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom 's acold. Lear. What hast thou been? Edg. A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curl'd my hair, wore gloves in my cap; serv'd the lust of my mistress' heart and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and wak'd to do it. Wine lov'd I deeply, dice dearly; and in woman out-paramour'd the Turk. False of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman. Keep thy foot out of brothel, thy hand out of placket, thy pen from lender's book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says suum, mun, hey, no, nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy, sessa! let him trot by. Storm still. Lear. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncover'd body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! Here's three on's are sophisticated! Thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come, unbutton here. [Tears at his clothes.] Fool. Prithee, nuncle, be contented! 'Tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old lecher's heart- a small spark, all the rest on's body cold. Look, here comes a walking fire. Enter Gloucester with a torch. Edg. This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet. He begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock. He gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth. Saint Withold footed thrice the 'old; He met the nightmare, and her nine fold; Bid her alight And her troth plight, And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee! Kent. How fares your Grace? Lear. What's he? Kent. Who's there? What is't you seek? Glou. What are you there? Your names? Edg. Poor Tom, that eats the swimming frog, the toad, the todpole, the wall-newt and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets, swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog, drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipp'd from tithing to tithing, and stock-punish'd and imprison'd; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapons to wear; But mice and rats, and such small deer, Have been Tom's food for seven long year. Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend! Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company? Edg. The prince of darkness is a gentleman! Modo he's call'd, and Mahu. Glou. Our flesh and blood is grown so vile, my lord, That it doth hate what gets it. Edg. Poor Tom 's acold. Glou. Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer T' obey in all your daughters' hard commands. Though their injunction be to bar my doors And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you, Yet have I ventur'd to come seek you out And bring you where both fire and food is ready. Lear. First let me talk with this philosopher. What is the cause of thunder? Kent. Good my lord, take his offer; go into th' house. Lear. I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? Edg. How to prevent the fiend and to kill vermin. Lear. Let me ask you one word in private. Kent. Importune him once more to go, my lord. His wits begin t' unsettle. Glou. Canst thou blame him? Storm still. His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus- poor banish'd man! Thou say'st the King grows mad: I'll tell thee, friend, I am almost mad myself. I had a son, Now outlaw'd from my blood. He sought my life But lately, very late. I lov'd him, friend- No father his son dearer. True to tell thee, The grief hath craz'd my wits. What a night 's this! I do beseech your Grace- Lear. O, cry you mercy, sir. Noble philosopher, your company. Edg. Tom's acold. Glou. In, fellow, there, into th' hovel; keep thee warm. Lear. Come, let's in all. Kent. This way, my lord. Lear. With him! I will keep still with my philosopher. Kent. Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow. Glou. Take him you on. Kent. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. Lear. Come, good Athenian. Glou. No words, no words! hush. Edg. Child Rowland to the dark tower came; His word was still Fie, foh, and fum! I smell the blood of a British man. Exeunt. Scene V. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Cornwall and Edmund. Corn. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house. Edm. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. Corn. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother's evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set awork by a reproveable badness in himself. Edm. How malicious is my fortune that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not- or not I the detector! Corn. Go with me to the Duchess. Edm. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. Edm. [aside] If I find him comforting the King, it will stuff his suspicion more fully.- I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood. Corn. I will lay trust upon thee, and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. Exeunt. Scene VI. A farmhouse near Gloucester's Castle. Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, and Edgar. Glou. Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can. I will not be long from you. Kent. All the power of his wits have given way to his impatience. The gods reward your kindness! Exit [Gloucester]. Edg. Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend. Fool. Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman. Lear. A king, a king! Fool. No, he's a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he's a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him. Lear. To have a thousand with red burning spits Come hizzing in upon 'em- Edg. The foul fiend bites my back. Fool. He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse's health, a boy's love, or a whore's oath. Lear. It shall be done; I will arraign them straight. [To Edgar] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer. [To the Fool] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she-foxes! Edg. Look, where he stands and glares! Want'st thou eyes at trial, madam? Come o'er the bourn, Bessy, to me. Fool. Her boat hath a leak, And she must not speak Why she dares not come over to thee. Edg. The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hoppedance cries in Tom's belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee. Kent. How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz'd. Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions? Lear. I'll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. [To Edgar] Thou, robed man of justice, take thy place. [To the Fool] And thou, his yokefellow of equity, Bench by his side. [To Kent] You are o' th' commission, Sit you too. Edg. Let us deal justly. Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd? Thy sheep be in the corn; And for one blast of thy minikin mouth Thy sheep shall take no harm. Purr! the cat is gray. Lear. Arraign her first. 'Tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor King her father. Fool. Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril? Lear. She cannot deny it. Fool. Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool. Lear. And here's another, whose warp'd looks proclaim What store her heart is made on. Stop her there! Arms, arms! sword! fire! Corruption in the place! False justicer, why hast thou let her scape? Edg. Bless thy five wits! Kent. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain? Edg. [aside] My tears begin to take his part so much They'll mar my counterfeiting. Lear. The little dogs and all, Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. Edg. Tom will throw his head at them. Avaunt, you curs! Be thy mouth or black or white, Tooth that poisons if it bite; Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim, Hound or spaniel, brach or lym, Bobtail tyke or trundle-tall- Tom will make them weep and wail; For, with throwing thus my head, Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled. Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry. Lear. Then let them anatomize Regan. See what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [To Edgar] You, sir- I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments. You'll say they are Persian attire; but let them be chang'd. Kent. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. Lear. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so, so. We'll go to supper i' th' morning. So, so, so. Fool. And I'll go to bed at noon. Enter Gloucester. Glou. Come hither, friend. Where is the King my master? Kent. Here, sir; but trouble him not; his wits are gone. Glou. Good friend, I prithee take him in thy arms. I have o'erheard a plot of death upon him. There is a litter ready; lay him in't And drive towards Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master. If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life, With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up! And follow me, that will to some provision Give thee quick conduct. Kent. Oppressed nature sleeps. This rest might yet have balm'd thy broken senses, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. [To the Fool] Come, help to bear thy master. Thou must not stay behind. Glou. Come, come, away! Exeunt [all but Edgar]. Edg. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind; But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship. How light and portable my pain seems now, When that which makes me bend makes the King bow, He childed as I fathered! Tom, away! Mark the high noises, and thyself bewray When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more to-night, safe scape the King! Lurk, lurk. [Exit.] Scene VII. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, [Edmund the] Bastard, and Servants. Corn. [to Goneril] Post speedily to my lord your husband, show him this letter. The army of France is landed.- Seek out the traitor Gloucester. [Exeunt some of the Servants.] Reg. Hang him instantly. Gon. Pluck out his eyes. Corn. Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company. The revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation. We are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister; farewell, my Lord of Gloucester. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. How now? Where's the King? Osw. My Lord of Gloucester hath convey'd him hence. Some five or six and thirty of his knights, Hot questrists after him, met him at gate; Who, with some other of the lord's dependants, Are gone with him towards Dover, where they boast To have well-armed friends. Corn. Get horses for your mistress. Gon. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. Corn. Edmund, farewell. Exeunt Goneril, [Edmund, and Oswald]. Go seek the traitor Gloucester, Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us. [Exeunt other Servants.] Though well we may not pass upon his life Without the form of justice, yet our power Shall do a court'sy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Enter Gloucester, brought in by two or three. Who's there? the traitor? Reg. Ingrateful fox! 'tis he. Corn. Bind fast his corky arms. Glou. What mean, your Graces? Good my friends, consider You are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. Corn. Bind him, I say. [Servants bind him.] Reg. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! Glou. Unmerciful lady as you are, I am none. Corn. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find- [Regan plucks his beard.] Glou. By the kind gods, 'tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard. Reg. So white, and such a traitor! Glou. Naughty lady, These hairs which thou dost ravish from my chin Will quicken, and accuse thee. I am your host. With robber's hands my hospitable favours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? Corn. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France? Reg. Be simple-answer'd, for we know the truth. Corn. And what confederacy have you with the traitors Late footed in the kingdom? Reg. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak. Glou. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that's of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos'd. Corn. Cunning. Reg. And false. Corn. Where hast thou sent the King? Glou. To Dover. Reg. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg'd at peril- Corn. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that. Glou. I am tied to th' stake, and I must stand the course. Reg. Wherefore to Dover, sir? Glou. Because I would not see thy cruel nails Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs. The sea, with such a storm as his bare head In hell-black night endur'd, would have buoy'd up And quench'd the steeled fires. Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain. If wolves had at thy gate howl'd that stern time, Thou shouldst have said, 'Good porter, turn the key.' All cruels else subscrib'd. But I shall see The winged vengeance overtake such children. Corn. See't shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot. Glou. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!- O cruel! O ye gods! Reg. One side will mock another. Th' other too! Corn. If you see vengeance- 1. Serv. Hold your hand, my lord! I have serv'd you ever since I was a child; But better service have I never done you Than now to bid you hold. Reg. How now, you dog? 1. Serv. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrel. Reg. What do you mean? Corn. My villain! Draw and fight. 1. Serv. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. Reg. Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? She takes a sword and runs at him behind. 1. Serv. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! He dies. Corn. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now? Glou. All dark and comfortless! Where's my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act. Reg. Out, treacherous villain! Thou call'st on him that hates thee. It was he That made the overture of thy treasons to us; Who is too good to pity thee. Glou. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus'd. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. Exit [one] with Gloucester. How is't, my lord? How look you? Corn. I have receiv'd a hurt. Follow me, lady. Turn out that eyeless villain. Throw this slave Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace. Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm. Exit [Cornwall, led by Regan]. 2. Serv. I'll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good. 3. Serv. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. 2. Serv. Let's follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would. His roguish madness Allows itself to anything. 3. Serv. Go thou. I'll fetch some flax and whites of eggs To apply to his bleeding face. Now heaven help him! Exeunt. <> ACT IV. Scene I. The heath. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and known to be contemn'd, Than still contemn'd and flatter'd. To be worst, The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune, Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear. The lamentable change is from the best; The worst returns to laughter. Welcome then, Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace! The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Gloucester, led by an Old Man. But who comes here? My father, poorly led? World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee, Life would not yield to age. Old Man. O my good lord, I have been your tenant, and your father's tenant, These fourscore years. Glou. Away, get thee away! Good friend, be gone. Thy comforts can do me no good at all; Thee they may hurt. Old Man. You cannot see your way. Glou. I have no way, and therefore want no eyes; I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen Our means secure us, and our mere defects Prove our commodities. Ah dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father's wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I'ld say I had eyes again! Old Man. How now? Who's there? Edg. [aside] O gods! Who is't can say 'I am at the worst'? I am worse than e'er I was. Old Man. 'Tis poor mad Tom. Edg. [aside] And worse I may be yet. The worst is not So long as we can say 'This is the worst.' Old Man. Fellow, where goest? Glou. Is it a beggarman? Old Man. Madman and beggar too. Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I' th' last night's storm I such a fellow saw, Which made me think a man a worm. My son Came then into my mind, and yet my mind Was then scarce friends with him. I have heard more since. As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods. They kill us for their sport. Edg. [aside] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.- Bless thee, master! Glou. Is that the naked fellow? Old Man. Ay, my lord. Glou. Then prithee get thee gone. If for my sake Thou wilt o'ertake us hence a mile or twain I' th' way toward Dover, do it for ancient love; And bring some covering for this naked soul, Who I'll entreat to lead me. Old Man. Alack, sir, he is mad! Glou. 'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind. Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure. Above the rest, be gone. Old Man. I'll bring him the best 'parel that I have, Come on't what will. Exit. Glou. Sirrah naked fellow- Edg. Poor Tom's acold. [Aside] I cannot daub it further. Glou. Come hither, fellow. Edg. [aside] And yet I must.- Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. Glou. Know'st thou the way to Dover? Edg. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scar'd out of his good wits. Bless thee, good man's son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once: of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididence, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master! Glou. Here, take this Purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues Have humbled to all strokes. That I am wretched Makes thee the happier. Heavens, deal so still! Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man, That slaves your ordinance, that will not see Because he does not feel, feel your pow'r quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? Edg. Ay, master. Glou. There is a cliff, whose high and bending head Looks fearfully in the confined deep. Bring me but to the very brim of it, And I'll repair the misery thou dost bear With something rich about me. From that place I shall no leading need. Edg. Give me thy arm. Poor Tom shall lead thee. Exeunt. Scene II. Before the Duke of Albany's Palace. Enter Goneril and [Edmund the] Bastard. Gon. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Now, where's your master? Osw. Madam, within, but never man so chang'd. I told him of the army that was landed: He smil'd at it. I told him you were coming: His answer was, 'The worse.' Of Gloucester's treachery And of the loyal service of his son When I inform'd him, then he call'd me sot And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out. What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him; What like, offensive. Gon. [to Edmund] Then shall you go no further. It is the cowish terror of his spirit, That dares not undertake. He'll not feel wrongs Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother. Hasten his musters and conduct his pow'rs. I must change arms at home and give the distaff Into my husband's hands. This trusty servant Shall pass between us. Ere long you are like to hear (If you dare venture in your own behalf) A mistress's command. Wear this. [Gives a favour.] Spare speech. Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well. Edm. Yours in the ranks of death! Exit. Gon. My most dear Gloucester! O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman's services are due; My fool usurps my body. Osw. Madam, here comes my lord. Exit. Enter Albany. Gon. I have been worth the whistle. Alb. O Goneril, You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition. That nature which contemns it origin Cannot be bordered certain in itself. She that herself will sliver and disbranch From her material sap, perforce must wither And come to deadly use. Gon. No more! The text is foolish. Alb. Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savour but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform'd? A father, and a gracious aged man, Whose reverence even the head-lugg'd bear would lick, Most barbarous, most degenerate, have you madded. Could my good brother suffer you to do it? A man, a prince, by him so benefited! If that the heavens do not their visible spirits Send quickly down to tame these vile offences, It will come, Humanity must perforce prey on itself, Like monsters of the deep. Gon. Milk-liver'd man! That bear'st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs; Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know'st Fools do those villains pity who are punish'd Ere they have done their mischief. Where's thy drum? France spreads his banners in our noiseless land, With plumed helm thy state begins to threat, Whiles thou, a moral fool, sit'st still, and criest 'Alack, why does he so?' Alb. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. Gon. O vain fool! Alb. Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame! Bemonster not thy feature! Were't my fitness To let these hands obey my blood, They are apt enough to dislocate and tear Thy flesh and bones. Howe'er thou art a fiend, A woman's shape doth shield thee. Gon. Marry, your manhood mew! Enter a Gentleman. Alb. What news? Gent. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall 's dead, Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. Alb. Gloucester's eyes? Gent. A servant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse, Oppos'd against the act, bending his sword To his great master; who, thereat enrag'd, Flew on him, and amongst them fell'd him dead; But not without that harmful stroke which since Hath pluck'd him after. Alb. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But O poor Gloucester! Lose he his other eye? Gent. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer. 'Tis from your sister. Gon. [aside] One way I like this well; But being widow, and my Gloucester with her, May all the building in my fancy pluck Upon my hateful life. Another way The news is not so tart.- I'll read, and answer. Exit. Alb. Where was his son when they did take his eyes? Gent. Come with my lady hither. Alb. He is not here. Gent. No, my good lord; I met him back again. Alb. Knows he the wickedness? Gent. Ay, my good lord. 'Twas he inform'd against him, And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course. Alb. Gloucester, I live To thank thee for the love thou show'dst the King, And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend. Tell me what more thou know'st. Exeunt. Scene III. The French camp near Dover. Enter Kent and a Gentleman. Kent. Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason? Gent. Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of, which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger that his personal return was most required and necessary. Kent. Who hath he left behind him general? Gent. The Marshal of France, Monsieur La Far. Kent. Did your letters pierce the Queen to any demonstration of grief? Gent. Ay, sir. She took them, read them in my presence, And now and then an ample tear trill'd down Her delicate cheek. It seem'd she was a queen Over her passion, who, most rebel-like, Sought to be king o'er her. Kent. O, then it mov'd her? Gent. Not to a rage. Patience and sorrow strove Who should express her goodliest. You have seen Sunshine and rain at once: her smiles and tears Were like, a better way. Those happy smilets That play'd on her ripe lip seem'd not to know What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence As pearls from diamonds dropp'd. In brief, Sorrow would be a rarity most belov'd, If all could so become it. Kent. Made she no verbal question? Gent. Faith, once or twice she heav'd the name of father Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart; Cried 'Sisters, sisters! Shame of ladies! Sisters! Kent! father! sisters! What, i' th' storm? i' th' night? Let pity not be believ'd!' There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour moisten'd. Then away she started To deal with grief alone. Kent. It is the stars, The stars above us, govern our conditions; Else one self mate and mate could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? Gent. No. Kent. Was this before the King return'd? Gent. No, since. Kent. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear's i' th' town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter. Gent. Why, good sir? Kent. A sovereign shame so elbows him; his own unkindness, That stripp'd her from his benediction, turn'd her To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights To his dog-hearted daughters- these things sting His mind so venomously that burning shame Detains him from Cordelia. Gent. Alack, poor gentleman! Kent. Of Albany's and Cornwall's powers you heard not? Gent. 'Tis so; they are afoot. Kent. Well, sir, I'll bring you to our master Lear And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause Will in concealment wrap me up awhile. When I am known aright, you shall not grieve Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you go Along with me. Exeunt. Scene IV. The French camp. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers. Cor. Alack, 'tis he! Why, he was met even now As mad as the vex'd sea, singing aloud, Crown'd with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With hardocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo flow'rs, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn. A century send forth. Search every acre in the high-grown field And bring him to our eye. [Exit an Officer.] What can man's wisdom In the restoring his bereaved sense? He that helps him take all my outward worth. Doct. There is means, madam. Our foster nurse of nature is repose, The which he lacks. That to provoke in him Are many simples operative, whose power Will close the eye of anguish. Cor. All blest secrets, All you unpublish'd virtues of the earth, Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate In the good man's distress! Seek, seek for him! Lest his ungovern'd rage dissolve the life That wants the means to lead it. Enter Messenger. Mess. News, madam. The British pow'rs are marching hitherward. Cor. 'Tis known before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O dear father, It is thy business that I go about. Therefore great France My mourning and important tears hath pitied. No blown ambition doth our arms incite, But love, dear love, and our ag'd father's right. Soon may I hear and see him! Exeunt. Scene V. Gloucester's Castle. Enter Regan and [Oswald the] Steward. Reg. But are my brother's pow'rs set forth? Osw. Ay, madam. Reg. Himself in person there? Osw. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier. Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? Osw. No, madam. Reg. What might import my sister's letter to him? Osw. I know not, lady. Reg. Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter. It was great ignorance, Gloucester's eyes being out, To let him live. Where he arrives he moves All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone, In pity of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life; moreover, to descry The strength o' th' enemy. Osw. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter. Reg. Our troops set forth to-morrow. Stay with us. The ways are dangerous. Osw. I may not, madam. My lady charg'd my duty in this business. Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Something- I know not what- I'll love thee much- Let me unseal the letter. Osw. Madam, I had rather- Reg. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange eliads and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. Osw. I, madam? Reg. I speak in understanding. Y'are! I know't. Therefore I do advise you take this note. My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk'd, And more convenient is he for my hand Than for your lady's. You may gather more. If you do find him, pray you give him this; And when your mistress hears thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisdom to her. So farewell. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. Osw. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow. Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt. Scene VI. The country near Dover. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar [like a Peasant]. Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill? Edg. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour. Glou. Methinks the ground is even. Edg. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea? Glou. No, truly. Edg. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes' anguish. Glou. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter'd, and thou speak'st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. Edg. Y'are much deceiv'd. In nothing am I chang'd But in my garments. Glou. Methinks y'are better spoken. Edg. Come on, sir; here's the place. Stand still. How fearful And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low! The crows and choughs that wing the midway air Show scarce so gross as beetles. Halfway down Hangs one that gathers sampire- dreadful trade! Methinks he seems no bigger than his head. The fishermen that walk upon the beach Appear like mice; and yond tall anchoring bark, Diminish'd to her cock; her cock, a buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge That on th' unnumb'red idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I'll look no more, Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. Glou. Set me where you stand. Edg. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot Of th' extreme verge. For all beneath the moon Would I not leap upright. Glou. Let go my hand. Here, friend, is another purse; in it a jewel Well worth a poor man's taking. Fairies and gods Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off; Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going. Edg. Now fare ye well, good sir. Glou. With all my heart. Edg. [aside]. Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. Glou. O you mighty gods! He kneels. This world I do renounce, and, in your sights, Shake patiently my great affliction off. If I could bear it longer and not fall To quarrel with your great opposeless wills, My snuff and loathed part of nature should Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him! Now, fellow, fare thee well. He falls [forward and swoons]. Edg. Gone, sir, farewell.- And yet I know not how conceit may rob The treasury of life when life itself Yields to the theft. Had he been where he thought, By this had thought been past.- Alive or dead? Ho you, sir! friend! Hear you, sir? Speak!- Thus might he pass indeed. Yet he revives. What are you, sir? Glou. Away, and let me die. Edg. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fadom down precipitating, Thou'dst shiver'd like an egg; but thou dost breathe; Hast heavy substance; bleed'st not; speak'st; art sound. Ten masts at each make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell. Thy life is a miracle. Speak yet again. Glou. But have I fall'n, or no? Edg. From the dread summit of this chalky bourn. Look up a-height. The shrill-gorg'd lark so far Cannot be seen or heard. Do but look up. Glou. Alack, I have no eyes! Is wretchedness depriv'd that benefit To end itself by death? 'Twas yet some comfort When misery could beguile the tyrant's rage And frustrate his proud will. Edg. Give me your arm. Up- so. How is't? Feel you your legs? You stand. Glou. Too well, too well. Edg. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o' th' cliff what thing was that Which parted from you? Glou. A poor unfortunate beggar. Edg. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk'd and wav'd like the enridged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men's impossibility, have preserv'd thee. Glou. I do remember now. Henceforth I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself 'Enough, enough,' and die. That thing you speak of, I took it for a man. Often 'twould say 'The fiend, the fiend'- he led me to that place. Edg. Bear free and patient thoughts. Enter Lear, mad, [fantastically dressed with weeds]. But who comes here? The safer sense will ne'er accommodate His master thus. Lear. No, they cannot touch me for coming; I am the King himself. Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! Lear. Nature 's above art in that respect. There's your press money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper. Draw me a clothier's yard. Look, look, a mouse! Peace, peace; this piece of toasted cheese will do't. There's my gauntlet; I'll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O, well flown, bird! i' th' clout, i' th' clout! Hewgh! Give the word. Edg. Sweet marjoram. Lear. Pass. Glou. I know that voice. Lear. Ha! Goneril with a white beard? They flatter'd me like a dog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say 'ay' and 'no' to everything I said! 'Ay' and 'no' too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once, and the wind to make me chatter; when the thunder would not peace at my bidding; there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go to, they are not men o' their words! They told me I was everything. 'Tis a lie- I am not ague-proof. Glou. The trick of that voice I do well remember. Is't not the King? Lear. Ay, every inch a king! When I do stare, see how the subject quakes. I pardon that man's life. What was thy cause? Adultery? Thou shalt not die. Die for adultery? No. The wren goes to't, and the small gilded fly Does lecher in my sight. Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester's bastard son Was kinder to his father than my daughters Got 'tween the lawful sheets. To't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers. Behold yond simp'ring dame, Whose face between her forks presageth snow, That minces virtue, and does shake the head To hear of pleasure's name. The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't With a more riotous appetite. Down from the waist they are Centaurs, Though women all above. But to the girdle do the gods inherit, Beneath is all the fiend's. There's hell, there's darkness, there's the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption. Fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination. There's money for thee. Glou. O, let me kiss that hand! Lear. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. Glou. O ruin'd piece of nature! This great world Shall so wear out to naught. Dost thou know me? Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough. Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid! I'll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it. Glou. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one. Edg. [aside] I would not take this from report. It is, And my heart breaks at it. Lear. Read. Glou. What, with the case of eyes? Lear. O, ho, are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light. Yet you see how this world goes. Glou. I see it feelingly. Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how the world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears. See how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark in thine ear. Change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? Glou. Ay, sir. Lear. And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority: a dog's obeyed in office. Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand! Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back. Thou hotly lusts to use her in that kind For which thou whip'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear; Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks; Arm it in rags, a pygmy's straw does pierce it. None does offend, none- I say none! I'll able 'em. Take that of me, my friend, who have the power To seal th' accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes And, like a scurvy politician, seem To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now! Pull off my boots. Harder, harder! So. Edg. O, matter and impertinency mix'd! Reason, in madness! Lear. If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester. Thou must be patient. We came crying hither; Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee. Mark. Glou. Alack, alack the day! Lear. When we are born, we cry that we are come To this great stage of fools. This' a good block. It were a delicate stratagem to shoe A troop of horse with felt. I'll put't in proof, And when I have stol'n upon these sons-in-law, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Enter a Gentleman [with Attendants]. Gent. O, here he is! Lay hand upon him.- Sir, Your most dear daughter- Lear. No rescue? What, a prisoner? I am even The natural fool of fortune. Use me well; You shall have ransom. Let me have a surgeon; I am cut to th' brains. Gent. You shall have anything. Lear. No seconds? All myself? Why, this would make a man a man of salt, To use his eyes for garden waterpots, Ay, and laying autumn's dust. Gent. Good sir- Lear. I will die bravely, like a smug bridegroom. What! I will be jovial. Come, come, I am a king; My masters, know you that? Gent. You are a royal one, and we obey you. Lear. Then there's life in't. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa! Exit running. [Attendants follow.] Gent. A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter Who redeems nature from the general curse Which twain have brought her to. Edg. Hail, gentle sir. Gent. Sir, speed you. What's your will? Edg. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? Gent. Most sure and vulgar. Every one hears that Which can distinguish sound. Edg. But, by your favour, How near's the other army? Gent. Near and on speedy foot. The main descry Stands on the hourly thought. Edg. I thank you sir. That's all. Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov'd on. Edg. I thank you, sir Exit [Gentleman]. Glou. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please! Edg. Well pray you, father. Glou. Now, good sir, what are you? Edg. A most poor man, made tame to fortune's blows, Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows, Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand; I'll lead you to some biding. Glou. Hearty thanks. The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot! Enter [Oswald the] Steward. Osw. A proclaim'd prize! Most happy! That eyeless head of thine was first fram'd flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor, Briefly thyself remember. The sword is out That must destroy thee. Glou. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to't. [Edgar interposes.] Osw. Wherefore, bold peasant, Dar'st thou support a publish'd traitor? Hence! Lest that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arm. Edg. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther 'cagion. Osw. Let go, slave, or thou diest! Edg. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor voke pass. An chud ha' bin zwagger'd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th' old man. Keep out, che vore ye, or Ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder. Chill be plain with you. Osw. Out, dunghill! They fight. Edg. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins. [Oswald falls.] Osw. Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse. If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body, And give the letters which thou find'st about me To Edmund Earl of Gloucester. Seek him out Upon the British party. O, untimely death! Death! He dies. Edg. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. Glou. What, is he dead? Edg. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let's see his pockets; these letters that he speaks of May be my friends. He's dead. I am only sorry He had no other deathsman. Let us see. Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not. To know our enemies' minds, we'ld rip their hearts; Their papers, is more lawful. Reads the letter. 'Let our reciprocal vows be rememb'red. You have many opportunities to cut him off. If your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done, if he return the conqueror. Then am I the prisoner, and his bed my jail; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour. 'Your (wife, so I would say) affectionate servant, 'Goneril.' O indistinguish'd space of woman's will! A plot upon her virtuous husband's life, And the exchange my brother! Here in the sands Thee I'll rake up, the post unsanctified Of murtherous lechers; and in the mature time With this ungracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis'd Duke, For him 'tis well That of thy death and business I can tell. Glou. The King is mad. How stiff is my vile sense, That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract. So should my thoughts be sever'd from my griefs, And woes by wrong imaginations lose The knowledge of themselves. A drum afar off. Edg. Give me your hand. Far off methinks I hear the beaten drum. Come, father, I'll bestow you with a friend. Exeunt. Scene VII. A tent in the French camp. Enter Cordelia, Kent, Doctor, and Gentleman. Cor. O thou good Kent, how shall I live and work To match thy goodness? My life will be too short And every measure fail me. Kent. To be acknowledg'd, madam, is o'erpaid. All my reports go with the modest truth; Nor more nor clipp'd, but so. Cor. Be better suited. These weeds are memories of those worser hours. I prithee put them off. Kent. Pardon, dear madam. Yet to be known shortens my made intent. My boon I make it that you know me not Till time and I think meet. Cor. Then be't so, my good lord. [To the Doctor] How, does the King? Doct. Madam, sleeps still. Cor. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! Th' untun'd and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father! Doct. So please your Majesty That we may wake the King? He hath slept long. Cor. Be govern'd by your knowledge, and proceed I' th' sway of your own will. Is he array'd? Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. Gent. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Doct. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him. I doubt not of his temperance. Cor. Very well. Music. Doct. Please you draw near. Louder the music there! Cor. O my dear father, restoration hang Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss Repair those violent harms that my two sisters Have in thy reverence made! Kent. Kind and dear princess! Cor. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Had challeng'd pity of them. Was this a face To be oppos'd against the warring winds? To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder? In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick cross lightning? to watch- poor perdu!- With this thin helm? Mine enemy's dog, Though he had bit me, should have stood that night Against my fire; and wast thou fain, poor father, To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn, In short and musty straw? Alack, alack! 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once Had not concluded all.- He wakes. Speak to him. Doct. Madam, do you; 'tis fittest. Cor. How does my royal lord? How fares your Majesty? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o' th' grave. Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead. Cor. Sir, do you know me? Lear. You are a spirit, I know. When did you die? Cor. Still, still, far wide! Doct. He's scarce awake. Let him alone awhile. Lear. Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight, I am mightily abus'd. I should e'en die with pity, To see another thus. I know not what to say. I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see. I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur'd Of my condition! Cor. O, look upon me, sir, And hold your hands in benediction o'er me. No, sir, you must not kneel. Lear. Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less; And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; Yet I am doubtful; for I am mainly ignorant What place this is; and all the skill I have Remembers not these garments; nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; For (as I am a man) I think this lady To be my child Cordelia. Cor. And so I am! I am! Lear. Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray weep not. If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause, they have not. Cor. No cause, no cause. Lear. Am I in France? Kent. In your own kingdom, sir. Lear. Do not abuse me. Doct. Be comforted, good madam. The great rage You see is kill'd in him; and yet it is danger To make him even o'er the time he has lost. Desire him to go in. Trouble him no more Till further settling. Cor. Will't please your Highness walk? Lear. You must bear with me. Pray you now, forget and forgive. I am old and foolish. Exeunt. Manent Kent and Gentleman. Gent. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain? Kent. Most certain, sir. Gent. Who is conductor of his people? Kent. As 'tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester. Gent. They say Edgar, his banish'd son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany. Kent. Report is changeable. 'Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace. Gent. The arbitrement is like to be bloody. Fare you well, sir. [Exit.] Kent. My point and period will be throughly wrought, Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. Exit. <> ACT V. Scene I. The British camp near Dover. Enter, with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Regan, Gentleman, and Soldiers. Edm. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is advis'd by aught To change the course. He's full of alteration And self-reproving. Bring his constant pleasure. [Exit an Officer.] Reg. Our sister's man is certainly miscarried. Edm. Tis to be doubted, madam. Reg. Now, sweet lord, You know the goodness I intend upon you. Tell me- but truly- but then speak the truth- Do you not love my sister? Edm. In honour'd love. Reg. But have you never found my brother's way To the forfended place? Edm. That thought abuses you. Reg. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom'd with her, as far as we call hers. Edm. No, by mine honour, madam. Reg. I never shall endure her. Dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. Edm. Fear me not. She and the Duke her husband! Enter, with Drum and Colours, Albany, Goneril, Soldiers. Gon. [aside] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me. Alb. Our very loving sister, well bemet. Sir, this I hear: the King is come to his daughter, With others whom the rigour of our state Forc'd to cry out. Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant. For this business, It toucheth us as France invades our land, Not bolds the King, with others whom, I fear, Most just and heavy causes make oppose. Edm. Sir, you speak nobly. Reg. Why is this reason'd? Gon. Combine together 'gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here. Alb. Let's then determine With th' ancient of war on our proceeding. Edm. I shall attend you presently at your tent. Reg. Sister, you'll go with us? Gon. No. Reg. 'Tis most convenient. Pray you go with us. Gon. [aside] O, ho, I know the riddle.- I will go. [As they are going out,] enter Edgar [disguised]. Edg. If e'er your Grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. Alb. I'll overtake you.- Speak. Exeunt [all but Albany and Edgar]. Edg. Before you fight the battle, ope this letter. If you have victory, let the trumpet sound For him that brought it. Wretched though I seem, I can produce a champion that will prove What is avouched there. If you miscarry, Your business of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune love you! Alb. Stay till I have read the letter. Edg. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I'll appear again. Alb. Why, fare thee well. I will o'erlook thy paper. Exit [Edgar]. Enter Edmund. Edm. The enemy 's in view; draw up your powers. Here is the guess of their true strength and forces By diligent discovery; but your haste Is now urg'd on you. Alb. We will greet the time. Exit. Edm. To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy'd, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle, which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia- The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate. Exit. Scene II. A field between the two camps. Alarum within. Enter, with Drum and Colours, the Powers of France over the stage, Cordelia with her Father in her hand, and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester. Edg. Here, father, take the shadow of this tree For your good host. Pray that the right may thrive. If ever I return to you again, I'll bring you comfort. Glou. Grace go with you, sir! Exit [Edgar]. Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar, Edg. Away, old man! give me thy hand! away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en. Give me thy hand! come on! Glou. No further, sir. A man may rot even here. Edg. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on. Glou. And that's true too. Exeunt. Scene III. The British camp, near Dover. Enter, in conquest, with Drum and Colours, Edmund; Lear and Cordelia as prisoners; Soldiers, Captain. Edm. Some officers take them away. Good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them. Cor. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr'd the worst. For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; Myself could else outfrown false Fortune's frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Lear. No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison. We two alone will sing like birds i' th' cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down And ask of thee forgiveness. So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too- Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out- And take upon 's the mystery of things, As if we were God's spies; and we'll wear out, In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones That ebb and flow by th' moon. Edm. Take them away. Lear. Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee? He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes. The goodyears shall devour 'em, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We'll see 'em starv'd first. Come. Exeunt [Lear and Cordelia, guarded]. Edm. Come hither, Captain; hark. Take thou this note [gives a paper]. Go follow them to prison. One step I have advanc'd thee. If thou dost As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To noble fortunes. Know thou this, that men Are as the time is. To be tender-minded Does not become a sword. Thy great employment Will not bear question. Either say thou'lt do't, Or thrive by other means. Capt. I'll do't, my lord. Edm. About it! and write happy when th' hast done. Mark- I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down. Capt. I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats; If it be man's work, I'll do't. Exit. Flourish. Enter Albany, Goneril, Regan, Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you have show'd to-day your valiant strain, And fortune led you well. You have the captives Who were the opposites of this day's strife. We do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine. Edm. Sir, I thought it fit To send the old and miserable King To some retention and appointed guard; Whose age has charms in it, whose title more, To pluck the common bosom on his side And turn our impress'd lances in our eyes Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen, My reason all the same; and they are ready To-morrow, or at further space, t' appear Where you shall hold your session. At this time We sweat and bleed: the friend hath lost his friend; And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs'd By those that feel their sharpness. The question of Cordelia and her father Requires a fitter place. Alb. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. Reg. That's as we list to grace him. Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers, Bore the commission of my place and person, The which immediacy may well stand up And call itself your brother. Gon. Not so hot! In his own grace he doth exalt himself More than in your addition. Reg. In my rights By me invested, he compeers the best. Gon. That were the most if he should husband you. Reg. Jesters do oft prove prophets. Gon. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look'd but asquint. Reg. Lady, I am not well; else I should answer From a full-flowing stomach. General, Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine. Witness the world that I create thee here My lord and master. Gon. Mean you to enjoy him? Alb. The let-alone lies not in your good will. Edm. Nor in thine, lord. Alb. Half-blooded fellow, yes. Reg. [to Edmund] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine. Alb. Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine attaint, This gilded serpent [points to Goneril]. For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife. 'Tis she is subcontracted to this lord, And I, her husband, contradict your banes. If you will marry, make your loves to me; My lady is bespoke. Gon. An interlude! Alb. Thou art arm'd, Gloucester. Let the trumpet sound. If none appear to prove upon thy person Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons, There is my pledge [throws down a glove]! I'll prove it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim'd thee. Reg. Sick, O, sick! Gon. [aside] If not, I'll ne'er trust medicine. Edm. There's my exchange [throws down a glove]. What in the world he is That names me traitor, villain-like he lies. Call by thy trumpet. He that dares approach, On him, on you, who not? I will maintain My truth and honour firmly. Alb. A herald, ho! Edm. A herald, ho, a herald! Alb. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge. Reg. My sickness grows upon me. Alb. She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [Exit Regan, led.] Enter a Herald. Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound, And read out this. Capt. Sound, trumpet! A trumpet sounds. Her. (reads) 'If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear by the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.' Edm. Sound! First trumpet. Her. Again! Second trumpet. Her. Again! Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, at the third sound, a Trumpet before him. Alb. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o' th' trumpet. Her. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons? Edg. Know my name is lost; By treason's tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit. Yet am I noble as the adversary I come to cope. Alb. Which is that adversary? Edg. What's he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester? Edm. Himself. What say'st thou to him? Edg. Draw thy sword, That, if my speech offend a noble heart, Thy arm may do thee justice. Here is mine. Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours, My oath, and my profession. I protest- Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence, Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune, Thy valour and thy heart- thou art a traitor; False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father; Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious prince; And from th' extremest upward of thy head To the descent and dust beneath thy foot, A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou 'no,' This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak, Thou liest. Edm. In wisdom I should ask thy name; But since thy outside looks so fair and warlike, And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes, What safe and nicely I might well delay By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn. Back do I toss those treasons to thy head; With the hell-hated lie o'erwhelm thy heart; Which- for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise- This sword of mine shall give them instant way Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak! Alarums. Fight. [Edmund falls.] Alb. Save him, save him! Gon. This is mere practice, Gloucester. By th' law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd, But cozen'd and beguil'd. Alb. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. [Shows her her letter to Edmund.]- [To Edmund]. Hold, sir. [To Goneril] Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady! I perceive you know it. Gon. Say if I do- the laws are mine, not thine. Who can arraign me for't? Alb. Most monstrous! Know'st thou this paper? Gon. Ask me not what I know. Exit. Alb. Go after her. She's desperate; govern her. [Exit an Officer.] Edm. What, you have charg'd me with, that have I done, And more, much more. The time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I.- But what art thou That hast this fortune on me? If thou'rt noble, I do forgive thee. Edg. Let's exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more th' hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar and thy father's son. The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to scourge us. The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. Edm. Th' hast spoken right; 'tis true. The wheel is come full circle; I am here. Alb. Methought thy very gait did prophesy A royal nobleness. I must embrace thee. Let sorrow split my heart if ever I Did hate thee, or thy father! Edg. Worthy prince, I know't. Alb. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father? Edg. By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale; And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst! The bloody proclamation to escape That follow'd me so near (O, our lives' sweetness! That with the pain of death would hourly die Rather than die at once!) taught me to shift Into a madman's rags, t' assume a semblance That very dogs disdain'd; and in this habit Met I my father with his bleeding rings, Their precious stones new lost; became his guide, Led him, begg'd for him, sav'd him from despair; Never (O fault!) reveal'd myself unto him Until some half hour past, when I was arm'd, Not sure, though hoping of this good success, I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last Told him my pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart (Alack, too weak the conflict to support!) 'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, Burst smilingly. Edm. This speech of yours hath mov'd me, And shall perchance do good; but speak you on; You look as you had something more to say. Alb. If there be more, more woful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this. Edg. This would have seem'd a period To such as love not sorrow; but another, To amplify too much, would make much more, And top extremity. Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man, Who, having seen me in my worst estate, Shunn'd my abhorr'd society; but then, finding Who 'twas that so endur'd, with his strong arms He fastened on my neck, and bellowed out As he'd burst heaven; threw him on my father; Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him That ever ear receiv'd; which in recounting His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life Began to crack. Twice then the trumpets sounded, And there I left him tranc'd. Alb. But who was this? Edg. Kent, sir, the banish'd Kent; who in disguise Followed his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman with a bloody knife. Gent. Help, help! O, help! Edg. What kind of help? Alb. Speak, man. Edg. What means that bloody knife? Gent. 'Tis hot, it smokes. It came even from the heart of- O! she's dead! Alb. Who dead? Speak, man. Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady! and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confess'd it. Edm. I was contracted to them both. All three Now marry in an instant. Enter Kent. Edg. Here comes Kent. Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. [Exit Gentleman.] This judgement of the heavens, that makes us tremble Touches us not with pity. O, is this he? The time will not allow the compliment That very manners urges. Kent. I am come To bid my king and master aye good night. Is he not here? Alb. Great thing of us forgot! Speak, Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia? The bodies of Goneril and Regan are brought in. Seest thou this object, Kent? Kent. Alack, why thus? Edm. Yet Edmund was belov'd. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. Alb. Even so. Cover their faces. Edm. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send (Be brief in't) to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia. Nay, send in time. Alb. Run, run, O, run! Edg. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve. Edm. Well thought on. Take my sword; Give it the Captain. Alb. Haste thee for thy life. [Exit Edgar.] Edm. He hath commission from thy wife and me To hang Cordelia in the prison and To lay the blame upon her own despair That she fordid herself. Alb. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [Edmund is borne off.] Enter Lear, with Cordelia [dead] in his arms, [Edgar, Captain, and others following]. Lear. Howl, howl, howl, howl! O, you are men of stone. Had I your tongues and eyes, I'ld use them so That heaven's vault should crack. She's gone for ever! I know when one is dead, and when one lives. She's dead as earth. Lend me a looking glass. If that her breath will mist or stain the stone, Why, then she lives. Kent. Is this the promis'd end? Edg. Or image of that horror? Alb. Fall and cease! Lear. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. Kent. O my good master! Lear. Prithee away! Edg. 'Tis noble Kent, your friend. Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all! I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever! Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st, Her voice was ever soft, Gentle, and low- an excellent thing in woman. I kill'd the slave that was a-hanging thee. Capt. 'Tis true, my lords, he did. Lear. Did I not, fellow? I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I would have made them skip. I am old now, And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o' th' best. I'll tell you straight. Kent. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated, One of them we behold. Lear. This' a dull sight. Are you not Kent? Kent. The same- Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius? Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that. He'll strike, and quickly too. He's dead and rotten. Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man- Lear. I'll see that straight. Kent. That from your first of difference and decay Have followed your sad steps. Lear. You're welcome hither. Kent. Nor no man else! All's cheerless, dark, and deadly. Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves, And desperately are dead. Lear. Ay, so I think. Alb. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him. Edg. Very bootless. Enter a Captain. Capt. Edmund is dead, my lord. Alb. That's but a trifle here. You lords and noble friends, know our intent. What comfort to this great decay may come Shall be applied. For us, we will resign, During the life of this old Majesty, To him our absolute power; [to Edgar and Kent] you to your rights; With boot, and Such addition as your honours Have more than merited.- All friends shall taste The wages of their virtue, and all foes The cup of their deservings.- O, see, see! Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you undo this button. Thank you, sir. Do you see this? Look on her! look! her lips! Look there, look there! He dies. Edg. He faints! My lord, my lord! Kent. Break, heart; I prithee break! Edg. Look up, my lord. Kent. Vex not his ghost. O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer. Edg. He is gone indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long. He but usurp'd his life. Alb. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [To Kent and Edgar] Friends of my soul, you twain Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain. Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go. My master calls me; I must not say no. Alb. The weight of this sad time we must obey, Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest have borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. Exeunt with a dead march. THE END <> 1595 LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae. FERDINAND, King of Navarre BEROWNE, lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, " " " " " DUMAIN, " " " " " BOYET, lord attending on the Princess of France MARCADE, " " " " " " " DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, fantastical Spaniard SIR NATHANIEL, a curate HOLOFERNES, a schoolmaster DULL, a constable COSTARD, a clown MOTH, page to Armado A FORESTER THE PRINCESS OF FRANCE ROSALINE, lady attending on the Princess MARIA, " " " " " KATHARINE, lady attending on the Princess JAQUENETTA, a country wench Lords, Attendants, etc. <> SCENE: Navarre ACT I. SCENE I. Navarre. The King's park Enter the King, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs, And then grace us in the disgrace of death; When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavour of this present breath may buy That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge, And make us heirs of all eternity. Therefore, brave conquerors- for so you are That war against your own affections And the huge army of the world's desires- Our late edict shall strongly stand in force: Navarre shall be the wonder of the world; Our court shall be a little Academe, Still and contemplative in living art. You three, Berowne, Dumain, and Longaville, Have sworn for three years' term to live with me My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here. Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolv'd; 'tis but a three years' fast. The mind shall banquet, though the body pine. Fat paunches have lean pates; and dainty bits Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits. DUMAIN. My loving lord, Dumain is mortified. The grosser manner of these world's delights He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves; To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. BEROWNE. I can but say their protestation over; So much, dear liege, I have already sworn, That is, to live and study here three years. But there are other strict observances, As: not to see a woman in that term, Which I hope well is not enrolled there; And one day in a week to touch no food, And but one meal on every day beside, The which I hope is not enrolled there; And then to sleep but three hours in the night And not be seen to wink of all the day- When I was wont to think no harm all night, And make a dark night too of half the day- Which I hope well is not enrolled there. O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep, Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep! KING. Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these. BEROWNE. Let me say no, my liege, an if you please: I only swore to study with your Grace, And stay here in your court for three years' space. LONGAVILLE. You swore to that, Berowne, and to the rest. BEROWNE. By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest. What is the end of study, let me know. KING. Why, that to know which else we should not know. BEROWNE. Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense? KING. Ay, that is study's god-like recompense. BEROWNE. Come on, then; I will swear to study so, To know the thing I am forbid to know, As thus: to study where I well may dine, When I to feast expressly am forbid; Or study where to meet some mistress fine, When mistresses from common sense are hid; Or, having sworn too hard-a-keeping oath, Study to break it, and not break my troth. If study's gain be thus, and this be so, Study knows that which yet it doth not know. Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no. KING. These be the stops that hinder study quite, And train our intellects to vain delight. BEROWNE. Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain Which, with pain purchas'd, doth inherit pain, As painfully to pore upon a book To seek the light of truth; while truth the while Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look. Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile; So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes. Study me how to please the eye indeed, By fixing it upon a fairer eye; Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed, And give him light that it was blinded by. Study is like the heaven's glorious sun, That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks; Small have continual plodders ever won, Save base authority from others' books. These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights That give a name to every fixed star Have no more profit of their shining nights Than those that walk and wot not what they are. Too much to know is to know nought but fame; And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he's read, to reason against reading! DUMAIN. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding! LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near, when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAIN. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAIN. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in rhyme. LONGAVILLE. Berowne is like an envious sneaping frost That bites the first-born infants of the spring. BEROWNE. Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast Before the birds have any cause to sing? Why should I joy in any abortive birth? At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled shows; But like of each thing that in season grows; So you, to study now it is too late, Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate. KING. Well, sit out; go home, Berowne; adieu. BEROWNE. No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you; And though I have for barbarism spoke more Than for that angel knowledge you can say, Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore, And bide the penance of each three years' day. Give me the paper; let me read the same; And to the strictest decrees I'll write my name. KING. How well this yielding rescues thee from shame! BEROWNE. [Reads] 'Item. That no woman shall come within a mile of my court'- Hath this been proclaimed? LONGAVILLE. Four days ago. BEROWNE. Let's see the penalty. [Reads] '-on pain of losing her tongue.' Who devis'd this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility. [Reads] 'Item. If any man be seen to talk with a woman within the term of three years, he shall endure such public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.' This article, my liege, yourself must break; For well you know here comes in embassy The French king's daughter, with yourself to speak- A mild of grace and complete majesty- About surrender up of Aquitaine To her decrepit, sick, and bedrid father; Therefore this article is made in vain, Or vainly comes th' admired princess hither. KING. What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot. BEROWNE. So study evermore is over-shot. While it doth study to have what it would, It doth forget to do the thing it should; And when it hath the thing it hunteth most, 'Tis won as towns with fire- so won, so lost. KING. We must of force dispense with this decree; She must lie here on mere necessity. BEROWNE. Necessity will make us all forsworn Three thousand times within this three years' space; For every man with his affects is born, Not by might mast'red, but by special grace. If I break faith, this word shall speak for me: I am forsworn on mere necessity. So to the laws at large I write my name; [Subscribes] And he that breaks them in the least degree Stands in attainder of eternal shame. Suggestions are to other as to me; But I believe, although I seem so loath, I am the last that will last keep his oath. But is there no quick recreation granted? KING. Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted With a refined traveller of Spain, A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain; One who the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony; A man of complements, whom right and wrong Have chose as umpire of their mutiny. This child of fancy, that Armado hight, For interim to our studies shall relate, In high-born words, the worth of many a knight From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate. How you delight, my lords, I know not, I; But I protest I love to hear him lie, And I will use him for my minstrelsy. BEROWNE. Armado is a most illustrious wight, A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight. LONGAVILLE. Costard the swain and he shall be our sport; And so to study three years is but short. Enter DULL, a constable, with a letter, and COSTARD DULL. Which is the Duke's own person? BEROWNE. This, fellow. What wouldst? DULL. I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his Grace's farborough; but I would see his own person in flesh and blood. BEROWNE. This is he. DULL. Signior Arme- Arme- commends you. There's villainy abroad; this letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven. God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear hearing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or, to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir; all those three: I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park; which, put together, is in manner and form following. Now, sir, for the manner- it is the manner of a man to speak to a woman. For the form- in some form. BEROWNE. For the following, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction; and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. [Reads] 'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god and body's fost'ring patron'- COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. [Reads] 'So it is'- COSTARD. It may be so; but if he say it is so, he is, in telling true, but so. KING. Peace! COSTARD. Be to me, and every man that dares not fight! KING. No words! COSTARD. Of other men's secrets, I beseech you. KING. [Reads] 'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured melancholy, I did commend the black oppressing humour to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to walk. The time When? About the sixth hour; when beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down to that nourishment which is called supper. So much for the time When. Now for the ground Which? which, I mean, I upon; it is ycleped thy park. Then for the place Where? where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most prepost'rous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place Where? It standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden. There did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,' COSTARD. Me? KING. 'that unlettered small-knowing soul,' COSTARD. Me? KING. 'that shallow vassal,' COSTARD. Still me? KING. 'which, as I remember, hight Costard,' COSTARD. O, me! KING. 'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy established proclaimed edict and continent canon; which, with, O, with- but with this I passion to say wherewith-' COSTARD. With a wench. King. 'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on, have sent to thee, to receive the meed of punishment, by thy sweet Grace's officer, Antony Dull, a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and estimation.' DULL. Me, an't shall please you; I am Antony Dull. KING. 'For Jaquenetta- so is the weaker vessel called, which I apprehended with the aforesaid swain- I keep her as a vessel of thy law's fury; and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted and heart-burning heat of duty, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.' BEROWNE. This is not so well as I look'd for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir; I was taken with a damsel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed damsel. COSTARD. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a virgin. KING. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed virgin. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity; I was taken with a maid. KING. This 'maid' not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o'er; And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. Exeunt KING, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN BEROWNE. I'll lay my head to any good man's hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow. Exeunt SCENE II. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH, his page ARMADO. Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit grows melancholy? MOTH. A great sign, sir, that he will look sad. ARMADO. Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp. MOTH. No, no; O Lord, sir, no! ARMADO. How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my tender juvenal? MOTH. By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough signior. ARMADO. Why tough signior? Why tough signior? MOTH. Why tender juvenal? Why tender juvenal? ARMADO. I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton appertaining to thy young days, which we may nominate tender. MOTH. And I, tough signior, as an appertinent title to your old time, which we may name tough. ARMADO. Pretty and apt. MOTH. How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or I apt, and my saying pretty? ARMADO. Thou pretty, because little. MOTH. Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt? ARMADO. And therefore apt, because quick. MOTH. Speak you this in my praise, master? ARMADO. In thy condign praise. MOTH. I will praise an eel with the same praise. ARMADO. that an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers; thou heat'st my blood. MOTH. I am answer'd, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be cross'd. MOTH. [Aside] He speaks the mere contrary: crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? ARMADO. I am ill at reck'ning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both; they are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here is three studied ere ye'll thrice wink; and how easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [Aside] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love. And as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devis'd curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should out-swear Cupid. Comfort me, boy; what great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master; he was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter; and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green, indeed, is the colour of lovers; but to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir; for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are mask'd under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father's wit my mother's tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne'er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know; For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since; but I think now 'tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard; she deserves well. MOTH. [Aside] To be whipt; and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that's great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA DULL. Sir, the Duke's pleasure is that you keep Costard safe; and you must suffer him to take no delight nor no penance; but 'a must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park; she is allow'd for the day-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing. Maid! JAQUENETTA. Man! ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That's hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away. Exit with JAQUENETTA ARMADO. Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou be pardoned. COSTARD. Well, sir, I hope when I do it I shall do it on a full stomach. ARMADO. Thou shalt be heavily punished. COSTARD. I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they are but lightly rewarded. ARMADO. Take away this villain; shut him up. MOTH. Come, you transgressing slave, away. COSTARD. Let me not be pent up, sir; I will fast, being loose. MOTH. No, sir; that were fast, and loose. Thou shalt to prison. COSTARD. Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation that I have seen, some shall see. MOTH. What shall some see? COSTARD. Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon. It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their words, and therefore I will say nothing. I thank God I have as little patience as another man, and therefore I can be quiet. Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD ARMADO. I do affect the very ground, which is base, where her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn- which is a great argument of falsehood- if I love. And how can that be true love which is falsely attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit. Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club, and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier. The first and second cause will not serve my turn; the passado he respects not, the duello he regards not; his disgrace is to be called boy, but his glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour; rust, rapier; be still, drum; for your manager is in love; yea, he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit; write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio. Exit <> ACT II. SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, with three attending ladies, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, and two other LORDS BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits. Consider who the King your father sends, To whom he sends, and what's his embassy: Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear, When she did starve the general world beside And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise. Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues; I am less proud to hear you tell my worth Than you much willing to be counted wise In spending your wit in the praise of mine. But now to task the tasker: good Boyet, You are not ignorant all-telling fame Doth noise abroad Navarre hath made a vow, Till painful study shall outwear three years, No woman may approach his silent court. Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course, Before we enter his forbidden gates, To know his pleasure; and in that behalf, Bold of your worthiness, we single you As our best-moving fair solicitor. Tell him the daughter of the King of France, On serious business, craving quick dispatch, Importunes personal conference with his Grace. Haste, signify so much; while we attend, Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. Exit BOYET Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke? FIRST LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam; at a marriage feast, Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, peerless esteem'd, Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms; Nothing becomes him ill that he would well. The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss, If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil, Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will, Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth, Of all that virtue love for virtue loved; Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill, For he hath wit to make an ill shape good, And shape to win grace though he had no wit. I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished; So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? FIRST LORD. Here comes Boyet. Re-enter BOYET PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt: He rather means to lodge you in the field, Like one that comes here to besiege his court, Than seek a dispensation for his oath, To let you enter his unpeopled house. [The LADIES-IN-WAITING mask] Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS Here comes Navarre. KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet. The roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I will be welcome then; conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady: I have sworn an oath- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Our Lady help my lord! He'll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping. 'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord, And sin to break it. But pardon me, I am too sudden bold; To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me. Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming, And suddenly resolve me in my suit. [Giving a paper] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. YOU Will the sooner that I were away, For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay. BEROWNE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? KATHARINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. KATHARINE. How needless was it then to ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. KATHARINE. 'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit 's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire. KATHARINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o' day? KATHARINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask! KATHARINE. Fair fall the face it covers! BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! KATHARINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns; Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, as neither have, Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which, One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money's worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his Majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth, For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine; Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason's yielding, your fair self should make A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. You do the King my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come, Where that and other specialties are bound; To-morrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, within my gates; But here without you shall be so receiv'd As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell. To-morrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace! KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. Exit with attendants BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack, let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says 'ay.' BEROWNE. Will YOU prick't with your eye? ROSALINE. No point, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life! ROSALINE. And yours from long living! BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [Retiring] DUMAIN. Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name. DUMAIN. A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well. Exit LONGAVILLE. I beseech you a word: what is she in the white? BOYET. A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light. LONGAVILLE. Perchance light in the light. I desire her name. BOYET. She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame. LONGAVILLE. Pray you, sir, whose daughter? BOYET. Her mother's, I have heard. LONGAVILLE. God's blessing on your beard! BOYET. Good sir, be not offended; She is an heir of Falconbridge. LONGAVILLE. Nay, my choler is ended. She is a most sweet lady. BOYET. Not unlike, sir; that may be. Exit LONGAVILLE BEROWNE. What's her name in the cap? BOYET. Rosaline, by good hap. BEROWNE. Is she wedded or no? BOYET. To her will, sir, or so. BEROWNE. You are welcome, sir; adieu! BOYET. Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you. Exit BEROWNE. LADIES Unmask MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord; Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. KATHARINE. Two hot sheeps, marry! BOYET. And wherefore not ships? No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips. KATHARINE. You sheep and I pasture- shall that finish the jest? BOYET. So you grant pasture for me. [Offering to kiss her] KATHARINE. Not so, gentle beast; My lips are no common, though several they be. BOYET. Belonging to whom? KATHARINE. To my fortunes and me. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree; This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abused. BOYET. If my observation, which very seldom lies, By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes, Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle 'affected.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Your reason? BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire. His heart, like an agate, with your print impressed, Proud with his form, in his eye pride expressed; His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see, Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be; All senses to that sense did make their repair, To feel only looking on fairest of fair. Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd, Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd. His face's own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I'll give you Aquitaine and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Come, to our pavilion. Boyet is dispos'd. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd; I only have made a mouth of his eye, By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. MARIA. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest skilfully. KATHARINE. He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then; do you see? MARIA. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. The park Enter ARMADO and MOTH ARMADO. Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing. [MOTH sings Concolinel] ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither; I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? Brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuff'd up love by smelling love, with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of your eyes, with your arms cross'd on your thin-belly doublet, like a rabbit on a spit, or your hands in your pocket, like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are complements, these are humours; these betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note- do you note me?- that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O- but O- MOTH. The hobby-horse is forgot. ARMADO. Call'st thou my love 'hobby-horse'? MOTH. No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master; all those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon the instant. By heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and out of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain; he must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathiz'd- a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha, what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short; away. MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so: Is that lead slow which is fir'd from a gun? ARMADO. Sweet smoke of rhetoric! He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he; I shoot thee at the swain. MOTH. Thump, then, and I flee. Exit ARMADO. A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face; Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place. My herald is return'd. Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD MOTH. A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle; come, thy l'envoy; begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain; no l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain! ARMADO. By virtue thou enforcest laughter; thy silly thought, my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars! Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and the word 'l'envoy' for a salve? MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not l'envoy a salve? ARMADO. No, page; it is an epilogue or discourse to make plain Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain. I will example it: The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. There's the moral. Now the l'envoy. MOTH. I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again. ARMADO. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. MOTH. Until the goose came out of door, And stay'd the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my l'envoy. The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee, Were still at odds, being but three. ARMADO. Until the goose came out of door, Staying the odds by adding four. MOTH. A good l'envoy, ending in the goose; would you desire more? COSTARD. The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat. Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat. To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose; Let me see: a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose. ARMADO. Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin? MOTH. By saying that a costard was broken in a shin. Then call'd you for the l'envoy. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument in; Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought; And he ended the market. ARMADO. But tell me: how was there a costard broken in a shin? MOTH. I will tell you sensibly. COSTARD. Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth; I will speak that l'envoy. I, Costard, running out, that was safely within, Fell over the threshold and broke my shin. ARMADO. We will talk no more of this matter. COSTARD. Till there be more matter in the shin. ARMADO. Sirrah Costard. I will enfranchise thee. COSTARD. O, Marry me to one Frances! I smell some l'envoy, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: bear this significant [giving a letter] to the country maid Jaquenetta; there is remuneration, for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. Exit MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man's flesh, my incony Jew! Exit MOTH Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration! O, that's the Latin word for three farthings. Three farthings- remuneration. 'What's the price of this inkle?'- 'One penny.'- 'No, I'll give you a remuneration.' Why, it carries it. Remuneration! Why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will never buy and sell out of this word. Enter BEROWNE BEROWNE. My good knave Costard, exceedingly well met! COSTARD. Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man buy for a remuneration? BEROWNE. What is a remuneration? COSTARD. Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing. BEROWNE. Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk. COSTARD. I thank your worship. God be wi' you! BEROWNE. Stay, slave; I must employ thee. As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave, Do one thing for me that I shall entreat. COSTARD. When would you have it done, sir? BEROWNE. This afternoon. COSTARD. Well, I will do it, sir; fare you well. BEROWNE. Thou knowest not what it is. COSTARD. I shall know, sir, when I have done it. BEROWNE. Why, villain, thou must know first. COSTARD. I will come to your worship to-morrow morning. BEROWNE. It must be done this afternoon. Hark, slave, it is but this: The Princess comes to hunt here in the park, And in her train there is a gentle lady; When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name, And Rosaline they call her. Ask for her, And to her white hand see thou do commend This seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go. [Giving him a shilling] COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration; a 'leven-pence farthing better; most sweet gardon! I will do it, sir, in print. Gardon- remuneration! Exit BEROWNE. And I, forsooth, in love; I, that have been love's whip; A very beadle to a humorous sigh; A critic, nay, a night-watch constable; A domineering pedant o'er the boy, Than whom no mortal so magnificent! This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, Th' anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents, Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces, Sole imperator, and great general Of trotting paritors. O my little heart! And I to be a corporal of his field, And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop! What! I love, I sue, I seek a wife- A woman, that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watch'd that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjur'd, which is worst of all; And, among three, to love the worst of all, A whitely wanton with a velvet brow, With two pitch balls stuck in her face for eyes; Ay, and, by heaven, one that will do the deed, Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard. And I to sigh for her! to watch for her! To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague That Cupid will impose for my neglect Of his almighty dreadful little might. Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue, and groan: Some men must love my lady, and some Joan. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE I. The park Enter the PRINCESS, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET, LORDS, ATTENDANTS, and a FORESTER PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was that the King that spurr'd his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not; but I think it was not he. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whoe'er 'a was, 'a show'd a mounting mind. Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice; A stand where you may make the fairest shoot. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I thank my beauty I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-liv'd pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay, never paint me now; Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: [ Giving him money] Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. See, see, my beauty will be sav'd by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill; Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do't; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And, out of question, so it is sometimes: Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer's blood that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise sake, when they strive to be Lords o'er their lords? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Enter COSTARD BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest! It is so; truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What's your will, sir? What's your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. O, thy letter, thy letter! He's a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve. Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear. BOYET. [Reads] 'By heaven, that thou art fair is most infallible; true that thou art beauteous; truth itself that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal. The magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say, 'Veni, vidi, vici'; which to annothanize in the vulgar,- O base and obscure vulgar!- videlicet, He came, saw, and overcame. He came, one; saw, two; overcame, three. Who came?- the king. Why did he come?- to see. Why did he see?-to overcome. To whom came he?- to the beggar. What saw he?- the beggar. Who overcame he?- the beggar. The conclusion is victory; on whose side?- the king's. The captive is enrich'd; on whose side?- the beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial; on whose side?- the king's. No, on both in one, or one in both. I am the king, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags?- robes, for tittles?- titles, for thyself? -me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO. 'Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar 'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey; Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceived but I remember the style. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court; A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you: my lord. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. [To ROSALINE] Here, sweet, put up this; 'twill be thine another day. Exeunt PRINCESS and TRAIN BOYET. Who is the shooter? who is the shooter? ROSALINE. Shall I teach you to know? BOYET. Ay, my continent of beauty. ROSALINE. Why, she that bears the bow. Finely put off! BOYET. My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry, Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry. Finely put on! ROSALINE. Well then, I am the shooter. BOYET. And who is your deer? ROSALINE. If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near. Finely put on indeed! MARIA. You Still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes at the brow. BOYET. But she herself is hit lower. Have I hit her now? ROSALINE. Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as touching the hit it? BOYET. So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a woman when Queen Guinever of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. [Singing] Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant! How both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot; for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o' the bow-hand! I' faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, 'a must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout. BOYET. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She's too hard for you at pricks, sir; challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing; good-night, my good owl. Exeunt BOYET and MARIA COSTARD. By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown! Lord, Lord! how the ladies and I have put him down! O' my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit! When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado a th' t'one side- O, a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand, and how most sweetly 'a will swear! And his page a t' other side, that handful of wit! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit! Sola, sola! Exit COSTARD SCENE II. The park From the shooting within, enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL NATHANIEL. Very reverent sport, truly; and done in the testimony of a good conscience. HOLOFERNES. The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven; and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra, the soil, the land, the earth. NATHANIEL. Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly varied, like a scholar at the least; but, sir, I assure ye it was a buck of the first head. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, haud credo. DULL. 'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of explication; facere, as it were, replication, or rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather unlettered, or ratherest unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my haud credo for a deer. DULL. I Said the deer was not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice-sod simplicity, bis coctus! O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred in a book; He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink; his intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts; And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be- Which we of taste and feeling are- for those parts that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, omne bene, say I, being of an old father's mind: Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit What was a month old at Cain's birth that's not five weeks old as yet? HOLOFERNES. Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull. DULL. What is Dictynna? NATHANIEL. A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon. HOLOFERNES. The moon was a month old when Adam was no more, And raught not to five weeks when he came to five-score. Th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. 'Tis true, indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange. HOLOFERNES. God comfort thy capacity! I say th' allusion holds in the exchange. DULL. And I say the polusion holds in the exchange; for the moon is never but a month old; and I say, beside, that 'twas a pricket that the Princess kill'd. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call the deer the Princess kill'd a pricket. NATHANIEL. Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge, so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I Will something affect the letter, for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierc'd and prick'd a pretty pleasing pricket. Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell; put el to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket- Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores o' sorel. Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L. NATHANIEL. A rare talent! DULL. [Aside] If a talent be a claw, look how he claws him with a talent. HOLOFERNES. This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions. These are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourish'd in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners; for their sons are well tutor'd by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you. You are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. Mehercle, if their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them; but, vir sapit qui pauca loquitur. A soul feminine saluteth us. Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master Person. HOLOFERNES. Master Person, quasi pers-one. And if one should be pierc'd which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master Schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Piercing a hogshead! A good lustre of conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine; 'tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, be so good as read me this letter; it was given me by Costard, and sent me from Don Armado. I beseech you read it. HOLOFERNES. Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat- and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia. Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not- Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather as Horace says in his- What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine. NATHANIEL. [Reads] 'If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed! Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove; Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art would comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend; All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire. Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O, pardon love this wrong, That singes heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.' HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophas, and so miss the accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy, facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret. Ovidius Naso was the man. And why, indeed, 'Naso' but for smelling out the odoriferous flowers of fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing: so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper, the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin, was this directed to you? JAQUENETTA. Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Berowne, one of the strange queen's lords. HOLOFERNES. I will overglance the superscript: 'To the snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of the letter, for the nomination of the party writing to the person written unto: 'Your Ladyship's in all desired employment, Berowne.' Sir Nathaniel, this Berowne is one of the votaries with the King; and here he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger queen's which accidentally, or by the way of progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the King; it may concern much. Stay not thy compliment; I forgive thy duty. Adieu. JAQUENETTA. Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life! COSTARD. Have with thee, my girl. Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA NATHANIEL. Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very religiously; and, as a certain father saith- HOLOFERNES. Sir, tell not me of the father; I do fear colourable colours. But to return to the verses: did they please you, Sir Nathaniel? NATHANIEL. Marvellous well for the pen. HOLOFERNES. I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I will prove those verses to be very unlearned, neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention. I beseech your society. NATHANIEL. And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is the happiness of life. HOLOFERNES. And certes, the text most infallibly concludes it. [To DULL] Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not say me nay: pauca verba. Away; the gentles are at their game, and we will to our recreation. Exeunt SCENE III. The park Enter BEROWNE, with a paper his band, alone BEROWNE. The King he is hunting the deer: I am coursing myself. They have pitch'd a toil: I am tolling in a pitch- pitch that defiles. Defile! a foul word. Well, 'set thee down, sorrow!' for so they say the fool said, and so say I, and I am the fool. Well proved, wit. By the Lord, this love is as mad as Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me- I a sheep. Well proved again o' my side. I will not love; if I do, hang me. I' faith, I will not. O, but her eye! By this light, but for her eye, I would not love her- yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By heaven, I do love; and it hath taught me to rhyme, and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme, and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my sonnets already; the clown bore it, the fool sent it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care a pin if the other three were in. Here comes one with a paper; God give him grace to groan! [Climbs into a tree] Enter the KING, with a paper KING. Ay me! BEROWNE. Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid; thou hast thump'd him with thy bird-bolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! KING. [Reads] 'So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows; Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep, As doth thy face through tears of mine give light. Thou shin'st in every tear that I do weep; No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show. But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel No thought can think nor tongue of mortal tell.' How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper- Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? [Steps aside] Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, car. BEROWNE. Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear! LONGAVILLE. Ay me, I am forsworn! BEROWNE. Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers. KING. In love, I hope; sweet fellowship in shame! BEROWNE. One drunkard loves another of the name. LONGAVILLE. Am I the first that have been perjur'd so? BEROWNE. I could put thee in comfort: not by two that I know; Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society, The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity. LONGAVILLE. I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move. O sweet Maria, empress of my love! These numbers will I tear, and write in prose. BEROWNE. O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose: Disfigure not his slop. LONGAVILLE. This same shall go. [He reads the sonnet] 'Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, 'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me. Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is; Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine, Exhal'st this vapour-vow; in thee it is. If broken, then it is no fault of mine; If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To lose an oath to win a paradise?' BEROWNE. This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity, A green goose a goddess- pure, pure idolatry. God amend us, God amend! We are much out o' th' way. Enter DUMAIN, with a paper LONGAVILLE. By whom shall I send this?- Company! Stay. [Steps aside] BEROWNE. 'All hid, all hid'- an old infant play. Like a demigod here sit I in the sky, And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'er-eye. More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish! Dumain transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish! DUMAIN. O most divine Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAIN. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is not, corporal: there you lie. DUMAIN. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-colour'd raven was well noted. DUMAIN. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say; Her shoulder is with child. DUMAIN. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine. DUMAIN. O that I had my wish! LONGAVILLE. And I had mine! KING. And I mine too,.good Lord! BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine! Is not that a good word? DUMAIN. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will rememb'red be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAIN. Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit. DUMAIN. [Reads] 'On a day-alack the day!- Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath. "Air," quoth he "thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alack, my hand is sworn Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn; Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth so apt to pluck a sweet. Do not call it sin in me That I am forsworn for thee; Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were; And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love."' This will I send; and something else more plain That shall express my true love's fasting pain. O, would the King, Berowne and Longaville, Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill, Would from my forehead wipe a perjur'd note; For none offend where all alike do dote. LONGAVILLE. [Advancing] Dumain, thy love is far from charity, That in love's grief desir'st society; You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o'erheard and taken napping so. KING. [Advancing] Come, sir, you blush; as his, your case is such. You chide at him, offending twice as much: You do not love Maria! Longaville Did never sonnet for her sake compile; Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart His loving bosom, to keep down his heart. I have been closely shrouded in this bush, And mark'd you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observ'd your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion. 'Ay me!' says one. 'O Jove!' the other cries. One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other's eyes. [To LONGAVILLE] You would for paradise break faith and troth; [To Dumain] And Jove for your love would infringe an oath. What will Berowne say when that he shall hear Faith infringed which such zeal did swear? How will he scorn, how will he spend his wit! How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it! For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. BEROWNE. [Descending] Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy, Ah, good my liege, I pray thee pardon me. Good heart, what grace hast thou thus to reprove These worms for loving, that art most in love? Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears There is no certain princess that appears; You'll not be perjur'd; 'tis a hateful thing; Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting. But are you not ashamed? Nay, are you not, All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot? You found his mote; the King your mote did see; But I a beam do find in each of three. O, what a scene of fool'ry have I seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen! O, me, with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat! To see great Hercules whipping a gig, And profound Solomon to tune a jig, And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys! Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? And where my liege's? All about the breast. A caudle, ho! KING. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view? BEROWNE. Not you by me, but I betrayed to you. I that am honest, I that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in; I am betrayed by keeping company With men like you, men of inconstancy. When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme? Or groan for Joan? or spend a minute's time In pruning me? When shall you hear that I Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye, A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist, A leg, a limb- KING. Soft! whither away so fast? A true man or a thief that gallops so? BEROWNE. I post from love; good lover, let me go. Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD JAQUENETTA. God bless the King! KING. What present hast thou there? COSTARD. Some certain treason. KING. What makes treason here? COSTARD. Nay, it makes nothing, sir. KING. If it mar nothing neither, The treason and you go in peace away together. JAQUENETTA. I beseech your Grace, let this letter be read; Our person misdoubts it: 'twas treason, he said. KING. Berowne, read it over. [BEROWNE reads the letter] Where hadst thou it? JAQUENETTA. Of Costard. KING. Where hadst thou it? COSTARD. Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio. [BEROWNE tears the letter] KING. How now! What is in you? Why dost thou tear it? BEROWNE. A toy, my liege, a toy! Your Grace needs not fear it. LONGAVILLE. It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it. DUMAIN. It is Berowne's writing, and here is his name. [Gathering up the pieces] BEROWNE. [ To COSTARD] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess. KING. What? BEROWNE. That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess; He, he, and you- and you, my liege!- and I Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. DUMAIN. Now the number is even. BEROWNE. True, true, we are four. Will these turtles be gone? KING. Hence, sirs, away. COSTARD. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA BEROWNE. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born, Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. KING. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? BEROWNE. 'Did they?' quoth you. Who sees the heavenly Rosaline That, like a rude and savage man of Inde At the first op'ning of the gorgeous east, Bows not his vassal head and, strucken blind, Kisses the base ground with obedient breast? What peremptory eagle-sighted eye Dares look upon the heaven of her brow That is not blinded by her majesty? KING. What zeal, what fury hath inspir'd thee now? My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon; She, an attending star, scarce seen a light. BEROWNE. My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Berowne. O, but for my love, day would turn to night! Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek, Where several worthies make one dignity, Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek. Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues- Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not! To things of sale a seller's praise belongs: She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot. A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn, Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye. Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born, And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy. O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine! KING. By heaven, thy love is black as ebony. BEROWNE. Is ebony like her? O wood divine! A wife of such wood were felicity. O, who can give an oath? Where is a book? That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack, If that she learn not of her eye to look. No face is fair that is not full so black. KING. O paradox! Black is the badge of hell, The hue of dungeons, and the school of night; And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well. BEROWNE. Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light. O, if in black my lady's brows be deckt, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days; For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red that would avoid dispraise Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. DUMAIN. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. LONGAVILLE. And since her time are colliers counted bright. KING. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack. DUMAIN. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. BEROWNE. Your mistresses dare never come in rain For fear their colours should be wash'd away. KING. 'Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day. BEROWNE. I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. KING. No devil will fright thee then so much as she. DUMAIN. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. LONGAVILLE. Look, here's thy love: my foot and her face see. [Showing his shoe] BEROWNE. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread! DUMAIN. O vile! Then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walk'd overhead. KING. But what of this? Are we not all in love? BEROWNE. Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn. KING. Then leave this chat; and, good Berowne, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. DUMAIN. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil. LONGAVILLE. O, some authority how to proceed; Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil! DUMAIN. Some salve for perjury. BEROWNE. 'Tis more than need. Have at you, then, affection's men-at-arms. Consider what you first did swear unto: To fast, to study, and to see no woman- Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young, And abstinence engenders maladies. And, where that you you have vow'd to study, lords, In that each of you have forsworn his book, Can you still dream, and pore, and thereon look? For when would you, my lord, or you, or you, Have found the ground of study's excellence Without the beauty of a woman's face? From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They are the ground, the books, the academes, From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire. Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigour of the traveller. Now, for not looking on a woman's face, You have in that forsworn the use of eyes, And study too, the causer of your vow; For where is author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye? Learning is but an adjunct to ourself, And where we are our learning likewise is; Then when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes, With ourselves. Do we not likewise see our learning there? O, we have made a vow to study, lords, And in that vow we have forsworn our books. For when would you, my liege, or you, or you, In leaden contemplation have found out Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes Of beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with? Other slow arts entirely keep the brain; And therefore, finding barren practisers, Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil; But love, first learned in a lady's eyes, Lives not alone immured in the brain, But with the motion of all elements Courses as swift as thought in every power, And gives to every power a double power, Above their functions and their offices. It adds a precious seeing to the eye: A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind. A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound, When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd. Love's feeling is more soft and sensible Than are the tender horns of cockled snails: Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste. For valour, is not Love a Hercules, Still climbing trees in the Hesperides? Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair. And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony. Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temp'red with Love's sighs; O, then his lines would ravish savage ears, And plant in tyrants mild humility. From women's eyes this doctrine I derive. They sparkle still the right Promethean fire; They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain, and nourish, all the world, Else none at all in aught proves excellent. Then fools you were these women to forswear; Or, keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools. For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love; Or for Love's sake, a word that loves all men; Or for men's sake, the authors of these women; Or women's sake, by whom we men are men- Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves, Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths. It is religion to be thus forsworn; For charity itself fulfils the law, And who can sever love from charity? KING. Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field! BEROWNE. Advance your standards, and upon them, lords; Pell-mell, down with them! be first advis'd, In conflict, that you get the sun of them. LONGAVILLE. Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by. Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France? KING. And win them too; therefore let us devise Some entertainment for them in their tents. BEROWNE. First, from the park let us conduct them thither; Then homeward every man attach the hand Of his fair mistress. In the afternoon We will with some strange pastime solace them, Such as the shortness of the time can shape; For revels, dances, masks, and merry hours, Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers. KING. Away, away! No time shall be omitted That will betime, and may by us be fitted. BEROWNE. Allons! allons! Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn, And justice always whirls in equal measure. Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. The park Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL HOLOFERNES. Satis quod sufficit. NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir. Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this quondam day with a companion of the King's who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. Novi hominem tanquam te. His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [Draws out his table-book] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions; such rackers of orthography, as to speak 'dout' fine, when he should say 'doubt'; 'det' when he should pronounce 'debt'- d, e, b, t, not d, e, t. He clepeth a calf 'cauf,' half 'hauf'; neighbour vocatur 'nebour'; 'neigh' abbreviated 'ne.' This is abhominable- which he would call 'abbominable.' It insinuateth me of insanie: ne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. Laus Deo, bone intelligo. HOLOFERNES. 'Bone'?- 'bone' for 'bene.' Priscian a little scratch'd; 'twill serve. Enter ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD NATHANIEL. Videsne quis venit? HOLOFERNES. Video, et gaudeo. ARMADO. [To MOTH] Chirrah! HOLOFERNES. Quare 'chirrah,' not 'sirrah'? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encount'red. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [Aside to COSTARD] They have been at a great feast of languages and stol'n the scraps. COSTARD. O, they have liv'd long on the alms-basket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou are not so long by the head as honorificabilitudinitatibus; thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! the peal begins. ARMADO. [To HOLOFERNES] Monsieur, are you not lett'red? MOTH. Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a, b, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. Ba, pueritia, with a horn added. MOTH. Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. Quis, quis, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if You repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them: a, e, I- MOTH. The sheep; the other two concludes it: o, U. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit- snip, snap, quick and home. It rejoiceth my intellect. True wit! MOTH. Offer'd by a child to an old man; which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant; go whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy circum circa- a gig of a cuckold's horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy ginger-bread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me! Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers' ends, as they say. HOLOFERNES. O, I smell false Latin; 'dunghill' for unguem. ARMADO. Arts-man, preambulate; we will be singuled from the barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the charge-house on the top of the mountain? HOLOFERNES. Or mons, the hill. ARMADO. At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain. HOLOFERNES. I do, sans question. ARMADO. Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the Princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day; which the rude multitude call the afternoon. HOLOFERNES. The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is liable, congruent, and measurable, for the afternoon. The word is well cull'd, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy courtesy. I beseech thee, apparel thy head. And among other importunate and most serious designs, and of great import indeed, too- but let that pass; for I must tell thee it will please his Grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor shoulder, and with his royal finger thus dally with my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of travel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass. The very all of all is- but, sweet heart, I do implore secrecy- that the King would have me present the Princess, sweet chuck, with some delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or antic, or firework. Now, understanding that the curate and your sweet self are good at such eruptions and sudden breaking-out of mirth, as it were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to crave your assistance. HOLOFERNES. Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies. Sir Nathaniel, as concerning some entertainment of time, some show in the posterior of this day, to be rend'red by our assistance, the King's command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the Princess- I say none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself, Alexander; this gallant gentleman, Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the page, Hercules. ARMADO. Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for that Worthy's thumb; he is not so big as the end of his club. HOLOFERNES. Shall I have audience? He shall present Hercules in minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose. MOTH. An excellent device! So, if any of the audience hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules; now thou crushest the snake!' That is the way to make an offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it. ARMADO. For the rest of the Worthies? HOLOFERNES. I will play three myself. MOTH. Thrice-worthy gentleman! ARMADO. Shall I tell you a thing? HOLOFERNES. We attend. ARMADO. We will have, if this fadge not, an antic. I beseech you, follow. HOLOFERNES. Via, goodman Dull! Thou has spoken no word all this while. DULL. Nor understood none neither, sir. HOLOFERNES. Allons! we will employ thee. DULL. I'll make one in a dance, or so, or I will play On the tabor to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay. HOLOFERNES. Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away. Exeunt SCENE II. The park Enter the PRINCESS, MARIA, KATHARINE, and ROSALINE PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady wall'd about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving King. ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nothing but this! Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax; For he hath been five thousand year a boy. KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. ROSALINE. You'll ne'er be friends with him: 'a kill'd your sister. KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died. Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might 'a been a grandam ere she died. And so may you; for a light heart lives long. ROSALINE. What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word? KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark. ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out. KATHARINE. You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I'll darkly end the argument. ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i' th' dark. KATHARINE. So do not you; for you are a light wench. ROSALINE. Indeed, I weigh not you; and therefore light. KATHARINE. You weigh me not? O, that's you care not for me. ROSALINE. Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.' PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too? Who sent it? and what is it? ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great: be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numb'ring too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground. I am compar'd to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters; nothing in the praise. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Beauteous as ink- a good conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. Ware pencils, ho! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter: O that your face were not so full of O's! KATHARINE. A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumain? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Did he not send you twain? KATHARINE. Yes, madam; and, moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover; A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compil'd, profound simplicity. MARIA. This, and these pearl, to me sent Longaville; The letter is too long by half a mile. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short? MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I'll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th' week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So pertaunt-like would I o'ersway his state That he should be my fool, and I his fate. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd, As wit turn'd fool; folly, in wisdom hatch'd, Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school, And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool. ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity's revolt to wantonness. MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool'ry in the wise when wit doth dote, Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Enter BOYET PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O, I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her Grace? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Thy news, Boyet? BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! Encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguis'd, Armed in arguments; you'll be surpris'd. Muster your wits; stand in your own defence; Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Saint Dennis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say. BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour; When, lo, to interrupt my purpos'd rest, Toward that shade I might behold addrest The King and his companions; warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear- That, by and by, disguis'd they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page, That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage. Action and accent did they teach him there: 'Thus must thou speak' and 'thus thy body bear,' And ever and anon they made a doubt Presence majestical would put him out; 'For' quoth the King 'an angel shalt thou see; Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.' The boy replied 'An angel is not evil; I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.' With that all laugh'd, and clapp'd him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubb'd his elbow, thus, and fleer'd, and swore A better speech was never spoke before. Another with his finger and his thumb Cried 'Via! we will do't, come what will come.' The third he caper'd, and cried 'All goes well.' The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion's solemn tears. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. But what, but what, come they to visit us? BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparell'd thus, Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance; And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress; which they'll know By favours several which they did bestow. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And will they so? The gallants shall be task'd, For, ladies, we will every one be mask'd; And not a man of them shall have the grace, Despite of suit, to see a lady's face. Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear, And then the King will court thee for his dear; Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine, So shall Berowne take me for Rosaline. And change you favours too; so shall your loves Woo contrary, deceiv'd by these removes. ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight. KATHARINE. But, in this changing, what is your intent? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs. They do it but in mocking merriment, And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal Upon the next occasion that we meet With visages display'd to talk and greet. ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to't? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. No, to the death, we will not move a foot, Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace; But while 'tis spoke each turn away her face. BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out. There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown, To make theirs ours, and ours none but our own; So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they well mock'd depart away with shame. [Trumpet sounds within] BOYET. The trumpet sounds; be mask'd; the maskers come. [The LADIES mask] Enter BLACKAMOORS music, MOTH as Prologue, the KING and his LORDS as maskers, in the guise of Russians MOTH. All hail, the richest heauties on the earth! BOYET. Beauties no richer than rich taffeta. MOTH. A holy parcel of the fairest dames [The LADIES turn their backs to him] That ever turn'd their- backs- to mortal views! BEROWNE. Their eyes, villain, their eyes. MOTH. That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views! Out- BOYET. True; out indeed. MOTH. Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe Not to behold- BEROWNE. Once to behold, rogue. MOTH. Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes- with your sun-beamed eyes- BOYET. They will not answer to that epithet; You were best call it 'daughter-beamed eyes.' MOTH. They do not mark me, and that brings me out. BEROWNE. Is this your perfectness? Be gone, you rogue. Exit MOTH ROSALINE. What would these strangers? Know their minds, Boyet. If they do speak our language, 'tis our will That some plain man recount their purposes. Know what they would. BOYET. What would you with the Princess? BEROWNE. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. What would they, say they? BOYET. Nothing but peace and gentle visitation. ROSALINE. Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone. BOYET. She says you have it, and you may be gone. KING. Say to her we have measur'd many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. BOYET. They say that they have measur'd many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure, then, of one is eas'ly told. BOYET. If to come hither you have measur'd miles, And many miles, the Princess bids you tell How many inches doth fill up one mile. BEROWNE. Tell her we measure them by weary steps. BOYET. She hears herself. ROSALINE. How many weary steps Of many weary miles you have o'ergone Are numb'red in the travel of one mile? BEROWNE. We number nothing that we spend for you; Our duty is so rich, so infinite, That we may do it still without accompt. Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face, That we, like savages, may worship it. ROSALINE. My face is but a moon, and clouded too. KING. Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do. Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine, Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne. ROSALINE. O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter; Thou now requests but moonshine in the water. KING. Then in our measure do but vouchsafe one change. Thou bid'st me beg; this begging is not strange. ROSALINE. Play, music, then. Nay, you must do it soon. Not yet? No dance! Thus change I like the moon. KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged? ROSALINE. You took the moon at full; but now she's changed. KING. Yet still she is the Moon, and I the Man. The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it. ROSALINE. Our ears vouchsafe it. KING. But your legs should do it. ROSALINE. Since you are strangers, and come here by chance, We'll not be nice; take hands. We will not dance. KING. Why take we hands then? ROSALINE. Only to part friends. Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends. KING. More measure of this measure; be not nice. ROSALINE. We can afford no more at such a price. KING. Price you yourselves. What buys your company? ROSALINE. Your absence only. KING. That can never be. ROSALINE. Then cannot we be bought; and so adieu- Twice to your visor and half once to you. KING. If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat. ROSALINE. In private then. KING. I am best pleas'd with that. [They converse apart] BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three. BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey; well run dice! There's half a dozen sweets. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Seventh sweet, adieu! Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you. BEROWNE. One word in secret. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou grievest my gall. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Gall! bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [They converse apart] DUMAIN. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word? MARIA. Name it. DUMAIN. Fair lady- MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord- Take that for your fair lady. DUMAIN. Please it you, As much in private, and I'll bid adieu. [They converse apart] KATHARINE. What, was your vizard made without a tongue? LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. KATHARINE. O for your reason! Quickly, sir; I long. LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless vizard half. KATHARINE. 'Veal' quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf? LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady! KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf. LONGAVILLE. Let's part the word. KATHARINE. No, I'll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox. LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks! Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so. KATHARINE. Then die a calf, before your horns do grow. LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die. KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. [They converse apart] BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, Above the sense of sense; so sensible Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings, Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits. Exeunt KING, LORDS, and BLACKAMOORS PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves to-night? Or ever but in vizards show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases! The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumain was at my service, and his sword. 'No point' quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o'er his heart; And trow you what he call'd me? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Go, sickness as thou art! ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The King is my love sworn. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear: Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes; for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Will they return? BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows; Therefore, change favours; and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud: Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you'll be advis'd, Let's mock them still, as well known as disguis'd. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguis'd like Muscovites, in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw; the gallants are at hand. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land. Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA Re-enter the KING, BEROWNE, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in their proper habits KING. Fair sir, God save you! Where's the Princess? BOYET. Gone to her tent. Please it your Majesty Command me any service to her thither? KING. That she vouchsafe me audience for one word. BOYET. I will; and so will she, I know, my lord. Exit BEROWNE. This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease, And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit's pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes, and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve; Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. 'A can carve too, and lisp; why this is he That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy; This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms; nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering, Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet; The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flow'r that smiles on every one, To show his teeth as white as whales-bone; And consciences that will not die in debt Pay him the due of 'honey-tongued Boyet.' KING. A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart, That put Armado's page out of his part! Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET; ROSALINE, MARIA, and KATHARINE BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man show'd thee? And what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'Fair' in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Then wish me better; I will give you leave. KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow: Nor God, nor I, delights in perjur'd men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. You nickname virtue: vice you should have spoke; For virtue's office never breaks men's troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house's guest; So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O, you have liv'd in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear; We have had pastimes here, and pleasant game; A mess of Russians left us but of late. KING. How, madam! Russians! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Ay, in truth, my lord; Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord. My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit; here they stayed an hour And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord, They did not bless us with one happy word. I dare not call them fools; but this I think, When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink. BEROWNE. This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet, Your wit makes wise things foolish; when we greet, With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye, By light we lose light; your capacity Is of that nature that to your huge store Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor. ROSALINE. This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye- BEROWNE. I am a fool, and full of poverty. ROSALINE. But that you take what doth to you belong, It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue. BEROWNE. O, I am yours, and all that I possess. ROSALINE. All the fool mine? BEROWNE. I cannot give you less. ROSALINE. Which of the vizards was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where? when? what vizard? Why demand you this? ROSALINE. There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case That hid the worse and show'd the better face. KING. We were descried; they'll mock us now downright. DUMAIN. Let us confess, and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help, hold his brows! he'll swoon! Why look you pale? Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy. BEROWNE. Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury. Can any face of brass hold longer out? Here stand I, lady- dart thy skill at me, Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout, Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance, Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit; And I will wish thee never more to dance, Nor never more in Russian habit wait. O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd, Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue, Nor never come in vizard to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation, Figures pedantical- these summer-flies Have blown me full of maggot ostentation. I do forswear them; and I here protest, By this white glove- how white the hand, God knows!- Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes. And, to begin, wench- so God help me, law!- My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw. ROSALINE. Sans 'sans,' I pray you. BEROWNE. Yet I have a trick Of the old rage; bear with me, I am sick; I'll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see- Write 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three; They are infected; in their hearts it lies; They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes. These lords are visited; you are not free, For the Lord's tokens on you do I see. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo us. ROSALINE. It is not so; for how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? BEROWNE. Peace; for I will not have to do with you. ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves; my wit is at an end. KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguis'd? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. And were you well advis'd? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady's ear? KING. That more than all the world I did respect her. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Peace, peace, forbear; Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear? ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. KING. What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath. ROSALINE. By heaven, you did; and, to confirm it plain, You gave me this; but take it, sir, again. KING. My faith and this the Princess I did give; I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear; And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again? BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on't: here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd, Told our intents before; which once disclos'd, The ladies did change favours; and then we, Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn in will and error. Much upon this it is; [To BOYET] and might not you Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue? Do not you know my lady's foot by th' squier, And laugh upon the apple of her eye? And stand between her back, sir, and the fire, Holding a trencher, jesting merrily? You put our page out. Go, you are allow'd; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. BEROWNE. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace; I have done. Enter COSTARD Welcome, pure wit! Thou part'st a fair fray. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no? BEROWNE. What, are there but three? COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine. COSTARD. Not so, sir; under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know; I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir- BEROWNE. Is not nine. COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reck'ning, sir. BEROWNE. How much is it? COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir. BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies? COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompey the Great; for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy; but I am to stand for him. BEROWNE. Go, bid them prepare. COSTARD. We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care. Exit COSTARD KING. Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach. BEROWNE. We are shame-proof, my lord, and 'tis some policy To have one show worse than the King's and his company. KING. I say they shall not come. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how; Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Dies in the zeal of that which it presents. Their form confounded makes most form in mirth, When great things labouring perish in their birth. BEROWNE. A right description of our sport, my lord. Enter ARMADO ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [Converses apart with the KING, and delivers a paper] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. 'A speaks not like a man of God his making. ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too too vain, too too vain; but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement! Exit ARMADO KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Arinado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus. And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five. BEROWNE. There is five in the first show. KING. You are deceived, 'tis not so. BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy: Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter COSTARD, armed for POMPEY COSTARD. I Pompey am- BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he. COSTARD. I Pompey am- BOYET. With libbard's head on knee. BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker; I must needs be friends with thee. COSTARD. I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big- DUMAIN. The Great. COSTARD. It is Great, sir. Pompey surnam'd the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat; And travelling along this coast, I bere am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France. If your ladyship would say 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Great thanks, great Pompey. COSTARD. 'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in Great. BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. Enter SIR NATHANIEL, for ALEXANDER NATHANIEL. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander- BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right. BEROWNE. Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander. NATHANIEL. When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander- BOYET. Most true, 'tis right, you were so, Alisander. BEROWNE. Pompey the Great! COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard. BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. COSTARD. [To Sir Nathaniel] O, Sir, you have overthrown Alisander the conqueror! You will be scrap'd out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his poleaxe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror and afeard to speak! Run away for shame, Alisander. [Sir Nathaniel retires] There, an't shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dash'd. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander- alas! you see how 'tis- a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Stand aside, good Pompey. Enter HOLOFERNES, for JUDAS; and MOTH, for HERCULES HOLOFERNES. Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canus; And when be was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus. Quoniam he seemeth in minority, Ergo I come with this apology. Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [MOTH retires] Judas I am- DUMAIN. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus. DUMAIN. Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas. BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas? HOLOFERNES. Judas I am- DUMAIN. The more shame for you, Judas! HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir? BOYET. To make Judas hang himself. HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder. BEROWNE. Well followed: Judas was hanged on an elder. HOLOFERNES. I will not be put out of countenance. BEROWNE. Because thou hast no face. HOLOFERNES. What is this? BOYET. A cittern-head. DUMAIN. The head of a bodkin. BEROWNE. A death's face in a ring. LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. BOYET. The pommel of Coesar's falchion. DUMAIN. The carv'd-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE. Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAIN. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance. HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance. BEROWNE. False: we have given thee faces. HOLOFERNES. But you have outfac'd them all. BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion we would do so. BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude! Nay, why dost thou stay? DUMAIN. For the latter end of his name. BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude; give it him- Jud-as, away. HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble. [HOLOFERNES retires] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited! Enter ARMADO, for HECTOR BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles; here comes Hector in arms. DUMAIN. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. KING. Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this. BOYET. But is this Hector? DUMAIN. I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd. LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector's. DUMAIN. More calf, certain. BOYET. No; he is best indued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAIN. He's a god or a painter, for he makes faces. ARMADO. The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift- DUMAIN. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon. LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAIN. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight ye, From morn till night out of his pavilion. I am that flower- DUMAIN. That mint. LONGAVILLE. That columbine. ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. DUMAIN. Ay, and Hector's a greyhound. ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. [BEROWNE steps forth, and speaks to COSTARD] PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper. BOYET. [Aside to DUMAIN] Loves her by the foot. DUMAIN. [Aside to BOYET] He may not by the yard. ARMADO. This Hector far surmounted Hannibal- COSTARD. The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. ARMADO. What meanest thou? COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench is cast away. She's quick; the child brags in her belly already; 'tis yours. ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipt for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hang'd for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAIN. Most rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than Great! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAIN. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir them on! DUMAIN. Hector will challenge him. BEROWNE. Ay, if 'a have no more man's blood in his belly than will sup a flea. ARMADO. By the North Pole, I do challenge thee. COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a Northern man; I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. DUMAIN. Room for the incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I'll do it in my shirt. DUMAIN. Most resolute Pompey! MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAIN. You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for 't? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that 'a wears next his heart for a favour. Enter as messenger, MONSIEUR MARCADE MARCADE. God save you, madam! PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Welcome, Marcade; But that thou interruptest our merriment. MARCADE. I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Dead, for my life! MARCADE. Even so; my tale is told. BEROWNE. WOrthies away; the scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. Exeunt WORTHIES KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Boyet, prepare; I will away to-night. KING. Madam, not so; I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath- your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord. A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtain'd. KING. The extreme parts of time extremely forms All causes to the purpose of his speed; And often at his very loose decides That which long process could not arbitrate. And though the mourning brow of progeny Forbid the smiling courtesy of love The holy suit which fain it would convince, Yet, since love's argument was first on foot, Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it From what it purpos'd; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. I understand you not; my griefs are double. BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Play'd foul play with our oaths; your beauty, ladies, Hath much deformed us, fashioning our humours Even to the opposed end of our intents; And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous, As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain; Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye, Full of strange shapes, of habits, and of forms, Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll To every varied object in his glance; Which parti-coated presence of loose love Put on by us, if in your heavenly eyes Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false, By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both- fair ladies, you; And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. We have receiv'd your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And, in our maiden council, rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time; But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. DUMAIN. Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest. LONGAVILLE. So did our looks. ROSALINE. We did not quote them so. KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much, Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this, If for my love, as there is no such cause, You will do aught- this shall you do for me: Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed To some forlorn and naked hermitage, Remote from all the pleasures of the world; There stay until the twelve celestial signs Have brought about the annual reckoning. If this austere insociable life Change not your offer made in heat of blood, If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds, Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love, But that it bear this trial, and last love, Then, at the expiration of the year, Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts; And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine, I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut My woeful self up in a mournful house, Raining the tears of lamentation For the remembrance of my father's death. If this thou do deny, let our hands part, Neither intitled in the other's heart. KING. If this, or more than this, I would deny, To flatter up these powers of mine with rest, The sudden hand of death close up mine eye! Hence hermit then, my heart is in thy breast. BEROWNE. And what to me, my love? and what to me? ROSALINE. You must he purged too, your sins are rack'd; You are attaint with faults and perjury; Therefore, if you my favour mean to get, A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest, But seek the weary beds of people sick. DUMAIN. But what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife? KATHARINE. A beard, fair health, and honesty; With threefold love I wish you all these three. DUMAIN. O, shall I say I thank you, gentle wife? KATHARINE. No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some. DUMAIN. I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then. KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. LONGAVILLE. What says Maria? MARIA. At the twelvemonth's end I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend. LONGAVILLE. I'll stay with patience; but the time is long. MARIA. The liker you; few taller are so young. BEROWNE. Studies my lady? Mistress, look on me; Behold the window of my heart, mine eye, What humble suit attends thy answer there. Impose some service on me for thy love. ROSALINE. Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne, Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks, Full of comparisons and wounding flouts, Which you on all estates will execute That lie within the mercy of your wit. To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain, And therewithal to win me, if you please, Without the which I am not to be won, You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day Visit the speechless sick, and still converse With groaning wretches; and your task shall be, With all the fierce endeavour of your wit, To enforce the pained impotent to smile. BEROWNE. To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible; Mirth cannot move a soul in agony. ROSALINE. Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit, Whose influence is begot of that loose grace Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools. A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it; then, if sickly ears, Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal. But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. PRINCESS OF FRANCE. [ To the King] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave. KING. No, madam; we will bring you on your way. BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play: Jack hath not Jill. These ladies' courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth an' a day, And then 'twill end. BEROWNE. That's too long for a play. Re-enter ARMADO ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me- PRINCESS OF FRANCE. Was not that not Hector? DUMAIN. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary: I have vow'd to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three year. But, most esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in praise of the Owl and the Cuckoo? It should have followed in the end of our show. KING. Call them forth quickly; we will do so. ARMADO. Holla! approach. Enter All This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring- the one maintained by the Owl, th' other by the Cuckoo. Ver, begin. SPRING When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he: 'Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo'- O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! When shepherds pipe on oaten straws, And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks; When turtles tread, and rooks and daws, And maidens bleach their summer smocks; The cuckoo then on every tree Mocks married men, for thus sings he: 'Cuckoo; Cuckoo, cuckoo'- O word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear! WINTER When icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: 'Tu-who; Tu-whit, Tu-who'- A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, And Marian's nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl: 'Tu-who; Tu-whit, To-who'- A merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. ARMADO. The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. You that way: we this way. Exeunt THE END <> 1606 THE TRAGEDY OF MACBETH by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae DUNCAN, King of Scotland MACBETH, Thane of Glamis and Cawdor, a general in the King's army LADY MACBETH, his wife MACDUFF, Thane of Fife, a nobleman of Scotland LADY MACDUFF, his wife MALCOLM, elder son of Duncan DONALBAIN, younger son of Duncan BANQUO, Thane of Lochaber, a general in the King's army FLEANCE, his son LENNOX, nobleman of Scotland ROSS, nobleman of Scotland MENTEITH nobleman of Scotland ANGUS, nobleman of Scotland CAITHNESS, nobleman of Scotland SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, general of the English forces YOUNG SIWARD, his son SEYTON, attendant to Macbeth HECATE, Queen of the Witches The Three Witches Boy, Son of Macduff Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth An English Doctor A Scottish Doctor A Sergeant A Porter An Old Man The Ghost of Banquo and other Apparitions Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murtherers, Attendants, and Messengers <> SCENE: Scotland and England ACT I. SCENE I. A desert place. Thunder and lightning. Enter three Witches. FIRST WITCH. When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain? SECOND WITCH. When the hurlyburly's done, When the battle's lost and won. THIRD WITCH. That will be ere the set of sun. FIRST WITCH. Where the place? SECOND WITCH. Upon the heath. THIRD WITCH. There to meet with Macbeth. FIRST WITCH. I come, Graymalkin. ALL. Paddock calls. Anon! Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Hover through the fog and filthy air. Exeunt. SCENE II. A camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Sergeant. DUNCAN. What bloody man is that? He can report, As seemeth by his plight, of the revolt The newest state. MALCOLM. This is the sergeant Who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'Gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil As thou didst leave it. SERGEANT. Doubtful it stood, As two spent swimmers that do cling together And choke their art. The merciless Macdonwald- Worthy to be a rebel, for to that The multiplying villainies of nature Do swarm upon him -from the Western Isles Of kerns and gallowglasses is supplied; And Fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, Show'd like a rebel's whore. But all's too weak; For brave Macbeth -well he deserves that name- Disdaining Fortune, with his brandish'd steel, Which smoked with bloody execution, Like Valor's minion carved out his passage Till he faced the slave, Which ne'er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps, And fix'd his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! Worthy gentleman! SERGEANT. As whence the sun 'gins his reflection Shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break, So from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come Discomfort swells. Mark, King of Scotland, mark. No sooner justice had, with valor arm'd, Compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord, surveying vantage, With furbish'd arms and new supplies of men, Began a fresh assault. DUNCAN. Dismay'd not this Our captains, Macbeth and Banquo.? SERGEANT. Yes, As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharged with double cracks, So they Doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe. Except they meant to bathe in reeking wounds, Or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell- But I am faint; my gashes cry for help. DUNCAN. So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; They smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons. Exit Sergeant, attended. Who comes here? Enter Ross. MALCOLM The worthy Thane of Ross. LENNOX. What a haste looks through his eyes! So should he look That seems to speak things strange. ROSS. God save the King! DUNCAN. Whence camest thou, worthy Thane? ROSS. From Fife, great King, Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky And fan our people cold. Norway himself, with terrible numbers, Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismal conflict, Till that Bellona's bridegroom, lapp'd in proof, Confronted him with self-comparisons, Point against point rebellious, arm 'gainst arm, Curbing his lavish spirit; and, to conclude, The victory fell on us. DUNCAN. Great happiness! ROSS. That now Sweno, the Norways' king, craves composition; Nor would we deign him burial of his men Till he disbursed, at Saint Colme's Inch, Ten thousand dollars to our general use. DUNCAN. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceive Our bosom interest. Go pronounce his present death, And with his former title greet Macbeth. ROSS. I'll see it done. DUNCAN. What he hath lost, noble Macbeth hath won. Exeunt. SCENE III. A heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Where hast thou been, sister? SECOND WITCH. Killing swine. THIRD WITCH. Sister, where thou? FIRST WITCH. A sailor's wife had chestnuts in her lap, And mounch'd, and mounch'd, and mounch'd. "Give me," quoth I. "Aroint thee, witch!" the rump-fed ronyon cries. Her husband's to Aleppo gone, master the Tiger; But in a sieve I'll thither sail, And, like a rat without a tail, I'll do, I'll do, and I'll do. SECOND WITCH. I'll give thee a wind. FIRST WITCH. Thou'rt kind. THIRD WITCH. And I another. FIRST WITCH. I myself have all the other, And the very ports they blow, All the quarters that they know I' the shipman's card. I will drain him dry as hay: Sleep shall neither night nor day Hang upon his penthouse lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary se'nnights nine times nine Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine; Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-toss'd. Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot's thumb, Wreck'd as homeward he did come. Drum within. THIRD WITCH. A drum, a drum! Macbeth doth come. ALL. The weird sisters, hand in hand, Posters of the sea and land, Thus do go about, about, Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine, And thrice again, to make up nine. Peace! The charm's wound up. Enter Macbeth and Banquo. MACBETH. So foul and fair a day I have not seen. BANQUO. How far is't call'd to Forres? What are these So wither'd and so wild in their attire, That look not like the inhabitants o' the earth, And yet are on't? Live you? or are you aught That man may question? You seem to understand me, By each at once her choppy finger laying Upon her skinny lips. You should be women, And yet your beards forbid me to interpret That you are so. MACBETH. Speak, if you can. What are you? FIRST WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Glamis! SECOND WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, hail to thee, Thane of Cawdor! THIRD WITCH. All hail, Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter! BANQUO. Good sir, why do you start, and seem to fear Things that do sound so fair? I' the name of truth, Are ye fantastical or that indeed Which outwardly ye show? My noble partner You greet with present grace and great prediction Of noble having and of royal hope, That he seems rapt withal. To me you speak not. If you can look into the seeds of time, And say which grain will grow and which will not, Speak then to me, who neither beg nor fear Your favors nor your hate. FIRST WITCH. Hail! SECOND WITCH. Hail! THIRD WITCH. Hail! FIRST WITCH. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater. SECOND WITCH. Not so happy, yet much happier. THIRD WITCH. Thou shalt get kings, though thou be none. So all hail, Macbeth and Banquo! FIRST WITCH. Banquo and Macbeth, all hail! MACBETH. Stay, you imperfect speakers, tell me more. By Sinel's death I know I am Thane of Glamis; But how of Cawdor? The Thane of Cawdor lives, A prosperous gentleman; and to be King Stands not within the prospect of belief, No more than to be Cawdor. Say from whence You owe this strange intelligence, or why Upon this blasted heath you stop our way With such prophetic greeting? Speak, I charge you. Witches vanish. BANQUO. The earth hath bubbles as the water has, And these are of them. Whither are they vanish'd? MACBETH. Into the air, and what seem'd corporal melted As breath into the wind. Would they had stay'd! BANQUO. Were such things here as we do speak about? Or have we eaten on the insane root That takes the reason prisoner? MACBETH. Your children shall be kings. BANQUO. You shall be King. MACBETH. And Thane of Cawdor too. Went it not so? BANQUO. To the selfsame tune and words. Who's here? Enter Ross and Angus. ROSS. The King hath happily received, Macbeth, The news of thy success; and when he reads Thy personal venture in the rebels' fight, His wonders and his praises do contend Which should be thine or his. Silenced with that, In viewing o'er the rest o' the selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as hail Came post with post, and every one did bear Thy praises in his kingdom's great defense, And pour'd them down before him. ANGUS. We are sent To give thee, from our royal master, thanks; Only to herald thee into his sight, Not pay thee. ROSS. And for an earnest of a greater honor, He bade me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor. In which addition, hail, most worthy Thane, For it is thine. BANQUO. What, can the devil speak true? MACBETH. The Thane of Cawdor lives. Why do you dress me In borrow'd robes? ANGUS. Who was the Thane lives yet, But under heavy judgement bears that life Which he deserves to lose. Whether he was combined With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labor'd in his country's wreck, I know not; But treasons capital, confess'd and proved, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [Aside.] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor! The greatest is behind. [To Ross and Angus] Thanks for your pains. [Aside to Banquo] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promised no less to them? BANQUO. [Aside to Macbeth.] That, trusted home, Might yet enkindle you unto the crown, Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange; And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence- Cousins, a word, I pray you. MACBETH. [Aside.] Two truths are told, As happy prologues to the swelling act Of the imperial theme-I thank you, gentlemen. [Aside.] This supernatural soliciting Cannot be ill, cannot be good. If ill, Why hath it given me earnest of success, Commencing in a truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If good, why do I yield to that suggestion Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair And make my seated heart knock at my ribs, Against the use of nature? Present fears Are less than horrible imaginings: My thought, whose murther yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man that function Is smother'd in surmise, and nothing is But what is not. BANQUO. Look, how our partner's rapt. MACBETH. [Aside.] If chance will have me King, why, chance may crown me Without my stir. BANQUO. New honors come upon him, Like our strange garments, cleave not to their mould But with the aid of use. MACBETH. [Aside.] Come what come may, Time and the hour runs through the roughest day. BANQUO. Worthy Macbeth, we stay upon your leisure. MACBETH. Give me your favor; my dull brain was wrought With things forgotten. Kind gentlemen, your pains Are register'd where every day I turn The leaf to read them. Let us toward the King. Think upon what hath chanced, and at more time, The interim having weigh'd it, let us speak Our free hearts each to other. BANQUO. Very gladly. MACBETH. Till then, enough. Come, friends. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Forres. The palace. Flourish. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, and Attendants. DUNCAN. Is execution done on Cawdor? Are not Those in commission yet return'd? MALCOLM. My liege, They are not yet come back. But I have spoke With one that saw him die, who did report That very frankly he confess'd his treasons, Implored your Highness' pardon, and set forth A deep repentance. Nothing in his life Became him like the leaving it; he died As one that had been studied in his death, To throw away the dearest thing he owed As 'twere a careless trifle. DUNCAN. There's no art To find the mind's construction in the face: He was a gentleman on whom I built An absolute trust. Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Ross, and Angus. O worthiest cousin! The sin of my ingratitude even now Was heavy on me. Thou art so far before, That swiftest wing of recompense is slow To overtake thee. Would thou hadst less deserved, That the proportion both of thanks and payment Might have been mine! Only I have left to say, More is thy due than more than all can pay. MACBETH. The service and the loyalty lowe, In doing it, pays itself. Your Highness' part Is to receive our duties, and our duties Are to your throne and state, children and servants, Which do but what they should, by doing everything Safe toward your love and honor. DUNCAN. Welcome hither. I have begun to plant thee, and will labor To make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserved, nor must be known No less to have done so; let me infold thee And hold thee to my heart. BANQUO. There if I grow, The harvest is your own. DUNCAN. My plenteous joys, Wanton in fullness, seek to hide themselves In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes, And you whose places are the nearest, know We will establish our estate upon Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter The Prince of Cumberland; which honor must Not unaccompanied invest him only, But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine On all deservers. From hence to Inverness, And bind us further to you. MACBETH. The rest is labor, which is not used for you. I'll be myself the harbinger, and make joyful The hearing of my wife with your approach; So humbly take my leave. DUNCAN. My worthy Cawdor! MACBETH. [Aside.] The Prince of Cumberland! That is a step On which I must fall down, or else o'erleap, For in my way it lies. Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires. The eye wink at the hand; yet let that be Which the eye fears, when it is done, to see. Exit. DUNCAN. True, worthy Banquo! He is full so valiant, And in his commendations I am fed; It is a banquet to me. Let's after him, Whose care is gone before to bid us welcome. It is a peerless kinsman. Flourish. Exeunt. SCENE V. Inverness. Macbeth's castle. Enter Lady Macbeth, reading a letter. LADY MACBETH. "They met me in the day of success, and I have learned by the perfectest report they have more in them than mortal knowledge. When I burned in desire to question them further, they made themselves air, into which they vanished. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came missives from the King, who all-hailed me 'Thane of Cawdor'; by which title, before, these weird sisters saluted me and referred me to the coming on of time with 'Hail, King that shalt be!' This have I thought good to deliver thee, my dearest partner of greatness, that thou mightst not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promised thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell." Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be What thou art promised. Yet do I fear thy nature. It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way. Thou wouldst be great; Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it. What thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win. Thou'ldst have, great Glamis, That which cries, "Thus thou must do, if thou have it; And that which rather thou dost fear to do Than wishest should be undone." Hie thee hither, That I may pour my spirits in thine ear, And chastise with the valor of my tongue All that impedes thee from the golden round, Which fate and metaphysical aid doth seem To have thee crown'd withal. Enter a Messenger. What is your tidings? MESSENGER. The King comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. Thou'rt mad to say it! Is not thy master with him? who, were't so, Would have inform'd for preparation. MESSENGER. So please you, it is true; our Thane is coming. One of my fellows had the speed of him, Who, almost dead for breath, had scarcely more Than would make up his message. LADY MACBETH. Give him tending; He brings great news. Exit Messenger. The raven himself is hoarse That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan Under my battlements. Come, you spirits That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood, Stop up the access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose nor keep peace between The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murthering ministers, Wherever in your sightless substances You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night, And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell That my keen knife see not the wound it makes Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark To cry, "Hold, hold!" Enter Macbeth. Great Glamis! Worthy Cawdor! Greater than both, by the all-hail hereafter! Thy letters have transported me beyond This ignorant present, and I feel now The future in the instant. MACBETH. My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight. LADY MACBETH. And when goes hence? MACBETH. Tomorrow, as he purposes. LADY MACBETH. O, never Shall sun that morrow see! Your face, my Thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time; bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue; look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it. He that's coming Must be provided for; and you shall put This night's great business into my dispatch, Which shall to all our nights and days to come Give solely sovereign sway and masterdom. MACBETH. We will speak further. LADY MACBETH. Only look up clear; To alter favor ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. Exeunt. SCENE VI. Before Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Banquo, Lennox, Macduff, Ross, Angus, and Attendants. DUNCAN. This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself Unto our gentle senses. BANQUO. This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendant bed and procreant cradle; Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. DUNCAN. See, see, our honor'd hostess! The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, Which still we thank as love. Herein I teach you How you shall bid God 'ield us for your pains, And thank us for your trouble. LADY MACBETH. All our service In every point twice done, and then done double, Were poor and single business to contend Against those honors deep and broad wherewith Your Majesty loads our house. For those of old, And the late dignities heap'd up to them, We rest your hermits. DUNCAN. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We coursed him at the heels and had a purpose To be his purveyor; but he rides well, And his great love, sharp as his spur, hath holp him To his home before us. Fair and noble hostess, We are your guest tonight. LADY MACBETH. Your servants ever Have theirs, themselves, and what is theirs, in compt, To make their audit at your Highness' pleasure, Still to return your own. DUNCAN. Give me your hand; Conduct me to mine host. We love him highly, And shall continue our graces towards him. By your leave, hostess. Exeunt. SCENE VII Macbeth's castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service, who pass over the stage. Then enter Macbeth. MACBETH. If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well It were done quickly. If the assassination Could trammel up the consequence, and catch, With his surcease, success; that but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all -here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases We still have judgement here, that we but teach Bloody instructions, which being taught return To plague the inventor. This even-handed justice Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice To our own lips. He's here in double trust: First, as I am his kinsman and his subject, Strong both against the deed; then, as his host, Who should against his murtherer shut the door, Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been So clear in his great office, that his virtues Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued against The deep damnation of his taking-off, And pity, like a naked new-born babe Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubin horsed Upon the sightless couriers of the air, Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye, That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur To prick the sides of my intent, but only Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself And falls on the other. Enter Lady Macbeth. How now, what news? LADY MACBETH. He has almost supp'd. Why have you left the chamber? MACBETH. Hath he ask'd for me? LADY MACBETH. Know you not he has? MACBETH. We will proceed no further in this business: He hath honor'd me of late, and I have bought Golden opinions from all sorts of people, Which would be worn now in their newest gloss, Not cast aside so soon. LADY MACBETH. Was the hope drunk Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now, to look so green and pale At what it did so freely? From this time Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting "I dare not" wait upon "I would" Like the poor cat i' the adage? MACBETH. Prithee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast wast then That made you break this enterprise to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man, And, to be more than what you were, you would Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place Did then adhere, and yet you would make both. They have made themselves, and that their fitness now Does unmake you. I have given suck and know How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me- I would, while it was smiling in my face, Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums And dash'd the brains out had I so sworn as you Have done to this. MACBETH. If we should fail? LADY MACBETH. We fail? But screw your courage to the sticking-place And we'll not fail. When Duncan is asleep- Whereto the rather shall his day's hard journey Soundly invite him- his two chamberlains Will I with wine and wassail so convince That memory, the warder of the brain, Shall be a fume and the receipt of reason A limbeck only. When in swinish sleep Their drenched natures lie as in a death, What cannot you and I perform upon The unguarded Duncan? What not put upon His spongy officers, who shall bear the guilt Of our great quell? MACBETH. Bring forth men-children only, For thy undaunted mettle should compose Nothing but males. Will it not be received, When we have mark'd with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber and used their very daggers, That they have done't? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamor roar Upon his death? MACBETH. I am settled and bend up Each corporal agent to this terrible feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show: False face must hide what the false heart doth know. Exeunt. <> ACT II. SCENE I. Inverness. Court of Macbeth's castle. Enter Banquo and Fleance, bearing a torch before him. BANQUO. How goes the night, boy? FLEANCE. The moon is down; I have not heard the clock. BANQUO. And she goes down at twelve. FLEANCE. I take't 'tis later, sir. BANQUO. Hold, take my sword. There's husbandry in heaven, Their candles are all out. Take thee that too. A heavy summons lies like lead upon me, And yet I would not sleep. Merciful powers, Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature Gives way to in repose! Enter Macbeth and a Servant with a torch. Give me my sword. Who's there? MACBETH. A friend. BANQUO. What, sir, not yet at rest? The King's abed. He hath been in unusual pleasure and Sent forth great largess to your offices. This diamond he greets your wife withal, By the name of most kind hostess, and shut up In measureless content. MACBETH. Being unprepared, Our will became the servant to defect, Which else should free have wrought. BANQUO. All's well. I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters: To you they have show'd some truth. MACBETH. I think not of them; Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve, We would spend it in some words upon that business, If you would grant the time. BANQUO. At your kind'st leisure. MACBETH. If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis, It shall make honor for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchised and allegiance clear, I shall be counsel'd. MACBETH. Good repose the while. BANQUO. Thanks, sir, the like to you. Exeunt Banquo. and Fleance. MACBETH. Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed. Exit Servant. Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable As this which now I draw. Thou marshal'st me the way that I was going, And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses, Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still, And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood, Which was not so before. There's no such thing: It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd Murther, Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf, Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace, With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth, Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear Thy very stones prate of my whereabout, And take the present horror from the time, Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives; Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives. A bell rings. I go, and it is done; the bell invites me. Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell That summons thee to heaven, or to hell. Exit. SCENE II. The same. Enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold; What hath quench'd them hath given me fire. Hark! Peace! It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman, Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it: The doors are open, and the surfeited grooms Do mock their charge with snores. I have drugg'd their possets That death and nature do contend about them, Whether they live or die. MACBETH. [Within.] Who's there' what, ho! LADY MACBETH. Alack, I am afraid they have awaked And 'tis not done. The attempt and not the deed Confounds us. Hark! I laid their daggers ready; He could not miss 'em. Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done't. Enter Macbeth, My husband! MACBETH. I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise? LADY MACBETH. I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry. Did not you speak? MACBETH. When? LADY MACBETH. Now. MACBETH. As I descended? LADY MACBETH. Ay. MACBETH. Hark! Who lies i' the second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [Looks on his hands. LADY MACBETH. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight. MACBETH. There's one did laugh in 's sleep, and one cried, "Murther!" That they did wake each other. I stood and heard them, But they did say their prayers and address'd them Again to sleep. LADY MACBETH. There are two lodged together. MACBETH. One cried, "God bless us!" and "Amen" the other, As they had seen me with these hangman's hands. Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen," When they did say, "God bless us!" LADY MACBETH. Consider it not so deeply. MACBETH. But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"? I had most need of blessing, and "Amen" Stuck in my throat. LADY MACBETH. These deeds must not be thought After these ways; so, it will make us mad. MACBETH. I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more! Macbeth does murther sleep" -the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravel'd sleave of care, The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast- LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house; "Glamis hath murther'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor Shall sleep no more. Macbeth shall sleep no more." LADY MACBETH. Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy Thane, You do unbend your noble strength, to think So brainsickly of things. Go, get some water And wash this filthy witness from your hand. Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there. Go carry them, and smear The sleepy grooms with blood. MACBETH. I'll go no more. I am afraid to think what I have done; Look on't again I dare not. LADY MACBETH. Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers. The sleeping and the dead Are but as pictures; 'tis the eye of childhood That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed, I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal, For it must seem their guilt. Exit. Knocking within. MACBETH. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when every noise appals me? What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes! Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather The multitudinous seas incarnadine, Making the green one red. Re-enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. My hands are of your color, but I shame To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking At the south entry. Retire we to our chamber. A little water clears us of this deed. How easy is it then! Your constancy Hath left you unattended. [Knocking within.] Hark, more knocking. Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us And show us to be watchers. Be not lost So poorly in your thoughts. MACBETH. To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. Knocking within. Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst! Exeunt. SCENE III. The same. Enter a Porter. Knocking within. PORTER. Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of Hell Gate, he should have old turning the key. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged himself on th' expectation of plenty. Come in time! Have napkins enow about you; here you'll sweat fort. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Who's there, in th' other devil's name? Faith, here's an equivocator that could swear in both the scales against either scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate to heaven. O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come hither, for stealing out of a French hose. Come in, tailor; here you may roast your goose. [Knocking within.] Knock, knock! Never at quiet! What are you? But this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter it no further. I had thought to have let in some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire. [Knocking within.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter. Opens the gate. Enter Macduff and Lennox. MACDUFF. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed, That you do lie so late? PORTER. Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock; and drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things. MACDUFF. What three things does drink especially provoke? PORTER. Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes and unprovokes: it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him and disheartens him; makes him stand to and not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie, leaves him. MACDUFF. I believe drink gave thee the lie last night. PORTER. That it did, sir, i' the very throat on me; but requited him for his lie, and, I think, being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth. Our knocking has awaked him; here he comes. LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir. MACBETH. morrow, both. MACDUFF. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane? MACBETH. Not yet. MACDUFF. He did command me to call timely on him; I have almost slipp'd the hour. MACBETH. I'll bring you to him. MACDUFF. I know this is a joyful trouble to you, But yet 'tis one. MACBETH. The labor we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF I'll make so bold to call, For 'tis my limited service. Exit. LENNOX. Goes the King hence today? MACBETH. He does; he did appoint so. LENNOX. The night has been unruly. Where we lay, Our chimneys were blown down, and, as they say, Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death, And prophesying with accents terrible Of dire combustion and confused events New hatch'd to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamor'd the livelong night. Some say the earth Was feverous and did shake. MACBETH. 'Twas a rough fight. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. Re-enter Macduff. MACDUFF. O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee. MACBETH. LENNOX. What's the matter? MACDUFF. Confusion now hath made his masterpiece. Most sacrilegious murther hath broke ope The Lord's anointed temple and stole thence The life o' the building. MACBETH. What is't you say? the life? LENNOX. Mean you his Majesty? MACDUFF. Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight With a new Gorgon. Do not bid me speak; See, and then speak yourselves. Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox. Awake, awake! Ring the alarum bell. Murther and treason! Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm, awake! Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit, And look on death itself! Up, up, and see The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo! As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites To countenance this horror! Ring the bell. Bell rings. Enter Lady Macbeth. LADY MACBETH. What's the business, That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley The sleepers of the house? Speak, speak! MACDUFF. O gentle lady, 'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak: The repetition in a woman's ear Would murther as it fell. Enter Banquo. O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master's murther'd. LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere. Dear Duff, I prithee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross. MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had lived a blessed time, for from this instant There's nothing serious in mortality. All is but toys; renown and grace is dead, The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of. Enter Malcolm and Donalbain. DONALBAIN. What is amiss? MACBETH. You are, and do not know't. The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood Is stopped, the very source of it is stopp'd. MACDUFF. Your royal father's murther'd. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't. Their hands and faces were all badged with blood; So were their daggers, which unwiped we found Upon their pillows. They stared, and were distracted; no man's life Was to be trusted with them. MACBETH. O, yet I do repent me of my fury, That I did kill them. MACDUFF. Wherefore did you so? MACBETH. Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man. The expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin laced with his golden blood, And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature For ruin's wasteful entrance; there, the murtherers, Steep'd in the colors of their trade, their daggers Unmannerly breech'd with gore. Who could refrain, That had a heart to love, and in that heart Courage to make 's love known? LADY MACBETH. Help me hence, ho! MACDUFF. Look to the lady. MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. [Aside to Malcolm.] What should be spoken here, where our fate, Hid in an auger hole, may rush and seize us? Let's away, Our tears are not yet brew'd. MALCOLM. [Aside to Donalbain.] Nor our strong sorrow Upon the foot of motion. BANQUO. Look to the lady. Lady Macbeth is carried out. And when we have our naked frailties hid, That suffer in exposure, let us meet And question this most bloody piece of work To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us. In the great hand of God I stand, and thence Against the undivulged pretense I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let's briefly put on manly readiness And meet i' the hall together. ALL. Well contented. Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain. MALCOLM. What will you do? Let's not consort with them. To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy. I'll to England. DONALBAIN. To Ireland, I; our separated fortune Shall keep us both the safer. Where we are There's daggers in men's smiles; the near in blood, The nearer bloody. MALCOLM. This murtherous shaft that's shot Hath not yet lighted, and our safest way Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse; And let us not be dainty of leave-taking, But shift away. There's warrant in that theft Which steals itself when there's no mercy left. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Outside Macbeth's castle. Enter Ross with an Old Man. OLD MAN. Threescore and ten I can remember well, Within the volume of which time I have seen Hours dreadful and things strange, but this sore night Hath trifled former knowings. ROSS. Ah, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man's act, Threaten his bloody stage. By the clock 'tis day, And yet dark night strangles the traveling lamp. Is't night's predominance, or the day's shame, That darkness does the face of earth entomb, When living light should kiss it? OLD MAN. 'Tis unnatural, Even like the deed that's done. On Tuesday last A falcon towering in her pride of place Was by a mousing owl hawk'd at and kill'd. ROSS. And Duncan's horses-a thing most strange and certain- Beauteous and swift, the minions of their race, Turn'd wild in nature, broke their stalls, flung out, Contending 'gainst obedience, as they would make War with mankind. OLD MAN. 'Tis said they eat each other. ROSS. They did so, to the amazement of mine eyes That look'd upon't. Enter Macduff. Here comes the good Macduff. How goes the world, sir, now? MACDUFF. Why, see you not? ROSS. Is't known who did this more than bloody deed? MACDUFF. Those that Macbeth hath slain. ROSS. Alas, the day! What good could they pretend? MACDUFF. They were suborn'd: Malcolm and Donalbain, the King's two sons, Are stol'n away and fled, which puts upon them Suspicion of the deed. ROSS. 'Gainst nature still! Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means! Then 'tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already named, and gone to Scone To be invested. ROSS. Where is Duncan's body? MACDUFF. Carried to Colmekill, The sacred storehouse of his predecessors And guardian of their bones. ROSS. Will you to Scone? MACDUFF. No, cousin, I'll to Fife. ROSS. Well, I will thither. MACDUFF. Well, may you see things well done there. Adieu, Lest our old robes sit easier than our new! ROSS. Farewell, father. OLD MAN. God's benison go with you and with those That would make good of bad and friends of foes! Exeunt. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Forres. The palace. Enter Banquo. BANQUO. Thou hast it now: King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the weird women promised, and I fear Thou play'dst most foully for't; yet it was said It should not stand in thy posterity, But that myself should be the root and father Of many kings. If there come truth from them (As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine) Why, by the verities on thee made good, May they not be my oracles as well And set me up in hope? But hush, no more. Sennet sounds. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen, Lennox, Ross, Lords, Ladies, and Attendants. MACBETH. Here's our chief guest. LADY MACBETH. If he had been forgotten, It had been as a gap in our great feast And all thing unbecoming. MACBETH. Tonight we hold a solemn supper, sir, And I'll request your presence. BANQUO. Let your Highness Command upon me, to the which my duties Are with a most indissoluble tie Forever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desired your good advice, Which still hath been both grave and prosperous In this day's council; but we'll take tomorrow. Is't far you ride'! BANQUO. As far, my lord, as will fill up the time 'Twixt this and supper. Go not my horse the better, I must become a borrower of the night For a dark hour or twain. MACBETH. Fail not our feast. BANQUO. My lord, I will not. MACBETH. We hear our bloody cousins are bestow'd In England and in Ireland, not confessing Their cruel parricide, filling their hearers With strange invention. But of that tomorrow, When therewithal we shall have cause of state Craving us jointly. Hie you to horse; adieu, Till you return at night. Goes Fleance with you? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. Our time does call upon 's. MACBETH. I wish your horses swift and sure of foot, And so I do commend you to their backs. Farewell. Exit Banquo. Let every man be master of his time Till seven at night; to make society The sweeter welcome, we will keep ourself Till supper time alone. While then, God be with you! Exeunt all but Macbeth and an Attendant. Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure? ATTENDANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. Exit Attendant. To be thus is nothing, But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo. Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature Reigns that which would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares, And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valor To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear; and under him My genius is rebuked, as it is said Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sisters When first they put the name of King upon me And bade them speak to him; then prophet-like They hail'd him father to a line of kings. Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown And put a barren sceptre in my gripe, Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand, No son of mine succeeding. If't be so, For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind, For them the gracious Duncan have I murther'd, Put rancors in the vessel of my peace Only for them, and mine eternal jewel Given to the common enemy of man, To make them kings -the seed of Banquo kings! Rather than so, come, Fate, into the list, And champion me to the utterance! Who's there? Re-enter Attendant, with two Murtherers. Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. Exit Attendant. Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURTHERER. It was, so please your Highness. MACBETH. Well then, now Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know That it was he in the times past which held you So under fortune, which you thought had been Our innocent self? This I made good to you In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you: How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments, Who wrought with them, and all things else that might To half a soul and to a notion crazed Say, "Thus did Banquo." FIRST MURTHERER. You made it known to us. MACBETH. I did so, and went further, which is now Our point of second meeting. Do you find Your patience so predominant in your nature, That you can let this go? Are you so gospel'd, To pray for this good man and for his issue, Whose heavy hand hath bow'd you to the grave And beggar'd yours forever? FIRST MURTHERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men, As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, waterrugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs. The valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him closed, whereby he does receive Particular addition, from the bill That writes them all alike; and so of men. Now if you have a station in the file, Not i' the worst rank of manhood, say it, And I will put that business in your bosoms Whose execution takes your enemy off, Grapples you to the heart and love of us, Who wear our health but sickly in his life, Which in his death were perfect. SECOND MURTHERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURTHERER. And I another So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend it or be rid on't. MACBETH. Both of you Know Banquo was your enemy. BOTH MURTHERERS. True, my lord. MACBETH. So is he mine, and in such bloody distance That every minute of his being thrusts Against my near'st of life; and though I could With barefaced power sweep him from my sight And bid my will avouch it, yet I must not, For certain friends that are both his and mine, Whose loves I may not drop, but wail his fall Who I myself struck down. And thence it is That I to your assistance do make love, Masking the business from the common eye For sundry weighty reasons. SECOND MURTHERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURTHERER. Though our lives- MACBETH. Your spirits shine through you. Within this hour at most I will advise you where to plant yourselves, Acquaint you with the perfect spy o' the time, The moment on't; fort must be done tonight And something from the palace (always thought That I require a clearness); and with him- To leave no rubs nor botches in the work- Fleance his son, that keeps him company, Whose absence is no less material to me Than is his father's, must embrace the fate Of that dark hour. Resolve yourselves apart; I'll come to you anon. BOTH MURTHERERS. We are resolved, my lord. MACBETH. I'll call upon you straight. Abide within. Exeunt Murtherers. It is concluded: Banquo, thy soul's flight, If it find heaven, must find it out tonight. Exit. SCENE II. The palace. Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant. LADY MACBETH. Is Banquo gone from court? SERVANT. Ay, madam, but returns again tonight. LADY MACBETH. Say to the King I would attend his leisure For a few words. SERVANT. Madam, I will. Exit. LADY MACBETH. Nought's had, all's spent, Where our desire is got without content. 'Tis safer to be that which we destroy Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Enter Macbeth. How now, my lord? Why do you keep alone, Of sorriest fancies your companions making, Using those thoughts which should indeed have died With them they think on? Things without all remedy Should be without regard. What's done is done. MACBETH. We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it. She'll close and be herself, whilst our poor malice Remains in danger of her former tooth. But let the frame of things disjoint, both the worlds suffer, Ere we will eat our meal in fear and sleep In the affliction of these terrible dreams That shake us nightly. Better be with the dead, Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave; After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst; nor steel, nor poison, Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing, Can touch him further. LADY MACBETH. Come on, Gentle my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks; Be bright and jovial among your guests tonight. MACBETH. So shall I, love, and so, I pray, be you. Let your remembrance apply to Banquo; Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue: Unsafe the while, that we Must lave our honors in these flattering streams, And make our faces vizards to our hearts, Disguising what they are. LADY MACBETH. You must leave this. MACBETH. O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife! Thou know'st that Banquo and his Fleance lives. LADY MACBETH. But in them nature's copy's not eterne. MACBETH. There's comfort yet; they are assailable. Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons The shard-borne beetle with his drowsy hums Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done A deed of dreadful note. LADY MACBETH. What's to be done? MACBETH. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale! Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to the rooky wood; Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvel'st at my words, but hold thee still: Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, prithee, go with me. Exeunt. SCENE III. A park near the palace. Enter three Murtherers. FIRST MURTHERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURTHERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURTHERER. He needs not our mistrust, since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURTHERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day; Now spurs the lated traveler apace To gain the timely inn, and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURTHERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [Within.] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURTHERER. Then 'tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i' the court. FIRST MURTHERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURTHERER. Almost a mile, but he does usually- So all men do -from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. SECOND MURTHERER. A light, a light! Enter Banquo, and Fleance with a torch. THIRD MURTHERER. 'Tis he. FIRST MURTHERER. Stand to't. BANQUO. It will be rain tonight. FIRST MURTHERER. Let it come down. They set upon Banquo. BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge. O slave! Dies. Fleance escapes. THIRD MURTHERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURTHERER. Wast not the way? THIRD MURTHERER. There's but one down; the son is fled. SECOND MURTHERER. We have lost Best half of our affair. FIRST MURTHERER. Well, let's away and say how much is done. Exeunt. SCENE IV. A Hall in the palace. A banquet prepared. Enter Macbeth, Lady Macbeth, Ross, Lennox, Lords, and Attendants. MACBETH. You know your own degrees; sit down. At first And last the hearty welcome. LORDS. Thanks to your Majesty. MACBETH. Ourself will mingle with society And play the humble host. Our hostess keeps her state, but in best time We will require her welcome. LADY MACBETH. Pronounce it for me, sir, to all our friends, For my heart speaks they are welcome. Enter first Murtherer to the door. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts' thanks. Both sides are even; here I'll sit i' the midst. Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round. [Approaches the door.] There's blood upon thy face. MURTHERER. 'Tis Banquo's then. MACBETH. 'Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatch'd? MURTHERER. My lord, his throat is cut; that I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o' the cut-throats! Yet he's good That did the like for Fleance. If thou didst it, Thou art the nonpareil. MURTHERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is 'scaped. MACBETH. [Aside.] Then comes my fit again. I had else been perfect, Whole as the marble, founded as the rock, As broad and general as the casing air; But now I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confin'd, bound in To saucy doubts and fears -But Banquo's safe? MURTHERER. Ay, my good lord. Safe in a ditch he bides, With twenty trenched gashes on his head, The least a death to nature. MACBETH. Thanks for that. There the grown serpent lies; the worm that's fled Hath nature that in time will venom breed, No teeth for the present. Get thee gone. Tomorrow We'll hear ourselves again. Exit Murtherer. LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer. The feast is sold That is not often vouch'd, while 'tis amaking, 'Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer! Now good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May't please your Highness sit. The Ghost of Banquo enters and sits in Macbeth's place. MACBETH. Here had we now our country's honor roof'd, Were the graced person of our Banquo present, Who may I rather challenge for unkindness Than pity for mischance! ROSS. His absence, sir, Lays blame upon his promise. Please't your Highness To grace us with your royal company? MACBETH. The table's full. LENNOX. Here is a place reserved, sir. MACBETH. Where? LENNOX. Here, my good lord. What is't that moves your Highness? MACBETH. Which of you have done this? LORDS. What, my good lord? MACBETH. Thou canst not say I did it; never shake Thy gory locks at me. ROSS. Gentlemen, rise; his Highness is well. LADY MACBETH. Sit, worthy friends; my lord is often thus, And hath been from his youth. Pray you, keep seat. The fit is momentary; upon a thought He will again be well. If much you note him, You shall offend him and extend his passion. Feed, and regard him not-Are you a man? MACBETH. Ay, and a bold one, that dare look on that Which might appal the devil. LADY MACBETH. O proper stuff! This is the very painting of your fear; This is the air-drawn dagger which you said Led you to Duncan. O, these flaws and starts, Impostors to true fear, would well become A woman's story at a winter's fire, Authorized by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all's done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Prithee, see there! Behold! Look! Lo! How say you? Why, what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. If charnel houses and our graves must send Those that we bury back, our monuments Shall be the maws of kites. Exit Ghost. LADY MACBETH. What, quite unmann'd in folly? MACBETH. If I stand here, I saw him. LADY MACBETH. Fie, for shame! MACBETH. Blood hath been shed ere now, i' the olden time, Ere humane statute purged the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murthers have been perform'd Too terrible for the ear. The time has been, That, when the brains were out, the man would die, And there an end; but now they rise again, With twenty mortal murthers on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murther is. LADY MACBETH. My worthy lord, Your noble friends do lack you. MACBETH. I do forget. Do not muse at me, my most worthy friends. I have a strange infirmity, which is nothing To those that know me. Come, love and health to all; Then I'll sit down. Give me some wine, fill full. I drink to the general joy o' the whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss. Would he were here! To all and him we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties and the pledge. Re-enter Ghost. MACBETH. Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee! Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold; Thou hast no speculation in those eyes Which thou dost glare with. LADY MACBETH. Think of this, good peers, But as a thing of custom. 'Tis no other, Only it spoils the pleasure of the time. MACBETH. What man dare, I dare. Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear, The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger; Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves Shall never tremble. Or be alive again, And dare me to the desert with thy sword. If trembling I inhabit then, protest me The baby of a girl. Hence, horrible shadow! Unreal mockery, hence! Exit Ghost. Why, so, being gone, I am a man again. Pray you sit still. LADY MACBETH. You have displaced the mirth, broke the good meeting, With most admired disorder. MACBETH. Can such things be, And overcome us like a summer's cloud, Without our special wonder? You make me strange Even to the disposition that I owe When now I think you can behold such sights And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks When mine is blanch'd with fear. ROSS. What sights, my lord? LADY MACBETH. I pray you, speak not; he grows worse and worse; Question enrages him. At once, good night. Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once. LENNOX. Good night, and better health Attend his Majesty! LADY MACBETH. A kind good night to all! Exeunt all but Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. MACBETH. will have blood; they say blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move and trees to speak; Augures and understood relations have By maggot pies and choughs and rooks brought forth The secret'st man of blood. What is the night? LADY MACBETH. Almost at odds with morning, which is which. MACBETH. How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person At our great bidding? LADY MACBETH. Did you send to him, sir? MACBETH. I hear it by the way, but I will send. There's not a one of them but in his house I keep a servant feed. I will tomorrow, And betimes I will, to the weird sisters. More shall they speak; for now I am bent to know, By the worst means, the worst. For mine own good All causes shall give way. I am in blood Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er. Strange things I have in head that will to hand, Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. LADY MACBETH. You lack the season of all natures, sleep. MACBETH. Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self-abuse Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. We are yet but young in deed. Exeunt. SCENE V. A heath. Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecate. FIRST WITCH. Why, how now, Hecate? You look angerly. HECATE. Have I not reason, beldams as you are, Saucy and overbold? How did you dare To trade and traffic with Macbeth In riddles and affairs of death, And I, the mistress of your charms, The close contriver of all harms, Was never call'd to bear my part, Or show the glory of our art? And, which is worse, all you have done Hath been but for a wayward son, Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do, Loves for his own ends, not for you. But make amends now. Get you gone, And at the pit of Acheron Meet me i' the morning. Thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms and everything beside. I am for the air; this night I'll spend Unto a dismal and a fatal end. Great business must be wrought ere noon: Upon the corner of the moon There hangs a vaporous drop profound; I'll catch it ere it come to ground. And that distill'd by magic sleights Shall raise such artificial sprites As by the strength of their illusion Shall draw him on to his confusion. He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace, and fear. And you all know security Is mortals' chiefest enemy. Music and a song within, "Come away, come away." Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see, Sits in a foggy cloud and stays for me. Exit. FIRST WITCH. Come, let's make haste; she'll soon be back again. Exeunt. SCENE VI. Forres. The palace. Enter Lennox and another Lord. LENNOX. My former speeches have but hit your thoughts, Which can interpret farther; only I say Thing's have been strangely borne. The gracious Duncan Was pitied of Macbeth; marry, he was dead. And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late, Whom, you may say, if't please you, Fleance kill'd, For Fleance fled. Men must not walk too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrous It was for Malcolm and for Donalbain To kill their gracious father? Damned fact! How it did grieve Macbeth! Did he not straight, In pious rage, the two delinquents tear That were the slaves of drink and thralls of sleep? Was not that nobly done? Ay, and wisely too, For 'twould have anger'd any heart alive To hear the men deny't. So that, I say, He has borne all things well; and I do think That, had he Duncan's sons under his key- As, an't please heaven, he shall not -they should find What 'twere to kill a father; so should Fleance. But, peace! For from broad words, and 'cause he fail'd His presence at the tyrant's feast, I hear, Macduff lives in disgrace. Sir, can you tell Where he bestows himself? LORD. The son of Duncan, From whom this tyrant holds the due of birth, Lives in the English court and is received Of the most pious Edward with such grace That the malevolence of fortune nothing Takes from his high respect. Thither Macduff Is gone to pray the holy King, upon his aid To wake Northumberland and warlike Siward; That by the help of these, with Him above To ratify the work, we may again Give to our tables meat, sleep to our nights, Free from our feasts and banquets bloody knives, Do faithful homage, and receive free honors- All which we pine for now. And this report Hath so exasperate the King that he Prepares for some attempt of war. LENNOX. Sent he to Macduff? LORD. He did, and with an absolute "Sir, not I," The cloudy messenger turns me his back, And hums, as who should say, "You'll rue the time That clogs me with this answer." LENNOX. And that well might Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel Fly to the court of England and unfold His message ere he come, that a swift blessing May soon return to this our suffering country Under a hand accursed! LORD. I'll send my prayers with him. Exeunt. <> ACT IV. SCENE I. A cavern. In the middle, a boiling cauldron. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. SECOND WITCH. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined. THIRD WITCH. Harpier cries, "'Tis time, 'tis time." FIRST WITCH. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog, Wool of bat and tongue of dog, Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg and howlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble, Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. THIRD WITCH. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf, Witch's mummy, maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt-sea shark, Root of hemlock digg'd i' the dark, Liver of blaspheming Jew, Gall of goat and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse, Nose of Turk and Tartar's lips, Finger of birth-strangled babe Ditch-deliver'd by a drab, Make the gruel thick and slab. Add thereto a tiger's chawdron, For the ingredients of our cawdron. ALL. Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble. SECOND WITCH. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good. Enter Hecate to the other three Witches. HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i' the gains. And now about the cauldron sing, Like elves and fairies in a ring, Enchanting all that you put in. Music and a song, "Black spirits." Hecate retires. SECOND WITCH. By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes. Open, locks, Whoever knocks! Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags? What is't you do? ALL. A deed without a name. MACBETH. I conjure you, by that which you profess (Howeer you come to know it) answer me: Though you untie the winds and let them fight Against the churches, though the yesty waves Confound and swallow navigation up, Though bladed corn be lodged and trees blown down, Though castles topple on their warders' heads, Though palaces and pyramids do slope Their heads to their foundations, though the treasure Of nature's germaines tumble all together Even till destruction sicken, answer me To what I ask you. FIRST WITCH. Speak. SECOND WITCH. Demand. THIRD WITCH. We'll answer. FIRST WITCH. Say, if thou'dst rather hear it from our mouths, Or from our masters'? MACBETH. Call 'em, let me see 'em. FIRST WITCH. Pour in sow's blood that hath eaten Her nine farrow; grease that's sweaten From the murtherer's gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! Thunder. First Apparition: an armed Head. MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power- FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought. FIRST APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff, Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough. Descends. MACBETH. Whate'er thou art, for thy good caution, thanks; Thou hast harp'd my fear aright. But one word more- FIRST WITCH. He will not be commanded. Here's another, More potent than the first. Thunder. Second Apparition: a bloody Child. SECOND APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I'd hear thee. SECOND APPARITION. Be bloody, bold, and resolute: laugh to scorn The power of man, for none of woman born Shall harm Macbeth. Descends. MACBETH. Then live, Macduff. What need I fear of thee? But yet I'll make assurance double sure, And take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live, That I may tell pale-hearted fear it lies, And sleep in spite of thunder. Thunder. Third Apparition: a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand. What is this, That rises like the issue of a king, And wears upon his baby brow the round And top of sovereignty? ALL. Listen, but speak not to't. THIRD APPARITION. Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. Macbeth shall never vanquish'd be until Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill Shall come against him. Descends. MACBETH. That will never be. Who can impress the forest, bid the tree Unfix his earth-bound root? Sweet bodements, good! Rebellion's head, rise never till the Wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-placed Macbeth Shall live the lease of nature, pay his breath To time and mortal custom. Yet my heart Throbs to know one thing: tell me, if your art Can tell so much, shall Banquo's issue ever Reign in this kingdom? ALL. Seek to know no more. MACBETH. I will be satisfied! Deny me this, And an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know. Why sinks that cauldron, and what noise is this? Hautboys. FIRST WITCH. Show! SECOND WITCH. Show! THIRD. WITCH. Show! ALL. Show his eyes, and grieve his heart; Come like shadows, so depart! A show of eight Kings, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo's Ghost following. MACBETH. Thou are too like the spirit of Banquo Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs. And thy hair, Thou other gold-bound brow, is like the first. A third is like the former. Filthy hags! Why do you show me this? A fourth! Start, eyes! What, will the line stretch out to the crack of doom? Another yet! A seventh! I'll see no more! And yet the eighth appears, who bears a glass Which shows me many more; and some I see That twofold balls and treble sceptres carry. Horrible sight! Now I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his. What, is this so? FIRST WITCH. Ay, sir, all this is so. But why Stands Macbeth thus amazedly? Come,sisters, cheer we up his sprites, And show the best of our delights. I'll charm the air to give a sound, While you perform your antic round, That this great King may kindly say Our duties did his welcome pay. Music. The Witches dance and then vanish with Hecate. MACBETH. are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour Stand ay accursed in the calendar! Come in, without there! Enter Lennox. LENNOX. What's your Grace's will? MACBETH. Saw you the weird sisters? LENNOX. No, my lord. MACBETH. Came they not by you? LENNOX. No indeed, my lord. MACBETH. Infected be the 'air whereon they ride, And damn'd all those that trust them! I did hear The galloping of horse. Who wast came by? LENNOX. 'Tis two or three, my lord, that bring you word Macduff is fled to England. MACBETH. Fled to England? LENNOX. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. [Aside.] Time, thou anticipatest my dread exploits. The flighty purpose never is o'ertook Unless the deed go with it. From this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done: The castle of Macduff I will surprise, Seize upon Fife, give to the edge o' the sword His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls That trace him in his line. No boasting like a fool; This deed I'll do before this purpose cool. But no more sights! -Where are these gentlemen? Come, bring me where they are. Exeunt. SCENE II. Fife. Macduff's castle. Enter Lady Macduff, her Son, and Ross. LADY MACDUFF. What had he done, to make him fly the land? ROSS. You must have patience, madam. LADY MACDUFF. He had none; His flight was madness. When our actions do not, Our fears do make us traitors. ROSS. You know not Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. LADY MACDUFF. Wisdom? To leave his wife, to leave his babes, His mansion, and his titles, in a place From whence himself does fly? He loves us not; He wants the natural touch; for the poor wren, The most diminutive of birds, will fight, Her young ones in her nest, against the owl. All is the fear and nothing is the love; As little is the wisdom, where the flight So runs against all reason. ROSS. My dearest coz, I pray you, school yourself. But for your husband, He is noble, wise, Judicious, and best knows The fits o' the season. I dare not speak much further; But cruel are the times when we are traitors And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumor From what we fear, yet know not what we fear, But float upon a wild and violent sea Each way and move. I take my leave of you; Shall not be long but I'll be here again. Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before. My pretty cousin, Blessing upon you! LADY MACDUFF. Father'd he is, and yet he's fatherless. ROSS. I am so much a fool, should I stay longer, It would be my disgrace and your discomfort. I take my leave at once. Exit. LADY MACDUFF. Sirrah, your father's dead. And what will you do now? How will you live? SON. As birds do, Mother. LADY MACDUFF. What, with worms and flies? SON. With what I get, I mean; and so do they. LADY MACDUFF. Poor bird! Thou'ldst never fear the net nor lime, The pitfall nor the gin. SON. Why should I, Mother? Poor birds they are not set for. My father is not dead, for all your saying. LADY MACDUFF. Yes, he is dead. How wilt thou do for father? SON. Nay, how will you do for a husband? LADY MACDUFF. Why, I can buy me twenty at any market. SON. Then you'll buy 'em to sell again. LADY MACDUFF. Thou speak'st with all thy wit, and yet, i' faith, With wit enough for thee. SON. Was my father a traitor, Mother? LADY MACDUFF. Ay, that he was. SON. What is a traitor? LADY MACDUFF. Why one that swears and lies. SON. And be all traitors that do so? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone that does so is a traitor and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Everyone. SON. Who must hang them? LADY MACDUFF. Why, the honest men. SON. Then the liars and swearers are fools, for there are liars and swearers enow to beat the honest men and hang up them. LADY MACDUFF. Now, God help thee, poor monkey! But how wilt thou do for a father? SON. If he were dead, you'ld weep for him; if you would not, it were a good sign that I should quickly have a new father. LADY MACDUFF. Poor prattler, how thou talk'st! Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Bless you, fair dame! I am not to you known, Though in your state of honor I am perfect. I doubt some danger does approach you nearly. If you will take a homely man's advice, Be not found here; hence, with your little ones. To fright you thus, methinks I am too savage; To do worse to you were fell cruelty, Which is too nigh your person. Heaven preserve you! I dare abide no longer. Exit. LADY MACDUFF. Whither should I fly? I have done no harm. But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly. Why then, alas, Do I put up that womanly defense, To say I have done no harm -What are these faces? Enter Murtherers. FIRST MURTHERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURTHERER. He's a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear'd villain! FIRST MURTHERER. What, you egg! Stabs him. Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill'd me, Mother. Run away, I pray you! Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying "Murther!" Exeunt Murtherers, following her. SCENE III. England. Before the King's palace. Enter Malcolm and Macduff. MALCOLM. Let us seek out some desolate shade and there Weep our sad bosoms empty. MACDUFF. Let us rather Hold fast the mortal sword, and like good men Bestride our downfall'n birthdom. Each new morn New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows Strike heaven on the face, that it resounds As if it felt with Scotland and yell'd out Like syllable of dolor. MALCOLM. What I believe, I'll wall; What know, believe; and what I can redress, As I shall find the time to friend, I will. What you have spoke, it may be so perchance. This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues, Was once thought honest. You have loved him well; He hath not touch'd you yet. I am young, but something You may deserve of him through me, and wisdom To offer up a weak, poor, innocent lamb To appease an angry god. MACDUFF. I am not treacherous. MALCOLM. But Macbeth is. A good and virtuous nature may recoil In an imperial charge. But I shall crave your pardon; That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose. Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet grace must still look so. MACDUFF. I have lost my hopes. MALCOLM. Perchance even there where I did find my doubts. Why in that rawness left you wife and child, Those precious motives, those strong knots of love, Without leave-taking? I pray you, Let not my jealousies be your dishonors, But mine own safeties. You may be rightly just, Whatever I shall think. MACDUFF. Bleed, bleed, poor country! Great tyranny, lay thou thy basis sure, For goodness dare not check thee. Wear thou thy wrongs; The title is affeer'd. Fare thee well, lord. I would not be the villain that thou think'st For the whole space that's in the tyrant's grasp And the rich East to boot. MALCOLM. Be not offended; I speak not as in absolute fear of you. I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash Is added to her wounds. I think withal There would be hands uplifted in my right; And here from gracious England have I offer Of goodly thousands. But for all this, When I shall tread upon the tyrant's head, Or wear it on my sword, yet my poor country Shall have more vices than it had before, More suffer and more sundry ways than ever, By him that shall succeed. MACDUFF. What should he be? MALCOLM. It is myself I mean, in whom I know All the particulars of vice so grafted That, when they shall be open'd, black Macbeth Will seem as pure as snow, and the poor state Esteem him as a lamb, being compared With my confineless harms. MACDUFF. Not in the legions Of horrid hell can come a devil more damn'd In evils to top Macbeth. MALCOLM. I grant him bloody, Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful, Sudden, malicious, smacking of every sin That has a name. But there's no bottom, none, In my voluptuousness. Your wives, your daughters, Your matrons, and your maids could not fill up The cestern of my lust, and my desire All continent impediments would o'erbear That did oppose my will. Better Macbeth Than such an one to reign. MACDUFF. Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny; it hath been The untimely emptying of the happy throne, And fall of many kings. But fear not yet To take upon you what is yours. You may Convey your pleasures in a spacious plenty And yet seem cold, the time you may so hoodwink. We have willing dames enough; there cannot be That vulture in you to devour so many As will to greatness dedicate themselves, Finding it so inclined. MALCOLM. With this there grows In my most ill-composed affection such A stanchless avarice that, were I King, I should cut off the nobles for their lands, Desire his jewels and this other's house, And my more-having would be as a sauce To make me hunger more, that I should forge Quarrels unjust against the good and loyal, Destroying them for wealth. MACDUFF. This avarice Sticks deeper, grows with more pernicious root Than summer-seeming lust, and it hath been The sword of our slain kings. Yet do not fear; Scotland hath foisons to fill up your will Of your mere own. All these are portable, With other graces weigh'd. MALCOLM. But I have none. The king-becoming graces, As justice, verity, temperance, stableness, Bounty, perseverance, mercy, lowliness, Devotion, patience, courage, fortitude, I have no relish of them, but abound In the division of each several crime, Acting it many ways. Nay, had I power, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth. MACDUFF. O Scotland, Scotland! MALCOLM. If such a one be fit to govern, speak. I am as I have spoken. MACDUFF. Fit to govern? No, not to live. O nation miserable! With an untitled tyrant bloody-scepter'd, When shalt thou see thy wholesome days again, Since that the truest issue of thy throne By his own interdiction stands accursed And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king; the queen that bore thee, Oftener upon her knees than on her feet, Died every day she lived. Fare thee well! These evils thou repeat'st upon thyself Have banish'd me from Scotland. O my breast, Thy hope ends here! MALCOLM. Macduff, this noble passion, Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts To thy good truth and honor. Devilish Macbeth By many of these trains hath sought to win me Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste. But God above Deal between thee and me! For even now I put myself to thy direction and Unspeak mine own detraction; here abjure The taints and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my nature. I am yet Unknown to woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own, At no time broke my faith, would not betray The devil to his fellow, and delight No less in truth than life. My first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly Is thine and my poor country's to command. Whither indeed, before thy here-approach, Old Siward, with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth. Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted quarrel! Why are you silent? MACDUFF. Such welcome and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor. MALCOLM. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth, I pray you? DOCTOR. Ay, sir, there are a crew of wretched souls That stay his cure. Their malady convinces The great assay of art, but at his touch, Such sanctity hath heaven given his hand, They presently amend. MALCOLM. I thank you, Doctor. Exit Doctor. MACDUFF. What's the disease he means? MALCOLM. 'Tis call'd the evil: A most miraculous work in this good King, Which often, since my here-remain in England, I have seen him do. How he solicits heaven, Himself best knows; but strangely-visited people, All swol'n and ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks Put on with holy prayers; and 'tis spoken, To the succeeding royalty he leaves The healing benediction. With this strange virtue He hath a heavenly gift of prophecy, And sundry blessings hang about his throne That speak him full of grace. Enter Ross. MACDUFF. See, who comes here? MALCOLM. My countryman, but yet I know him not. MACDUFF. My ever gentle cousin, welcome hither. MALCOLM. I know him now. Good God, betimes remove The means that makes us strangers! ROSS. Sir, amen. MACDUFF. Stands Scotland where it did? ROSS. Alas, poor country, Almost afraid to know itself! It cannot Be call'd our mother, but our grave. Where nothing, But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile; Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air, Are made, not mark'd; where violent sorrow seems A modern ecstasy. The dead man's knell Is there scarce ask'd for who, and good men's lives Expire before the flowers in their caps, Dying or ere they sicken. MACDUFF. O, relation Too nice, and yet too true! MALCOLM. What's the newest grief? ROSS. That of an hour's age doth hiss the speaker; Each minute teems a new one. MACDUFF. How does my wife? ROSS. Why, well. MACDUFF. And all my children? ROSS. Well too. MACDUFF. The tyrant has not batter'd at their peace? ROSS. No, they were well at peace when I did leave 'em. MACDUFF. Be not a niggard of your speech. How goest? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumor Of many worthy fellows that were out, Which was to my belief witness'd the rather, For that I saw the tyrant's power afoot. Now is the time of help; your eye in Scotland Would create soldiers, make our women fight, To doff their dire distresses. MALCOLM. Be't their comfort We are coming thither. Gracious England hath Lent us good Siward and ten thousand men; An older and a better soldier none That Christendom gives out. ROSS. Would I could answer This comfort with the like! But I have words That would be howl'd out in the desert air, Where hearing should not latch them. MACDUFF. What concern they? The general cause? Or is it a fee-grief Due to some single breast? ROSS. No mind that's honest But in it shares some woe, though the main part Pertains to you alone. MACDUFF. If it be mine, Keep it not from me, quickly let me have it. ROSS. Let not your ears despise my tongue forever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter'd. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murther'd deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven! What, man! Neer pull your hat upon your brows; Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o'erfraught heart, and bids it break. MACDUFF. My children too? ROSS. Wife, children, servants, all That could be found. MACDUFF. And I must be from thence! My wife kill'd too? ROSS. I have said. MALCOLM. Be comforted. Let's make us medicines of our great revenge, To cure this deadly grief. MACDUFF. He has no children. All my pretty ones? Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What, all my pretty chickens and their dam At one fell swoop? MALCOLM. Dispute it like a man. MACDUFF. I shall do so, But I must also feel it as a man. I cannot but remember such things were That were most precious to me. Did heaven look on, And would not take their part? Sinful Macduff, They were all struck for thee! Naught that I am, Not for their own demerits, but for mine, Fell slaughter on their souls. Heaven rest them now! MALCOLM. Be this the whetstone of your sword. Let grief Convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it. MACDUFF. O, I could play the woman with mine eyes And braggart with my tongue! But, gentle heavens, Cut short all intermission; front to front Bring thou this fiend of Scotland and myself; Within my sword's length set him; if he 'scape, Heaven forgive him too! MALCOLM. This tune goes manly. Come, go we to the King; our power is ready, Our lack is nothing but our leave. Macbeth Is ripe for shaking, and the powers above Put on their instruments. Receive what cheer you may, The night is long that never finds the day. Exeunt. <> ACT V. SCENE I. Dunsinane. Anteroom in the castle. Enter a Doctor of Physic and a Waiting Gentlewoman. DOCTOR. I have two nights watched with you, but can perceive no truth in your report. When was it she last walked? GENTLEWOMAN. Since his Majesty went into the field, have seen her rise from her bed, throw her nightgown upon her, unlock her closet, take forth paper, fold it, write upon't, read it, afterwards seal it, and again return to bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleep. DOCTOR. A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching! In this slumbery agitation, besides her walking and other actual performances, what, at any time, have you heard her say? GENTLEWOMAN. That, sir, which I will not report after her. DOCTOR. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should. GENTLEWOMAN. Neither to you nor anyone, having no witness to confirm my speech. Enter Lady Macbeth with a taper. Lo you, here she comes! This is her very guise, and, upon my life, fast asleep. Observe her; stand close. DOCTOR. How came she by that light? GENTLEWOMAN. Why, it stood by her. She has light by her continually; 'tis her command. DOCTOR. You see, her eyes are open. GENTLEWOMAN. Ay, but their sense is shut. DOCTOR. What is it she does now? Look how she rubs her hands. GENTLEWOMAN. It is an accustomed action with her, to seem thus washing her hands. I have known her continue in this a quarter of an hour. LADY MACBETH. Yet here's a spot. DOCTOR. Hark, she speaks! I will set down what comes from her, to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly. LADY MACBETH. Out, damned spot! Out, I say! One- two -why then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky. Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account? Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? DOCTOR. Do you mark that? LADY MACBETH. The Thane of Fife had a wife; where is she now? What, will these hands neer be clean? No more o' that, my lord, no more o' that. You mar all with this starting. DOCTOR. Go to, go to; you have known what you should not. GENTLEWOMAN. She has spoke what she should not, I am sure of that. Heaven knows what she has known. LADY MACBETH. Here's the smell of the blood still. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh! DOCTOR. What a sigh is there! The heart is sorely charged. GENTLEWOMAN. I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. DOCTOR. Well, well, well- GENTLEWOMAN. Pray God it be, sir. DOCTOR. This disease is beyond my practice. Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds. LADY MACBETH. Wash your hands, put on your nightgown, look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo's buried; he cannot come out on's grave. DOCTOR. Even so? LADY MACBETH. To bed, to bed; there's knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand.What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed. Exit. DOCTOR. Will she go now to bed? GENTLEWOMAN. Directly. DOCTOR. Foul whisperings are abroad. Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. More needs she the divine than the physician. God, God, forgive us all! Look after her; Remove from her the means of all annoyance, And still keep eyes upon her. So good night. My mind she has mated and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor. Exeunt. SCENE II. The country near Dunsinane. Drum and colors. Enter Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, and Soldiers. MENTEITH. The English power is near, led on by Malcolm, His uncle Siward, and the good Macduff. Revenges burn in them, for their dear causes Would to the bleeding and the grim alarm Excite the mortified man. ANGUS. Near Birnam Wood Shall we well meet them; that way are they coming. CAITHNESS. Who knows if Donalbain be with his brother? LENNOX. For certain, sir, he is not; I have a file Of all the gentry. There is Seward's son And many unrough youths that even now Protest their first of manhood. MENTEITH. What does the tyrant? CAITHNESS. Great Dunsinane he strongly fortifies. Some say he's mad; others, that lesser hate him, Do call it valiant fury; but, for certain, He cannot buckle his distemper'd cause Within the belt of rule. ANGUS. Now does he feel His secret murthers sticking on his hands, Now minutely revolts upbraid his faith-breach; Those he commands move only in command, Nothing in love. Now does he feel his title Hang loose about him, like a giant's robe Upon a dwarfish thief. MENTEITH. Who then shall blame His pester'd senses to recoil and start, When all that is within him does condemn Itself for being there? CAITHNESS. Well, march we on To give obedience where 'tis truly owed. Meet we the medicine of the sickly weal, And with him pour we, in our country's purge, Each drop of us. LENNOX. Or so much as it needs To dew the sovereign flower and drown the weeds. Make we our march towards Birnam. Exeunt marching. SCENE III. Dunsinane. A room in the castle. Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants. MACBETH. Bring me no more reports; let them fly all! Till Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane I cannot taint with fear. What's the boy Malcolm? Was he not born of woman? The spirits that know All mortal consequences have pronounced me thus: "Fear not, Macbeth; no man that's born of woman Shall e'er have power upon thee." Then fly, false Thanes, And mingle with the English epicures! The mind I sway by and the heart I bear Shall never sag with doubt nor shake with fear. Enter a Servant. The devil damn thee black, thou cream-faced loon! Where got'st thou that goose look? SERVANT. There is ten thousand- MACBETH. Geese, villain? SERVANT. Soldiers, sir. MACBETH. Go prick thy face and over-red thy fear, Thou lily-liver'd boy. What soldiers, patch? Death of thy soul! Those linen cheeks of thine Are counselors to fear. What soldiers, whey-face? SERVANT. The English force, so please you. MACBETH. Take thy face hence. Exit Servant. Seyton-I am sick at heart, When I behold- Seyton, I say!- This push Will cheer me ever or disseat me now. I have lived long enough. My way of life Is fall'n into the sear, the yellow leaf, And that which should accompany old age, As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honor, breath, Which the poor heart would fain deny and dare not. Seyton! Enter Seyton. SEYTON. What's your gracious pleasure? MACBETH. What news more? SEYTON. All is confirm'd, my lord, which was reported. MACBETH. I'll fight, 'til from my bones my flesh be hack'd. Give me my armor. SEYTON. 'Tis not needed yet. MACBETH. I'll put it on. Send out more horses, skirr the country round, Hang those that talk of fear. Give me mine armor. How does your patient, doctor? DOCTOR. Not so sick, my lord, As she is troubled with thick-coming fancies, That keep her from her rest. MACBETH. Cure her of that. Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain, And with some sweet oblivious antidote Cleanse the stuff'd bosom of that perilous stuff Which weighs upon the heart? DOCTOR. Therein the patient Must minister to himself. MACBETH. Throw physic to the dogs, I'll none of it. Come, put mine armor on; give me my staff. Seyton, send out. Doctor, the Thanes fly from me. Come, sir, dispatch. If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud again. Pull't off, I say. What rhubarb, cyme, or what purgative drug Would scour these English hence? Hearst thou of them? DOCTOR. Ay, my good lord, your royal preparation Makes us hear something. MACBETH. Bring it after me. I will not be afraid of death and bane Till Birnam Forest come to Dunsinane. DOCTOR. [Aside.] Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Country near Birnam Wood. Drum and colors. Enter Malcolm, old Seward and his Son, Macduff, Menteith, Caithness, Angus, Lennox, Ross, and Soldiers, marching. MALCOLM. Cousins, I hope the days are near at hand That chambers will be safe. MENTEITH. We doubt it nothing. SIWARD. What wood is this before us? MENTEITH. The Wood of Birnam. MALCOLM. Let every soldier hew him down a bough, And bear't before him; thereby shall we shadow The numbers of our host, and make discovery Err in report of us. SOLDIERS. It shall be done. SIWARD. We learn no other but the confident tyrant Keeps still in Dunsinane and will endure Our setting down before't. MALCOLM. 'Tis his main hope; For where there is advantage to be given, Both more and less have given him the revolt, And none serve with him but constrained things Whose hearts are absent too. MACDUFF. Let our just censures Attend the true event, and put we on Industrious soldiership. SIWARD. The time approaches That will with due decision make us know What we shall say we have and what we owe. Thoughts speculative their unsure hopes relate, But certain issue strokes must arbitrate. Towards which advance the war. Exeunt Marching. SCENE V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, and Soldiers, with drum and colors. MACBETH. Hang out our banners on the outward walls; The cry is still, "They come!" Our castle's strength Will laugh a siege to scorn. Here let them lie Till famine and the ague eat them up. Were they not forced with those that should be ours, We might have met them dareful, beard to beard, And beat them backward home. A cry of women within. What is that noise? SEYTON. It is the cry of women, my good lord. Exit. MACBETH. I have almost forgot the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool'd To hear a night-shriek, and my fell of hair Would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir As life were in't. I have supp'd full with horrors; Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, Cannot once start me. Re-enter Seyton. Wherefore was that cry? SEYTON. The Queen, my lord, is dead. MACBETH. She should have died hereafter; There would have been a time for such a word. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow Creeps in this petty pace from day to day To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing. Enter a Messenger. Thou comest to use thy tongue; thy story quickly. MESSENGER. Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw, But know not how to do it. MACBETH. Well, say, sir. MESSENGER. As I did stand my watch upon the hill, I look'd toward Birnam, and anon, methought, The Wood began to move. MACBETH. Liar and slave! MESSENGER. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so. Within this three mile may you see it coming; I say, a moving grove. MACBETH. If thou speak'st false, Upon the next tree shalt thou hang alive, Till famine cling thee; if thy speech be sooth, I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in resolution and begin To doubt the equivocation of the fiend That lies like truth. "Fear not, till Birnam Wood Do come to Dunsinane," and now a wood Comes toward Dunsinane. Arm, arm, and out! If this which he avouches does appear, There is nor flying hence nor tarrying here. I 'gin to be aweary of the sun And wish the estate o' the world were now undone. Ring the alarum bell! Blow, wind! Come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back. Exeunt. SCENE VI. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Enter Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff, and their Army, with boughs. Drum and colors. MALCOLM. Now near enough; your leavy screens throw down, And show like those you are. You, worthy uncle, Shall with my cousin, your right noble son, Lead our first battle. Worthy Macduff and we Shall take upon 's what else remains to do, According to our order. SIWARD. Fare you well. Do we but find the tyrant's power tonight, Let us be beaten if we cannot fight. MACDUFF. Make all our trumpets speak, give them all breath, Those clamorous harbingers of blood and death. Exeunt. SCENE VII. Dunsinane. Before the castle. Alarums. Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly, But bear-like I must fight the course. What's he That was not born of woman? Such a one Am I to fear, or none. Enter young Siward. YOUNG SIWARD. What is thy name? MACBETH. Thou'lt be afraid to hear it. YOUNG SIWARD. No, though thou call'st thyself a hotter name Than any is in hell. MACBETH. My name's Macbeth. YOUNG SIWARD. The devil himself could not pronounce a title More hateful to mine ear. MACBETH. No, nor more fearful. YOUNG SIWARD O Thou liest, abhorred tyrant; with my sword I'll prove the lie thou speak'st. They fight, and young Seward is slain. MACBETH. Thou wast born of woman. But swords I smile at, weapons laugh to scorn, Brandish'd by man that's of a woman born. Exit. Alarums. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF. That way the noise is. Tyrant, show thy face! If thou best slain and with no stroke of mine, My wife and children's ghosts will haunt me still. I cannot strike at wretched kerns, whose arms Are hired to bear their staves. Either thou, Macbeth, Or else my sword, with an unbatter'd edge, I sheathe again undeeded. There thou shouldst be; By this great clatter, one of greatest note Seems bruited. Let me find him, Fortune! And more I beg not. Exit. Alarums. Enter Malcolm and old Siward. SIWARD. This way, my lord; the castle's gently render'd. The tyrant's people on both sides do fight, The noble Thanes do bravely in the war, The day almost itself professes yours, And little is to do. MALCOLM. We have met with foes That strike beside us. SIWARD. Enter, sir, the castle. Exeunt. Alarum. SCENE VIII. Another part of the field. Enter Macbeth. MACBETH. Why should I play the Roman fool and die On mine own sword? Whiles I see lives, the gashes Do better upon them. Enter Macduff. MACDUFF. Turn, hell hound, turn! MACBETH. Of all men else I have avoided thee. But get thee back, my soul is too much charged With blood of thine already. MACDUFF. I have no words. My voice is in my sword, thou bloodier villain Than terms can give thee out! They fight. MACBETH. Thou losest labor. As easy mayst thou the intrenchant air With thy keen sword impress as make me bleed. Let fall thy blade on vulnerable crests; I bear a charmed life, which must not yield To one of woman born. MACDUFF. Despair thy charm, And let the angel whom thou still hast served Tell thee, Macduff was from his mother's womb Untimely ripp'd. MACBETH. Accursed be that tongue that tells me so, For it hath cow'd my better part of man! And be these juggling fiends no more believed That patter with us in a double sense, That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope. I'll not fight with thee. MACDUFF. Then yield thee, coward, And live to be the show and gaze o' the time. We'll have thee, as our rarer monsters are, Painted upon a pole, and underwrit, "Here may you see the tyrant." MACBETH. I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm's feet, And to be baited with the rabble's curse. Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, And thou opposed, being of no woman born, Yet I will try the last. Before my body I throw my warlike shield! Lay on, Macduff, And damn'd be him that first cries, "Hold, enough!" Exeunt fighting. Alarums. SCENE IX. Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colors, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, the other Thanes, and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arrived. SIWARD. Some must go off, and yet, by these I see, So great a day as this is cheaply bought. MALCOLM. Macduff is missing, and your noble son. ROSS. Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt. He only lived but till he was a man, The which no sooner had his prowess confirm'd In the unshrinking station where he fought, But like a man he died. SIWARD. Then he is dead? ROSS. Ay, and brought off the field. Your cause of sorrow Must not be measured by his worth, for then It hath no end. SIWARD. Had he his hurts before? ROSS. Ay, on the front. SIWARD. Why then, God's soldier be he! Had I as many sons as I have hairs, I would not wish them to a fairer death. And so his knell is knoll'd. MALCOLM. He's worth more sorrow, And that I'll spend for him. SIWARD. He's worth no more: They say he parted well and paid his score, And so God be with him! Here comes newer comfort. Re-enter Macduff, with Macbeth's head. MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold where stands The usurper's cursed head. The time is free. I see thee compass'd with thy kingdom's pearl That speak my salutation in their minds, Whose voices I desire aloud with mine- Hail, King of Scotland! ALL. Hail, King of Scotland! Flourish. MALCOLM. We shall not spend a large expense of time Before we reckon with your several loves And make us even with you. My Thanes and kinsmen, Henceforth be Earls, the first that ever Scotland In such an honor named. What's more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time, As calling home our exiled friends abroad That fled the snares of watchful tyranny, Producing forth the cruel ministers Of this dead butcher and his fiend-like queen, Who, as 'tis thought, by self and violent hands Took off her life; this, and what needful else That calls upon us, by the grace of Grace We will perform in measure, time, and place. So thanks to all at once and to each one, Whom we invite to see us crown'd at Scone. Flourish. Exeunt. -THE END- <> 1605 MEASURE FOR MEASURE by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE VINCENTIO, the Duke ANGELO, the Deputy ESCALUS, an ancient Lord CLAUDIO, a young gentleman LUCIO, a fantastic Two other like Gentlemen VARRIUS, a gentleman, servant to the Duke PROVOST THOMAS, friar PETER, friar A JUSTICE ELBOW, a simple constable FROTH, a foolish gentleman POMPEY, a clown and servant to Mistress Overdone ABHORSON, an executioner BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner ISABELLA, sister to Claudio MARIANA, betrothed to Angelo JULIET, beloved of Claudio FRANCISCA, a nun MISTRESS OVERDONE, a bawd Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants <> SCENE: Vienna ACT I. SCENE I. The DUKE'S palace Enter DUKE, ESCALUS, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS DUKE. Escalus! ESCALUS. My lord. DUKE. Of government the properties to unfold Would seem in me t' affect speech and discourse, Since I am put to know that your own science Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice My strength can give you; then no more remains But that to your sufficiency- as your worth is able- And let them work. The nature of our people, Our city's institutions, and the terms For common justice, y'are as pregnant in As art and practice hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp. Call hither, I say, bid come before us, Angelo. Exit an ATTENDANT What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply; Lent him our terror, dress'd him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power. What think you of it? ESCALUS. If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. Enter ANGELO DUKE. Look where he comes. ANGELO. Always obedient to your Grace's will, I come to know your pleasure. DUKE. Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life That to th' observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, 'twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd But to fine issues; nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise. Hold, therefore, Angelo- In our remove be thou at full ourself; Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. ANGELO. Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamp'd upon it. DUKE. No more evasion! We have with a leaven'd and prepared choice Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours. Our haste from hence is of so quick condition That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion'd Matters of needful value. We shall write to you, As time and our concernings shall importune, How it goes with us, and do look to know What doth befall you here. So, fare you well. To th' hopeful execution do I leave you Of your commissions. ANGELO. Yet give leave, my lord, That we may bring you something on the way. DUKE. My haste may not admit it; Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do With any scruple: your scope is as mine own, So to enforce or qualify the laws As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand; I'll privily away. I love the people, But do not like to stage me to their eyes; Though it do well, I do not relish well Their loud applause and Aves vehement; Nor do I think the man of safe discretion That does affect it. Once more, fare you well. ANGELO. The heavens give safety to your purposes! ESCALUS. Lead forth and bring you back in happiness! DUKE. I thank you. Fare you well. Exit ESCALUS. I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave To have free speech with you; and it concerns me To look into the bottom of my place: A pow'r I have, but of what strength and nature I am not yet instructed. ANGELO. 'Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together, And we may soon our satisfaction have Touching that point. ESCALUS. I'll wait upon your honour. Exeunt SCENE II. A street Enter Lucio and two other GENTLEMEN LUCIO. If the Duke, with the other dukes, come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then all the dukes fall upon the King. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary's! SECOND GENTLEMAN. Amen. LUCIO. Thou conclud'st like the sanctimonious pirate that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scrap'd one out of the table. SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Thou shalt not steal'? LUCIO. Ay, that he raz'd. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Why, 'twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There's not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I never heard any soldier dislike it. LUCIO. I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. SECOND GENTLEMAN. No? A dozen times at least. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What, in metre? LUCIO. In any proportion or in any language. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think, or in any religion. LUCIO. Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy; as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. LUCIO. I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. FIRST GENTLEMAN. And thou the velvet; thou art good velvet; thou'rt a three-pil'd piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be pil'd, as thou art pil'd, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? LUCIO. I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Enter MISTRESS OVERDONE LUCIO. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchas'd as many diseases under her roof as come to- SECOND GENTLEMAN. To what, I pray? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Judge. SECOND GENTLEMAN. To three thousand dolours a year. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, and more. LUCIO. A French crown more. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Thou art always figuring diseases in me, but thou art full of error; I am sound. LUCIO. Nay, not, as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica? MRS. OVERDONE. Well, well! there's one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who's that, I pray thee? MRS. OVERDONE. Marry, sir, that's Claudio, Signior Claudio. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Claudio to prison? 'Tis not so. MRS. OVERDONE. Nay, but I know 'tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopp'd off. LUCIO. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? MRS. OVERDONE. I am too sure of it; and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. LUCIO. Believe me, this may be; he promis'd to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But most of all agreeing with the proclamation. LUCIO. Away; let's go learn the truth of it. Exeunt Lucio and GENTLEMEN MRS. OVERDONE. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter POMPEY How now! what's the news with you? POMPEY. Yonder man is carried to prison. MRS. OVERDONE. Well, what has he done? POMPEY. A woman. MRS. OVERDONE. But what's his offence? POMPEY. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. MRS. OVERDONE. What! is there a maid with child by him? POMPEY. No; but there's a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you? MRS. OVERDONE. What proclamation, man? POMPEY. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be pluck'd down. MRS. OVERDONE. And what shall become of those in the city? POMPEY. They shall stand for seed; they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them. MRS. OVERDONE. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pull'd down? POMPEY. To the ground, mistress. MRS. OVERDONE. Why, here's a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me? POMPEY. Come, fear not you: good counsellors lack no clients. Though you change your place you need not change your trade; I'll be your tapster still. Courage, there will be pity taken on you; you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered. MRS. OVERDONE. What's to do here, Thomas Tapster? Let's withdraw. POMPEY. Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there's Madam Juliet. Exeunt Enter PROVOST, CLAUDIO, JULIET, and OFFICERS; LUCIO following CLAUDIO. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to th' world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. PROVOST. I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. CLAUDIO. Thus can the demigod Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight The words of heaven: on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still 'tis just. LUCIO. Why, how now, Claudio, whence comes this restraint? CLAUDIO. From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty; As surfeit is the father of much fast, So every scope by the immoderate use Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue, Like rats that ravin down their proper bane, A thirsty evil; and when we drink we die. LUCIO. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What's thy offence, Claudio? CLAUDIO. What but to speak of would offend again. LUCIO. What, is't murder? CLAUDIO. No. LUCIO. Lechery? CLAUDIO. Call it so. PROVOST. Away, sir; you must go. CLAUDIO. One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you. LUCIO. A hundred, if they'll do you any good. Is lechery so look'd after? CLAUDIO. Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta's bed. You know the lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order; this we came not to, Only for propagation of a dow'r Remaining in the coffer of her friends. From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment, With character too gross, is writ on Juliet. LUCIO. With child, perhaps? CLAUDIO. Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the Duke- Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in. But this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscour'd armour, hung by th' wall So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round And none of them been worn; and, for a name, Now puts the drowsy and neglected act Freshly on me. 'Tis surely for a name. LUCIO. I warrant it is; and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the Duke, and appeal to him. CLAUDIO. I have done so, but he's not to be found. I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service: This day my sister should the cloister enter, And there receive her approbation; Acquaint her with the danger of my state; Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him. I have great hope in that; for in her youth There is a prone and speechless dialect Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. LUCIO. I pray she may; as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I'll to her. CLAUDIO. I thank you, good friend Lucio. LUCIO. Within two hours. CLAUDIO. Come, officer, away. Exeunt SCENE III. A monastery Enter DUKE and FRIAR THOMAS DUKE. No, holy father; throw away that thought; Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee To give me secret harbour hath a purpose More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends Of burning youth. FRIAR. May your Grace speak of it? DUKE. My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever lov'd the life removed, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps. I have deliver'd to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travell'd to Poland; For so I have strew'd it in the common ear, And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this. FRIAR. Gladly, my lord. DUKE. We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds, Which for this fourteen years we have let slip; Even like an o'ergrown lion in a cave, That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers, Having bound up the threat'ning twigs of birch, Only to stick it in their children's sight For terror, not to use, in time the rod Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees, Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead; And liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum. FRIAR. It rested in your Grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas'd; And it in you more dreadful would have seem'd Than in Lord Angelo. DUKE. I do fear, too dreadful. Sith 'twas my fault to give the people scope, 'Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them For what I bid them do; for we bid this be done, When evil deeds have their permissive pass And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father, I have on Angelo impos'd the office; Who may, in th' ambush of my name, strike home, And yet my nature never in the fight To do in slander. And to behold his sway, I will, as 'twere a brother of your order, Visit both prince and people. Therefore, I prithee, Supply me with the habit, and instruct me How I may formally in person bear me Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action At our more leisure shall I render you. Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise; Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses That his blood flows, or that his appetite Is more to bread than stone. Hence shall we see, If power change purpose, what our seemers be. Exeunt SCENE IV. A nunnery Enter ISABELLA and FRANCISCA ISABELLA. And have you nuns no farther privileges? FRANCISCA. Are not these large enough? ISABELLA. Yes, truly; I speak not as desiring more, But rather wishing a more strict restraint Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare. LUCIO. [ Within] Ho! Peace be in this place! ISABELLA. Who's that which calls? FRANCISCA. It is a man's voice. Gentle Isabella, Turn you the key, and know his business of him: You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn; When you have vow'd, you must not speak with men But in the presence of the prioress; Then, if you speak, you must not show your face, Or, if you show your face, you must not speak. He calls again; I pray you answer him. Exit FRANCISCA ISABELLA. Peace and prosperity! Who is't that calls? Enter LUCIO LUCIO. Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses Proclaim you are no less. Can you so stead me As bring me to the sight of Isabella, A novice of this place, and the fair sister To her unhappy brother Claudio? ISABELLA. Why her 'unhappy brother'? Let me ask The rather, for I now must make you know I am that Isabella, and his sister. LUCIO. Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you. Not to be weary with you, he's in prison. ISABELLA. Woe me! For what? LUCIO. For that which, if myself might be his judge, He should receive his punishment in thanks: He hath got his friend with child. ISABELLA. Sir, make me not your story. LUCIO. It is true. I would not- though 'tis my familiar sin With maids to seem the lapwing, and to jest, Tongue far from heart- play with all virgins so: I hold you as a thing enskied and sainted, By your renouncement an immortal spirit, And to be talk'd with in sincerity, As with a saint. ISABELLA. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. LUCIO. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, 'tis thus: Your brother and his lover have embrac'd. As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. ISABELLA. Some one with child by him? My cousin Juliet? LUCIO. Is she your cousin? ISABELLA. Adoptedly, as school-maids change their names By vain though apt affection. LUCIO. She it is. ISABELLA. O, let him marry her! LUCIO. This is the point. The Duke is very strangely gone from hence; Bore many gentlemen, myself being one, In hand, and hope of action; but we do learn, By those that know the very nerves of state, His givings-out were of an infinite distance From his true-meant design. Upon his place, And with full line of his authority, Governs Lord Angelo, a man whose blood Is very snow-broth, one who never feels The wanton stings and motions of the sense, But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge With profits of the mind, study and fast. He- to give fear to use and liberty, Which have for long run by the hideous law, As mice by lions- hath pick'd out an act Under whose heavy sense your brother's life Falls into forfeit; he arrests him on it, And follows close the rigour of the statute To make him an example. All hope is gone, Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer To soften Angelo. And that's my pith of business 'Twixt you and your poor brother. ISABELLA. Doth he so seek his life? LUCIO. Has censur'd him Already, and, as I hear, the Provost hath A warrant for his execution. ISABELLA. Alas! what poor ability's in me To do him good? LUCIO. Assay the pow'r you have. ISABELLA. My power, alas, I doubt! LUCIO. Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. ISABELLA. I'll see what I can do. LUCIO. But speedily. ISABELLA. I will about it straight; No longer staying but to give the Mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you. Commend me to my brother; soon at night I'll send him certain word of my success. LUCIO. I take my leave of you. ISABELLA. Good sir, adieu. Exeunt <> ACT II. Scene I. A hall in ANGELO'S house Enter ANGELO, ESCALUS, a JUSTICE, PROVOST, OFFICERS, and other ATTENDANTS ANGELO. We must not make a scarecrow of the law, Setting it up to fear the birds of prey, And let it keep one shape till custom make it Their perch, and not their terror. ESCALUS. Ay, but yet Let us be keen, and rather cut a little Than fall and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman, Whom I would save, had a most noble father. Let but your honour know, Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue, That, in the working of your own affections, Had time coher'd with place, or place with wishing, Or that the resolute acting of our blood Could have attain'd th' effect of your own purpose Whether you had not sometime in your life Err'd in this point which now you censure him, And pull'd the law upon you. ANGELO. 'Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus, Another thing to fall. I not deny The jury, passing on the prisoner's life, May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two Guiltier than him they try. What's open made to justice, That justice seizes. What knows the laws That thieves do pass on thieves? 'Tis very pregnant, The jewel that we find, we stoop and take't, Because we see it; but what we do not see We tread upon, and never think of it. You may not so extenuate his offence For I have had such faults; but rather tell me, When I, that censure him, do so offend, Let mine own judgment pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. ESCALUS. Be it as your wisdom will. ANGELO. Where is the Provost? PROVOST. Here, if it like your honour. ANGELO. See that Claudio Be executed by nine to-morrow morning; Bring him his confessor; let him be prepar'd; For that's the utmost of his pilgrimage. Exit PROVOST ESCALUS. [Aside] Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall; Some run from breaks of ice, and answer none, And some condemned for a fault alone. Enter ELBOW and OFFICERS with FROTH and POMPEY ELBOW. Come, bring them away; if these be good people in a commonweal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law; bring them away. ANGELO. How now, sir! What's your name, and what's the matter? ELBOW. If it please your honour, I am the poor Duke's constable, and my name is Elbow; I do lean upon justice, sir, and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors. ANGELO. Benefactors! Well- what benefactors are they? Are they not malefactors? ELBOW. If it please your honour, I know not well what they are; but precise villains they are, that I am sure of, and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have. ESCALUS. This comes off well; here's a wise officer. ANGELO. Go to; what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? Why dost thou not speak, Elbow? POMPEY. He cannot, sir; he's out at elbow. ANGELO. What are you, sir? ELBOW. He, sir? A tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman; whose house, sir, was, as they say, pluck'd down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too. ESCALUS. How know you that? ELBOW. My Wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour- ESCALUS. How! thy wife! ELBOW. Ay, sir; whom I thank heaven, is an honest woman- ESCALUS. Dost thou detest her therefore? ELBOW. I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd's house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house. ESCALUS. How dost thou know that, constable? ELBOW. Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accus'd in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. ESCALUS. By the woman's means? ELBOW. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone's means; but as she spit in his face, so she defied him. POMPEY. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. ELBOW. Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it. ESCALUS. Do you hear how he misplaces? POMPEY. Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour's reverence, for stew'd prunes. Sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit dish, a dish of some three pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes. ESCALUS. Go to, go to; no matter for the dish, sir. POMPEY. No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right; but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes; and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you three pence again- FROTH. No, indeed. POMPEY. Very well; you being then, if you be rememb'red, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes- FROTH. Ay, so I did indeed. POMPEY. Why, very well; I telling you then, if you be rememb'red, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you- FROTH. All this is true. POMPEY. Why, very well then- ESCALUS. Come, you are a tedious fool. To the purpose: what was done to Elbow's wife that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her. POMPEY. Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet. ESCALUS. No, sir, nor I mean it not. POMPEY. Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour's leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir, a man of fourscore pound a year; whose father died at Hallowmas- was't not at Hallowmas, Master Froth? FROTH. All-hallond eve. POMPEY. Why, very well; I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; 'twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where, indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not? FROTH. I have so; because it is an open room, and good for winter. POMPEY. Why, very well then; I hope here be truths. ANGELO. This will last out a night in Russia, When nights are longest there; I'll take my leave, And leave you to the hearing of the cause, Hoping you'll find good cause to whip them all. ESCALUS. I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship. [Exit ANGELO] Now, sir, come on; what was done to Elbow's wife, once more? POMPEY. Once?- sir. There was nothing done to her once. ELBOW. I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife. POMPEY. I beseech your honour, ask me. ESCALUS. Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her? POMPEY. I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman's face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; 'tis for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face? ESCALUS. Ay, sir, very well. POMPEY. Nay, I beseech you, mark it well. ESCALUS. Well, I do so. POMPEY. Doth your honour see any harm in his face? ESCALUS. Why, no. POMPEY. I'll be suppos'd upon a book his face is the worst thing about him. Good then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable's wife any harm? I would know that of your honour. ESCALUS. He's in the right, constable; what say you to it? ELBOW. First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman. POMPEY. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all. ELBOW. Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicket varlet; the time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child. POMPEY. Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her. ESCALUS. Which is the wiser here, Justice or Iniquity? Is this true? ELBOW. O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her! If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor Duke's officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I'll have mine action of batt'ry on thee. ESCALUS. If he took you a box o' th' ear, you might have your action of slander too. ELBOW. Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is't your worship's pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff? ESCALUS. Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldst discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou know'st what they are. ELBOW. Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what's come upon thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet; thou art to continue. ESCALUS. Where were you born, friend? FROTH. Here in Vienna, sir. ESCALUS. Are you of fourscore pounds a year? FROTH. Yes, an't please you, sir. ESCALUS. So. What trade are you of, sir? POMPEY. A tapster, a poor widow's tapster. ESCALUS. Your mistress' name? POMPEY. Mistress Overdone. ESCALUS. Hath she had any more than one husband? POMPEY. Nine, sir; Overdone by the last. ESCALUS. Nine! Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters: they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you. FROTH. I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse but I am drawn in. ESCALUS. Well, no more of it, Master Froth; farewell. [Exit FROTH] Come you hither to me, Master Tapster; what's your name, Master Tapster? POMPEY. Pompey. ESCALUS. What else? POMPEY. Bum, sir. ESCALUS. Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you; so that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster. Are you not? Come, tell me true; it shall be the better for you. POMPEY. Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live. ESCALUS. How would you live, Pompey- by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? Is it a lawful trade? POMPEY. If the law would allow it, sir. ESCALUS. But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna. POMPEY. Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city? ESCALUS. No, Pompey. POMPEY. Truly, sir, in my poor opinion, they will to't then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds. ESCALUS. There is pretty orders beginning, I can tell you: but it is but heading and hanging. POMPEY. If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you'll be glad to give out a commission for more heads; if this law hold in Vienna ten year, I'll rent the fairest house in it, after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say Pompey told you so. ESCALUS. Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever- no, not for dwelling where you do; if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Caesar to you; in plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt. So for this time, Pompey, fare you well. POMPEY. I thank your worship for your good counsel; [Aside] but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine. Whip me? No, no; let carman whip his jade; The valiant heart's not whipt out of his trade. Exit ESCALUS. Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master Constable. How long have you been in this place of constable? ELBOW. Seven year and a half, sir. ESCALUS. I thought, by the readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say seven years together? ELBOW. And a half, sir. ESCALUS. Alas, it hath been great pains to you! They do you wrong to put you so oft upon't. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? ELBOW. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters; as they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. ESCALUS. Look you, bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. ELBOW. To your worship's house, sir? ESCALUS. To my house. Fare you well. [Exit ELBOW] What's o'clock, think you? JUSTICE. Eleven, sir. ESCALUS. I pray you home to dinner with me. JUSTICE. I humbly thank you. ESCALUS. It grieves me for the death of Claudio; But there's no remedy. JUSTICE. Lord Angelo is severe. ESCALUS. It is but needful: Mercy is not itself that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe. But yet, poor Claudio! There is no remedy. Come, sir. Exeunt SCENE II. Another room in ANGELO'S house Enter PROVOST and a SERVANT SERVANT. He's hearing of a cause; he will come straight. I'll tell him of you. PROVOST. Pray you do. [Exit SERVANT] I'll know His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream! All sects, all ages, smack of this vice; and he To die for 't! Enter ANGELO ANGELO. Now, what's the matter, Provost? PROVOST. Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow? ANGELO. Did not I tell thee yea? Hadst thou not order? Why dost thou ask again? PROVOST. Lest I might be too rash; Under your good correction, I have seen When, after execution, judgment hath Repented o'er his doom. ANGELO. Go to; let that be mine. Do you your office, or give up your place, And you shall well be spar'd. PROVOST. I crave your honour's pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? She's very near her hour. ANGELO. Dispose of her To some more fitter place, and that with speed. Re-enter SERVANT SERVANT. Here is the sister of the man condemn'd Desires access to you. ANGELO. Hath he a sister? PROVOST. Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. ANGELO. Well, let her be admitted. Exit SERVANT See you the fornicatress be remov'd; Let her have needful but not lavish means; There shall be order for't. Enter Lucio and ISABELLA PROVOST. [Going] Save your honour! ANGELO. Stay a little while. [To ISABELLA] Y'are welcome; what's your will? ISABELLA. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. ANGELO. Well; what's your suit? ISABELLA. There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war 'twixt will and will not. ANGELO. Well; the matter? ISABELLA. I have a brother is condemn'd to die; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. PROVOST. [Aside] Heaven give thee moving graces. ANGELO. Condemn the fault and not the actor of it! Why, every fault's condemn'd ere it be done; Mine were the very cipher of a function, To fine the faults whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. ISABELLA. O just but severe law! I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour! LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Give't not o'er so; to him again, entreat him, Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown; You are too cold: if you should need a pin, You could not with more tame a tongue desire it. To him, I say. ISABELLA. Must he needs die? ANGELO. Maiden, no remedy. ISABELLA. Yes; I do think that you might pardon him. And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy. ANGELO. I will not do't. ISABELLA. But can you, if you would? ANGELO. Look, what I will not, that I cannot do. ISABELLA. But might you do't, and do the world no wrong, If so your heart were touch'd with that remorse As mine is to him? ANGELO. He's sentenc'd; 'tis too late. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] You are too cold. ISABELLA. Too late? Why, no; I, that do speak a word, May call it back again. Well, believe this: No ceremony that to great ones longs, Not the king's crown nor the deputed sword, The marshal's truncheon nor the judge's robe, Become them with one half so good a grace As mercy does. If he had been as you, and you as he, You would have slipp'd like him; but he, like you, Would not have been so stern. ANGELO. Pray you be gone. ISABELLA. I would to heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel! Should it then be thus? No; I would tell what 'twere to be a judge And what a prisoner. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Ay, touch him; there's the vein. ANGELO. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. ISABELLA. Alas! Alas! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once; And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be If He, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that; And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. ANGELO. Be you content, fair maid. It is the law, not I condemn your brother. Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him. He must die to-morrow. ISABELLA. To-morrow! O, that's sudden! Spare him, spare him. He's not prepar'd for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season; shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you. Who is it that hath died for this offence? There's many have committed it. LUCIO. [Aside] Ay, well said. ANGELO. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept. Those many had not dar'd to do that evil If the first that did th' edict infringe Had answer'd for his deed. Now 'tis awake, Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet, Looks in a glass that shows what future evils- Either now or by remissness new conceiv'd, And so in progress to be hatch'd and born- Are now to have no successive degrees, But here they live to end. ISABELLA. Yet show some pity. ANGELO. I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismiss'd offence would after gall, And do him right that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies to-morrow; be content. ISABELLA. So you must be the first that gives this sentence, And he that suffers. O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength! But it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] That's well said. ISABELLA. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would never be quiet, For every pelting petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder, Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven, Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man, Dress'd in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assur'd, His glassy essence, like an angry ape, Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our speens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent; He's coming; I perceive 't. PROVOST. [Aside] Pray heaven she win him. ISABELLA. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself. Great men may jest with saints: 'tis wit in them; But in the less foul profanation. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Thou'rt i' th' right, girl; more o' that. ISABELLA. That in the captain's but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Art avis'd o' that? More on't. ANGELO. Why do you put these sayings upon me? ISABELLA. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself That skins the vice o' th' top. Go to your bosom, Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know That's like my brother's fault. If it confess A natural guiltiness such as is his, Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue Against my brother's life. ANGELO. [Aside] She speaks, and 'tis Such sense that my sense breeds with it.- Fare you well. ISABELLA. Gentle my lord, turn back. ANGELO. I will bethink me. Come again to-morrow. ISABELLA. Hark how I'll bribe you; good my lord, turn back. ANGELO. How, bribe me? ISABELLA. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA) You had marr'd all else. ISABELLA. Not with fond sicles of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rate are either rich or poor As fancy values them; but with true prayers That shall be up at heaven and enter there Ere sun-rise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. ANGELO. Well; come to me to-morrow. LUCIO. [To ISABELLA] Go to; 'tis well; away. ISABELLA. Heaven keep your honour safe! ANGELO. [Aside] Amen; for I Am that way going to temptation Where prayers cross. ISABELLA. At what hour to-morrow Shall I attend your lordship? ANGELO. At any time 'fore noon. ISABELLA. Save your honour! Exeunt all but ANGELO ANGELO. From thee; even from thy virtue! What's this, what's this? Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most? Ha! Not she; nor doth she tempt; but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flow'r, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman's lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary, And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good? O, let her brother live! Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her, That I desire to hear her speak again, And feast upon her eyes? What is't I dream on? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpet, With all her double vigour, art and nature, Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till now, When men were fond, I smil'd and wond'red how. Exit SCENE III. A prison Enter, severally, DUKE, disguised as a FRIAR, and PROVOST DUKE. Hail to you, Provost! so I think you are. PROVOST. I am the Provost. What's your will, good friar? DUKE. Bound by my charity and my blest order, I come to visit the afflicted spirits Here in the prison. Do me the common right To let me see them, and to make me know The nature of their crimes, that I may minister To them accordingly. PROVOST. I would do more than that, if more were needful. Enter JULIET Look, here comes one; a gentlewoman of mine, Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth, Hath blister'd her report. She is with child; And he that got it, sentenc'd- a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this. DUKE. When must he die? PROVOST. As I do think, to-morrow. [To JULIET] I have provided for you; stay awhile And you shall be conducted. DUKE. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry? JULIET. I do; and bear the shame most patiently. DUKE. I'll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, And try your penitence, if it be sound Or hollowly put on. JULIET. I'll gladly learn. DUKE. Love you the man that wrong'd you? JULIET. Yes, as I love the woman that wrong'd him. DUKE. So then, it seems, your most offenceful act Was mutually committed. JULIET. Mutually. DUKE. Then was your sin of heavier kind than his. JULIET. I do confess it, and repent it, father. DUKE. 'Tis meet so, daughter; but lest you do repent As that the sin hath brought you to this shame, Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven, Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it, But as we stand in fear- JULIET. I do repent me as it is an evil, And take the shame with joy. DUKE. There rest. Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow, And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you! Benedicite! Exit JULIET. Must die to-morrow! O, injurious law, That respites me a life whose very comfort Is still a dying horror! PROVOST. 'Tis pity of him. Exeunt SCENE IV. ANGELO'S house Enter ANGELO ANGELO. When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words, Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel. Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name, And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state whereon I studied Is, like a good thing being often read, Grown sere and tedious; yea, my gravity, Wherein- let no man hear me- I take pride, Could I with boot change for an idle plume Which the air beats for vain. O place, O form, How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit, Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood. Let's write 'good angel' on the devil's horn; 'Tis not the devil's crest. Enter SERVANT How now, who's there? SERVANT. One Isabel, a sister, desires access to you. ANGELO. Teach her the way. [Exit SERVANT] O heavens! Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, Making both it unable for itself And dispossessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons; Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive; and even so The general subject to a well-wish'd king Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. Enter ISABELLA How now, fair maid? ISABELLA. I am come to know your pleasure. ANGELO. That you might know it would much better please me Than to demand what 'tis. Your brother cannot live. ISABELLA. Even so! Heaven keep your honour! ANGELO. Yet may he live awhile, and, it may be, As long as you or I; yet he must die. ISABELLA. Under your sentence? ANGELO. Yea. ISABELLA. When? I beseech you; that in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted That his soul sicken not. ANGELO. Ha! Fie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stol'n A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven's image In stamps that are forbid; 'tis all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one. ISABELLA. 'Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth. ANGELO. Say you so? Then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather- that the most just law Now took your brother's life; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stain'd? ISABELLA. Sir, believe this: I had rather give my body than my soul. ANGELO. I talk not of your soul; our compell'd sins Stand more for number than for accompt. ISABELLA. How say you? ANGELO. Nay, I'll not warrant that; for I can speak Against the thing I say. Answer to this: I, now the voice of the recorded law, Pronounce a sentence on your brother's life; Might there not be a charity in sin To save this brother's life? ISABELLA. Please you to do't, I'll take it as a peril to my soul It is no sin at all, but charity. ANGELO. Pleas'd you to do't at peril of your soul, Were equal poise of sin and charity. ISABELLA. That I do beg his life, if it be sin, Heaven let me bear it! You granting of my suit, If that be sin, I'll make it my morn prayer To have it added to the faults of mine, And nothing of your answer. ANGELO. Nay, but hear me; Your sense pursues not mine; either you are ignorant Or seem so, craftily; and that's not good. ISABELLA. Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good But graciously to know I am no better. ANGELO. Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright When it doth tax itself; as these black masks Proclaim an enshielded beauty ten times louder Than beauty could, display'd. But mark me: To be received plain, I'll speak more gross- Your brother is to die. ISABELLA. So. ANGELO. And his offence is so, as it appears, Accountant to the law upon that pain. ISABELLA. True. ANGELO. Admit no other way to save his life, As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But, in the loss of question, that you, his sister, Finding yourself desir'd of such a person Whose credit with the judge, or own great place, Could fetch your brother from the manacles Of the all-binding law; and that there were No earthly mean to save him but that either You must lay down the treasures of your body To this supposed, or else to let him suffer- What would you do? ISABELLA. As much for my poor brother as myself; That is, were I under the terms of death, Th' impression of keen whips I'd wear as rubies, And strip myself to death as to a bed That longing have been sick for, ere I'd yield My body up to shame. ANGELO. Then must your brother die. ISABELLA. And 'twere the cheaper way: Better it were a brother died at once Than that a sister, by redeeming him, Should die for ever. ANGELO. Were not you, then, as cruel as the sentence That you have slander'd so? ISABELLA. Ignominy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses: lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. ANGELO. You seem'd of late to make the law a tyrant; And rather prov'd the sliding of your brother A merriment than a vice. ISABELLA. O, pardon me, my lord! It oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean: I something do excuse the thing I hate For his advantage that I dearly love. ANGELO. We are all frail. ISABELLA. Else let my brother die, If not a fedary but only he Owe and succeed thy weakness. ANGELO. Nay, women are frail too. ISABELLA. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves, Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women, help heaven! Men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. ANGELO. I think it well; And from this testimony of your own sex, Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames, let me be bold. I do arrest your words. Be that you are, That is, a woman; if you be more, you're none; If you be one, as you are well express'd By all external warrants, show it now By putting on the destin'd livery. ISABELLA. I have no tongue but one; gentle, my lord, Let me intreat you speak the former language. ANGELO. Plainly conceive, I love you. ISABELLA. My brother did love Juliet, And you tell me that he shall die for't. ANGELO. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love. ISABELLA. I know your virtue hath a license in't, Which seems a little fouler than it is, To pluck on others. ANGELO. Believe me, on mine honour, My words express my purpose. ISABELLA. Ha! little honour to be much believ'd, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for't. Sign me a present pardon for my brother Or, with an outstretch'd throat, I'll tell the world aloud What man thou art. ANGELO. Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoil'd name, th' austereness of my life, My vouch against you, and my place i' th' state, Will so your accusation overweigh That you shall stifle in your own report, And smell of calumny. I have begun, And now I give my sensual race the rein: Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite; Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother By yielding up thy body to my will; Or else he must not only die the death, But thy unkindness shall his death draw out To ling'ring sufferance. Answer me to-morrow, Or, by the affection that now guides me most, I'll prove a tyrant to him. As for you, Say what you can: my false o'erweighs your true. Exit ISABELLA. To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, Who would believe me? O perilous mouths That bear in them one and the self-same tongue Either of condemnation or approof, Bidding the law make curtsy to their will; Hooking both right and wrong to th' appetite, To follow as it draws! I'll to my brother. Though he hath fall'n by prompture of the blood, Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour That, had he twenty heads to tender down On twenty bloody blocks, he'd yield them up Before his sister should her body stoop To such abhorr'd pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die: More than our brother is our chastity. I'll tell him yet of Angelo's request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul's rest. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. The prison Enter DUKE, disguised as before, CLAUDIO, and PROVOST DUKE. So, then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo? CLAUDIO. The miserable have no other medicine But only hope: I have hope to Eve, and am prepar'd to die. DUKE. Be absolute for death; either death or life Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life. If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep. A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences, That dost this habitation where thou keep'st Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art Death's fool; For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun And yet run'st toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all th' accommodations that thou bear'st Are nurs'd by baseness. Thou 'rt by no means valiant; For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st; yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself; For thou exists on many a thousand grains That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not; For what thou hast not, still thou striv'st to get, And what thou hast, forget'st. Thou art not certain; For thy complexion shifts to strange effects, After the moon. If thou art rich, thou'rt poor; For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows, Thou bear'st thy heavy riches but a journey, And Death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none; For thine own bowels which do call thee sire, The mere effusion of thy proper loins, Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum, For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age, But, as it were, an after-dinner's sleep, Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich, Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty, To make thy riches pleasant. What's yet in this That bears the name of life? Yet in this life Lie hid moe thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. CLAUDIO. I humbly thank you. To sue to live, I find I seek to die; And, seeking death, find life. Let it come on. ISABELLA. [Within] What, ho! Peace here; grace and good company! PROVOST. Who's there? Come in; the wish deserves a welcome. DUKE. Dear sir, ere long I'll visit you again. CLAUDIO. Most holy sir, I thank you. Enter ISABELLA ISABELLA. My business is a word or two with Claudio. PROVOST. And very welcome. Look, signior, here's your sister. DUKE. Provost, a word with you. PROVOST. As many as you please. DUKE. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal'd. Exeunt DUKE and PROVOST CLAUDIO. Now, sister, what's the comfort? ISABELLA. Why, As all comforts are; most good, most good, indeed. Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven, Intends you for his swift ambassador, Where you shall be an everlasting leiger. Therefore, your best appointment make with speed; To-morrow you set on. CLAUDIO. Is there no remedy? ISABELLA. None, but such remedy as, to save a head, To cleave a heart in twain. CLAUDIO. But is there any? ISABELLA. Yes, brother, you may live: There is a devilish mercy in the judge, If you'll implore it, that will free your life, But fetter you till death. CLAUDIO. Perpetual durance? ISABELLA. Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint, Though all the world's vastidity you had, To a determin'd scope. CLAUDIO. But in what nature? ISABELLA. In such a one as, you consenting to't, Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked. CLAUDIO. Let me know the point. ISABELLA. O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Dar'st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle that we tread upon In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. CLAUDIO. Why give you me this shame? Think you I can a resolution fetch From flow'ry tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride And hug it in mine arms. ISABELLA. There spake my brother; there my father's grave Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die: Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, Whose settled visage and deliberate word Nips youth i' th' head, and follies doth enew As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil; His filth within being cast, he would appear A pond as deep as hell. CLAUDIO. The precise Angelo! ISABELLA. O, 'tis the cunning livery of hell The damned'st body to invest and cover In precise guards! Dost thou think, Claudio, If I would yield him my virginity Thou mightst be freed? CLAUDIO. O heavens! it cannot be. ISABELLA. Yes, he would give't thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. This night's the time That I should do what I abhor to name, Or else thou diest to-morrow. CLAUDIO. Thou shalt not do't. ISABELLA. O, were it but my life! I'd throw it down for your deliverance As frankly as a pin. CLAUDIO. Thanks, dear Isabel. ISABELLA. Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow. CLAUDIO. Yes. Has he affections in him That thus can make him bite the law by th' nose When he would force it? Sure it is no sin; Or of the deadly seven it is the least. ISABELLA. Which is the least? CLAUDIO. If it were damnable, he being so wise, Why would he for the momentary trick Be perdurably fin'd?- O Isabel! ISABELLA. What says my brother? CLAUDIO. Death is a fearful thing. ISABELLA. And shamed life a hateful. CLAUDIO. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world; or to be worse than worst Of those that lawless and incertain thought Imagine howling- 'tis too horrible. The weariest and most loathed worldly life That age, ache, penury, and imprisonment, Can lay on nature is a paradise To what we fear of death. ISABELLA. Alas, alas! CLAUDIO. Sweet sister, let me live. What sin you do to save a brother's life, Nature dispenses with the deed so far That it becomes a virtue. ISABELLA. O you beast! O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice? Is't not a kind of incest to take life From thine own sister's shame? What should I think? Heaven shield my mother play'd my father fair! For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne'er issu'd from his blood. Take my defiance; Die; perish. Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. I'll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee. CLAUDIO. Nay, hear me, Isabel. ISABELLA. O fie, fie, fie! Thy sin's not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd; 'Tis best that thou diest quickly. CLAUDIO. O, hear me, Isabella. Re-enter DUKE DUKE. Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word. ISABELLA. What is your will? DUKE. Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you; the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit. ISABELLA. I have no superfluous leisure; my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you awhile. [Walks apart] DUKE. Son, I have overheard what hath pass'd between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures. She, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive. I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible; to-morrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready. CLAUDIO. Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. DUKE. Hold you there. Farewell. [Exit CLAUDIO] Provost, a word with you. Re-enter PROVOST PROVOST. What's your will, father? DUKE. That, now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me a while with the maid; my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company. PROVOST. In good time. Exit PROVOST DUKE. The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good; the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath convey'd to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother? ISABELLA. I am now going to resolve him; I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good Duke deceiv'd in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government. DUKE. That shall not be much amiss; yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation: he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings; to the love I have in doing good a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. ISABELLA. Let me hear you speak farther; I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit. DUKE. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at sea? ISABELLA. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. DUKE. She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed; between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity her brother Frederick was wreck'd at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman: there she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage-dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. ISABELLA. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her? DUKE. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort; swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestow'd her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not. ISABELLA. What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail? DUKE. It is a rupture that you may easily heal; and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it. ISABELLA. Show me how, good father. DUKE. This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection; his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo; answer his requiring with a plausible obedience; agree with his demands to the point; only refer yourself to this advantage: first, that your stay with him may not be long; that the time may have all shadow and silence in it; and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course- and now follows all: we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place. If the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense; and here, by this, is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it? ISABELLA. The image of it gives me content already; and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection. DUKE. It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo; if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to Saint Luke's; there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana. At that place call upon me; and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly. ISABELLA. I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father. Exeunt severally Scene II. The street before the prison Enter, on one side, DUKE disguised as before; on the other, ELBOW, and OFFICERS with POMPEY ELBOW. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard. DUKE. O heavens! what stuff is here? POMPEY. 'Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allow'd by order of law a furr'd gown to keep him warm; and furr'd with fox on lamb-skins too, to signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing. ELBOW. Come your way, sir. Bless you, good father friar. DUKE. And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir? ELBOW. Marry, sir, he hath offended the law; and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir, for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy. DUKE. Fie, sirrah, a bawd, a wicked bawd! The evil that thou causest to be done, That is thy means to live. Do thou but think What 'tis to cram a maw or clothe a back From such a filthy vice; say to thyself 'From their abominable and beastly touches I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.' Canst thou believe thy living is a life, So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend. POMPEY. Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove- DUKE. Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin, Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer; Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit. ELBOW. He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster; if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand. DUKE. That we were all, as some would seem to be, From our faults, as his faults from seeming, free. ELBOW. His neck will come to your waist- a cord, sir. Enter LUCIO POMPEY. I spy comfort; I cry bail. Here's a gentleman, and a friend of mine. LUCIO. How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Caesar? Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion's images, newly made woman, to be had now for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutch'd? What reply, ha? What say'st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is't not drown'd i' th' last rain, ha? What say'st thou, trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words? or how? The trick of it? DUKE. Still thus, and thus; still worse! LUCIO. How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha? POMPEY. Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub. LUCIO. Why, 'tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so; ever your fresh whore and your powder'd bawd- an unshunn'd consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey? POMPEY. Yes, faith, sir. LUCIO. Why, 'tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell; go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey- or how? ELBOW. For being a bawd, for being a bawd. LUCIO. Well, then, imprison him. If imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, 'tis his right. Bawd is he doubtless, and of antiquity, too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house. POMPEY. I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail. LUCIO. No, indeed, will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage. If you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu trusty Pompey. Bless you, friar. DUKE. And you. LUCIO. Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir; come. POMPEY. You will not bail me then, sir? LUCIO. Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? what news? ELBOW. Come your ways, sir; come. LUCIO. Go to kennel, Pompey, go. Exeunt ELBOW, POMPEY and OFFICERS What news, friar, of the Duke? DUKE. I know none. Can you tell me of any? LUCIO. Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome; but where is he, think you? DUKE. I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well. LUCIO. It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to't. DUKE. He does well in't. LUCIO. A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him; something too crabbed that way, friar. DUKE. It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it. LUCIO. Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied; but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation. Is it true, think you? DUKE. How should he be made, then? LUCIO. Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some, that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congeal'd ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion generative; that's infallible. DUKE. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hang'd a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy. DUKE. I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not inclin'd that way. LUCIO. O, sir, you are deceiv'd. DUKE. 'Tis not possible. LUCIO. Who- not the Duke? Yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too; that let me inform you. DUKE. You do him wrong, surely. LUCIO. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke; and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing. DUKE. What, I prithee, might be the cause? LUCIO. No, pardon; 'tis a secret must be lock'd within the teeth and the lips; but this I can let you understand: the greater file of the subject held the Duke to be wise. DUKE. Wise? Why, no question but he was. LUCIO. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow. DUKE. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking; the very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must, upon a warranted need, give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully; or, if your knowledge be more, it is much dark'ned in your malice. LUCIO. Sir, I know him, and I love him. DUKE. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love. LUCIO. Come, sir, I know what I know. DUKE. I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it; I am bound to call upon you; and I pray you your name? LUCIO. Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the Duke. DUKE. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you. LUCIO. I fear you not. DUKE. O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But, indeed, I can do you little harm: you'll forswear this again. LUCIO. I'll be hang'd first. Thou art deceiv'd in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die to-morrow or no? DUKE. Why should he die, sir? LUCIO. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of were return'd again. This ungenitur'd agent will unpeople the province with continency; sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered; he would never bring them to light. Would he were return'd! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar; I prithee pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He's not past it yet; and, I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic. Say that I said so. Farewell. Exit DUKE. No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure scape; back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? But who comes here? Enter ESCALUS, PROVOST, and OFFICERS with MISTRESS OVERDONE ESCALUS. Go, away with her to prison. MRS. OVERDONE. Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord. ESCALUS. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind! This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant. PROVOST. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it please your honour. MRS. OVERDONE. My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke's time; he promis'd her marriage. His child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob; I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me. ESCALUS. That fellow is a fellow of much license. Let him be call'd before us. Away with her to prison. Go to; no more words. [Exeunt OFFICERS with MISTRESS OVERDONE] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be alter'd: Claudio must die to-morrow. Let him be furnish'd with divines, and have all charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him. PROVOST. So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advis'd him for th' entertainment of death. ESCALUS. Good even, good father. DUKE. Bliss and goodness on you! ESCALUS. Of whence are you? DUKE. Not of this country, though my chance is now To use it for my time. I am a brother Of gracious order, late come from the See In special business from his Holiness. ESCALUS. What news abroad i' th' world? DUKE. None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness that the dissolution of it must cure it. Novelty is only in request; and, as it is, as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertakeing. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accurst. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the Duke? ESCALUS. One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself. DUKE. What pleasure was he given to? ESCALUS. Rather rejoicing to see another merry than merry at anything which profess'd to make him rejoice; a gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous; and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepar'd. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation. DUKE. He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice. Yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life; which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and now he is resolv'd to die. ESCALUS. You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have labour'd for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty; but my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forc'd me to tell him he is indeed Justice. DUKE. If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenc'd himself. ESCALUS. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well. DUKE. Peace be with you! Exeunt ESCALUS and PROVOST He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe; Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice and let his grow! O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side! How may likeness, made in crimes, Make a practice on the times, To draw with idle spiders' strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apply. With Angelo to-night shall lie His old betrothed but despised; So disguise shall, by th' disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting. Exit Act IV. Scene I. The moated grange at Saint Duke's Enter MARIANA; and BOY singing SONG Take, O, take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn; And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn; But my kisses bring again, bring again; Seals of love, but seal'd in vain, seal'd in vain. Enter DUKE, disguised as before MARIANA. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away; Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often still'd my brawling discontent. Exit BOY I cry you mercy, sir, and well could wish You had not found me here so musical. Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeas'd, but pleas'd my woe. DUKE. 'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good and good provoke to harm. I pray you tell me hath anybody inquir'd for me here to-day. Much upon this time have I promis'd here to meet. MARIANA. You have not been inquir'd after; I have sat here all day. Enter ISABELLA DUKE. I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little. May be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself. MARIANA. I am always bound to you. Exit DUKE. Very well met, and well come. What is the news from this good deputy? ISABELLA. He hath a garden circummur'd with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard back'd; And to that vineyard is a planched gate That makes his opening with this bigger key; This other doth command a little door Which from the vineyard to the garden leads. There have I made my promise Upon the heavy middle of the night To call upon him. DUKE. But shall you on your knowledge find this way? ISABELLA. I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't; With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o'er. DUKE. Are there no other tokens Between you 'greed concerning her observance? ISABELLA. No, none, but only a repair i' th' dark; And that I have possess'd him my most stay Can be but brief; for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me; whose persuasion is I come about my brother. DUKE. 'Tis well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this. What ho, within! come forth. Re-enter MARIANA I pray you be acquainted with this maid; She comes to do you good. ISABELLA. I do desire the like. DUKE. Do you persuade yourself that I respect you? MARIANA. Good friar, I know you do, and have found it. DUKE. Take, then, this your companion by the hand, Who hath a story ready for your ear. I shall attend your leisure; but make haste; The vaporous night approaches. MARIANA. Will't please you walk aside? Exeunt MARIANA and ISABELLA DUKE. O place and greatness! Millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee. Volumes of report Run with these false, and most contrarious quest Upon thy doings. Thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream, And rack thee in their fancies. Re-enter MARIANA and ISABELLA Welcome, how agreed? ISABELLA. She'll take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it. DUKE. It is not my consent, But my entreaty too. ISABELLA. Little have you to say, When you depart from him, but, soft and low, 'Remember now my brother.' MARIANA. Fear me not. DUKE. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract. To bring you thus together 'tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go; Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow. Exeunt SCENE II. The prison Enter PROVOST and POMPEY PROVOST. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head? POMPEY. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he's his wife's head, and I can never cut of a woman's head. PROVOST. Come, sir, leave me your snatches and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper; if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping, for you have been a notorious bawd. POMPEY. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind; but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instructions from my fellow partner. PROVOST. What ho, Abhorson! Where's Abhorson there? Enter ABHORSON ABHORSON. Do you call, sir? PROVOST. Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you to-morrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd. ABHORSON. A bawd, sir? Fie upon him! He will discredit our mystery. PROVOST. Go to, sir; you weigh equally; a feather will turn the scale. Exit POMPEY. Pray, sir, by your good favour- for surely, sir, a good favour you have but that you have a hanging look- do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery? ABHORSON. Ay, sir; a mystery. POMPEY. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery; but what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hang'd, I cannot imagine. ABHORSON. Sir, it is a mystery. POMPEY. Proof? ABHORSON. Every true man's apparel fits your thief: if it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough; so every true man's apparel fits your thief. Re-enter PROVOST PROVOST. Are you agreed? POMPEY. Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd; he doth oftener ask forgiveness. PROVOST. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o'clock. ABHORSON. Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow. POMPEY. I do desire to learn, sir; and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare; for truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn. PROVOST. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio. Exeunt ABHORSON and POMPEY Th' one has my pity; not a jot the other, Being a murderer, though he were my brother. Enter CLAUDIO Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death; 'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine? CLAUDIO. As fast lock'd up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones. He will not wake. PROVOST. Who can do good on him? Well, go, prepare yourself. [Knocking within] But hark, what noise? Heaven give your spirits comfort! Exit CLAUDIO [Knocking continues] By and by. I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. Enter DUKE, disguised as before Welcome, father. DUKE. The best and wholesom'st spirits of the night Envelop you, good Provost! Who call'd here of late? PROVOST. None, since the curfew rung. DUKE. Not Isabel? PROVOST. No. DUKE. They will then, ere't be long. PROVOST. What comfort is for Claudio? DUKE. There's some in hope. PROVOST. It is a bitter deputy. DUKE. Not so, not so; his life is parallel'd Even with the stroke and line of his great justice; He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his pow'r To qualify in others. Were he meal'd with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he's just. [Knocking within] Now are they come. Exit PROVOST This is a gentle provost; seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [Knocking within] How now, what noise! That spirit's possess'd with haste That wounds th' unsisting postern with these strokes. Re-enter PROVOST PROVOST. There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in; he is call'd up. DUKE. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet But he must die to-morrow? PROVOST. None, sir, none. DUKE. As near the dawning, Provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning. PROVOST. Happily You something know; yet I believe there comes No countermand; no such example have we. Besides, upon the very siege of justice, Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Profess'd the contrary. Enter a MESSENGER This is his lordship's man. DUKE. And here comes Claudio's pardon. MESSENGER. My lord hath sent you this note; and by me this further charge, that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for as I take it, it is almost day. PROVOST. I shall obey him. Exit MESSENGER DUKE. [Aside] This is his pardon, purchas'd by such sin For which the pardoner himself is in; Hence hath offence his quick celerity, When it is borne in high authority. When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended That for the fault's love is th' offender friended. Now, sir, what news? PROVOST. I told you: Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not us'd it before. DUKE. Pray you, let's hear. PROVOST. [Reads] 'Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock, and, in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed, with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril.' What say you to this, sir? DUKE. What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in th' afternoon? PROVOST. A Bohemian born; but here nurs'd up and bred. One that is a prisoner nine years old. DUKE. How came it that the absent Duke had not either deliver'd him to his liberty or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. PROVOST. His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and, indeed, his fact, till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubted proof. DUKE. It is now apparent? PROVOST. Most manifest, and not denied by himself. DUKE. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touch'd? PROVOST. A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless, of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality and desperately mortal. DUKE. He wants advice. PROVOST. He will hear none. He hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not; drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awak'd him, as if to carry him to execution, and show'd him a seeming warrant for it; it hath not moved him at all. DUKE. More of him anon. There is written in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy. If I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me; but in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenc'd him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite; for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy. PROVOST. Pray, sir, in what? DUKE. In the delaying death. PROVOST. Alack! How may I do it, having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest. DUKE. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo. PROVOST. Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour. DUKE. O, death's a great disguiser; and you may add to it. Shave the head and tie the beard; and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bar'd before his death. You know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. PROVOST. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath. DUKE. Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the deputy? PROVOST. To him and to his substitutes. DUKE. You will think you have made no offence if the Duke avouch the justice of your dealing? PROVOST. But what likelihood is in that? DUKE. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the character, I doubt not; and the signet is not strange to you. PROVOST. I know them both. DUKE. The contents of this is the return of the Duke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour, perchance of the Duke's death, perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, th' unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be: all difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine's head. I will give him a present shrift, and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amaz'd, but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn. Exeunt SCENE III. The prison Enter POMPEY POMPEY. I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession; one would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine score and seventeen pounds, of which he made five marks ready money. Marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Threepile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-colour'd satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizy, and young Master Deepvow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starvelackey, the rapier and dagger man, and young Dropheir that kill'd lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight the tilter, and brave Master Shootie the great traveller, and wild Halfcan that stabb'd Pots, and, I think, forty more- all great doers in our trade, and are now 'for the Lord's sake.' Enter ABHORSON ABHORSON. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. POMPEY. Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hang'd, Master Barnardine! ABHORSON. What ho, Barnardine! BARNARDINE. [Within] A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you? POMPEY. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death. BARNARDINE. [ Within ] Away, you rogue, away; I am sleepy. ABHORSON. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too. POMPEY. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards. ABHORSON. Go in to him, and fetch him out. POMPEY. He is coming, sir, he is coming; I hear his straw rustle. Enter BARNARDINE ABHORSON. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah? POMPEY. Very ready, sir. BARNARDINE. How now, Abhorson, what's the news with you? ABHORSON. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come. BARNARDINE. You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for't. POMPEY. O, the better, sir! For he that drinks all night and is hanged betimes in the morning may sleep the sounder all the next day. Enter DUKE, disguised as before ABHORSON. Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you? DUKE. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. BARNARDINE. Friar, not I; I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not consent to die this day, that's certain. DUKE. O, Sir, you must; and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go. BARNARDINE. I swear I will not die to-day for any man's persuasion. DUKE. But hear you- BARNARDINE. Not a word; if you have anything to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to-day. Exit DUKE. Unfit to live or die. O gravel heart! After him, fellows; bring him to the block. Exeunt ABHORSON and POMPEY Enter PROVOST PROVOST. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner? DUKE. A creature unprepar'd, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable. PROVOST. Here in the prison, father, There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio's years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclin'd, And satisfy the deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? DUKE. O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefix'd by Angelo. See this be done, And sent according to command; whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die. PROVOST. This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon; And how shall we continue Claudio, To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive? DUKE. Let this be done: Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio. Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To the under generation, you shall find Your safety manifested. PROVOST. I am your free dependant. DUKE. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. Exit PROVOST Now will I write letters to Angelo- The Provost, he shall bear them- whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home, And that, by great injunctions, I am bound To enter publicly. Him I'll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount, A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanc'd form. We shall proceed with Angelo. Re-enter PROVOST PROVOST. Here is the head; I'll carry it myself. DUKE. Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours. PROVOST. I'll make all speed. Exit ISABELLA. [ Within ] Peace, ho, be here! DUKE. The tongue of Isabel. She's come to know If yet her brother's pardon be come hither; But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair When it is least expected. Enter ISABELLA ISABELLA. Ho, by your leave! DUKE. Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. ISABELLA. The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the deputy sent my brother's pardon? DUKE. He hath releas'd him, Isabel, from the world. His head is off and sent to Angelo. ISABELLA. Nay, but it is not so. DUKE. It is no other. Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience, ISABELLA. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes! DUKE. You shall not be admitted to his sight. ISABELLA. Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel! Injurious world! Most damned Angelo! DUKE. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot; Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity. The Duke comes home to-morrow. Nay, dry your eyes. One of our covent, and his confessor, Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their pow'r. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour. ISABELLA. I am directed by you. DUKE. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 'Tis that he sent me of the Duke's return. Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana's house to-night. Her cause and yours I'll perfect him withal; and he shall bring you Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow, And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter. Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course. Who's here? Enter LUCIO LUCIO. Good even. Friar, where's the Provost? DUKE. Not within, sir. LUCIO. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran; I dare not for my head fill my belly; one fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will be here to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I lov'd thy brother. If the old fantastical Duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. Exit ISABELLA DUKE. Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them. LUCIO. Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do; he's a better woodman than thou tak'st him for. DUKE. Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well. LUCIO. Nay, tarry; I'll go along with thee; I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke. DUKE. You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough. LUCIO. I was once before him for getting a wench with child. DUKE. Did you such a thing? LUCIO. Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it: they would else have married me to the rotten medlar. DUKE. Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well. LUCIO. By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick. Exeunt SCENE IV. ANGELO'S house Enter ANGELO and ESCALUS ESCALUS. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouch'd other. ANGELO. In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness; pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted! And why meet him at the gates, and redeliver our authorities there? ESCALUS. I guess not. ANGELO. And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his ent'ring that, if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street? ESCALUS. He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints; and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. ANGELO. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim'd; Betimes i' th' morn I'll call you at your house; Give notice to such men of sort and suit As are to meet him. ESCALUS. I shall, sir; fare you well. ANGELO. Good night. Exit ESCALUS This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings. A deflow'red maid! And by an eminent body that enforc'd The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no; For my authority bears a so credent bulk That no particular scandal once can touch But it confounds the breather. He should have liv'd, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge, By so receiving a dishonour'd life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had liv'd! Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not. Exit SCENE V. Fields without the town Enter DUKE in his own habit, and Friar PETER DUKE. These letters at fit time deliver me. [Giving letters] The Provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction And hold you ever to our special drift; Though sometimes you do blench from this to that As cause doth minister. Go, call at Flavius' house, And tell him where I stay; give the like notice To Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate; But send me Flavius first. PETER. It shall be speeded well. Exit FRIAR Enter VARRIUS DUKE. I thank thee, Varrius; thou hast made good haste. Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends Will greet us here anon. My gentle Varrius! Exeunt SCENE VI. A street near the city gate Enter ISABELLA and MARIANA ISABELLA. To speak so indirectly I am loath; I would say the truth; but to accuse him so, That is your part. Yet I am advis'd to do it; He says, to veil full purpose. MARIANA. Be rul'd by him. ISABELLA. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange; for 'tis a physic That's bitter to sweet end. MARIANA. I would Friar Peter- Enter FRIAR PETER ISABELLA. O, peace! the friar is come. PETER. Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, Where you may have such vantage on the Duke He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded; The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The Duke is ent'ring; therefore, hence, away. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. The city gate Enter at several doors DUKE, VARRIUS, LORDS; ANGELO, ESCALUS, Lucio, PROVOST, OFFICERS, and CITIZENS DUKE. My very worthy cousin, fairly met! Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you. ANGELO, ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal Grace! DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital. ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater. DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud; and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves, with characters of brass, A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time And razure of oblivion. Give me your hand. And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within. Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand, And good supporters are you. Enter FRIAR PETER and ISABELLA PETER. Now is your time; speak loud, and kneel before him. ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wrong'd- I would fain have said a maid! O worthy Prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me justice, justice, justice, justice. DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice; Reveal yourself to him. ISABELLA. O worthy Duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil! Hear me yourself; for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believ'd, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here! ANGELO. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm; She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, Cut off by course of justice- ISABELLA. By course of justice! ANGELO. And she will speak most bitterly and strange. ISABELLA. Most strange, but yet most truly, will I speak. That Angelo's forsworn, is it not strange? That Angelo's a murderer, is't not strange? That Angelo is an adulterous thief, An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, Is it not strange and strange? DUKE. Nay, it is ten times strange. ISABELLA. It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange; Nay, it is ten times true; for truth is truth To th' end of reck'ning. DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul, She speaks this in th' infirmity of sense. ISABELLA. O Prince! I conjure thee, as thou believ'st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not with that opinion That I am touch'd with madness. Make not impossible That which but seems unlike: 'tis not impossible But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince, If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more, Had I more name for badness. DUKE. By mine honesty, If she be mad, as I believe no other, Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing, As e'er I heard in madness. ISABELLA. O gracious Duke, Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true. DUKE. Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say? ISABELLA. I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemn'd upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemn'd by Angelo. I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio As then the messenger- LUCIO. That's I, an't like your Grace. I came to her from Claudio, and desir'd her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother's pardon. ISABELLA. That's he, indeed. DUKE. You were not bid to speak. LUCIO. No, my good lord; Nor wish'd to hold my peace. DUKE. I wish you now, then; Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect. LUCIO. I warrant your honour. DUKE. The warrant's for yourself; take heed to't. ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale. LUCIO. Right. DUKE. It may be right; but you are i' the wrong To speak before your time. Proceed. ISABELLA. I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy. DUKE. That's somewhat madly spoken. ISABELLA. Pardon it; The phrase is to the matter. DUKE. Mended again. The matter- proceed. ISABELLA. In brief- to set the needless process by, How I persuaded, how I pray'd, and kneel'd, How he refell'd me, and how I replied, For this was of much length- the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter: He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and, after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother's head. DUKE. This is most likely! ISABELLA. O that it were as like as it is true! DUKE. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know'st not what thou speak'st, Or else thou art suborn'd against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weigh'd thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on; Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou cam'st here to complain. ISABELLA. And is this all? Then, O you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience; and, with ripened time, Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe, As I, thus wrong'd, hence unbelieved go! DUKE. I know you'd fain be gone. An officer! To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. Who knew of your intent and coming hither? ISABELLA. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick. DUKE. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick? LUCIO. My lord, I know him; 'tis a meddling friar. I do not like the man; had he been lay, my lord, For certain words he spake against your Grace In your retirement, I had swing'd him soundly. DUKE. Words against me? This's a good friar, belike! And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found. LUCIO. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison; a saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow. PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abus'd. First, hath this woman Most wrongfully accus'd your substitute; Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot. DUKE. We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of? PETER. I know him for a man divine and holy; Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he's reported by this gentleman; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace. LUCIO. My lord, most villainously; believe it. PETER. Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick, my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request- Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo- came I hither To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he, with his oath And all probation, will make up full clear, Whensoever he's convented. First, for this woman- To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accus'd- Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it. DUKE. Good friar, let's hear it. Exit ISABELLA guarded Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo? O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! Give us some seats. Come, cousin Angelo; In this I'll be impartial; be you judge Of your own cause. Enter MARIANA veiled Is this the witness, friar? FIRST let her show her face, and after speak. MARIANA. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me. DUKE. What, are you married? MARIANA. No, my lord. DUKE. Are you a maid? MARIANA. No, my lord. DUKE. A widow, then? MARIANA. Neither, my lord. DUKE. Why, you are nothing then; neither maid, widow, nor wife. LUCIO. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife. DUKE. Silence that fellow. I would he had some cause To prattle for himself. LUCIO. Well, my lord. MARIANA. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was married, And I confess, besides, I am no maid. I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me. LUCIO. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better. DUKE. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too! LUCIO. Well, my lord. DUKE. This is no witness for Lord Angelo. MARIANA. Now I come to't, my lord: She that accuses him of fornication, In self-same manner doth accuse my husband; And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I'll depose I had him in mine arms, With all th' effect of love. ANGELO. Charges she moe than me? MARIANA. Not that I know. DUKE. No? You say your husband. MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body, But knows he thinks that he knows Isabel's. ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let's see thy face. MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [Unveiling] This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor'st was worth the looking on; This is the hand which, with a vow'd contract, Was fast belock'd in thine; this is the body That took away the match from Isabel, And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagin'd person. DUKE. Know you this woman? LUCIO. Carnally, she says. DUKE. Sirrah, no more. LUCIO. Enough, my lord. ANGELO. My lord, I must confess I know this woman; And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition; but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour. MARIANA. Noble Prince, As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianc'd this man's wife as strongly As words could make up vows. And, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone, in's garden-house, He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument! ANGELO. I did but smile till now. Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice; My patience here is touch'd. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out. DUKE. Ay, with my heart; And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that's gone, think'st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That's seal'd in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence 'tis deriv'd. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for. PETER. Would lie were here, my lord! For he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint. Your provost knows the place where he abides, And he may fetch him. DUKE. Go, do it instantly. Exit PROVOST And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best In any chastisement. I for a while will leave you; But stir not you till you have well determin'd Upon these slanderers. ESCALUS. My lord, we'll do it throughly. Exit DUKE Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person? LUCIO. 'Cucullus non facit monachum': honest in nothing but in his clothes; and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke. ESCALUS. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow. LUCIO. As any in Vienna, on my word. ESCALUS. Call that same Isabel here once again; I would speak with her. [Exit an ATTENDANT] Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I'll handle her. LUCIO. Not better than he, by her own report. ESCALUS. Say you? LUCIO. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess; perchance, publicly, she'll be asham'd. Re-enter OFFICERS with ISABELLA; and PROVOST with the DUKE in his friar's habit ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her. LUCIO. That's the way; for women are light at midnight. ESCALUS. Come on, mistress; here's a gentlewoman denies all that you have said. LUCIO. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of, here with the Provost. ESCALUS. In very good time. Speak not you to him till we call upon you. LUCIO. Mum. ESCALUS. Come, sir; did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? They have confess'd you did. DUKE. 'Tis false. ESCALUS. How! Know you where you are? DUKE. Respect to your great place! and let the devil Be sometime honour'd for his burning throne! Where is the Duke? 'Tis he should hear me speak. ESCALUS. The Duke's in us; and we will hear you speak; Look you speak justly. DUKE. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox, Good night to your redress! Is the Duke gone? Then is your cause gone too. The Duke's unjust Thus to retort your manifest appeal, And put your trial in the villain's mouth Which here you come to accuse. LUCIO. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of. ESCALUS. Why, thou unreverend and unhallowed friar, Is't not enough thou hast suborn'd these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth, And in the witness of his proper ear, To call him villain; and then to glance from him To th' Duke himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence; to th' rack with him! We'll touze you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What, 'unjust'! DUKE. Be not so hot; the Duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his own; his subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o'errun the stew: laws for all faults, But faults so countenanc'd that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, As much in mock as mark. ESCALUS. Slander to th' state! Away with him to prison! ANGELO. What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of? LUCIO. 'Tis he, my lord. Come hither, good-man bald-pate. Do you know me? DUKE. I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice. I met you at the prison, in the absence of the Duke. LUCIO. O did you so? And do you remember what you said of the Duke? DUKE. Most notedly, sir. LUCIO. Do you so, sir? And was the Duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be? DUKE. You must, sir, change persons with me ere you make that my report; you, indeed, spoke so of him; and much more, much worse. LUCIO. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches? DUKE. I protest I love the Duke as I love myself. ANGELO. Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses! ESCALUS. Such a fellow is not to be talk'd withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the Provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him; let him speak no more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion! [The PROVOST lays bands on the DUKE] DUKE. Stay, sir; stay awhile. ANGELO. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio. LUCIO. Come, sir; come, sir; come, sir; foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal, you must be hooded, must you? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep-biting face, and be hang'd an hour! Will't not off? [Pulls off the FRIAR'S bood and discovers the DUKE] DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e'er mad'st a duke. First, Provost, let me bail these gentle three. [To Lucio] Sneak not away, sir, for the friar and you Must have a word anon. Lay hold on him. LUCIO. This may prove worse than hanging. DUKE. [To ESCALUS] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down. We'll borrow place of him. [To ANGELO] Sir, by your leave. Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out. ANGELO. O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness, To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like pow'r divine, Hath look'd upon my passes. Then, good Prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession; Immediate sentence then, and sequent death, Is all the grace I beg. DUKE. Come hither, Mariana. Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman? ANGELO. I was, my lord. DUKE. Go, take her hence and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar; which consummate, Return him here again. Go with him, Provost. Exeunt ANGELO, MARIANA, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST ESCALUS. My lord, I am more amaz'd at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it. DUKE. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince. As I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorney'd at your service. ISABELLA. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal have employ'd and pain'd Your unknown sovereignty. DUKE. You are pardon'd, Isabel. And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart; And you may marvel why I obscur'd myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden pow'r Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brain'd my purpose. But peace be with him! That life is better life, past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear. Make it your comfort, So happy is your brother. ISABELLA. I do, my lord. Re-enter ANGELO, MARIANA, FRIAR PETER, and PROVOST DUKE. For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong'd Your well-defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana's sake; but as he adjudg'd your brother- Being criminal in double violation Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach, Thereon dependent, for your brother's life- The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, 'An Angelo for Claudio, death for death!' Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and Measure still for Measure. Then, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested, Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage. We do condemn thee to the very block Where Claudio stoop'd to death, and with like haste. Away with him! MARIANA. O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband. DUKE. It is your husband mock'd you with a husband. Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit; else imputation, For that he knew you, might reproach your life, And choke your good to come. For his possessions, Although by confiscation they are ours, We do instate and widow you withal To buy you a better husband. MARIANA. O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man. DUKE. Never crave him; we are definitive. MARIANA. Gentle my liege- [Kneeling] DUKE. You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death! [To LUCIO] Now, sir, to you. MARIANA. O my good lord! Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I'll lend you all my life to do you service. DUKE. Against all sense you do importune her. Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror. MARIANA. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing; I'll speak all. They say best men moulded out of faults; And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad; so may my husband. O Isabel, will you not lend a knee? DUKE. He dies for Claudio's death. ISABELLA. [Kneeling] Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemn'd, As if my brother liv'd. I partly think A due sincerity govern'd his deeds Till he did look on me; since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died; For Angelo, His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perish'd by the way. Thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts. MARIANA. Merely, my lord. DUKE. Your suit's unprofitable; stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour? PROVOST. It was commanded so. DUKE. Had you a special warrant for the deed? PROVOST. No, my good lord; it was by private message. DUKE. For which I do discharge you of your office; Give up your keys. PROVOST. Pardon me, noble lord; I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me, after more advice; For testimony whereof, one in the prison, That should by private order else have died, I have reserv'd alive. DUKE. What's he? PROVOST. His name is Barnardine. DUKE. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither; let me look upon him. Exit PROVOST ESCALUS. I am sorry one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear'd, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood And lack of temper'd judgment afterward. ANGELO. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure; And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy; 'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it. Re-enter PROVOST, with BARNARDINE, CLAUDIO (muffled) and JULIET DUKE. Which is that Barnardine? PROVOST. This, my lord. DUKE. There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul, That apprehends no further than this world, And squar'st thy life according. Thou'rt condemn'd; But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand. What muffl'd fellow's that? PROVOST. This is another prisoner that I sav'd, Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; As like almost to Claudio as himself. [Unmuffles CLAUDIO] DUKE. [To ISABELLA] If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardon'd; and for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine, He is my brother too. But fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he's safe; Methinks I see a quick'ning in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. Look that you love your wife; her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself; And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon. To Lucio] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman! Wherein have I so deserv'd of you That you extol me thus? LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may; but I had rather it would please you I might be whipt. DUKE. Whipt first, sir, and hang'd after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, If any woman wrong'd by this lewd fellow- As I have heard him swear himself there's one Whom he begot with child, let her appear, And he shall marry her. The nuptial finish'd, Let him be whipt and hang'd. LUCIO. I beseech your Highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your Highness said even now I made you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold. DUKE. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive; and therewithal Remit thy other forfeits. Take him to prison; And see our pleasure herein executed. LUCIO. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging. DUKE. Slandering a prince deserves it. Exeunt OFFICERS with LUCIO She, Claudio, that you wrong'd, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo; I have confess'd her, and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness; There's more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy; We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio's: Th' offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good; Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline, What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace, where we'll show What's yet behind that's meet you all should know. Exeunt THE END <> 1597 THE MERCHANT OF VENICE by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, " " " ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALERIO, " " " " " GRATIANO, " " " " " LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELOT GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelot LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHASAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, " " " PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-maid JESSICA, daughter to Shylock Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants, and other Attendants <> SCENE: Venice, and PORTIA'S house at Belmont ACT I. SCENE I. Venice. A street Enter ANTONIO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO ANTONIO. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me; you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn; And such a want-wit sadness makes of me That I have much ado to know myself. SALERIO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean; There where your argosies, with portly sail- Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea- Do overpeer the petty traffickers, That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings. SOLANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt, Would make me sad. SALERIO. My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad? But tell not me; I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise. ANTONIO. Believe me, no; I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year; Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad. SOLANIO. Why then you are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SOLANIO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry, Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper; And other of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable. Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well; We leave you now with better company. SALERIO. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me. ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occasion to depart. SALERIO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say when. You grow exceeding strange; must it be so? SALERIO. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours. Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you; but at dinner-time, I pray you, have in mind where we must meet. BASSANIO. I will not fail you. GRATIANO. You look not well, Signior Antonio; You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care. Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd. ANTONIO. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano- A stage, where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one. GRATIANO. Let me play the fool. With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come; And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster, Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio- I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks- There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit; As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark.' O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I'll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile; I'll end my exhortation after dinner. LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak. GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue. ANTONIO. Fare you well; I'll grow a talker for this gear. GRATIANO. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible. Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO ANTONIO. Is that anything now? BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in, two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search. ANTONIO. Well; tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you to-day promis'd to tell me of? BASSANIO. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance; Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd From such a noble rate; but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio, I owe the most, in money and in love; And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe. ANTONIO. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it; And if it stand, as you yourself still do, Within the eye of honour, be assur'd My purse, my person, my extremest means, Lie all unlock'd to your occasions. BASSANIO. In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft, I shot his fellow of the self-same flight The self-same way, with more advised watch, To find the other forth; and by adventuring both I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof, Because what follows is pure innocence. I owe you much; and, like a wilful youth, That which I owe is lost; but if you please To shoot another arrow that self way Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, As I will watch the aim, or to find both, Or bring your latter hazard back again And thankfully rest debtor for the first. ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it; therefore, speak. BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages. Her name is Portia- nothing undervalu'd To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth; For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate. ANTONIO. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum; therefore go forth, Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is; and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake. Exeunt SCENE II. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter PORTIA with her waiting-woman, NERISSA PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world. NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are; and yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean: superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer. PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounc'd. NERISSA. They would be better, if well followed. PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose'! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none? NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations; therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests, of gold, silver, and lead- whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you- will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come? PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them; and as thou namest them, I will describe them; and according to my description, level at my affection. NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince. PORTIA. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse; and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself; I am much afear'd my lady his mother play'd false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'An you will not have me, choose.' He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two! NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon? PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he- why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man. If a throstle sing he falls straight a-cap'ring; he will fence with his own shadow; if I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him; for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him. NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England? PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour? PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able; I think the Frenchman became his surety, and seal'd under for another. NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew? PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober; and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk. When he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. An the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him. NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him. PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket; for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge. NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords; they have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets. PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable; for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant them a fair departure. NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat? PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, so was he call'd. NERISSA. True, madam; he, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady. PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise. Enter a SERVINGMAN How now! what news? SERVINGMAN. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave; and there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here to-night. PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach; if he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door. Exeunt SCENE III. Venice. A public place Enter BASSANIO With SHYLOCK the Jew SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats- well. BASSANIO. Ay, sir, for three months. SHYLOCK. For three months- well. BASSANIO. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound. SHYLOCK. Antonio shall become bound- well. BASSANIO. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer? SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound. BASSANIO. Your answer to that. SHYLOCK. Antonio is a good man. BASSANIO. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary? SHYLOCK. Ho, no, no, no, no; my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient; yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies; I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England- and other ventures he hath, squand'red abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves- I mean pirates; and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats- I think I may take his bond. BASSANIO. Be assur'd you may. SHYLOCK. I will be assur'd I may; and, that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us. SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into! I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? Enter ANTONIO BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio. SHYLOCK. [Aside] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian; But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation; and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him! BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear? SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And, by the near guess of my memory, I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [To ANTONIO] Rest you fair, good signior; Your worship was the last man in our mouths. ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. [To BASSANIO] Is he yet possess'd How much ye would? SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. ANTONIO. And for three months. SHYLOCK. I had forgot- three months; you told me so. Well then, your bond; and, let me see- but hear you, Methoughts you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. ANTONIO. I do never use it. SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep- This Jacob from our holy Abram was, As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third- ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest? SHYLOCK. No, not take interest; not, as you would say, Directly int'rest; mark what Jacob did: When Laban and himself were compromis'd That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank, In end of autumn turned to the rams; And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd pill'd me certain wands, And, in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who, then conceiving, did in eaning time Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not. ANTONIO. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for; A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams? SHYLOCK. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. But note me, signior. ANTONIO. [Aside] Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats- 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve; then let me see, the rate- ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you? SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances; Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe; You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help; Go to, then; you come to me, and you say 'Shylock, we would have moneys.' You say so- You that did void your rheum upon my beard And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold; moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say 'Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman's key, With bated breath and whisp'ring humbleness, Say this: 'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last, You spurn'd me such a day; another time You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys'? ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends- for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend?- But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty. SHYLOCK. Why, look you, how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me. This is kind I offer. BASSANIO. This were kindness. SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond, and, in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. ANTONIO. Content, in faith; I'll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me; I'll rather dwell in my necessity. ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it; Within these two months- that's a month before This bond expires- I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this: If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh taken from a man Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship; If he will take it, so; if not, adieu; And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not. ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's; Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house, left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I'll be with you. ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew. Exit SHYLOCK The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind. BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind. ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE of MOROCCO, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four FOLLOWERS accordingly, with PORTIA, NERISSA, and train PRINCE OF Morocco. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love, I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen. PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lott'ry of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. But, if my father had not scanted me, And hedg'd me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you. Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar, That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when 'a roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker band. So is Alcides beaten by his page; And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving. PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong, Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage; therefore be advis'd. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not; come, bring me unto my chance. PORTIA. First, forward to the temple. After dinner Your hazard shall be made. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then, To make me blest or cursed'st among men! [Cornets, and exeunt] SCENE II. Venice. A street Enter LAUNCELOT GOBBO LAUNCELOT. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good Launcelot' or 'good Gobbo' or 'good Launcelot Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.' My conscience says 'No; take heed, honest Launcelot, take heed, honest Gobbo' or, as aforesaid, 'honest Launcelot Gobbo, do not run; scorn running with thy heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the fiend. 'For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind' says the fiend 'and run.' Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest man's son' or rather 'an honest woman's son'; for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste- well, my conscience says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience. 'Conscience,' say I, (you counsel well.' 'Fiend,' say I, 'you counsel well.' To be rul'd by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who- God bless the mark!- is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who- saving your reverence!- is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation; and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend; my heels are at your commandment; I will run. Enter OLD GOBBO, with a basket GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. [Aside] O heavens! This is my true-begotten father, who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him. GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to master Jew's? LAUNCELOT. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but, at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house. GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit! Can you tell me whether one Launcelot, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELOT. Talk you of young Master Launcelot? [Aside] Mark me now; now will I raise the waters.- Talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son; his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live. LAUNCELOT. Well, let his father be what 'a will, we talk of young Master Launcelot. GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelot, sir. LAUNCELOT. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelot? GOBBO. Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership. LAUNCELOT. Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased; or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven. GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop. LAUNCELOT. Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father? GOBBO. Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman; but I pray you tell me, is my boy- God rest his soul!- alive or dead? LAUNCELOT. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not. LAUNCELOT. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing; truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son may, but in the end truth will out. GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up; I am sure you are not Launcelot my boy. LAUNCELOT. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing; I am Launcelot, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELOT. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother. GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed. I'll be sworn, if thou be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipp'd might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELOT. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward; I am sure he had more hair of his tail than I have of my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord, how art thou chang'd! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now? LAUNCELOT. Well, well; but, for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famish'd in his service; you may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come; give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries; if I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune! Here comes the man. To him, father, for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO, with a FOLLOWER or two BASSANIO. You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging. Exit a SERVANT LAUNCELOT. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy; wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy- LAUNCELOT. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify- GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve- LAUNCELOT. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify- GOBBO. His master and he, saving your worship's reverence, are scarce cater-cousins- LAUNCELOT. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you- GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship; and my suit is- LAUNCELOT. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man; and, though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father. BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you? LAUNCELOT. Serve you, sir. GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir. BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman. LAUNCELOT. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of God, sir, and he hath enough. BASSANIO. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a SERVANT] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows'; see it done. LAUNCELOT. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm] Well; if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book- I shall have good fortune. Go to, here's a simple line of life; here's a small trifle of wives; alas, fifteen wives is nothing; a'leven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed-here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling. Exeunt LAUNCELOT and OLD GOBBO BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestowed, Return in haste, for I do feast to-night My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go. LEONARDO. My best endeavours shall be done herein. Enter GRATIANO GRATIANO. Where's your master? LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks. Exit GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio! BASSANIO. Gratiano! GRATIANO. I have suit to you. BASSANIO. You have obtain'd it. GRATIANO. You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont. BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano: Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice- Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit; lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconst'red in the place I go to And lose my hopes. GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me: If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say amen, Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more. BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing. GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar to-night; you shall not gauge me By what we do to-night. BASSANIO. No, that were pity; I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well; I have some business. GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest; But we will visit you at supper-time. Exeunt SCENE III. Venice. SHYLOCK'S house Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell; and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well; there is a ducat for thee; And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest. Give him this letter; do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee. LAUNCELOT. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! these foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit; adieu! JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelot. Exit LAUNCELOT Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be asham'd to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife. Exit SCENE IV. Venice. A street Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALERIO, and SOLANIO LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in suppertime, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALERIO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SOLANIO. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly ordered; And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. 'Tis now but four o'clock; we have two hours To furnish us. Enter LAUNCELOT, With a letter Friend Launcelot, what's the news? LAUNCELOT. An it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify. LORENZO. I know the hand; in faith, 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ. GRATIANO. Love-news, in faith! LAUNCELOT. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELOT. Marry, sir, to bid my old master, the Jew, to sup to-night with my new master, the Christian. LORENZO. Hold, here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her; speak it privately. Go, gentlemen, Exit LAUNCELOT Will you prepare you for this masque to-night? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALERIO. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight. SOLANIO. And so will I. LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence. SALERIO. 'Tis good we do so. Exeunt SALERIO and SOLANIO GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica? LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house; What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with; What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer. Exeunt SCENE V. Venice. Before SHYLOCK'S house Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see; thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.- What, Jessica!- Thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me- What, Jessica!- And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out- Why, Jessica, I say! LAUNCELOT. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELOT. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding. Enter JESSICA JESSICA. Call you? What is your will? SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica; There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love; they flatter me; But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags to-night. LAUNCELOT. I beseech you, sir, go; my young master doth expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELOT. And they have conspired together; I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock i' th' morning, falling out that year on Ash Wednesday was four year, in th' afternoon. SHYLOCK. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica: Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum, And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces; But stop my house's ears- I mean my casements; Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear I have no mind of feasting forth to-night; But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah; Say I will come. LAUNCELOT. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this. There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess' eye. Exit SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha? JESSICA. His words were 'Farewell, mistress'; nothing else. SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder, Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat; drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him; and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in; Perhaps I will return immediately. Do as I bid you, shut doors after you. Fast bind, fast find- A proverb never stale in thrifty mind. Exit JESSICA. Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost. Exit SCENE VI. Venice. Before SHYLOCK'S house Enter the maskers, GRATIANO and SALERIO GRATIANO. This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. SALERIO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALERIO. O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are Are with more spirit chased than enjoyed. How like a younker or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind; How like the prodigal doth she return, With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind! Enter LORENZO SALERIO. Here comes Lorenzo; more of this hereafter. LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode! Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait. When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach; Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within? Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue. LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love. JESSICA. Lorenzo, certain; and my love indeed; For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours? LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art. JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange; But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For, if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy. LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer. JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd. LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once, For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast. JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight. Exit above GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew. LORENZO. Beshrew me, but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself; And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul. Enter JESSICA, below What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away; Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. Exit with JESSICA and SALERIO Enter ANTONIO ANTONIO. Who's there? GRATIANO. Signior Antonio? ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano, where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock; our friends all stay for you; No masque to-night; the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard; I have sent twenty out to seek for you. GRATIANO. I am glad on't; I desire no more delight Than to be under sail and gone to-night. Exeunt SCENE VII. Belmont. PORTIA's house Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains PORTIA. Go draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble Prince. Now make your choice. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' The second, silver, which this promise carries: 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt: 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' How shall I know if I do choose the right? PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, Prince; If you choose that, then I am yours withal. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see; I will survey th' inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' Must give- for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages. A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross; I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou beest rated by thy estimation, Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady; And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve? Why, that's the lady! I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray'd no farther, but chose here? Let's see once more this saying grav'd in gold: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' Why, that's the lady! All the world desires her; From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar To stop the foreign spirits, but they come As o'er a brook to see fair Portia. One of these three contains her heavenly picture. Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation To think so base a thought; it were too gross To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave. Or shall I think in silver she's immur'd, Being ten times undervalued to tried gold? O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem Was set in worse than gold. They have in England A coin that bears the figure of an angel Stamp'd in gold; but that's insculp'd upon. But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key; Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may! PORTIA. There, take it, Prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [He opens the golden casket] PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing. 'All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told; Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll'd. Fare you well, your suit is cold.' Cold indeed, and labour lost, Then farewell, heat, and welcome, frost. Portia, adieu! I have too griev'd a heart To take a tedious leave; thus losers part. Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. Exeunt SCENE VIII. Venice. A street Enter SALERIO and SOLANIO SALERIO. Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail; With him is Gratiano gone along; And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not. SOLANIO. The villain Jew with outcries rais'd the Duke, Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship. SALERIO. He came too late, the ship was under sail; But there the Duke was given to understand That in a gondola were seen together Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica; Besides, Antonio certified the Duke They were not with Bassanio in his ship. SOLANIO. I never heard a passion so confus'd, So strange, outrageous, and so variable, As the dog Jew did utter in the streets. 'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter! Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats! Justice! the law! My ducats and my daughter! A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats, Of double ducats, stol'n from me by my daughter! And jewels- two stones, two rich and precious stones, Stol'n by my daughter! Justice! Find the girl; She hath the stones upon her and the ducats.' SALERIO. Why, all the boys in Venice follow him, Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats. SOLANIO. Let good Antonio look he keep his day, Or he shall pay for this. SALERIO. Marry, well rememb'red; I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday, Who told me, in the narrow seas that part The French and English, there miscarried A vessel of our country richly fraught. I thought upon Antonio when he told me, And wish'd in silence that it were not his. SOLANIO. You were best to tell Antonio what you hear; Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him. SALERIO. A kinder gentleman treads not the earth. I saw Bassanio and Antonio part. Bassanio told him he would make some speed Of his return. He answered 'Do not so; Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio, But stay the very riping of the time; And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me, Let it not enter in your mind of love; Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship, and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.' And even there, his eye being big with tears, Turning his face, he put his hand behind him, And with affection wondrous sensible He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted. SOLANIO. I think he only loves the world for him. I pray thee, let us go and find him out, And quicken his embraced heaviness With some delight or other. SALERIO. Do we so. Exeunt SCENE IX. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter NERISSA, and a SERVITOR NERISSA. Quick, quick, I pray thee, draw the curtain straight; The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath, And comes to his election presently. Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON, PORTIA, and their trains PORTIA. Behold, there stand the caskets, noble Prince. If you choose that wherein I am contain'd, Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemniz'd; But if you fail, without more speech, my lord, You must be gone from hence immediately. ARRAGON. I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things: First, never to unfold to any one Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail Of the right casket, never in my life To woo a maid in way of marriage; Lastly, If I do fail in fortune of my choice, Immediately to leave you and be gone. PORTIA. To these injunctions every one doth swear That comes to hazard for my worthless self. ARRAGON. And so have I address'd me. Fortune now To my heart's hope! Gold, silver, and base lead. 'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.' You shall look fairer ere I give or hazard. What says the golden chest? Ha! let me see: 'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.' What many men desire- that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude, that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach; Which pries not to th' interior, but, like the martlet, Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty. I will not choose what many men desire, Because I will not jump with common spirits And rank me with the barbarous multitudes. Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house! Tell me once more what title thou dost bear. 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' And well said too; for who shall go about To cozen fortune, and be honourable Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices, Were not deriv'd corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchas'd by the merit of the wearer! How many then should cover that stand bare! How many be commanded that command! How much low peasantry would then be gleaned From the true seed of honour! and how much honour Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times, To be new varnish'd! Well, but to my choice. 'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.' I will assume desert. Give me a key for this, And instantly unlock my fortunes here. [He opens the silver casket] PORTIA. [Aside] Too long a pause for that which you find there. ARRAGON. What's here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! 'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.' Did I deserve no more than a fool's head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better? PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices And of opposed natures. ARRAGON. What is here? [Reads] 'The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss, Such have but a shadow's bliss. There be fools alive iwis Silver'd o'er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head. So be gone; you are sped.' Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool's head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I'll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. Exit with his train PORTIA. Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O, these deliberate fools! When they do choose, They have the wisdom by their wit to lose. NERISSA. The ancient saying is no heresy: Hanging and wiving goes by destiny. PORTIA. Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa. Enter a SERVANT SERVANT. Where is my lady? PORTIA. Here; what would my lord? SERVANT. Madam, there is alighted at your gate A young Venetian, one that comes before To signify th' approaching of his lord, From whom he bringeth sensible regreets; To wit, besides commends and courteous breath, Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen So likely an ambassador of love. A day in April never came so sweet To show how costly summer was at hand As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord. PORTIA. No more, I pray thee; I am half afeard Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee, Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him. Come, come, Nerissa, for I long to see Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly. NERISSA. Bassanio, Lord Love, if thy will it be! Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE I. Venice. A street Enter SOLANIO and SALERIO SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto? SALERIO. Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wreck'd on the narrow seas; the Goodwins I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcases of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapp'd ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio- O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!- SALERIO. Come, the full stop. SOLANIO. Ha! What sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. SALERIO. I would it might prove the end of his losses. SOLANIO. Let me say amen betimes, lest the devil cross my prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew. Enter SHYLOCK How now, Shylock? What news among the merchants? SHYLOCK. You knew, none so well, none so well as you, of my daughter's flight. SALERIO. That's certain; I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was flidge; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. SHYLOCK. She is damn'd for it. SALERIO. That's certain, if the devil may be her judge. SHYLOCK. My own flesh and blood to rebel! SOLANIO. Out upon it, old carrion! Rebels it at these years? SHYLOCK. I say my daughter is my flesh and my blood. SALERIO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no? SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto; a beggar, that was us'd to come so smug upon the mart. Let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond. He was wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him look to his bond. SALERIO. Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take his flesh. What's that good for? SHYLOCK. To bait fish withal. If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge. He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million; laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions, fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian, what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by Christian example? Why, revenge. The villainy you teach me I will execute; and itshall go hard but I will better the instruction. Enter a MAN from ANTONIO MAN. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both. SALERIO. We have been up and down to seek him. Enter TUBAL SOLANIO. Here comes another of the tribe; a third cannot be match'd, unless the devil himself turn Jew. Exeunt SOLANIO, SALERIO, and MAN SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter? TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone, cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hears'd at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin! No news of them? Why, so- and I know not what's spent in the search. Why, thou- loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge; nor no ill luck stirring but what lights o' my shoulders; no sighs but o' my breathing; no tears but o' my shedding! TUBAL. Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I heard in Genoa- SHYLOCK. What, what, what? Ill luck, ill luck? TUBAL. Hath an argosy cast away coming from Tripolis. SHYLOCK. I thank God, I thank God. Is it true, is it true? TUBAL. I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck. SHYLOCK. I thank thee, good Tubal. Good news, good news- ha, ha!- heard in Genoa. TUBAL. Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, one night, fourscore ducats. SHYLOCK. Thou stick'st a dagger in me- I shall never see my gold again. Fourscore ducats at a sitting! Fourscore ducats! TUBAL. There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my company to Venice that swear he cannot choose but break. SHYLOCK. I am very glad of it; I'll plague him, I'll torture him; I am glad of it. TUBAL. One of them showed me a ring that he had of your daughter for a monkey. SHYLOCK. Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal. It was my turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor; I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys. TUBAL. But Antonio is certainly undone. SHYLOCK. Nay, that's true; that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I will. Go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue; go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal. Exeunt SCENE II. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and all their trains PORTIA. I pray you tarry; pause a day or two Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong, I lose your company; therefore forbear a while. There's something tells me- but it is not love- I would not lose you; and you know yourself Hate counsels not in such a quality. But lest you should not understand me well- And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought- I would detain you here some month or two Before you venture for me. I could teach you How to choose right, but then I am forsworn; So will I never be; so may you miss me; But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin, That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes! They have o'erlook'd me and divided me; One half of me is yours, the other half yours- Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours, And so all yours. O! these naughty times Puts bars between the owners and their rights; And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so, Let fortune go to hell for it, not I. I speak too long, but 'tis to peize the time, To eke it, and to draw it out in length, To stay you from election. BASSANIO. Let me choose; For as I am, I live upon the rack. PORTIA. Upon the rack, Bassanio? Then confess What treason there is mingled with your love. BASSANIO. None but that ugly treason of mistrust Which makes me fear th' enjoying of my love; There may as well be amity and life 'Tween snow and fire as treason and my love. PORTIA. Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack, Where men enforced do speak anything. BASSANIO. Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth. PORTIA. Well then, confess and live. BASSANIO. 'Confess' and 'love' Had been the very sum of my confession. O happy torment, when my torturer Doth teach me answers for deliverance! But let me to my fortune and the caskets. PORTIA. Away, then; I am lock'd in one of them. If you do love me, you will find me out. Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof; Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music. That the comparison May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream And wat'ry death-bed for him. He may win; And what is music then? Then music is Even as the flourish when true subjects bow To a new-crowned monarch; such it is As are those dulcet sounds in break of day That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear And summon him to marriage. Now he goes, With no less presence, but with much more love, Than young Alcides when he did redeem The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy To the sea-monster. I stand for sacrifice; The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives, With bleared visages come forth to view The issue of th' exploit. Go, Hercules! Live thou, I live. With much much more dismay I view the fight than thou that mak'st the fray. A SONG the whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart or in the head, How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed; and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies. Let us all ring fancy's knell: I'll begin it- Ding, dong, bell. ALL. Ding, dong, bell. BASSANIO. So may the outward shows be least themselves; The world is still deceiv'd with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt But, being season'd with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts. How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars; Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk! And these assume but valour's excrement To render them redoubted. Look on beauty And you shall see 'tis purchas'd by the weight, Which therein works a miracle in nature, Making them lightest that wear most of it; So are those crisped snaky golden locks Which make such wanton gambols with the wind Upon supposed fairness often known To be the dowry of a second head- The skull that bred them in the sepulchre. Thus ornament is but the guiled shore To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word, The seeming truth which cunning times put on To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold, Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee; Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge 'Tween man and man; but thou, thou meagre lead, Which rather threaten'st than dost promise aught, Thy plainness moves me more than eloquence, And here choose I. Joy be the consequence! PORTIA. [Aside] How all the other passions fleet to air, As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair, And shudd'ring fear, and green-ey'd jealousy! O love, be moderate, allay thy ecstasy, In measure rain thy joy, scant this excess! I feel too much thy blessing. Make it less, For fear I surfeit. BASSANIO. [Opening the leaden casket] What find I here? Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether riding on the balls of mine Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips, Parted with sugar breath; so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t' entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes- How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his, And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. 'You that choose not by the view, Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas'd with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn to where your lady is And claim her with a loving kiss.' A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave; I come by note, to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize, That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no; So, thrice-fair lady, stand I even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you. PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am. Though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich, That only to stand high in your account I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractis'd; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself and what is mine to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o'er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself, Are yours- my lord's. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words; Only my blood speaks to you in my veins; And there is such confusion in my powers As, after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude, Where every something, being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence; O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead! NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper To cry 'Good joy.' Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish, For I am sure you can wish none from me; And, when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid; You lov'd, I lov'd; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls; For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last- if promise last- I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev'd her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas'd withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much honoured in your marriage. GRATIANO. We'll play with them: the first boy for a thousand ducats. NERISSA. What, and stake down? GRATIANO. No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down- But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What, and my old Venetian friend, Salerio! Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a messenger from Venice BASSANIO. Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither, If that the youth of my new int'rest here Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave, I bid my very friends and countrymen, Sweet Portia, welcome. PORTIA. So do I, my lord; They are entirely welcome. LORENZO. I thank your honour. For my part, my lord, My purpose was not to have seen you here; But meeting with Salerio by the way, He did entreat me, past all saying nay, To come with him along. SALERIO. I did, my lord, And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio Commends him to you. [Gives BASSANIO a letter] BASSANIO. Ere I ope his letter, I pray you tell me how my good friend doth. SALERIO. Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind; Nor well, unless in mind; his letter there Will show you his estate. [BASSANIO opens the letter] GRATIANO. Nerissa, cheer yond stranger; bid her welcome. Your hand, Salerio. What's the news from Venice? How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio? I know he will be glad of our success: We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece. SALERIO. I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost. PORTIA. There are some shrewd contents in yond same paper That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek: Some dear friend dead, else nothing in the world Could turn so much the constitution Of any constant man. What, worse and worse! With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself, And I must freely have the half of anything That this same paper brings you. BASSANIO. O sweet Portia, Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady, When I did first impart my love to you, I freely told you all the wealth I had Ran in my veins- I was a gentleman; And then I told you true. And yet, dear lady, Rating myself at nothing, you shall see How much I was a braggart. When I told you My state was nothing, I should then have told you That I was worse than nothing; for indeed I have engag'd myself to a dear friend, Engag'd my friend to his mere enemy, To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady, The paper as the body of my friend, And every word in it a gaping wound Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio? Hath all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit? From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, And not one vessel scape the dreadful touch Of merchant-marring rocks? SALERIO. Not one, my lord. Besides, it should appear that, if he had The present money to discharge the Jew, He would not take it. Never did I know A creature that did bear the shape of man So keen and greedy to confound a man. He plies the Duke at morning and at night, And doth impeach the freedom of the state, If they deny him justice. Twenty merchants, The Duke himself, and the magnificoes Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him; But none can drive him from the envious plea Of forfeiture, of justice, and his bond. JESSICA. When I was with him, I have heard him swear To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen, That he would rather have Antonio's flesh Than twenty times the value of the sum That he did owe him; and I know, my lord, If law, authority, and power, deny not, It will go hard with poor Antonio. PORTIA. Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble? BASSANIO. The dearest friend to me, the kindest man, The best condition'd and unwearied spirit In doing courtesies; and one in whom The ancient Roman honour more appears Than any that draws breath in Italy. PORTIA. What sum owes he the Jew? BASSANIO. For me, three thousand ducats. PORTIA. What! no more? Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond; Double six thousand, and then treble that, Before a friend of this description Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault. First go with me to church and call me wife, And then away to Venice to your friend; For never shall you lie by Portia's side With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold To pay the petty debt twenty times over. When it is paid, bring your true friend along. My maid Nerissa and myself meantime Will live as maids and widows. Come, away; For you shall hence upon your wedding day. Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer; Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear. But let me hear the letter of your friend. BASSANIO. [Reads] 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since, in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all debts are clear'd between you and I, if I might but see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure; if your love do not persuade you to come, let not my letter.' PORTIA. O love, dispatch all business and be gone! BASSANIO. Since I have your good leave to go away, I will make haste; but, till I come again, No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay, Nor rest be interposer 'twixt us twain. Exeunt SCENE III. Venice. A street Enter SHYLOCK, SOLANIO, ANTONIO, and GAOLER SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy- This is the fool that lent out money gratis. Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I'll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak; I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more. I'll not be made a soft and dull-ey'd fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield, To Christian intercessors. Follow not; I'll have no speaking; I will have my bond. Exit SOLANIO. It is the most impenetrable cur That ever kept with men. ANTONIO. Let him alone; I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers. He seeks my life; his reason well I know: I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures Many that have at times made moan to me; Therefore he hates me. SOLANIO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law; For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, Will much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go; These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh To-morrow to my bloody creditor. Well, gaoler, on; pray God Bassanio come To see me pay his debt, and then I care not. Exeunt SCENE IV. Belmont. PORTIA'S house Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and BALTHASAR LORENZO. Madam, although I speak it in your presence, You have a noble and a true conceit Of godlike amity, which appears most strongly In bearing thus the absence of your lord. But if you knew to whom you show this honour, How true a gentleman you send relief, How dear a lover of my lord your husband, I know you would be prouder of the work Than customary bounty can enforce you. PORTIA. I never did repent for doing good, Nor shall not now; for in companions That do converse and waste the time together, Whose souls do bear an equal yoke of love, There must be needs a like proportion Of lineaments, of manners, and of spirit, Which makes me think that this Antonio, Being the bosom lover of my lord, Must needs be like my lord. If it be so, How little is the cost I have bestowed In purchasing the semblance of my soul From out the state of hellish cruelty! This comes too near the praising of myself; Therefore, no more of it; hear other things. Lorenzo, I commit into your hands The husbandry and manage of my house Until my lord's return; for mine own part, I have toward heaven breath'd a secret vow To live in prayer and contemplation, Only attended by Nerissa here, Until her husband and my lord's return. There is a monastery two miles off, And there we will abide. I do desire you Not to deny this imposition, The which my love and some necessity Now lays upon you. LORENZO. Madam, with all my heart I shall obey you in an fair commands. PORTIA. My people do already know my mind, And will acknowledge you and Jessica In place of Lord Bassanio and myself. So fare you well till we shall meet again. LORENZO. Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you! JESSICA. I wish your ladyship all heart's content. PORTIA. I thank you for your wish, and am well pleas'd To wish it back on you. Fare you well, Jessica. Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO Now, Balthasar, As I have ever found thee honest-true, So let me find thee still. Take this same letter, And use thou all th' endeavour of a man In speed to Padua; see thou render this Into my cousin's hands, Doctor Bellario; And look what notes and garments he doth give thee, Bring them, I pray thee, with imagin'd speed Unto the traject, to the common ferry Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words, But get thee gone; I shall be there before thee. BALTHASAR. Madam, I go with all convenient speed. Exit PORTIA. Come on, Nerissa, I have work in hand That you yet know not of; we'll see our husbands Before they think of us. NERISSA. Shall they see us? PORTIA. They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit That they shall think we are accomplished With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager, When we are both accoutred like young men, I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two, And wear my dagger with the braver grace, And speak between the change of man and boy With a reed voice; and turn two mincing steps Into a manly stride; and speak of frays Like a fine bragging youth; and tell quaint lies, How honourable ladies sought my love, Which I denying, they fell sick and died- I could not do withal. Then I'll repent, And wish for all that, that I had not kill'd them. And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell, That men shall swear I have discontinued school About a twelvemonth. I have within my mind A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks, Which I will practise. NERISSA. Why, shall we turn to men? PORTIA. Fie, what a question's that, If thou wert near a lewd interpreter! But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device When I am in my coach, which stays for us At the park gate; and therefore haste away, For we must measure twenty miles to-day. Exeunt SCENE V. Belmont. The garden Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA LAUNCELOT. Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children; therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter; therefore be o' good cheer, for truly I think you are damn'd. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope, neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELOT. Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you not- that you are not the Jew's daughter. JESSICA. That were a kind of bastard hope indeed; so the sins of my mother should be visited upon me. LAUNCELOT. Truly then I fear you are damn'd both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I fall into Charybdis, your mother; well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be sav'd by my husband; he hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELOT. Truly, the more to blame he; we were Christians enow before, e'en as many as could well live one by another. This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs; if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money. Enter LORENZO JESSICA. I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say; here he comes. LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if you thus get my wife into corners. JESSICA. Nay, you need nor fear us, Lorenzo; Launcelot and I are out; he tells me flatly there's no mercy for me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter; and he says you are no good member of the commonwealth, for in converting Jews to Christians you raise the price of pork. LORENZO. I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than you can the getting up of the negro's belly; the Moor is with child by you, Launcelot. LAUNCELOT. It is much that the Moor should be more than reason; but if she be less than an honest woman, she is indeed more than I took her for. LORENZO. How every fool can play upon the word! I think the best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence, and discourse grow commendable in none only but parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done, sir; they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELOT. That is done too, sir, only 'cover' is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELOT. Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty. LORENZO. Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray thee understand a plain man in his plain meaning: go to thy fellows, bid them cover the table, serve in the meat, and we will come in to dinner. LAUNCELOT. For the table, sir, it shall be serv'd in; for the meat, sir, it shall be cover'd; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. Exit LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words; and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer'st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For, having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth; And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn'd with the other; for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon; first let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk; Then howsome'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things I shall digest it. JESSICA. Well, I'll set you forth. Exeunt ACT IV. SCENE I. Venice. The court of justice Enter the DUKE, the MAGNIFICOES, ANTONIO, BASSANIO, GRATIANO, SALERIO, and OTHERS DUKE OF VENICE. What, is Antonio here? ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace. DUKE OF VENICE. I am sorry for thee; thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. ANTONIO. I have heard Your Grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm'd To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his. DUKE OF VENICE. Go one, and call the Jew into the court. SALERIO. He is ready at the door; he comes, my lord. Enter SHYLOCK DUKE OF VENICE. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act; and then, 'tis thought, Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse, more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exacts the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch'd with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal, Glancing an eye of pity on his losses, That have of late so huddled on his back- Enow to press a royal merchant down, And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. SHYLOCK. I have possess'd your Grace of what I purpose, And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city's freedom. You'll ask me why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats. I'll not answer that, But say it is my humour- is it answer'd? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas'd to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban'd? What, are you answer'd yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i' th' nose, Cannot contain their urine; for affection, Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be rend'red Why he cannot abide a gaping pig; Why he, a harmless necessary cat; Why he, a woollen bagpipe, but of force Must yield to such inevitable shame As to offend, himself being offended; So can I give no reason, nor I will not, More than a lodg'd hate and a certain loathing I bear Antonio, that I follow thus A losing suit against him. Are you answered? BASSANIO. This is no answer, thou unfeeling man, To excuse the current of thy cruelty. SHYLOCK. I am not bound to please thee with my answers. BASSANIO. Do all men kill the things they do not love? SHYLOCK. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? BASSANIO. Every offence is not a hate at first. SHYLOCK. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? ANTONIO. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that- than which what's harder?- His jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no moe offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. BASSANIO. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. SHYLOCK. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them; I would have my bond. DUKE OF VENICE. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend'ring none? SHYLOCK. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas'd slave, Which, fike your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them; shall I say to you 'Let them be free, marry them to your heirs- Why sweat they under burdens?- let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season'd with such viands'? You will answer 'The slaves are ours.' So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought, 'tis mine, and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment; answer; shall I have it? DUKE OF VENICE. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here to-day. SALERIO. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. DUKE OF VENICE. Bring us the letters; call the messenger. BASSANIO. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. ANTONIO. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death; the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter NERISSA dressed like a lawyer's clerk DUKE OF VENICE. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? NERISSA. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace. [Presents a letter] BASSANIO. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? SHYLOCK. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. GRATIANO. Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak'st thy knife keen; but no metal can, No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. GRATIANO. O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus'd. Thou almost mak'st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern'd a wolf who, hang'd for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And, whilst thou layest in thy unhallowed dam, Infus'd itself in thee; for thy desires Are wolfish, bloody, starv'd and ravenous. SHYLOCK. Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond, Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud; Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall To cureless ruin. I stand here for law. DUKE OF VENICE. This letter from Bellario doth commend A young and learned doctor to our court. Where is he? NERISSA. He attendeth here hard by To know your answer, whether you'll admit him. DUKE OF VENICE. With all my heart. Some three or four of you Go give him courteous conduct to this place. Meantime, the court shall hear Bellario's letter. CLERK. [Reads] 'Your Grace shall understand that at the receipt of your letter I am very sick; but in the instant that your messenger came, in loving visitation was with me a young doctor of Rome- his name is Balthazar. I acquainted him with the cause in controversy between the Jew and Antonio the merchant; we turn'd o'er many books together; he is furnished with my opinion which, bettered with his own learning-the greatness whereof I cannot enough commend- comes with him at my importunity to fill up your Grace's request in my stead. I beseech you let his lack of years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend estimation, for I never knew so young a body with so old a head. I leave him to your gracious acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his commendation.' Enter PORTIA for BALTHAZAR, dressed like a Doctor of Laws DUKE OF VENICE. YOU hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes; And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Give me your hand; come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE OF VENICE. You are welcome; take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew? DUKE OF VENICE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. PORTIA. Is your name Shylock? SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name. PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow; Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. You stand within his danger, do you not? ANTONIO. Ay, so he says. PORTIA. Do you confess the bond? ANTONIO. I do. PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful. SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown; His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this- That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there. SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. BASSANIO. Yes; here I tender it for him in the court; Yea, twice the sum; if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart; If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And, I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority; To do a great right do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. PORTIA. It must not be; there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; 'Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error, by the same example, Will rush into the state; it cannot be. SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! PORTIA. I pray you, let me look upon the bond. SHYLOCK. Here 'tis, most reverend Doctor; here it is. PORTIA. Shylock, there's thrice thy money off'red thee. SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit; And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful. Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound; I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond. ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. PORTIA. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife. SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man! PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. SHYLOCK. 'Tis very true. O wise and upright judge, How much more elder art thou than thy looks! PORTIA. Therefore, lay bare your bosom. SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast- So says the bond; doth it not, noble judge? 'Nearest his heart,' those are the very words. PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh? SHYLOCK. I have them ready. PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond? PORTIA. It is not so express'd, but what of that? 'Twere good you do so much for charity. SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond. PORTIA. You, merchant, have you anything to say? ANTONIO. But little: I am arm'd and well prepar'd. Give me your hand, Bassanio; fare you well. Grieve not that I am fall'n to this for you, For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom. It is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty; from which ling'ring penance Of such misery doth she cut me off. Commend me to your honourable wife; Tell her the process of Antonio's end; Say how I lov'd you; speak me fair in death; And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge Whether Bassanio had not once a love. Repent but you that you shall lose your friend, And he repents not that he pays your debt; For if the Jew do cut but deep enough, I'll pay it instantly with all my heart. BASSANIO. Antonio, I am married to a wife Which is as dear to me as life itself; But life itself, my wife, and all the world, Are not with me esteem'd above thy life; I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all Here to this devil, to deliver you. PORTIA. Your wife would give you little thanks for that, If she were by to hear you make the offer. GRATIANO. I have a wife who I protest I love; I would she were in heaven, so she could Entreat some power to change this currish Jew. NERISSA. 'Tis well you offer it behind her back; The wish would make else an unquiet house. SHYLOCK. [Aside] These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter- Would any of the stock of Barrabas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian!- We trifle time; I pray thee pursue sentence. PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine. The court awards it and the law doth give it. SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge! PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it. SHYLOCK. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare. PORTIA. Tarry a little; there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood: The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh.' Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh; But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. GRATIANO. O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge! SHYLOCK. Is that the law? PORTIA. Thyself shalt see the act; For, as thou urgest justice, be assur'd Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st. GRATIANO. O learned judge! Mark, Jew. A learned judge! SHYLOCK. I take this offer then: pay the bond thrice, And let the Christian go. BASSANIO. Here is the money. PORTIA. Soft! The Jew shall have all justice. Soft! No haste. He shall have nothing but the penalty. GRATIANO. O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge! PORTIA. Therefore, prepare thee to cut off the flesh. Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more But just a pound of flesh; if thou tak'st more Or less than a just pound- be it but so much As makes it light or heavy in the substance, Or the division of the twentieth part Of one poor scruple; nay, if the scale do turn But in the estimation of a hair- Thou diest, and all thy goods are confiscate. GRATIANO. A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew! Now, infidel, I have you on the hip. PORTIA. Why doth the Jew pause? Take thy forfeiture. SHYLOCK. Give me my principal, and let me go. BASSANIO. I have it ready for thee; here it is. PORTIA. He hath refus'd it in the open court; He shall have merely justice, and his bond. GRATIANO. A Daniel still say I, a second Daniel! I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word. SHYLOCK. Shall I not have barely my principal? PORTIA. Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture To be so taken at thy peril, Jew. SHYLOCK. Why, then the devil give him good of it! I'll stay no longer question. PORTIA. Tarry, Jew. The law hath yet another hold on you. It is enacted in the laws of Venice, If it be proved against an alien That by direct or indirect attempts He seek the life of any citizen, The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive Shall seize one half his goods; the other half Comes to the privy coffer of the state; And the offender's life lies in the mercy Of the Duke only, 'gainst all other voice. In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st; For it appears by manifest proceeding That indirectly, and directly too, Thou hast contrived against the very life Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd The danger formerly by me rehears'd. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke. GRATIANO. Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself; And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state, Thou hast not left the value of a cord; Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge. DUKE OF VENICE. That thou shalt see the difference of our spirit, I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it. For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's; The other half comes to the general state, Which humbleness may drive unto a fine. PORTIA. Ay, for the state; not for Antonio. SHYLOCK. Nay, take my life and all, pardon not that. You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house; you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live. PORTIA. What mercy can you render him, Antonio? GRATIANO. A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake! ANTONIO. So please my lord the Duke and all the court To quit the fine for one half of his goods; I am content, so he will let me have The other half in use, to render it Upon his death unto the gentleman That lately stole his daughter- Two things provided more; that, for this favour, He presently become a Christian; The other, that he do record a gift, Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter. DUKE OF VENICE. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. PORTIA. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say? SHYLOCK. I am content. PORTIA. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. SHYLOCK. I pray you, give me leave to go from hence; I am not well; send the deed after me And I will sign it. DUKE OF VENICE. Get thee gone, but do it. GRATIANO. In christ'ning shalt thou have two god-fathers; Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more, To bring thee to the gallows, not to the font. Exit SHYLOCK DUKE OF VENICE. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. PORTIA. I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon; I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. DUKE OF VENICE. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For in my mind you are much bound to him. Exeunt DUKE, MAGNIFICOES, and train BASSANIO. Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew, We freely cope your courteous pains withal. ANTONIO. And stand indebted, over and above, In love and service to you evermore. PORTIA. He is well paid that is well satisfied, And I, delivering you, am satisfied, And therein do account myself well paid. My mind was never yet more mercenary. I pray you, know me when we meet again; I wish you well, and so I take my leave. BASSANIO. Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further; Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute, Not as fee. Grant me two things, I pray you, Not to deny me, and to pardon me. PORTIA. You press me far, and therefore I will yield. [To ANTONIO] Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake. [To BASSANIO] And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you. Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more, And you in love shall not deny me this. BASSANIO. This ring, good sir- alas, it is a trifle; I will not shame myself to give you this. PORTIA. I will have nothing else but only this; And now, methinks, I have a mind to it. BASSANIO.. There's more depends on this than on the value. The dearest ring in Venice will I give you, And find it out by proclamation; Only for this, I pray you, pardon me. PORTIA. I see, sir, you are liberal in offers; You taught me first to beg, and now, methinks, You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd. BASSANIO. Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife; And, when she put it on, she made me vow That I should neither sell, nor give, nor lose it. PORTIA. That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts. And if your wife be not a mad woman, And know how well I have deserv'd this ring, She would not hold out enemy for ever For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you! Exeunt PORTIA and NERISSA ANTONIO. My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring. Let his deservings, and my love withal, Be valued 'gainst your wife's commandment. BASSANIO. Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him; Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst, Unto Antonio's house. Away, make haste. Exit GRATIANO Come, you and I will thither presently; And in the morning early will we both Fly toward Belmont. Come, Antonio. Exeunt SCENE II. Venice. A street Enter PORTIA and NERISSA PORTIA. Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it; we'll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter GRATIANO GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en. My Lord Bassanio, upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be. His ring I do accept most thankfully, And so, I pray you, tell him. Furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock's house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [Aside to PORTIA] I'll See if I can get my husband's ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA. [To NERISSA] Thou Mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we'll outface them, and outswear them too. [Aloud] Away, make haste, thou know'st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? Exeunt ACT V. SCENE I. Belmont. The garden before PORTIA'S house Enter LORENZO and JESSICA LORENZO. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise- in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls, And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents, Where Cressid lay that night. JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisby fearfully o'ertrip the dew, And saw the lion's shadow ere himself, And ran dismayed away. LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. JESSICA. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs That did renew old AEson. LORENZO. In such a night Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew, And with an unthrift love did run from Venice As far as Belmont. JESSICA. In such a night Did young Lorenzo swear he lov'd her well, Stealing her soul with many vows of faith, And ne'er a true one. LORENZO. In such a night Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew, Slander her love, and he forgave it her. JESSICA. I would out-night you, did no body come; But, hark, I hear the footing of a man. Enter STEPHANO LORENZO. Who comes so fast in silence of the night? STEPHANO. A friend. LORENZO. A friend! What friend? Your name, I pray you, friend? STEPHANO. Stephano is my name, and I bring word My mistress will before the break of day Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays For happy wedlock hours. LORENZO. Who comes with her? STEPHANO. None but a holy hermit and her maid. I pray you, is my master yet return'd? LORENZO. He is not, nor we have not heard from him. But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica, And ceremoniously let us prepare Some welcome for the mistress of the house. Enter LAUNCELOT LAUNCELOT. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! LORENZO. Who calls? LAUNCELOT. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola! LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here! LAUNCELOT. Sola! Where, where? LORENZO. Here! LAUNCELOT. Tell him there's a post come from my master with his horn full of good news; my master will be here ere morning. Exit LORENZO. Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming. And yet no matter- why should we go in? My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you, Within the house, your mistress is at hand; And bring your music forth into the air. Exit STEPHANO How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears; soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony. Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold; There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-ey'd cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Enter MUSICIANS Come, ho, and wake Diana with a hymn; With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear. And draw her home with music. [Music] JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is your spirits are attentive; For do but note a wild and wanton herd, Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood- If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music. Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature. The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull:as night, And his affections dark as Erebus. Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music. Enter PORTIA and NERISSA PORTIA. That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world. NERISSA. When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. PORTIA. So doth the greater glory dim the less: A substitute shines brightly as a king Until a king be by, and then his state Empties itself, as doth an inland brook Into the main of waters. Music! hark! NERISSA. It is your music, madam, of the house. PORTIA. Nothing is good, I see, without respect; Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day. NERISSA. Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam. PORTIA. The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended; and I think ne nightingale, if she should sing by day, When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season'd are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace, ho! The moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak'd. [Music ceases] LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv'd, of Portia. PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice. LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home. PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands' welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return'd? LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before, To signify their coming. PORTIA.. Go in, Nerissa; Give order to my servants that they take No note at all of our being absent hence; Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. [A tucket sounds] LORENZO. Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not. PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick; It looks a little paler; 'tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and their followers BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me; But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord. BASSANIO. I thank you, madam; give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound. PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of. PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. GRATIANO. [To NERISSA] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong; In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What's the matter? GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler's poetry Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.' NERISSA. What talk you of the posy or the value? You swore to me, when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave; Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge's clerk! No, God's my judge, The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it. GRATIANO. He will, an if he live to be a man. NERISSA. Ay, if a woman live to be a man. GRATIANO. Now by this hand I gave it to a youth, A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy No higher than thyself, the judge's clerk; A prating boy that begg'd it as a fee; I could not for my heart deny it him. PORTIA. You were to blame, I must be plain with you, To part so slightly with your wife's first gift, A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger And so riveted with faith unto your flesh. I gave my love a ring, and made him swear Never to part with it, and here he stands; I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it Nor pluck it from his finger for the wealth That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano, You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief; An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it. BASSANIO. [Aside] Why, I were best to cut my left hand off, And swear I lost the ring defending it. GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away Unto the judge that begg'd it, and indeed Deserv'd it too; and then the boy, his clerk, That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine; And neither man nor master would take aught But the two rings. PORTIA. What ring gave you, my lord? Not that, I hope, which you receiv'd of me. BASSANIO. If I could add a lie unto a fault, I would deny it; but you see my finger Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone. PORTIA. Even so void is your false heart of truth; By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed Until I see the ring. NERISSA. Nor I in yours Till I again see mine. BASSANIO. Sweet Portia, If you did know to whom I gave the ring, If you did know for whom I gave the ring, And would conceive for what I gave the ring, And how unwillingly I left the ring, When nought would be accepted but the ring, You would abate the strength of your displeasure. PORTIA. If you had known the virtue of the ring, Or half her worthiness that gave the ring, Or your own honour to contain the ring, You would not then have parted with the ring. What man is there so much unreasonable, If you had pleas'd to have defended it With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty To urge the thing held as a ceremony? Nerissa teaches me what to believe: I'll die for't but some woman had the ring. BASSANIO. No, by my honour, madam, by my soul, No woman had it, but a civil doctor, Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me, And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him, And suffer'd him to go displeas'd away- Even he that had held up the very life Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady? I was enforc'd to send it after him; I was beset with shame and courtesy; My honour would not let ingratitude So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady; For by these blessed candles of the night, Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd The ring of me to give the worthy doctor. PORTIA. Let not that doctor e'er come near my house; Since he hath got the jewel that I loved, And that which you did swear to keep for me, I will become as liberal as you; I'll not deny him anything I have, No, not my body, nor my husband's bed. Know him I shall, I am well sure of it. Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus; If you do not, if I be left alone, Now, by mine honour which is yet mine own, I'll have that doctor for mine bedfellow. NERISSA. And I his clerk; therefore be well advis'd How you do leave me to mine own protection. GRATIANO. Well, do you so, let not me take him then; For, if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen. ANTONIO. I am th' unhappy subject of these quarrels. PORTIA. Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome not withstanding. BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong; And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself- PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one; swear by your double self, And there's an oath of credit. BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which, but for him that had your husband's ring, Had quite miscarried; I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other. ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring. BASSANIO. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! PORTIA. I had it of him. Pardon me, Bassanio, For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me. NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me. GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of highways In summer, where the ways are fair enough. What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserv'd it? PORTIA. Speak not so grossly. You are all amaz'd. Here is a letter; read it at your leisure; It comes from Padua, from Bellario; There you shall find that Portia was the doctor, Nerissa there her clerk. Lorenzo here Shall witness I set forth as soon as you, And even but now return'd; I have not yet Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome; And I have better news in store for you Than you expect. Unseal this letter soon; There you shall find three of your argosies Are richly come to harbour suddenly. You shall not know by what strange accident I chanced on this letter. ANTONIO. I am dumb. BASSANIO. Were you the doctor, and I knew you not? GRATIANO. Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold? NERISSA. Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it, Unless he live until he be a man. BASSANIO. Sweet doctor, you shall be my bedfellow; When I am absent, then lie with my wife. ANTONIO. Sweet lady, you have given me life and living; For here I read for certain that my ships Are safely come to road. PORTIA. How now, Lorenzo! My clerk hath some good comforts too for you. NERISSA. Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee. There do I give to you and Jessica, From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift, After his death, of all he dies possess'd of. LORENZO. Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way Of starved people. PORTIA. It is almost morning, And yet I am sure you are not satisfied Of these events at full. Let us go in, And charge us there upon inter'gatories, And we will answer all things faithfully. GRATIANO. Let it be so. The first inter'gatory That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is, Whether till the next night she had rather stay, Or go to bed now, being two hours to day. But were the day come, I should wish it dark, Till I were couching with the doctor's clerk. Well, while I live, I'll fear no other thing So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring. Exeunt THE END <> 1601 THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae SIR JOHN FALSTAFF FENTON, a young gentleman SHALLOW, a country justice SLENDER, cousin to Shallow Gentlemen of Windsor FORD PAGE WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, son to Page SIR HUGH EVANS, a Welsh parson DOCTOR CAIUS, a French physician HOST of the Garter Inn Followers of Falstaff BARDOLPH PISTOL NYM ROBIN, page to Falstaff SIMPLE, servant to Slender RUGBY, servant to Doctor Caius MISTRESS FORD MISTRESS PAGE MISTRESS ANNE PAGE, her daughter MISTRESS QUICKLY, servant to Doctor Caius SERVANTS to Page, Ford, etc. <> SCENE: Windsor, and the neighbourhood The Merry Wives of Windsor ACT I. SCENE 1. Windsor. Before PAGE'S house Enter JUSTICE SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star Chamber matter of it; if he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace, and Coram. SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and Custalorum. SLENDER. Ay, and Ratolorum too; and a gentleman born, Master Parson, who writes himself 'Armigero' in any bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation-'Armigero.' SHALLOW. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three hundred years. SLENDER. All his successors, gone before him, hath done't; and all his ancestors, that come after him, may: they may give the dozen white luces in their coat. SHALLOW. It is an old coat. EVANS. The dozen white louses do become an old coat well; it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to man, and signifies love. SHALLOW. The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat. SLENDER. I may quarter, coz. SHALLOW. You may, by marrying. EVANS. It is marring indeed, if he quarter it. SHALLOW. Not a whit. EVANS. Yes, py'r lady! If he has a quarter of your coat, there is but three skirts for yourself, in my simple conjectures; but that is all one. If Sir John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my benevolence, to make atonements and compremises between you. SHALLOW. The Council shall hear it; it is a riot. EVANS. It is not meet the Council hear a riot; there is no fear of Got in a riot; the Council, look you, shall desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments in that. SHALLOW. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword should end it. EVANS. It is petter that friends is the sword and end it; and there is also another device in my prain, which peradventure prings goot discretions with it. There is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master George Page, which is pretty virginity. SLENDER. Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks small like a woman. EVANS. It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys, and gold, and silver, is her grandsire upon his death's-bed-Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!-give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years old. It were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master Abraham and Mistress Anne Page. SHALLOW. Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound? EVANS. Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny. SHALLOW. I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts. EVANS. Seven hundred pounds, and possibilities, is goot gifts. SHALLOW. Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there? EVANS. Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do despise one that is false; or as I despise one that is not true. The knight Sir John is there; and, I beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will peat the door for Master Page. [Knocks] What, hoa! Got pless your house here! PAGE. [Within] Who's there? Enter PAGE EVANS. Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you; much good do it your good heart! I wish'd your venison better; it was ill kill'd. How doth good Mistress Page?-and I thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart. PAGE. Sir, I thank you. SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. PAGE. It could not be judg'd, sir. SLENDER. You'll not confess, you'll not confess. SHALLOW. That he will not. 'Tis your fault; 'tis your fault; 'tis a good dog. PAGE. A cur, sir. SHALLOW. Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog. Can there be more said? He is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. SHALLOW. He hath wrong'd me, Master Page. PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed; is not that so, Master Page? He hath wrong'd me; indeed he hath; at a word, he hath, believe me; Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged. PAGE. Here comes Sir John. Enter SIR JOHN FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, and PISTOL FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King? SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, kill'd my deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kiss'd your keeper's daughter. SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! this shall be answer'd. FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answer'd. SHALLOW. The Council shall know this. FALSTAFF. 'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you'll be laugh'd at. EVANS. Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts. FALSTAFF. Good worts! good cabbage! Slender, I broke your head; what matter have you against me? SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you; and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern, and made me drunk, and afterwards pick'd my pocket. BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. NYM. Slice, I say! pauca, pauca; slice! That's my humour. SLENDER. Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin? EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them. EVANS. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my note-book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. FALSTAFF. Pistol! PISTOL. He hears with ears. EVANS. The tevil and his tam! What phrase is this, 'He hears with ear'? Why, it is affectations. FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse? SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he-or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else!-of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence apiece of Yead Miller, by these gloves. FALSTAFF. Is this true, Pistol? EVANS. No, it is false, if it is a pick-purse. PISTOL. Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and master mine, I combat challenge of this latten bilbo. Word of denial in thy labras here! Word of denial! Froth and scum, thou liest. SLENDER. By these gloves, then, 'twas he. NYM. Be avis'd, sir, and pass good humours; I will say 'marry trap' with you, if you run the nuthook's humour on me; that is the very note of it. SLENDER. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. FALSTAFF. What say you, Scarlet and John? BARDOLPH. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. EVANS. It is his five senses; fie, what the ignorance is! BARDOLPH. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashier'd; and so conclusions pass'd the careers. SLENDER. Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no matter; I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again, but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick. If I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves. EVANS. So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind. FALSTAFF. You hear all these matters deni'd, gentlemen; you hear it. Enter MISTRESS ANNE PAGE with wine; MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE, following PAGE. Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we'll drink within. Exit ANNE PAGE SLENDER. O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page. PAGE. How now, Mistress Ford! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met; by your leave, good mistress. [Kisses her] PAGE. Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a hot venison pasty to dinner; come, gentlemen, I hope we shall drink down all unkindness. Exeunt all but SHALLOW, SLENDER, and EVANS SLENDER. I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of Songs and Sonnets here. Enter SIMPLE How, Simple! Where have you been? I must wait on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles about you, have you? SIMPLE. Book of Riddles! Why, did you not lend it to Alice Shortcake upon Allhallowmas last, a fortnight afore Michaelmas? SHALLOW. Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 'twere, a tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh here. Do you understand me? SLENDER. Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so, I shall do that that is reason. SHALLOW. Nay, but understand me. SLENDER. So I do, sir. EVANS. Give ear to his motions: Master Slender, I will description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it. SLENDER. Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says; I pray you pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his country, simple though I stand here. EVANS. But that is not the question. The question is concerning your marriage. SHALLOW. Ay, there's the point, sir. EVANS. Marry is it; the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page. SLENDER. Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any reasonable demands. EVANS. But can you affection the oman? Let us command to know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your good will to the maid? SHALLOW. Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her? SLENDER. I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that would do reason. EVANS. Nay, Got's lords and his ladies! you must speak possitable, if you can carry her your desires towards her. SHALLOW. That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her? SLENDER. I will do a greater thing than that upon your request, cousin, in any reason. SHALLOW. Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz; what I do is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid? SLENDER. I will marry her, sir, at your request; but if there be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are married and have more occasion to know one another. I hope upon familiarity will grow more contempt. But if you say 'marry her,' I will marry her; that I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely. EVANS. It is a fery discretion answer, save the fall is in the ord 'dissolutely': the ort is, according to our meaning, 'resolutely'; his meaning is good. SHALLOW. Ay, I think my cousin meant well. SLENDER. Ay, or else I would I might be hang'd, la! Re-enter ANNE PAGE SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne! ANNE. The dinner is on the table; my father desires your worships' company. SHALLOW. I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne! EVANS. Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace. Exeunt SHALLOW and EVANS ANNE. Will't please your worship to come in, sir? SLENDER. No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well. ANNE. The dinner attends you, sir. SLENDER. I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [Exit SIMPLE] A justice of peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born. ANNE. I may not go in without your worship; they will not sit till you come. SLENDER. I' faith, I'll eat nothing; I thank you as much as though I did. ANNE. I pray you, sir, walk in. SLENDER. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruis'd my shin th' other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence-three veneys for a dish of stew'd prunes -and, I with my ward defending my head, he hot my shin, and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i' th' town? ANNE. I think there are, sir; I heard them talk'd of. SLENDER. I love the sport well; but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not? ANNE. Ay, indeed, sir. SLENDER. That's meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain; but I warrant you, the women have so cried and shriek'd at it that it pass'd; but women, indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favour'd rough things. Re-enter PAGE PAGE. Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you. SLENDER. I'll eat nothing, I thank you, sir. PAGE. By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! Come, come. SLENDER. Nay, pray you lead the way. PAGE. Come on, sir. SLENDER. Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first. ANNE. Not I, sir; pray you keep on. SLENDER. Truly, I will not go first; truly, la! I will not do you that wrong. ANNE. I pray you, sir. SLENDER. I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome. You do yourself wrong indeed, la! Exeunt SCENE 2. Before PAGE'S house Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which is the way; and there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and his wringer. SIMPLE. Well, sir. EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it is a oman that altogether's acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master's desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone. I will make an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come. Exeunt SCENE 3. The Garter Inn Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter! HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier; let them wag; trot, trot. FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week. HOST. Thou'rt an emperor-Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap; said I well, bully Hector? FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host. HOST. I have spoke; let him follow. [To BARDOLPH] Let me see thee froth and lime. I am at a word; follow. Exit HOST FALSTAFF. Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a wither'd serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desir'd; I will thrive. PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight! Wilt thou the spigot wield? Exit BARDOLPH NYM. He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited? FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box: his thefts were too open; his filching was like an unskilful singer-he kept not time. NYM. The good humour is to steal at a minute's rest. PISTOL. 'Convey' the wise it call. 'Steal' foh! A fico for the phrase! FALSTAFF. Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels. PISTOL. Why, then, let kibes ensue. FALSTAFF. There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift. PISTOL. Young ravens must have food. FALSTAFF. Which of you know Ford of this town? PISTOL. I ken the wight; he is of substance good. FALSTAFF. My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about. PISTOL. Two yards, and more. FALSTAFF. No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses, she carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour, to be English'd rightly, is 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.' PISTOL. He hath studied her well, and translated her will out of honesty into English. NYM. The anchor is deep; will that humour pass? FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he hath a legion of angels. PISTOL. As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I. NYM. The humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels. FALSTAFF. I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good eyes too, examin'd my parts with most judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. NYM. I thank thee for that humour. FALSTAFF. O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here's another letter to her. She bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be cheaters to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford. We will thrive, lads, we will thrive. PISTOL. Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become, And by my side wear steel? Then Lucifer take all! NYM. I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep the haviour of reputation. FALSTAFF. [To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly; Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores. Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go; Trudge, plod away i' th' hoof; seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of the age; French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page. Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN PISTOL. Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguiles the rich and poor; Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge. PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge? NYM. By welkin and her star! PISTOL. With wit or steel? NYM. With both the humours, I. I will discuss the humour of this love to Page. PISTOL. And I to Ford shall eke unfold How Falstaff, varlet vile, His dove will prove, his gold will hold, And his soft couch defile. NYM. My humour shall not cool; I will incense Page to deal with poison; I will possess him with yellowness; for the revolt of mine is dangerous. That is my true humour. PISTOL. Thou art the Mars of malcontents; I second thee; troop on. Exeunt SCENE 4. DOCTOR CAIUS'S house Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, SIMPLE, and RUGBY QUICKLY. What, John Rugby! I pray thee go to the casement and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i' faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the King's English. RUGBY. I'll go watch. QUICKLY. Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire. [Exit RUGBY] An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant shall come in house withal; and, I warrant you, no tell-tale nor no breed-bate; his worst fault is that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish that way; but nobody but has his fault; but let that pass. Peter Simple you say your name is? SIMPLE. Ay, for fault of a better. QUICKLY. And Master Slender's your master? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. QUICKLY. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover's paring-knife? SIMPLE. No, forsooth; he hath but a little whey face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-colour'd beard. QUICKLY. A softly-sprighted man, is he not? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth; but he is as tall a man of his hands as any is between this and his head; he hath fought with a warrener. QUICKLY. How say you? O, I should remember him. Does he not hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait? SIMPLE. Yes, indeed, does he. QUICKLY. Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your master. Anne is a good girl, and I wish- Re-enter RUGBY RUGBY. Out, alas! here comes my master. QUICKLY. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man; go into this closet. [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet] He will not stay long. What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt he be not well that he comes not home. [Singing] And down, down, adown-a, etc. Enter DOCTOR CAIUS CAIUS. Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert-a box, a green-a box. Do intend vat I speak? A green-a box. QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth, I'll fetch it you. [Aside] I am glad he went not in himself; if he had found the young man, he would have been horn-mad. CAIUS. Fe, fe, fe fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour-la grande affaire. QUICKLY. Is it this, sir? CAIUS. Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Vere is dat knave, Rugby? QUICKLY. What, John Rugby? John! RUGBY. Here, sir. CAIUS. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court. RUGBY. 'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. CAIUS. By my trot, I tarry too long. Od's me! Qu'ai j'oublie? Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. QUICKLY. Ay me, he'll find the young man there, and be mad! CAIUS. O diable, diable! vat is in my closet? Villainy! larron! [Pulling SIMPLE out] Rugby, my rapier! QUICKLY. Good master, be content. CAIUS. Wherefore shall I be content-a? QUICKLY. The young man is an honest man. CAIUS. What shall de honest man do in my closet? Dere is no honest man dat shall come in my closet. QUICKLY. I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic; hear the truth of it. He came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh. CAIUS. Vell? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth, to desire her to- QUICKLY. Peace, I pray you. CAIUS. Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale. SIMPLE. To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my master, in the way of marriage. QUICKLY. This is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my finger in the fire, and need not. CAIUS. Sir Hugh send-a you? Rugby, baillez me some paper. Tarry you a little-a-while. [Writes] QUICKLY. [Aside to SIMPLE] I am glad he is so quiet; if he had been throughly moved, you should have heard him so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding, man, I'll do you your master what good I can; and the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my master-I may call him my master, look you, for I keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake, scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds, and do all myself- SIMPLE. [Aside to QUICKLY] 'Tis a great charge to come under one body's hand. QUICKLY. [Aside to SIMPLE] Are you avis'd o' that? You shall find it a great charge; and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding-to tell you in your ear, I would have no words of it-my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind-that's neither here nor there. CAIUS. You jack'nape; give-a this letter to Sir Hugh; by gar, it is a shallenge; I will cut his troat in de park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw at his dog. Exit SIMPLE QUICKLY. Alas, he speaks but for his friend. CAIUS. It is no matter-a ver dat. Do not you tell-a me dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I will myself have Anne Page. QUICKLY. Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We must give folks leave to prate. What the good-year! CAIUS. Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my door. Follow my heels, Rugby. Exeunt CAIUS and RUGBY QUICKLY. You shall have-An fool's-head of your own. No, I know Anne's mind for that; never a woman in Windsor knows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more than I do with her, I thank heaven. FENTON. [Within] Who's within there? ho! QUICKLY. Who's there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you. Enter FENTON FENTON. How now, good woman, how dost thou? QUICKLY. The better that it pleases your good worship to ask. FENTON. What news? How does pretty Mistress Anne? QUICKLY. In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you that by the way; I praise heaven for it. FENTON. Shall I do any good, think'st thou? Shall I not lose my suit? QUICKLY. Troth, sir, all is in His hands above; but notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a book she loves you. Have not your worship a wart above your eye? FENTON. Yes, marry, have I; what of that? QUICKLY. Well, thereby hangs a tale; good faith, it is such another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever broke bread. We had an hour's talk of that wart; I shall never laugh but in that maid's company! But, indeed, she is given too much to allicholy and musing; but for you-well, go to. FENTON. Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf. If thou seest her before me, commend me. QUICKLY. Will I? I' faith, that we will; and I will tell your worship more of the wart the next time we have confidence; and of other wooers. FENTON. Well, farewell; I am in great haste now. QUICKLY. Farewell to your worship. [Exit FENTON] Truly, an honest gentleman; but Anne loves him not; for I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out upon 't, what have I forgot? Exit <> ACT II. SCENE 1. Before PAGE'S house Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter MRS. PAGE. What! have I scap'd love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [Reads] 'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though Love use Reason for his precisian, he admits him not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more am I; go to, then, there's sympathy. You are merry, so am I; ha! ha! then there's more sympathy. You love sack, and so do I; would you desire better sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page at the least, if the love of soldier can suffice-that I love thee. I will not say, Pity me: 'tis not a soldier-like phrase; but I say, Love me. By me, Thine own true knight, By day or night, Or any kind of light, With all his might, For thee to fight, JOHN FALSTAFF.' What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked, wicked world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with age to show himself a young gallant! What an unweighed behaviour hath this Flemish drunkard pick'd-with the devil's name! -out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth. Heaven forgive me! Why, I'll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be reveng'd on him? for reveng'd I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter MISTRESS FORD MRS. FORD. Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house. MRS. PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. MRS. FORD. Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary. MRS. PAGE. Faith, but you do, in my mind. MRS. FORD. Well, I do, then; yet, I say, I could show you to the contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel. MRS. PAGE. What's the matter, woman? MRS. FORD. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! MRS. PAGE. Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it? Dispense with trifles; what is it? MRS. FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. MRS. PAGE. What? Thou liest. Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. MRS. FORD. We burn daylight. Here, read, read; perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men's liking. And yet he would not swear; prais'd women's modesty, and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of 'Greensleeves.' What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like? MRS. PAGE. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs. To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy letter; but let thine inherit first, for, I protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names-sure, more!-and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. MRS. FORD. Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? MRS. PAGE. Nay, I know not; it makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. MRS. FORD. 'Boarding' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him above deck. MRS. PAGE. So will I; if he come under my hatches, I'll never to sea again. Let's be reveng'd on him; let's appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawn'd his horses to mine host of the Garter. MRS. FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy. MRS. PAGE. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too; he's as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause; and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. MRS. FORD. You are the happier woman. MRS. PAGE. Let's consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [They retire] Enter FORD with PISTOL, and PAGE with Nym FORD. Well, I hope it be not so. PISTOL. Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs. Sir John affects thy wife. FORD. Why, sir, my wife is not young. PISTOL. He woos both high and low, both rich and poor, Both young and old, one with another, Ford; He loves the gallimaufry. Ford, perpend. FORD. Love my wife! PISTOL. With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou, Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels. O, odious is the name! FORD. What name, sir? PISTOL. The horn, I say. Farewell. Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night; Take heed, ere summer comes, or cuckoo birds do sing. Away, Sir Corporal Nym. Believe it, Page; he speaks sense. Exit PISTOL FORD. [Aside] I will be patient; I will find out this. NYM. [To PAGE] And this is true; I like not the humour of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours; I should have borne the humour'd letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there's the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym; I speak, and I avouch; 'Tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu! I love not the humour of bread and cheese; and there's the humour of it. Adieu. Exit Nym PAGE. 'The humour of it,' quoth 'a! Here's a fellow frights English out of his wits. FORD. I will seek out Falstaff. PAGE. I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. FORD. If I do find it-well. PAGE. I will not believe such a Cataian though the priest o' th' town commended him for a true man. FORD. 'Twas a good sensible fellow. Well. MISTRESS PAGE and MISTRESS FORD come forward PAGE. How now, Meg! MRS. PAGE. Whither go you, George? Hark you. MRS. FORD. How now, sweet Frank, why art thou melancholy? FORD. I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home; go. MRS. FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now. Will you go, Mistress Page? Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY MRS. PAGE. Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George? [Aside to MRS. FORD] Look who comes yonder; she shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. MRS. FORD. [Aside to MRS. PAGE] Trust me, I thought on her; she'll fit it. MRS. PAGE. You are come to see my daughter Anne? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? MRS. PAGE. Go in with us and see; we have an hour's talk with you. Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY PAGE. How now, Master Ford! FORD. You heard what this knave told me, did you not? PAGE. Yes; and you heard what the other told me? FORD. Do you think there is truth in them? PAGE. Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it; but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men; very rogues, now they be out of service. FORD. Were they his men? PAGE. Marry, were they. FORD. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter? PAGE. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. FORD. I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing lie on my head. I cannot be thus satisfied. Enter HOST PAGE. Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes. There is either liquor in his pate or money in his purse when he looks so merrily. How now, mine host! HOST. How now, bully rook! Thou'rt a gentleman. [To SHALLOW following] Cavaleiro Justice, I say. Enter SHALLOW SHALLOW. I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go with us? We have sport in hand. HOST. Tell him, Cavaleiro Justice; tell him, bully rook. SHALLOW. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. FORD. Good mine host o' th' Garter, a word with you. HOST. What say'st thou, my bully rook? [They go aside] SHALLOW. [To PAGE] Will you go with us to behold it? My merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons; and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places; for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester. Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be. [They converse apart] HOST. Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest-cavaleiro. FORD. None, I protest; but I'll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook-only for a jest. HOST. My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress- said I well?-and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, Mynheers? SHALLOW. Have with you, mine host. PAGE. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. SHALLOW. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what. 'Tis the heart, Master Page; 'tis here, 'tis here. I have seen the time with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. HOST. Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag? PAGE. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. Exeunt all but FORD FORD. Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page's house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into 't, and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed. Exit SCENE 2. A room in the Garter Inn Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL FALSTAFF. I will not lend thee a penny. PISTOL. I will retort the sum in equipage. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. PISTOL. Why, then the world's mine oyster. Which I with sword will open. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn. I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow, Nym; or else you had look'd through the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damn'd in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took 't upon mine honour thou hadst it not. PISTOL. Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence? FALSTAFF. Reason, you rogue, reason. Think'st thou I'll endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go-a short knife and a throng!- to your manor of Pickt-hatch; go. You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! You stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the terms of my honour precise. I, I, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it, you! PISTOL. I do relent; what would thou more of man? Enter ROBIN ROBIN. Sir, here's a woman would speak with you. FALSTAFF. Let her approach. Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY QUICKLY. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Good morrow, good wife. QUICKLY. Not so, an't please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. QUICKLY. I'll be sworn; As my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I'll vouchsafe thee the hearing. QUICKLY. There is one Mistress Ford, sir-I pray, come a little nearer this ways. I myself dwell with Master Doctor Caius. FALSTAFF. Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say- QUICKLY. Your worship says very true. I pray your worship come a little nearer this ways. FALSTAFF. I warrant thee nobody hears-mine own people, mine own people. QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them his servants! FALSTAFF. Well; Mistress Ford, what of her? QUICKLY. Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord, Lord, your worship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you, and all of us, I pray. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford- QUICKLY. Marry, this is the short and the long of it: you have brought her into such a canaries as 'tis wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches; I warrant you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift after gift; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of the best and the fairest, that would have won any woman's heart; and I warrant you, they could never get an eye-wink of her. I had myself twenty angels given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in any such sort, as they say, but in the way of honesty; and, I warrant you, they could never get her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of them all; and yet there has been earls, nay, which is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her. FALSTAFF. But what says she to me? Be brief, my good she- Mercury. QUICKLY. Marry, she hath receiv'd your letter; for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven? QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the picture, she says, that you wot of. Master Ford, her husband, will be from home. Alas, the sweet woman leads an ill life with him! He's a very jealousy man; she leads a very frampold life with him, good heart. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will not fail her. QUICKLY. Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty commendations to you too; and let me tell you in your ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the other; and she bade me tell your worship that her husband is seldom from home, but she hopes there will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon a man: surely I think you have charms, la! Yes, in truth. FALSTAFF. Not I, I assure thee; setting the attraction of my good parts aside, I have no other charms. QUICKLY. Blessing on your heart for 't! FALSTAFF. But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me? QUICKLY. That were a jest indeed! They have not so little grace, I hope-that were a trick indeed! But Mistress Page would desire you to send her your little page of all loves. Her husband has a marvellous infection to the little page; and truly Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in Windsor leads a better life than she does; do what she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as she will; and truly she deserves it; for if there be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must send her your page; no remedy. FALSTAFF. Why, I will. QUICKLY. Nay, but do so then; and, look you, he may come and go between you both; and in any case have a nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and the boy never need to understand any thing; for 'tis not good that children should know any wickedness. Old folks, you know, have discretion, as they say, and know the world. FALSTAFF. Fare thee well; commend me to them both. There's my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with this woman. [Exeunt QUICKLY and ROBIN] This news distracts me. PISTOL. [Aside] This punk is one of Cupid's carriers; Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights; Give fire; she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! Exit FALSTAFF. Say'st thou so, old Jack; go thy ways; I'll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. Enter BARDOLPH BARDOLPH. Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain speak with you, and be acquainted with you; and hath sent your worship a moming's draught of sack. FALSTAFF. Brook is his name? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. FALSTAFF. Call him in. [Exit BARDOLPH] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflows such liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompass'd you? Go to; via! Re-enter BARDOLPH, with FORD disguised FORD. Bless you, sir! FALSTAFF. And you, sir! Would you speak with me? FORD. I make bold to press with so little preparation upon you. FALSTAFF. You're welcome. What's your will? Give us leave, drawer. Exit BARDOLPH FORD. Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much; my name is Brook. FALSTAFF. Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you. FORD. Good Sir John, I sue for yours-not to charge you; for I must let you understand I think myself in better plight for a lender than you are; the which hath something embold'ned me to this unseason'd intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. FALSTAFF. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. FORD. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me; if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. FALSTAFF. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. FORD. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. FALSTAFF. Speak, good Master Brook; I shall be glad to be your servant. FORD. Sir, I hear you are a scholar-I will be brief with you -and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means as desire to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection; but, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy is it to be such an offender. FALSTAFF. Very well, sir; proceed. FORD. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband's name is Ford. FALSTAFF. Well, sir. FORD. I have long lov'd her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting observance; engross'd opportunities to meet her; fee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her; not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given; briefly, I have pursu'd her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel; that I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this: 'Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.' FALSTAFF. Have you receiv'd no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Have you importun'd her to such a purpose? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Of what quality was your love, then? FORD. Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where erected it. FALSTAFF. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? FORD. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allow'd for your many war-like, courtlike, and learned preparations. FALSTAFF. O, sir! FORD. Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only give me so much of your time in exchange of it as to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this Ford's wife; use your art of wooing, win her to consent to you; if any man may, you may as soon as any. FALSTAFF. Would it apply well to the vehemency of your affection, that I should win what you would enjoy? Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously. FORD. O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on the excellency of her honour that the folly of my soul dares not present itself; she is too bright to be look'd against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves; I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattl'd against me. What say you to't, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife. FORD. O good sir! FALSTAFF. I say you shall. FORD. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none. FALSTAFF. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me her assistant, or go-between, parted from me; I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at that time the jealous rascally knave, her husband, will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall know how I speed. FORD. I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, Sir? FALSTAFF. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not; yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the which his wife seems to me well-favour'd. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer; and there's my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o'er the cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style; thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. Exit FORD. What a damn'd Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him; the hour is fix'd; the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman! My bed shall be abus'd, my coffers ransack'd, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villainous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils' additions, the names of fiends. But cuckold! Wittol! Cuckold! the devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife; he will not be jealous; I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be prais'd for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be reveng'd on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it; better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold! Exit SCENE 3. A field near Windsor Enter CAIUS and RUGBY CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. 'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promis'd to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul dat he is no come; he has pray his Pible well dat he is no come; by gar, Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come. RUGBY. He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill him if he came. CAIUS. By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him. Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him. RUGBY. Alas, sir, I cannot fence! CAIUS. Villainy, take your rapier. RUGBY. Forbear; here's company. Enter HOST, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE HOST. Bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. Save you, Master Doctor Caius! PAGE. Now, good Master Doctor! SLENDER. Give you good morrow, sir. CAIUS. Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for? HOST. To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? Is he dead, my Francisco? Ha, bully! What says my Aesculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? Ha! is he dead, bully stale? Is he dead? CAIUS. By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de world; he is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master Doctor: he is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices, and doctors, and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. 'Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor CAIUS, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace; you have show'd yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, Guest Justice. A word, Mounseur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mock-vater! Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw! Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me; for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully-but first: [Aside to the others] Master Guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. PAGE. [Aside] Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. [Aside] He is there. See what humour he is in; and I will bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well? SHALLOW. [Aside] We will do it. PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER. Adieu, good Master Doctor. Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER CAIUS. By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a jack- an-ape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler; go about the fields with me through Frogmore; I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a a farm-house, a-feasting; and thou shalt woo her. Cried game! Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me dank you vor dat; by gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, 'tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. Exeunt <> ACT III SCENE 1. A field near Frogmore Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE EVANS. I pray you now, good Master Slender's serving-man, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you look'd for Master Caius, that calls himself Doctor of Physic? SIMPLE. Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward; every way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town way. EVANS. I most fehemently desire you you will also look that way. SIMPLE. I will, Sir. Exit EVANS. Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog his urinals about his knave's costard when I have goot opportunities for the ork. Pless my soul! [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sings madrigals; There will we make our peds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies. To shallow- Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry. [Sings] Melodious birds sing madrigals- Whenas I sat in Pabylon- And a thousand vagram posies. To shallow, etc. Re-enter SIMPLE SIMPLE. Yonder he is, coming this way, Sir Hugh. EVANS. He's welcome. [Sings] To shallow rivers, to whose falls- Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he? SIMPLE. No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over the stile, this way. EVANS. Pray you give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms. [Takes out a book] Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER SHALLOW. How now, Master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh. Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student from his book, and it is wonderful. SLENDER. [Aside] Ah, sweet Anne Page! PAGE. Save you, good Sir Hugh! EVANS. Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! SHALLOW. What, the sword and the word! Do you study them both, Master Parson? PAGE. And youthful still, in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day! EVANS. There is reasons and causes for it. PAGE. We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson. EVANS. Fery well; what is it? PAGE. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. SHALLOW. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. EVANS. What is he? PAGE. I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. EVANS. Got's will and his passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. PAGE. Why? EVANS. He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen, and he is a knave besides-a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him. SLENDER. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! SHALLOW. It appears so, by his weapons. Keep them asunder; here comes Doctor Caius. Enter HOST, CAIUS, and RUGBY PAGE. Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon. SHALLOW. So do you, good Master Doctor. HOST. Disarm them, and let them question; let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. CAIUS. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear. Verefore will you not meet-a me? EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS] Pray you use your patience; in good time. CAIUS. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. EVANS. [Aside to CAIUS] Pray you, let us not be laughing-stocks to other men's humours; I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [Aloud] I will knog your urinals about your knave's cogscomb for missing your meetings and appointments. CAIUS. Diable! Jack Rugby-mine Host de Jarteer-have I not stay for him to kill him? Have I not, at de place I did appoint? EVANS. As I am a Christians soul, now, look you, this is the place appointed. I'll be judgment by mine host of the Garter. HOST. Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh, soul-curer and body-curer. CAIUS. Ay, dat is very good! excellent! HOST. Peace, I say. Hear mine host of the Garter. Am I politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I lose my doctor? No; he gives me the potions and the motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir Hugh? No; he gives me the proverbs and the noverbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceiv'd you both; I have directed you to wrong places; your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace; follow, follow, follow. SHALLOW. Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [Aside] O sweet Anne Page! Exeunt all but CAIUS and EVANS CAIUS. Ha, do I perceive dat? Have you make-a de sot of us, ha, ha? EVANS. This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog our prains together to be revenge on this same scall, scurvy, cogging companion, the host of the Garter. CAIUS. By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too. EVANS. Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you follow. Exeunt <> SCENE 2. The street in Windsor Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN MRS. PAGE. Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels? ROBIN. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. MRS. PAGE. O, you are a flattering boy; now I see you'll be a courtier. Enter FORD FORD. Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? MRS. PAGE. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home? FORD. Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry. MRS. PAGE. Be sure of that-two other husbands. FORD. Where had you this pretty weathercock? MRS. PAGE. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight's name, sirrah? ROBIN. Sir John Falstaff. FORD. Sir John Falstaff! MRS. PAGE. He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed? FORD. Indeed she is. MRS. PAGE. By your leave, sir. I am sick till I see her. Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN FORD. Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot pointblank twelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives her folly motion and advantage; and now she's going to my wife, and Falstaff's boy with her. A man may hear this show'r sing in the wind. And Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots! They are laid; and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather prais'd for this than mock'd; for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go. Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, SIR HUGH EVANS, CAIUS, and RUGBY SHALLOW, PAGE, &C. Well met, Master Ford. FORD. Trust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me. SHALLOW. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. SLENDER. And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I'll speak of. SHALLOW. We have linger'd about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. SLENDER. I hope I have your good will, father Page. PAGE. You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you. But my wife, Master Doctor, is for you altogether. CAIUS. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me; my nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May; he will carry 't, he will carry 't; 'tis in his buttons; he will carry 't. PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having: he kept company with the wild Prince and Poins; he is of too high a region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my consent goes not that way. FORD. I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster. Master Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh. SHALLOW. Well, fare you well; we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's. Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER CAIUS. Go home, John Rugby; I come anon. Exit RUGBY HOST. Farewell, my hearts; I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink canary with him. Exit HOST FORD. [Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him. I'll make him dance. Will you go, gentles? ALL. Have with you to see this monster. Exeunt <> SCENE 3. FORD'S house Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE MRS. FORD. What, John! what, Robert! MRS. PAGE. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck-basket- MRS. FORD. I warrant. What, Robin, I say! Enter SERVANTS with a basket MRS. PAGE. Come, come, come. MRS. FORD. Here, set it down. MRS. PAGE. Give your men the charge; we must be brief. MRS. FORD. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders. That done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. Mrs. PAGE. You will do it? MRS. FORD. I ha' told them over and over; they lack no direction. Be gone, and come when you are call'd. Exeunt SERVANTS MRS. PAGE. Here comes little Robin. Enter ROBIN MRS. FORD. How now, my eyas-musket, what news with you? ROBIN. My Master Sir John is come in at your back-door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. MRS. PAGE. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? ROBIN. Ay, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threat'ned to put me into everlasting liberty, if I tell you of it; for he swears he'll turn me away. MRS. PAGE. Thou 'rt a good boy; this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I'll go hide me. MRS. FORD. Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone. [Exit ROBIN] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. MRS. PAGE. I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me. Exit MRS. PAGE MRS. FORD. Go to, then; we'll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross wat'ry pumpion; we'll teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have liv'd long enough; this is the period of my ambition. O this blessed hour! MRS. FORD. O sweet Sir John! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish; I would thy husband were dead; I'll speak it before the best lord, I would make thee my lady. MRS. FORD. I your lady, Sir John? Alas, I should be a pitiful lady. FALSTAFF. Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond; thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. MRS. FORD. A plain kerchief, Sir John; my brows become nothing else, nor that well neither. FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou art a tyrant to say so; thou wouldst make an absolute courtier, and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were, not Nature, thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. MRS. FORD. Believe me, there's no such thing in me. FALSTAFF. What made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there's something extra-ordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog, and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn-buds that come like women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple time; I cannot; but I love thee, none but thee; and thou deserv'st it. MRS. FORD. Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page. FALSTAFF. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. MRS. FORD. Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one day find it. FALSTAFF. Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it. MRS. FORD. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind. ROBIN. [Within] Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here's Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. FALSTAFF. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras. MRS. FORD. Pray you, do so; she's a very tattling woman. [FALSTAFF hides himself] Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN What's the matter? How now! MRS. PAGE. O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You're sham'd, y'are overthrown, y'are undone for ever. MRS. FORD. What's the matter, good Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford, having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! MRS. FORD. What cause of suspicion? MRS. PAGE. What cause of suspicion? Out upon you, how am I mistook in you! MRS. FORD. Why, alas, what's the matter? MRS. PAGE. Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence. You are undone. MRS. FORD. 'Tis not so, I hope. MRS. PAGE. Pray heaven it be not so that you have such a man here; but 'tis most certain your husband's coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amaz'd; call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. MRS. FORD. What shall I do? There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril. I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. MRS. PAGE. For shame, never stand 'you had rather' and 'you had rather'! Your husband's here at hand; bethink you of some conveyance; in the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceiv'd me! Look, here is a basket; if he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking, or-it is whiting-time-send him by your two men to Datchet Mead. MRS. FORD. He's too big to go in there. What shall I do? FALSTAFF. [Coming forward] Let me see 't, let me see 't. O, let me see 't! I'll in, I'll in; follow your friend's counsel; I'll in. MRS. PAGE. What, Sir John Falstaff! [Aside to FALSTAFF] Are these your letters, knight? FALSTAFF. [Aside to MRS. PAGE] I love thee and none but thee; help me away.-Let me creep in here; I'll never- [Gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen] MRS. PAGE. Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men, Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight! MRS. FORD. What, John! Robert! John! Exit ROBIN Re-enter SERVANTS Go, take up these clothes here, quickly; where's the cowl-staff? Look how you drumble. Carry them to the laundress in Datchet Mead; quickly, come. Enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS FORD. Pray you come near. If I suspect without cause, why then make sport at me, then let me be your jest; I deserve it. How now, whither bear you this? SERVANT. To the laundress, forsooth. MRS. FORD. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing. FORD. Buck? I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! ay, buck! I warrant you, buck; and of the season too, it shall appear. [Exeunt SERVANTS with basket] Gentlemen, I have dream'd to-night; I'll tell you my dream. Here, here, here be my keys; ascend my chambers, search, seek, find out. I'll warrant we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first. [Locking the door] So, now uncape. PAGE. Good Master Ford, be contented; you wrong yourself too much. FORD. True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen, you shall see sport anon; follow me, gentlemen. Exit EVANS. This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies. CAIUS. By gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not jealous in France. PAGE. Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search. Exeunt EVANS, PAGE, and CAIUS MRS. PAGE. Is there not a double excellency in this? MRS. FORD. I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. MRS. PAGE. What a taking was he in when your husband ask'd who was in the basket! MRS. FORD. I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. MRS. PAGE. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. MRS. FORD. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff's being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. MRS. PAGE. I Will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff. His dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. MRS. FORD. Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? MRS. PAGE. We will do it; let him be sent for to-morrow eight o'clock, to have amends. Re-enter FORD, PAGE, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS FORD. I cannot find him; may be the knave bragg'd of that he could not compass. MRS. PAGE. [Aside to MRS. FORD] Heard you that? MRS. FORD. You use me well, Master Ford, do you? FORD. Ay, I do so. MRS. FORD. Heaven make you better than your thoughts! FORD. Amen. MRS. PAGE. You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. FORD. Ay, ay; I must bear it. EVANS. If there be any pody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! CAIUS. Be gar, nor I too; there is no bodies. PAGE. Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not asham'd? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. FORD. 'Tis my fault, Master Page; I suffer for it. EVANS. You suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. CAIUS. By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman. FORD. Well, I promis'd you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the Park. I pray you pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page; I pray you pardon me; pray heartly, pardon me. PAGE. Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house to breakfast; after, we'll a-birding together; I have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so? FORD. Any thing. EVANS. If there is one, I shall make two in the company. CAIUS. If there be one or two, I shall make-a the turd. FORD. Pray you go, Master Page. EVANS. I pray you now, remembrance to-morrow on the lousy knave, mine host. CAIUS. Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart. EVANS. A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his mockeries! Exeunt SCENE 4. Before PAGE'S house Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE FENTON. I see I cannot get thy father's love; Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan. ANNE. Alas, how then? FENTON. Why, thou must be thyself. He doth object I am too great of birth; And that, my state being gall'd with my expense, I seek to heal it only by his wealth. Besides these, other bars he lays before me, My riots past, my wild societies; And tells me 'tis a thing impossible I should love thee but as a property. ANNE.. May be he tells you true. FENTON. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne; Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold, or sums in sealed bags; And 'tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. ANNE. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir. If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why then-hark you hither. [They converse apart] Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY SHALLOW. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly; my kinsman shall speak for himself. SLENDER. I'll make a shaft or a bolt on 't; 'slid, 'tis but venturing. SHALLOW. Be not dismay'd. SLENDER. No, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard. QUICKLY. Hark ye, Master Slender would speak a word with you. ANNE. I come to him. [Aside] This is my father's choice. O, what a world of vile ill-favour'd faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! QUICKLY. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you. SHALLOW. She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! SLENDER. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. SHALLOW. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. SLENDER. Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. SHALLOW. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. SLENDER. Ay, that I will come cut and longtail, under the degree of a squire. SHALLOW. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. ANNE. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself. SHALLOW. Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good comfort. She calls you, coz; I'll leave you. ANNE. Now, Master Slender- SLENDER. Now, good Mistress Anne- ANNE. What is your will? SLENDER. My Will! 'Od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest indeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise. ANNE. I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me? SLENDER. Truly, for mine own part I would little or nothing with you. Your father and my uncle hath made motions; if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be his dole! They can tell you how things go better than I can. You may ask your father; here he comes. Enter PAGE and MISTRESS PAGE PAGE. Now, Master Slender! Love him, daughter Anne- Why, how now, what does Master Fenton here? You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house. I told you, sir, my daughter is dispos'd of. FENTON. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. MRS. PAGE. Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. PAGE. She is no match for you. FENTON. Sir, will you hear me? PAGE. No, good Master Fenton. Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender; in. Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER QUICKLY. Speak to Mistress Page. FENTON. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter In such a righteous fashion as I do, Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, I must advance the colours of my love, And not retire. Let me have your good will. ANNE. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. MRS. PAGE. I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. QUICKLY. That's my master, Master Doctor. ANNE. Alas, I had rather be set quick i' th' earth. And bowl'd to death with turnips. MRS. PAGE. Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton, I will not be your friend, nor enemy; My daughter will I question how she loves you, And as I find her, so am I affected; Till then, farewell, sir; she must needs go in; Her father will be angry. FENTON. Farewell, gentle mistress; farewell, Nan. Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ANNE QUICKLY. This is my doing now: 'Nay,' said I 'will you cast away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on Master Fenton.' This is my doing. FENTON. I thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night Give my sweet Nan this ring. There's for thy pains. QUICKLY. Now Heaven send thee good fortune! [Exit FENTON] A kind heart he hath; a woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her; I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promis'd, and I'll be as good as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses. What a beast am I to slack it! Exit SCENE 5. The Garter Inn Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH FALSTAFF. Bardolph, I say! BARDOLPH. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in 't. Exit BARDOLPH Have I liv'd to be carried in a basket, like a barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown in the Thames? Well, if I be serv'd such another trick, I'll have my brains ta'en out and butter'd, and give them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drown'd a blind bitch's puppies, fifteen i' th' litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell I should down. I had been drown'd but that the shore was shelvy and shallow-a death that I abhor; for the water swells a man; and what a thing should I have been when had been swell'd! I should have been a mountain of mummy. Re-enter BARDOLPH, with sack BARDOLPH. Here's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you FALSTAFF. Come, let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my belly's as cold as if I had swallow'd snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. BARDOLPH. Come in, woman. Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY QUICKLY. By your leave; I cry you mercy. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Take away these chalices. Go, brew me a pottle of sack finely. BARDOLPH. With eggs, sir? FALSTAFF. Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage. [Exit BARDOLPH] How now! QUICKLY. Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown into the ford; I have my belly full of ford. QUICKLY. Alas the day, good heart, that was not her fault! She does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection. FALSTAFF. So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's promise. QUICKLY. Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her between eight and nine; I must carry her word quickly. She'll make you amends, I warrant you. FALSTAFF. Well, I Will visit her. Tell her so; and bid her think what a man is. Let her consider his frailty, and then judge of my merit. QUICKLY. I will tell her. FALSTAFF. Do so. Between nine and ten, say'st thou? QUICKLY. Eight and nine, sir. FALSTAFF. Well, be gone; I will not miss her. QUICKLY. Peace be with you, sir. Exit FALSTAFF. I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word to stay within. I like his money well. O, here he comes. Enter FORD disguised FORD. Bless you, sir! FALSTAFF. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath pass'd between me and Ford's wife? FORD. That, indeed, Sir John, is my business. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will not lie to you; I was at her house the hour she appointed me. FORD. And sped you, sir? FALSTAFF. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. FORD. How so, sir; did she change her determination? FALSTAFF. No. Master Brook; but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual 'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our, encounter, after we had embrac'd, kiss'd, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife's love. FORD. What, while you were there? FALSTAFF. While I was there. FORD. And did he search for you, and could not find you? FALSTAFF. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's distraction, they convey'd me into a buck-basket. FORD. A buck-basket! FALSTAFF. By the Lord, a buck-basket! Ramm'd me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. FORD. And how long lay you there? FALSTAFF. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffer'd to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus cramm'd in the basket, a couple of Ford's knaves, his hinds, were call'd forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet Lane; they took me on their shoulders; met the jealous knave their master in the door; who ask'd them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quak'd for fear lest the lunatic knave would have search'd it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook-I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compass'd like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopp'd in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease. Think of that -a man of my kidney. Think of that-that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw. It was a miracle to scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half-stew'd in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames, and cool'd, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of that -hissing hot. Think of that, Master Brook. FORD. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffer'd all this. My suit, then, is desperate; you'll undertake her no more. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. FORD. 'Tis past eight already, sir. FALSTAFF. Is it? I Will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. Exit FORD. Hum! ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, Master Ford. There's a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This 'tis to be married; this 'tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am; I will now take the lecher; he is at my house. He cannot scape me; 'tis impossible he should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse nor into a pepper box. But, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame. If I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me-I'll be horn mad. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE I. Windsor. A street Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and WILLIAM MRS. PAGE. Is he at Master Ford's already, think'st thou? QUICKLY. Sure he is by this; or will be presently; but truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. MRS. PAGE. I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; 'tis a playing day, I see. Enter SIR HUGH EVANS How now, Sir Hugh, no school to-day? EVANS. No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play. QUICKLY. Blessing of his heart! MRS. PAGE. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book; I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William; hold up your head; come. MRS. PAGE. Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your master; be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? WILLIAM. Two. QUICKLY. Truly, I thought there had been one number more, because they say 'Od's nouns.' EVANS. Peace your tattlings. What is 'fair,' William? WILLIAM. Pulcher. QUICKLY. Polecats! There are fairer things than polecats, sure. EVANS. You are a very simplicity oman; I pray you, peace. What is 'lapis,' William? WILLIAM. A stone. EVANS. And what is 'a stone,' William? WILLIAM. A pebble. EVANS. No, it is 'lapis'; I pray you remember in your prain. WILLIAM. Lapis. EVANS. That is a good William. What is he, William, that does lend articles? WILLIAM. Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus declined: Singulariter, nominativo; hic, haec, hoc. EVANS. Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark: genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case? WILLIAM. Accusativo, hinc. EVANS. I pray you, have your remembrance, child. Accusativo, hung, hang, hog. QUICKLY. 'Hang-hog' is Latin for bacon, I warrant you. EVANS. Leave your prabbles, oman. What is the focative case, William? WILLIAM. O-vocativo, O. EVANS. Remember, William: focative is caret. QUICKLY. And that's a good root. EVANS. Oman, forbear. MRS. PAGE. Peace. EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case? EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: horum, harum, horum. QUICKLY. Vengeance of Jenny's case; fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore. EVANS. For shame, oman. QUICKLY. YOU do ill to teach the child such words. He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do fast enough of themselves; and to call 'horum'; fie upon you! EVANS. Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MRS. PAGE. Prithee hold thy peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is qui, quae, quod; if you forget your qui's, your quae's, and your quod's, you must be preeches. Go your ways and play; go. MRS. PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MRS. PAGE. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. Exit SIR HUGH Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. Exeunt SCENE 2. FORD'S house Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS FORD FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, complement, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? MRS. FORD. He's a-birding, sweet Sir John. MRS. PAGE. [Within] What hoa, gossip Ford, what hoa! MRS. FORD. Step into th' chamber, Sir John. Exit FALSTAFF Enter MISTRESS PAGE MRS. PAGE. How now, sweetheart, who's at home besides yourself? MRS. FORD. Why, none but mine own people. MRS. PAGE. Indeed? MRS. FORD. No, certainly. [Aside to her] Speak louder. MRS. PAGE. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. MRS. FORD. Why? MRS. PAGE. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails against all married mankind; so curses an Eve's daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying 'Peer-out, peer-out!' that any madness I ever yet beheld seem'd but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. MRS. FORD. Why, does he talk of him? MRS. PAGE. Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the last time he search'd for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery. MRS. FORD. How near is he, Mistress Page? MRS. PAGE. Hard by, at street end; he will be here anon. MRS. FORD. I am undone: the knight is here. MRS. PAGE. Why, then, you are utterly sham'd, and he's but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him; better shame than murder. MRS. FORD. Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again? Re-enter FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. No, I'll come no more i' th' basket. May I not go out ere he come? MRS. PAGE. Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? FALSTAFF. What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney. MRS. FORD. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. MRS. PAGE. Creep into the kiln-hole. FALSTAFF. Where is it? MRS. FORD. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding you in the house. FALSTAFF. I'll go out then. MRS. PAGE. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John. Unless you go out disguis'd. MRS. FORD. How might we disguise him? MRS. PAGE. Alas the day, I know not! There is no woman's gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. FALSTAFF. Good hearts, devise something; any extremity rather than a mischief. MRS. FORD. My Maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brainford, has a gown above. MRS. PAGE. On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he is; and there's her thrumm'd hat, and her muffler too. Run up, Sir John. MRS. FORD. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. MRS. PAGE. Quick, quick; we'll come dress you straight. Put on the gown the while. Exit FALSTAFF MRS. FORD. I would my husband would meet him in this shape; he cannot abide the old woman of Brainford; he swears she's a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threat'ned to beat her. MRS. PAGE. Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel; and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! MRS. FORD. But is my husband coming? MRS. PAGE. Ay, in good sadness is he; and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. MRS. FORD. We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it as they did last time. MRS. PAGE. Nay, but he'll be here presently; let's go dress him like the witch of Brainford. MRS. FORD. I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight. Exit MRS. PAGE. Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough. We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry and yet honest too. We do not act that often jest and laugh; 'Tis old but true: Still swine eats all the draff. Exit Re-enter MISTRESS FORD, with two SERVANTS MRS. FORD. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders; your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him; quickly, dispatch. Exit FIRST SERVANT. Come, come, take it up. SECOND SERVANT. Pray heaven it be not full of knight again. FIRST SERVANT. I hope not; I had lief as bear so much lead. Enter FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS FORD. Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket, villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket! O you panderly rascals, there's a knot, a ging, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be sham'd. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth; behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching. PAGE. Why, this passes, Master Ford; you are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinion'd. EVANS. Why, this is lunatics. This is mad as a mad dog. SHALLOW. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed. FORD. So say I too, sir. Re-enter MISTRESS FORD Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford, the honest woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect without cause, Mistress, do I? MRS. FORD. Heaven be my witness, you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. FORD. Well said, brazen-face; hold it out. Come forth, sirrah. [Pulling clothes out of the basket] PAGE. This passes! MRS. FORD. Are you not asham'd? Let the clothes alone. FORD. I shall find you anon. EVANS. 'Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife's clothes? Come away. FORD. Empty the basket, I say. MRS. FORD. Why, man, why? FORD. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one convey'd out of my house yesterday in this basket. Why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is; my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable. Pluck me out all the linen. MRS. FORD. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's death. PAGE. Here's no man. SHALLOW. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this wrongs you. EVANS. Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart; this is jealousies. FORD. Well, he's not here I seek for. PAGE. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. FORD. Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let me for ever be your table sport; let them say of me 'As jealous as Ford, that search'd a hollow walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more; once more search with me. MRS. FORD. What, hoa, Mistress Page! Come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber. FORD. Old woman? what old woman's that? MRS. FORD. Why, it is my maid's aunt of Brainford. FORD. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what's brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by th' figure, and such daub'ry as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing. Come down, you witch, you hag you; come down, I say. MRS. FORD. Nay, good sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, and MISTRESS PAGE MRS. PAGE. Come, Mother Prat; come. give me your hand. FORD. I'll prat her. [Beating him] Out of my door, you witch, you hag, you. baggage, you polecat, you ronyon! Out, out! I'll conjure you, I'll fortune-tell you. Exit FALSTAFF MRS. PAGE. Are you not asham'd? I think you have kill'd the poor woman. MRS. FORD. Nay, he will do it. 'Tis a goodly credit for you. FORD. Hang her, witch! EVANS. By yea and no, I think the oman is a witch indeed; I like not when a oman has a great peard; I spy a great peard under his muffler. FORD. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you follow; see but the issue of my jealousy; if I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. PAGE. Let's obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen. Exeunt all but MRS. FORD and MRS. PAGE MRS. PAGE. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. MRS. FORD. Nay, by th' mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully methought. MRS. PAGE. I'll have the cudgel hallow'd and hung o'er the altar; it hath done meritorious service. MRS. FORD. What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? MRS. PAGE. The spirit of wantonness is sure scar'd out of him; if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. MRS. FORD. Shall we tell our husbands how we have serv'd him? MRS. PAGE. Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband's brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. MRS. FORD. I'll warrant they'll have him publicly sham'd; and methinks there would be no period to the jest, should he not be publicly sham'd. MRS. PAGE. Come, to the forge with it then; shape it. I would not have things cool. Exeunt SCENE 3. The Garter Inn Enter HOST and BARDOLPH BARDOLPH. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses; the Duke himself will be to-morrow at court, and they are going to meet him. HOST. What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen; they speak English? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir; I'll call them to you. HOST. They shall have my horses, but I'll make them pay; I'll sauce them; they have had my house a week at command; I have turn'd away my other guests. They must come off; I'll sauce them. Come. Exeunt SCENE 4 FORD'S house Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS EVANS. 'Tis one of the best discretions of a oman as ever did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you both these letters at an instant? MRS. PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour. FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt; I rather will suspect the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy honour stand, In him that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. 'Tis well, 'tis well; no more. Be not as extreme in submission as in offence; But let our plot go forward. Let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send him word they'll meet him in the Park at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come! EVANS. You say he has been thrown in the rivers; and has been grievously peaten as an old oman; methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come; methinks his flesh is punish'd; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So think I too. MRS. FORD. Devise but how you'll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. MRS. PAGE. There is an old tale goes that Heme the Hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns; And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner. You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age, This tale of Heme the Hunter for a truth. PAGE. Why yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak. But what of this? MRS. FORD. Marry, this is our device- That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguis'd, like Heme, with huge horns on his head. PAGE. Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come, And in this shape. When you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him? What is your plot? MRS. PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their growth, we'll dress Like urchins, ouphes, and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads, And rattles in their hands; upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I, are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great amazedness will fly. Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight; And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MRS. FORD. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound, And burn him with their tapers. MRS. PAGE. The truth being known, We'll all present ourselves; dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. FORD. The children must Be practis'd well to this or they'll nev'r do 't. EVANS. I will teach the children their behaviours; and I will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the knight with my taber. FORD. That will be excellent. I'll go buy them vizards. MRS. PAGE. My Nan shall be the Queen of all the Fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [Aside] And in that time Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton.-Go, send to Falstaff straight. FORD. Nay, I'll to him again, in name of Brook; He'll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he'll come. MRS. PAGE. Fear not you that. Go get us properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures, and fery honest knaveries. Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and EVANS MRS. PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send Quickly to Sir John to know his mind. Exit MRS. FORD I'll to the Doctor; he hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot; And he my husband best of all affects. The Doctor is well money'd, and his friends Potent at court; he, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. Exit SCENE 5. The Garter Inn Enter HOST and SIMPLE HOST. What wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap. SIMPLE. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. HOST. There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed; 'tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go, knock and can; he'll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee. Knock, I say. SIMPLE. There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber; I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down; I come to speak with her, indeed. HOST. Ha! a fat woman? The knight may be robb'd. I'll call. Bully knight! Bully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. FALSTAFF. [Above] How now, mine host? HOST. Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend; my chambers are honourible. Fie, privacy, fie! Enter FALSTAFF FALSTAFF. There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with, me; but she's gone. SIMPLE. Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of Brainford? FALSTAFF. Ay, marry was it, mussel-shell. What would you with her? SIMPLE. My master, sir, my Master Slender, sent to her, seeing her go thorough the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguil'd him of a chain, had the chain or no. FALSTAFF. I spake with the old woman about it. SIMPLE. And what says she, I pray, sir? FALSTAFF Marry, she says that the very same man that beguil'd Master Slender of his chain cozen'd him of it. SIMPLE. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself; I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him. FALSTAFF. What are they? Let us know. HOST. Ay, come; quick. SIMPLE. I may not conceal them, sir. FALSTAFF. Conceal them, or thou diest. SIMPLE.. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page: to know if it were my master's fortune to have her or no. FALSTAFF. 'Tis, 'tis his fortune. SIMPLE. What sir? FALSTAFF. To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so. SIMPLE. May I be bold to say so, sir? FALSTAFF. Ay, sir, like who more bold? SIMPLE., I thank your worship; I shall make my master glad with these tidings. Exit SIMPLE HOST. Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was there a wise woman with thee? FALSTAFF. Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught me more wit than ever I learn'd before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. Enter BARDOLPH BARDOLPH. Out, alas, sir, cozenage, mere cozenage! HOST. Where be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto. BARDOLPH. Run away with the cozeners; for so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. HOST. They are gone but to meet the Duke, villain; do not say they be fled. Germans are honest men. Enter SIR HUGH EVANS EVANS. Where is mine host? HOST. What is the matter, sir? EVANS. Have a care of your entertainments. There is a friend of mine come to town tells me there is three cozen-germans that has cozen'd all the hosts of Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and money. I tell you for good will, look you; you are wise, and full of gibes and vlouting-stogs, and 'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well. Exit Enter DOCTOR CAIUS CAIUS. Vere is mine host de Jarteer? HOST. Here, Master Doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma. CAIUS. I cannot tell vat is dat; but it is tell-a me dat you make grand preparation for a Duke de Jamany. By my trot, dere is no duke that the court is know to come; I tell you for good will. Adieu. Exit HOST. Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight; I am undone. Fly, run, hue and cry, villain; I am undone. Exeunt HOST and BARDOLPH FALSTAFF. I would all the world might be cozen'd, for I have been cozen'd and beaten too. If it should come to the car of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been wash'd and cudgell'd, they would melt me out of my fat, drop by drop, and liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crestfall'n as a dried pear. I never prosper'd since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough to say my prayers, would repent. Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY Now! whence come you? QUICKLY. From the two parties, forsooth. FALSTAFF. The devil take one party and his dam the other! And so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffer'd more for their sakes, more than the villainous inconstancy of man's disposition is able to bear. QUICKLY. And have not they suffer'd? Yes, I warrant; speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. FALSTAFF. What tell'st thou me of black and blue? I was beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow; and was like to be apprehended for the witch of Brainford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, deliver'd me, the knave constable had set me i' th' stocks, i' th' common stocks, for a witch. QUICKLY. Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber; you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so cross'd. FALSTAFF. Come up into my chamber. Exeunt SCENE 6. The Garter Inn Enter FENTON and HOST HOST. Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy; I will give over all. FENTON. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose, And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give the A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. HOST. I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will, at the least, keep your counsel. FENTON. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page; Who, mutually, hath answer'd my affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at; The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither, singly, can be manifested Without the show of both. Fat Falstaff Hath a great scene. The image of the jest I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: To-night at Heme's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen- The purpose why is here-in which disguise, While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender, and with him at Eton Immediately to marry; she hath consented. Now, sir, Her mother, even strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away While other sports are tasking of their minds, And at the dean'ry, where a priest attends, Straight marry her. To this her mother's plot She seemingly obedient likewise hath Made promise to the doctor. Now thus it rests: Her father means she shall be all in white; And in that habit, when Slender sees his time To take her by the hand and bid her go, She shall go with him; her mother hath intended The better to denote her to the doctor- For they must all be mask'd and vizarded- That quaint in green she shall be loose enrob'd, With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token, The maid hath given consent to go with him. HOST. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? FENTON. Both, my good host, to go along with me. And here it rests-that you'll procure the vicar To stay for me at church, 'twixt twelve and one, And in the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. HOST. Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar. Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. FENTON. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I'll make a present recompense. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. The Garter Inn Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS QUICKLY FALSTAFF. Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll, hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away, go; they say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away. QUICKLY. I'll provide you a chain, and I'll do what I can to get you a pair of horns. FALSTAFF. Away, I say; time wears; hold up your head, and mince. Exit MRS. QUICKLY Enter FORD disguised How now, Master Brook. Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight or never. Be you in the Park about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall see wonders. FORD. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed? FALSTAFF. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man; but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever govern'd frenzy. I will tell you-he beat me grievously in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver's beam; because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along with me; I'll. tell you all, Master Brook. Since I pluck'd geese, play'd truant, and whipp'd top, I knew not what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me. I'll tell you strange things of this knave-Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. Exeunt SCENE 2. Windsor Park Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER PAGE. Come, come; we'll couch i' th' Castle ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter. SLENDER. Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry 'mum'; she cries 'budget,' and by that we know one another. SHALLOW. That's good too; but what needs either your mum or her budget? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o'clock. PAGE. The night is dark; light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let's away; follow me. Exeunt SCENE 3. A street leading to the Park Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and DOCTOR CAIUS MRS. PAGE. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green; when you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the Park; we two must go together. CAIUS. I know vat I have to do; adieu. MRS. PAGE. Fare you well, sir. [Exit CAIUS] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying my daughter; but 'tis no matter; better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. MRS. FORD. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil, Hugh? MRS. PAGE. They are all couch'd in a pit hard by Heme's oak, with obscur'd lights; which, at the very instant of Falstaff's and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. MRS. FORD. That cannot choose but amaze him. MRS. PAGE. If he be not amaz'd, he will be mock'd; if he be amaz'd, he will every way be mock'd. MRS. FORD. We'll betray him finely. MRS. PAGE. Against such lewdsters and their lechery, Those that betray them do no treachery. MRS. FORD. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak! Exeunt SCENE 4. Windsor Park Enter SIR HUGH EVANS like a satyr, with OTHERS as fairies EVANS. Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts. Be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and when I give the watch-ords, do as I pid you. Come, come; trib, trib. Exeunt SCENE 5. Another part of the Park Enter FALSTAFF disguised as HERNE FALSTAFF. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love! that in some respects makes a beast a man; in some other a man a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan, for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love! how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast-O Jove, a beastly fault!-and then another fault in the semblance of a fowl- think on't, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' th' forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my doe? Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE MRS. FORD. Sir John! Art thou there, my deer, my male deer. FALSTAFF. My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Greensleeves, hail kissing-comfits, and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. [Embracing her] MRS. FORD. Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart. FALSTAFF. Divide me like a brib'd buck, each a haunch; I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Heme the Hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome! [A noise of horns] MRS. PAGE. Alas, what noise? MRS. FORD. Heaven forgive our sins! FALSTAFF. What should this be? MRS. FORD. } Away, away. MRS. PAGE. } Away, away. [They run off] FALSTAFF. I think the devil will not have me damn'd, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus. Enter SIR HUGH EVANS like a satyr, ANNE PAGE as a fairy, and OTHERS as the Fairy Queen, fairies, and Hobgoblin; all with tapers FAIRY QUEEN. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers, and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. PUCK. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys. Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap; Where fires thou find'st unrak'd, and hearths unswept, There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry; Our radiant Queen hates sluts and sluttery. FALSTAFF. They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye. [Lies down upon his face] EVANS. Where's Pede? Go you, and where you find a maid That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said, Raise up the organs of her fantasy Sleep she as sound as careless infancy; But those as sleep and think not on their sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. FAIRY QUEEN. About, about; Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out; Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room, That it may stand till the perpetual doom In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit, Worthy the owner and the owner it. The several chairs of order look you scour With juice of balm and every precious flower; Each fair instalment, coat, and sev'ral crest, With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring; Th' expressure that it bears, green let it be, More fertile-fresh than all the field to see; And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write In em'rald tufts, flow'rs purple, blue and white; Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee. Fairies use flow'rs for their charactery. Away, disperse; but till 'tis one o'clock, Our dance of custom round about the oak Of Herne the Hunter let us not forget. EVANS. Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set; And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, To guide our measure round about the tree. But, stay. I smell a man of middle earth. FALSTAFF. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! PUCK. Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth. FAIRY QUEEN. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end; If he be chaste, the flame will back descend, And turn him to no pain; but if he start, It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. PUCK. A trial, come. EVANS. Come, will this wood take fire? [They put the tapers to his fingers, and he starts] FALSTAFF. Oh, oh, oh! FAIRY QUEEN. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme; And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. THE SONG. Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy; Pinch him and burn him and turn him about, Till candles and star-light and moonshine be out. During this song they pinch FALSTAFF. DOCTOR CAIUS comes one way, and steals away a fairy in green; SLENDER another way, and takes off a fairy in white; and FENTON steals away ANNE PAGE. A noise of hunting is heard within. All the fairies run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's head, and rises Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS PAGE. Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch'd you now. Will none but Heme the Hunter serve your turn? MRS. PAGE. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher. Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? See you these, husband? Do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town? FORD. Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his horns, Master Brook; and, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. MRS. FORD. Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again; but I will always count you my deer. FALSTAFF. I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass. FORD. Ay, and an ox too; both the proofs are extant. FALSTAFF. And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a receiv'd belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent when 'tis upon ill employment. EVANS. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. FORD. Well said, fairy Hugh. EVANS. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you. FORD. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. FALSTAFF. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross, o'er-reaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a cox-comb of frieze? 'Tis time I were chok'd with a piece of toasted cheese. EVANS. Seese is not good to give putter; your belly is all putter. FALSTAFF. 'Seese' and 'putter'! Have I liv'd to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. MRS. PAGE. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight? FORD. What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax? MRS. PAGE. A puff'd man? PAGE. Old, cold, wither'd, and of intolerable entrails? FORD. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? PAGE. And as poor as Job? FORD. And as wicked as his wife? EVANS. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings, and swearings, and starings, pribbles and prabbles? FALSTAFF. Well, I am your theme; you have the start of me; I am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me; use me as you will. FORD. Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one Master Brook, that you have cozen'd of money, to whom you should have been a pander. Over and above that you have suffer'd, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. PAGE. Yet be cheerful, knight; thou shalt eat a posset tonight at my house, where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. MRS. PAGE. [Aside] Doctors doubt that; if Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife. Enter SLENDER SLENDER. Whoa, ho, ho, father Page! PAGE. Son, how now! how now, son! Have you dispatch'd'? SLENDER. Dispatch'd! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire know on't; would I were hang'd, la, else! PAGE. Of what, son? SLENDER. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she's a great lubberly boy. If it had not been i' th' church, I would have swing'd him, or he should have swing'd me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir!-and 'tis a postmaster's boy. PAGE. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. SLENDER. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had him. PAGE. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments? SLENDER. I went to her in white and cried 'mum' and she cried 'budget' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy. MRS. PAGE. Good George, be not angry. I knew of your purpose; turn'd my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is now with the Doctor at the dean'ry, and there married. Enter CAIUS CAIUS. Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened; I ha' married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy; it is not Anne Page; by gar, I am cozened. MRS. PAGE. Why, did you take her in green? CAIUS. Ay, be gar, and 'tis a boy; be gar, I'll raise all Windsor. Exit CAIUS FORD. This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? PAGE. My heart misgives me; here comes Master Fenton. Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE How now, Master Fenton! ANNE. Pardon, good father. Good my mother, pardon. PAGE. Now, Mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender? MRS. PAGE. Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? FENTON. You do amaze her. Hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully, Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. Th' offence is holy that she hath committed; And this deceit loses the name of craft, Of disobedience, or unduteous title, Since therein she doth evitate and shun A thousand irreligious cursed hours, Which forced marriage would have brought upon her. FORD. Stand not amaz'd; here is no remedy. In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state; Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. FALSTAFF. I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanc'd. PAGE. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschew'd must be embrac'd. FALSTAFF. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chas'd. MRS. PAGE. Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton, Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire; Sir John and all. FORD. Let it be so. Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word; For he, to-night, shall lie with Mistress Ford. Exeunt THE END <> 1596 A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE THESEUS, Duke of Athens EGEUS, father to Hermia LYSANDER, in love with Hermia DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus QUINCE, a carpenter SNUG, a joiner BOTTOM, a weaver FLUTE, a bellows-mender SNOUT, a tinker STARVELING, a tailor HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander HELENA, in love with Demetrius OBERON, King of the Fairies TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW PEASEBLOSSOM, fairy COBWEB, fairy MOTH, fairy MUSTARDSEED, fairy PROLOGUE, PYRAMUS, THISBY, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION are presented by: QUINCE, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, STARVELING, AND SNUG Other Fairies attending their King and Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta <> SCENE: Athens and a wood near it ACT I. SCENE I. Athens. The palace of THESEUS Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and ATTENDANTS THESEUS. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon; but, O, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue. HIPPOLYTA. Four days will quickly steep themselves in night; Four nights will quickly dream away the time; And then the moon, like to a silver bow New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night Of our solemnities. THESEUS. Go, Philostrate, Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments; Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth; Turn melancholy forth to funerals; The pale companion is not for our pomp. Exit PHILOSTRATE Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword, And won thy love doing thee injuries; But I will wed thee in another key, With pomp, with triumph, and with revelling. Enter EGEUS, and his daughter HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS EGEUS. Happy be Theseus, our renowned Duke! THESEUS. Thanks, good Egeus; what's the news with thee? EGEUS. Full of vexation come I, with complaint Against my child, my daughter Hermia. Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord, This man hath my consent to marry her. Stand forth, Lysander. And, my gracious Duke, This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child. Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes, And interchang'd love-tokens with my child; Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung, With feigning voice, verses of feigning love, And stol'n the impression of her fantasy With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats- messengers Of strong prevailment in unhardened youth; With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart; Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me, To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke, Be it so she will not here before your Grace Consent to marry with Demetrius, I beg the ancient privilege of Athens: As she is mine I may dispose of her; Which shall be either to this gentleman Or to her death, according to our law Immediately provided in that case. THESEUS. What say you, Hermia? Be advis'd, fair maid. To you your father should be as a god; One that compos'd your beauties; yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure, or disfigure it. Demetrius is a worthy gentleman. HERMIA. So is Lysander. THESEUS. In himself he is; But, in this kind, wanting your father's voice, The other must be held the worthier. HERMIA. I would my father look'd but with my eyes. THESEUS. Rather your eyes must with his judgment look. HERMIA. I do entreat your Grace to pardon me. I know not by what power I am made bold, Nor how it may concern my modesty In such a presence here to plead my thoughts; But I beseech your Grace that I may know The worst that may befall me in this case, If I refuse to wed Demetrius. THESEUS. Either to die the death, or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires, Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies, in single blessedness. HERMIA. So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord, Ere I will yield my virgin patent up Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke My soul consents not to give sovereignty. THESEUS. Take time to pause; and by the next new moon- The sealing-day betwixt my love and me For everlasting bond of fellowship- Upon that day either prepare to die For disobedience to your father's will, Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would, Or on Diana's altar to protest For aye austerity and single life. DEMETRIUS. Relent, sweet Hermia; and, Lysander, yield Thy crazed title to my certain right. LYSANDER. You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's; do you marry him. EGEUS. Scornful Lysander, true, he hath my love; And what is mine my love shall render him; And she is mine; and all my right of her I do estate unto Demetrius. LYSANDER. I am, my lord, as well deriv'd as he, As well possess'd; my love is more than his; My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd, If not with vantage, as Demetrius'; And, which is more than all these boasts can be, I am belov'd of beauteous Hermia. Why should not I then prosecute my right? Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head, Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena, And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes, Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry, Upon this spotted and inconstant man. THESEUS. I must confess that I have heard so much, And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof; But, being over-full of self-affairs, My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come; And come, Egeus; you shall go with me; I have some private schooling for you both. For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself To fit your fancies to your father's will, Or else the law of Athens yields you up- Which by no means we may extenuate- To death, or to a vow of single life. Come, my Hippolyta; what cheer, my love? Demetrius, and Egeus, go along; I must employ you in some business Against our nuptial, and confer with you Of something nearly that concerns yourselves. EGEUS. With duty and desire we follow you. Exeunt all but LYSANDER and HERMIA LYSANDER. How now, my love! Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? HERMIA. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. LYSANDER. Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth; But either it was different in blood- HERMIA. O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low. LYSANDER. Or else misgraffed in respect of years- HERMIA. O spite! too old to be engag'd to young. LYSANDER. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends- HERMIA. O hell! to choose love by another's eyes. LYSANDER. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness, did lay siege to it, Making it momentary as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!' The jaws of darkness do devour it up; So quick bright things come to confusion. HERMIA. If then true lovers have ever cross'd, It stands as an edict in destiny. Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross, As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears, poor Fancy's followers. LYSANDER. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager Of great revenue, and she hath no child- From Athens is her house remote seven leagues- And she respects me as her only son. There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee; And to that place the sharp Athenian law Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then, Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night; And in the wood, a league without the town, Where I did meet thee once with Helena To do observance to a morn of May, There will I stay for thee. HERMIA. My good Lysander! I swear to thee by Cupid's strongest bow, By his best arrow, with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus' doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage Queen, When the false Troyan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke, In number more than ever women spoke, In that same place thou hast appointed me, To-morrow truly will I meet with thee. LYSANDER. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena. Enter HELENA HERMIA. God speed fair Helena! Whither away? HELENA. Call you me fair? That fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue's sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching; O, were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go! My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I'd give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart! HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA. O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA. O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA. None, but your beauty; would that fault were mine! HERMIA. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will fly this place. Before the time I did Lysander see, Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me. O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the wat'ry glass, Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass, A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal, Through Athens' gates have we devis'd to steal. HERMIA. And in the wood where often you and I Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, There my Lysander and myself shall meet; And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, To seek new friends and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow; pray thou for us, And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! Keep word, Lysander; we must starve our sight From lovers' food till morrow deep midnight. LYSANDER. I will, my Hermia. [Exit HERMIA] Helena, adieu; As you on him, Demetrius dote on you. Exit HELENA. How happy some o'er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; He will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes, So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste; And therefore is Love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil'd. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, So the boy Love is perjur'd everywhere; For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne, He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine; And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, So he dissolv'd, and show'rs of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight; Then to the wood will he to-morrow night Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his sight thither and back again. Exit SCENE II. Athens. QUINCE'S house Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING QUINCE. Is all our company here? BOTTOM. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. QUINCE. Here is the scroll of every man's name which is thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our interlude before the Duke and the Duchess on his wedding-day at night. BOTTOM. First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats on; then read the names of the actors; and so grow to a point. QUINCE. Marry, our play is 'The most Lamentable Comedy and most Cruel Death of Pyramus and Thisby.' BOTTOM. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. QUINCE. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. BOTTOM. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. QUINCE. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. BOTTOM. What is Pyramus? A lover, or a tyrant? QUINCE. A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love. BOTTOM. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes; I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest- yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. 'The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates; And Phibbus' car Shall shine from far, And make and mar The foolish Fates.' This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein: a lover is more condoling. QUINCE. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE. What is Thisby? A wand'ring knight? QUINCE. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman; I have a beard coming. QUINCE. That's all one; you shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. BOTTOM. An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too. I'll speak in a monstrous little voice: 'Thisne, Thisne!' [Then speaking small] 'Ah Pyramus, my lover dear! Thy Thisby dear, and lady dear!' QUINCE. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisby. BOTTOM. Well, proceed. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, the tailor. STARVELING. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. SNOUT. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. You, Pyramus' father; myself, Thisby's father; Snug, the joiner, you, the lion's part. And, I hope, here is a play fitted. SNUG. Have you the lion's part written? Pray you, if it be, give it me, for I am slow of study. QUINCE. You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring. BOTTOM. Let me play the lion too. I will roar that I will do any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar that I will make the Duke say 'Let him roar again, let him roar again.' QUINCE. An you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. ALL. That would hang us, every mother's son. BOTTOM. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us; but I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale. QUINCE. You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a sweet-fac'd man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man; therefore you must needs play Pyramus. BOTTOM. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? QUINCE. Why, what you will. BOTTOM. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. QUINCE. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-fac'd. But, masters, here are your parts; and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse; for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg'd with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you, fail me not. BOTTOM. We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect; adieu. QUINCE. At the Duke's oak we meet. BOTTOM. Enough; hold, or cut bow-strings. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. A wood near Athens Enter a FAIRY at One door, and PUCK at another PUCK. How now, spirit! whither wander you? FAIRY. Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander every where, Swifter than the moon's sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be; In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dewdrops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here to-night; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight; For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she as her attendant hath A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king. She never had so sweet a changeling; And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild; But she perforce withholds the loved boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square, that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups and hide them there. FAIRY. Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call'd Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he? PUCK. Thou speakest aright: I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh, And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy, here comes Oberon. FAIRY. And here my mistress. Would that he were gone! Enter OBERON at one door, with his TRAIN, and TITANIA, at another, with hers OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company. OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord? TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stolen away from fairy land, And in the shape of Corin sat all day, Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded, and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigouna, whom he ravished? And make him with fair Aegles break his faith, With Ariadne and Antiopa? TITANIA. These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain, or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea Contagious fogs; which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain, The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard; The fold stands empty in the drowned field, And crows are fatted with the murrion flock; The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here; No night is now with hymn or carol blest; Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose; And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries; and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original. OBERON. Do you amend it, then; it lies in you. Why should Titania cross her Oberon? I do but beg a little changeling boy To be my henchman. TITANIA. Set your heart at rest; The fairy land buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot'ress of my order; And, in the spiced Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip'd by my side; And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands, Marking th' embarked traders on the flood; When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive, And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind; Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait Following- her womb then rich with my young squire- Would imitate, and sail upon the land, To fetch me trifles, and return again, As from a voyage, rich with merchandise. But she, being mortal, of that boy did die; And for her sake do I rear up her boy; And for her sake I will not part with him. OBERON. How long within this wood intend you stay? TITANIA. Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day. If you will patiently dance in our round, And see our moonlight revels, go with us; If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts. OBERON. Give me that boy and I will go with thee. TITANIA. Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away. We shall chide downright if I longer stay. Exit TITANIA with her train OBERON. Well, go thy way; thou shalt not from this grove Till I torment thee for this injury. My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememb'rest Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid's music. PUCK. I remember. OBERON. That very time I saw, but thou couldst not, Flying between the cold moon and the earth Cupid, all arm'd; a certain aim he took At a fair vestal, throned by the west, And loos'd his love-shaft smartly from his bow, As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts; But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon; And the imperial vot'ress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell. It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it Love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flow'r, the herb I showed thee once. The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. PUCK. I'll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. Exit PUCK OBERON. Having once this juice, I'll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes; The next thing then she waking looks upon, Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape, She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight, As I can take it with another herb, I'll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference. Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA following him DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told'st me they were stol'n unto this wood, And here am I, and wood within this wood, Because I cannot meet my Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant; But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not nor I cannot love you? HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, And yet a place of high respect with me, Than to be used as you use your dog? DEMETRIUS. Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit; For I am sick when I do look on thee. HELENA. And I am sick when I look not on you. DEMETRIUS. You do impeach your modesty too much To leave the city and commit yourself Into the hands of one that loves you not; To trust the opportunity of night, And the ill counsel of a desert place, With the rich worth of your virginity. HELENA. Your virtue is my privilege for that: It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you, in my respect, are all the world. Then how can it be said I am alone When all the world is here to look on me? DEMETRIUS. I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes, And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts. HELENA. The wildest hath not such a heart as you. Run when you will; the story shall be chang'd: Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase; The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind Makes speed to catch the tiger- bootless speed, When cowardice pursues and valour flies. DEMETRIUS. I will not stay thy questions; let me go; Or, if thou follow me, do not believe But I shall do thee mischief in the wood. HELENA. Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field, You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius! Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex. We cannot fight for love as men may do; We should be woo'd, and were not made to woo. Exit DEMETRIUS I'll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. Exit HELENA OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph; ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Re-enter PUCK Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. PUCK. Ay, there it is. OBERON. I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine; There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in; And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in love With a disdainful youth; anoint his eyes; But do it when the next thing he espies May be the lady. Thou shalt know the man By the Athenian garments he hath on. Effect it with some care, that he may prove More fond on her than she upon her love. And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow. PUCK. Fear not, my lord; your servant shall do so. Exeunt SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter TITANIA, with her train TITANIA. Come now, a roundel and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence: Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some keep back The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest. The FAIRIES Sing FIRST FAIRY. You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong, Come not near our fairy Queen. CHORUS. Philomel with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby. Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby. Never harm Nor spell nor charm Come our lovely lady nigh. So good night, with lullaby. SECOND FAIRY. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail do no offence. CHORUS. Philomel with melody, etc. [TITANIA Sleeps] FIRST FAIRY. Hence away; now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel. Exeunt FAIRIES Enter OBERON and squeezes the flower on TITANIA'S eyelids OBERON. What thou seest when thou dost wake, Do it for thy true-love take; Love and languish for his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak'st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile thing is near. Exit Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with wand'ring in the wood; And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way; We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. LYSANDER. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. HERMIA. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet; do not lie so near. LYSANDER. O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence! Love takes the meaning in love's conference. I mean that my heart unto yours is knit, So that but one heart we can make of it; Two bosoms interchained with an oath, So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny, For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. HERMIA. Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied! But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off, in human modesty; Such separation as may well be said Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend. Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end! LYSANDER. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I; And then end life when I end loyalty! Here is my bed; sleep give thee all his rest! HERMIA. With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd! [They sleep] Enter PUCK PUCK. Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none On whose eyes I might approve This flower's force in stirring love. Night and silence- Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despised the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul! she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe: When thou wak'st let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon. Exit Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running HELENA. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus. HELENA. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so. DEMETRIUS. Stay on thy peril; I alone will go. Exit HELENA. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies, For she hath blessed and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears; If so, my eyes are oft'ner wash'd than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, For beasts that meet me run away for fear; Therefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander! on the ground! Dead, or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. LYSANDER. [Waking] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword! HELENA. Do not say so, Lysander; say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you; then be content. LYSANDER. Content with Hermia! No: I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia but Helena I love: Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason sway'd, And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season; So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will, And leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook Love's stories, written in Love's richest book. HELENA. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well; perforce I must confess I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refus'd Should of another therefore be abus'd! Exit LYSANDER. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there; And never mayst thou come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! And, all my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen, and to be her knight! Exit HERMIA. [Starting] Help me, Lysander, help me; do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast. Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent eat my heart away, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. Lysander! What, remov'd? Lysander! lord! What, out of hearing gone? No sound, no word? Alack, where are you? Speak, an if you hear; Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear. No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh. Either death or you I'll find immediately. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. The wood. TITANIA lying asleep Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING BOTTOM. Are we all met? QUINCE. Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our stage, this hawthorn brake our tiring-house; and we will do it in action, as we will do it before the Duke. BOTTOM. Peter Quince! QUINCE. What sayest thou, bully Bottom? BOTTOM. There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT. By'r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not kill'd indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT. Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourself to bring in- God shield us!- a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to't. SNOUT. Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion's neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect: 'Ladies,' or 'Fair ladies, I would wish you' or 'I would request you' or 'I would entreat you not to fear, not to tremble. My life for yours! If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are.' And there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things- that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for, you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight. SNOUT. Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby, says the story, did talk through the chink of a wall. SNOUT. You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom? BOTTOM. Some man or other must present Wall; and let him have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus and Thisby whisper. QUINCE. If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down, every mother's son, and rehearse your parts. Pyramus, you begin; when you have spoken your speech, enter into that brake; and so every one according to his cue. Enter PUCK behind PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swagg'ring here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth. BOTTOM. Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet- QUINCE. 'Odious'- odorous! BOTTOM. -odours savours sweet; So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear. But hark, a voice! Stay thou but here awhile, And by and by I will to thee appear. Exit PUCK. A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here! Exit FLUTE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. FLUTE. Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that would never tire, I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb. QUINCE. 'Ninus' tomb,' man! Why, you must not speak that yet; that you answer to Pyramus. You speak all your part at once, cues, and all. Pyramus enter: your cue is past; it is 'never tire.' FLUTE. O- As true as truest horse, that y et would never tire. Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head BOTTOM. If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine. QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters! fly, masters! Help! Exeunt all but BOTTOM and PUCK PUCK. I'll follow you; I'll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. Exit BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Re-enter SNOUT SNOUT. O Bottom, thou art chang'd! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? Exit SNOUT Re-enter QUINCE QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom, bless thee! Thou art translated. Exit BOTTOM. I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me; to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can; I will walk up and down here, and will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [Sings] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. What angel wakes me from my flow'ry bed? BOTTOM. [Sings] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay- for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the he, though he cry 'cuckoo' never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamoured of thy note; So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape; And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me, On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee. BOTTOM. Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason for that. And yet, to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days. The more the pity that some honest neighbours will not make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion. TITANIA. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful. BOTTOM. Not so, neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn. TITANIA. Out of this wood do not desire to go; Thou shalt remain here whether thou wilt or no. I am a spirit of no common rate; The summer still doth tend upon my state; And I do love thee; therefore, go with me. I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee; And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep, And sing, while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep; And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and MUSTARDSEED PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. Where shall we go? TITANIA. Be kind and courteous to this gentleman; Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes; Feed him with apricocks and dewberries, With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries; The honey bags steal from the humble-bees, And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs, And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes, To have my love to bed and to arise; And pluck the wings from painted butterflies, To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes. Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. Hail! BOTTOM. I cry your worships mercy, heartily; I beseech your worship's name. COBWEB. Cobweb. BOTTOM. I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Cobweb. If I cut my finger, I shall make bold with you. Your name, honest gentleman? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir? MUSTARDSEED. Mustardseed. BOTTOM. Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly giant-like ox-beef hath devour'd many a gentleman of your house. I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a wat'ry eye; And when she weeps, weeps every little flower; Lamenting some enforced chastity. Tie up my love's tongue, bring him silently. Exeunt SCENE II. Another part of the wood Enter OBERON OBERON. I wonder if Titania be awak'd; Then, what it was that next came in her eye, Which she must dote on in extremity. Enter PUCK Here comes my messenger. How now, mad spirit! What night-rule now about this haunted grove? PUCK. My mistress with a monster is in love. Near to her close and consecrated bower, While she was in her dull and sleeping hour, A crew of patches, rude mechanicals, That work for bread upon Athenian stalls, Were met together to rehearse a play Intended for great Theseus' nuptial day. The shallowest thickskin of that barren sort, Who Pyramus presented, in their sport Forsook his scene and ent'red in a brake; When I did him at this advantage take, An ass's nole I fixed on his head. Anon his Thisby must be answered, And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun's report, Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly; And at our stamp here, o'er and o'er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong, For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there; When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak'd, and straightway lov'd an ass. OBERON. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? PUCK. I took him sleeping- that is finish'd too- And the Athenian woman by his side; That, when he wak'd, of force she must be ey'd. Enter DEMETRIUS and HERMIA OBERON. Stand close; this is the same Athenian. PUCK. This is the woman, but not this the man. DEMETRIUS. O, why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. HERMIA. Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me. Would he have stolen away From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor'd, and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother's noontide with th' Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murd'red him; So should a murderer look- so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murdered look; and so should I, Pierc'd through the heart with your stern cruelty; Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. HERMIA. What's this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? DEMETRIUS. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. HERMIA. Out, dog! out, cur! Thou driv'st me past the bounds Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never numb'red among men! O, once tell true; tell true, even for my sake! Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake, And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch! Could not a worm, an adder, do so much? An adder did it; for with doubler tongue Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung. DEMETRIUS. You spend your passion on a mispris'd mood: I am not guilty of Lysander's blood; Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell. HERMIA. I pray thee, tell me then that he is well. DEMETRIUS. An if I could, what should I get therefore? HERMIA. A privilege never to see me more. And from thy hated presence part I so; See me no more whether he be dead or no. Exit DEMETRIUS. There is no following her in this fierce vein; Here, therefore, for a while I will remain. So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe; Which now in some slight measure it will pay, If for his tender here I make some stay. [Lies down] OBERON. What hast thou done? Thou hast mistaken quite, And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight. Of thy misprision must perforce ensue Some true love turn'd, and not a false turn'd true. PUCK. Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth, A million fail, confounding oath on oath. OBERON. About the wood go swifter than the wind, And Helena of Athens look thou find; All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer, With sighs of love that costs the fresh blood dear. By some illusion see thou bring her here; I'll charm his eyes against she do appear. PUCK. I go, I go; look how I go, Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow. Exit OBERON. Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye. When his love he doth espy, Let her shine as gloriously As the Venus of the sky. When thou wak'st, if she be by, Beg of her for remedy. Re-enter PUCK PUCK. Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth mistook by me Pleading for a lover's fee; Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be! OBERON. Stand aside. The noise they make Will cause Demetrius to awake. PUCK. Then will two at once woo one. That must needs be sport alone; And those things do best please me That befall prepost'rously. Enter LYSANDER and HELENA LYSANDER. Why should you think that I should woo in scorn? Scorn and derision never come in tears. Look when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears. How can these things in me seem scorn to you, Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true? HELENA. You do advance your cunning more and more. When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray! These vows are Hermia's. Will you give her o'er? Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh: Your vows to her and me, put in two scales, Will even weigh; and both as light as tales. LYSANDER. I hod no judgment when to her I swore. HELENA. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er. LYSANDER. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. DEMETRIUS. [Awaking] O Helen, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow! That pure congealed white, high Taurus' snow, Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold'st up thy hand. O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! HELENA. O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment. If you were civil and knew courtesy, You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, But you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so: To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes With your derision! None of noble sort Would so offend a virgin, and extort A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport. LYSANDER. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so; For you love Hermia. This you know I know; And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia's love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death. HELENA. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e'er I lov'd her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd, And now to Helen is it home return'd, There to remain. LYSANDER. Helen, it is not so. DEMETRIUS. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Enter HERMIA HERMIA. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? LYSANDER. Why should he stay whom love doth press to go? HERMIA. What love could press Lysander from my side? LYSANDER. Lysander's love, that would not let him bide- Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek'st thou me? Could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so? HERMIA. You speak not as you think; it cannot be. HELENA. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three To fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid! Have you conspir'd, have you with these contriv'd, To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar'd, The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us- O, is all forgot? All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key; As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet an union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stern; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crowned with one crest. And will you rent our ancient love asunder, To join with men in scorning your poor friend? It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly; Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it, Though I alone do feel the injury. HERMIA. I am amazed at your passionate words; I scorn you not; it seems that you scorn me. HELENA. Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn, To follow me and praise my eyes and face? And made your other love, Demetrius, Who even but now did spurn me with his foot, To call me goddess, nymph, divine, and rare, Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this To her he hates? And wherefore doth Lysander Deny your love, so rich within his soul, And tender me, forsooth, affection, But by your setting on, by your consent? What though I be not so in grace as you, So hung upon with love, so fortunate, But miserable most, to love unlov'd? This you should pity rather than despise. HERMIA. I understand not what you mean by this. HELENA. Ay, do- persever, counterfeit sad looks, Make mouths upon me when I turn my back, Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up; This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled. If you have any pity, grace, or manners, You would not make me such an argument. But fare ye well; 'tis partly my own fault, Which death, or absence, soon shall remedy. LYSANDER. Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse; My love, my life, my soul, fair Helena! HELENA. O excellent! HERMIA. Sweet, do not scorn her so. DEMETRIUS. If she cannot entreat, I can compel. LYSANDER. Thou canst compel no more than she entreat; Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers Helen, I love thee, by my life I do; I swear by that which I will lose for thee To prove him false that says I love thee not. DEMETRIUS. I say I love thee more than he can do. LYSANDER. If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too. DEMETRIUS. Quick, come. HERMIA. Lysander, whereto tends all this? LYSANDER. Away, you Ethiope! DEMETRIUS. No, no, he will Seem to break loose- take on as you would follow, But yet come not. You are a tame man; go! LYSANDER. Hang off, thou cat, thou burr; vile thing, let loose, Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent. HERMIA. Why are you grown so rude? What change is this, Sweet love? LYSANDER. Thy love! Out, tawny Tartar, out! Out, loathed med'cine! O hated potion, hence! HERMIA. Do you not jest? HELENA. Yes, sooth; and so do you. LYSANDER. Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee. DEMETRIUS. I would I had your bond; for I perceive A weak bond holds you; I'll not trust your word. LYSANDER. What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead? Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so. HERMIA. What! Can you do me greater harm than hate? Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love? Am not I Hermia? Are not you Lysander? I am as fair now as I was erewhile. Since night you lov'd me; yet since night you left me. Why then, you left me- O, the gods forbid!- In earnest, shall I say? LYSANDER. Ay, by my life! And never did desire to see thee more. Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt; Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest That I do hate thee and love Helena. HERMIA. O me! you juggler! you cankerblossom! You thief of love! What! Have you come by night, And stol'n my love's heart from him? HELENA. Fine, i' faith! Have you no modesty, no maiden shame, No touch of bashfulness? What! Will you tear Impatient answers from my gentle tongue? Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet you! HERMIA. 'Puppet!' why so? Ay, that way goes the game. Now I perceive that she hath made compare Between our statures; she hath urg'd her height; And with her personage, her tall personage, Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him. And are you grown so high in his esteem Because I am so dwarfish and so low? How low am I, thou painted maypole? Speak. How low am I? I am not yet so low But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes. HELENA. I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen, Let her not hurt me. I was never curst; I have no gift at all in shrewishness; I am a right maid for my cowardice; Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think, Because she is something lower than myself, That I can match her. HERMIA. 'Lower' hark, again. HELENA. Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me. I evermore did love you, Hermia, Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you; Save that, in love unto Demetrius, I told him of your stealth unto this wood. He followed you; for love I followed him; But he hath chid me hence, and threat'ned me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too; And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no further. Let me go. You see how simple and how fond I am. HERMIA. Why, get you gone! Who is't that hinders you? HELENA. A foolish heart that I leave here behind. HERMIA. What! with Lysander? HELENA. With Demetrius. LYSANDER. Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena. DEMETRIUS. No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part. HELENA. O, when she is angry, she is keen and shrewd; She was a vixen when she went to school; And, though she be but little, she is fierce. HERMIA. 'Little' again! Nothing but 'low' and 'little'! Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her. LYSANDER. Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hind'ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn. DEMETRIUS. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone; speak not of Helena; Take not her part; for if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou shalt aby it. LYSANDER. Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar'st, to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. DEMETRIUS. Follow! Nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jowl. Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS HERMIA. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back. HELENA. I will not trust you, I; Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray; My legs are longer though, to run away. Exit HERMIA. I am amaz'd, and know not what to say. Exit OBERON. This is thy negligence. Still thou mistak'st, Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully. PUCK. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes; And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. OBERON. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; The starry welkin cover thou anon With drooping fog as black as Acheron, And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another's way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius; And from each other look thou lead them thus, Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye; Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision; And back to Athens shall the lovers wend With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I'll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; And then I will her charmed eye release From monster's view, and all things shall be peace. PUCK. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger, At whose approach ghosts, wand'ring here and there, Troop home to churchyards. Damned spirits all That in cross-ways and floods have burial, Already to their wormy beds are gone, For fear lest day should look their shames upon; They wilfully themselves exil'd from light, And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night. OBERON. But we are spirits of another sort: I with the Morning's love have oft made sport; And, like a forester, the groves may tread Even till the eastern gate, all fiery red, Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams, Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams. But, notwithstanding, haste, make no delay; We may effect this business yet ere day. Exit OBERON PUCK. Up and down, up and down, I will lead them up and down. I am fear'd in field and town. Goblin, lead them up and down. Here comes one. Enter LYSANDER LYSANDER. Where art thou, proud Demetrius? Speak thou now. PUCK. Here, villain, drawn and ready. Where art thou? LYSANDER. I will be with thee straight. PUCK. Follow me, then, To plainer ground. Exit LYSANDER as following the voice Enter DEMETRIUS DEMETRIUS. Lysander, speak again. Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled? Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head? PUCK. Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars, Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars, And wilt not come? Come, recreant, come, thou child; I'll whip thee with a rod. He is defil'd That draws a sword on thee. DEMETRIUS. Yea, art thou there? PUCK. Follow my voice; we'll try no manhood here. Exeunt Re-enter LYSANDER LYSANDER. He goes before me, and still dares me on; When I come where he calls, then he is gone. The villain is much lighter heel'd than I. I followed fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. [Lies down] Come, thou gentle day. For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I'll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [Sleeps] Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS PUCK. Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why com'st thou not? DEMETRIUS. Abide me, if thou dar'st; for well I wot Thou run'st before me, shifting every place, And dar'st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou now? PUCK. Come hither; I am here. DEMETRIUS. Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear, If ever I thy face by daylight see; Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day's approach look to be visited. [Lies down and sleeps] Enter HELENA HELENA. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours! Shine comforts from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight, From these that my poor company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [Sleeps] PUCK. Yet but three? Come one more; Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad, Thus to make poor females mad. Enter HERMIA HERMIA. Never so weary, never so in woe, Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [Lies down and sleeps] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound; I'll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER'S eyes] When thou wak'st, Thou tak'st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady's eye; And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. Exit <> ACT IV. SCENE I. The wood. LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HELENA, and HERMIA, lying asleep Enter TITANIA and Bottom; PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, MUSTARDSEED, and other FAIRIES attending; OBERON behind, unseen TITANIA. Come, sit thee down upon this flow'ry bed, While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. BOTTOM. Where's Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where's Mounsieur Cobweb? COBWEB. Ready. BOTTOM. Mounsieur Cobweb; good mounsieur, get you your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipp'd humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and, good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed? MUSTARDSEED. Ready. BOTTOM. Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your curtsy, good mounsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What's your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber's, mounsieur; for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me I must scratch. TITANIA. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? BOTTOM. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have the tongs and the bones. TITANIA. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. BOTTOM. Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay. Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. TITANIA. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. BOTTOM. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. TITANIA. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. Exeunt FAIRIES So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist; the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee! [They sleep] Enter PUCK OBERON. [Advancing] Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight? Her dotage now I do begin to pity; For, meeting her of late behind the wood, Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, I did upbraid her and fall out with her. For she his hairy temples then had rounded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; And that same dew which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail. When I had at my pleasure taunted her, And she in mild terms begg'd my patience, I then did ask of her her changeling child; Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent To bear him to my bower in fairy land. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp From off the head of this Athenian swain, That he awaking when the other do May all to Athens back again repair, And think no more of this night's accidents But as the fierce vexation of a dream. But first I will release the Fairy Queen. [Touching her eyes] Be as thou wast wont to be; See as thou was wont to see. Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower Hath such force and blessed power. Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen. TITANIA. My Oberon! What visions have I seen! Methought I was enamour'd of an ass. OBERON. There lies your love. TITANIA. How came these things to pass? O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now! OBERON. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. Titania, music call; and strike more dead Than common sleep of all these five the sense. TITANIA. Music, ho, music, such as charmeth sleep! PUCK. Now when thou wak'st with thine own fool's eyes peep. OBERON. Sound, music. Come, my Queen, take hands with me, [Music] And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity, And will to-morrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly, And bless it to all fair prosperity. There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, an in jollity. PUCK. Fairy King, attend and mark; I do hear the morning lark. OBERON. Then, my Queen, in silence sad, Trip we after night's shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand'ring moon. TITANIA. Come, my lord; and in our flight, Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. Exeunt To the winding of horns, enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and train THESEUS. Go, one of you, find out the forester; For now our observation is perform'd, And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the music of my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley; let them go. Dispatch, I say, and find the forester. Exit an ATTENDANT We will, fair Queen, up to the mountain's top, And mark the musical confusion Of hounds and echo in conjunction. HIPPOLYTA. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear With hounds of Sparta; never did I hear Such gallant chiding, for, besides the groves, The skies, the fountains, every region near Seem'd all one mutual cry. I never heard So musical a discord, such sweet thunder. THESEUS. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, So flew'd, so sanded; and their heads are hung With ears that sweep away the morning dew; Crook-knee'd and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear. But, soft, what nymphs are these? EGEUS. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep, And this Lysander, this Demetrius is, This Helena, old Nedar's Helena. I wonder of their being here together. THESEUS. No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice? EGEUS. It is, my lord. THESEUS. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. [Horns and shout within. The sleepers awake and kneel to THESEUS] Good-morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past; Begin these wood-birds but to couple now? LYSANDER. Pardon, my lord. THESEUS. I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are rival enemies; How comes this gentle concord in the world That hatred is so far from jealousy To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity? LYSANDER. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here, But, as I think- for truly would I speak, And now I do bethink me, so it is- I came with Hermia hither. Our intent Was to be gone from Athens, where we might, Without the peril of the Athenian law- EGEUS. Enough, enough, my Lord; you have enough; I beg the law, the law upon his head. They would have stol'n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me: You of your wife, and me of my consent, Of my consent that she should be your wife. DEMETRIUS. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, Of this their purpose hither to this wood; And I in fury hither followed them, Fair Helena in fancy following me. But, my good lord, I wot not by what power- But by some power it is- my love to Hermia, Melted as the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle gaud Which in my childhood I did dote upon; And all the faith, the virtue of my heart, The object and the pleasure of mine eye, Is only Helena. To her, my lord, Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia. But, like a sickness, did I loathe this food; But, as in health, come to my natural taste, Now I do wish it, love it, long for it, And will for evermore be true to it. THESEUS. Fair lovers, you are fortunately met; Of this discourse we more will hear anon. Egeus, I will overbear your will; For in the temple, by and by, with us These couples shall eternally be knit. And, for the morning now is something worn, Our purpos'd hunting shall be set aside. Away with us to Athens, three and three; We'll hold a feast in great solemnity. Come, Hippolyta. Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and train DEMETRIUS. These things seem small and undistinguishable, Like far-off mountains turned into clouds. HERMIA. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When every thing seems double. HELENA. So methinks; And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, Mine own, and not mine own. DEMETRIUS. Are you sure That we are awake? It seems to me That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think The Duke was here, and bid us follow him? HERMIA. Yea, and my father. HELENA. And Hippolyta. LYSANDER. And he did bid us follow to the temple. DEMETRIUS. Why, then, we are awake; let's follow him; And by the way let us recount our dreams. Exeunt BOTTOM. [Awaking] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is 'Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stol'n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was- there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had, but man is but a patch'd fool, if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream. It shall be call'd 'Bottom's Dream,' because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. Exit SCENE II. Athens. QUINCE'S house Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING QUINCE. Have you sent to Bottom's house? Is he come home yet? STARVELING. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported. FLUTE. If he come not, then the play is marr'd; it goes not forward, doth it? QUINCE. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. FLUTE. No; he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens. QUINCE. Yea, and the best person too; and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. FLUTE. You must say 'paragon.' A paramour is- God bless us!- A thing of naught. Enter SNUG SNUG. Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple; and there is two or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. FLUTE. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have scaped sixpence a day. An the Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter BOTTOM BOTTOM. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts? QUINCE. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour! BOTTOM. Masters, I am to discourse wonders; but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out. QUINCE. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. BOTTOM. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together; good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o'er his part; for the short and the long is, our play is preferr'd. In any case, let Thisby have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away, go, away! Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE I. Athens. The palace of THESEUS Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, LORDS, and ATTENDANTS HIPPOLYTA. 'Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact. One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman. The lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt. The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination That, if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy; Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush suppos'd a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur'd so together, More witnesseth than fancy's images, And grows to something of great constancy, But howsoever strange and admirable. Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe; Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [Giving a paper] THESEUS. 'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.' We'll none of that: that have I told my love, In glory of my kinsman Hercules. 'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.' That is an old device, and it was play'd When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. 'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of Learning, late deceas'd in beggary.' That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. 'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisby; very tragical mirth.' Merry and tragical! tedious and brief! That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious; for in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is; For Pyramus therein doth kill himself. Which when I saw rehears'd, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour'd in their minds till now; And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you. I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain, To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in; and take your places, ladies. Exit PHILOSTRATE HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o'er-charged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake; And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis'd accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Re-enter PHILOSTRATE PHILOSTRATE. SO please your Grace, the Prologue is address'd. THESEUS. Let him approach. [Flourish of trumpets] Enter QUINCE as the PROLOGUE PROLOGUE. If we offend, it is with our good will. That you should think, we come not to offend, But with good will. To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end. Consider then, we come but in despite. We do not come, as minding to content you, Our true intent is. All for your delight We are not here. That you should here repent you, The actors are at band; and, by their show, You shall know all, that you are like to know, THESEUS. This fellow doth not stand upon points. LYSANDER. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. HIPPOLYTA. Indeed he hath play'd on this prologue like a child on a recorder- a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing im paired, but all disordered. Who is next? Enter, with a trumpet before them, as in dumb show, PYRAMUS and THISBY, WALL, MOONSHINE, and LION PROLOGUE. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisby is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Walls chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper. At the which let no man wonder. This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn, Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know, By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo. This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name, The trusty Thisby, coming first by night, Did scare away, or rather did affright; And as she fled, her mantle she did fall; Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain. Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall, And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast; And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade, His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain, At large discourse while here they do remain. Exeunt PROLOGUE, PYRAMUS, THISBY, LION, and MOONSHINE THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall; And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so; And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. Enter PYRAMUS THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. PYRAMUS. O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot! And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall, That stand'st between her father's ground and mine; Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall, Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne. [WALL holds up his fingers] Thanks, courteous wall. Jove shield thee well for this! But what see what see I? No Thisby do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs'd he thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. Deceiving me is Thisby's cue. She is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you; yonder she comes. Enter THISBY THISBY. O wall, full often hast thou beard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me! My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby! THISBY. My love! thou art my love, I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBY. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBY. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O, kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBY. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway? THISBY. Tide life, tide death, I come without delay. Exeunt PYRAMUS and THISBY WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. Exit WALL THESEUS. Now is the moon used between the two neighbours. DEMETRIUS. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning. HIPPOLYTA. This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard. THESEUS. The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them. HIPPOLYTA. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs. THESEUS. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion. Enter LION and MOONSHINE LION. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, May now, perchance, both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar. Then know that I as Snug the joiner am A lion fell, nor else no lion's dam; For, if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, 'twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well. Leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the Moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present- DEMETRIUS. He should have worn the horns on his head. THESEUS. He is no crescent, and his horns are invisible within the circumference. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the horned moon present; Myself the Man i' th' Moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i' th' moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle; for, you see, it is already in snuff. HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears, by his small light of discretion, that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOON. All that I have to say is to tell you that the lanthorn is the moon; I, the Man i' th' Moon; this thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisby. Re-enter THISBY THISBY. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love? LION. [Roaring] O- [THISBY runs off] DEMETRIUS. Well roar'd, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisby. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [The LION tears THISBY'S Mantle, and exit] THESEUS. Well mous'd, Lion. Re-enter PYRAMUS DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanish'd. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisby sight. But stay, O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it he? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What! stain'd with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell. O Fates! come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, crush, conclude, and quell. THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame? Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear; Which is- no, no- which was the fairest dame That liv'd, that lov'd, that lik'd, that look'd with cheer. Come, tears, confound; Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop. [Stabs himself] Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light; Moon, take thy flight. [Exit MOONSHINE] Now die, die, die, die, die. [Dies] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and yet prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisby comes back and finds her lover? Re-enter THISBY THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play. HIPPOLYTA. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus; I hope she will be brief. DEMETRIUS. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisby, is the better- he for a man, God warrant us: She for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she moans, videlicet:- THISBY. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone; Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word. Come, trusty sword; Come, blade, my breast imbrue. [Stabs herself] And farewell, friends; Thus Thisby ends; Adieu, adieu, adieu. [Dies] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. [Starting up] No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the Epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hang'd himself in Thisby's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy. And so it is, truly; and very notably discharg'd. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [A dance] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn, As much as we this night have overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity, In nightly revels and new jollity. Exeunt Enter PUCK with a broom PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud, Puts the wretch that lies in woe In remembrance of a shroud. Now it is the time of night That the graves, all gaping wide, Every one lets forth his sprite, In the church-way paths to glide. And we fairies, that do run By the triple Hecate's team From the presence of the sun, Following darkness like a dream, Now are frolic. Not a mouse Shall disturb this hallowed house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter OBERON and TITANIA, with all their train OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire; Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier; And this ditty, after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First, rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [OBERON leading, the FAIRIES sing and dance] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessed be; And the issue there create Ever shall be fortunate. So shall all the couples three Ever true in loving be; And the blots of Nature's hand Shall not in their issue stand; Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar, Nor mark prodigious, such as are Despised in nativity, Shall upon their children be. With this field-dew consecrate, Every fairy take his gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest Ever shall in safety rest. Trip away; make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. Exeunt all but PUCK PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumb'red here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call. So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends. Exit THE END <> 1599 MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon. Don John, his bastard brother. Claudio, a young lord of Florence. Benedick, a Young lord of Padua. Leonato, Governor of Messina. Antonio, an old man, his brother. Balthasar, attendant on Don Pedro. Borachio, follower of Don John. Conrade, follower of Don John. Friar Francis. Dogberry, a Constable. Verges, a Headborough. A Sexton. A Boy. Hero, daughter to Leonato. Beatrice, niece to Leonato. Margaret, waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. Ursula, waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. Messengers, Watch, Attendants, etc. <> SCENE.--Messina. ACT I. Scene I. An orchard before Leonato's house. Enter Leonato (Governor of Messina), Hero (his Daughter), and Beatrice (his Niece), with a Messenger. Leon. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. Mess. He is very near by this. He was not three leagues off when I left him. Leon. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action? Mess. But few of any sort, and none of name. Leon. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. Mess. Much deserv'd on his part, and equally rememb'red by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion. He hath indeed better bett'red expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. Leon. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it. Mess. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. Leon. Did he break out into tears? Mess. In great measure. Leon. A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so wash'd. How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! Beat. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto return'd from the wars or no? Mess. I know none of that name, lady. There was none such in the army of any sort. Leon. What is he that you ask for, niece? Hero. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. Mess. O, he's return'd, and as pleasant as ever he was. Beat. He set up his bills here in Messina and challeng'd Cupid at the flight, and my uncle's fool, reading the challenge, subscrib'd for Cupid and challeng'd him at the burbolt. I pray you, how many hath he kill'd and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he kill'd? For indeed I promised to eat all of his killing. Leon. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not. Mess. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. Beat. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it. He is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an excellent stomach. Mess. And a good soldier too, lady. Beat. And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord? Mess. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuff'd with all honourable virtues. Beat. It is so indeed. He is no less than a stuff'd man; but for the stuffing--well, we are all mortal. Leon. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her. They never meet but there's a skirmish of wit between them. Beat. Alas, he gets nothing by that! In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man govern'd with one; so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. Mess. Is't possible? Beat. Very easily possible. He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block. Mess. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. Beat. No. An he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil? Mess. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. Beat. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease! He is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere 'a be cured. Mess. I will hold friends with you, lady. Beat. Do, good friend. Leon. You will never run mad, niece. Beat. No, not till a hot January. Mess. Don Pedro is approach'd. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, and John the Bastard. Pedro. Good Signior Leonato, are you come to meet your trouble? The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. Leon. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace; for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. Pedro. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. Leon. Her mother hath many times told me so. Bene. Were you in doubt, sir, that you ask'd her? Leon. Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child. Pedro. You have it full, Benedick. We may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an honourable father. Bene. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is. Beat. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick. Nobody marks you. Bene. What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beat. Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence. Bene. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none. Beat. A dear happiness to women! They would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. Bene. God keep your ladyship still in that mind! So some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratch'd face. Beat. Scratching could not make it worse an 'twere such a face as yours were. Bene. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. Beat. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. Bene. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, a God's name! I have done. Beat. You always end with a jade's trick. I know you of old. Pedro. That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartly prays some occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. Leon. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To Don John] Let me bid you welcome, my lord. Being reconciled to the Prince your brother, I owe you all duty. John. I thank you. I am not of many words, but I thank you. Leon. Please it your Grace lead on? Pedro. Your hand, Leonato. We will go together. Exeunt. Manent Benedick and Claudio. Claud. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato? Bene. I noted her not, but I look'd on her. Claud. Is she not a modest young lady? Bene. Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment? or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex? Claud. No. I pray thee speak in sober judgment. Bene. Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise. Only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. Claud. Thou thinkest I am in sport. I pray thee tell me truly how thou lik'st her. Bene. Would you buy her, that you enquire after her? Claud. Can the world buy such a jewel? Bene. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you to go in the song? Claud. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I look'd on. Bene. I can see yet without spectacles, and I see no such matter. There's her cousin, an she were not possess'd with a fury,exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you? Claud. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. Bene. Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of threescore again? Go to, i' faith! An thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Enter Don Pedro. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you. Pedro. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato's? Bene. I would your Grace would constrain me to tell. Pedro. I charge thee on thy allegiance. Bene. You hear, Count Claudio. I can be secret as a dumb man, I would have you think so; but, on my allegiance--mark you this-on my allegiance! he is in love. With who? Now that is your Grace's part. Mark how short his answer is: With Hero, Leonato's short daughter. Claud. If this were so, so were it utt'red. Bene. Like the old tale, my lord: 'It is not so, nor 'twas not so; but indeed, God forbid it should be so!' Claud. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. Pedro. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy. Claud. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. Pedro. By my troth, I speak my thought. Claud. And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. Bene. And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. Claud. That I love her, I feel. Pedro. That she is worthy, I know. Bene. That I neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me. I will die in it at the stake. Pedro. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. Claud. And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. Bene. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks; but that I will have a rechate winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is (for the which I may go the finer), I will live a bachelor. Pedro. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. Bene. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love. Prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel house for the sign of blind Cupid. Pedro. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. Bene. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapp'd on the shoulder and call'd Adam. Pedro. Well, as time shall try. 'In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.' Bene. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set them in my forehead, and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write 'Here is good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign 'Here you may see Benedick the married man.' Claud. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. Pedro. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. Bene. I look for an earthquake too then. Pedro. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato's, commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation. Bene. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you-- Claud. To the tuition of God. From my house--if I had it-- Pedro. The sixth of July. Your loving friend, Benedick. Bene. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither. Ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience. And so I leave you. Exit. Claud. My liege, your Highness now may do me good. Pedro. My love is thine to teach. Teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. Claud. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? Pedro. No child but Hero; she's his only heir. Dost thou affect her, Claudio? Claud.O my lord, When you went onward on this ended action, I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye, That lik'd, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love; But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair young Hero is, Saying I lik'd her ere I went to wars. Pedro. Thou wilt be like a lover presently And tire the hearer with a book of words. If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, And I will break with her and with her father, And thou shalt have her. Wast not to this end That thou began'st to twist so fine a story? Claud. How sweetly you do minister to love, That know love's grief by his complexion! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salv'd it with a longer treatise. Pedro. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit. 'Tis once, thou lovest, And I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling to-night. I will assume thy part in some disguise And tell fair Hero I am Claudio, And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart And take her hearing prisoner with the force And strong encounter of my amorous tale. Then after to her father will I break, And the conclusion is, she shall be thine. In practice let us put it presently. Exeunt. Scene II. A room in Leonato's house. Enter [at one door] Leonato and [at another door, Antonio] an old man, brother to Leonato. Leon. How now, brother? Where is my cousin your son? Hath he provided this music? Ant. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. Leon. Are they good? Ant. As the event stamps them; but they have a good cover, they show well outward. The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance, and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. Leon. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this? Ant. A good sharp fellow. I will send for him, and question him yourself. Leon. No, no. We will hold it as a dream till it appear itself; but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Exit Antonio.] [Enter Antonio's Son with a Musician, and others.] [To the Son] Cousin, you know what you have to do. --[To the Musician] O, I cry you mercy, friend. Go you with me, and I will use your skill.--Good cousin, have a care this busy time. Exeunt. Scene III. Another room in Leonato's house.] Enter Sir John the Bastard and Conrade, his companion. Con. What the goodyear, my lord! Why are you thus out of measure sad? John. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. Con. You should hear reason. John. And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it? Con. If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance. John. I wonder that thou (being, as thou say'st thou art, born under Saturn) goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man's jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man's leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man's business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour. Con. Yea, but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta'en you newly into his grace, where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself. It is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. John. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace, and it better fits my blood to be disdain'd of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any. In this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchis'd with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. Con. Can you make no use of your discontent? John. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Enter Borachio. Who comes here? What news, Borachio? Bora. I came yonder from a great supper. The Prince your brother is royally entertain'd by Leonato, and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. John. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness? Bora. Marry, it is your brother's right hand. John. Who? the most exquisite Claudio? Bora. Even he. John. A proper squire! And who? and who? which way looks he? Bora. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. John. A very forward March-chick! How came you to this? Bora. Being entertain'd for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and Claudio, hand in hand in sad conference. I whipt me behind the arras and there heard it agreed upon that the Prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtain'd her, give her to Count Claudio. John. Come, come, let us thither. This may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow. If I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me? Con. To the death, my lord. John. Let us to the great supper. Their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were o' my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done? Bora. We'll wait upon your lordship. Exeunt. <> ACT II. Scene I. A hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato, [Antonio] his Brother, Hero his Daughter, and Beatrice his Niece, and a Kinsman; [also Margaret and Ursula]. Leon. Was not Count John here at supper? Ant. I saw him not. Beat. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burn'd an hour after. Hero. He is of a very melancholy disposition. Beat. He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick. The one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other too like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling. Leon. Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior Benedick's face-- Beat. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world--if 'a could get her good will. Leon. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. Ant. In faith, she's too curst. Beat. Too curst is more than curst. I shall lessen God's sending that way, for it is said, 'God sends a curst cow short horns,' but to a cow too curst he sends none. Leon. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns. Beat. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face. I had rather lie in the woollen! Leon. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. Beat. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him. Therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the berrord and lead his apes into hell. Leon. Well then, go you into hell? Beat. No; but to the gate, and there will the devil meet me like an old cuckold with horns on his head, and say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven. Here's no place for you maids.' So deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter--for the heavens. He shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. Ant. [to Hero] Well, niece, I trust you will be rul'd by your father. Beat. Yes faith. It is my cousin's duty to make cursy and say, 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another cursy, and say, 'Father, as it please me.' Leon. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. Beat. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmaster'd with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none. Adam's sons are my brethren, and truly I hold it a sin to match in my kinred. Leon. Daughter, remember what I told you. If the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. Beat. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time. If the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinque-pace: the first suit is hot and hasty like a Scotch jig--and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance and with his bad legs falls into the cinque-pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. Leon. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. Beat. I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight. Leon. The revellers are ent'ring, brother. Make good room. [Exit Antonio.] Enter, [masked,] Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Balthasar. [With them enter Antonio, also masked. After them enter] Don John [and Borachio (without masks), who stand aside and look on during the dance]. Pedro. Lady, will you walk a bout with your friend? Hero. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away. Pedro. With me in your company? Hero. I may say so when I please. Pedro. And when please you to say so? Hero. When I like your favour, for God defend the lute should be like the case! Pedro. My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove. Hero. Why then, your visor should be thatch'd. Pedro. Speak low if you speak love. [Takes her aside.] Balth. Well, I would you did like me. Marg. So would not I for your own sake, for I have many ill qualities. Balth. Which is one? Marg. I say my prayers aloud. Balth. I love you the better. The hearers may cry Amen. Marg. God match me with a good dancer! Balth. Amen. Marg. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk. Balth. No more words. The clerk is answered. [Takes her aside.] Urs. I know you well enough. You are Signior Antonio. Ant. At a word, I am not. Urs. I know you by the waggling of your head. Ant. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. Urs. You could never do him so ill-well unless you were the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down. You are he, you are he! Ant. At a word, I am not. Urs. Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum you are he. Graces will appear, and there's an end. [ They step aside.] Beat. Will you not tell me who told you so? Bene. No, you shall pardon me. Beat. Nor will you not tell me who you are? Bene. Not now. Beat. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales.' Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. Bene. What's he? Beat. I am sure you know him well enough. Bene. Not I, believe me. Beat. Did he never make you laugh? Bene. I pray you, what is he? Beat. Why, he is the Prince's jester, a very dull fool. Only his gift is in devising impossible slanders. None but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet. I would he had boarded me. Bene. When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say. Beat. Do, do. He'll but break a comparison or two on me; which peradventure, not marked or not laugh'd at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music.] We must follow the leaders. Bene. In every good thing. Beat. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. Dance. Exeunt (all but Don John, Borachio, and Claudio]. John. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. Bora. And that is Claudio. I know him by his bearing. John. Are you not Signior Benedick? Claud. You know me well. I am he. John. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love. He is enamour'd on Hero. I pray you dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his birth. You may do the part of an honest man in it. Claud. How know you he loves her? John. I heard him swear his affection. Bora. So did I too, and he swore he would marry her tonight. John. Come, let us to the banquet. Exeunt. Manet Claudio. Claud. Thus answer I in name of Benedick But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. [Unmasks.] 'Tis certain so. The Prince wooes for himself. Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues; Let every eye negotiate for itself And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood. This is an accident of hourly proof, Which I mistrusted not. Farewell therefore Hero! Enter Benedick [unmasked]. Bene. Count Claudio? Claud. Yea, the same. Bene. Come, will you go with me? Claud. Whither? Bene. Even to the next willow, about your own business, County. What fashion will you wear the garland of? about your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero. Claud. I wish him joy of her. Bene. Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier. So they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would have served you thus? Claud. I pray you leave me. Bene. Ho! now you strike like the blind man! 'Twas the boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post. Claud. If it will not be, I'll leave you. Exit. Bene. Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The Prince's fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong. I am not so reputed. It is the base (though bitter) disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person and so gives me out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may. Enter Don Pedro. Pedro. Now, signior, where's the Count? Did you see him? Bene. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame, I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady, and I off'red him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipt. Pedro. To be whipt? What's his fault? Bene. The flat transgression of a schoolboy who, being overjoyed with finding a bird's nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. Pedro. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer. Bene. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stol'n his bird's nest. Pedro. I will but teach them to sing and restore them to the owner. Bene. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith you say honestly. Pedro. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you. The gentleman that danc'd with her told her she is much wrong'd by you. Bene. O, she misus'd me past the endurance of a block! An oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her; my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince's jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs. If her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the North Star. I would not marry her though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgress'd. She would have made Hercules have turn'd spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her. You shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they would go thither; so indeed all disquiet, horror, and perturbation follows her. Enter Claudio and Beatrice, Leonato, Hero. Pedro. Look, here she comes. Bene. Will your Grace command me any service to the world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John's foot; fetch you a hair off the great Cham's beard; do you any embassage to the Pygmies--rather than hold three words' conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me? Pedro. None, but to desire your good company. Bene. O God, sir, here's a dish I love not! I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit.] Pedro. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. Beat. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile, and I gave him use for it--a double heart for his single one. Marry, once before he won it of me with false dice; therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it. Pedro. You have put him down, lady; you have put him down. Beat. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. Pedro. Why, how now, Count? Wherefore are you sad? Claud. Not sad, my lord. Pedro. How then? sick? Claud. Neither, my lord. Beat. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count--civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. Pedro. I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won. I have broke with her father, and his good will obtained. Name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy! Leon. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes. His Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it! Beat. Speak, Count, 'tis your cue. Claud. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours. I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. Beat. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss and let not him speak neither. Pedro. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. Beat. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. Claud. And so she doth, cousin. Beat. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry 'Heigh-ho for a husband!' Pedro. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. Beat. I would rather have one of your father's getting. Hath your Grace ne'er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. Pedro. Will you have me, lady? Beat. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your Grace pardon me. I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. Pedro. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you, for out o' question you were born in a merry hour. Beat. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danc'd, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy! Leon. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of? Beat. I cry you mercy, uncle, By your Grace's pardon. Exit. Pedro. By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady. Leon. There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord. She is never sad but when she sleeps, and not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say she hath often dreamt of unhappiness and wak'd herself with laughing. Pedro. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. Leon. O, by no means! She mocks all her wooers out of suit. Pedro. She were an excellent wife for Benedick. Leon. O Lord, my lord! if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad. Pedro. County Claudio, when mean you to go to church? Claud. To-morrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. Leon. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just sevennight; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind. Pedro. Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules' labours, which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection th' one with th' other. I would fain have it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. Leon. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights' watchings. Claud. And I, my lord. Pedro. And you too, gentle Hero? Hero. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. Pedro. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him: he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirm'd honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, [to Leonato and Claudio] with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer; his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. Exeunt. Scene II. A hall in Leonato's house. Enter [Don] John and Borachio. John. It is so. The Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. Bora. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. John. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be med'cinable to me. I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage? Bora. Not honestly, my lord, but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. John. Show me briefly how. Bora. I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero. John. I remember. Bora. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window. John. What life is in that to be the death of this marriage? Bora. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the Prince your brother; spare not to tell him that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio (whose estimation do you mightily hold up) to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. John. What proof shall I make of that? Bora. Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue? John. Only to despite them I will endeavour anything. Bora. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone; tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the Prince and Claudio, as--in love of your brother's honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's reputation, who is thus like to be cozen'd with the semblance of a maid--that you have discover'd thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial. Offer them instances; which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding (for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent) and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be call'd assurance and all the preparation overthrown. John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. Bora. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. John. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. Exeunt. Scene III. Leonato's orchard. Enter Benedick alone. Bene. Boy! [Enter Boy.] Boy. Signior? Bene. In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in the orchard. Boy. I am here already, sir. Bene. I know that, but I would have thee hence and here again. (Exit Boy.) I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laugh'd at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love; and such a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe. I have known when he would have walk'd ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turn'd orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet-- just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha, the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour. [Hides.] Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, Claudio. Music [within]. Pedro. Come, shall we hear this music? Claud. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony! Pedro. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? Claud. O, very well, my lord. The music ended, We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth. Enter Balthasar with Music. Pedro. Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again. Balth. O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once. Pedro. It is the witness still of excellency To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee sing, and let me woo no more. Balth. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing, Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes, Yet will he swear he loves. Pedro. Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes. Balth. Note this before my notes: There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting. Pedro. Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks! Note notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.] Bene. [aside] Now divine air! Now is his soul ravish'd! Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all's done. [Balthasar sings.] The Song. Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more! Men were deceivers ever, One foot in sea, and one on shore; To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, But let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no moe, Of dumps so dull and heavy! The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, &c. Pedro. By my troth, a good song. Balth. And an ill singer, my lord. Pedro. Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift. Bene. [aside] An he had been a dog that should have howl'd thus, they would have hang'd him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as live have heard the night raven, come what plague could have come after it. Pedro. Yea, marry. Dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber window. Balth. The best I can, my lord. Pedro. Do so. Farewell. Exit Balthasar [with Musicians]. Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? Claud. O, ay!-[Aside to Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. --I did never think that lady would have loved any man. Leon. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seem'd ever to abhor. Bene. [aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner? Leon. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that she loves him with an enraged affection. It is past the infinite of thought. Pedro. May be she doth but counterfeit. Claud. Faith, like enough. Leon. O God, counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it. Pedro. Why, what effects of passion shows she? Claud. [aside] Bait the hook well! This fish will bite. Leon. What effects, my lord? She will sit you--you heard my daughter tell you how. Claud. She did indeed. Pedro. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. Leon. I would have sworn it had, my lord--especially against Benedick. Bene. [aside] I should think this a gull but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence. Claud. [aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it up. Pedro. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick? Leon. No, and swears she never will. That's her torment. Claud. 'Tis true indeed. So your daughter says. 'Shall I,' says she, 'that have so oft encount'red him with scorn, write to him that I love him?'" Leon. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she'll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us all. Claud. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of. Leon. O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found 'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet? Claud. That. Leon. O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd at herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her. 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I should flout him if he writ to me. Yea, though I love him, I should.' Claud. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!' Leon. She doth indeed; my daughter says so. And the ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. Pedro. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it. Claud. To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. Pedro. An he should, it were an alms to hang him! She's an excellent sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is virtuous. Claud. And she is exceeding wise. Pedro. In everything but in loving Benedick. Leon. O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. Pedro. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I would have daff'd all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you tell Benedick of it and hear what 'a will say. Leon. Were it good, think you? Claud. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. Pedro. She doth well. If she should make tender of her love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the man (as you know all) hath a contemptible spirit. Claud. He is a very proper man. Pedro. He hath indeed a good outward happiness. Claud. Before God! and in my mind, very wise. Pedro. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. Claud. And I take him to be valiant. Pedro. As Hector, I assure you; and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise, for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christianlike fear. Leon. If he do fear God, 'a must necessarily keep peace. If he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. Pedro. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love? Claud. Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good counsel. Leon. Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first. Pedro. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter. Let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. Leon. My lord, will you .walk? Dinner is ready. [They walk away.] Claud. If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. Pedro. Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter. That's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. Exeunt [Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato]. [Benedick advances from the arbour.] Bene. This can be no trick. The conference was sadly borne; they have the truth of this from Hero; they seem to pity the lady. It seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censur'd. They say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive the love come from her. They say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry. I must not seem proud. Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair--'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous --'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me--by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the appetite alters? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Enter Beatrice. Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady! I do spy some marks of love in her. Beat. Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to dinner. Bene. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. Beat. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me. If it had been painful, I would not have come. Bene. You take pleasure then in the message? Beat. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knives point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior. Fare you well. Exit. Bene. Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.' There's a double meaning in that. 'I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me.' That's as much as to say, 'Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.' If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. Exit. <> ACT III. Scene I. Leonato's orchard. Enter Hero and two Gentlewomen, Margaret and Ursula. Hero. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour. There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the Prince and Claudio. Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursley Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her. Say that thou overheard'st us; And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter--like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her To listen our propose. This is thy office. Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. Marg. I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently. [Exit.] Hero. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick. When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay. [Enter Beatrice.] Now begin; For look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference. [Beatrice hides in the arbour]. Urs. The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream And greedily devour the treacherous bait. So angle we for Beatrice, who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue. Hero. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. [They approach the arbour.] No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful. I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. Urs. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? Hero. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord. Urs. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? Hero. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they lov'd Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection And never to let Beatrice know of it. Urs. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full, as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon? Hero. O god of love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man: But Nature never fram'd a woman's heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice. Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprizing what they look on; and her wit Values itself so highly that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endeared. Urs. Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she'll make sport at it. Hero. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur'd, But she would spell him backward. If fair-fac'd, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antic, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. Urs. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. Hero. No, not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit! Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly. It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling. Urs. Yet tell her of it. Hear what she will say. Hero. No; rather I will go to Benedick And counsel him to fight against his passion. And truly, I'll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking. Urs. O, do not do your cousin such a wrong! She cannot be so much without true judgment (Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is priz'd to have) as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. Hero. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio. Urs. I pray you be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument, and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy. Hero. Indeed he hath an excellent good name. Urs. His excellence did earn it ere he had it. When are you married, madam? Hero. Why, every day to-morrow! Come, go in. I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow. [They walk away.] Urs. She's lim'd, I warrant you! We have caught her, madam. Hero. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps; Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. Exeunt [Hero and Ursula]. [Beatrice advances from the arbour.] Beat. What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand. If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. Exit. Scene II. A room in Leonato's house. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, and Leonato. Pedro. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. Claud. I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll vouchsafe me. Pedro. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth. He hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell; and his tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks. Bene. Gallants, I am not as I have been. Leon. So say I. Methinks you are sadder. Claud. I hope he be in love. Pedro. Hang him, truant! There's no true drop of blood in him to be truly touch'd with love. If he be sad, he wants money. Bene. I have the toothache. Pedro. Draw it. Bene. Hang it! Claud. You must hang it first and draw it afterwards. Pedro. What? sigh for the toothache? Leon. Where is but a humour or a worm. Bene. Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it. Claud. Yet say I he is in love. Pedro. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman to-day, a Frenchman to-morrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. Claud. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs. 'A brushes his hat o' mornings. What should that bode? Pedro. Hath any man seen him at the barber's? Claud. No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him, and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuff'd tennis balls. Leon. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. Pedro. Nay, 'a rubs himself with civet. Can you smell him out by that? Claud. That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love. Pedro. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. Claud. And when was he wont to wash his face? Pedro. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which I hear what they say of him. Claud. Nay, but his jesting spirit, which is new-crept into a lutestring, and now govern'd by stops. Pedro. Indeed that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude, he is in love. Claud. Nay, but I know who loves him. Pedro. That would I know too. I warrant, one that knows him not. Claud. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him. Pedro. She shall be buried with her face upwards. Bene. Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old signior, walk aside with me. I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.] Pedro. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice! Claud. 'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. Enter John the Bastard. John. My lord and brother, God save you. Pedro. Good den, brother. John. If your leisure serv'd, I would speak with you. Pedro. In private? John. If it please you. Yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. Pedro. What's the matter? John. [to Claudio] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow? Pedro. You know he does. John. I know not that, when he knows what I know. Claud. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. John. You may think I love you not. Let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage--surely suit ill spent and labour ill bestowed! Pedro. Why, what's the matter? John. I came hither to tell you, and, circumstances short'ned (for she has been too long a-talking of), the lady is disloyal. Claud. Who? Hero? John. Even she--Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero. Claud. Disloyal? John. The word is too good to paint out her wickedness. I could say she were worse; think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant. Go but with me to-night, you shall see her chamber window ent'red, even the night before her wedding day. If you love her then, to-morrow wed her. But it would better fit your honour to change your mind. Claud. May this be so? Pedro. I will not think it. John. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly. Claud. If I see anything to-night why I should not marry her to-morrow, in the congregation where I should wed, there will I shame her. Pedro. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. John. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses. Bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. Pedro. O day untowardly turned! Claud. O mischief strangely thwarting! John. O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the Sequel. Exeunt. Scene III. A street. Enter Dogberry and his compartner [Verges], with the Watch. Dog. Are you good men and true? Verg. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince's watch. Verg. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1. Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath bless'd you with a good name. To be a well-favoured man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2. Watch. Both which, Master Constable-- Dog. You have. I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch. Therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince's name. 2. Watch. How if 'a will not stand? Dog. Why then, take no note of him, but let him go, and presently call the rest of the watch together and thank God you are rid of a knave. Verg. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince's subjects. Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets; for for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable, and not to be endured. 2. Watch. We will rather sleep than talk. We know what belongs to a watch. Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend. Only have a care that your bills be not stol'n. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2. Watch. How if they will not? Dog. Why then, let them alone till they are sober. If they make you not then the better answer, You may say they are not the men you took them for. 2. Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more your honesty. 2. Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defil'd. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Verg. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Verg. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. 2. Watch. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? Dog. Why then, depart in peace and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats. Verg. 'Tis very true. Dog. This is the end of the charge: you, constable, are to present the Prince's own person. If you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him. Verg. Nay, by'r lady, that I think 'a cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on't with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him! Marry, not without the Prince be willing; for indeed the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Verg. By'r lady, I think it be so. Dog. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night. An there be any matter of weight chances, call up me. Keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. 2. Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge. Let us go sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil to-night. Adieu. Be vigitant, I beseech you. Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges]. Enter Borachio and Conrade. Bora. What, Conrade! 2. Watch. [aside] Peace! stir not! Bora. Conrade, I say! Con. Here, man. I am at thy elbow. Bora. Mass, and my elbow itch'd! I thought there would a scab follow. Con. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale. Bora. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. 2. Watch. [aside] Some treason, masters. Yet stand close. Bora. Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats. Con. Is it possible that any villany should be so dear? Bora. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villany should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. Con. I wonder at it. Bora. That shows thou art unconfirm'd. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. Con. Yes, it is apparel. Bora. I mean the fashion. Con. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. Bora. Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? 2. Watch. [aside] I know that Deformed. 'A bas been a vile thief this seven year; 'a goes up and down like a gentleman. I remember his name. Bora. Didst thou not hear somebody? Con. No; 'twas the vane on the house. Bora. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily 'a turns about all the hot-bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers in the reechy painting, sometime like god Bel's priests in the old church window, sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirch'd worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club? Con. All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? Bora. Not so neither. But know that I have to-night wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the name of Hero. She leans me out at her mistress' chamber window, bids me a thousand times good night--I tell this tale vilely; I should first tell thee how the Prince, Claudio and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. Con. And thought they Margaret was Hero? Bora. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possess'd them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villany, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enrag'd; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o'ernight and send her home again without a husband. 2. Watch. We charge you in the Prince's name stand! 1. Watch. Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recover'd the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth. 2. Watch. And one Deformed is one of them. I know him; 'a wears a lock. Con. Masters, masters-- 1. Watch. You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. Con. Masters-- 2. Watch. Never speak, we charge you. Let us obey you to go with us. Bora. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men's bills. Con. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you. Exeunt. Scene IV. A Room in Leonato's house. Enter Hero, and Margaret and Ursula. Hero. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice and desire her to rise. Urs. I will, lady. Hero. And bid her come hither. Urs. Well. [Exit.] Marg. Troth, I think your other rebato were better. Hero. No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this. Marg. By my troth, 's not so good, and I warrant your cousin will say so. Hero. My cousin's a fool, and thou art another. I'll wear none but this. Marg. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's gown that they praise so. Hero. O, that exceeds, they say. Marg. By my troth, 's but a nightgown in respect of yours-- cloth-o'-gold and cuts, and lac'd with silver, set with pearls down sleeves, side-sleeves, and skirts, round underborne with a blush tinsel. But for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on't. Hero. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. Marg. 'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man. Hero. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? Marg. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, 'saving your reverence, a husband.' An bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend nobody. Is there any harm in 'the heavier for a husband'? None, I think, an it be the right husband and the right wife. Otherwise 'tis light, and not heavy. Ask my Lady Beatrice else. Here she comes. Enter Beatrice. Hero. Good morrow, coz. Beat. Good morrow, sweet Hero. Hero. Why, how now? Do you speak in the sick tune? Beat. I am out of all other tune, methinks. Marg. Clap's into 'Light o' love.' That goes without a burden. Do you sing it, and I'll dance it. Beat. Yea, 'Light o' love' with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall lack no barnes. Marg. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. Beat. 'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; 'tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Hey-ho! Marg. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? Beat. For the letter that begins them all, H. Marg. Well, an you be not turn'd Turk, there's no more sailing by the star. Beat. What means the fool, trow? Marg. Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire! Hero. These gloves the Count sent me, they are an excellent perfume. Beat. I am stuff'd, cousin; I cannot smell. Marg. A maid, and stuff'd! There's goodly catching of cold. Beat. O, God help me! God help me! How long have you profess'd apprehension? Marg. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely? Beat. It is not seen enough. You should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. Marg. Get you some of this distill'd carduus benedictus and lay it to your heart. It is the only thing for a qualm. Hero. There thou prick'st her with a thistle. Beat. Benedictus? why benedictus? You have some moral in this 'benedictus.' Marg. Moral? No, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant plain holy thistle. You may think perchance that I think you are in love. Nay, by'r lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor indeed I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man. He swore he would never marry; and yet now in despite of his heart he eats his meat without grudging; and how you may be converted I know not, but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do. Beat. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? Marg. Not a false gallop. Enter Ursula. Urs. Madam, withdraw. The Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church. Hero. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt.] Scene V. The hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and the Constable [Dogberry] and the Headborough [verges]. Leon. What would you with me, honest neighbour? Dog. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you that decerns you nearly. Leon. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me. Dog. Marry, this it is, sir. Verg. Yes, in truth it is, sir. Leon. What is it, my good friends? Dog. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter--an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. Verg. Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I. Dog. Comparisons are odorous. Palabras, neighbour Verges. Leon. Neighbours, you are tedious. Dog. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. Leon. All thy tediousness on me, ah? Dog. Yea, in 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. Verg. And so am I. Leon. I would fain know what you have to say. Verg. Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. Dog. A good old man, sir; he will be talking. As they say, 'When the age is in, the wit is out.' God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i' faith, neighbour Verges. Well, God's a good man. An two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i' faith, sir, by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipp'd; all men are not alike, alas, good neighbour! Leon. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. Dog. Gifts that God gives. Leon. I must leave you. Dog. One word, sir. Our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. Leon. Take their examination yourself and bring it me. I am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you. Dog. It shall be suffigance. Leon. Drink some wine ere you go. Fare you well. [Enter a Messenger.] Mess. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. Leon. I'll wait upon them. I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.] Dog. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the jail. We are now to examination these men. Verg. And we must do it wisely. Dog. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you. Here's that shall drive some of them to a non-come. Only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the jail. [Exeunt.] <> ACT IV. Scene I. A church. Enter Don Pedro, [John the] Bastard, Leonato, Friar [Francis], Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice, [and Attendants]. Leon. Come, Friar Francis, be brief. Only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards. Friar. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? Claud. No. Leon. To be married to her. Friar, you come to marry her. Friar. Lady, you come hither to be married to this count? Hero. I do. Friar. If either of you know any inward impediment why you should not be conjoined, I charge you on your souls to utter it. Claud. Know you any, Hero? Hero. None, my lord. Friar. Know you any, Count? Leon. I dare make his answer--none. Claud. O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do! Bene. How now? interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as, ah, ha, he! Claud. Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid your daughter? Leon. As freely, son, as God did give her me. Claud. And what have I to give you back whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? Pedro. Nothing, unless you render her again. Claud. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again. Give not this rotten orange to your friend. She's but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold how like a maid she blushes here! O, what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal! Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue, Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. Leon. What do you mean, my lord? Claud. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. Leon. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth And made defeat of her virginity-- Claud. I know what you would say. If I have known her, You will say she did embrace me as a husband, And so extenuate the forehand sin. No, Leonato, I never tempted her with word too large, But, as a brother to his sister, show'd Bashful sincerity and comely love. Hero. And seem'd I ever otherwise to you? Claud. Out on the seeming! I will write against it. You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamp'red animals That rage in savage sensuality. Hero. Is my lord well that he doth speak so wide? Leon. Sweet Prince, why speak not you? Pedro. What should I speak? I stand dishonour'd that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale. Leon. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? John. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. Bene. This looks not like a nuptial. Hero. 'True!' O God! Claud. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince, Is this the Prince's brother? Is this face Hero's? Are our eyes our own? Leon. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? Claud. Let me but move one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power That you have in her, bid her answer truly. Leon. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. Hero. O, God defend me! How am I beset! What kind of catechising call you this? Claud. To make you answer truly to your name. Hero. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? Claud. Marry, that can Hero! Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue. What man was he talk'd with you yesternight, Out at your window betwixt twelve and one? Now, if you are a maid, answer to this. Hero. I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord. Pedro. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear. Upon my honour, Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window, Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess'd the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret. John. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam'd, my lord-- Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity, enough in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. Claud. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been If half thy outward graces had been plac'd About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell, Thou pure impiety and impious purity! For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious. Leon. Hath no man's dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons.] Beat. Why, how now, cousin? Wherefore sink you down? John. Come let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don Juan, and Claudio.] Bene. How doth the lady? Beat. Dead, I think. Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! Leon. O Fate, take not away thy heavy hand! Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish'd for. Beat. How now, cousin Hero? Friar. Have comfort, lady. Leon. Dost thou look up? Friar. Yea, wherefore should she not? Leon. Wherefore? Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood? Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes; For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would on the rearward of reproaches Strike at thy life. Griev'd I, I had but one? Child I for that at frugal nature's frame? O, one too much by thee! Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes? Why had I not with charitable hand Took up a beggar's issue at my gates, Who smirched thus and mir'd with infamy, I might have said, 'No part of it is mine; This shame derives itself from unknown loins'? But mine, and mine I lov'd, and mine I prais'd, And mine that I was proud on--mine so much That I myself was to myself not mine, Valuing of her--why, she, O, she is fall'n Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh! Bene. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir'd in wonder, I know not what to say. Beat. O, on my soul, my cousin is belied! Bene. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? Beat. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow Leon. Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron! Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who lov'd her so that, speaking of her foulness, Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. Friar. Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady. I have mark'd A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness beat away those blushes, And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observation, Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenure of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error. Leon. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury: she not denies it. Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness? Friar. Lady, what man is he you are accus'd of? Hero. They know that do accuse me; I know none. If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father, Prove you that any man with me convers'd At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain'd the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death! Friar. There is some strange misprision in the princes. Bene. Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies. Leon. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her. If they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awak'd in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly. Friar. Pause awhile And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead, Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it that she is dead indeed; Maintain a mourning ostentation, And on your family's old monument Hang mournful epitaphs, and do all rites That appertain unto a burial. Leon. What shall become of this? What will this do? Friar. Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse. That is some good. But not for that dream I on this strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintain'd, Upon the instant that she was accus'd, Shall be lamented, pitied, and excus'd Of every hearer; for it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio. When he shall hear she died upon his words, Th' idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit, More moving, delicate, and full of life, Into the eye and prospect of his soul Than when she liv'd indeed. Then shall he mourn (If ever love had interest in his liver) And wish he had not so accused her-- No, though be thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success Will fashion the event in better shape Than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all aim but this be levell'd false, The supposition of the lady's death Will quench the wonder of her infamy. And if it sort not well, you may conceal her, As best befits her wounded reputation, In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. Bene. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you; And though you know my inwardness and love Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this As secretly and justly as your soul Should with your body. Leon. Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me. Friar. 'Tis well consented. Presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live. This wedding day Perhaps is but prolong'd. Have patience and endure. Exeunt [all but Benedick and Beatrice]. Bene. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? Beat. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. Bene. I will not desire that. Beat. You have no reason. I do it freely. Bene. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. Beat. Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her! Bene. Is there any way to show such friendship? Beat. A very even way, but no such friend. Bene. May a man do it? Beat. It is a man's office, but not yours. Bene. I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is not that strange? Beat. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you. But believe me not; and yet I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. Bene. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. Beat. Do not swear, and eat it. Bene. I will swear by it that you love me, and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. Beat. Will you not eat your word? Bene. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. Beat. Why then, God forgive me! Bene. What offence, sweet Beatrice? Beat. You have stayed me in a happy hour. I was about to protest I loved you. Bene. And do it with all thy heart. Beat. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. Bene. Come, bid me do anything for thee. Beat. Kill Claudio. Bene. Ha! not for the wide world! Beat. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. Bene. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. Beat. I am gone, though I am here. There is no love in you. Nay, I pray you let me go. Bene. Beatrice-- Beat. In faith, I will go. Bene. We'll be friends first. Beat. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. Bene. Is Claudio thine enemy? Beat. Is 'a not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O that I were a man! What? bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then with public accusation, uncover'd slander, unmitigated rancour--O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market place. Bene. Hear me, Beatrice! Beat. Talk with a man out at a window!-a proper saying! Bene. Nay but Beatrice-- Beat. Sweet Hero! she is wrong'd, she is sland'red, she is undone. Bene. Beat-- Beat. Princes and Counties! Surely a princely testimony, a goodly count, Count Comfect, a sweet gallant surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into cursies, valour into compliment, and men are only turn'd into tongue, and trim ones too. He is now as valiant as Hercules that only tells a lie,and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing; therefore I will die a woman with grieving. Bene. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. Beat. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. Bene. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wrong'd Hero? Beat. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul. Bene. Enough, I am engag'd, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead-and so farewell. [Exeunt.] Scene II. A prison. Enter the Constables [Dogberry and Verges] and the Sexton, in gowns, [and the Watch, with Conrade and] Borachio. Dog. Is our whole dissembly appear'd? Verg. O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton. Sex. Which be the malefactors? Dog. Marry, that am I and my partner. Verg. Nay, that's certain. We have the exhibition to examine. Sex. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master Constable. Dog. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend? Bor. Borachio. Dog. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah? Con. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. Dog. Write down Master Gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God? Both. Yea, sir, we hope. Dog. Write down that they hope they serve God; and write God first, for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves? Con. Marry, sir, we say we are none. Dog. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah. A word in your ear. Sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. Bora. Sir, I say to you we are none. Dog. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down that they are none? Sex. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine. You must call forth the watch that are their accusers. Dog. Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you in the Prince's name accuse these men. 1. Watch. This man said, sir, that Don John the Prince's brother was a villain. Dog. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a prince's brother villain. Bora. Master Constable-- Dog. Pray thee, fellow, peace. I do not like thy look, I promise thee. Sex. What heard you him say else? 2. Watch. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. Dog. Flat burglary as ever was committed. Verg. Yea, by th' mass, that it is. Sex. What else, fellow? 1. Watch. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. Dog. O villain! thou wilt be condemn'd into everlasting redemption for this. Sex. What else? Watchmen. This is all. Sex. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stol'n away. Hero was in this manner accus'd, in this manner refus'd, and upon the grief of this suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound and brought to Leonato's. I will go before and show him their examination. [Exit.] Dog. Come, let them be opinion'd. Verg. Let them be in the hands-- Con. Off, coxcomb! Dog. God's my life, where's the sexton? Let him write down the Prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.--Thou naughty varlet! Con. Away! you are an ass, you are an ass. Dog. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an ass. Though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be prov'd upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and which is more, an officer; and which is more, a householder; and which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in Messina, and one that knows the law, go to! and a rich fellow enough, go to! and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! Exeunt. <> ACT V. Scene I. The street, near Leonato's house. Enter Leonato and his brother [ Antonio]. Ant. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself, And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. Leon. I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve. Give not me counsel, Nor let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine. Bring me a father that so lov'd his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine, And bid him speak to me of patience. Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, And let it answer every strain for strain, As thus for thus, and such a grief for such, In every lineament, branch, shape, and form. If such a one will smile and stroke his beard, Bid sorrow wag, cry 'hem' when he should groan, Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters--bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience. But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words. No, no! 'Tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel. My griefs cry louder than advertisement. Ant. Therein do men from children nothing differ. Leon. I pray thee peace. I will be flesh and blood; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance. Ant. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself. Make those that do offend you suffer too. Leon. There thou speak'st reason. Nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied; And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. Ant. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily. Pedro. Good den, Good den. Claud. Good day to both of you. Leon. Hear you, my lords! Pedro. We have some haste, Leonato. Leon. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord. Are you so hasty now? Well, all is one. Pedro. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. Ant. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie low. Claud. Who wrongs him? Leon. Marry, thou dost wrong me, thou dissembler, thou! Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not. Claud. Mary, beshrew my hand If it should give your age such cause of fear. In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. Leon. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, As under privilege of age to brag What I have done being young, or what would do, Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me That I am forc'd to lay my reverence by And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, Do challenge thee to trial of a man. I say thou hast belied mine innocent child; Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lied buried with her ancestors- O, in a tomb where never scandal slept, Save this of hers, fram'd by thy villany! Claud. My villany? Leon. Thine, Claudio; thine I say. Pedro. You say not right, old man Leon. My lord, my lord, I'll prove it on his body if he dare, Despite his nice fence and his active practice, His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. Claud. Away! I will not have to do with you. Leon. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child. If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. And. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed But that's no matter; let him kill one first. Win me and wear me! Let him answer me. Come, follow me, boy,. Come, sir boy, come follow me. Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence! Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. Leon. Brother-- Ant. Content yourself. God knows I lov'd my niece, And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains, That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boys, apes, braggarts, jacks, milksops! Leon. Brother Anthony-- Ant. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, Scambling, outfacing, fashion-monging boys, That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go anticly, show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dang'rous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all. Leon. But, brother Anthony-- Ant. Come, 'tis no matter. Do not you meddle; let me deal in this. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter's death; But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing But what was true, and very full of proof. Leon. My lord, my lord-- Pedro. I will not hear you. Leon. No? Come, brother, away!--I will be heard. Ant. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. Exeunt ambo. Enter Benedick. Pedro. See, see! Here comes the man we went to seek. Claud. Now, signior, what news? Bene. Good day, my lord. Pedro. Welcome, signior. You are almost come to part almost a fray. Claud. We had lik'd to have had our two noses snapp'd off with two old men without teeth. Pedro. Leonato and his brother. What think'st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit? Bene. It is in my scabbard. Shall I draw it? Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? Claud. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrel--draw to pleasure us. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick or angry? Claud. What, courage, man! What though care kill'd a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career an you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. Claud. Nay then, give him another staff; this last was broke cross. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more. I think he be angry indeed. Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear? Claud. God bless me from a challenge! Bene. [aside to Claudio] You are a villain. I jest not; I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have kill'd a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. Pedro. What, a feast, a feast? Claud. I' faith, I thank him, he hath bid me to a calve's head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too? Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily. Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice prais'd thy wit the other day. I said thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,' said she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a great wit.' 'Right,' says she, 'a great gross one.' 'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit.' 'Just,' said she, 'it hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman is wise.' 'Certain,' said she, a wise gentleman.' 'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues.' 'That I believe' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me on Monday night which he forswore on Tuesday morning. There's a double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus did she an hour together transshape thy particular virtues. Yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the proper'st man in Italy. Claud. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man's daughter told us all. Claud. All, all! and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head? Claud. Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick, the married man'? Bene. Fare you well, boy; you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossiplike humour. You break jests as braggards do their blades, which God be thanked hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you. I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina. You have among you kill'd a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet; and till then peace be with him. [Exit.] Pedro. He is in earnest. Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. Pedro. And hath challeng'd thee. Claud. Most sincerely. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! Enter Constables [Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch, leading] Conrade and Borachio. Claud. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. Pedro. But, soft you, let me be! Pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled? Dog. Come you, sir. If justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be look'd to. Pedro. How now? two of my brother's men bound? Borachio one. Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done? Dog. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and to conclude, what you lay to their charge. Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and by my troth there's one meaning well suited. Pedro. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What's your offence? Bora. Sweet Prince, let me go no farther to mine answer. Do you hear me, and let this Count kill me. I have deceived even your very eyes. What your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light, who in the night overheard me confessing to this man, how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgrac'd her when you should marry her. My villany they have upon record, which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accusation; and briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood? Claud. I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to this? Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of treachery, And fled he is upon this villany. Claud. Sweet Hero, now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov'd it first. Dog. Come, bring away the plaintiffs. By this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And, masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. Verg. Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too. Enter Leonato, his brother [Antonio], and the Sexton. Leon. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid him. Which of these is he? Bora. If you would know your wronger, look on me. Leon. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd Mine innocent child? Bora. Yea, even I alone. Leon. No, not so, villain! thou beliest thyself. Here stand a pair of honourable men-- A third is fled--that had a hand in it. I thank you princes for my daughter's death. Record it with your high and worthy deeds. 'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it. Claud. I know not how to pray your patience; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin. Yet sinn'd I not But in mistaking. Pedro. By my soul, nor I! And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he'll enjoin me to. Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live- That were impossible; but I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones--sing it to-night. To-morrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law, Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that's dead, And she alone is heir to both of us. Give her the right you should have giv'n her cousin, And so dies my revenge. Claud. O noble sir! Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me. I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. Leon. To-morrow then I will expect your coming; To-night I take my leave. This naughty man Shall fact to face be brought to Margaret, Who I believe was pack'd in all this wrong, Hir'd to it by your brother. Bora. No, by my soul, she was not; Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her. Dog. Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass. I beseech you let it be rememb'red in his punishment. And also the watch heard them talk of one Deformed. They say he wears a key in his ear, and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's name, the which he hath us'd so long and never paid that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing for God's sake. Pray you examine him upon that point. Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. Dog. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise God for you. Leon. There's for thy pains. [Gives money.] Dog. God save the foundation! Leon. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. Dog. I leave an arrant knave with your worship, which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well. God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry meeting may be wish'd, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. Exeunt [Dogberry and Verges]. Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. Ant. Farewell, my lords. We look for you to-morrow. Pedro. We will not fall. Claud. To-night I'll mourn with Hero. [Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.] Leon. [to the Watch] Bring you these fellows on.--We'll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. Exeunt. Scene II. Leonato's orchard. Enter Benedick and Margaret [meeting]. Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty? Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for in most comely truth thou deservest it. Marg. To have no man come over me? Why, shall I always keep below stairs? Bene. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth--it catches. Marg. And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit but hurt not. Bene. A most manly wit, Margaret: it will not hurt a woman. And so I pray thee call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers. Marg. Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own. Bene. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice, and they are dangerous weapons for maids. Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. Bene. And therefore will come. Exit Margaret. [Sings] The god of love, That sits above And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve-- I mean in singing; but in loving Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse--why, they were never so truly turn'd over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme. I have tried. I can find out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby' --an innocent rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn'--a hard rhyme; for 'school', 'fool'--a babbling rhyme: very ominous endings! No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor cannot woo in festival terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I call'd thee? Beat. Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. Bene. O, stay but till then! Beat. 'Then' is spoken. Fare you well now. And yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for, which is, with knowing what hath pass'd between you and Claudio. Bene. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee. Beat. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome. Therefore I will depart unkiss'd. Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him or I will subscribe him a coward. And I pray thee now tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? Beat. For them all together, which maintain'd so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me? Bene. Suffer love!--a good epithet. I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. Beat. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours, for I will never love that which my friend hates. Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Beat. It appears not in this confession. There's not one wise man among twenty, that will praise himself. Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that liv'd in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps. Beat. And how long is that, think you? Bene. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum. Therefore is it most expedient for the wise, if Don Worm (his conscience) find no impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin? Beat. Very ill. Bene. And how do you? Beat. Very ill too. Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. Enter Ursula. Urs. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old coil at home. It is proved my Lady Hero hath been falsely accus'd, the Prince and Claudio mightily abus'd, and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? Beat. Will you go hear this news, signior? Bene. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried thy eyes; and moreover, I will go with thee to thy uncle's. Exeunt. Scene III. A churchyard. Enter Claudio, Don Pedro, and three or four with tapers, [followed by Musicians]. Claud. Is this the monument of Leonato? Lord. It is, my lord. Claud. [reads from a scroll] Epitaph. Done to death by slanderous tongues Was the Hero that here lies. Death, in guerdon of her wrongs, Gives her fame which never dies. So the life that died with shame Lives in death with glorious fame. Hang thou there upon the tomb, [Hangs up the scroll.] Praising her when I am dumb. Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn. Song. Pardon, goddess of the night, Those that slew thy virgin knight; For the which, with songs of woe, Round about her tomb they go. Midnight, assist our moan, Help us to sigh and groan Heavily, heavily, Graves, yawn and yield your dead, Till death be uttered Heavily, heavily. Claud. Now unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite. Pedro. Good morrow, masters. Put your torches out. The wolves have prey'd, and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave us. Fare you well. Claud. Good morrow, masters. Each his several way. Pedro. Come, let us hence and put on other weeds, And then to Leonato's we will go. Claud. And Hymen now with luckier issue speeds Than this for whom we rend'red up this woe. Exeunt. Scene IV The hall in Leonato's house. Enter Leonato, Benedick, [Beatrice,] Margaret, Ursula, Antonio, Friar [Francis], Hero. Friar. Did I not tell you she was innocent? Leon. So are the Prince and Claudio, who accus'd her Upon the error that you heard debated. But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question. Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask'd. Exeunt Ladies. The Prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour To visit me. You know your office, brother: You must be father to your brother's daughter, And give her to young Claudio. Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd countenance. Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. Friar. To do what, signior? Bene. To bind me, or undo me--one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That eye my daughter lent her. 'Tis most true. Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. Leon. The sight whereof I think you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince; but what's your will? Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical; But, for my will, my will is, your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd In the state of honourable marriage; In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. Leon. My heart is with your liking. Friar. And my help. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio and two or three other. Here comes the Prince and Claudio. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. Leon. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio. We here attend you. Are you yet determin'd To-day to marry with my brother's daughter? Claud. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. Leon. Call her forth, brother. Here's the friar ready. [Exit Antonio.] Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness? Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush, fear not, man! We'll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove When he would play the noble beast in love. Bene. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low, And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow And got a calf in that same noble feat Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. Enter [Leonato's] brother [Antonio], Hero, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, [the ladies wearing masks]. Claud. For this I owe you. Here comes other reckonings. Which is the lady I must seize upon? Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why then, she's mine. Sweet, let me see your face. Leon. No, that you shall not till you take her hand Before this friar and swear to marry her. Claud. Give me your hand before this holy friar. I am your husband if you like of me. Hero. And when I liv'd I was your other wife; [Unmasks.] And when you lov'd you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero! Hero. Nothing certainer. One Hero died defil'd; but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv'd. Friar. All this amazement can I qualify, When, after that the holy rites are ended, I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death. Meantime let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently. Bene. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice? Beat. [unmasks] I answer to that name. What is your will? Bene. Do not you love me? Beat. Why, no; no more than reason. Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the Prince, and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did. Beat. Do not you love me? Bene. Troth, no; no more than reason. Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula Are much deceiv'd; for they did swear you did. Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me. Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. Bene. 'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me? Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. Claud. And I'll be sworn upon't that he loves her; For here's a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion'd to Beatrice. Hero. And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stol'n from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick. Bene. A miracle! Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. Beat. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.] Beat. I'll tell thee what, Prince: a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No. If a man will be beaten with brains, 'a shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruis'd, and love my cousin. Claud. I had well hop'd thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgell'd thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer, which out of question thou wilt be if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee. Bene. Come, come, we are friends. Let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives' heels. Leon. We'll have dancing afterward. Bene. First, of my word! Therefore play, music. Prince, thou art sad. Get thee a wife, get thee a wife! There is no staff more reverent than one tipp'd with horn. Enter Messenger. Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina. Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow. I'll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers! Dance. [Exeunt.] THE END <> 1605 THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, MOOR OF VENICE by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae OTHELLO, the Moor, general of the Venetian forces DESDEMONA, his wife IAGO, ensign to Othello EMILIA, his wife, lady-in-waiting to Desdemona CASSIO, lieutenant to Othello THE DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, Venetian Senator, father of Desdemona GRATIANO, nobleman of Venice, brother of Brabantio LODOVICO, nobleman of Venice, kinsman of Brabantio RODERIGO, rejected suitor of Desdemona BIANCA, mistress of Cassio MONTANO, a Cypriot official A Clown in service to Othello Senators, Sailors, Messengers, Officers, Gentlemen, Musicians, and Attendants <> SCENE: Venice and Cyprus ACT I. SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Roderigo and Iago. RODERIGO. Tush, never tell me! I take it much unkindly That thou, Iago, who hast had my purse As if the strings were thine, shouldst know of this. IAGO. 'Sblood, but you will not hear me. If ever I did dream of such a matter, Abhor me. RODERIGO. Thou told'st me thou didst hold him in thy hate. IAGO. Despise me, if I do not. Three great ones of the city, In personal suit to make me his lieutenant, Off-capp'd to him; and, by the faith of man, I know my price, I am worth no worse a place. But he, as loving his own pride and purposes, Evades them, with a bumbast circumstance Horribly stuff'd with epithets of war, And, in conclusion, Nonsuits my mediators; for, "Certes," says he, "I have already chose my officer." And what was he? Forsooth, a great arithmetician, One Michael Cassio, a Florentine (A fellow almost damn'd in a fair wife) That never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows More than a spinster; unless the bookish theoric, Wherein the toged consuls can propose As masterly as he. Mere prattle without practice Is all his soldiership. But he, sir, had the election; And I, of whom his eyes had seen the proof At Rhodes, at Cyprus, and on other grounds Christian and heathen, must be belee'd and calm'd By debitor and creditor. This counter-caster, He, in good time, must his lieutenant be, And I- God bless the mark!- his Moorship's ancient. RODERIGO. By heaven, I rather would have been his hangman. IAGO. Why, there's no remedy. 'Tis the curse of service, Preferment goes by letter and affection, And not by old gradation, where each second Stood heir to the first. Now, sir, be judge yourself Whether I in any just term am affined To love the Moor. RODERIGO. I would not follow him then. IAGO. O, sir, content you. I follow him to serve my turn upon him: We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly follow'd. You shall mark Many a duteous and knee-crooking knave, That doting on his own obsequious bondage Wears out his time, much like his master's ass, For nought but provender, and when he's old, cashier'd. Whip me such honest knaves. Others there are Who, trimm'd in forms and visages of duty, Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves, And throwing but shows of service on their lords Do well thrive by them; and when they have lined their coats Do themselves homage. These fellows have some soul, And such a one do I profess myself. For, sir, It is as sure as you are Roderigo, Were I the Moor, I would not be Iago. In following him, I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so, for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In complement extern, 'tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at: I am not what I am. RODERIGO. What a full fortune does the thick-lips owe, If he can carry't thus! IAGO. Call up her father, Rouse him, make after him, poison his delight, Proclaim him in the streets, incense her kinsmen, And, though he in a fertile climate dwell, Plague him with flies. Though that his joy be joy, Yet throw such changes of vexation on't As it may lose some color. RODERIGO. Here is her father's house; I'll call aloud. IAGO. Do, with like timorous accent and dire yell As when, by night and negligence, the fire Is spied in populous cities. RODERIGO. What, ho, Brabantio! Signior Brabantio, ho! IAGO. Awake! What, ho, Brabantio! Thieves! Thieves! Thieves! Look to your house, your daughter, and your bags! Thieves! Thieves! Brabantio appears above, at a window. BRABANTIO. What is the reason of this terrible summons? What is the matter there? RODERIGO. Signior, is all your family within? IAGO. Are your doors lock'd? BRABANTIO. Why? Wherefore ask you this? IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you're robb'd! For shame, put on your gown; Your heart is burst, you have lost half your soul; Even now, now, very now, an old black ram Is tupping your white ewe. Arise, arise! Awake the snorting citizens with the bell, Or else the devil will make a grandsire of you. Arise, I say! BRABANTIO. What, have you lost your wits? RODERIGO. Most reverend signior, do you know my voice? BRABANTIO. Not I. What are you? RODERIGO. My name is Roderigo. BRABANTIO. The worser welcome. I have charged thee not to haunt about my doors. In honest plainness thou hast heard me say My daughter is not for thee; and now, in madness, Being full of supper and distempering draughts, Upon malicious bravery, dost thou come To start my quiet. RODERIGO. Sir, sir, sir- BRABANTIO. But thou must needs be sure My spirit and my place have in them power To make this bitter to thee. RODERIGO. Patience, good sir. BRABANTIO. What tell'st thou me of robbing? This is Venice; My house is not a grange. RODERIGO. Most grave Brabantio, In simple and pure soul I come to you. IAGO. 'Zounds, sir, you are one of those that will not serve God, if the devil bid you. Because we come to do you service and you think we are ruffians, you'll have your daughter covered with a Barbary horse; you'll have your nephews neigh to you; you'll have coursers for cousins, and gennets for germans. BRABANTIO. What profane wretch art thou? IAGO. I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs. BRABANTIO. Thou are a villain. IAGO. You are- a senator. BRABANTIO. This thou shalt answer; I know thee, Roderigo. RODERIGO. Sir, I will answer anything. But, I beseech you, If't be your pleasure and most wise consent, As partly I find it is, that your fair daughter, At this odd-even and dull watch o' the night, Transported with no worse nor better guard But with a knave of common hire, a gondolier, To the gross clasps of a lascivious Moor- If this be known to you, and your allowance, We then have done you bold and saucy wrongs; But if you know not this, my manners tell me We have your wrong rebuke. Do not believe That, from the sense of all civility, I thus would play and trifle with your reverence. Your daughter, if you have not given her leave, I say again, hath made a gross revolt, Tying her duty, beauty, wit, and fortunes In an extravagant and wheeling stranger Of here and everywhere. Straight satisfy yourself: If she be in her chamber or your house, Let loose on me the justice of the state For thus deluding you. BRABANTIO. Strike on the tinder, ho! Give me a taper! Call up all my people! This accident is not unlike my dream; Belief of it oppresses me already. Light, I say, light! Exit above. IAGO. Farewell, for I must leave you. It seems not meet, nor wholesome to my place, To be produced- as, if I stay, I shall- Against the Moor; for I do know, the state, However this may gall him with some check, Cannot with safety cast him, for he's embark'd With such loud reason to the Cyprus wars, Which even now stands in act, that, for their souls, Another of his fathom they have none To lead their business; in which regard, Though I do hate him as I do hell pains, Yet for necessity of present life, I must show out a flag and sign of love, Which is indeed but sign. That you shall surely find him, Lead to the Sagittary the raised search, And there will I be with him. So farewell. Exit. Enter, below, Brabantio, in his nightgown, and Servants with torches. BRABANTIO. It is too true an evil: gone she is, And what's to come of my despised time Is nought but bitterness. Now, Roderigo, Where didst thou see her? O unhappy girl! With the Moor, say'st thou? Who would be a father! How didst thou know 'twas she? O, she deceives me Past thought! What said she to you? Get more tapers. Raise all my kindred. Are they married, think you? RODERIGO. Truly, I think they are. BRABANTIO. O heaven! How got she out? O treason of the blood! Fathers, from hence trust not your daughters' minds By what you see them act. Is there not charms By which the property of youth and maidhood May be abused? Have you not read, Roderigo, Of some such thing? RODERIGO. Yes, sir, I have indeed. BRABANTIO. Call up my brother. O, would you had had her! Some one way, some another. Do you know Where we may apprehend her and the Moor? RODERIGO. I think I can discover him, if you please To get good guard and go along with me. BRABANTIO. Pray you, lead on. At every house I'll call; I may command at most. Get weapons, ho! And raise some special officers of night. On, good Roderigo, I'll deserve your pains. Exeunt. SCENE II. Another street. Enter Othello, Iago, and Attendants with torches. IAGO. Though in the trade of war I have slain men, Yet do I hold it very stuff o' the conscience To do no contrived murther. I lack iniquity Sometimes to do me service. Nine or ten times I had thought to have yerk'd him here under the ribs. OTHELLO. 'Tis better as it is. IAGO. Nay, but he prated And spoke such scurvy and provoking terms Against your honor That, with the little godliness I have, I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are you fast married? Be assured of this, That the magnifico is much beloved, And hath in his effect a voice potential As double as the Duke's. He will divorce you, Or put upon you what restraint and grievance The law, with all his might to enforce it on, Will give him cable. OTHELLO. Let him do his spite. My services, which I have done the signiory, Shall out-tongue his complaints. 'Tis yet to know- Which, when I know that boasting is an honor, I shall promulgate- I fetch my life and being From men of royal siege, and my demerits May speak unbonneted to as proud a fortune As this that I have reach'd. For know, Iago, But that I love the gentle Desdemona, I would not my unhoused free condition Put into circumscription and confine For the sea's worth. But, look! What lights come yond? IAGO. Those are the raised father and his friends. You were best go in. OTHELLO. Not I; I must be found. My parts, my title, and my perfect soul Shall manifest me rightly. Is it they? IAGO. By Janus, I think no. Enter Cassio and certain Officers with torches. OTHELLO. The servants of the Duke? And my lieutenant? The goodness of the night upon you, friends! What is the news? CASSIO. The Duke does greet you, general, And he requires your haste-post-haste appearance, Even on the instant. OTHELLO. What is the matter, think you? CASSIO. Something from Cyprus, as I may divine; It is a business of some heat. The galleys Have sent a dozen sequent messengers This very night at one another's heels; And many of the consuls, raised and met, Are at the Duke's already. You have been hotly call'd for, When, being not at your lodging to be found, The Senate hath sent about three several quests To search you out. OTHELLO. 'Tis well I am found by you. I will but spend a word here in the house And go with you. Exit. CASSIO. Ancient, what makes he here? IAGO. Faith, he tonight hath boarded a land carack; If it prove lawful prize, he's made forever. CASSIO. I do not understand. IAGO. He's married. CASSIO. To who? Re-enter Othello. IAGO. Marry, to- Come, captain, will you go? OTHELLO. Have with you. CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you. IAGO. It is Brabantio. General, be advised, He comes to bad intent. Enter Brabantio, Roderigo, and Officers with torches and weapons. OTHELLO. Holla! Stand there! RODERIGO. Signior, it is the Moor. BRABANTIO. Down with him, thief! They draw on both sides. IAGO. You, Roderigo! Come, sir, I am for you. OTHELLO. Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. Good signior, you shall more command with years Than with your weapons. BRABANTIO. O thou foul thief, where hast thou stow'd my daughter? Damn'd as thou art, thou hast enchanted her, For I'll refer me to all things of sense, If she in chains of magic were not bound, Whether a maid so tender, fair, and happy, So opposite to marriage that she shunn'd The wealthy, curled darlings of our nation, Would ever have, to incur a general mock, Run from her guardage to the sooty bosom Of such a thing as thou- to fear, not to delight. Judge me the world, if 'tis not gross in sense That thou hast practiced on her with foul charms, Abused her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weaken motion. I'll have't disputed on; 'Tis probable, and palpable to thinking. I therefore apprehend and do attach thee For an abuser of the world, a practicer Of arts inhibited and out of warrant. Lay hold upon him. If he do resist, Subdue him at his peril. OTHELLO. Hold your hands, Both you of my inclining and the rest. Were it my cue to fight, I should have known it Without a prompter. Where will you that I go To answer this your charge? BRABANTIO. To prison, till fit time Of law and course of direct session Call thee to answer. OTHELLO. What if I do obey? How may the Duke be therewith satisfied, Whose messengers are here about my side, Upon some present business of the state To bring me to him? FIRST OFFICER. 'Tis true, most worthy signior; The Duke's in council, and your noble self, I am sure, is sent for. BRABANTIO. How? The Duke in council? In this time of the night? Bring him away; Mine's not an idle cause. The Duke himself, Or any of my brothers of the state, Cannot but feel this wrong as 'twere their own; For if such actions may have passage free, Bond slaves and pagans shall our statesmen be. Exeunt. SCENE III. A council chamber. The Duke and Senators sitting at a table; Officers attending. DUKE. There is no composition in these news That gives them credit. FIRST SENATOR. Indeed they are disproportion'd; My letters say a hundred and seven galleys. DUKE. And mine, a hundred and forty. SECOND SENATOR. And mine, two hundred. But though they jump not on a just account- As in these cases, where the aim reports, 'Tis oft with difference- yet do they all confirm A Turkish fleet, and bearing up to Cyprus. DUKE. Nay, it is possible enough to judgement. I do not so secure me in the error, But the main article I do approve In fearful sense. SAILOR. [Within.] What, ho! What, ho! What, ho! FIRST OFFICER. A messenger from the galleys. Enter Sailor. DUKE. Now, what's the business? SAILOR. The Turkish preparation makes for Rhodes, So was I bid report here to the state By Signior Angelo. DUKE. How say you by this change? FIRST SENATOR. This cannot be, By no assay of reason; 'tis a pageant To keep us in false gaze. When we consider The importancy of Cyprus to the Turk, And let ourselves again but understand That as it more concerns the Turk than Rhodes, So may he with more facile question bear it, For that it stands not in such warlike brace, But altogether lacks the abilities That Rhodes is dress'd in. If we make thought of this, We must not think the Turk is so unskillful To leave that latest which concerns him first, Neglecting an attempt of ease and gain, To wake and wage a danger profitless. DUKE. Nay, in all confidence, he's not for Rhodes. FIRST OFFICER. Here is more news. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. The Ottomites, reverend and gracious, Steering with due course toward the isle of Rhodes, Have there injointed them with an after fleet. FIRST SENATOR. Ay, so I thought. How many, as you guess? MESSENGER. Of thirty sail; and now they do re-stem Their backward course, bearing with frank appearance Their purposes toward Cyprus. Signior Montano, Your trusty and most valiant servitor, With his free duty recommends you thus, And prays you to believe him. DUKE. 'Tis certain then for Cyprus. Marcus Luccicos, is not he in town? FIRST SENATOR. He's now in Florence. DUKE. Write from us to him, post-post-haste dispatch. FIRST SENATOR. Here comes Brabantio and the valiant Moor. Enter Brabantio, Othello, Iago, Roderigo, and Officers. DUKE. Valiant Othello, we must straight employ you Against the general enemy Ottoman. [To Brabantio.] I did not see you; welcome, gentle signior; We lack'd your counsel and your help tonight. BRABANTIO. So did I yours. Good your Grace, pardon me: Neither my place nor aught I heard of business Hath raised me from my bed, nor doth the general care Take hold on me; for my particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself. DUKE. Why, what's the matter? BRABANTIO. My daughter! O, my daughter! ALL. Dead? BRABANTIO. Ay, to me. She is abused, stol'n from me and corrupted By spells and medicines bought of mountebanks; For nature so preposterously to err, Being not deficient, blind, or lame of sense, Sans witchcraft could not. DUKE. Whoe'er he be that in this foul proceeding Hath thus beguiled your daughter of herself And you of her, the bloody book of law You shall yourself read in the bitter letter After your own sense, yea, though our proper son Stood in your action. BRABANTIO. Humbly I thank your Grace. Here is the man, this Moor, whom now, it seems, Your special mandate for the state affairs Hath hither brought. ALL. We are very sorry for't. DUKE. [To Othello.] What in your own part can you say to this? BRABANTIO. Nothing, but this is so. OTHELLO. Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors, My very noble and approved good masters, That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter, It is most true; true, I have married her; The very head and front of my offending Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech, And little blest with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used Their dearest action in the tented field, And little of this great world can I speak, More than pertains to feats of broil and battle; And therefore little shall I grace my cause In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver Of my whole course of love: what drugs, what charms, What conjuration, and what mighty magic- For such proceeding I am charged withal- I won his daughter. BRABANTIO. A maiden never bold, Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion Blush'd at herself; and she- in spite of nature, Of years, of country, credit, everything- To fall in love with what she fear'd to look on! It is judgement maim'd and most imperfect, That will confess perfection so could err Against all rules of nature, and must be driven To find out practices of cunning hell Why this should be. I therefore vouch again That with some mixtures powerful o'er the blood, Or with some dram conjured to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE. To vouch this is no proof, Without more certain and more overt test Than these thin habits and poor likelihoods Of modern seeming do prefer against him. FIRST SENATOR. But, Othello, speak. Did you by indirect and forced courses Subdue and poison this young maid's affections? Or came it by request, and such fair question As soul to soul affordeth? OTHELLO. I do beseech you, Send for the lady to the Sagittary, And let her speak of me before her father. If you do find me foul in her report, The trust, the office I do hold of you, Not only take away, but let your sentence Even fall upon my life. DUKE. Fetch Desdemona hither. OTHELLO. Ancient, conduct them; you best know the place. Exeunt Iago and Attendants. And till she come, as truly as to heaven I do confess the vices of my blood, So justly to your grave ears I'll present How I did thrive in this fair lady's love And she in mine. DUKE. Say it, Othello. OTHELLO. Her father loved me, oft invited me, Still question'd me the story of my life From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd. I ran it through, even from my boyish days To the very moment that he bade me tell it: Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach, Of being taken by the insolent foe And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence And portance in my travels' history; Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle, Rough quarries, rocks, and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak- such was the process- And of the Cannibals that each other eat, The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence, Which ever as she could with haste dispatch, She'ld come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up my discourse; which I observing, Took once a pliant hour, and found good means To draw from her a prayer of earnest heart That I would all my pilgrimage dilate, Whereof by parcels she had something heard, But not intentively. I did consent, And often did beguile her of her tears When I did speak of some distressful stroke That my youth suffer'd. My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs; She swore, in faith, 'twas strange, 'twas passing strange; 'Twas pitiful, 'twas wondrous pitiful. She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd That heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I loved her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have used. Here comes the lady; let her witness it. Enter Desdemona, Iago, and Attendants. DUKE. I think this tale would win my daughter too. Good Brabantio, Take up this mangled matter at the best: Men do their broken weapons rather use Than their bare hands. BRABANTIO. I pray you, hear her speak. If she confess that she was half the wooer, Destruction on my head, if my bad blame Light on the man! Come hither, gentle mistress. Do you perceive in all this noble company Where most you owe obedience? DESDEMONA. My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty. To you I am bound for life and education; My life and education both do learn me How to respect you; you are the lord of duty, I am hitherto your daughter. But here's my husband, And so much duty as my mother show'd To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor, my lord. BRABANTIO. God be with you! I have done. Please it your Grace, on to the state affairs; I had rather to adopt a child than get it. Come hither, Moor. I here do give thee that with all my heart Which, but thou hast already, with all my heart I would keep from thee. For your sake, jewel, I am glad at soul I have no other child; For thy escape would teach me tyranny, To hang clogs on them. I have done, my lord. DUKE. Let me speak like yourself, and lay a sentence Which, as a grise or step, may help these lovers Into your favor. When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended. To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on. What cannot be preserved when Fortune takes, Patience her injury a mockery makes. The robb'd that smiles steals something from the thief; He robs himself that spends a bootless grief. BRABANTIO. So let the Turk of Cyprus us beguile; We lose it not so long as we can smile. He bears the sentence well, that nothing bears But the free comfort which from thence he hears; But he bears both the sentence and the sorrow That, to pay grief, must of poor patience borrow. These sentences, to sugar or to gall, Being strong on both sides, are equivocal. But words are words; I never yet did hear That the bruised heart was pierced through the ear. I humbly beseech you, proceed to the affairs of state. DUKE. The Turk with a most mighty preparation makes for Cyprus. Othello, the fortitude of the place is best known to you; and though we have there a substitute of most allowed sufficiency, yet opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects, throws a more safer voice on you. You must therefore be content to slubber the gloss of your new fortunes with this more stubborn and boisterous expedition. OTHELLO. The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down. I do agnize A natural and prompt alacrity I find in hardness and do undertake These present wars against the Ottomites. Most humbly therefore bending to your state, I crave fit disposition for my wife, Due reference of place and exhibition, With such accommodation and besort As levels with her breeding. DUKE. If you please, Be't at her father's. BRABANTIO. I'll not have it so. OTHELLO. Nor I. DESDEMONA. Nor I. I would not there reside To put my father in impatient thoughts By being in his eye. Most gracious Duke, To my unfolding lend your prosperous ear, And let me find a charter in your voice To assist my simpleness. DUKE. What would you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. That I did love the Moor to live with him, My downright violence and storm of fortunes May trumpet to the world. My heart's subdued Even to the very quality of my lord. I saw Othello's visage in his mind, And to his honors and his valiant parts Did I my soul and fortunes consecrate. So that, dear lords, if I be left behind, A moth of peace, and he go to the war, The rites for which I love him are bereft me, And I a heavy interim shall support By his dear absence. Let me go with him. OTHELLO. Let her have your voices. Vouch with me, heaven, I therefore beg it not To please the palate of my appetite, Nor to comply with heat- the young affects In me defunct- and proper satisfaction; But to be free and bounteous to her mind. And heaven defend your good souls, that you think I will your serious and great business scant For she is with me. No, when light-wing'd toys Of feather'd Cupid seel with wanton dullness My speculative and officed instruments, That my disports corrupt and taint my business, Let housewives make a skillet of my helm, And all indign and base adversities Make head against my estimation! DUKE. Be it as you shall privately determine, Either for her stay or going. The affair cries haste, And speed must answer't: you must hence tonight. DESDEMONA. Tonight, my lord? DUKE. This night. OTHELLO. With all my heart. DUKE. At nine i' the morning here we'll meet again. Othello, leave some officer behind, And he shall our commission bring to you, With such things else of quality and respect As doth import you. OTHELLO. So please your Grace, my ancient; A man he is of honesty and trust. To his conveyance I assign my wife, With what else needful your good Grace shall think To be sent after me. DUKE. Let it be so. Good night to everyone. [To Brabantio.] And, noble signior, If virtue no delighted beauty lack, Your son-in-law is far more fair than black. FIRST SENATOR. Adieu, brave Moor, use Desdemona well. BRABANTIO. Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see; She has deceived her father, and may thee. Exeunt Duke, Senators, and Officers. OTHELLO. My life upon her faith! Honest Iago, My Desdemona must I leave to thee. I prithee, let thy wife attend on her, And bring them after in the best advantage. Come, Desdemona, I have but an hour Of love, of worldly matters and direction, To spend with thee. We must obey the time. Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. RODERIGO. Iago! IAGO. What say'st thou, noble heart? RODERIGO. What will I do, thinkest thou? IAGO. Why, go to bed and sleep. RODERIGO. I will incontinently drown myself. IAGO. If thou dost, I shall never love thee after. Why, thou silly gentleman! RODERIGO. It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician. IAGO. O villainous! I have looked upon the world for four times seven years, and since I could distinguish betwixt a benefit and an injury, I never found man that knew how to love himself. Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of a guinea hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. RODERIGO. What should I do? I confess it is my shame to be so fond, but it is not in my virtue to amend it. IAGO. Virtue? a fig! 'Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry, why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. If the balance of our lives had not one scale of reason to poise another of sensuality, the blood and baseness of our natures would conduct us to most preposterous conclusions. But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts; whereof I take this, that you call love, to be a sect or scion. RODERIGO. It cannot be. IAGO. It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies. I have professed me thy friend, and I confess me knit to thy deserving with cables of perdurable toughness; I could never better stead thee than now. Put money in thy purse; follow thou the wars; defeat thy favor with an usurped beard. I say, put money in thy purse. It cannot be that Desdemona should long continue her love to the Moor- put money in thy purse- nor he his to her. It was a violent commencement, and thou shalt see an answerable sequestration- put but money in thy purse. These Moors are changeable in their wills- fill thy purse with money. The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as acerb as the coloquintida. She must change for youth; when she is sated with his body, she will find the error of her choice. She must have change, she must; therefore put money in thy purse. If thou wilt needs damn thyself, do it a more delicate way than drowning. Make all the money thou canst. If sanctimony and a frail vow betwixt an erring barbarian and a supersubtle Venetian be not too hard for my wits and all the tribe of hell, thou shalt enjoy her- therefore make money. A pox of drowning thyself! It is clean out of the way. Seek thou rather to be hanged in compassing thy joy than to be drowned and go without her. RODERIGO. Wilt thou be fast to my hopes, if I depend on the issue? IAGO. Thou art sure of me- go, make money. I have told thee often, and I retell thee again and again, I hate the Moor. My cause is hearted; thine hath no less reason. Let us be conjunctive in our revenge against him. If thou canst cuckold him, thou dost thyself a pleasure, me a sport. There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered. Traverse, go, provide thy money. We will have more of this tomorrow. Adieu. RODERIGO. Where shall we meet i' the morning? IAGO. At my lodging. RODERIGO. I'll be with thee betimes. IAGO. Go to, farewell. Do you hear, Roderigo? RODERIGO. What say you? IAGO. No more of drowning, do you hear? RODERIGO. I am changed; I'll go sell all my land. Exit. IAGO. Thus do I ever make my fool my purse; For I mine own gain'd knowledge should profane If I would time expend with such a snipe But for my sport and profit. I hate the Moor, And it is thought abroad that 'twixt my sheets He has done my office. I know not if't be true, But I for mere suspicion in that kind Will do as if for surety. He holds me well, The better shall my purpose work on him. Cassio's a proper man. Let me see now- To get his place, and to plume up my will In double knavery- How, how?- Let's see- After some time, to abuse Othello's ear That he is too familiar with his wife. He hath a person and a smooth dispose To be suspected- framed to make women false. The Moor is of a free and open nature, That thinks men honest that but seem to be so, And will as tenderly be led by the nose As asses are. I have't. It is engender'd. Hell and night Must bring this monstrous birth to the world's light. Exit. <> ACT II. SCENE I. A seaport in Cyprus. An open place near the quay. Enter Montano and two Gentlemen. MONTANO. What from the cape can you discern at sea? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nothing at all. It is a high-wrought flood; I cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main, Descry a sail. MONTANO. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land; A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements. If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea, What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them, Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this? SECOND GENTLEMAN. A segregation of the Turkish fleet. For do but stand upon the foaming shore, The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds; The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane, Seems to cast water on the burning bear, And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole. I never did like molestation view On the enchafed flood. MONTANO. If that the Turkish fleet Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd; It is impossible to bear it out. Enter a third Gentleman. THIRD GENTLEMAN. News, lads! Our wars are done. The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks, That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance On most part of their fleet. MONTANO. How? Is this true? THIRD GENTLEMAN. The ship is here put in, A Veronesa. Michael Cassio, Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello, Is come on shore; the Moor himself at sea, And is in full commission here for Cyprus. MONTANO. I am glad on't; 'tis a worthy governor. THIRD GENTLEMAN. But this same Cassio, though he speak of comfort Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted With foul and violent tempest. MONTANO. Pray heavens he be, For I have served him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho! As well to see the vessel that's come in As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello, Even till we make the main and the aerial blue An indistinct regard. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Come, let's do so, For every minute is expectancy Of more arrivance. Enter Cassio. CASSIO. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle, That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens Give him defense against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. MONTANO. I she well shipp'd? CASSIO. His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot Of very expert and approved allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. A cry within, "A sail, a sail, a sail!" Enter a fourth Gentleman. What noise? FOURTH GENTLEMAN. The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea Stand ranks of people, and they cry, "A sail!" CASSIO. My hopes do shape him for the governor. Guns heard. SECOND GENTLEMAN. They do discharge their shot of courtesy- Our friends at least. CASSIO. I pray you, sir, go forth, And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I shall. Exit. MONTANO. But, good lieutenant, is your general wived? CASSIO. Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid That paragons description and wild fame, One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens, And in the essential vesture of creation Does tire the ingener. Re-enter second Gentleman. How now! who has put in? SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. CASSIO. He has had most favorable and happy speed: Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds, The gutter'd rocks, and congregated sands, Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel, As having sense of beauty, do omit Their mortal natures, letting go safely by The divine Desdemona. MONTANO. What is she? CASSIO. She that I spake of, our great captain's captain, Left in the conduct of the bold Iago, Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard, And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath, That he may bless this bay with his tall ship, Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms, Give renew'd fire to our extincted spirits, And bring all Cyprus comfort. Enter Desdemona, Emilia Iago, Roderigo, and Attendants. O, behold, The riches of the ship is come on shore! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hall to thee, lady! And the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee round! DESDEMONA. I thank you, valiant Cassio. What tidings can you tell me of my lord? CASSIO. He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught But that he's well and will be shortly here. DESDEMONA. O, but I fear- How lost you company? CASSIO. The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship- But, hark! a sail. A cry within, "A sail, a sail!" Guns heard. SECOND GENTLEMAN. They give their greeting to the citadel; This likewise is a friend. CASSIO. See for the news. Exit Gentleman. Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia.] Welcome, mistress. Let it not gall your patience, good Iago, That I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding That gives me this bold show of courtesy. Kisses her. IAGO. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, You'ld have enough. DESDEMONA. Alas, she has no speech. IAGO. In faith, too much; I find it still when I have list to sleep. Marry, before your ladyship I grant, She puts her tongue a little in her heart And chides with thinking. EMILIA. You have little cause to say so. IAGO. Come on, come on. You are pictures out of doors, Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens, Saints in your injuries, devils being offended, Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds. DESDEMONA. O, fie upon thee, slanderer! IAGO. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk: You rise to play, and go to bed to work. EMILIA. You shall not write my praise. IAGO. No, let me not. DESDEMONA. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst praise me? IAGO. O gentle lady, do not put me to't, For I am nothing if not critical. DESDEMONA. Come on, assay- There's one gone to the harbor? IAGO. Ay, madam. DESDEMONA. I am not merry, but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise. Come, how wouldst thou praise me? IAGO. I am about it, but indeed my invention Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze; It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse labors, And thus she is deliver'd. If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit, The one's for use, the other useth it. DESDEMONA. Well praised! How if she be black and witty? IAGO. If she be black, and thereto have a wit, She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit. DESDEMONA. Worse and worse. EMILIA. How if fair and foolish? IAGO. She never yet was foolish that was fair, For even her folly help'd her to an heir. DESDEMONA. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i' the alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that's foul and foolish? IAGO. There's none so foul and foolish thereunto, But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do. DESDEMONA. O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But what praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one that in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of very malice itself? IAGO. She that was ever fair and never proud, Had tongue at will and yet was never loud, Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay, Fled from her wish and yet said, "Now I may"; She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh, Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly; She that in wisdom never was so frail To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail; She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind, See suitors following and not look behind; She was a wight, if ever such wight were- DESDEMONA. To do what? IAGO. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer. DESDEMONA. O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of him, Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? Is he not a most profane and liberal counselor? CASSIO. He speaks home, madam. You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar. IAGO. [Aside.] He takes her by the palm; ay, well said, whisper. With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own courtship. You say true; 'tis so, indeed. If such tricks as these strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you had not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are most apt to play the sir in. Very good. Well kissed! an excellent courtesy! 'tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your lips? Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! [Trumpet within.] The Moor! I know his trumpet. CASSIO. 'Tis truly so. DESDEMONA. Let's meet him and receive him. CASSIO. Lo, where he comes! Enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. O my fair warrior! DESDEMONA. My dear Othello! OTHELLO. It gives me wonder great as my content To see you here before me. O my soul's joy! If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death! And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas Olympus-high, and duck again as low As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die, 'Twere now to be most happy; for I fear My soul hath her content so absolute That not another comfort like to this Succeeds in unknown fate. DESDEMONA. The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase, Even as our days do grow! OTHELLO. Amen to that, sweet powers! I cannot speak enough of this content; It stops me here; it is too much of joy. And this, and this, the greatest discords be Kisses her. That e'er our hearts shall make! IAGO. [Aside.] O, you are well tuned now! But I'll set down the pegs that make this music, As honest as I am. OTHELLO. Come, let us to the castle. News, friends: our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd. How does my old acquaintance of this isle? Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus; I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet, I prattle out of fashion, and I dote In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago, Go to the bay and disembark my coffers. Bring thou the master to the citadel; He is a good one, and his worthiness Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona, Once more well met at Cyprus. Exeunt all but Iago and Roderigo. IAGO. Do thou meet me presently at the harbor. Come hither. If thou be'st valiant- as they say base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them- list me. The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard. First, I must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him. RODERIGO. With him? Why, 'tis not possible. IAGO. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark me with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging and telling her fantastical lies. And will she love him still for prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be fed; and what delight shall she have to look on the devil? When the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should be, again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite, loveliness in favor, sympathy in years, manners, and beauties- all which the Moor is defective in. Now, for want of these required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find itself abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the Moor; very nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some second choice. Now sir, this granted- as it is a most pregnant and unforced position- who stands so eminently in the degree of this fortune as Cassio does? A knave very voluble; no further conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and humane seeming, for the better compass of his salt and most hidden loose affection? Why, none, why, none- a slipper and subtle knave, a finder out of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present itself- a devilish knave! Besides, the knave is handsome, young, and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green minds look after- a pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath found him already. RODERIGO. I cannot believe that in her; she's full of most blest condition. IAGO. Blest fig's-end! The wine she drinks is made of grapes. If she had been blest, she would never have loved the Moor. Blest pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his hand? Didst not mark that? RODERIGO. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy. IAGO. Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue to the history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together. Villainous thoughts, Roderigo! When these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at hand comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate conclusion. Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from Venice. Watch you tonight; for the command, I'll lay't upon you. Cassio knows you not. I'll not be far from you. Do you find some occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or tainting his discipline, or from what other course you please, which the time shall more favorably minister. RODERIGO. Well. IAGO. Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may strike at you. Provoke him, that he may; for even out of that will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification shall come into no true taste again but by the displanting of Cassio. So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the means I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment most profitably removed, without the which there were no expectation of our prosperity. RODERIGO. I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity. IAGO. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel. I must fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell. RODERIGO. Adieu. Exit. IAGO. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it; That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit. The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not, Is of a constant, loving, noble nature, And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too, Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure I stand accountant for as great a sin, But partly led to diet my revenge, For that I do suspect the lusty Moor Hath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof Doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards, And nothing can or shall content my soul Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife. Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor At least into a jealousy so strong That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do, If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trace For his quick hunting, stand the putting on, I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip, Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb (For I fear Cassio with my nightcap too), Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me For making him egregiously an ass And practicing upon his peace and quiet Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused: Knavery's plain face is never seen till used. Exit. SCENE II. A street. Enter a Herald with a proclamation; people following. HERALD. It is Othello's pleasure, our noble and valiant general, that upon certain tidings now arrived, importing the mere perdition of the Turkish fleet, every man put himself into triumph; some to dance, some to make bonfires, each man to what sport and revels his addiction leads him; for besides these beneficial news, it is the celebration of his nuptial. So much was his pleasure should be proclaimed. All offices are open, and there is full liberty of feasting from this present hour of five till the bell have told eleven. Heaven bless the isle of Cyprus and our noble general Othello! Exeunt. SCENE III. A hall in the castle. Enter Othello, Desdemona, Cassio, and Attendants. OTHELLO. Good Michael, look you to the guard tonight. Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion. CASSIO. Iago hath direction what to do; But notwithstanding with my personal eye Will I look to't. OTHELLO. Iago is most honest. Michael, good night. Tomorrow with your earliest Let me have speech with you. Come, my dear love, The purchase made, the fruits are to ensue; That profit's yet to come 'tween me and you. Good night. Exeunt Othello, Desdemona, and Attendants. Enter Iago. CASSIO. Welcome, Iago; we must to the watch. IAGO. Not this hour, lieutenant; 'tis not yet ten o' the clock. Our general cast us thus early for the love of his Desdemona; who let us not therefore blame. He hath not yet made wanton the night with her, and she is sport for Jove. CASSIO. She's a most exquisite lady. IAGO. And, I'll warrant her, full of game. CASSIO. Indeed she's a most fresh and delicate creature. IAGO. What an eye she has! Methinks it sounds a parley to provocation. CASSIO. An inviting eye; and yet methinks right modest. IAGO. And when she speaks, is it not an alarum to love? CASSIO. She is indeed perfection. IAGO. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stope of wine, and here without are a brace of Cyprus gallants that would fain have a measure to the health of black Othello. CASSIO. Not tonight, good Iago. I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking. I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment. IAGO. O, they are our friends! But one cup; I'll drink for you. CASSIO. I have drunk but one cup tonight, and that was craftily qualified too, and behold what innovation it makes here. I am unfortunate in the infirmity, and dare not task my weakness with any more. IAGO. What, man! 'Tis a night of revels, the gallants desire it. CASSIO. Where are they? IAGO. Here at the door; I pray you, call them in. CASSIO. I'll do't, but it dislikes me. Exit. IAGO. If I can fasten but one cup upon him, With that which he hath drunk tonight already, He'll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress' dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn'd almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight caroused Potations pottle-deep; and he's to watch. Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honors in a wary distance, The very elements of this warlike isle, Have I tonight fluster'd with flowing cups, And they watch too. Now, 'mongst this flock of drunkards, Am I to put our Cassio in some action That may offend the isle. But here they come. If consequence do but approve my dream, My boat sails freely, both with wind and stream. Re-enter Cassio; with him Montano and Gentlemen; Servants following with wine. CASSIO. 'Fore God, they have given me a rouse already. MONTANO. Good faith, a little one; not past a pint, as I am a soldier. IAGO. Some wine, ho! [Sings.] "And let me the canakin clink, clink; And let me the canakin clink. A soldier's a man; O, man's life's but a span; Why then let a soldier drink." Some wine, boys! CASSIO. 'Fore God, an excellent song. IAGO. I learned it in England, where indeed they are most potent in potting. Your Dane, your German, and your swag-bellied Hollander- Drink, ho!- are nothing to your English. CASSIO. Is your Englishman so expert in his drinking? IAGO. Why, he drinks you with facility your Dane dead drunk; he sweats not to overthrow your Almain; he gives your Hollander a vomit ere the next pottle can be filled. CASSIO. To the health of our general! MONTANO. I am for it, lieutenant, and I'll do you justice. IAGO. O sweet England! [Sings.] "King Stephen was and-a worthy peer, His breeches cost him but a crown; He held them sixpence all too dear, With that he call'd the tailor lown. "He was a wight of high renown, And thou art but of low degree. 'Tis pride that pulls the country down; Then take thine auld cloak about thee." Some wine, ho! CASSIO. Why, this is a more exquisite song than the other. IAGO. Will you hear't again? CASSIO. No, for I hold him to be unworthy of his place that does those things. Well, God's above all, and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved. IAGO. It's true, good lieutenant. CASSIO. For mine own part- no offense to the general, nor any man of quality- I hope to be saved. IAGO. And so do I too, lieutenant. CASSIO. Ay, but, by your leave, not before me; the lieutenant is to be saved before the ancient. Let's have no more of this; let's to our affairs. God forgive us our sins! Gentlemen, let's look to our business. Do not think, gentlemen, I am drunk: this is my ancient, this is my right hand, and this is my left. I am not drunk now; I can stand well enough, and I speak well enough. ALL. Excellent well. CASSIO. Why, very well then; you must not think then that I am drunk. Exit. MONTANO. To the platform, masters; come, let's set the watch. IAGO. You see this fellow that is gone before; He is a soldier fit to stand by Caesar And give direction. And do but see his vice; 'Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as the other. 'Tis pity of him. I fear the trust Othello puts him in On some odd time of his infirmity Will shake this island. MONTANO. But is he often thus? IAGO. 'Tis evermore the prologue to his sleep. He'll watch the horologe a double set, If drink rock not his cradle. MONTANO. It were well The general were put in mind of it. Perhaps he sees it not, or his good nature Prizes the virtue that appears in Cassio And looks not on his evils. Is not this true? Enter Roderigo. IAGO. [Aside to him.] How now, Roderigo! I pray you, after the lieutenant; go. Exit Roderigo. MONTANO. And 'tis great pity that the noble Moor Should hazard such a place as his own second With one of an ingraft infirmity. It were an honest action to say So to the Moor. IAGO. Not I, for this fair island. I do love Cassio well, and would do much To cure him of this evil- But, hark! What noise? A cry within, "Help, help!" Re-enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. CASSIO. 'Zounds! You rogue! You rascal! MONTANO. What's the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO. A knave teach me my duty! But I'll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. RODERIGO. Beat me! CASSIO. Dost thou prate, rogue? Strikes Roderigo. MONTANO. Nay, good lieutenant; I pray you, sir, hold your hand. CASSIO. Let me go, sir, or I'll knock you o'er the mazzard. MONTANO. Come, come, you're drunk. CASSIO. Drunk? They fight. IAGO. [Aside to Roderigo.] Away, I say; go out and cry a mutiny. Exit Roderigo. Nay, good lieutenant! God's will, gentlemen! Help, ho!- Lieutenant- sir- Montano- sir- Help, masters!- Here's a goodly watch indeed! A bell rings. Who's that that rings the bell?- Diablo, ho! The town will rise. God's will, lieutenant, hold! You will be shamed forever. Re-enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. What is the matter here? MONTANO. 'Zounds, I bleed still; I am hurt to the death. Faints. OTHELLO. Hold, for your lives! IAGO. Hold, ho! Lieutenant- sir- Montano- gentlemen- Have you forgot all place of sense and duty? Hold! the general speaks to you! Hold, hold, for shame! OTHELLO. Why, how now, ho! from whence ariseth this? Are we turn'd Turks, and to ourselves do that Which heaven hath forbid the Ottomites? For Christian shame, put by this barbarous brawl. He that stirs next to carve for his own rage Holds his soul light; he dies upon his motion. Silence that dreadful bell; it frights the isle From her propriety. What is the matter, masters? Honest Iago, that look'st dead with grieving, Speak: who began this? On thy love, I charge thee. IAGO. I do not know. Friends all but now, even now, In quarter, and in terms like bride and groom Devesting them for bed; and then, but now (As if some planet had unwitted men), Swords out, and tilting one at other's breast, In opposition bloody. I cannot speak Any beginning to this peevish odds; And would in action glorious I had lost Those legs that brought me to a part of it! OTHELLO. How comes it, Michael, you are thus forgot? CASSIO. I pray you, pardon me; I cannot speak. OTHELLO. Worthy Montano, you were wont be civil; The gravity and stillness of your youth The world hath noted, and your name is great In mouths of wisest censure. What's the matter, That you unlace your reputation thus, And spend your rich opinion for the name Of a night-brawler? Give me answer to it. MONTANO. Worthy Othello, I am hurt to danger. Your officer, Iago, can inform you- While I spare speech, which something now offends me- Of all that I do know. Nor know I aught By me that's said or done amiss this night, Unless self-charity be sometimes a vice, And to defend ourselves it be a sin When violence assails us. OTHELLO. Now, by heaven, My blood begins my safer guides to rule, And passion, having my best judgement collied, Assays to lead the way. If I once stir, Or do but lift this arm, the best of you Shall sink in my rebuke. Give me to know How this foul rout began, who set it on, And he that is approved in this offense, Though he had twinn'd with me, both at a birth, Shall lose me. What! in a town of war, Yet wild, the people's hearts brimful of fear, To manage private and domestic quarrel, In night, and on the court and guard of safety! 'Tis monstrous. Iago, who began't? MONTANO. If partially affined, or leagued in office, Thou dost deliver more or less than truth, Thou art no soldier. IAGO. Touch me not so near: I had rather have this tongue cut from my mouth Than it should do offense to Michael Cassio; Yet, I persuade myself, to speak the truth Shall nothing wrong him. Thus it is, general. Montano and myself being in speech, There comes a fellow crying out for help, And Cassio following him with determined sword, To execute upon him. Sir, this gentleman Steps in to Cassio and entreats his pause. Myself the crying fellow did pursue, Lest by his clamor- as it so fell out- The town might fall in fright. He, swift of foot, Outran my purpose; and I return'd the rather For that I heard the clink and fall of swords, And Cassio high in oath, which till tonight I ne'er might say before. When I came back- For this was brief- I found them close together, At blow and thrust, even as again they were When you yourself did part them. More of this matter cannot I report. But men are men; the best sometimes forget. Though Cassio did some little wrong to him, As men in rage strike those that wish them best, Yet surely Cassio, I believe, received From him that fled some strange indignity, Which patience could not pass. OTHELLO. I know, Iago, Thy honesty and love doth mince this matter, Making it light to Cassio. Cassio, I love thee, But never more be officer of mine. Re-enter Desdemona, attended. Look, if my gentle love be not raised up! I'll make thee an example. DESDEMONA. What's the matter? OTHELLO. All's well now, sweeting; come away to bed. Sir, for your hurts, myself will be your surgeon. Lead him off. Exit Montano, attended. Iago, look with care about the town, And silence those whom this vile brawl distracted. Come, Desdemona, 'tis the soldiers' life. To have their balmy slumbers waked with strife. Exeunt all but Iago and Cassio. IAGO. What, are you hurt, lieutenant? CASSIO. Ay, past all surgery. IAGO. Marry, heaven forbid! CASSIO. Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I have lost my reputation! I have lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial. My reputation, Iago, my reputation! IAGO. As I am an honest man, I thought you had received some bodily wound; there is more sense in that than in reputation. Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit and lost without deserving. You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser. What, man! there are ways to recover the general again. You are but now cast in his mood, a punishment more in policy than in malice; even so as one would beat his offenseless dog to affright an imperious lion. Sue to him again, and he's yours. CASSIO. I will rather sue to be despised than to deceive so good a commander with so slight, so drunken, and so indiscreet an officer. Drunk? and speak parrot? and squabble? swagger? swear? and discourse fustian with one's own shadow? O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil! IAGO. What was he that you followed with your sword? What had he done to you? CASSIO. I know not. IAGO. Is't possible? CASSIO. I remember a mass of things, but nothing distinctly; a quarrel, but nothing wherefore. O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains! that we should, with joy, pleasance, revel, and applause, transform ourselves into beasts! IAGO. Why, but you are now well enough. How came you thus recovered? CASSIO. It hath pleased the devil drunkenness to give place to the devil wrath: one unperfectness shows me another, to make me frankly despise myself. IAGO. Come, you are too severe a moraler. As the time, the place, and the condition of this country stands, I could heartily wish this had not befallen; but since it is as it is, mend it for your own good. CASSIO. I will ask him for my place again; he shall tell me I am a drunkard! Had I as many mouths as Hydra, such an answer would stop them all. To be now a sensible man, by and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is unblest, and the ingredient is a devil. IAGO. Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature, if it be well used. Exclaim no more against it. And, good lieutenant, I think you think I love you. CASSIO. I have well approved it, sir. I drunk! IAGO. You or any man living may be drunk at some time, man. I'll tell you what you shall do. Our general's wife is now the general. I may say so in this respect, for that he hath devoted and given up himself to the contemplation, mark, and denotement of her parts and graces. Confess yourself freely to her; importune her help to put you in your place again. She is of so free, so kind, so apt, so blessed a disposition, she holds it a vice in her goodness not to do more than she is requested. This broken joint between you and her husband entreat her to splinter; and, my fortunes against any lay worth naming, this crack of your love shall grow stronger than it was before. CASSIO. You advise me well. IAGO. I protest, in the sincerity of love and honest kindness. CASSIO. I think it freely; and betimes in the morning I will beseech the virtuous Desdemona to undertake for me. I am desperate of my fortunes if they check me here. IAGO. You are in the right. Good night, lieutenant, I must to the watch. CASSIO. Good night, honest Iago. Exit. IAGO. And what's he then that says I play the villain? When this advice is free I give and honest, Probal to thinking, and indeed the course To win the Moor again? For 'tis most easy The inclining Desdemona to subdue In any honest suit. She's framed as fruitful As the free elements. And then for her To win the Moor, were't to renounce his baptism, All seals and symbols of redeemed sin, His soul is so enfetter'd to her love, That she may make, unmake, do what she list, Even as her appetite shall play the god With his weak function. How am I then a villain To counsel Cassio to this parallel course, Directly to his good? Divinity of hell! When devils will the blackest sins put on, They do suggest at first with heavenly shows, As I do now. For whiles this honest fool Plies Desdemona to repair his fortune, And she for him pleads strongly to the Moor, I'll pour this pestilence into his ear, That she repeals him for her body's lust; And by how much she strives to do him good, She shall undo her credit with the Moor. So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do follow here in the chase, not like a hound that hunts, but one that fills up the cry. My money is almost spent; I have been tonight exceedingly well cudgeled; and I think the issue will be, I shall have so much experience for my pains; and so, with no money at all and a little more wit, return again to Venice. IAGO. How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees? Thou know'st we work by wit and not by witchcraft, And wit depends on dilatory time. Does't not go well? Cassio hath beaten thee, And thou by that small hurt hast cashier'd Cassio. Though other things grow fair against the sun, Yet fruits that blossom first will first be ripe. Content thyself awhile. By the mass, 'tis morning; Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. Retire thee; go where thou art billeted. Away, I say. Thou shalt know more hereafter. Nay, get thee gone. [Exit Roderigo.] Two things are to be done: My wife must move for Cassio to her mistress- I'll set her on; Myself the while to draw the Moor apart, And bring him jump when he may Cassio find Soliciting his wife. Ay, that's the way; Dull not device by coldness and delay. Exit. <> ACT III. SCENE I. Before the castle. Enter Cassio and some Musicians. CASSIO. Masters, play here, I will content your pains; Something that's brief; and bid "Good morrow, general." Music. Enter Clown. CLOWN. Why, masters, have your instruments been in Naples, that they speak i' the nose thus? FIRST MUSICIAN. How, sir, how? CLOWN. Are these, I pray you, wind instruments? FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, marry, are they, sir. CLOWN. O, thereby hangs a tail. FIRST MUSICIAN. Whereby hangs a tale, sir? CLOWN. Marry, sir, by many a wind instrument that I know. But, masters, here's money for you; and the general so likes your music, that he desires you, for love's sake, to make no more noise with it. FIRST MUSICIAN. Well, sir, we will not. CLOWN. If you have any music that may not be heard, to't again; but, as they say, to hear music the general does not greatly care. FIRST MUSICIAN. We have none such, sir. CLOWN. Then put up your pipes in your bag, for I'll away. Go, vanish into air, away! Exeunt Musicians. CASSIO. Dost thou hear, my honest friend? CLOWN. No, I hear not your honest friend; I hear you. CASSIO. Prithee, keep up thy quillets. There's a poor piece of gold for thee. If the gentlewoman that attends the general's wife be stirring, tell her there's one Cassio entreats her a little favor of speech. Wilt thou do this? CLOWN. She is stirring, sir. If she will stir hither, I shall seem to notify unto her. CASSIO. Do, good my friend. Exit Clown. Enter Iago. In happy time, Iago. IAGO. You have not been abed, then? CASSIO. Why, no; the day had broke Before we parted. I have made bold, Iago, To send in to your wife. My suit to her Is that she will to virtuous Desdemona Procure me some access. IAGO. I'll send her to you presently; And I'll devise a mean to draw the Moor Out of the way, that your converse and business May be more free. CASSIO. I humbly thank you for't. [Exit Iago.] I never knew A Florentine more kind and honest. Enter Emilia. EMILIA. Good morrow, good lieutenant. I am sorry For your displeasure, but all will sure be well. The general and his wife are talking of it, And she speaks for you stoutly. The Moor replies That he you hurt is of great fame in Cyprus And great affinity and that in wholesome wisdom He might not but refuse you; but he protests he loves you And needs no other suitor but his likings To take the safest occasion by the front To bring you in again. CASSIO. Yet, I beseech you, If you think fit, or that it may be done, Give me advantage of some brief discourse With Desdemona alone. EMILIA. Pray you, come in. I will bestow you where you shall have time To speak your bosom freely. CASSIO. I am much bound to you. Exeunt. SCENE II. A room in the castle. Enter Othello, Iago, and Gentlemen. OTHELLO. These letters give, Iago, to the pilot, And by him do my duties to the Senate. That done, I will be walking on the works; Repair there to me. IAGO. Well, my good lord, I'll do't. OTHELLO. This fortification, gentlemen, shall we see't? GENTLEMEN. We'll wait upon your lordship. Exeunt. SCENE III. The garden of the castle. Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia. DESDEMONA. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do All my abilities in thy behalf. EMILIA. Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my husband As if the cause were his. DESDEMONA. O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio, But I will have my lord and you again As friendly as you were. CASSIO. Bounteous madam, Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio, He's never anything but your true servant. DESDEMONA. I know't: I thank you. You do love my lord: You have known him long; and be you well assured He shall in strangeness stand no farther off Than in a politic distance. CASSIO. Ay, but, lady, That policy may either last so long, Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet, Or breed itself so out of circumstances, That I being absent and my place supplied, My general will forget my love and service. DESDEMONA. Do not doubt that. Before Emilia here I give thee warrant of thy place, assure thee, If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it To the last article. My lord shall never rest; I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience; His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift; I'll intermingle everything he does With Cassio's suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio, For thy solicitor shall rather die Than give thy cause away. Enter Othello and Iago, at a distance. EMILIA. Madam, here comes my lord. CASSIO. Madam, I'll take my leave. DESDEMONA. Nay, stay and hear me speak. CASSIO. Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease, Unfit for mine own purposes. DESDEMONA. Well, do your discretion. Exit Cassio. IAGO. Ha! I like not that. OTHELLO. What dost thou say? IAGO. Nothing, my lord; or if- I know not what. OTHELLO. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife? IAGO. Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it, That he would steal away so guilty-like, Seeing you coming. OTHELLO. I do believe 'twas he. DESDEMONA. How now, my lord! I have been talking with a suitor here, A man that languishes in your displeasure. OTHELLO. Who is't you mean? DESDEMONA. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord, If I have any grace or power to move you, His present reconciliation take; For if he be not one that truly loves you, That errs in ignorance and not in cunning, I have no judgement in an honest face. I prithee, call him back. OTHELLO. Went he hence now? DESDEMONA. Ay, sooth; so humbled That he hath left part of his grief with me To suffer with him. Good love, call him back. OTHELLO. Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time. DESDEMONA. But shall't be shortly? OTHELLO. The sooner, sweet, for you. DESDEMONA. Shall't be tonight at supper? OTHELLO. No, not tonight. DESDEMONA. Tomorrow dinner then? OTHELLO. I shall not dine at home; I meet the captains at the citadel. DESDEMONA. Why then tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn, On Tuesday noon, or night, on Wednesday morn. I prithee, name the time, but let it not Exceed three days. In faith, he's penitent; And yet his trespass, in our common reason- Save that, they say, the wars must make example Out of their best- is not almost a fault To incur a private check. When shall he come? Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul, What you would ask me, that I should deny, Or stand so mammering on. What? Michael Cassio, That came awooing with you, and so many a time When I have spoke of you dispraisingly Hath ta'en your part- to have so much to do To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much- OTHELLO. Prithee, no more. Let him come when he will; I will deny thee nothing. DESDEMONA. Why, this is not a boon; 'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves, Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm, Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed, It shall be full of poise and difficult weight, And fearful to be granted. OTHELLO. I will deny thee nothing, Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this, To leave me but a little to myself. DESDEMONA. Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord. OTHELLO. Farewell, my Desdemona; I'll come to thee straight. DESDEMONA. Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you; Whate'er you be, I am obedient. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. OTHELLO. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again. IAGO. My noble lord- OTHELLO. What dost thou say, Iago? IAGO. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady, Know of your love? OTHELLO. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask? IAGO. But for a satisfaction of my thought; No further harm. OTHELLO. Why of thy thought, Iago? IAGO. I did not think he had been acquainted with her. OTHELLO. O, yes, and went between us very oft. IAGO. Indeed! OTHELLO. Indeed? ay, indeed. Discern'st thou aught in that? Is he not honest? IAGO. Honest, my lord? OTHELLO. Honest? Ay, honest. IAGO. My lord, for aught I know. OTHELLO. What dost thou think? IAGO. Think, my lord? OTHELLO. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoes me, As if there were some monster in his thought Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something. I heard thee say even now, thou like'st not that, When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like? And when I told thee he was of my counsel In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!" And didst contract and purse thy brow together, As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me, Show me thy thought. IAGO. My lord, you know I love you. OTHELLO. I think thou dost; And for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath, Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more; For such things in a false disloyal knave Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just They're close dilations, working from the heart, That passion cannot rule. IAGO. For Michael Cassio, I dare be sworn I think that he is honest. OTHELLO. I think so too. IAGO. Men should be what they seem; Or those that be not, would they might seem none! OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they seem. IAGO. Why then I think Cassio's an honest man. OTHELLO. Nay, yet there's more in this. I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings, As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts The worst of words. IAGO. Good my lord, pardon me; Though I am bound to every act of duty, I am not bound to that all slaves are free to. Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false; As where's that palace whereinto foul things Sometimes intrude not? Who has a breast so pure, But some uncleanly apprehensions Keep leets and law-days, and in session sit With meditations lawful? OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear A stranger to thy thoughts. IAGO. I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess, As, I confess, it is my nature's plague To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy Shapes faults that are not- that your wisdom yet, From one that so imperfectly conceits, Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance. It were not for your quiet nor your good, Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom, To let you know my thoughts. OTHELLO. What dost thou mean? IAGO. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls. Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing; 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed. OTHELLO. By heaven, I'll know thy thoughts. IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand; Nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody. OTHELLO. Ha! IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy! It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger; But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves! OTHELLO. O misery! IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough; But riches fineless is as poor as winter To him that ever fears he shall be poor. Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy! OTHELLO. Why, why is this? Think'st thou I'ld make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No! To be once in doubt Is once to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat When I shall turn the business of my soul To such exsufflicate and blown surmises, Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company, Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well; Where virtue is, these are more virtuous. Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt; For she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago, I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove; And on the proof, there is no more but this- Away at once with love or jealousy! IAGO. I am glad of it, for now I shall have reason To show the love and duty that I bear you With franker spirit. Therefore, as I am bound, Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof. Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio; Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure. I would not have your free and noble nature Out of self-bounty be abused. Look to't. I know our country disposition well; In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown. OTHELLO. Dost thou say so? IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you; And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks, She loved them most. OTHELLO. And so she did. IAGO. Why, go to then. She that so young could give out such a seeming, To seel her father's eyes up close as oak- He thought 'twas witchcraft- but I am much to blame; I humbly do beseech you of your pardon For too much loving you. OTHELLO. I am bound to thee forever. IAGO. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits. OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot. IAGO. I'faith, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved; I am to pray you not to strain my speech To grosser issues nor to larger reach Than to suspicion. OTHELLO. I will not. IAGO. Should you do so, my lord, My speech should fall into such vile success Which my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend- My lord, I see you're moved. OTHELLO. No, not much moved. I do not think but Desdemona's honest. IAGO. Long live she so! and long live you to think so! OTHELLO. And yet, how nature erring from itself- IAGO. Ay, there's the point, as- to be bold with you- Not to affect many proposed matches Of her own clime, complexion, and degree, Whereto we see in all things nature tends- Foh, one may smell in such a will most rank, Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural. But pardon me. I do not in position Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear, Her will, recoiling to her better judgement, May fall to match you with her country forms, And happily repent. OTHELLO. Farewell, farewell. If more thou dost perceive, let me know more; Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago. IAGO. [Going.] My lord, I take my leave. OTHELLO. Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds. IAGO. [Returning.] My lord, I would I might entreat your honor To scan this thing no further; leave it to time. Though it be fit that Cassio have his place, For sure he fills it up with great ability, Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile, You shall by that perceive him and his means. Note if your lady strain his entertainment With any strong or vehement importunity; Much will be seen in that. In the meantime, Let me be thought too busy in my fears- As worthy cause I have to fear I am- And hold her free, I do beseech your honor. OTHELLO. Fear not my government. IAGO. I once more take my leave. Exit. OTHELLO. This fellow's of exceeding honesty, And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit, Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard, Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings, I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black And have not those soft parts of conversation That chamberers have, or for I am declined Into the vale of years- yet that's not much- She's gone. I am abused, and my relief Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage, That we can call these delicate creatures ours, And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad, And live upon the vapor of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones: Prerogatived are they less than the base; 'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death. Even then this forked plague is fated to us When we do quicken. Desdemona comes: Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia. If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I'll not believe't. DESDEMONA. How now, my dear Othello! Your dinner, and the generous islanders By you invited, do attend your presence. OTHELLO. I am to blame. DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so faintly? Are you not well? OTHELLO. I have a pain upon my forehead here. DESDEMONA. Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again. Let me but bind it hard, within this hour It will be well. OTHELLO. Your napkin is too little; He puts the handkerchief from him, and she drops it. Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you. DESDEMONA. I am very sorry that you are not well. Exeunt Othello and Desdemona. EMILIA. I am glad I have found this napkin; This was her first remembrance from the Moor. My wayward husband hath a hundred times Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token, For he conjured her she should ever keep it, That she reserves it evermore about her To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out, And give't Iago. What he will do with it Heaven knows, not I; I nothing but to please his fantasy. Re-enter Iago. IAGO. How now, what do you here alone? EMILIA. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you. IAGO. A thing for me? It is a common thing- EMILIA. Ha! IAGO. To have a foolish wife. EMILIA. O, is that all? What will you give me now For that same handkerchief? IAGO. What handkerchief? EMILIA. What handkerchief? Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona, That which so often you did bid me steal. IAGO. Hast stol'n it from her? EMILIA. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence, And, to the advantage, I being here took't up. Look, here it is. IAGO. A good wench; give it me. EMILIA. What will you do with't, that you have been so earnest To have me filch it? IAGO. [Snatching it.] Why, what is that to you? EMILIA. If't be not for some purpose of import, Give't me again. Poor lady, she'll run mad When she shall lack it. IAGO. Be not acknown on't; I have use for it. Go, leave me. Exit Emilia. I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin, And let him find it. Trifles light as air Are to the jealous confirmations strong As proofs of holy writ; this may do something. The Moor already changes with my poison: Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons, Which at the first are scarce found to distaste, But with a little act upon the blood Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so. Look, where he comes! Re-enter Othello. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou owedst yesterday. OTHELLO. Ha, ha, false to me? IAGO. Why, how now, general! No more of that. OTHELLO. Avaunt! be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack. I swear 'tis better to be much abused Than but to know't a little. IAGO. How now, my lord? OTHELLO. What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust? I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me; I slept the next night well, was free and merry; I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips. He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n, Let him not know't and he's not robb'd at all. IAGO. I am sorry to hear this. OTHELLO. I had been happy if the general camp, Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body, So I had nothing known. O, now forever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars That make ambition virtue! O, farewell, Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump, The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, The royal banner, and all quality, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit, Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone! IAGO. Is't possible, my lord? OTHELLO. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore; Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof; Or, by the worth of man's eternal soul, Thou hadst been better have been born a dog Than answer my waked wrath! IAGO. Is't come to this? OTHELLO. Make me to see't; or at the least so prove it, That the probation bear no hinge nor loop To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life! IAGO. My noble lord- OTHELLO. If thou dost slander her and torture me, Never pray more; abandon all remorse; On horror's head horrors accumulate; Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed; For nothing canst thou to damnation add Greater than that. IAGO. O grace! O heaven defend me! Are you a man? have you a soul or sense? God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool, That livest to make thine honesty a vice! O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world, To be direct and honest is not safe. I thank you for this profit, and from hence I'll love no friend sith love breeds such offense. OTHELLO. Nay, stay; thou shouldst be honest. IAGO. I should be wise; for honesty's a fool, And loses that it works for. OTHELLO. By the world, I think my wife be honest, and think she is not; I think that thou art just, and think thou art not. I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black As mine own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison or fire, or suffocating streams, I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied! IAGO. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion; I do repent me that I put it to you. You would be satisfied? OTHELLO. Would? Nay, I will. IAGO. And may. But, how? how satisfied, my lord? Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on? Behold her topp'd? OTHELLO. Death and damnation! O! IAGO. It were a tedious difficulty, I think, To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then, If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster More than their own! What then? how then? What shall I say? Where's satisfaction? It is impossible you should see this Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys, As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say, If imputation and strong circumstances, Which lead directly to the door of truth, Will give you satisfaction, you may have't. OTHELLO. Give me a living reason she's disloyal. IAGO. I do not like the office; But sith I am enter'd in this cause so far, Prick'd to't by foolish honesty and love, I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately And, being troubled with a raging tooth, I could not sleep. There are a kind of men so loose of soul, That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs; One of this kind is Cassio. In sleep I heard him say, "Sweet Desdemona, Let us be wary, let us hide our loves"; And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand, Cry, "O sweet creature!" and then kiss me hard, As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots, That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg Over my thigh, and sigh'd and kiss'd; and then Cried, "Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!" OTHELLO. O monstrous! monstrous! IAGO. Nay, this was but his dream. OTHELLO. But this denoted a foregone conclusion. 'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream. IAGO. And this may help to thicken other proofs That do demonstrate thinly. OTHELLO. I'll tear her all to pieces. IAGO. Nay, but be wise; yet we see nothing done; She may be honest yet. Tell me but this; Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand? OTHELLO. I gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift. IAGO. I know not that; but such a handkerchief- I am sure it was your wife's- did I today See Cassio wipe his beard with. OTHELLO. If it be that- IAGO. If it be that, or any that was hers, It speaks against her with the other proofs. OTHELLO. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives! One is too poor, too weak for my revenge. Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago, All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven. 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics' tongues! IAGO. Yet be content. OTHELLO. O, blood, blood, blood! IAGO. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change. OTHELLO. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea, Whose icy current and compulsive course Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on To the Propontic and the Hellespont, Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace, Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love, Till that a capable and wide revenge Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven, In the due reverence of a sacred vow Kneels. I here engage my words. IAGO. Do not rise yet. Kneels. Witness, you ever-burning lights above, You elements that clip us round about, Witness that here Iago doth give up The execution of his wit, hands, heart, To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command, And to obey shall be in me remorse, What bloody business ever. They rise. OTHELLO. I greet thy love, Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous, And will upon the instant put thee to't: Within these three days let me hear thee say That Cassio's not alive. IAGO. My friend is dead, 'tis done at your request; But let her live. OTHELLO. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her! Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw, To furnish me with some swift means of death For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant. IAGO. I am your own forever. Exeunt. SCENE IV. Before the castle. Enter Desdemona, Emilia, and Clown. DESDEMONA. Do you know, sirrah, where Lieutenant Cassio lies? CLOWN. I dare not say he lies anywhere. DESDEMONA. Why, man? CLOWN. He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing. DESDEMONA. Go to! Where lodges he? CLOWN. To tell you where he lodges, is to tell you where I lie. DESDEMONA. Can anything be made of this? CLOWN. I know not where he lodges, and for me to devise a lodging, and say he lies here or he lies there, were to lie in mine own throat. DESDEMONA. Can you inquire him out and be edified by report? CLOWN. I will catechize the world for him; that is, make questions and by them answer. DESDEMONA. Seek him, bid him come hither. Tell him I have moved my lord on his behalf and hope all will be well. CLOWN. To do this is within the compass of man's wit, and therefore I will attempt the doing it. Exit. DESDEMONA. Where should I lose that handkerchief, Emilia? EMILIA. I know not, madam. DESDEMONA. Believe me, I had rather have lost my purse Full of crusadoes; and, but my noble Moor Is true of mind and made of no such baseness As jealous creatures are, it were enough To put him to ill thinking. EMILIA. Is he not jealous? DESDEMONA. Who, he? I think the sun where he was born Drew all such humors from him. EMILIA. Look, where he comes. DESDEMONA. I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call'd to him. Enter Othello. How is't with you, my lord? OTHELLO. Well, my good lady. [Aside.] O, hardness to dissemble! How do you, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Well, my good lord. OTHELLO. Give me your hand. This hand is moist, my lady. DESDEMONA. It yet has felt no age nor known no sorrow. OTHELLO. This argues fruitfulness and liberal heart; Hot, hot, and moist. This hand of yours requires A sequester from liberty, fasting, and prayer, Much castigation, exercise devout, For here's a young and sweating devil here That commonly rebels. 'Tis a good hand, A frank one. DESDEMONA. You may, indeed, say so; For 'twas that hand that gave away my heart. OTHELLO. A liberal hand. The hearts of old gave hands; But our new heraldry is hands, not hearts. DESDEMONA. I cannot speak of this. Come now, your promise. OTHELLO. What promise, chuck? DESDEMONA. I have sent to bid Cassio come speak with you. OTHELLO. I have a salt and sorry rheum offends me; Lend me thy handkerchief. DESDEMONA. Here, my lord. OTHELLO. That which I gave you. DESDEMONA. I have it not about me. OTHELLO. Not? DESDEMONA. No, faith, my lord. OTHELLO. That's a fault. That handkerchief Did an Egyptian to my mother give; She was a charmer, and could almost read The thoughts of people. She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies. She dying gave it me, And bid me, when my fate would have me wive, To give it her. I did so, and take heed on't; Make it a darling like your precious eye; To lose't or give't away were such perdition As nothing else could match. DESDEMONA. Is't possible? OTHELLO. 'Tis true; there's magic in the web of it. A sibyl, that had number'd in the world The sun to course two hundred compasses, In her prophetic fury sew'd the work; The worms were hallow'd that did breed the silk, And it was dyed in mummy which the skillful Conserved of maiden's hearts. DESDEMONA. Indeed! is't true? OTHELLO. Most veritable; therefore look to't well. DESDEMONA. Then would to God that I had never seen't! OTHELLO. Ha! wherefore? DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so startingly and rash? OTHELLO. Is't lost? is't gone? speak, is it out o' the way? DESDEMONA. Heaven bless us! OTHELLO. Say you? DESDEMONA. It is not lost; but what an if it were? OTHELLO. How? DESDEMONA. I say, it is not lost. OTHELLO. Fetch't, let me see it. DESDEMONA. Why, so I can, sir, but I will not now. This is a trick to put me from my suit. Pray you, let Cassio be received again. OTHELLO. Fetch me the handkerchief, my mind misgives. DESDEMONA. Come, come, You'll never meet a more sufficient man. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. I pray, talk me of Cassio. OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. A man that all his time Hath founded his good fortunes on your love, Shared dangers with you- OTHELLO. The handkerchief! DESDEMONA. In sooth, you are to blame. OTHELLO. Away! Exit. EMILIA. Is not this man jealous? DESDEMONA. I ne'er saw this before. Sure there's some wonder in this handkerchief; I am most unhappy in the loss of it. EMILIA. 'Tis not a year or two shows us a man. They are all but stomachs and we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full They belch us. Look you! Cassio and my husband. Enter Cassio and Iago. IAGO. There is no other way; 'tis she must do't. And, lo, the happiness! Go and importune her. DESDEMONA. How now, good Cassio! What's the news with you? CASSIO. Madam, my former suit: I do beseech you That by your virtuous means I may again Exist and be a member of his love Whom I with all the office of my heart Entirely honor. I would not be delay'd. If my offense be of such mortal kind That nor my service past nor present sorrows Nor purposed merit in futurity Can ransom me into his love again, But to know so must be my benefit; So shall I clothe me in a forced content And shut myself up in some other course To Fortune's alms. DESDEMONA. Alas, thrice-gentle Cassio! My advocation is not now in tune; My lord is not my lord, nor should I know him Were he in favor as in humor alter'd. So help me every spirit sanctified, As I have spoken for you all my best And stood within the blank of his displeasure For my free speech! You must awhile be patient. What I can do I will; and more I will Than for myself I dare. Let that suffice you. IAGO. Is my lord angry? EMILIA. He went hence but now, And certainly in strange unquietness. IAGO. Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon, When it hath blown his ranks into the air And, like the devil, from his very arm Puff'd his own brother. And can he be angry? Something of moment then. I will go meet him. There's matter in't indeed if he be angry. DESDEMONA. I prithee, do so. Exit Iago. Something sure of state, Either from Venice or some unhatch'd practice Made demonstrable here in Cyprus to him, Hath puddled his clear spirit; and in such cases Men's natures wrangle with inferior things, Though great ones are their object. 'Tis even so; For let our finger ache, and it indues Our other healthful members even to that sense Of pain. Nay, we must think men are not gods, Nor of them look for such observancy As fits the bridal. Beshrew me much, Emilia, I was, unhandsome warrior as I am, Arraigning his unkindness with my soul; But now I find I had suborn'd the witness, And he's indicted falsely. EMILIA. Pray heaven it be state matters, as you think, And no conception nor no jealous toy Concerning you. DESDEMONA. Alas the day, I never gave him cause! EMILIA. But jealous souls will not be answer'd so; They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they are jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself. DESDEMONA. Heaven keep that monster from Othello's mind! EMILIA. Lady, amen. DESDEMONA. I will go seek him. Cassio, walk hereabout. If I do find him fit, I'll move your suit, And seek to effect it to my uttermost. CASSIO. I humbly thank your ladyship. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Bianca. BIANCA. Save you, friend Cassio! CASSIO. What make you from home? How is it with you, my most fair Bianca? I'faith, sweet love, I was coming to your house. BIANCA. And I was going to your lodging, Cassio. What, keep a week away? seven days and nights? Eight score eight hours? and lovers' absent hours, More tedious than the dial eight score times? O weary reckoning! CASSIO. Pardon me, Bianca. I have this while with leaden thoughts been press'd; But I shall in a more continuate time Strike off this score of absence. Sweet Bianca, Gives her Desdemona's handkerchief. Take me this work out. BIANCA. O Cassio, whence came this? This is some token from a newer friend. To the felt absence now I feel a cause. Is't come to this? Well, well. CASSIO. Go to, woman! Throw your vile guesses in the devil's teeth, From whence you have them. You are jealous now That this is from some mistress, some remembrance. No, by my faith, Bianca. BIANCA. Why, whose is it? CASSIO. I know not, sweet. I found it in my chamber. I like the work well. Ere it be demanded- As like enough it will- I'ld have it copied. Take it, and do't; and leave me for this time. BIANCA. Leave you! wherefore? CASSIO. I do attend here on the general; And think it no addition, nor my wish, To have him see me woman'd. BIANCA. Why, I pray you? CASSIO. Not that I love you not. BIANCA. But that you do not love me. I pray you, bring me on the way a little, And say if I shall see you soon at night. CASSIO. 'Tis but a little way that I can bring you, For I attend here, but I'll see you soon. BIANCA. 'Tis very good; I must be circumstanced. Exeunt. <> ACT IV. SCENE I. Cyprus. Before the castle. Enter Othello and Iago. IAGO. Will you think so? OTHELLO. Think so, Iago? IAGO. What, To kiss in private? OTHELLO. An unauthorized kiss. IAGO. Or to be naked with her friend in bed An hour or more, not meaning any harm? OTHELLO. Naked in bed, Iago, and not mean harm! It is hypocrisy against the devil. They that mean virtuously and yet do so, The devil their virtue tempts and they tempt heaven. IAGO. So they do nothing, 'tis a venial slip. But if I give my wife a handkerchief- OTHELLO. What then? IAGO. Why, then, 'tis hers, my lord, and being hers, She may, I think, bestow't on any man. OTHELLO. She is protectress of her honor too. May she give that? IAGO. Her honor is an essence that's not seen; They have it very oft that have it not. But for the handkerchief- OTHELLO. By heaven, I would most gladly have forgot it. Thou said'st- O, it comes o'er my memory, As doth the raven o'er the infected house, Boding to all- he had my handkerchief. IAGO. Ay, what of that? OTHELLO. That's not so good now. IAGO. What, If I had said I had seen him do you wrong? Or heard him say- as knaves be such abroad, Who having, by their own importunate suit, Or voluntary dotage of some mistress, Convinced or supplied them, cannot choose But they must blab- OTHELLO. Hath he said anything? IAGO. He hath, my lord; but be you well assured, No more than he'll unswear. OTHELLO. What hath he said? IAGO. Faith, that he did- I know not what he did. OTHELLO. What? what? IAGO. Lie- OTHELLO. With her? IAGO. With her, on her, what you will. OTHELLO. Lie with her! lie on her! We say lie on her, when they belie her. Lie with her! 'Zounds, that's fulsome! Handkerchief- confessions- handkerchief! To confess and be hanged for his labor- first, to be hanged, and then to confess. I tremble at it. Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion without some instruction. It is not words that shakes me thus. Pish! Noses, ears, and lips. Is't possible? Confess? Handkerchief? O devil! Falls in a trance. IAGO. Work on, My medicine, work! Thus credulous fools are caught, And many worthy and chaste dames even thus, All guiltless, meet reproach. What, ho! My lord! My lord, I say! Othello! Enter Cassio. How now, Cassio! CASSIO. What's the matter? IAGO. My lord is fall'n into an epilepsy. This is his second fit; he had one yesterday. CASSIO. Rub him about the temples. IAGO. No, forbear; The lethargy must have his quiet course. If not, he foams at mouth, and by and by Breaks out to savage madness. Look, he stirs. Do you withdraw yourself a little while, He will recover straight. When he is gone, I would on great occasion speak with you. Exit Cassio. How is it, general? Have you not hurt your head? OTHELLO. Dost thou mock me? IAGO. I mock you? No, by heaven. Would you would bear your fortune like a man! OTHELLO. A horned man's a monster and a beast. IAGO. There's many a beast then in a populous city, And many a civil monster. OTHELLO. Did he confess it? IAGO. Good sir, be a man; Think every bearded fellow that's but yoked May draw with you. There's millions now alive That nightly lie in those unproper beds Which they dare swear peculiar. Your case is better. O, 'tis the spite of hell, the fiend's arch-mock, To lip a wanton in a secure couch, And to suppose her chaste! No, let me know, And knowing what I am, I know what she shall be. OTHELLO. O, thou art wise; 'tis certain. IAGO. Stand you awhile apart, Confine yourself but in a patient list. Whilst you were here o'erwhelmed with your grief- A passion most unsuiting such a man- Cassio came hither. I shifted him away, And laid good 'scuse upon your ecstasy; Bade him anon return and here speak with me The which he promised. Do but encave yourself And mark the fleers, the gibes, and notable scorns, That dwell in every region of his face; For I will make him tell the tale anew, Where, how, how oft, how long ago, and when He hath and is again to cope your wife. I say, but mark his gesture. Marry, patience, Or I shall say you are all in all in spleen, And nothing of a man. OTHELLO. Dost thou hear, Iago? I will be found most cunning in my patience; But (dost thou hear?) most bloody. IAGO. That's not amiss; But yet keep time in all. Will you withdraw? Othello retires. Now will I question Cassio of Bianca, A housewife that by selling her desires Buys herself bread and clothes. It is a creature That dotes on Cassio, as 'tis the strumpet's plague To beguile many and be beguiled by one. He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes. Re-enter Cassio. As he shall smile, Othello shall go mad; And his unbookish jealousy must construe Poor Cassio's smiles, gestures, and light behavior Quite in the wrong. How do you now, lieutenant? CASSIO. The worser that you give me the addition Whose want even kills me. IAGO. Ply Desdemona well, and you are sure on't. Now, if this suit lay in Bianco's power, How quickly should you speed! CASSIO. Alas, poor caitiff! OTHELLO. Look, how he laughs already! IAGO. I never knew a woman love man so. CASSIO. Alas, poor rogue! I think, i'faith, she loves me. OTHELLO. Now he denies it faintly and laughs it out. IAGO. Do you hear, Cassio? OTHELLO. Now he importunes him To tell it o'er. Go to; well said, well said. IAGO. She gives it out that you shall marry her. Do you intend it? CASSIO. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Do you triumph, Roman? Do you triumph? CASSIO. I marry her! What? A customer! I prithee, bear some charity to my wit; do not think it so unwholesome. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. So, so, so, so. They laugh that win. IAGO. Faith, the cry goes that you shall marry her. CASSIO. Prithee, say true. IAGO. I am a very villain else. OTHELLO. Have you scored me? Well. CASSIO. This is the monkey's own giving out. She is persuaded I will marry her, out of her own love and flattery, not out of my promise. OTHELLO. Iago beckons me; now he begins the story. CASSIO. She was here even now; she haunts me in every place. I was the other day talking on the sea bank with certain Venetians, and thither comes the bauble, and, by this hand, she falls me thus about my neck- OTHELLO. Crying, "O dear Cassio!" as it were; his gesture imports it. CASSIO. So hangs and lolls and weeps upon me; so hales and pulls me. Ha, ha, ha! OTHELLO. Now he tells how she plucked him to my chamber. O, I see that nose of yours, but not that dog I shall throw it to. CASSIO. Well, I must leave her company. IAGO. Before me! look where she comes. CASSIO. 'Tis such another fitchew! marry, a perfumed one. Enter Bianca. What do you mean by this haunting of me? BIANCA. Let the devil and his dam haunt you! What did you mean by that same handkerchief you gave me even now? I was a fine fool to take it. I must take out the work? A likely piece of work that you should find it in your chamber and not know who left it there! This is some minx's token, and I must take out the work? There, give it your hobbyhorse. Wheresoever you had it, I'll take out no work on't. CASSIO. How now, my sweet Bianca! how now! how now! OTHELLO. By heaven, that should be my handkerchief! BIANCA. An you'll come to supper tonight, you may; an you will not, come when you are next prepared for. Exit. IAGO. After her, after her. CASSIO. Faith, I must; she'll rail i' the street else. IAGO. Will you sup there? CASSIO. Faith, I intend so. IAGO. Well, I may chance to see you, for I would very fain speak with you. CASSIO. Prithee, come; will you? IAGO. Go to; say no more. Exit Cassio. OTHELLO. [Advancing.] How shall I murther him, Iago? IAGO. Did you perceive how he laughed at his vice? OTHELLO. O Iago! IAGO. And did you see the handkerchief? OTHELLO. Was that mine? IAGO. Yours, by this hand. And to see how he prizes the foolish woman your wife! She gave it him, and he hath given it his whore. OTHELLO. I would have him nine years akilling. A fine woman! a fair woman! a sweet woman! IAGO. Nay, you must forget that. OTHELLO. Ay, let her rot, and perish, and be damned tonight, for she shall not live. No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand. O, the world hath not a sweeter creature. She might lie by an emperor's side, and command him tasks. IAGO. Nay, that's not your way. OTHELLO. Hang her! I do but say what she is. So delicate with her needle, an admirable musician. O, she will sing the savageness out of a bear. Of so high and plenteous wit and invention- IAGO. She's the worse for all this. OTHELLO. O, a thousand, a thousand times. And then, of so gentle a condition! IAGO. Ay, too gentle. OTHELLO. Nay, that's certain. But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! IAGO. If you are so fond over her iniquity, give her patent to offend, for, if it touch not you, it comes near nobody. OTHELLO. I will chop her into messes. Cuckold me! IAGO. O, 'tis foul in her. OTHELLO. With mine officer! IAGO. That's fouler. OTHELLO. Get me some poison, Iago, this night. I'll not expostulate with her, lest her body and beauty unprovide my mind again. This night, Iago. IAGO. Do it not with poison, strangle her in her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated. OTHELLO. Good, good, the justice of it pleases, very good. IAGO. And for Cassio, let me be his undertaker. You shall hear more by midnight. OTHELLO. Excellent good. [A trumpet within.] What trumpet is that same? IAGO. Something from Venice, sure. 'Tis Lodovico Come from the Duke. And, see your wife is with him. Enter Lodovico, Desdemona, and Attendants. LODOVICO. God save the worthy general! OTHELLO. With all my heart, sir. LODOVICO. The Duke and Senators of Venice greet you. Gives him a letter. OTHELLO. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. Opens the letter, and reads. DESDEMONA. And what's the news, good cousin Lodovico? IAGO. I am very glad to see you, signior; Welcome to Cyprus. LODOVICO. I thank you. How does Lieutenant Cassio? IAGO. Lives, sir. DESDEMONA. Cousin, there's fall'n between him and my lord An unkind breech; but you shall make all well. OTHELLO. Are you sure of that? DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. [Reads.] "This fail you not to do, as you will-" LODOVICO. He did not call; he's busy in the paper. Is there division 'twixt my lord and Cassio? DESDEMONA. A most unhappy one. I would do much To atone them, for the love I bear to Cassio. OTHELLO. Fire and brimstone! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Are you wise? DESDEMONA. What, is he angry? LODOVICO. May be the letter moved him; For, as I think, they do command him home, Deputing Cassio in his government. DESDEMONA. By my troth, I am glad on't. OTHELLO. Indeed! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. I am glad to see you mad. DESDEMONA. Why, sweet Othello? OTHELLO. Devil! Strikes her. DESDEMONA. I have not deserved this. LODOVICO. My lord, this would not be believed in Venice, Though I should swear I saw't. 'Tis very much. Make her amends; she weeps. OTHELLO. O devil, devil! If that the earth could teem with woman's tears, Each drop she falls would prove a crocodile. Out of my sight! DESDEMONA. [Going.] I will not stay to offend you. LODOVICO. Truly, an obedient lady. I do beseech your lordship, call her back. OTHELLO. Mistress! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. What would you with her, sir? LODOVICO. Who, I, my lord? OTHELLO. Ay, you did wish that I would make her turn. Sir, she can turn and turn, and yet go on, And turn again; and she can weep, sir, weep; And she's obedient, as you say, obedient, Very obedient. Proceed you in your tears. Concerning this, sir- O well-painted passion!- I am commanded home. Get you away; I'll send for you anon. Sir, I obey the mandate, And will return to Venice. Hence, avaunt! Exit Desdemona. Cassio shall have my place. And, sir, tonight, I do entreat that we may sup together. You are welcome, sir, to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys! Exit. LODOVICO. Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate Call all in all sufficient? This the nature Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue The shot of accident nor dart of chance Could neither graze nor pierce? IAGO. He is much changed. LODOVICO. Are his wits safe? Is he not light of brain? IAGO. He's that he is. I may not breathe my censure What he might be: if what he might he is not, I would to heaven he were! LODOVICO. What, strike his wife! IAGO. Faith, that was not so well; yet would I knew That stroke would prove the worst! LODOVICO. Is it his use? Or did the letters work upon his blood, And new create this fault? IAGO. Alas, alas! It is not honesty in me to speak What I have seen and known. You shall observe him, And his own courses will denote him so That I may save my speech. Do but go after, And mark how he continues. LODOVICO. I am sorry that I am deceived in him. Exeunt. SCENE II. A room in the castle. Enter Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. You have seen nothing, then? EMILIA. Nor ever heard, nor ever did suspect. OTHELLO. Yes, you have seen Cassio and she together. EMILIA. But then I saw no harm, and then I heard Each syllable that breath made up between them. OTHELLO. What, did they never whisper? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. Nor send you out o' the way? EMILIA. Never. OTHELLO. To fetch her fan, her gloves, her mask, nor nothing? EMILIA. Never, my lord. OTHELLO. That's strange. EMILIA. I durst, my lord, to wager she is honest, Lay down my soul at stake. If you think other, Remove your thought; it doth abuse your bosom. If any wretch have put this in your head, Let heaven requite it with the serpent's curse! For if she be not honest, chaste, and true, There's no man happy; the purest of their wives Is foul as slander. OTHELLO. Bid her come hither; go. Exit Emilia. She says enough; yet she's a simple bawd That cannot say as much. This is a subtle whore, A closet lock and key of villainous secrets. And yet she'll kneel and pray; I have seen her do't. Enter Desdemona with Emilia. DESDEMONA. My lord, what is your will? OTHELLO. Pray, chuck, come hither. DESDEMONA. What is your pleasure? OTHELLO. Let me see your eyes; Look in my face. DESDEMONA. What horrible fancy's this? OTHELLO. [To Emilia.] Some of your function, mistress, Leave procreants alone and shut the door; Cough, or cry "hem," if anybody come. Your mystery, your mystery; nay, dispatch. Exit Emilia. DESDEMONA. Upon my knees, what doth your speech import? I understand a fury in your words, But not the words. OTHELLO. Why, what art thou? DESDEMONA. Your wife, my lord, your true and loyal wife. OTHELLO. Come, swear it, damn thyself; Lest, being like one of heaven, the devils themselves Should fear to seize thee. Therefore be double-damn'd; Swear thou art honest. DESDEMONA. Heaven doth truly know it. OTHELLO. Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell. DESDEMONA. To whom, my lord? with whom? how am I false? OTHELLO. O Desdemona! Away! away! away! DESDEMONA. Alas the heavy day! Why do you weep? Am I the motive of these tears, my lord? If haply you my father do suspect An instrument of this your calling back, Lay not your blame on me. If you have lost him, Why, I have lost him too. OTHELLO. Had it pleased heaven To try me with affliction, had they rain'd All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head, Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips, Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes, I should have found in some place of my soul A drop of patience; but, alas, to make me A fixed figure for the time of scorn To point his slow unmoving finger at! Yet could I bear that too, well, very well; But there, where I have garner'd up my heart, Where either I must live or bear no life; The fountain from the which my current runs, Or else dries up; to be discarded thence! Or keep it as a cistern for foul toads To knot and gender in! Turn thy complexion there, Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubin, Ay, there, look grim as hell! DESDEMONA. I hope my noble lord esteems me honest. OTHELLO. O, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles, That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed, Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born! DESDEMONA. Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed? OTHELLO. Was this fair paper, this most goodly book, Made to write "whore" upon? What committed? Committed? O thou public commoner! I should make very forges of my cheeks, That would to cinders burn up modesty, Did I but speak thy deeds. What committed! Heaven stops the nose at it, and the moon winks; The bawdy wind, that kisses all it meets, Is hush'd within the hollow mine of earth, And will not hear it. What committed? Impudent strumpet! DESDEMONA. By heaven, you do me wrong. OTHELLO. Are not you a strumpet? DESDEMONA. No, as I am a Christian. If to preserve this vessel for my lord From any other foul unlawful touch Be not to be a strumpet, I am none. OTHELLO. What, not a whore? DESDEMONA. No, as I shall be saved. OTHELLO. Is't possible? DESDEMONA. O, heaven forgive us! OTHELLO. I cry you mercy then; I took you for that cunning whore of Venice That married with Othello. [Raises his voice.] You, mistress, That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keep the gate of hell! Re-enter Emilia. You, you, ay, you! We have done our course; there's money for your pains. I pray you, turn the key, and keep our counsel. Exit. EMILIA. Alas, what does this gentleman conceive? How do you, madam? How do you, my good lady? DESDEMONA. Faith, half asleep. EMILIA. Good madam, what's the matter with my lord? DESDEMONA. With who? EMILIA. Why, with my lord, madam. DESDEMONA. Who is thy lord? EMILIA. He that is yours, sweet lady. DESDEMONA. I have none. Do not talk to me, Emilia; I cannot weep, nor answer have I none But what should go by water. Prithee, tonight Lay on my bed my wedding sheets. Remember, And call thy husband hither. EMILIA. Here's a change indeed! Exit. DESDEMONA. 'Tis meet I should be used so, very meet. How have I been behaved, that he might stick The small'st opinion on my least misuse? Re-enter Emilia with Iago. IAGO. What is your pleasure, madam? How is't with you? DESDEMONA. I cannot tell. Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks. He might have chid me so, for in good faith, I am a child to chiding. IAGO. What's the matter, lady? EMILIA. Alas, Iago, my lord hath so bewhored her, Thrown such despite and heavy terms upon her, As true hearts cannot bear. DESDEMONA. Am I that name, Iago? IAGO. What name, fair lady? DESDEMONA. Such as she says my lord did say I was. EMILIA. He call'd her whore; a beggar in his drink Could not have laid such terms upon his callet. IAGO. Why did he so? DESDEMONA. I do not know; I am sure I am none such. IAGO. Do not weep, do not weep. Alas the day! EMILIA. Hath she forsook so many noble matches, Her father and her country and her friends, To be call'd whore? Would it not make one weep? DESDEMONA. It is my wretched fortune. IAGO. Beshrew him for't! How comes this trick upon him? DESDEMONA. Nay, heaven doth know. EMILIA. I will be hang'd, if some eternal villain, Some busy and insinuating rogue, Some cogging, cozening slave, to get some office, Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else. IAGO. Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible. DESDEMONA. If any such there be, heaven pardon him! EMILIA. A halter pardon him! And hell gnaw his bones! Why should he call her whore? Who keeps her company? What place? What time? What form? What likelihood? The Moor's abused by some most villainous knave, Some base notorious knave, some scurvy fellow. O heaven, that such companions thou'ldst unfold, And put in every honest hand a whip To lash the rascals naked through the world Even from the east to the west! IAGO. Speak within door. EMILIA. O, fie upon them! Some such squire he was That turn'd your wit the seamy side without, And made you to suspect me with the Moor. IAGO. You are a fool; go to. DESDEMONA. O good Iago, What shall I do to win my lord again? Good friend, go to him, for by this light of heaven, I know not how I lost him. Here I kneel: If e'er my will did trespass 'gainst his love Either in discourse of thought or actual deed, Or that mine eyes, mine ears, or any sense, Delighted them in any other form, Or that I do not yet, and ever did, And ever will, though he do shake me off To beggarly divorcement, love him dearly, Comfort forswear me! Unkindness may do much, And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love. I cannot say "whore." It doth abhor me now I speak the word; To do the act that might the addition earn Not the world's mass of vanity could make me. IAGO. I pray you, be content; 'tis but his humor: The business of the state does him offense, And he does chide with you. DESDEMONA. If 'twere no other- IAGO. 'Tis but so, I warrant. Trumpets within. Hark, how these instruments summon to supper! The messengers of Venice stay the meat. Go in, and weep not; all things shall be well. Exeunt Desdemona and Emilia. Enter Roderigo. How now, Roderigo! RODERIGO. I do not find that thou dealest justly with me. IAGO. What in the contrary? RODERIGO. Every day thou daffest me with some device, Iago; and rather, as it seems to me now, keepest from me all conveniency than suppliest me with the least advantage of hope. I will indeed no longer endure it; nor am I yet persuaded to put up in peace what already I have foolishly suffered. IAGO. Will you hear me, Roderigo? RODERIGO. Faith, I have heard too much, for your words and performances are no kin together. IAGO. You charge me most unjustly. RODERIGO. With nought but truth. I have wasted myself out of my means. The jewels you have had from me to deliver to Desdemona would half have corrupted a votarist. You have told me she hath received them and returned me expectations and comforts of sudden respect and acquaintance; but I find none. IAGO. Well, go to, very well. RODERIGO. Very well! go to! I cannot go to, man; nor 'tis not very well. By this hand, I say 'tis very scurvy, and begin to find myself fopped in it. IAGO. Very well. RODERIGO. I tell you 'tis not very well. I will make myself known to Desdemona. If she will return me my jewels, I will give over my suit and repent my unlawful solicitation; if not, assure yourself I will seek satisfaction of you. IAGO. You have said now. RODERIGO. Ay, and said nothing but what I protest intendment of doing. IAGO. Why, now I see there's mettle in thee; and even from this instant do build on thee a better opinion than ever before. Give me thy hand, Roderigo. Thou hast taken against me a most just exception; but yet, I protest, have dealt most directly in thy affair. RODERIGO. It hath not appeared. IAGO. I grant indeed it hath not appeared, and your suspicion is not without wit and judgement. But, Roderigo, if thou hast that in thee indeed, which I have greater reason to believe now than ever, I mean purpose, courage, and valor, this night show it; if thou the next night following enjoy not Desdemona, take me from this world with treachery and devise engines for my life. RODERIGO. Well, what is it? Is it within reason and compass? IAGO. Sir, there is especial commission come from Venice to depute Cassio in Othello's place. RODERIGO. Is that true? Why then Othello and Desdemona return again to Venice. IAGO. O, no; he goes into Mauritania, and takes away with him the fair Desdemona, unless his abode be lingered here by some accident; wherein none can be so determinate as the removing of Cassio. RODERIGO. How do you mean, removing of him? IAGO. Why, by making him uncapable of Othello's place; knocking out his brains. RODERIGO. And that you would have me to do? IAGO. Ay, if you dare do yourself a profit and a right. He sups tonight with a harlotry, and thither will I go to him. He knows not yet of his honorable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which his will fashion to fall out between twelve and one, you may take him at your pleasure; I will be near to second your attempt, and he shall fall between us. Come, stand not amazed at it, but go along with me; I will show you such a necessity in his death that you shall think yourself bound to put it on him. It is now high supper-time, and the night grows to waste. About it. RODERIGO. I will hear further reason for this. IAGO. And you shall be satisfied. Exeunt. SCENE III. Another room in the castle. Enter Othello, Lodovico, Desdemona, Emilia, and Attendants. LODOVICO. I do beseech you, sir, trouble yourself no further. OTHELLO. O, pardon me; 'twill do me good to walk. LODOVICO. Madam, good night; I humbly thank your ladyship. DESDEMONA. Your honor is most welcome. OTHELLO. Will you walk, sir? O- Desdemona- DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Get you to bed on the instant; I will be returned forthwith. Dismiss your attendant there; look it be done. DESDEMONA. I will, my lord. Exeunt Othello, Lodovico, and Attendants. EMILIA. How goes it now? He looks gentler than he did. DESDEMONA. He says he will return incontinent. He hath commanded me to go to bed, And bade me to dismiss you. EMILIA. Dismiss me? DESDEMONA. It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia, Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu. We must not now displease him. EMILIA. I would you had never seen him! DESDEMONA. So would not I. My love doth so approve him, That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns- Prithee, unpin me- have grace and favor in them. EMILIA. I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed. DESDEMONA. All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds! If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me In one of those same sheets. EMILIA. Come, come, you talk. DESDEMONA. My mother had a maid call'd Barbary; She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsake her. She had a song of "willow"; An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune, And she died singing it. That song tonight Will not go from my mind; I have much to do But to go hang my head all at one side And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee, dispatch. EMILIA. Shall I go fetch your nightgown? DESDEMONA. No, unpin me here. This Lodovico is a proper man. EMILIA. A very handsome man. DESDEMONA. He speaks well. EMILIA. I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to Palestine for a touch of his nether lip. DESDEMONA. [Sings.] "The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree, Sing all a green willow; Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee, Sing willow, willow, willow. The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans, Sing willow, willow, willow; Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones-" Lay be these- [Sings.] "Sing willow, willow, willow-" Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon- [Sings.] "Sing all a green willow must be my garland. Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve-" Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks? EMILIA. It's the wind. DESDEMONA. [Sings.] "I call'd my love false love; but what said he then? Sing willow, willow, willow. If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men-" So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch; Doth that bode weeping? EMILIA. 'Tis neither here nor there. DESDEMONA. I have heard it said so. O, these men, these men! Dost thou in conscience think- tell me, Emilia- That there be women do abuse their husbands In such gross kind? EMILIA. There be some such, no question. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? EMILIA. Why, would not you? DESDEMONA. No, by this heavenly light! EMILIA. Nor I neither by this heavenly light; I might do't as well i' the dark. DESDEMONA. Wouldst thou do such a deed for all the world? EMILIA. The world's a huge thing; it is a great price For a small vice. DESDEMONA. In troth, I think thou wouldst not. EMILIA. In troth, I think I should, and undo't when I had done. Marry, I would not do such a thing for a joint-ring, nor for measures of lawn, nor for gowns, petticoats, nor caps, nor any petty exhibition; but, for the whole world- why, who would not make her husband a cuckold to make him a monarch? I should venture purgatory for't. DESDEMONA. Beshrew me, if I would do such a wrong For the whole world. EMILIA. Why, the wrong is but a wrong i' the world; and having the world for your labor, 'tis a wrong in your own world, and you might quickly make it right. DESDEMONA. I do not think there is any such woman. EMILIA. Yes, a dozen, and as many to the vantage as would store the world they played for. But I do think it is their husbands' faults If wives do fall; say that they slack their duties And pour our treasures into foreign laps, Or else break out in peevish jealousies, Throwing restraint upon us, or say they strike us, Or scant our former having in despite, Why, we have galls, and though we have some grace, Yet have we some revenge. Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them; they see and smell And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have. What is it that they do When they change us for others? Is it sport? I think it is. And doth affection breed it? I think it doth. Is't frailty that thus errs? It is so too. And have not we affections, Desires for sport, and frailty, as men have? Then let them use us well; else let them know, The ills we do, their ills instruct us so. DESDEMONA. Good night, good night. Heaven me such uses send, Not to pick bad from bad, but by bad mend! Exeunt. <> ACT V. SCENE I. Cyprus. A street. Enter Iago and Roderigo: IAGO. Here, stand behind this bulk; straight will he come. Wear thy good rapier bare, and put it home. Quick, quick; fear nothing; I'll be at thy elbow. It makes us, or it mars us; think on that, And fix most firm thy resolution. RODERIGO. Be near at hand; I may miscarry in't. IAGO. Here, at thy hand, be bold, and take thy stand. Retires. RODERIGO. I have no great devotion to the deed; And yet he hath given me satisfying reasons. 'Tis but a man gone. Forth, my sword; he dies. IAGO. I have rubb'd this young quat almost to the sense, And he grows angry. Now, whether he kill Cassio, Or Cassio him, or each do kill the other, Every way makes my gain. Live Roderigo, He calls me to a restitution large Of gold and jewels that I bobb'd from him, As gifts to Desdemona; It must not be. If Cassio do remain, He hath a daily beauty in his life That makes me ugly; and besides, the Moor May unfold me to him; there stand I in much peril. No, he must die. Be't so. I hear him coming. Enter Cassio. RODERIGO. I know his gait; 'tis he. Villain, thou diest! Makes a pass at Cassio. CASSIO. That thrust had been mine enemy indeed, But that my coat is better than thou know'st; I will make proof of thine. Draws, and wounds Roderigo. RODERIGO. O, I am slain! Iago from behind wounds Cassio in the leg, and exit. CASSIO. I am maim'd forever. Help, ho! Murther! Murther! Falls. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. The voice of Cassio; Iago keeps his word. RODERIGO. O, villain that I am! OTHELLO. It is even so. CASSIO. O, help, ho! Light! A surgeon! OTHELLO. 'Tis he. O brave Iago, honest and just, That hast such noble sense of thy friend's wrong! Thou teachest me. Minion, your dear lies dead, And your unblest fate hies. Strumpet, I come! Forth of my heart those charms, thine eyes, are blotted; Thy bed lust-stain'd shall with lust's blood be spotted. Exit. Enter Lodovico and Gratiano. CASSIO. What, ho! No watch? No passage? Murther! Murther! GRATIANO. 'Tis some mischance; the cry is very direful. CASSIO. O, help! LODOVICO. Hark! RODERIGO. O wretched villain! LODOVICO. Two or three groan; it is a heavy night. These may be counterfeits; let's think't unsafe To come in to the cry without more help. RODERIGO. Nobody come? Then shall I bleed to death. LODOVICO. Hark! Re-enter Iago, with a light. GRATIANO. Here's one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons. IAGO. Who's there? Whose noise is this that cries on murther? LODOVICO. We do not know. IAGO. Did not you hear a cry? CASSIO. Here, here! for heaven's sake, help me! IAGO. What's the matter? GRATIANO. This is Othello's ancient, as I take it. LODOVICO. The same indeed; a very valiant fellow. IAGO. What are you here that cry so grievously? CASSIO. Iago? O, I am spoil'd, undone by villains! Give me some help. IAGO. O me, lieutenant! What villains have done this? CASSIO. I think that one of them is hereabout, And cannot make away. IAGO. O treacherous villains! [To Lodovico and Gratiano.] What are you there? Come in and give some help. RODERIGO. O, help me here! CASSIO. That's one of them. IAGO. O murtherous slave! O villain! Stabs Roderigo. RODERIGO. O damn'd Iago! O inhuman dog! IAGO. Kill men i' the dark! Where be these bloody thieves? How silent is this town! Ho! Murther! Murther! What may you be? Are you of good or evil? LODOVICO. As you shall prove us, praise us. IAGO. Signior Lodovico? LODOVICO. He, sir. IAGO. I cry you mercy. Here's Cassio hurt by villains. GRATIANO. Cassio? IAGO. How is't, brother? CASSIO. My leg is cut in two. IAGO. Marry, heaven forbid! Light, gentlemen; I'll bind it with my shirt. Enter Bianca. BIANCA. What is the matter, ho? Who is't that cried? IAGO. Who is't that cried? BIANCA. O my dear Cassio, my sweet Cassio! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. O notable strumpet! Cassio, may you suspect Who they should be that have thus mangled you? CASSIO. No. GRATIANO. I am sorry to find you thus; I have been to seek you. IAGO. Lend me a garter. So. O, for a chair, To bear him easily hence! BIANCA. Alas, he faints! O Cassio, Cassio, Cassio! IAGO. Gentlemen all, I do suspect this trash To be a party in this injury. Patience awhile, good Cassio. Come, come; Lend me a light. Know we this face or no? Alas, my friend and my dear countryman Roderigo? No- yes, sure. O heaven! Roderigo. GRATIANO. What, of Venice? IAGO. Even he, sir. Did you know him? GRATIANO. Know him! ay. IAGO. Signior Gratiano? I cry you gentle pardon; These bloody accidents must excuse my manners, That so neglected you. GRATIANO. I am glad to see you. IAGO. How do you, Cassio? O, a chair, a chair! GRATIANO. Roderigo! IAGO. He, he, 'tis he. [A chair brought in.] O, that's well said: the chair. Some good man bear him carefully from hence; I'll fetch the general's surgeon. [To Bianca.] For you, mistress, Save you your labor. He that lies slain here, Cassio, Was my dear friend; what malice was between you? CASSIO. None in the world; nor do I know the man. IAGO. [To Bianca.] What, look you pale? O, bear him out o' the air. Cassio and Roderigo are borne off. Stay you, good gentlemen. Look you pale, mistress? Do you perceive the gastness of her eye? Nay, if you stare, we shall hear more anon. Behold her well; I pray you, look upon her. Do you see, gentlemen? Nay, guiltiness will speak, Though tongues were out of use. Enter Emilia. EMILIA. 'Las, what's the matter? What's the matter, husband? IAGO. Cassio hath here been set on in the dark By Roderigo, and fellows that are 'scaped; He's almost slain, and Roderigo dead. EMILIA. Alas, good gentleman! alas, good Cassio! IAGO. This is the fruit of whoring. Prithee, Emilia, Go know of Cassio where he supp'd tonight. What, do you shake at that? BIANCA. He supp'd at my house; but I therefore shake not. IAGO. O, did he so? I charge you, go with me. EMILIA. Fie, fie upon thee, strumpet! BIANCA. I am no strumpet, but of life as honest As you that thus abuse me. EMILIA. As I! foh! fie upon thee! IAGO. Kind gentlemen, let's go see poor Cassio dress'd. Come, mistress, you must tell's another tale. Emilia, run you to the citadel, And tell my lord and lady what hath happ'd! Will you go on? [Aside.] This is the night That either makes me or fordoes me quite. Exeunt. SCENE II. A bedchamber in the castle. Desdemona in bed asleep; a light burning. Enter Othello. OTHELLO. It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster. Yet she must die, else she'll betray more men. Put out the light, and then put out the light. If I quench thee, thou flaming minister, I can again thy former light restore, Should I repent me; but once put out thy light, Thou cunning'st pattern of excelling nature, I know not where is that Promethean heat That can thy light relume. When I have pluck'd the rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither; I'll smell it on the tree. Kisses her. O, balmy breath, that dost almost persuade Justice to break her sword! One more, one more; Be thus when thou art dead, and I will kill thee, And love thee after. One more, and this the last; So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep, But they are cruel tears; this sorrow's heavenly, It strikes where it doth love. She wakes. DESDEMONA. Who's there? Othello? OTHELLO. Ay, Desdemona. DESDEMONA. Will you come to bed, my lord? OTHELLO. Have you pray'd tonight, Desdemona? DESDEMONA. Ay, my lord. OTHELLO. If you bethink yourself of any crime Unreconciled as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA. Alas, my lord, what may you mean by that? OTHELLO. Well, do it, and be brief; I will walk by. I would not kill thy unprepared spirit. No, heaven forfend! I would not kill thy soul. DESDEMONA. Talk you of killing? OTHELLO. Ay, I do. DESDEMONA. Then heaven have mercy on me! OTHELLO. Amen, with all my heart! DESDEMONA. If you say so, I hope you will not kill me. OTHELLO. Hum! DESDEMONA. And yet I fear you, for you are fatal then When your eyes roll so. Why I should fear I know not, Since guiltiness I know not; but yet I feel I fear. OTHELLO. Think on thy sins. DESDEMONA. They are loves I bear to you. OTHELLO. Ay, and for that thou diest. DESDEMONA. That death's unnatural that kills for loving. Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip? Some bloody passion shakes your very frame. These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope, They do not point on me. OTHELLO. Peace, and be still! DESDEMONA. I will so. What's the matter? OTHELLO. That handkerchief which I so loved and gave thee Thou gavest to Cassio. DESDEMONA. No, by my life and soul! Send for the man, and ask him. OTHELLO. Sweet soul, take heed, Take heed of perjury; thou are on thy deathbed. DESDEMONA. Ay, but not yet to die. OTHELLO. Yes, presently: Therefore confess thee freely of thy sin, For to deny each article with oath Cannot remove nor choke the strong conception That I do groan withal. Thou art to die. DESDEMONA. Then Lord have mercy on me! OTHELLO. I say, amen. DESDEMONA. And have you mercy too! I never did Offend you in my life; never loved Cassio But with such general warranty of heaven As I might love. I never gave him token. OTHELLO. By heaven, I saw my handkerchief in 's hand. O perjured woman! Thou dost stone my heart, And makest me call what I intend to do A murther, which I thought a sacrifice. I saw the handkerchief. DESDEMONA. He found it then; I never gave it him. Send for him hither; Let him confess a truth. OTHELLO. He hath confess'd. DESDEMONA. What, my lord? OTHELLO. That he hath used thee. DESDEMONA. How? unlawfully? OTHELLO. Ay. DESDEMONA. He will not say so. OTHELLO. No, his mouth is stopp'd; Honest Iago hath ta'en order for't. DESDEMONA. O, my fear interprets! What, is he dead? OTHELLO. Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge Had stomach for them all. DESDEMONA. Alas, he is betray'd, and I undone! OTHELLO. Out, strumpet! Weep'st thou for him to my face? DESDEMONA. O, banish me, my lord, but kill me not! OTHELLO. Down, strumpet! DESDEMONA. Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight! OTHELLO. Nay, if you strive- DESDEMONA. But half an hour! OTHELLO. Being done, there is no pause. DESDEMONA. But while I say one prayer! OTHELLO. It is too late. He stifles her. EMILIA. [Within.] My lord, my lord! What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. What noise is this? Not dead? not yet quite dead? I that am cruel am yet merciful; I would not have thee linger in thy pain. So, so. EMILIA. [Within.] What, ho! my lord, my lord! OTHELLO. Who's there? EMILIA. [Within.] O, good my lord, I would speak a word with you! OTHELLO. Yes, 'tis Emilia. By and by. She's dead. 'Tis like she comes to speak of Cassio's death. The noise was here. Ha! no more moving? Still as the grave. Shall she come in? were't good? I think she stirs again. No. What's best to do? If she come in, she'll sure speak to my wife. My wife! My wife! What wife? I have no wife. O, insupportable! O heavy hour! Methinks it should be now a huge eclipse Of sun and moon, and that the affrighted globe Should yawn at alteration. EMILIA. [Within.] I do beseech you That I may speak with you, O, good my lord! OTHELLO. I had forgot thee. O, come in, Emilia. Soft, by and by. Let me the curtains draw. Where art thou? Unlocks the door. Enter Emilia. What's the matter with thee now? EMILIA. O, my good lord, yonder's foul murthers done! OTHELLO. What, now? EMILIA. But now, my lord. OTHELLO. It is the very error of the moon; She comes more nearer earth than she was wont And makes men mad. EMILIA. Cassio, my lord, hath kill'd a young Venetian Call'd Roderigo. OTHELLO. Roderigo kill'd? And Cassio kill'd? EMILIA. No, Cassio is not kill'd. OTHELLO. Not Cassio kill'd! Then murther's out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murther'd! EMILIA. Alas, what cry is that? OTHELLO. That? what? EMILIA. Out, and alas! That was my lady's voice. Help! help, ho! help! O lady, speak again! Sweet Desdemona! O sweet mistress, speak! DESDEMONA. A guiltless death I die. EMILIA. O, who hath done this deed? DESDEMONA. Nobody; I myself. Farewell; Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Dies. OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murther'd? EMILIA. Alas, who knows? OTHELLO. You heard her say herself, it was not I. EMILIA. She said so; I must needs report the truth. OTHELLO. She's like a liar gone to burning hell; 'Twas I that kill'd her. EMILIA. O, the more angel she, And you the blacker devil! OTHELLO. She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. EMILIA. Thou dost belie her, and thou art a devil. OTHELLO. She was false as water. EMILIA. Thou art rash as fire, to say That she was false. O, she was heavenly true! OTHELLO. Cassio did top her; ask thy husband else. O, I were damn'd beneath all depth in hell, But that I did proceed upon just grounds To this extremity. Thy husband knew it all. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Thy husband. EMILIA. That she was false to wedlock? OTHELLO. Ay, with Cassio. Nay, had she been true, If heaven would make me such another world Of one entire and perfect chrysolite, I'ld not have sold her for it. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. Ay, 'twas he that told me first. An honest man he is, and hates the slime That sticks on filthy deeds. EMILIA. My husband? OTHELLO. What needs this iteration, woman? I say thy husband. EMILIA. O mistress, villainy hath made mocks with love! My husband say that she was false! OTHELLO. He, woman; I say thy husband. Dost understand the word? My friend, thy husband, honest, honest Iago. EMILIA. If he say so, may his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day! He lies to the heart. She was too fond of her most filthy bargain. OTHELLO. Ha! EMILIA. Do thy worst; This deed of thine is no more worthy heaven Than thou wast worthy her. OTHELLO. Peace, you were best. EMILIA. Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt. O gull! O dolt! As ignorant as dirt! Thou hast done a deed- I care not for thy sword; I'll make thee known, Though I lost twenty lives. Help! help, ho! help! The Moor hath kill'd my mistress! Murther, murther! Enter Montano, Gratiano, Iago, and others. MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murthers on your neck. GRATIANO. What is the matter? EMILIA. Disprove this villain, if thou be'st a man. He says thou told'st him that his wife was false; I know thou didst not, thou'rt not such a villain. Speak, for my heart is full. IAGO. I told him what I thought, and told no more Than what he found himself was apt and true. EMILIA. But did you ever tell him she was false? IAGO. I did. EMILIA. You told a lie, an odious, damned lie; Upon my soul, a lie, a wicked lie! She false with Cassio? Did you say with Cassio? IAGO. With Cassio, mistress. Go to, charm your tongue. EMILIA. I will not charm my tongue; I am bound to speak. My mistress here lies murther'd in her bed- ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And your reports have set the murther on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters; it is true indeed. GRATIANO. 'Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA. Villainy, villainy, villainy! I think upon't, I think, I smell't, O villainy! I thought so then. I'll kill myself for grief. O villainy, villainy! IAGO. What, are you mad? I charge you, get you home. EMILIA. Good gentlemen, let me have leave to speak; 'Tis proper I obey him, but not now. Perchance, Iago, I will ne'er go home. OTHELLO. O! O! O! Falls on the bed. EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill'd the sweetest innocent That e'er did lift up eye. OTHELLO. [Rises.] O, she was foul! I scarce did know you, uncle; there lies your niece, Whose breath indeed these hands have newly stopp'd. I know this act shows horrible and grim. GRATIANO. Poor Desdemon! I am glad thy father's dead. Thy match was mortal to him, and pure grief Shore his old thread in twain; did he live now, This sight would make him do a desperate turn, Yea, curse his better angel from his side, And fall to reprobation. OTHELLO. 'Tis pitiful, but yet Iago knows That she with Cassio hath the act of shame A thousand times committed. Cassio confess'd it, And she did gratify his amorous works With that recognizance and pledge of love Which I first gave her. I saw it in his hand, It was a handkerchief, an antique token My father gave my mother. EMILIA. O heaven! O heavenly powers! IAGO. 'Zounds! Hold your peace. EMILIA. 'Twill out, 'twill. I peace? No, I will speak as liberal as the north; Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak. IAGO. Be wise, and get you home. EMILIA. I will not. Iago offers to stab Emilia. GRATIANO. Fie! Your sword upon a woman? EMILIA. O thou dull Moor! That handkerchief thou speak'st of I found by fortune and did give my husband, For often with a solemn earnestness, More than indeed belong'd to such a trifle, He begg'd of me to steal it. IAGO. Villainous whore! EMILIA. She give it Cassio? No, alas, I found it, And I did give't my husband. IAGO. Filth, thou liest! EMILIA. By heaven, I do not, I do not, gentlemen. O murtherous coxcomb! What should such a fool Do with so good a wife? OTHELLO. Are there not stones in heaven But what serve for thunder? Precious villain! He runs at Iago, but Montano disarms him. Iago stabs Emilia. GRATIANO. The woman falls; sure, he hath kill'd his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay! O, lay me by my mistress' side. Exit Iago. GRATIANO. He's gone, but his wife's kill'd. MONTANO. 'Tis a notorious villain. Take you this weapon, Which I have here recover'd from the Moor. Come, guard the door without; let him not pass, But kill him rather. I'll after that same villain, For 'tis a damned slave. Exeunt all but Othello and Emilia. OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honor outlive honesty? Let it go all. EMILIA. What did thy song bode, lady? Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan, And die in music. [Sings.] "Willow, willow, willow." Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. Dies. OTHELLO. I have another weapon in this chamber; It is a sword of Spain, the ice-brook's temper- O, here it is. Uncle, I must come forth. GRATIANO. [Within.] If thou attempt it, it will cost thee dear. Thou hast no weapon, and perforce must suffer. OTHELLO. Look in upon me then, and speak with me, Or, naked as I am, I will assault thee. Re-enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. What is the matter? OTHELLO. Behold, I have a weapon; A better never did itself sustain Upon a soldier's thigh. I have seen the day That with this little arm and this good sword I have made my way through more impediments Than twenty times your stop. But, O vain boast! Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now. Be not afraid, though you do see me weapon'd; Here is my journey's end, here is my butt And very sea-mark of my utmost sail. Do you go back dismay'd? 'Tis a lost fear. Man but a rush against Othello's breast, And he retires. Where should Othello go? Now, how dost thou look now? O ill-starr'd wench! Pale as thy smock! When we shall meet at compt, This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven, And fiends will snatch at it. Cold, cold, my girl? Even like thy chastity. O cursed, cursed slave! Whip me, ye devils, From the possession of this heavenly sight! Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur! Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! O Desdemon! dead, Desdemon! dead! O! O! O! Enter Lodovico, Montano, Cassio carried in a chair, and Officers with Iago, prisoner. LODOVICO. Where is this rash and most unfortunate man? OTHELLO. That's he that was Othello. Here I am. LODOVICO. Where is that viper? Bring the villain forth. OTHELLO. I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable. If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee. Wounds Iago. LODOVICO. Wrench his sword from him. IAGO. I bleed, sir, but not kill'd. OTHELLO. I am not sorry neither. I'ld have thee live, For, in my sense, 'tis happiness to die. LODOVICO. O thou Othello, that wert once so good, Fall'n in the practice of a damned slave, What shall be said to thee? OTHELLO. Why, anything; An honorable murtherer, if you will, For nought did I in hate, but all in honor. LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess'd his villainy. Did you and he consent in Cassio's death? OTHELLO. Ay. CASSIO. Dear general, I never gave you cause. OTHELLO. I do believe it, and I ask your pardon. Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? IAGO. Demand me nothing; what you know, you know. From this time forth I never will speak word. LODOVICO. What, not to pray? GRATIANO. Torments will ope your lips. OTHELLO. Well, thou dost best. LODOVICO. Sir, you shall understand what hath befall'n, Which, as I think, you know not. Here is a letter Found in the pocket of the slain Roderigo, And here another. The one of them imports The death of Cassio to be undertook By Roderigo. OTHELLO. O villain! CASSIO. Most heathenish and most gross! LODOVICO. Now here's another discontented paper, Found in his pocket too; and this, it seems, Roderigo meant to have sent this damned villain; But that, belike, Iago in the interim Came in and satisfied him. OTHELLO. O the pernicious caitiff! How came you, Cassio, by that handkerchief That was my wife's? CASSIO. I found it in my chamber; And he himself confess'd but even now That there he dropp'd it for a special purpose Which wrought to his desire. OTHELLO. O fool! fool! fool! CASSIO. There is besides in Roderigo's letter, How he upbraids Iago, that he made him Brave me upon the watch, whereon it came That I was cast. And even but now he spake After long seeming dead, Iago hurt him, Iago set him on. LODOVICO. You must forsake this room, and go with us. Your power and your command is taken off, And Cassio rules in Cyprus. For this slave, If there be any cunning cruelty That can torment him much and hold him long, It shall be his. You shall close prisoner rest, Till that the nature of your fault be known To the Venetian state. Come, bring away. OTHELLO. Soft you; a word or two before you go. I have done the state some service, and they know't. No more of that. I pray you, in your letters, When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely but too well; Of one not easily jealous, but, being wrought, Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand, Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes, Albeit unused to the melting mood, Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their medicinal gum. Set you down this; And say besides, that in Aleppo once, Where a malignant and a turban'd Turk Beat a Venetian and traduced the state, I took by the throat the circumcised dog And smote him, thus. Stabs himself. LODOVICO. O bloody period! GRATIANO. All that's spoke is marr'd. OTHELLO. I kiss'd thee ere I kill'd thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss. Falls on the bed, and dies. CASSIO. This did I fear, but thought he had no weapon; For he was great of heart. LODOVICO. [To Iago.] O Spartan dog, More fell than anguish, hunger, or the sea! Look on the tragic loading of this bed; This is thy work. The object poisons sight; Let it be hid. Gratiano, keep the house, And seize upon the fortunes of the Moor, For they succeed on you. To you, Lord Governor, Remains the censure of this hellish villain, The time, the place, the torture. O, enforce it! Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate. Exeunt. THE END <> 1596 KING RICHARD THE SECOND by William Shakespeare DRAMATIS PERSONAE KING RICHARD THE SECOND JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King EDMUND LANGLEY, Duke of York - uncle to the King HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, son of John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV DUKE OF AUMERLE, son of the Duke of York THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk DUKE OF SURREY EARL OF SALISBURY EARL BERKELEY BUSHY - favourites of King Richard BAGOT - " " " " GREEN - " " " " EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son LORD Ross LORD WILLOUGHBY LORD FITZWATER BISHOP OF CARLISLE ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER LORD MARSHAL SIR STEPHEN SCROOP SIR PIERCE OF EXTON CAPTAIN of a band of Welshmen TWO GARDENERS QUEEN to King Richard DUCHESS OF YORK DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, widow of Thomas of Woodstock, Duke of Gloucester LADY attending on the Queen Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants <> SCENE: England and Wales ACT I. SCENE I. London. The palace Enter RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other NOBLES and attendants KING RICHARD. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, Hast thou, according to thy oath and band, Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son, Here to make good the boist'rous late appeal, Which then our leisure would not let us hear, Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? GAUNT. I have, my liege. KING RICHARD. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice, Or worthily, as a good subject should, On some known ground of treachery in him? GAUNT. As near as I could sift him on that argument, On some apparent danger seen in him Aim'd at your Highness-no inveterate malice. KING RICHARD. Then call them to our presence: face to face And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear The accuser and the accused freely speak. High-stomach'd are they both and full of ire, In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire. Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY BOLINGBROKE. Many years of happy days befall My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege! MOWBRAY. Each day still better other's happiness Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap, Add an immortal title to your crown! KING RICHARD. We thank you both; yet one but flatters us, As well appeareth by the cause you come; Namely, to appeal each other of high treason. Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray? BOLINGBROKE. First-heaven be the record to my speech! In the devotion of a subject's love, Tend'ring the precious safety of my prince, And free from other misbegotten hate, Come I appellant to this princely presence. Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee, And mark my greeting well; for what I speak My body shall make good upon this earth, Or my divine soul answer it in heaven- Thou art a traitor and a miscreant, Too good to be so, and too bad to live, Since the more fair and crystal is the sky, The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly. Once more, the more to aggravate the note, With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat; And wish-so please my sovereign-ere I move, What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove. MOWBRAY. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal. 'Tis not the trial of a woman's war, The bitter clamour of two eager tongues, Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain; The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this. Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hush'd and nought at an to say. First, the fair reverence of your Highness curbs me From giving reins and spurs to my free speech; Which else would post until it had return'd These terms of treason doubled down his throat. Setting aside his high blood's royalty, And let him be no kinsman to my liege, I do defy him, and I spit at him, Call him a slanderous coward and a villain; Which to maintain, I would allow him odds And meet him, were I tied to run afoot Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps, Or any other ground inhabitable Where ever Englishman durst set his foot. Meantime let this defend my loyalty- By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie BOLINGBROKE. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage, Disclaiming here the kindred of the King; And lay aside my high blood's royalty, Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except. If guilty dread have left thee so much strength As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop. By that and all the rites of knighthood else Will I make good against thee, arm to arm, What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise. MOWBRAY. I take it up; and by that sword I swear Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder I'll answer thee in any fair degree Or chivalrous design of knightly trial; And when I mount, alive may I not light If I be traitor or unjustly fight! KING RICHARD. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge? It must be great that can inherit us So much as of a thought of ill in him. BOLINGBROKE. Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true- That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers, The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments Like a false traitor and injurious villain. Besides, I say and will in battle prove- Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest verge That ever was survey'd by English eye- That all the treasons for these eighteen years Complotted and contrived in this land Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring. Further I say, and further will maintain Upon his bad life to make all this good, That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death, Suggest his soon-believing adversaries, And consequently, like a traitor coward, Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood; Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth, To me for justice and rough chastisement; And, by the glorious worth of my descent, This arm shall do it, or this life be spent. KING RICHARD. How high a pitch his resolution soars! Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this? MOWBRAY. O, let my sovereign turn away his face And bid his ears a little while be deaf, Till I have told this slander of his blood How God and good men hate so foul a liar. KING RICHARD. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and cars. Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir, As he is but my father's brother's son, Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow, Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood Should nothing privilege him nor partialize The unstooping firmness of my upright soul. He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou: Free speech and fearless I to thee allow. MOWBRAY. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart, Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest. Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais Disburs'd I duly to his Highness' soldiers; The other part reserv'd I by consent, For that my sovereign liege was in my debt Upon remainder of a dear account Since last I went to France to fetch his queen: Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death- I slew him not, but to my own disgrace Neglected my sworn duty in that case. For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster, The honourable father to my foe, Once did I lay an ambush for your life, A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul; But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament I did confess it, and exactly begg'd Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it. This is my fault. As for the rest appeal'd, It issues from the rancour of a villain, A recreant and most degenerate traitor; Which in myself I boldly will defend, And interchangeably hurl down my gage Upon this overweening traitor's foot To prove myself a loyal gentleman Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom. In haste whereof, most heartily I pray Your Highness to assign our trial day. KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me; Let's purge this choler without letting blood- This we prescribe, though no physician; Deep malice makes too deep incision. Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed: Our doctors say this is no month to bleed. Good uncle, let this end where it begun; We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son. GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age. Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage. KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his. GAUNT. When, Harry, when? Obedience bids I should not bid again. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down; we bid. There is no boot. MOWBRAY. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot; My life thou shalt command, but not my shame: The one my duty owes; but my fair name, Despite of death, that lives upon my grave To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have. I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here; Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breath'd this poison. KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood: Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame. MOWBRAY. Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame, And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation; that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one; Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live, and for that will I die. KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin. BOLINGBROKE. O, God defend my soul from such deep sin! Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight? Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear The slavish motive of recanting fear, And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace, Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face. Exit GAUNT KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but to command; Which since we cannot do to make you friends, Be ready, as your lives shall answer it, At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day. There shall your swords and lances arbitrate The swelling difference of your settled hate; Since we can not atone you, we shall see Justice design the victor's chivalry. Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms Be ready to direct these home alarms. Exeunt SCENE 2. London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood Doth more solicit me than your exclaims To stir against the butchers of his life! But since correction lieth in those hands Which made the fault that we cannot correct, Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven; Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth, Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads. DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur? Hath love in thy old blood no living fire? Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one, Were as seven vials of his sacred blood, Or seven fair branches springing from one root. Some of those seven are dried by nature's course, Some of those branches by the Destinies cut; But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester, One vial full of Edward's sacred blood, One flourishing branch of his most royal root, Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt; Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded, By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe. Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb, That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee, Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest, Yet art thou slain in him. Thou dost consent In some large measure to thy father's death In that thou seest thy wretched brother die, Who was the model of thy father's life. Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair; In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red, Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life, Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee. That which in mean men we entitle patience Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts. What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death. GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute, His deputy anointed in His sight, Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully, Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift An angry arm against His minister. DUCHESS. Where then, alas, may I complain myself? GAUNT. To God, the widow's champion and defence. DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt. Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight. O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear, That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast! Or, if misfortune miss the first career, Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom That they may break his foaming courser's back And throw the rider headlong in the lists, A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford! Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife, With her companion, Grief, must end her life. GAUNT. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry. As much good stay with thee as go with me! DUCHESS. Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls, Not with the empty hollowness, but weight. I take my leave before I have begun, For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done. Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York. Lo, this is all- nay, yet depart not so; Though this be all, do not so quickly go; I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what?- With all good speed at Plashy visit me. Alack, and what shall good old York there see But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls, Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones? And what hear there for welcome but my groans? Therefore commend me; let him not come there To seek out sorrow that dwells every where. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die; The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. Exeunt SCENE 3. The lists at Coventry Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd? AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in. MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appelant's trumpet. AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay For nothing but his Majesty's approach. The trumpets sound, and the KING enters with his nobles, GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others. When they are set, enter MOWBRAY, Duke of Nor folk, in arms, defendant, and a HERALD KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion The cause of his arrival here in arms; Ask him his name; and orderly proceed To swear him in the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. In God's name and the King's, say who thou art, And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms; Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel. Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath; As so defend thee heaven and thy valour! MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk; Who hither come engaged by my oath- Which God defend a knight should violate!- Both to defend my loyalty and truth To God, my King, and my succeeding issue, Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me; And, by the grace of God and this mine arm, To prove him, in defending of myself, A traitor to my God, my King, and me. And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, appellant, in armour, and a HERALD KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms, Both who he is and why he cometh hither Thus plated in habiliments of war; And formally, according to our law, Depose him in the justice of his cause. MARSHAL. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither Before King Richard in his royal lists? Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel? Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven! BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Am I; who ready here do stand in arms To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour, In lists on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous, To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me. And as I truly fight, defend me heaven! MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so bold Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists, Except the Marshal and such officers Appointed to direct these fair designs. BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand, And bow my knee before his Majesty; For Mowbray and myself are like two men That vow a long and weary pilgrimage. Then let us take a ceremonious leave And loving farewell of our several friends. MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness, And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave. KING RICHARD. We will descend and fold him in our arms. Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right, So be thy fortune in this royal fight! Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear. As confident as is the falcon's flight Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight. My loving lord, I take my leave of you; Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle; Not sick, although I have to do with death, But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath. Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet. O thou, the earthly author of my blood, Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate, Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up To reach at victory above my head, Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers, And with thy blessings steel my lance's point, That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt, Even in the lusty haviour of his son. GAUNT. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous! Be swift like lightning in the execution, And let thy blows, doubly redoubled, Fall like amazing thunder on the casque Of thy adverse pernicious enemy. Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live. BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive! MOWBRAY. However God or fortune cast my lot, There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne, A loyal, just, and upright gentleman. Never did captive with a freer heart Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement, More than my dancing soul doth celebrate This feast of battle with mine adversary. Most mighty liege, and my companion peers, Take from my mouth the wish of happy years. As gentle and as jocund as to jest Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast. KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I espy Virtue with valour couched in thine eye. Order the trial, Marshal, and begin. MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right! BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen. MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. FIRST HERALD. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A traitor to his God, his King, and him; And dares him to set forward to the fight. SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk, On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal, Courageously and with a free desire Attending but the signal to begin. MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants. [A charge sounded] Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down. KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears, And both return back to their chairs again. Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound While we return these dukes what we decree. A long flourish, while the KING consults his Council Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword; And for we think the eagle-winged pride Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rival-hating envy, set on you To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep; Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums, With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron arms, Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace And make us wade even in our kindred's blood- Therefore we banish you our territories. You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields Shall not regreet our fair dominions, But tread the stranger paths of banishment. BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be- That sun that warms you here shall shine on me, And those his golden beams to you here lent Shall point on me and gild my banishment. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce: The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile; The hopeless word of 'never to return' Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life. MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege, And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth. A dearer merit, not so deep a maim As to be cast forth in the common air, Have I deserved at your Highness' hands. The language I have learnt these forty years, My native English, now I must forgo; And now my tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp; Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue, Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips; And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance Is made my gaoler to attend on me. I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now. What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath? KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate; After our sentence plaining comes too late. MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands; Swear by the duty that you owe to God, Our part therein we banish with yourselves, To keep the oath that we administer: You never shall, so help you truth and God, Embrace each other's love in banishment; Nor never look upon each other's face; Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile This louring tempest of your home-bred hate; Nor never by advised purpose meet To plot, contrive, or complot any ill, 'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land. BOLINGBROKE. I swear. MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this. BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy. By this time, had the King permitted us, One of our souls had wand'red in the air, Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banish'd from this land- Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm; Since thou hast far to go, bear not along The clogging burden of a guilty soul. MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor, My name be blotted from the book of life, And I from heaven banish'd as from hence! But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know; And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue. Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray: Save back to England, an the world's my way. Exit KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect Hath from the number of his banish'd years Pluck'd four away. [To BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent, Return with welcome home from banishment. BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word! Four lagging winters and four wanton springs End in a word: such is the breath of Kings. GAUNT. I thank my liege that in regard of me He shortens four years of my son's exile; But little vantage shall I reap thereby, For ere the six years that he hath to spend Can change their moons and bring their times about, My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light Shall be extinct with age and endless night; My inch of taper will be burnt and done, And blindfold death not let me see my son. KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live. GAUNT. But not a minute, King, that thou canst give: Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou can'st help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage; Thy word is current with him for my death, But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath. KING RICHARD. Thy son is banish'd upon good advice, Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave. Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour? GAUNT. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour. You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather You would have bid me argue like a father. O, had it been a stranger, not my child, To smooth his fault I should have been more mild. A partial slander sought I to avoid, And in the sentence my own life destroy'd. Alas, I look'd when some of you should say I was too strict to make mine own away; But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue Against my will to do myself this wrong. KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so. Six years we banish him, and he shall go. Flourish. Exit KING with train AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know, From where you do remain let paper show. MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride As far as land will let me by your side. GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words, That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends? BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you, When the tongue's office should be prodigal To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart. GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time. BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time. GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone. BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten. GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure. BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so, Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage. GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set The precious jewel of thy home return. BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make Will but remember me what a deal of world I wander from the jewels that I love. Must I not serve a long apprenticehood To foreign passages; and in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief? GAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven visits Are to a wise man ports and happy havens. Teach thy necessity to reason thus: There is no virtue like necessity. Think not the King did banish thee, But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit Where it perceives it is but faintly home. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose Devouring pestilence hangs in our air And thou art flying to a fresher clime. Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st. Suppose the singing birds musicians, The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd, The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more Than a delightful measure or a dance; For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light. BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand By thinking on the frosty Caucasus? Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite By bare imagination of a feast? Or wallow naked in December snow By thinking on fantastic summer's heat? O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse. Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore. GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way. Had I thy youtli and cause, I would not stay. BOLINGBROKE. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil, adieu; My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet! Where'er I wander, boast of this I can: Though banish'd, yet a trueborn English man. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The court Enter the KING, with BAGOT and GREEN, at one door; and the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another KING RICHARD. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle, How far brought you high Hereford on his way? AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so, But to the next high way, and there I left him. KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed? AUMERLE. Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance Did grace our hollow parting with a tear. KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him? AUMERLE. 'Farewell.' And, for my heart disdained that my tongue Should so profane the word, that taught me craft To counterfeit oppression of such grief That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave. Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours And added years to his short banishment, He should have had a volume of farewells; But since it would not, he had none of me. KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt, When time shall call him home from banishment, Whether our kinsman come to see his friends. Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green, Observ'd his courtship to the common people; How he did seem to dive into their hearts With humble and familiar courtesy; What reverence he did throw away on slaves, Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles And patient underbearing of his fortune, As 'twere to banish their affects with him. Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench; A brace of draymen bid God speed him well And had the tribute of his supple knee, With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends'; As were our England in reversion his, And he our subjects' next degree in hope. GREEN. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts! Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland, Expedient manage must be made, my liege, Ere further leisure yicld them further means For their advantage and your Highness' loss. KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war; And, for our coffers, with too great a court And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light, We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm; The revenue whereof shall furnish us For our affairs in hand. If that come short, Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters; Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich, They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold, And send them after to supply our wants; For we will make for Ireland presently. Enter BUSHY Bushy, what news? BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord, Suddenly taken; and hath sent poste-haste To entreat your Majesty to visit him. KING RICHARD. Where lies he? BUSHY. At Ely House. KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the physician's mind To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his coffers shall make coats To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars. Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him. Pray God we may make haste, and come too late! ALL. Amen. Exeunt <> ACT II. SCENE I. London. Ely House Enter JOHN OF GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc. GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth? YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men Enforce attention like deep harmony. Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain. He that no more must say is listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before. The setting sun, and music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in remembrance more than things long past. Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond, Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound The open ear of youth doth always listen; Report of fashions in proud Italy, Whose manners still our tardy apish nation Limps after in base imitation. Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity- So it be new, there's no respect how vile- That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears? Then all too late comes counsel to be heard Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard. Direct not him whose way himself will choose. 'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose. GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd, And thus expiring do foretell of him: His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last, For violent fires soon burn out themselves; Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes; With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder; Light vanity, insatiate cormorant, Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This royal throne of kings, this scept'red isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son; This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out-I die pronouncing it- Like to a tenement or pelting farm. England, bound in with the triumphant sea, Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege Of wat'ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame, With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds; That England, that was wont to conquer others, Hath made a shameful conquest of itself. Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life, How happy then were my ensuing death! Enter KING and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT, Ross, and WILLOUGHBY YORK. The King is come; deal mildly with his youth, For young hot colts being rag'd do rage the more. QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle Lancaster? KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt? GAUNT. O, how that name befits my composition! Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old. Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast; And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt? For sleeping England long time have I watch'd; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is an gaunt. The pleasure that some fathers feed upon Is my strict fast-I mean my children's looks; And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt. Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave, Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones. KING RICHARD. Can sick men play so nicely with their names? GAUNT. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. KING RICHARD. Should dying men flatter with those that live? GAUNT. No, no; men living flatter those that die. KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me. GAUNT. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be. KING RICHARD. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. GAUNT. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land Wherein thou liest in reputation sick; And thou, too careless patient as thou art, Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure Of those physicians that first wounded thee: A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown, Whose compass is no bigger than thy head; And yet, incaged in so small a verge, The waste is no whit lesser than thy land. O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons, From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame, Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd, Which art possess'd now to depose thyself. Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world, It were a shame to let this land by lease; But for thy world enjoying but this land, Is it not more than shame to shame it so? Landlord of England art thou now, not King. Thy state of law is bondslave to the law; And thou- KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool, Presuming on an ague's privilege, Darest with thy frozen admonition Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood With fury from his native residence. Now by my seat's right royal majesty, Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son, This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders. GAUNT. O, Spare me not, my brother Edward's son, For that I was his father Edward's son; That blood already, like the pelican, Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd. My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul- Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls!- May be a precedent and witness good That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood. Join with the present sickness that I have; And thy unkindness be like crooked age, To crop at once a too long withered flower. Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee! These words hereafter thy tormentors be! Convey me to my bed, then to my grave. Love they to live that love and honour have. Exit, borne out by his attendants KING RICHARD. And let them die that age and sullens have; For both hast thou, and both become the grave. YORK. I do beseech your Majesty impute his words To wayward sickliness and age in him. He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here. KING RICHARD. Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his; As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to your Majesty. KING RICHARD. What says he? NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is said. His tongue is now a stringless instrument; Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent. YORK. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so! Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe. KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he; His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be. So much for that. Now for our Irish wars. We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns, Which live like venom where no venom else But only they have privilege to live. And for these great affairs do ask some charge, Towards our assistance we do seize to us The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables, Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd. YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong? Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment, Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs, Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke About his marriage, nor my own disgrace, Have ever made me sour my patient cheek Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face. I am the last of noble Edward's sons, Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first. In war was never lion rag'd more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so look'd he, Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours; But when he frown'd, it was against the French And not against his friends. His noble hand Did win what he did spend, and spent not that Which his triumphant father's hand had won. His hands were guilty of no kindred blood, But bloody with the enemies of his kin. O Richard! York is too far gone with grief, Or else he never would compare between- KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what's the matter? YORK. O my liege, Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd Not to be pardoned, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford? Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford live? Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true? Did not the one deserve to have an heir? Is not his heir a well-deserving son? Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time His charters and his customary rights; Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day; Be not thyself-for how art thou a king But by fair sequence and succession? Now, afore God-God forbid I say true!- If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights, Call in the letters patents that he hath By his attorneys-general to sue His livery, and deny his off'red homage, You pluck a thousand dangers on your head, You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts, And prick my tender patience to those thoughts Which honour and allegiance cannot think. KING RICHARD. Think what you will, we seize into our hands His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands. YORK. I'll not be by the while. My liege, farewell. What will ensue hereof there's none can tell; But by bad courses may be understood That their events can never fall out good. Exit KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight; Bid him repair to us to Ely House To see this business. To-morrow next We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow. And we create, in absence of ourself, Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England; For he is just, and always lov'd us well. Come on, our queen; to-morrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. Flourish. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE, GREEN, and BAGOT NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead. Ross. And living too; for now his son is Duke. WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues. NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right. ROSS. My heart is great; but it must break with silence, Ere't be disburdened with a liberal tongue. NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speak more That speaks thy words again to do thee harm! WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke of Hereford? If it be so, out with it boldly, man; Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him. ROSS. No good at all that I can do for him; Unless you call it good to pity him, Bereft and gelded of his patrimony. NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs are borne In him, a royal prince, and many moe Of noble blood in this declining land. The King is not himself, but basely led By flatterers; and what they will inform, Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us an, That will the King severely prosecute 'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. ROSS. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes; And quite lost their hearts; the nobles hath he find For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts. WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devis'd, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what; But what, a God's name, doth become of this? NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warr'd he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his noble ancestors achiev'd with blows. More hath he spent in peace than they in wars. ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm. WILLOUGHBY. The King's grown bankrupt like a broken man. NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him. ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars, His burdenous taxations notwithstanding, But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke. NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman-most degenerate king! But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing, Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm; We see the wind sit sore upon our sails, And yet we strike not, but securely perish. ROSS. We see the very wreck that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now For suffering so the causes of our wreck. NORTHUMBERLAND. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering; but I dare not say How near the tidings of our comfort is. WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours. ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland. We three are but thyself, and, speaking so, Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be bold. NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay In Brittany, receiv'd intelligence That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham, That late broke from the Duke of Exeter, His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury, Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston, Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint- All these, well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine, With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war, Are making hither with all due expedience, And shortly mean to touch our northern shore. Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay The first departing of the King for Ireland. If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke, Imp out our drooping country's broken wing, Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown, Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt, And make high majesty look like itself, Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh; But if you faint, as fearing to do so, Stay and be secret, and myself will go. ROSS. To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear. WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there. Exeunt SCENE 2. Windsor Castle Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promis'd, when you parted with the King, To lay aside life-harming heaviness And entertain a cheerful disposition. QUEEN. To please the King, I did; to please myself I cannot do it; yet I know no cause Why I should welcome such a guest as grief, Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest As my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb, Is coming towards me, and my inward soul With nothing trembles. At some thing it grieves More than with parting from my lord the King. BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows, Which shows like grief itself, but is not so; For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears, Divides one thing entire to many objects, Like perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon, Show nothing but confusion-ey'd awry, Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord's departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail; Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen, More than your lord's departure weep not-more is not seen; Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye, Which for things true weeps things imaginary. QUEEN. It may be so; but yet my inward soul Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe'er it be, I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad As-though, on thinking, on no thought I think- Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink. BUSHY. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady. QUEEN. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd From some forefather grief; mine is not so, For nothing hath begot my something grief, Or something hath the nothing that I grieve; 'Tis in reversion that I do possess- But what it is that is not yet known what, I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot. Enter GREEN GREEN. God save your Majesty! and well met, gentlemen. I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for Ireland. QUEEN. Why hopest thou so? 'Tis better hope he is; For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope. Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd? GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power And driven into despair an enemy's hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd At Ravenspurgh. QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid! GREEN. Ah, madam, 'tis too true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. BUSHY. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors? GREEN. We have; whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship, And all the household servants fled with him To Bolingbroke. QUEEN. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe, And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir. Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy; And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd. BUSHY. Despair not, madam. QUEEN. Who shall hinder me? I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope-he is a flatterer, A parasite, a keeper-back of death, Who gently would dissolve the bands of life, Which false hope lingers in extremity. Enter YORK GREEN. Here comes the Duke of York. QUEEN. With signs of war about his aged neck. O, full of careful business are his looks! Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words. YORK. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts. Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth, Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief. Your husband, he is gone to save far off, Whilst others come to make him lose at home. Here am I left to underprop his land, Who, weak with age, cannot support myself. Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made; Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him. Enter a SERVINGMAN SERVINGMAN. My lord, your son was gone before I came. YORK. He was-why so go all which way it will! The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side. Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester; Bid her send me presently a thousand pound. Hold, take my ring. SERVINGMAN. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship, To-day, as I came by, I called there- But I shall grieve you to report the rest. YORK. What is't, knave? SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died. YORK. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes Comes rushing on this woeful land at once! I know not what to do. I would to God, So my untruth had not provok'd him to it, The King had cut off my head with my brother's. What, are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland? How shall we do for money for these wars? Come, sister-cousin, I would say-pray, pardon me. Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts, And bring away the armour that is there. Exit SERVINGMAN Gentlemen, will you go muster men? If I know how or which way to order these affairs Thus disorderly thrust into my hands, Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen. T'one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; t'other again Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd, Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right. Well, somewhat we must do.-Come, cousin, I'll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men And meet me presently at Berkeley. I should to Plashy too, But time will not permit. All is uneven, And everything is left at six and seven. Exeunt YORK and QUEEN BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland. But none returns. For us to levy power Proportionable to the enemy Is all unpossible. GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King. BAGOT. And that is the wavering commons; for their love Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them, By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate. BUSHY. Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd. BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we, Because we ever have been near the King. GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristow Castle. The Earl of Wiltshire is already there. BUSHY. Thither will I with you; for little office Will the hateful commons perform for us, Except Eke curs to tear us all to pieces. Will you go along with us? BAGOT. No; I will to Ireland to his Majesty. Farewell. If heart's presages be not vain, We three here part that ne'er shall meet again. BUSHY. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke. GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes Is numb'ring sands and drinking oceans dry. Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly. Farewell at once-for once, for all, and ever. BUSHY. Well, we may meet again. BAGOT. I fear me, never. Exeunt SCENE 3. Gloucestershire Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, forces BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now? NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord, I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire. These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome; And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable. But I bethink me what a weary way From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd The tediousness and process of my travel. But theirs is sweet'ned with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoy'd. By this the weary lords Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done By sight of what I have, your noble company. BOLINGBROKE. Of much less value is my company Than your good words. But who comes here? Enter HARRY PERCY NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever. Harry, how fares your uncle? PERCY. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health of you. NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with the Queen? PERCY. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court, Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd The household of the King. NORTHUMBERLAND. What was his reason? He was not so resolv'd when last we spake together. PERCY. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor. But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh, To offer service to the Duke of Hereford; And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there; Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh. NORTHUMBERLAND. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy? PERCY. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot Which ne'er I did remember; to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. NORTHUMBERLAND. Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke. PERCY. My gracious lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young; Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm To more approved service and desert. BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends; And as my fortune ripens with thy love, It shall be still thy true love's recompense. My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it. NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is it to Berkeley? And what stir Keeps good old York there with his men of war? PERCY. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard; And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour- None else of name and noble estimate. Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste. BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues A banish'd traitor. All my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd, Shall be your love and labour's recompense. ROSS. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord. WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our labour to attain it. BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor; Which, till my infant fortune comes to years, Stands for my bounty. But who comes here? Enter BERKELEY NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess. BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you. BOLINGBROKE. My lord, my answer is-'to Lancaster'; And I am come to seek that name in England; And I must find that title in your tongue Before I make reply to aught you say. BERKELEY. Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning To raze one title of your honour out. To you, my lord, I come-what lord you will- From the most gracious regent of this land, The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To take advantage of the absent time, And fright our native peace with self-borne arms. Enter YORK, attended BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by you; Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle! [Kneels] YORK. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee, Whose duty is deceivable and false. BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle!- YORK. Tut, tut! Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle. I am no traitor's uncle; and that word 'grace' In an ungracious mouth is but profane. Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground? But then more 'why?'-why have they dar'd to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war And ostentation of despised arms? Com'st thou because the anointed King is hence? Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind, And in my loyal bosom lies his power. Were I but now lord of such hot youth As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men, From forth the ranks of many thousand French, O, then how quickly should this arm of mine, Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise the And minister correction to thy fault! BOLINGBROKE My gracious uncle, let me know my fault; On what condition stands it and wherein? YORK. Even in condition of the worst degree- In gross rebellion and detested treason. Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign. BOLINGBROKE. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford; But as I come, I come for Lancaster. And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye. You are my father, for methinks in you I see old Gaunt alive. O, then, my father, Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born? If that my cousin king be King in England, It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster. You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin; Had you first died, and he been thus trod down, He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay. I am denied to sue my livery here, And yet my letters patents give me leave. My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold; And these and all are all amiss employ'd. What would you have me do? I am a subject, And I challenge law-attorneys are denied me; And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath been too much abused. ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him right. WILLOUGHBY. Base men by his endowments are made great. YORK. My lords of England, let me tell you this: I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs, And labour'd all I could to do him right; But in this kind to come, in braving arms, Be his own carver and cut out his way, To find out right with wrong-it may not be; And you that do abet him in this kind Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all. NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is But for his own; and for the right of that We all have strongly sworn to give him aid; And let him never see joy that breaks that oath! YORK. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms. I cannot mend it, I must needs confess, Because my power is weak and all ill left; But if I could, by Him that gave me life, I would attach you all and make you stoop Unto the sovereign mercy of the King; But since I cannot, be it known unto you I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well; Unless you please to enter in the castle, And there repose you for this night. BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept. But we must win your Grace to go with us To Bristow Castle, which they say is held By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices, The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away. YORK. It may be I will go with you; but yet I'll pause, For I am loath to break our country's laws. Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are. Things past redress are now with me past care. Exeunt SCENE 4. A camp in Wales Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and a WELSH CAPTAIN CAPTAIN. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days And hardly kept our countrymen together, And yet we hear no tidings from the King; Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell. SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman; The King reposeth all his confidence in thee. CAPTAIN. 'Tis thought the King is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change; Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap- The one in fear to lose what they enjoy, The other to enjoy by rage and war. These signs forerun the death or fall of kings. Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled, As well assur'd Richard their King is dead. Exit SALISBURY. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind, I see thy glory like a shooting star Fall to the base earth from the firmament! The sun sets weeping in the lowly west, Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest; Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes; And crossly to thy good all fortune goes. Exit <> ACT III. SCENE I. BOLINGBROKE'S camp at Bristol Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, ROSS, WILLOUGHBY, BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men. Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls- Since presently your souls must part your bodies- With too much urging your pernicious lives, For 'twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood From off my hands, here in the view of men I will unfold some causes of your deaths: You have misled a prince, a royal king, A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments, By you unhappied and disfigured clean; You have in manner with your sinful hours Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him; Broke the possession of a royal bed, And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs; Myself-a prince by fortune of my birth, Near to the King in blood, and near in love Till you did make him misinterpret me- Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Dispark'd my parks and fell'd my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Raz'd out my imprese, leaving me no sign Save men's opinions and my living blood To show the world I am a gentleman. This and much more, much more than twice all this, Condemns you to the death. See them delivered over To execution and the hand of death. BUSHY. More welcome is the stroke of death to me Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell. GREEN. My comfort is that heaven will take our souls, And plague injustice with the pains of hell. BOLINGBROKE. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd. Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, and others, with the prisoners Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house; For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated. Tell her I send to her my kind commends; Take special care my greetings be delivered. YORK. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd With letters of your love to her at large. BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices. Awhile to work, and after holiday. Exeunt SCENE 2. The coast of Wales. A castle in view Drums. Flourish and colours. Enter the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, and soldiers KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle can they this at hand? AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air After your late tossing on the breaking seas? KING RICHARD. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy To stand upon my kingdom once again. Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand, Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs. As a long-parted mother with her child Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting, So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth, And do thee favours with my royal hands. Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth, Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense; But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom, And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way, Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet Which with usurping steps do trample thee; Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies; And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower, Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder, Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies. Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords. This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms. CARLISLE. Fear not, my lord; that Power that made you king Hath power to keep you king in spite of all. The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd And not neglected; else, if heaven would, And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse, The proffered means of succour and redress. AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss; Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security, Grows strong and great in substance and in power. KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not That when the searching eye of heaven is hid, Behind the globe, that lights the lower world, Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen In murders and in outrage boldly here; But when from under this terrestrial ball He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines And darts his light through every guilty hole, Then murders, treasons, and detested sins, The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revell'd in the night, Whilst we were wand'ring with the Antipodes, Shall see us rising in our throne, the east, His treasons will sit blushing in his face, Not able to endure the sight of day, But self-affrighted tremble at his sin. Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm off from an anointed king; The breath of worldly men cannot depose The deputy elected by the Lord. For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown, God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay A glorious angel. Then, if angels fight, Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right. Enter SALISBURY Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power? SALISBURY. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord, Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue, And bids me speak of nothing but despair. One day too late, I fear me, noble lord, Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth. O, call back yesterday, bid time return, And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men! To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late, O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state; For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead, Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege, why looks your Grace so pale? KING RICHARD. But now the blood of twenty thousand men Did triumph in my face, and they are fled; And, till so much blood thither come again, Have I not reason to look pale and dead? All souls that will be safe, fly from my side; For time hath set a blot upon my pride. AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are. KING RICHARD. I had forgot myself; am I not King? Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest. Is not the King's name twenty thousand names? Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes At thy great glory. Look not to the ground, Ye favourites of a king; are we not high? High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here? Enter SCROOP SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him. KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart prepar'd. The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold. Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care, And what loss is it to be rid of care? Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we? Greater he shall not be; if he serve God, We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so. Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend; They break their faith to God as well as us. Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay- The worst is death, and death will have his day. SCROOP. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd To bear the tidings of calamity. Like an unseasonable stormy day Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores, As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears, So high above his limits swells the rage Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel. White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps Against thy majesty; boys, with women's voices, Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown; Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows Of double-fatal yew against thy state; Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills Against thy seat: both young and old rebel, And all goes worse than I have power to tell. KING RICHARD. Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so in. Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot? What is become of Bushy? Where is Green? That they have let the dangerous enemy Measure our confines with such peaceful steps? If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it. I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke. SCROOP. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord. KING RICHARD. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart! Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas! Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war Upon their spotted souls for this offence! SCROOP. Sweet love, I see, changing his property, Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground. AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads. AUMERLE. Where is the Duke my father with his power? KING RICHARD. No matter where-of comfort no man speak. Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs; Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. Let's choose executors and talk of wills; And yet not so-for what can we bequeath Save our deposed bodies to the ground? Our lands, our lives, and an, are Bolingbroke's. And nothing can we can our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings: How some have been depos'd, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd, Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd, All murder'd-for within the hollow crown That rounds the mortal temples of a king Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits, Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp; Allowing him a breath, a little scene, To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks; Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus, Comes at the last, and with a little pin Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king! Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood With solemn reverence; throw away respect, Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty; For you have but mistook me all this while. I live with bread like you, feel want, Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus, How can you say to me I am a king? CARLISLE. My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, But presently prevent the ways to wail. To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength, Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe, And so your follies fight against yourself. Fear and be slain-no worse can come to fight; And fight and die is death destroying death, Where fearing dying pays death servile breath. AUMERLE. My father hath a power; inquire of him, And learn to make a body of a limb. KING RICHARD. Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come To change blows with thee for our day of doom. This ague fit of fear is over-blown; An easy task it is to win our own. Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power? Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour. SCROOP. Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state in inclination of the day; So may you by my dull and heavy eye, My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say. I play the torturer, by small and small To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken: Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke; And all your northern castles yielded up, And all your southern gentlemen in arms Upon his party. KING RICHARD. Thou hast said enough. [To AUMERLE] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead me forth Of that sweet way I was in to despair! What say you now? What comfort have we now? By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly That bids me be of comfort any more. Go to Flint Castle; there I'll pine away; A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey. That power I have, discharge; and let them go To ear the land that hath some hope to grow, For I have none. Let no man speak again To alter this, for counsel is but vain. AUMERLE. My liege, one word. KING RICHARD. He does me double wrong That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue. Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day. Exeunt SCENE 3. Wales. Before Flint Castle Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, and forces BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed With some few private friends upon this coast. NORTHUMBERLAND. The news is very fair and good, my lord. Richard not far from hence hath hid his head. YORK. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland To say 'King Richard.' Alack the heavy day When such a sacred king should hide his head! NORTHUMBERLAND. Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief, Left I his title out. YORK. The time hath been, Would you have been so brief with him, he would Have been so brief with you to shorten you, For taking so the head, your whole head's length. BOLINGBROKE. Mistake not, uncle, further than you should. YORK. Take not, good cousin, further than you should, Lest you mistake. The heavens are over our heads. BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here? Enter PERCY Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield? PIERCY. The castle royally is mann'd, my lord, Against thy entrance. BOLINGBROKE. Royally! Why, it contains no king? PERCY. Yes, my good lord, It doth contain a king; King Richard lies Within the limits of yon lime and stone; And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury, Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn. NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle. BOLINGBROKE. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] Noble lord, Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle; Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver: Henry Bolingbroke On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand, And sends allegiance and true faith of heart To his most royal person; hither come Even at his feet to lay my arms and power, Provided that my banishment repeal'd And lands restor'd again be freely granted; If not, I'll use the advantage of my power And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood Rain'd from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen; The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke It is such crimson tempest should bedrench The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land, My stooping duty tenderly shall show. Go, signify as much, while here we march Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. [NORTHUMBERLAND advances to the Castle, with a trumpet] Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum, That from this castle's tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well perus'd. Methinks King Richard and myself should meet With no less terror than the elements Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven. Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water; The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain My waters-on the earth, and not on him. March on, and mark King Richard how he looks. Parle without, and answer within; then a flourish. Enter on the walls, the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY See, see, King Richard doth himself appear, As doth the blushing discontented sun From out the fiery portal of the east, When he perceives the envious clouds are bent To dim his glory and to stain the track Of his bright passage to the occident. YORK. Yet he looks like a king. Behold, his eye, As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe, That any harm should stain so fair a show! KING RICHARD. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] We are amaz'd; and thus long have we stood To watch the fearful bending of thy knee, Because we thought ourself thy lawful King; And if we be, how dare thy joints forget To pay their awful duty to our presence? If we be not, show us the hand of God That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship; For well we know no hand of blood and bone Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre, Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp. And though you think that all, as you have done, Have torn their souls by turning them from us, And we are barren and bereft of friends, Yet know-my master, God omnipotent, Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike Your children yet unborn and unbegot, That lift your vassal hands against my head And threat the glory of my precious crown. Tell Bolingbroke, for yon methinks he stands, That every stride he makes upon my land Is dangerous treason; he is come to open The purple testament of bleeding war; But ere the crown he looks for live in peace, Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons Shall ill become the flower of England's face, Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace To scarlet indignation, and bedew Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood. NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King Should so with civil and uncivil arms Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice noble cousin, Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand; And by the honourable tomb he swears That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones, And by the royalties of both your bloods, Currents that spring from one most gracious head, And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt, And by the worth and honour of himself, Comprising all that may be sworn or said, His coming hither hath no further scope Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg Enfranchisement immediate on his knees; Which on thy royal party granted once, His glittering arms he will commend to rust, His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart To faithful service of your Majesty. This swears he, as he is a prince, is just; And as I am a gentleman I credit him. KING RICHARD. Northumberland, say thus the King returns: His noble cousin is right welcome hither; And all the number of his fair demands Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction. With all the gracious utterance thou hast Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends. [To AUMERLE] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not, To look so poorly and to speak so fair? Shall we call back Northumberland, and send Defiance to the traitor, and so die? AUMERLE. No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords. KING RICHARD. O God, O God! that e'er this tongue of mine That laid the sentence of dread banishment On yon proud man should take it off again With words of sooth! O that I were as great As is my grief, or lesser than my name! Or that I could forget what I have been! Or not remember what I must be now! Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat, Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me. AUMERLE. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke. KING RICHARD. What must the King do now? Must he submit? The King shall do it. Must he be depos'd? The King shall be contented. Must he lose The name of king? A God's name, let it go. I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood, My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff, My subjects for a pair of carved saints, And my large kingdom for a little grave, A little little grave, an obscure grave- Or I'll be buried in the king's high way, Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet May hourly trample on their sovereign's head; For on my heart they tread now whilst I live, And buried once, why not upon my head? Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin! We'll make foul weather with despised tears; Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn And make a dearth in this revolting land. Or shall we play the wantons with our woes And make some pretty match with shedding tears? As thus: to drop them still upon one place Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth; and, therein laid-there lies Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes. Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see I talk but idly, and you laugh at me. Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland, What says King Bolingbroke? Will his Majesty Give Richard leave to live till Richard die? You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth attend To speak with you; may it please you to come down? KING RICHARD. Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaethon, Wanting the manage of unruly jades. In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base, To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace. In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king! For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing. Exeunt from above BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty? NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man; Yet he is come. Enter the KING, and his attendants, below BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to his Majesty. [He kneels down] My gracious lord- KING RICHARD. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee To make the base earth proud with kissing it. Me rather had my heart might feel your love Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy. Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know, [Touching his own head] Thus high at least, although your knee be low. BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own. KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all. BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord, As my true service shall deserve your love. KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to have That know the strong'st and surest way to get. Uncle, give me your hands; nay, dry your eyes: Tears show their love, but want their remedies. Cousin, I am too young to be your father, Though you are old enough to be my heir. What you will have, I'll give, and willing too; For do we must what force will have us do. Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so? BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good lord. KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE 4. The DUKE OF YORK's garden Enter the QUEEN and two LADIES QUEEN. What sport shall we devise here in this garden To drive away the heavy thought of care? LADY. Madam, we'll play at bowls. QUEEN. 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs And that my fortune runs against the bias. LADY. Madam, we'll dance. QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight, When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief; Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport. LADY. Madam, we'll tell tales. QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy? LADY. Of either, madam. QUEEN. Of neither, girl; For if of joy, being altogether wanting, It doth remember me the more of sorrow; Or if of grief, being altogether had, It adds more sorrow to my want of joy; For what I have I need not to repeat, And what I want it boots not to complain. LADY. Madam, I'll sing. QUEEN. 'Tis well' that thou hast cause; But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep. LADY. I could weep, madam, would it do you good. QUEEN. And I could sing, would weeping do me good, And never borrow any tear of thee. Enter a GARDENER and two SERVANTS But stay, here come the gardeners. Let's step into the shadow of these trees. My wretchedness unto a row of pins, They will talk of state, for every one doth so Against a change: woe is forerun with woe. [QUEEN and LADIES retire] GARDENER. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks, Which, like unruly children, make their sire Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight; Give some supportance to the bending twigs. Go thou, and Eke an executioner Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays That look too lofty in our commonwealth: All must be even in our government. You thus employ'd, I will go root away The noisome weeds which without profit suck The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers. SERVANT. Why should we, in the compass of a pale, Keep law and form and due proportion, Showing, as in a model, our firm estate, When our sea-walled garden, the whole land, Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd up, Her fruit trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd, Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? GARDENER. Hold thy peace. He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf; The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seem'd in eating him to hold him up, Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke- I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green. SERVANT. What, are they dead? GARDENER. They are; and Bolingbroke Hath seiz'd the wasteful King. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land As we this garden! We at time of year Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees, Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood, With too much riches it confound itself; Had he done so to great and growing men, They might have Ev'd to bear, and he to taste Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches We lop away, that bearing boughs may live; Had he done so, himself had home the crown, Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down. SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be deposed? GARDENER. Depress'd he is already, and depos'd 'Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's That tell black tidings. QUEEN. O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking! [Coming forward] Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden, How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news? What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested the To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say King Richard is depos'd? Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth, Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how, Cam'st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch. GARDENER. Pardon me, madam; little joy have To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weigh'd. In your lord's scale is nothing but himself, And some few vanities that make him light; But in the balance of great Bolingbroke, Besides himself, are all the English peers, And with that odds he weighs King Richard down. Post you to London, and you will find it so; I speak no more than every one doth know. QUEEN. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot, Doth not thy embassage belong to me, And am I last that knows it? O, thou thinkest To serve me last, that I may longest keep Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go To meet at London London's King in woe. What, was I born to this, that my sad look Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke? Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow! Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES GARDENER. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse, I would my skill were subject to thy curse. Here did she fall a tear; here in this place I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace. Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen, In the remembrance of a weeping queen. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. Westminster Hall Enter, as to the Parliament, BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, FITZWATER, SURREY, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, and others; HERALD, OFFICERS, and BAGOT BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot. Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind- What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death; Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd The bloody office of his timeless end. BAGOT. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle. BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man. BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd. In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted I heard you say 'Is not my arm of length, That reacheth from the restful English Court As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head?' Amongst much other talk that very time I heard you say that you had rather refuse The offer of an hundred thousand crowns Than Bolingbroke's return to England; Adding withal, how blest this land would be In this your cousin's death. AUMERLE. Princes, and noble lords, What answer shall I make to this base man? Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars On equal terms to give him chastisement? Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd With the attainder of his slanderous lips. There is my gage, the manual seal of death That marks thee out for hell. I say thou liest, And will maintain what thou hast said is false In thy heart-blood, through being all too base To stain the temper of my knightly sword. BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up. AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best In all this presence that hath mov'd me so. FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy, There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine. By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st, I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it, That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death. If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest; And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart, Where it was forged, with my rapier's point. AUMERLE. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day. FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour. AUMERLE. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this. PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true In this appeal as thou art an unjust; And that thou art so, there I throw my gage, To prove it on thee to the extremest point Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st. AUMERLE. An if I do not, may my hands rot of And never brandish more revengeful steel Over the glittering helmet of my foe! ANOTHER LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle; And spur thee on with fun as many lies As may be halloa'd in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun. There is my honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou darest. AUMERLE. Who sets me else? By heaven, I'll throw at all! I have a thousand spirits in one breast To answer twenty thousand such as you. SURREY. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well The very time Aumerle and you did talk. FITZWATER. 'Tis very true; you were in presence then, And you can witness with me this is true. SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true. FITZWATER. Surrey, thou liest. SURREY. Dishonourable boy! That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword That it shall render vengeance and revenge Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do he In earth as quiet as thy father's skull. In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn; Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st. FITZWATER. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse! If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live, I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness, And spit upon him whilst I say he lies, And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith, To tie thee to my strong correction. As I intend to thrive in this new world, Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal. Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men To execute the noble Duke at Calais. AUMERLE. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage That Norfolk lies. Here do I throw down this, If he may be repeal'd to try his honour. BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage Till Norfolk be repeal'd-repeal'd he shall be And, though mine enemy, restor'd again To all his lands and signories. When he is return'd, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. CARLISLE. That honourable day shall never be seen. Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave His body to that pleasant country's earth, And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ, Under whose colours he had fought so long. BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead? CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord. BOLINGBROKE. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants, Your differences shall all rest under gage Till we assign you to your days of trial Enter YORK, attended YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to the From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields To the possession of thy royal hand. Ascend his throne, descending now from him- And long live Henry, fourth of that name! BOLINGBROKE. In God's name, I'll ascend the regal throne. CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid! Worst in this royal presence may I speak, Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth. Would God that any in this noble presence Were enough noble to be upright judge Of noble Richard! Then true noblesse would Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong. What subject can give sentence on his king? And who sits here that is not Richard's subject? Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear, Although apparent guilt be seen in them; And shall the figure of God's majesty, His captain, steward, deputy elect, Anointed, crowned, planted many years, Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refin'd Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king. My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king, Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king; And if you crown him, let me prophesy- The blood of English shall manure the ground, And future ages groan for this foul act; Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels, And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound; Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny, Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls. O, if you raise this house against this house, It will the woefullest division prove That ever fell upon this cursed earth. Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so, Lest child, child's children, cry against you woe. NORTHUMBERLAND. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains, Of capital treason we arrest you here. My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge To keep him safely till his day of trial. May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit? BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view He may surrender; so we shall proceed Without suspicion. YORK. I will be his conduct. Exit BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest, Procure your sureties for your days of answer. Little are we beholding to your love, And little look'd for at your helping hands. Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and OFFICERS bearing the regalia KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king, Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee. Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me To this submission. Yet I well remember The favours of these men. Were they not mine? Did they not sometime cry 'All hail!' to me? So Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve, Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none. God save the King! Will no man say amen? Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen. God save the King! although I be not he; And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me. To do what service am I sent for hither? YORK. To do that office of thine own good will Which tired majesty did make thee offer- The resignation of thy state and crown To Henry Bolingbroke. KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin, On this side my hand, and on that side thine. Now is this golden crown like a deep well That owes two buckets, filling one another; The emptier ever dancing in the air, The other down, unseen, and full of water. That bucket down and fun of tears am I, Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high. BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign. KING RICHARD. My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine. You may my glories and my state depose, But not my griefs; still am I king of those. BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares you give me with your crown. KING RICHARD. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down. My care is loss of care, by old care done; Your care is gain of care, by new care won. The cares I give I have, though given away; They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay. BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to resign the crown? KING RICHARD. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be; Therefore no no, for I resign to thee. Now mark me how I will undo myself: I give this heavy weight from off my head, And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand, The pride of kingly sway from out my heart; With mine own tears I wash away my balm, With mine own hands I give away my crown, With mine own tongue deny my sacred state, With mine own breath release all duteous oaths; All pomp and majesty I do forswear; My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo; My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny. God pardon all oaths that are broke to me! God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee! Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd, And thou with all pleas'd, that hast an achiev'd. Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit. God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says, And send him many years of sunshine days! What more remains? NORTHUMBERLAND. No more; but that you read These accusations, and these grievous crimes Committed by your person and your followers Against the state and profit of this land; That, by confessing them, the souls of men May deem that you are worthily depos'd. KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland, If thy offences were upon record, Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst, There shouldst thou find one heinous article, Containing the deposing of a king And cracking the strong warrant of an oath, Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven. Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself, Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands, Showing an outward pity-yet you Pilates Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross, And water cannot wash away your sin. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these articles. KING RICHARD. Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see. And yet salt water blinds them not so much But they can see a sort of traitors here. Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself, I find myself a traitor with the rest; For I have given here my soul's consent T'undeck the pompous body of a king; Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave, Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant. NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord- KING RICHARD. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man, Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no tide- No, not that name was given me at the font- But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day, That I have worn so many winters out, And know not now what name to call myself! O that I were a mockery king of snow, Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke To melt myself away in water drops! Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good, An if my word be sterling yet in England, Let it command a mirror hither straight, That it may show me what a face I have Since it is bankrupt of his majesty. BOLINGBROKE. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass. Exit an attendant NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come. KING RICHARD. Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell. BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland. NORTHUMBERLAND. The Commons will not, then, be satisfied. KING RICHARD. They shall be satisfied. I'll read enough, When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself. Re-enter attendant with glass Give me that glass, and therein will I read. No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass, Like to my followers in prosperity, Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face That every day under his household roof Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face That like the sun did make beholders wink? Is this the face which fac'd so many follies That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke? A brittle glory shineth in this face; As brittle as the glory is the face; [Dashes the glass against the ground] For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport- How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face. BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd The shadow of your face. KING RICHARD. Say that again. The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see. 'Tis very true: my grief lies all within; And these external manner of laments Are merely shadows to the unseen grief That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul. There lies the substance; and I thank thee, king, For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon, And then be gone and trouble you no more. Shall I obtain it? BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair cousin. KING RICHARD. Fair cousin! I am greater than a king; For when I was a king, my flatterers Were then but subjects; being now a subject, I have a king here to my flatterer. Being so great, I have no need to beg. BOLINGBROKE. Yet ask. KING RICHARD. And shall I have? BOLINGBROKE. You shall. KING RICHARD. Then give me leave to go. BOLINGBROKE. Whither? KING RICHARD. Whither you will, so I were from your sights. BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you convey him to the Tower. KING RICHARD. O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all, That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall. Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords and a Guard BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves. Exeunt all but the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, and AUMERLE ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld. CARLISLE. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn. AUMERLE. You holy clergymen, is there no plot To rid the realm of this pernicious blot? ABBOT. My lord, Before I freely speak my mind herein, You shall not only take the sacrament To bury mine intents, but also to effect Whatever I shall happen to devise. I see your brows are full of discontent, Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears. Come home with me to supper; I will lay A plot shall show us all a merry day. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. London. A street leading to the Tower Enter the QUEEN, with her attendants QUEEN. This way the King will come; this is the way To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower, To whose flint bosom my condemned lord Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke. Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth Have any resting for her true King's queen. Enter KING RICHARD and Guard But soft, but see, or rather do not see, My fair rose wither. Yet look up, behold, That you in pity may dissolve to dew, And wash him fresh again with true-love tears. Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand; Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb, And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn, Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee, When triumph is become an alehouse guest? KING RICHARD. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul, To think our former state a happy dream; From which awak'd, the truth of what we are Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity; and he and Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France, And cloister thee in some religious house. Our holy lives must win a new world's crown, Which our profane hours here have thrown down. QUEEN. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind Transform'd and weak'ned? Hath Bolingbroke depos'd Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart? The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage To be o'erpow'r'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like, Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod, And fawn on rage with base humility, Which art a lion and the king of beasts? KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts, I had been still a happy king of men. Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France. Think I am dead, and that even here thou takest, As from my death-bed, thy last living leave. In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages long ago betid; And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs Tell thou the lamentable tale of me, And send the hearers weeping to their beds; For why, the senseless brands will sympathize The heavy accent of thy moving tongue, And in compassion weep the fire out; And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black, For the deposing of a rightful king. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND attended NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd; You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower. And, madam, there is order ta'en for you: With all swift speed you must away to France. KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne, The time shall not be many hours of age More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think Though he divide the realm and give thee half It is too little, helping him to all; And he shall think that thou, which knowest the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne. The love of wicked men converts to fear; That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both To worthy danger and deserved death. NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there an end. Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith. KING RICHARD. Doubly divorc'd! Bad men, you violate A twofold marriage-'twixt my crown and me, And then betwixt me and my married wife. Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me; And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made. Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north, Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime; My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp, She came adorned hither like sweet May, Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day. QUEEN. And must we be divided? Must we part? KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart from heart. QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me. NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy. QUEEN. Then whither he goes thither let me go. KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe. Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here; Better far off than near, be ne'er the near. Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans. QUEEN. So longest way shall have the longest moans. KING RICHARD. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way being short, And piece the way out with a heavy heart. Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief, Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief. One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part; Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart. QUEEN. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. So, now I have mine own again, be gone. That I may strive to kill it with a groan. KING RICHARD. We make woe wanton with this fond delay. Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say. Exeunt SCENE 2. The DUKE OF YORK's palace Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS DUCHESS. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins' coming into London. YORK. Where did I leave? DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord, Where rude misgoverned hands from windows' tops Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head. YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke, Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know, With slow but stately pace kept on his course, Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Bolingbroke!' You would have thought the very windows spake, So many greedy looks of young and old Through casements darted their desiring eyes Upon his visage; and that all the walls With painted imagery had said at once 'Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke!' Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning, Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck, Bespake them thus, 'I thank you, countrymen.' And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along. DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst? YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage Are idly bent on him that enters next, Thinking his prattle to be tedious; Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried 'God save him!' No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home; But dust was thrown upon his sacred head; Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off, His face still combating with tears and smiles, The badges of his grief and patience, That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him. But heaven hath a hand in these events, To whose high will we bound our calm contents. To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now, Whose state and honour I for aye allow. DUCHESS. Here comes my son Aumerle. YORK. Aumerle that was But that is lost for being Richard's friend, And madam, you must call him Rudand now. I am in Parliament pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king. Enter AUMERLE DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now That strew the green lap of the new come spring? AUMERLE. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not. God knows I had as lief be none as one. YORK. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time, Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? Do these justs and triumphs hold? AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord, they do. YORK. You will be there, I know. AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I purpose so. YORK. What seal is that that without thy bosom? Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the writing. AUMERLE. My lord, 'tis nothing. YORK. No matter, then, who see it. I will be satisfied; let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me; It is a matter of small consequence Which for some reasons I would not have seen. YORK. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see. I fear, I fear- DUCHESS. What should you fear? 'Tis nothing but some bond that he is ent'red into For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph-day. YORK. Bound to himself! What doth he with a bond That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool. Boy, let me see the writing. AUMERLE. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it. YORK. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say. [He plucks it out of his bosom, and reads it] Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave! DUCHESS. What is the matter, my lord? YORK. Ho! who is within there? Enter a servant Saddle my horse. God for his mercy, what treachery is here! DUCHESS. Why, York, what is it, my lord? YORK. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse. Exit servant Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. DUCHESS. What is the matter? YORK. Peace, foolish woman. DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle? AUMERLE. Good mother, be content; it is no more Than my poor life must answer. DUCHESS. Thy life answer! YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King. His man enters with his boots DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd. Hence, villain! never more come in my sight. YORK. Give me my boots, I say. DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do? Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own? Have we more sons? or are we like to have? Is not my teeming date drunk up with time? And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age And rob me of a happy mother's name? Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own? YORK. Thou fond mad woman, Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy? A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament, And interchangeably set down their hands To kill the King at Oxford. DUCHESS. He shall be none; We'll keep him here. Then what is that to him? YORK. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son I would appeach him. DUCHESS. Hadst thou groan'd for him As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful. But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect That I have been disloyal to thy bed And that he is a bastard, not thy son. Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind. He is as like thee as a man may be Not like to me, or any of my kin, And yet I love him. YORK. Make way, unruly woman! Exit DUCHESS. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse; Spur post, and get before him to the King, And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee. I'll not be long behind; though I be old, I doubt not but to ride as fast as York; And never will I rise up from the ground Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone. Exeunt SCENE 3. Windsor Castle Enter BOLINGBROKE as King, PERCY, and other LORDS BOLINGBROKE. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son? 'Tis full three months since I did see him last. If any plague hang over us, 'tis he. I would to God, my lords, he might be found. Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there, For there, they say, he daily doth frequent With unrestrained loose companions, Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes And beat our watch and rob our passengers, Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy, Takes on the point of honour to support So dissolute a crew. PERCY. My lord, some two days since I saw the Prince, And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford. BOLINGBROKE. And what said the gallant? PERCY. His answer was, he would unto the stews, And from the common'st creature pluck a glove And wear it as a favour; and with that He would unhorse the lustiest challenger. BOLINGBROKE. As dissolute as desperate; yet through both I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years May happily bring forth. But who comes here? Enter AUMERLE amazed AUMERLE. Where is the King? BOLINGBROKE. What means our cousin that he stares and looks So wildly? AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your Majesty, To have some conference with your Grace alone. BOLINGBROKE. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. Exeunt PERCY and LORDS What is the matter with our cousin now? AUMERLE. For ever may my knees grow to the earth, [Kneels] My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. BOLINGBROKE. Intended or committed was this fault? If on the first, how heinous e'er it be, To win thy after-love I pardon thee. AUMERLE. Then give me leave that I may turn the key, That no man enter till my tale be done. BOLINGBROKE. Have thy desire. [The DUKE OF YORK knocks at the door and crieth] YORK. [Within] My liege, beware; look to thyself; Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. BOLINGBROKE. [Drawing] Villain, I'll make thee safe. AUMERLE. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear. YORK. [Within] Open the door, secure, foolhardy King. Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face? Open the door, or I will break it open. Enter YORK BOLINGBROKE. What is the matter, uncle? Speak; Recover breath; tell us how near is danger, That we may arm us to encounter it. YORK. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know The treason that my haste forbids me show. AUMERLE. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise pass'd. I do repent me; read not my name there; My heart is not confederate with my hand. YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down. I tore it from the traitor's bosom, King; Fear, and not love, begets his penitence. Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove A serpent that will sting thee to the heart. BOLINGBROKE. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy! O loyal father of a treacherous son! Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain, From whence this stream through muddy passages Hath held his current and defil'd himself! Thy overflow of good converts to bad; And thy abundant goodness shall excuse This deadly blot in thy digressing son. YORK. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd; And he shall spend mine honour with his shame, As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold. Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies, Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies. Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath, The traitor lives, the true man's put to death. DUCHESS. [Within] I What ho, my liege, for God's sake, let me in. BOLINGBROKE. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry? DUCHESS. [Within] A woman, and thine aunt, great King; 'tis I. Speak with me, pity me, open the door. A beggar begs that never begg'd before. BOLINGBROKE. Our scene is alt'red from a serious thing, And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King.' My dangerous cousin, let your mother in. I know she is come to pray for your foul sin. YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This fest'red joint cut off, the rest rest sound; This let alone will all the rest confound. Enter DUCHESS DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man! Love loving not itself, none other can. YORK. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here? Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear? DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege. [Kneels] BOLINGBROKE. Rise up, good aunt. DUCHESS. Not yet, I thee beseech. For ever will I walk upon my knees, And never see day that the happy sees Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy. AUMERLE. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee. [Kneels] YORK. Against them both, my true joints bended be. [Kneels] Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace! DUCHESS. Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face; His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest; His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast. He prays but faintly and would be denied; We pray with heart and soul, and all beside. His weary joints would gladly rise, I know; Our knees still kneel till to the ground they grow. His prayers are full of false hypocrisy; Ours of true zeal and deep integrity. Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have That mercy which true prayer ought to have. BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. do not say 'stand up'; Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up.' An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach, 'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech. I never long'd to hear a word till now; Say 'pardon,' King; let pity teach thee how. The word is short, but not so short as sweet; No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet. YORK. Speak it in French, King, say 'pardonne moy.' DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy? Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord, That sets the word itself against the word! Speak 'pardon' as 'tis current in our land; The chopping French we do not understand. Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there; Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear, That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce, Pity may move thee 'pardon' to rehearse. BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand; Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. BOLINGBROKE. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me. DUCHESS. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee! Yet am I sick for fear. Speak it again. Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain, But makes one pardon strong. BOLINGBROKE. With all my heart I pardon him. DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art. BOLINGBROKE. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot, With all the rest of that consorted crew, Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels. Good uncle, help to order several powers To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are. They shall not live within this world, I swear, But I will have them, if I once know where. Uncle, farewell; and, cousin, adieu; Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true. DUCHESS. Come, my old son; I pray God make thee new. Exeunt SCENE 4. Windsor Castle Enter SIR PIERCE OF EXTON and a servant EXTON. Didst thou not mark the King, what words he spake? 'Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear?' Was it not so? SERVANT. These were his very words. EXTON. 'Have I no friend?' quoth he. He spake it twice And urg'd it twice together, did he not? SERVANT. He did. EXTON. And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me, As who should say 'I would thou wert the man That would divorce this terror from my heart'; Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go. I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe. Exeunt SCENE 5. Pomfret Castle. The dungeon of the Castle Enter KING RICHARD KING RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare This prison where I live unto the world And, for because the world is populous And here is not a creature but myself, I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out. My brain I'll prove the female to my soul, My soul the father; and these two beget A generation of still-breeding thoughts, And these same thoughts people this little world, In humours like the people of this world, For no thought is contented. The better sort, As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd With scruples, and do set the word itself Against the word, As thus: 'Come, little ones'; and then again, 'It is as hard to come as for a camel To thread the postern of a small needle's eye.' Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails May tear a passage through the flinty ribs Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls; And, for they cannot, die in their own pride. Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves That they are not the first of fortune's slaves, Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame, That many have and others must sit there; And in this thought they find a kind of ease, Bearing their own misfortunes on the back Of such as have before endur'd the like. Thus play I in one person many people, And none contented. Sometimes am I king; Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar, And so I am. Then crushing penury Persuades me I was better when a king; Then am I king'd again; and by and by Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing. But whate'er I be, Nor I, nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleas'd till he be eas'd With being nothing. [The music plays] Music do I hear? Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is When time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. And here have I the daintiness of ear To check time broke in a disorder'd string; But, for the concord of my state and time, Had not an ear to hear my true time broke. I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock: My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch, Whereto my finger, like a dial's point, Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears. Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart, Which is the bell. So sighs, and tears, and groans, Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy, While I stand fooling here, his Jack of the clock. This music mads me. Let it sound no more; For though it have holp madmen to their wits, In me it seems it will make wise men mad. Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me! For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world. Enter a GROOM of the stable GROOM. Hail, royal Prince! KING RICHARD. Thanks, noble peer! The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear. What art thou? and how comest thou hither, Where no man never comes but that sad dog That brings me food to make misfortune live? GROOM. I was a poor groom of thy stable, King, When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York, With much ado at length have gotten leave To look upon my sometimes royal master's face. O, how it ern'd my heart, when I beheld, In London streets, that coronation-day, When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary- That horse that thou so often hast bestrid, That horse that I so carefully have dress'd! KING RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him? GROOM. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground. KING RICHARD. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back! That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand; This hand hath made him proud with clapping him. Would he not stumble? would he not fall down, Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck Of that proud man that did usurp his back? Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee, Since thou, created to be aw'd by man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse; And yet I bear a burden like an ass, Spurr'd, gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter KEEPER with meat KEEPER. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay. KING RICHARD. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away. GROOM. my tongue dares not, that my heart shall say. Exit KEEPER. My lord, will't please you to fall to? KING RICHARD. Taste of it first as thou art wont to do. KEEPER. My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton, Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary. KING RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [Beats the KEEPER] KEEPER. Help, help, help! The murderers, EXTON and servants, rush in, armed KING RICHARD. How now! What means death in this rude assault? Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument. [Snatching a weapon and killing one] Go thou and fill another room in hell. [He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down] That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the King's blood stain'd the King's own land. Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high; Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die. [Dies] EXTON. As full of valour as of royal blood. Both have I spill'd. O, would the deed were good! For now the devil, that told me I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell. This dead King to the living King I'll bear. Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. Exeunt SCENE 6. Windsor Castle Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, the DUKE OF YORK, With other LORDS and attendants BOLINGBROKE. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire Our town of Ciceter in Gloucestershire; But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not. Enter NORTHUMBERLAND Welcome, my lord. What is the news? NORTHUMBERLAND. First, to thy sacred state wish I all happiness. The next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent. The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. BOLINGBROKE. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains; And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. Enter FITZWATER FITZWATER. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely; Two of the dangerous consorted traitors That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. BOLINGBROKE. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot; Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter PERCY, With the BISHOP OF CARLISLE PERCY. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster, With clog of conscience and sour melancholy, Hath yielded up his body to the grave; But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. BOLINGBROKE. Carlisle, this is your doom: Choose out some secret place, some reverend room, More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life; So as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife; For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Enter EXTON, with attendants, hearing a coffin EXTON. Great King, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greatest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. BOLINGBROKE. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought A deed of slander with thy fatal hand Upon my head and all this famous land. EXTON. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed. BOLINGBROKE. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered. The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word nor princely favour; With Cain go wander thorough shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put on sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after; grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier. Exeunt THE END <> 1593 KING RICHARD III by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae EDWARD THE FOURTH Sons to the King EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES afterwards KING EDWARD V RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK, Brothers to the King GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE, RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III A YOUNG SON OF CLARENCE (Edward, Earl of Warwick) HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK JOHN MORTON, BISHOP OF ELY DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY, his son EARL RIVERS, brother to King Edward's Queen MARQUIS OF DORSET and LORD GREY, her sons EARL OF OXFORD LORD HASTINGS LORD LOVEL LORD STANLEY, called also EARL OF DERBY SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR JAMES TYRREL SIR JAMES BLOUNT SIR WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE HASTINGS, a pursuivant TRESSEL and BERKELEY, gentlemen attending on Lady Anne ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV MARGARET, widow of King Henry VI DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV LADY ANNE, widow of Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester A YOUNG DAUGHTER OF CLARENCE (Margaret Plantagenet, Countess of Salisbury) Ghosts, of Richard's victims Lords, Gentlemen, and Attendants; Priest, Scrivener, Page, Bishops, Aldermen, Citizens, Soldiers, Messengers, Murderers, Keeper <> SCENE: England King Richard the Third ACT I. SCENE 1. London. A street Enter RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, solus GLOUCESTER. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms hung up for monuments; Our stern alarums chang'd to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visag'd war hath smooth'd his wrinkled front, And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I-that am not shap'd for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass- I-that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph- I-that am curtail'd of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deform'd, unfinish'd, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them- Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun And descant on mine own deformity. And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain And hate the idle pleasures of these days. Plots have I laid, inductions dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels, and dreams, To set my brother Clarence and the King In deadly hate the one against the other; And if King Edward be as true and just As I am subtle, false, and treacherous, This day should Clarence closely be mew'd up- About a prophecy which says that G Of Edward's heirs the murderer shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul. Here Clarence comes. Enter CLARENCE, guarded, and BRAKENBURY Brother, good day. What means this armed guard That waits upon your Grace? CLARENCE. His Majesty, Tend'ring my person's safety, hath appointed This conduct to convey me to th' Tower. GLOUCESTER. Upon what cause? CLARENCE. Because my name is George. GLOUCESTER. Alack, my lord, that fault is none of yours: He should, for that, commit your godfathers. O, belike his Majesty hath some intent That you should be new-christ'ned in the Tower. But what's the matter, Clarence? May I know? CLARENCE. Yea, Richard, when I know; for I protest As yet I do not; but, as I can learn, He hearkens after prophecies and dreams, And from the cross-row plucks the letter G, And says a wizard told him that by G His issue disinherited should be; And, for my name of George begins with G, It follows in his thought that I am he. These, as I learn, and such like toys as these Hath mov'd his Highness to commit me now. GLOUCESTER. Why, this it is when men are rul'd by women: 'Tis not the King that sends you to the Tower; My Lady Grey his wife, Clarence, 'tis she That tempers him to this extremity. Was it not she and that good man of worship, Antony Woodville, her brother there, That made him send Lord Hastings to the Tower, From whence this present day he is delivered? We are not safe, Clarence; we are not safe. CLARENCE. By heaven, I think there is no man is secure But the Queen's kindred, and night-walking heralds That trudge betwixt the King and Mistress Shore. Heard you not what an humble suppliant Lord Hastings was, for her delivery? GLOUCESTER. Humbly complaining to her deity Got my Lord Chamberlain his liberty. I'll tell you what-I think it is our way, If we will keep in favour with the King, To be her men and wear her livery: The jealous o'er-worn widow, and herself, Since that our brother dubb'd them gentlewomen, Are mighty gossips in our monarchy. BRAKENBURY. I beseech your Graces both to pardon me: His Majesty hath straitly given in charge That no man shall have private conference, Of what degree soever, with your brother. GLOUCESTER. Even so; an't please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of any thing we say: We speak no treason, man; we say the King Is wise and virtuous, and his noble queen Well struck in years, fair, and not jealous; We say that Shore's wife hath a pretty foot, A cherry lip, a bonny eye, a passing pleasing tongue; And that the Queen's kindred are made gentlefolks. How say you, sir? Can you deny all this? BRAKENBURY. With this, my lord, myself have naught to do. GLOUCESTER. Naught to do with Mistress Shore! I tell thee, fellow, He that doth naught with her, excepting one, Were best to do it secretly alone. BRAKENBURY. What one, my lord? GLOUCESTER. Her husband, knave! Wouldst thou betray me? BRAKENBURY. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, and withal Forbear your conference with the noble Duke. CLARENCE. We know thy charge, Brakenbury, and will obey. GLOUCESTER. We are the Queen's abjects and must obey. Brother, farewell; I will unto the King; And whatsoe'er you will employ me in- Were it to call King Edward's widow sister- I will perform it to enfranchise you. Meantime, this deep disgrace in brotherhood Touches me deeper than you can imagine. CLARENCE. I know it pleaseth neither of us well. GLOUCESTER. Well, your imprisonment shall not be long; I will deliver or else lie for you. Meantime, have patience. CLARENCE. I must perforce. Farewell. Exeunt CLARENCE, BRAKENBURY, and guard GLOUCESTER. Go tread the path that thou shalt ne'er return. Simple, plain Clarence, I do love thee so That I will shortly send thy soul to heaven, If heaven will take the present at our hands. But who comes here? The new-delivered Hastings? Enter LORD HASTINGS HASTINGS. Good time of day unto my gracious lord! GLOUCESTER. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain! Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brook'd imprisonment? HASTINGS. With patience, noble lord, as prisoners must; But I shall live, my lord, to give them thanks That were the cause of my imprisonment. GLOUCESTER. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too; For they that were your enemies are his, And have prevail'd as much on him as you. HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mew'd Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty. GLOUCESTER. What news abroad? HASTINGS. No news so bad abroad as this at home: The King is sickly, weak, and melancholy, And his physicians fear him mightily. GLOUCESTER. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long And overmuch consum'd his royal person! 'Tis very grievous to be thought upon. Where is he? In his bed? HASTINGS. He is. GLOUCESTER. Go you before, and I will follow you. Exit HASTINGS He cannot live, I hope, and must not die Till George be pack'd with posthorse up to heaven. I'll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence With lies well steel'd with weighty arguments; And, if I fail not in my deep intent, Clarence hath not another day to live; Which done, God take King Edward to his mercy, And leave the world for me to bustle in! For then I'll marry Warwick's youngest daughter. What though I kill'd her husband and her father? The readiest way to make the wench amends Is to become her husband and her father; The which will I-not all so much for love As for another secret close intent By marrying her which I must reach unto. But yet I run before my horse to market. Clarence still breathes; Edward still lives and reigns; When they are gone, then must I count my gains. Exit SCENE 2. London. Another street Enter corpse of KING HENRY THE SIXTH, with halberds to guard it; LADY ANNE being the mourner, attended by TRESSEL and BERKELEY ANNE. Set down, set down your honourable load- If honour may be shrouded in a hearse; Whilst I awhile obsequiously lament Th' untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster. Poor key-cold figure of a holy king! Pale ashes of the house of Lancaster! Thou bloodless remnant of that royal blood! Be it lawful that I invocate thy ghost To hear the lamentations of poor Anne, Wife to thy Edward, to thy slaughtered son, Stabb'd by the self-same hand that made these wounds. Lo, in these windows that let forth thy life I pour the helpless balm of my poor eyes. O, cursed be the hand that made these holes! Cursed the heart that had the heart to do it! Cursed the blood that let this blood from hence! More direful hap betide that hated wretch That makes us wretched by the death of thee Than I can wish to adders, spiders, toads, Or any creeping venom'd thing that lives! If ever he have child, abortive be it, Prodigious, and untimely brought to light, Whose ugly and unnatural aspect May fright the hopeful mother at the view, And that be heir to his unhappiness! If ever he have wife, let her be made More miserable by the death of him Than I am made by my young lord and thee! Come, now towards Chertsey with your holy load, Taken from Paul's to be interred there; And still as you are weary of this weight Rest you, whiles I lament King Henry's corse. [The bearers take up the coffin] Enter GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend To stop devoted charitable deeds? GLOUCESTER. Villains, set down the corse; or, by Saint Paul, I'll make a corse of him that disobeys! FIRST GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. GLOUCESTER. Unmannerd dog! Stand thou, when I command. Advance thy halberd higher than my breast, Or, by Saint Paul, I'll strike thee to my foot And spurn upon thee, beggar, for thy boldness. [The bearers set down the coffin] ANNE. What, do you tremble? Are you all afraid? Alas, I blame you not, for you are mortal, And mortal eyes cannot endure the devil. Avaunt, thou dreadful minister of hell! Thou hadst but power over his mortal body, His soul thou canst not have; therefore, be gone. GLOUCESTER. Sweet saint, for charity, be not so curst. ANNE. Foul devil, for God's sake, hence and trouble us not; For thou hast made the happy earth thy hell Fill'd it with cursing cries and deep exclaims. If thou delight to view thy heinous deeds, Behold this pattern of thy butcheries. O, gentlemen, see, see! Dead Henry's wounds Open their congeal'd mouths and bleed afresh. Blush, blush, thou lump of foul deformity, For 'tis thy presence that exhales this blood From cold and empty veins where no blood dwells; Thy deeds inhuman and unnatural Provokes this deluge most unnatural. O God, which this blood mad'st, revenge his death! O earth, which this blood drink'st, revenge his death! Either, heav'n, with lightning strike the murd'rer dead; Or, earth, gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good king's blood, Which his hell-govern'd arm hath butchered. GLOUCESTER. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. ANNE. Villain, thou knowest nor law of God nor man: No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. GLOUCESTER. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! GLOUCESTER. More wonderful when angels are so angry. Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman, Of these supposed crimes to give me leave By circumstance but to acquit myself. ANNE. Vouchsafe, diffus'd infection of a man, Of these known evils but to give me leave By circumstance to accuse thy cursed self. GLOUCESTER. Fairer than tongue can name thee, let me have Some patient leisure to excuse myself. ANNE. Fouler than heart can think thee, thou canst make No excuse current but to hang thyself. GLOUCESTER. By such despair I should accuse myself. ANNE. And by despairing shalt thou stand excused For doing worthy vengeance on thyself That didst unworthy slaughter upon others. GLOUCESTER. Say that I slew them not? ANNE. Then say they were not slain. But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. GLOUCESTER. I did not kill your husband. ANNE. Why, then he is alive. GLOUCESTER. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward's hands. ANNE. In thy foul throat thou liest: Queen Margaret saw Thy murd'rous falchion smoking in his blood; The which thou once didst bend against her breast, But that thy brothers beat aside the point. GLOUCESTER. I was provoked by her sland'rous tongue That laid their guilt upon my guiltless shoulders. ANNE. Thou wast provoked by thy bloody mind, That never dream'st on aught but butcheries. Didst thou not kill this king? GLOUCESTER. I grant ye. ANNE. Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me to Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed! O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous! GLOUCESTER. The better for the King of Heaven, that hath him. ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. GLOUCESTER. Let him thank me that holp to send him thither, For he was fitter for that place than earth. ANNE. And thou unfit for any place but hell. GLOUCESTER. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. ANNE. Some dungeon. GLOUCESTER. Your bed-chamber. ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! GLOUCESTER. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. ANNE. I hope so. GLOUCESTER. I know so. But, gentle Lady Anne, To leave this keen encounter of our wits, And fall something into a slower method- Is not the causer of the timeless deaths Of these Plantagenets, Henry and Edward, As blameful as the executioner? ANNE. Thou wast the cause and most accurs'd effect. GLOUCESTER. Your beauty was the cause of that effect- Your beauty that did haunt me in my sleep To undertake the death of all the world So I might live one hour in your sweet bosom. ANNE. If I thought that, I tell thee, homicide, These nails should rend that beauty from my cheeks. GLOUCESTER. These eyes could not endure that beauty's wreck; You should not blemish it if I stood by. As all the world is cheered by the sun, So I by that; it is my day, my life. ANNE. Black night o'ershade thy day, and death thy life! GLOUCESTER. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both. ANNE. I would I were, to be reveng'd on thee. GLOUCESTER. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be reveng'd on him that loveth thee. ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be reveng'd on him that kill'd my husband. GLOUCESTER. He that bereft thee, lady, of thy husband Did it to help thee to a better husband. ANNE. His better doth not breathe upon the earth. GLOUCESTER. He lives that loves thee better than he could. ANNE. Name him. GLOUCESTER. Plantagenet. ANNE. Why, that was he. GLOUCESTER. The self-same name, but one of better nature. ANNE. Where is he? GLOUCESTER. Here. [She spits at him] Why dost thou spit at me? ANNE. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake! GLOUCESTER. Never came poison from so sweet a place. ANNE. Never hung poison on a fouler toad. Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes. GLOUCESTER. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. ANNE. Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead! GLOUCESTER. I would they were, that I might die at once; For now they kill me with a living death. Those eyes of thine from mine have drawn salt tears, Sham'd their aspects with store of childish drops- These eyes, which never shed remorseful tear, No, when my father York and Edward wept To hear the piteous moan that Rutland made When black-fac'd Clifford shook his sword at him; Nor when thy warlike father, like a child, Told the sad story of my father's death, And twenty times made pause to sob and weep That all the standers-by had wet their cheeks Like trees bedash'd with rain-in that sad time My manly eyes did scorn an humble tear; And what these sorrows could not thence exhale Thy beauty hath, and made them blind with weeping. I never sued to friend nor enemy; My tongue could never learn sweet smoothing word; But, now thy beauty is propos'd my fee, My proud heart sues, and prompts my tongue to speak. [She looks scornfully at him] Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made For kissing, lady, not for such contempt. If thy revengeful heart cannot forgive, Lo here I lend thee this sharp-pointed sword; Which if thou please to hide in this true breast And let the soul forth that adoreth thee, I lay it naked to the deadly stroke, And humbly beg the death upon my knee. [He lays his breast open; she offers at it with his sword] Nay, do not pause; for I did kill King Henry- But 'twas thy beauty that provoked me. Nay, now dispatch; 'twas I that stabb'd young Edward- But 'twas thy heavenly face that set me on. [She falls the sword] Take up the sword again, or take up me. ANNE. Arise, dissembler; though I wish thy death, I will not be thy executioner. GLOUCESTER. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it; ANNE. I have already. GLOUCESTER. That was in thy rage. Speak it again, and even with the word This hand, which for thy love did kill thy love, Shall for thy love kill a far truer love; To both their deaths shalt thou be accessary. ANNE. I would I knew thy heart. GLOUCESTER. 'Tis figur'd in my tongue. ANNE. I fear me both are false. GLOUCESTER. Then never was man true. ANNE. well put up your sword. GLOUCESTER. Say, then, my peace is made. ANNE. That shalt thou know hereafter. GLOUCESTER. But shall I live in hope? ANNE. All men, I hope, live so. GLOUCESTER. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. ANNE. To take is not to give. [Puts on the ring] GLOUCESTER. Look how my ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart; Wear both of them, for both of them are thine. And if thy poor devoted servant may But beg one favour at thy gracious hand, Thou dost confirm his happiness for ever. ANNE. What is it? GLOUCESTER. That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby House; Where-after I have solemnly interr'd At Chertsey monast'ry this noble king, And wet his grave with my repentant tears- I will with all expedient duty see you. For divers unknown reasons, I beseech you, Grant me this boon. ANNE. With all my heart; and much it joys me too To see you are become so penitent. Tressel and Berkeley, go along with me. GLOUCESTER. Bid me farewell. ANNE. 'Tis more than you deserve; But since you teach me how to flatter you, Imagine I have said farewell already. Exeunt two GENTLEMEN With LADY ANNE GLOUCESTER. Sirs, take up the corse. GENTLEMEN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord? GLOUCESTER. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER Was ever woman in this humour woo'd? Was ever woman in this humour won? I'll have her; but I will not keep her long. What! I that kill'd her husband and his father- To take her in her heart's extremest hate, With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes, The bleeding witness of my hatred by; Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me, And I no friends to back my suit at all But the plain devil and dissembling looks, And yet to win her, all the world to nothing! Ha! Hath she forgot already that brave prince, Edward, her lord, whom I, some three months since, Stabb'd in my angry mood at Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman- Fram'd in the prodigality of nature, Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal- The spacious world cannot again afford; And will she yet abase her eyes on me, That cropp'd the golden prime of this sweet prince And made her widow to a woeful bed? On me, whose all not equals Edward's moiety? On me, that halts and am misshapen thus? My dukedom to a beggarly denier, I do mistake my person all this while. Upon my life, she finds, although I cannot, Myself to be a marv'llous proper man. I'll be at charges for a looking-glass, And entertain a score or two of tailors To study fashions to adorn my body. Since I am crept in favour with myself, I will maintain it with some little cost. But first I'll turn yon fellow in his grave, And then return lamenting to my love. Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass, That I may see my shadow as I pass. Exit SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, LORD RIVERS, and LORD GREY RIVERS. Have patience, madam; there's no doubt his Majesty Will soon recover his accustom'd health. GREY. In that you brook it ill, it makes him worse; Therefore, for God's sake, entertain good comfort, And cheer his Grace with quick and merry eyes. QUEEN ELIZABETH. If he were dead, what would betide on me? GREY. No other harm but loss of such a lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The loss of such a lord includes all harms. GREY. The heavens have bless'd you with a goodly son To be your comforter when he is gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, he is young; and his minority Is put unto the trust of Richard Gloucester, A man that loves not me, nor none of you. RIVER. Is it concluded he shall be Protector? QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determin'd, not concluded yet; But so it must be, if the King miscarry. Enter BUCKINGHAM and DERBY GREY. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby. BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal Grace! DERBY. God make your Majesty joyful as you have been. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Countess Richmond, good my Lord of Derby, To your good prayer will scarcely say amen. Yet, Derby, notwithstanding she's your wife And loves not me, be you, good lord, assur'd I hate not you for her proud arrogance. DERBY. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers; Or, if she be accus'd on true report, Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds From wayward sickness and no grounded malice. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Saw you the King to-day, my Lord of Derby? DERBY. But now the Duke of Buckingham and I Are come from visiting his Majesty. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What likelihood of his amendment, Lords? BUCKINGHAM. Madam, good hope; his Grace speaks cheerfully. QUEEN ELIZABETH. God grant him health! Did you confer with him? BUCKINGHAM. Ay, madam; he desires to make atonement Between the Duke of Gloucester and your brothers, And between them and my Lord Chamberlain; And sent to warn them to his royal presence. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Would all were well! But that will never be. I fear our happiness is at the height. Enter GLOUCESTER, HASTINGS, and DORSET GLOUCESTER. They do me wrong, and I will not endure it. Who is it that complains unto the King That I, forsooth, am stern and love them not? By holy Paul, they love his Grace but lightly That fill his ears with such dissentious rumours. Because I cannot flatter and look fair, Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog, Duck with French nods and apish courtesy, I must be held a rancorous enemy. Cannot a plain man live and think no harm But thus his simple truth must be abus'd With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks? GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace? GLOUCESTER. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injur'd thee? when done thee wrong, Or thee, or thee, or any of your faction? A plague upon you all! His royal Grace- Whom God preserve better than you would wish!- Cannot be quiet searce a breathing while But you must trouble him with lewd complaints. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Brother of Gloucester, you mistake the matter. The King, on his own royal disposition And not provok'd by any suitor else- Aiming, belike, at your interior hatred That in your outward action shows itself Against my children, brothers, and myself- Makes him to send that he may learn the ground. GLOUCESTER. I cannot tell; the world is grown so bad That wrens make prey where eagles dare not perch. Since every Jack became a gentleman, There's many a gentle person made a Jack. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, we know your meaning, brother Gloucester: You envy my advancement and my friends'; God grant we never may have need of you! GLOUCESTER. Meantime, God grants that I have need of you. Our brother is imprison'd by your means, Myself disgrac'd, and the nobility Held in contempt; while great promotions Are daily given to ennoble those That scarce some two days since were worth a noble. QUEEN ELIZABETH. By Him that rais'd me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoy'd, I never did incense his Majesty Against the Duke of Clarence, but have been An earnest advocate to plead for him. My lord, you do me shameful injury Falsely to draw me in these vile suspects. GLOUCESTER. You may deny that you were not the mean Of my Lord Hastings' late imprisonment. RIVERS. She may, my lord; for- GLOUCESTER. She may, Lord Rivers? Why, who knows not so? She may do more, sir, than denying that: She may help you to many fair preferments And then deny her aiding hand therein, And lay those honours on your high desert. What may she not? She may-ay, marry, may she- RIVERS. What, marry, may she? GLOUCESTER. What, marry, may she? Marry with a king, A bachelor, and a handsome stripling too. Iwis your grandam had a worser match. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My Lord of Gloucester, I have too long borne Your blunt upbraidings and your bitter scoffs. By heaven, I will acquaint his Majesty Of those gross taunts that oft I have endur'd. I had rather be a country servant-maid Than a great queen with this condition- To be so baited, scorn'd, and stormed at. Enter old QUEEN MARGARET, behind Small joy have I in being England's Queen. QUEEN MARGARET. And less'ned be that small, God, I beseech Him! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me. GLOUCESTER. What! Threat you me with telling of the King? Tell him and spare not. Look what I have said I will avouch't in presence of the King. I dare adventure to be sent to th' Tow'r. 'Tis time to speak-my pains are quite forgot. QUEEN MARGARET. Out, devil! I do remember them to well: Thou kill'dst my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. GLOUCESTER. Ere you were queen, ay, or your husband King, I was a pack-horse in his great affairs, A weeder-out of his proud adversaries, A liberal rewarder of his friends; To royalize his blood I spent mine own. QUEEN MARGARET. Ay, and much better blood than his or thine. GLOUCESTER. In all which time you and your husband Grey Were factious for the house of Lancaster; And, Rivers, so were you. Was not your husband In Margaret's battle at Saint Albans slain? Let me put in your minds, if you forget, What you have been ere this, and what you are; Withal, what I have been, and what I am. QUEEN MARGARET. A murd'rous villain, and so still thou art. GLOUCESTER. Poor Clarence did forsake his father, Warwick, Ay, and forswore himself-which Jesu pardon!- QUEEN MARGARET. Which God revenge! GLOUCESTER. To fight on Edward's party for the crown; And for his meed, poor lord, he is mewed up. I would to God my heart were flint like Edward's, Or Edward's soft and pitiful like mine. I am too childish-foolish for this world. QUEEN MARGARET. Hie thee to hell for shame and leave this world, Thou cacodemon; there thy kingdom is. RIVERS. My Lord of Gloucester, in those busy days Which here you urge to prove us enemies, We follow'd then our lord, our sovereign king. So should we you, if you should be our king. GLOUCESTER. If I should be! I had rather be a pedlar. Far be it from my heart, the thought thereof! QUEEN ELIZABETH. As little joy, my lord, as you suppose You should enjoy were you this country's king, As little joy you may suppose in me That I enjoy, being the Queen thereof. QUEEN MARGARET. As little joy enjoys the Queen thereof; For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. [Advancing] Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pill'd from me. Which of you trembles not that looks on me? If not that, I am Queen, you bow like subjects, Yet that, by you depos'd, you quake like rebels? Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away! GLOUCESTER. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak'st thou in my sight? QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition of what thou hast marr'd, That will I make before I let thee go. GLOUCESTER. Wert thou not banished on pain of death? QUEEN MARGARET. I was; but I do find more pain in banishment Than death can yield me here by my abode. A husband and a son thou ow'st to me; And thou a kingdom; all of you allegiance. This sorrow that I have by right is yours; And all the pleasures you usurp are mine. GLOUCESTER. The curse my noble father laid on thee, When thou didst crown his warlike brows with paper And with thy scorns drew'st rivers from his eyes, And then to dry them gav'st the Duke a clout Steep'd in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland- His curses then from bitterness of soul Denounc'd against thee are all fall'n upon thee; And God, not we, hath plagu'd thy bloody deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. So just is God to right the innocent. HASTINGS. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that babe, And the most merciless that e'er was heard of! RIVERS. Tyrants themselves wept when it was reported. DORSET. No man but prophesied revenge for it. BUCKINGHAM. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it. QUEEN MARGARET. What, were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turn you all your hatred now on me? Did York's dread curse prevail so much with heaven That Henry's death, my lovely Edward's death, Their kingdom's loss, my woeful banishment, Should all but answer for that peevish brat? Can curses pierce the clouds and enter heaven? Why then, give way, dull clouds, to my quick curses! Though not by war, by surfeit die your king, As ours by murder, to make him a king! Edward thy son, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our son, that was Prince of Wales, Die in his youth by like untimely violence! Thyself a queen, for me that was a queen, Outlive thy glory, like my wretched self! Long mayest thou live to wail thy children's death, And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy rights, as thou art stall'd in mine! Long die thy happy days before thy death; And, after many length'ned hours of grief, Die neither mother, wife, nor England's Queen! Rivers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my son Was stabb'd with bloody daggers. God, I pray him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlook'd accident cut off! GLOUCESTER. Have done thy charm, thou hateful wither'd hag. QUEEN MARGARET. And leave out thee? Stay, dog, for thou shalt hear me. If heaven have any grievous plague in store Exceeding those that I can wish upon thee, O, let them keep it till thy sins be ripe, And then hurl down their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poor world's peace! The worm of conscience still be-gnaw thy soul! Thy friends suspect for traitors while thou liv'st, And take deep traitors for thy dearest friends! No sleep close up that deadly eye of thine, Unless it be while some tormenting dream Affrights thee with a hell of ugly devils! Thou elvish-mark'd, abortive, rooting hog, Thou that wast seal'd in thy nativity The slave of nature and the son of hell, Thou slander of thy heavy mother's womb, Thou loathed issue of thy father's loins, Thou rag of honour, thou detested- GLOUCESTER. Margaret! QUEEN MARGARET. Richard! GLOUCESTER. Ha? QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not. GLOUCESTER. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names. QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but look'd for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse! GLOUCESTER. 'Tis done by me, and ends in-Margaret. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breath'd your curse against yourself. QUEEN MARGARET. Poor painted queen, vain flourish of my fortune! Why strew'st thou sugar on that bottled spider Whose deadly web ensnareth thee about? Fool, fool! thou whet'st a knife to kill thyself. The day will come that thou shalt wish for me To help thee curse this poisonous bunch-back'd toad. HASTINGS. False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse, Lest to thy harm thou move our patience. QUEEN MARGARET. Foul shame upon you! you have all mov'd mine. RIVERS. Were you well serv'd, you would be taught your duty. QUEEN MARGARET. To serve me well you all should do me duty, Teach me to be your queen and you my subjects. O, serve me well, and teach yourselves that duty! DORSET. Dispute not with her; she is lunatic. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, Master Marquis, you are malapert; Your fire-new stamp of honour is scarce current. O, that your young nobility could judge What 'twere to lose it and be miserable! They that stand high have many blasts to shake them, And if they fall they dash themselves to pieces. GLOUCESTER. Good counsel, marry; learn it, learn it, Marquis. DORSET. It touches you, my lord, as much as me. GLOUCESTER. Ay, and much more; but I was born so high, Our aery buildeth in the cedar's top, And dallies with the wind, and scorns the sun. QUEEN MARGARET. And turns the sun to shade-alas! alas! Witness my son, now in the shade of death, Whose bright out-shining beams thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternal darkness folded up. Your aery buildeth in our aery's nest. O God that seest it, do not suffer it; As it is won with blood, lost be it so! BUCKINGHAM. Peace, peace, for shame, if not for charity! QUEEN MARGARET. Urge neither charity nor shame to me. Uncharitably with me have you dealt, And shamefully my hopes by you are butcher'd. My charity is outrage, life my shame; And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage! BUCKINGHAM. Have done, have done. QUEEN MARGARET. O princely Buckingham, I'll kiss thy hand In sign of league and amity with thee. Now fair befall thee and thy noble house! Thy garments are not spotted with our blood, Nor thou within the compass of my curse. BUCKINGHAM. Nor no one here; for curses never pass The lips of those that breathe them in the air. QUEEN MARGARET. I will not think but they ascend the sky And there awake God's gentle-sleeping peace. O Buckingham, take heed of yonder dog! Look when he fawns, he bites; and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death: Have not to do with him, beware of him; Sin, death, and hell, have set their marks on him, And all their ministers attend on him. GLOUCESTER. What doth she say, my Lord of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Nothing that I respect, my gracious lord. QUEEN MARGARET. What, dost thou scorn me for my gentle counsel, And soothe the devil that I warn thee from? O, but remember this another day, When he shall split thy very heart with sorrow, And say poor Margaret was a prophetess! Live each of you the subjects to his hate, And he to yours, and all of you to God's! Exit BUCKINGHAM. My hair doth stand an end to hear her curses. RIVERS. And so doth mine. I muse why she's at liberty. GLOUCESTER. I cannot blame her; by God's holy Mother, She hath had too much wrong; and I repent My part thereof that I have done to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I never did her any to my knowledge. GLOUCESTER. Yet you have all the vantage of her wrong. I was too hot to do somebody good That is too cold in thinking of it now. Marry, as for Clarence, he is well repaid; He is frank'd up to fatting for his pains; God pardon them that are the cause thereof! RIVERS. A virtuous and a Christian-like conclusion, To pray for them that have done scathe to us! GLOUCESTER. So do I ever- [Aside] being well advis'd; For had I curs'd now, I had curs'd myself. Enter CATESBY CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth can for you, And for your Grace, and you, my gracious lords. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Catesby, I come. Lords, will you go with me? RIVERS. We wait upon your Grace. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER GLOUCESTER. I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others. Clarence, who I indeed have cast in darkness, I do beweep to many simple gulls; Namely, to Derby, Hastings, Buckingham; And tell them 'tis the Queen and her allies That stir the King against the Duke my brother. Now they believe it, and withal whet me To be reveng'd on Rivers, Dorset, Grey; But then I sigh and, with a piece of Scripture, Tell them that God bids us do good for evil. And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n forth of holy writ, And seem a saint when most I play the devil. Enter two MURDERERS But, soft, here come my executioners. How now, my hardy stout resolved mates! Are you now going to dispatch this thing? FIRST MURDERER. We are, my lord, and come to have the warrant, That we may be admitted where he is. GLOUCESTER. Well thought upon; I have it here about me. [Gives the warrant] When you have done, repair to Crosby Place. But, sirs, be sudden in the execution, Withal obdurate, do not hear him plead; For Clarence is well-spoken, and perhaps May move your hearts to pity, if you mark him. FIRST MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers. Be assur'd We go to use our hands and not our tongues. GLOUCESTER. Your eyes drop millstones when fools' eyes fall tears. I like you, lads; about your business straight; Go, go, dispatch. FIRST MURDERER. We will, my noble lord. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The Tower Enter CLARENCE and KEEPER KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily to-day? CLARENCE. O, I have pass'd a miserable night, So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights, That, as I am a Christian faithful man, I would not spend another such a night Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days- So full of dismal terror was the time! KEEPER. What was your dream, my lord? I pray you tell me. CLARENCE. Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower And was embark'd to cross to Burgundy; And in my company my brother Gloucester, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we look'd toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befall'n us. As we pac'd along Upon the giddy footing of the hatches, Methought that Gloucester stumbled, and in falling Struck me, that thought to stay him, overboard Into the tumbling billows of the main. O Lord, methought what pain it was to drown, What dreadful noise of waters in my ears, What sights of ugly death within my eyes! Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wrecks, A thousand men that fishes gnaw'd upon, Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea; Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes Where eyes did once inhabit there were crept, As 'twere in scorn of eyes, reflecting gems, That woo'd the slimy bottom of the deep And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatt'red by. KEEPER. Had you such leisure in the time of death To gaze upon these secrets of the deep? CLARENCE. Methought I had; and often did I strive To yield the ghost, but still the envious flood Stopp'd in my soul and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wand'ring air; But smother'd it within my panting bulk, Who almost burst to belch it in the sea. KEEPER. Awak'd you not in this sore agony? CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was lengthen'd after life. O, then began the tempest to my soul! I pass'd, methought, the melancholy flood With that sour ferryman which poets write of, Unto the kingdom of perpetual night. The first that there did greet my stranger soul Was my great father-in-law, renowned Warwick, Who spake aloud 'What scourge for perjury Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?' And so he vanish'd. Then came wand'ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood, and he shriek'd out aloud 'Clarence is come-false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence, That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury. Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment!' With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environ'd me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that, with the very noise, I trembling wak'd, and for a season after Could not believe but that I was in hell, Such terrible impression made my dream. KEEPER. No marvel, lord, though it affrighted you; I am afraid, methinks, to hear you tell it. CLARENCE. Ah, Keeper, Keeper, I have done these things That now give evidence against my soul For Edward's sake, and see how he requites me! O God! If my deep prayers cannot appease Thee, But Thou wilt be aveng'd on my misdeeds, Yet execute Thy wrath in me alone; O, spare my guiltless wife and my poor children! KEEPER, I prithee sit by me awhile; My soul is heavy, and I fain would sleep. KEEPER. I will, my lord. God give your Grace good rest. [CLARENCE sleeps] Enter BRAKENBURY the Lieutenant BRAKENBURY. Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning and the noontide night. Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honour for an inward toil; And for unfelt imaginations They often feel a world of restless cares, So that between their tides and low name There's nothing differs but the outward fame. Enter the two MURDERERS FIRST MURDERER. Ho! who's here? BRAKENBURY. What wouldst thou, fellow, and how cam'st thou hither? FIRST MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. BRAKENBURY. What, so brief? SECOND MURDERER. 'Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission and talk no more. [BRAKENBURY reads it] BRAKENBURY. I am, in this, commanded to deliver The noble Duke of Clarence to your hands. I will not reason what is meant hereby, Because I will be guiltless from the meaning. There lies the Duke asleep; and there the keys. I'll to the King and signify to him That thus I have resign'd to you my charge. FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; 'tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well. Exeunt BRAKENBURY and KEEPER SECOND MURDERER. What, shall I stab him as he sleeps? FIRST MURDERER. No; he'll say 'twas done cowardly, when he wakes. SECOND MURDERER. Why, he shall never wake until the great judgment-day. FIRST MURDERER. Why, then he'll say we stabb'd him sleeping. SECOND MURDERER. The urging of that word judgment hath bred a kind of remorse in me. FIRST MURDERER. What, art thou afraid? SECOND MURDERER. Not to kill him, having a warrant; but to be damn'd for killing him, from the which no warrant can defend me. FIRST MURDERER. I thought thou hadst been resolute. SECOND MURDERER. So I am, to let him live. FIRST MURDERER. I'll back to the Duke of Gloucester and tell him so. SECOND MURDERER. Nay, I prithee, stay a little. I hope this passionate humour of mine will change; it was wont to hold me but while one tells twenty. FIRST MURDERER. How dost thou feel thyself now? SECOND MURDERER. Faith, some certain dregs of conscience are yet within me. FIRST MURDERER. Remember our reward, when the deed's done. SECOND MURDERER. Zounds, he dies; I had forgot the reward. FIRST MURDERER. Where's thy conscience now? SECOND MURDERER. O, in the Duke of Gloucester's purse! FIRST MURDERER. When he opens his purse to give us our reward, thy conscience flies out. SECOND MURDERER. 'Tis no matter; let it go; there's few or none will entertain it. FIRST MURDERER. What if it come to thee again? SECOND MURDERER. I'll not meddle with it-it makes a man coward: a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbour's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing shame- fac'd spirit that mutinies in a man's bosom; it fills a man full of obstacles: it made me once restore a purse of gold that-by chance I found. It beggars any man that keeps it. It is turn'd out of towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavours to trust to himself and live without it. FIRST MURDERER. Zounds, 'tis even now at my elbow, persuading me not to kill the Duke. SECOND MURDERER. Take the devil in thy mind and believe him not; he would insinuate with thee but to make the sigh. FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-fram'd; he cannot prevail with me. SECOND MURDERER. Spoke like a tall man that respects thy reputation. Come, shall we fall to work? FIRST MURDERER. Take him on the costard with the hilts of thy sword, and then chop him in the malmsey-butt in the next room. SECOND MURDERER. O excellent device! and make a sop of him. FIRST MURDERER. Soft! he wakes. SECOND MURDERER. Strike! FIRST MURDERER. No, we'll reason with him. CLARENCE. Where art thou, Keeper? Give me a cup of wine. SECOND MURDERER. You shall have wine enough, my lord, anon. CLARENCE. In God's name, what art thou? FIRST MURDERER. A man, as you are. CLARENCE. But not as I am, royal. SECOND MURDERER. Nor you as we are, loyal. CLARENCE. Thy voice is thunder, but thy looks are humble. FIRST MURDERER. My voice is now the King's, my looks mine own. CLARENCE. How darkly and how deadly dost thou speak! Your eyes do menace me. Why look you pale? Who sent you hither? Wherefore do you come? SECOND MURDERER. To, to, to- CLARENCE. To murder me? BOTH MURDERERS. Ay, ay. CLARENCE. You scarcely have the hearts to tell me so, And therefore cannot have the hearts to do it. Wherein, my friends, have I offended you? FIRST MURDERER. Offended us you have not, but the King. CLARENCE. I shall be reconcil'd to him again. SECOND MURDERER. Never, my lord; therefore prepare to die. CLARENCE. Are you drawn forth among a world of men To slay the innocent? What is my offence? Where is the evidence that doth accuse me? What lawful quest have given their verdict up Unto the frowning judge, or who pronounc'd The bitter sentence of poor Clarence' death? Before I be convict by course of law, To threaten me with death is most unlawful. I charge you, as you hope to have redemption By Christ's dear blood shed for our grievous sins, That you depart and lay no hands on me. The deed you undertake is damnable. FIRST MURDERER. What we will do, we do upon command. SECOND MURDERER. And he that hath commanded is our King. CLARENCE. Erroneous vassals! the great King of kings Hath in the tables of his law commanded That thou shalt do no murder. Will you then Spurn at his edict and fulfil a man's? Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his hand To hurl upon their heads that break his law. SECOND MURDERER. And that same vengeance doth he hurl on thee For false forswearing, and for murder too; Thou didst receive the sacrament to fight In quarrel of the house of Lancaster. FIRST MURDERER. And like a traitor to the name of God Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade Unripp'dst the bowels of thy sov'reign's son. SECOND MURDERER. Whom thou wast sworn to cherish and defend. FIRST MURDERER. How canst thou urge God's dreadful law to us, When thou hast broke it in such dear degree? CLARENCE. Alas! for whose sake did I that ill deed? For Edward, for my brother, for his sake. He sends you not to murder me for this, For in that sin he is as deep as I. If God will be avenged for the deed, O, know you yet He doth it publicly. Take not the quarrel from His pow'rful arm; He needs no indirect or lawless course To cut off those that have offended Him. FIRST MURDERER. Who made thee then a bloody minister When gallant-springing brave Plantagenet, That princely novice, was struck dead by thee? CLARENCE. My brother's love, the devil, and my rage. FIRST MURDERER. Thy brother's love, our duty, and thy faults, Provoke us hither now to slaughter thee. CLARENCE. If you do love my brother, hate not me; I am his brother, and I love him well. If you are hir'd for meed, go back again, And I will send you to my brother Gloucester, Who shall reward you better for my life Than Edward will for tidings of my death. SECOND MURDERER. You are deceiv'd: your brother Gloucester hates you. CLARENCE. O, no, he loves me, and he holds me dear. Go you to him from me. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, so we will. CLARENCE. Tell him when that our princely father York Bless'd his three sons with his victorious arm And charg'd us from his soul to love each other, He little thought of this divided friendship. Bid Gloucester think of this, and he will weep. FIRST MURDERER. Ay, millstones; as he lesson'd us to weep. CLARENCE. O, do not slander him, for he is kind. FIRST MURDERER. Right, as snow in harvest. Come, you deceive yourself: 'Tis he that sends us to destroy you here. CLARENCE. It cannot be; for he bewept my fortune And hugg'd me in his arms, and swore with sobs That he would labour my delivery. FIRST MURDERER. Why, so he doth, when he delivers you From this earth's thraldom to the joys of heaven. SECOND MURDERER. Make peace with God, for you must die, my lord. CLARENCE. Have you that holy feeling in your souls To counsel me to make my peace with God, And are you yet to your own souls so blind That you will war with God by murd'ring me? O, sirs, consider: they that set you on To do this deed will hate you for the deed. SECOND MURDERER. What shall we do? CLARENCE. Relent, and save your souls. FIRST MURDERER. Relent! No, 'tis cowardly and womanish. CLARENCE. Not to relent is beastly, savage, devilish. Which of you, if you were a prince's son, Being pent from liberty as I am now, If two such murderers as yourselves came to you, Would not entreat for life? My friend, I spy some pity in thy looks; O, if thine eye be not a flatterer, Come thou on my side and entreat for me- As you would beg were you in my distress. A begging prince what beggar pities not? SECOND MURDERER. Look behind you, my lord. FIRST MURDERER. [Stabbing him] Take that, and that. If all this will not do, I'll drown you in the malmsey-butt within. Exit with the body SECOND MURDERER. A bloody deed, and desperately dispatch'd! How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder! Re-enter FIRST MURDERER FIRST MURDERER-How now, what mean'st thou that thou help'st me not? By heavens, the Duke shall know how slack you have been! SECOND MURDERER. I would he knew that I had sav'd his brother! Take thou the fee, and tell him what I say; For I repent me that the Duke is slain. Exit FIRST MURDERER. So do not I. Go, coward as thou art. Well, I'll go hide the body in some hole, Till that the Duke give order for his burial; And when I have my meed, I will away; For this will out, and then I must not stay. Exit <> ACT II. SCENE 1. London. The palace Flourish. Enter KING EDWARD sick, QUEEN ELIZABETH, DORSET, RIVERS, HASTINGS, BUCKINGHAM, GREY, and others KING EDWARD. Why, so. Now have I done a good day's work. You peers, continue this united league. I every day expect an embassage From my Redeemer to redeem me hence; And more at peace my soul shall part to heaven, Since I have made my friends at peace on earth. Hastings and Rivers, take each other's hand; Dissemble not your hatred, swear your love. RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate; And with my hand I seal my true heart's love. HASTINGS. So thrive I, as I truly swear the like! KING EDWARD. Take heed you dally not before your king; Lest He that is the supreme King of kings Confound your hidden falsehood and award Either of you to be the other's end. HASTINGS. So prosper I, as I swear perfect love! RIVERS. And I, as I love Hastings with my heart! KING EDWARD. Madam, yourself is not exempt from this; Nor you, son Dorset; Buckingham, nor you: You have been factious one against the other. Wife, love Lord Hastings, let him kiss your hand; And what you do, do it unfeignedly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. There, Hastings; I will never more remember Our former hatred, so thrive I and mine! KING EDWARD. Dorset, embrace him; Hastings, love Lord Marquis. DORSET. This interchange of love, I here protest, Upon my part shall be inviolable. HASTINGS. And so swear I. [They embrace] KING EDWARD. Now, princely Buckingham, seal thou this league With thy embracements to my wife's allies, And make me happy in your unity. BUCKINGHAM. [To the QUEEN] Whenever Buckingham doth turn his hate Upon your Grace, but with all duteous love Doth cherish you and yours, God punish me With hate in those where I expect most love! When I have most need to employ a friend And most assured that he is a friend, Deep, hollow, treacherous, and full of guile, Be he unto me! This do I beg of God When I am cold in love to you or yours. [They embrace] KING EDWARD. A pleasing cordial, princely Buckingham, Is this thy vow unto my sickly heart. There wanteth now our brother Gloucester here To make the blessed period of this peace. BUCKINGHAM. And, in good time, Here comes Sir Richard Ratcliff and the Duke. Enter GLOUCESTER, and RATCLIFF GLOUCESTER. Good morrow to my sovereign king and Queen; And, princely peers, a happy time of day! KING EDWARD. Happy, indeed, as we have spent the day. Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, Made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, Between these swelling wrong-incensed peers. GLOUCESTER. A blessed labour, my most sovereign lord. Among this princely heap, if any here, By false intelligence or wrong surmise, Hold me a foe- If I unwittingly, or in my rage, Have aught committed that is hardly borne To any in this presence, I desire To reconcile me to his friendly peace: 'Tis death to me to be at enmity; I hate it, and desire all good men's love. First, madam, I entreat true peace of you, Which I will purchase with my duteous service; Of you, my noble cousin Buckingham, If ever any grudge were lodg'd between us; Of you, and you, Lord Rivers, and of Dorset, That all without desert have frown'd on me; Of you, Lord Woodville, and, Lord Scales, of you; Dukes, earls, lords, gentlemen-indeed, of all. I do not know that Englishman alive With whom my soul is any jot at odds More than the infant that is born to-night. I thank my God for my humility. QUEEN ELIZABETH. A holy day shall this be kept hereafter. I would to God all strifes were well compounded. My sovereign lord, I do beseech your Highness To take our brother Clarence to your grace. GLOUCESTER. Why, madam, have I off'red love for this, To be so flouted in this royal presence? Who knows not that the gentle Duke is dead? [They all start] You do him injury to scorn his corse. KING EDWARD. Who knows not he is dead! Who knows he is? QUEEN ELIZABETH. All-seeing heaven, what a world is this! BUCKINGHAM. Look I so pale, Lord Dorset, as the rest? DORSET. Ay, my good lord; and no man in the presence But his red colour hath forsook his cheeks. KING EDWARD. Is Clarence dead? The order was revers'd. GLOUCESTER. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear; Some tardy cripple bare the countermand That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, an not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion! Enter DERBY DERBY. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace; my soul is full of sorrow. DERBY. I Will not rise unless your Highness hear me. KING EDWARD. Then say at once what is it thou requests. DERBY. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant's life; Who slew to-day a riotous gentleman Lately attendant on the Duke of Norfolk. KING EDWARD. Have I a tongue to doom my brother's death, And shall that tongue give pardon to a slave? My brother killed no man-his fault was thought, And yet his punishment was bitter death. Who sued to me for him? Who, in my wrath, Kneel'd at my feet, and bid me be advis'd? Who spoke of brotherhood? Who spoke of love? Who told me how the poor soul did forsake The mighty Warwick and did fight for me? Who told me, in the field at Tewksbury When Oxford had me down, he rescued me And said 'Dear Brother, live, and be a king'? Who told me, when we both lay in the field Frozen almost to death, how he did lap me Even in his garments, and did give himself, All thin and naked, to the numb cold night? All this from my remembrance brutish wrath Sinfully pluck'd, and not a man of you Had so much race to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting-vassals Have done a drunken slaughter and defac'd The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon; And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. [DERBY rises] But for my brother not a man would speak; Nor I, ungracious, speak unto myself For him, poor soul. The proudest of you all Have been beholding to him in his life; Yet none of you would once beg for his life. O God, I fear thy justice will take hold On me, and you, and mine, and yours, for this! Come, Hastings, help me to my closet. Ah, poor Clarence! Exeunt some with KING and QUEEN GLOUCESTER. This is the fruits of rashness. Mark'd you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queen Look'd pale when they did hear of Clarence' death? O, they did urge it still unto the King! God will revenge it. Come, lords, will you go To comfort Edward with our company? BUCKINGHAM. We wait upon your Grace. Exeunt SCENE 2. London. The palace Enter the old DUCHESS OF YORK, with the SON and DAUGHTER of CLARENCE SON. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead? DUCHESS. No, boy. DAUGHTER. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, And cry 'O Clarence, my unhappy son!'? SON. Why do you look on us, and shake your head, And call us orphans, wretches, castaways, If that our noble father were alive? DUCHESS. My pretty cousins, you mistake me both; I do lament the sickness of the King, As loath to lose him, not your father's death; It were lost sorrow to wail one that's lost. SON. Then you conclude, my grandam, he is dead. The King mine uncle is to blame for it. God will revenge it; whom I will importune With earnest prayers all to that effect. DAUGHTER. And so will I. DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace! The King doth love you well. Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caus'd your father's death. SON. Grandam, we can; for my good uncle Gloucester Told me the King, provok'd to it by the Queen, Devis'd impeachments to imprison him. And when my uncle told me so, he wept, And pitied me, and kindly kiss'd my cheek; Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as a child. DUCHESS. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous vizor hide deep vice! He is my son; ay, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. SON. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam? DUCHESS. Ay, boy. SON. I cannot think it. Hark! what noise is this? Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, with her hair about her ears; RIVERS and DORSET after her QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, who shall hinder me to wail and weep, To chide my fortune, and torment myself? I'll join with black despair against my soul And to myself become an enemy. DUCHESS. What means this scene of rude impatience? QUEEN ELIZABETH. To make an act of tragic violence. EDWARD, my lord, thy son, our king, is dead. Why grow the branches when the root is gone? Why wither not the leaves that want their sap? If you will live, lament; if die, be brief, That our swift-winged souls may catch the King's, Or like obedient subjects follow him To his new kingdom of ne'er-changing night. DUCHESS. Ah, so much interest have I in thy sorrow As I had title in thy noble husband! I have bewept a worthy husband's death, And liv'd with looking on his images; But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are crack'd in pieces by malignant death, And I for comfort have but one false glass, That grieves me when I see my shame in him. Thou art a widow, yet thou art a mother And hast the comfort of thy children left; But death hath snatch'd my husband from mine arms And pluck'd two crutches from my feeble hands- Clarence and Edward. O, what cause have I- Thine being but a moiety of my moan- To overgo thy woes and drown thy cries? SON. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father's death! How can we aid you with our kindred tears? DAUGHTER. Our fatherless distress was left unmoan'd; Your widow-dolour likewise be unwept! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Give me no help in lamentation; I am not barren to bring forth complaints. All springs reduce their currents to mine eyes That I, being govern'd by the watery moon, May send forth plenteous tears to drown the world! Ah for my husband, for my dear Lord Edward! CHILDREN. Ah for our father, for our dear Lord Clarence! DUCHESS. Alas for both, both mine, Edward and Clarence! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What stay had I but Edward? and he's gone. CHILDREN. What stay had we but Clarence? and he's gone. DUCHESS. What stays had I but they? and they are gone. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Was never widow had so dear a loss. CHILDREN. Were never orphans had so dear a loss. DUCHESS. Was never mother had so dear a loss. Alas, I am the mother of these griefs! Their woes are parcell'd, mine is general. She for an Edward weeps, and so do I: I for a Clarence weep, so doth not she. These babes for Clarence weep, and so do I: I for an Edward weep, so do not they. Alas, you three on me, threefold distress'd, Pour all your tears! I am your sorrow's nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation. DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeas'd That you take with unthankfulness his doing. In common worldly things 'tis called ungrateful With dull unwillingness to repay a debt Which with a bounteous hand was kindly lent; Much more to be thus opposite with heaven, For it requires the royal debt it lent you. RIVERS. Madam, bethink you, like a careful mother, Of the young prince your son. Send straight for him; Let him be crown'd; in him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward's grave, And plant your joys in living Edward's throne. Enter GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, DERBY, HASTINGS, and RATCLIFF GLOUCESTER. Sister, have comfort. All of us have cause To wail the dimming of our shining star; But none can help our harms by wailing them. Madam, my mother, I do cry you mercy; I did not see your Grace. Humbly on my knee I crave your blessing. DUCHESS. God bless thee; and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty! GLOUCESTER. Amen! [Aside] And make me die a good old man! That is the butt end of a mother's blessing; I marvel that her Grace did leave it out. BUCKINGHAM. You cloudy princes and heart-sorrowing peers, That bear this heavy mutual load of moan, Now cheer each other in each other's love. Though we have spent our harvest of this king, We are to reap the harvest of his son. The broken rancour of your high-swol'n hearts, But lately splinter'd, knit, and join'd together, Must gently be preserv'd, cherish'd, and kept. Me seemeth good that, with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young prince be fet Hither to London, to be crown'd our King. RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude The new-heal'd wound of malice should break out, Which would be so much the more dangerous By how much the estate is green and yet ungovern'd; Where every horse bears his commanding rein And may direct his course as please himself, As well the fear of harm as harm apparent, In my opinion, ought to be prevented. GLOUCESTER. I hope the King made peace with all of us; And the compact is firm and true in me. RIVERS. And so in me; and so, I think, in an. Yet, since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach, Which haply by much company might be urg'd; Therefore I say with noble Buckingham That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince. HASTINGS. And so say I. GLOUCESTER. Then be it so; and go we to determine Who they shall be that straight shall post to Ludlow. Madam, and you, my sister, will you go To give your censures in this business? Exeunt all but BUCKINGHAM and GLOUCESTER BUCKINGHAM. My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince, For God sake, let not us two stay at home; For by the way I'll sort occasion, As index to the story we late talk'd of, To part the Queen's proud kindred from the Prince. GLOUCESTER. My other self, my counsel's consistory, My oracle, my prophet, my dear cousin, I, as a child, will go by thy direction. Toward Ludlow then, for we'll not stay behind. Exeunt SCENE 3. London. A street Enter one CITIZEN at one door, and another at the other FIRST CITIZEN. Good morrow, neighbour. Whither away so fast? SECOND CITIZEN. I promise you, I scarcely know myself. Hear you the news abroad? FIRST CITIZEN. Yes, that the King is dead. SECOND CITIZEN. Ill news, by'r lady; seldom comes the better. I fear, I fear 'twill prove a giddy world. Enter another CITIZEN THIRD CITIZEN. Neighbours, God speed! FIRST CITIZEN. Give you good morrow, sir. THIRD CITIZEN. Doth the news hold of good King Edward's death? SECOND CITIZEN. Ay, sir, it is too true; God help the while! THIRD CITIZEN. Then, masters, look to see a troublous world. FIRST CITIZEN. No, no; by God's good grace, his son shall reign. THIRD CITIZEN. Woe to that land that's govern'd by a child. SECOND CITIZEN. In him there is a hope of government, Which, in his nonage, council under him, And, in his full and ripened years, himself, No doubt, shall then, and till then, govern well. FIRST CITIZEN. So stood the state when Henry the Sixth Was crown'd in Paris but at nine months old. THIRD CITIZEN. Stood the state so? No, no, good friends, God wot; For then this land was famously enrich'd With politic grave counsel; then the King Had virtuous uncles to protect his Grace. FIRST CITIZEN. Why, so hath this, both by his father and mother. THIRD CITIZEN. Better it were they all came by his father, Or by his father there were none at all; For emulation who shall now be nearest Will touch us all too near, if God prevent not. O, full of danger is the Duke of Gloucester! And the Queen's sons and brothers haught and proud; And were they to be rul'd, and not to rule, This sickly land might solace as before. FIRST CITIZEN. Come, come, we fear the worst; all will be well. THIRD CITIZEN. When clouds are seen, wise men put on their cloaks; When great leaves fall, then winter is at hand; When the sun sets, who doth not look for night? Untimely storms make men expect a dearth. All may be well; but, if God sort it so, 'Tis more than we deserve or I expect. SECOND CITIZEN. Truly, the hearts of men are fun of fear. You cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and fun of dread. THIRD CITIZEN. Before the days of change, still is it so; By a divine instinct men's minds mistrust Ensuing danger; as by proof we see The water swell before a boist'rous storm. But leave it all to God. Whither away? SECOND CITIZEN. Marry, we were sent for to the justices. THIRD CITIZEN. And so was I; I'll bear you company. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. The palace Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, the young DUKE OF YORK, QUEEN ELIZABETH, and the DUCHESS OF YORK ARCHBISHOP. Last night, I hear, they lay at Stony Stratford, And at Northampton they do rest to-night; To-morrow or next day they will be here. DUCHESS. I long with all my heart to see the Prince. I hope he is much grown since last I saw him. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But I hear no; they say my son of York Has almost overta'en him in his growth. YORK. Ay, mother; but I would not have it so. DUCHESS. Why, my good cousin, it is good to grow. YORK. Grandam, one night as we did sit at supper, My uncle Rivers talk'd how I did grow More than my brother. 'Ay,' quoth my uncle Gloucester 'Small herbs have grace: great weeds do grow apace.' And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flow'rs are slow and weeds make haste. DUCHESS. Good faith, good faith, the saying did not hold In him that did object the same to thee. He was the wretched'st thing when he was young, So long a-growing and so leisurely That, if his rule were true, he should be gracious. ARCHBISHOP. And so no doubt he is, my gracious madam. DUCHESS. I hope he is; but yet let mothers doubt. YORK. Now, by my troth, if I had been rememb'red, I could have given my uncle's Grace a flout To touch his growth nearer than he touch'd mine. DUCHESS. How, my young York? I prithee let me hear it. YORK. Marry, they say my uncle grew so fast That he could gnaw a crust at two hours old. 'Twas full two years ere I could get a tooth. Grandam, this would have been a biting jest. DUCHESS. I prithee, pretty York, who told thee this? YORK. Grandam, his nurse. DUCHESS. His nurse! Why she was dead ere thou wast born. YORK. If 'twere not she, I cannot tell who told me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. A parlous boy! Go to, you are too shrewd. ARCHBISHOP. Good madam, be not angry with the child. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Pitchers have ears. Enter a MESSENGER ARCHBISHOP. Here comes a messenger. What news? MESSENGER. Such news, my lord, as grieves me to report. QUEEN ELIZABETH. How doth the Prince? MESSENGER. Well, madam, and in health. DUCHESS. What is thy news? MESSENGER. Lord Rivers and Lord Grey Are sent to Pomfret, and with them Sir Thomas Vaughan, prisoners. DUCHESS. Who hath committed them? MESSENGER. The mighty Dukes, Gloucester and Buckingham. ARCHBISHOP. For what offence? MESSENGER. The sum of all I can, I have disclos'd. Why or for what the nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ay me, I see the ruin of my house! The tiger now hath seiz'd the gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jet Upon the innocent and aweless throne. Welcome, destruction, blood, and massacre! I see, as in a map, the end of all. DUCHESS. Accursed and unquiet wrangling days, How many of you have mine eyes beheld! My husband lost his life to get the crown; And often up and down my sons were toss'd For me to joy and weep their gain and loss; And being seated, and domestic broils Clean over-blown, themselves the conquerors Make war upon themselves-brother to brother, Blood to blood, self against self. O, preposterous And frantic outrage, end thy damned spleen, Or let me die, to look on death no more! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Come, come, my boy; we will to sanctuary. Madam, farewell. DUCHESS. Stay, I will go with you. QUEEN ELIZABETH. You have no cause. ARCHBISHOP. [To the QUEEN] My gracious lady, go. And thither bear your treasure and your goods. For my part, I'll resign unto your Grace The seal I keep; and so betide to me As well I tender you and all of yours! Go, I'll conduct you to the sanctuary. Exeunt <> ACT III. SCENE 1. London. A street The trumpets sound. Enter the PRINCE OF WALES, GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, CARDINAL BOURCHIER, and others BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet Prince, to London, to your chamber. GLOUCESTER. Welcome, dear cousin, my thoughts' sovereign. The weary way hath made you melancholy. PRINCE. No, uncle; but our crosses on the way Have made it tedious, wearisome, and heavy. I want more uncles here to welcome me. GLOUCESTER. Sweet Prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet div'd into the world's deceit; Nor more can you distinguish of a man Than of his outward show; which, God He knows, Seldom or never jumpeth with the heart. Those uncles which you want were dangerous; Your Grace attended to their sug'red words But look'd not on the poison of their hearts. God keep you from them and from such false friends! PRINCE. God keep me from false friends! but they were none. GLOUCESTER. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you. Enter the LORD MAYOR and his train MAYOR. God bless your Grace with health and happy days! PRINCE. I thank you, good my lord, and thank you all. I thought my mother and my brother York Would long ere this have met us on the way. Fie, what a slug is Hastings, that he comes not To tell us whether they will come or no! Enter LORD HASTINGS BUCKINGHAM. And, in good time, here comes the sweating Lord. PRINCE. Welcome, my lord. What, will our mother come? HASTINGS. On what occasion, God He knows, not I, The Queen your mother and your brother York Have taken sanctuary. The tender Prince Would fain have come with me to meet your Grace, But by his mother was perforce withheld. BUCKINGHAM. Fie, what an indirect and peevish course Is this of hers? Lord Cardinal, will your Grace Persuade the Queen to send the Duke of York Unto his princely brother presently? If she deny, Lord Hastings, go with him And from her jealous arms pluck him perforce. CARDINAL. My Lord of Buckingham, if my weak oratory Can from his mother win the Duke of York, Anon expect him here; but if she be obdurate To mild entreaties, God in heaven forbid We should infringe the holy privilege Of blessed sanctuary! Not for all this land Would I be guilty of so deep a sin. BUCKINGHAM. You are too senseless-obstinate, my lord, Too ceremonious and traditional. Weigh it but with the grossness of this age, You break not sanctuary in seizing him. The benefit thereof is always granted To those whose dealings have deserv'd the place And those who have the wit to claim the place. This Prince hath neither claim'd it nor deserv'd it, And therefore, in mine opinion, cannot have it. Then, taking him from thence that is not there, You break no privilege nor charter there. Oft have I heard of sanctuary men; But sanctuary children never till now. CARDINAL. My lord, you shall o'errule my mind for once. Come on, Lord Hastings, will you go with me? HASTINGS. I go, my lord. PRINCE. Good lords, make all the speedy haste you may. Exeunt CARDINAL and HASTINGS Say, uncle Gloucester, if our brother come, Where shall we sojourn till our coronation? GLOUCESTER. Where it seems best unto your royal self. If I may counsel you, some day or two Your Highness shall repose you at the Tower, Then where you please and shall be thought most fit For your best health and recreation. PRINCE. I do not like the Tower, of any place. Did Julius Caesar build that place, my lord? BUCKINGHAM. He did, my gracious lord, begin that place, Which, since, succeeding ages have re-edified. PRINCE. Is it upon record, or else reported Successively from age to age, he built it? BUCKINGHAM. Upon record, my gracious lord. PRINCE. But say, my lord, it were not regist'red, Methinks the truth should Eve from age to age, As 'twere retail'd to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] So wise so young, they say, do never live long. PRINCE. What say you, uncle? GLOUCESTER. I say, without characters, fame lives long. [Aside] Thus, like the formal vice, Iniquity, I moralize two meanings in one word. PRINCE. That Julius Caesar was a famous man; With what his valour did enrich his wit, His wit set down to make his valour live. Death makes no conquest of this conqueror; For now he lives in fame, though not in life. I'll tell you what, my cousin Buckingham- BUCKINGHAM. What, my gracious lord? PRINCE. An if I live until I be a man, I'll win our ancient right in France again, Or die a soldier as I liv'd a king. GLOUCESTER. [Aside] Short summers lightly have a forward spring. Enter HASTINGS, young YORK, and the CARDINAL BUCKINGHAM. Now, in good time, here comes the Duke of York. PRINCE. Richard of York, how fares our loving brother? YORK. Well, my dread lord; so must I can you now. PRINCE. Ay brother, to our grief, as it is yours. Too late he died that might have kept that title, Which by his death hath lost much majesty. GLOUCESTER. How fares our cousin, noble Lord of York? YORK. I thank you, gentle uncle. O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth. The Prince my brother hath outgrown me far. GLOUCESTER. He hath, my lord. YORK. And therefore is he idle? GLOUCESTER. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. YORK. Then he is more beholding to you than I. GLOUCESTER. He may command me as my sovereign; But you have power in me as in a kinsman. YORK. I pray you, uncle, give me this dagger. GLOUCESTER. My dagger, little cousin? With all my heart! PRINCE. A beggar, brother? YORK. Of my kind uncle, that I know will give, And being but a toy, which is no grief to give. GLOUCESTER. A greater gift than that I'll give my cousin. YORK. A greater gift! O, that's the sword to it! GLOUCESTER. Ay, gentle cousin, were it light enough. YORK. O, then, I see you will part but with light gifts: In weightier things you'll say a beggar nay. GLOUCESTER. It is too heavy for your Grace to wear. YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. GLOUCESTER. What, would you have my weapon, little Lord? YORK. I would, that I might thank you as you call me. GLOUCESTER. How? YORK. Little. PRINCE. My Lord of York will still be cross in talk. Uncle, your Grace knows how to bear with him. YORK. You mean, to bear me, not to bear with me. Uncle, my brother mocks both you and me; Because that I am little, like an ape, He thinks that you should bear me on your shoulders. BUCKINGHAM. With what a sharp-provided wit he reasons! To mitigate the scorn he gives his uncle He prettily and aptly taunts himself. So cunning and so young is wonderful. GLOUCESTER. My lord, will't please you pass along? Myself and my good cousin Buckingham Will to your mother, to entreat of her To meet you at the Tower and welcome you. YORK. What, will you go unto the Tower, my lord? PRINCE. My Lord Protector needs will have it so. YORK. I shall not sleep in quiet at the Tower. GLOUCESTER. Why, what should you fear? YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence' angry ghost. My grandam told me he was murder'd there. PRINCE. I fear no uncles dead. GLOUCESTER. Nor none that live, I hope. PRINCE. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord; and with a heavy heart, Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. A sennet. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER, BUCKINGHAM, and CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Think you, my lord, this little prating York Was not incensed by his subtle mother To taunt and scorn you thus opprobriously? GLOUCESTER. No doubt, no doubt. O, 'tis a perilous boy; Bold, quick, ingenious, forward, capable. He is all the mother's, from the top to toe. BUCKINGHAM. Well, let them rest. Come hither, Catesby. Thou art sworn as deeply to effect what we intend As closely to conceal what we impart. Thou know'st our reasons urg'd upon the way. What think'st thou? Is it not an easy matter To make William Lord Hastings of our mind, For the instalment of this noble Duke In the seat royal of this famous isle? CATESBY. He for his father's sake so loves the Prince That he will not be won to aught against him. BUCKINGHAM. What think'st thou then of Stanley? Will not he? CATESBY. He will do all in all as Hastings doth. BUCKINGHAM. Well then, no more but this: go, gentle Catesby, And, as it were far off, sound thou Lord Hastings How he doth stand affected to our purpose; And summon him to-morrow to the Tower, To sit about the coronation. If thou dost find him tractable to us, Encourage him, and tell him all our reasons; If he be leaden, icy, cold, unwilling, Be thou so too, and so break off the talk, And give us notice of his inclination; For we to-morrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employ'd. GLOUCESTER. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries To-morrow are let blood at Pomfret Castle; And bid my lord, for joy of this good news, Give Mistress Shore one gentle kiss the more. BUCKINGHAM. Good Catesby, go effect this business soundly. CATESBY. My good lords both, with all the heed I can. GLOUCESTER. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep? CATESBY. You shall, my lord. GLOUCESTER. At Crosby House, there shall you find us both. Exit CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Now, my lord, what shall we do if we perceive Lord Hastings will not yield to our complots? GLOUCESTER. Chop off his head-something we will determine. And, look when I am King, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford and all the movables Whereof the King my brother was possess'd. BUCKINGHAM. I'll claim that promise at your Grace's hand. GLOUCESTER. And look to have it yielded with all kindness. Come, let us sup betimes, that afterwards We may digest our complots in some form. Exeunt SCENE 2. Before LORD HASTING'S house Enter a MESSENGER to the door of HASTINGS MESSENGER. My lord, my lord! [Knocking] HASTINGS. [Within] Who knocks? MESSENGER. One from the Lord Stanley. HASTINGS. [Within] What is't o'clock? MESSENGER. Upon the stroke of four. Enter LORD HASTINGS HASTINGS. Cannot my Lord Stanley sleep these tedious nights? MESSENGER. So it appears by that I have to say. First, he commends him to your noble self. HASTINGS. What then? MESSENGER. Then certifies your lordship that this night He dreamt the boar had razed off his helm. Besides, he says there are two councils kept, And that may be determin'd at the one Which may make you and him to rue at th' other. Therefore he sends to know your lordship's pleasure- If you will presently take horse with him And with all speed post with him toward the north To shun the danger that his soul divines. HASTINGS. Go, fellow, go, return unto thy lord; Bid him not fear the separated council: His honour and myself are at the one, And at the other is my good friend Catesby; Where nothing can proceed that toucheth us Whereof I shall not have intelligence. Tell him his fears are shallow, without instance; And for his dreams, I wonder he's so simple To trust the mock'ry of unquiet slumbers. To fly the boar before the boar pursues Were to incense the boar to follow us And make pursuit where he did mean no chase. Go, bid thy master rise and come to me; And we will both together to the Tower, Where, he shall see, the boar will use us kindly. MESSENGER. I'll go, my lord, and tell him what you say. Exit Enter CATESBY CATESBY. Many good morrows to my noble lord! HASTINGS. Good morrow, Catesby; you are early stirring. What news, what news, in this our tott'ring state? CATESBY. It is a reeling world indeed, my lord; And I believe will never stand upright Till Richard wear the garland of the realm. HASTINGS. How, wear the garland! Dost thou mean the crown? CATESBY. Ay, my good lord. HASTINGS. I'll have this crown of mine cut from my shoulders Before I'll see the crown so foul misplac'd. But canst thou guess that he doth aim at it? CATESBY. Ay, on my life; and hopes to find you forward Upon his party for the gain thereof; And thereupon he sends you this good news, That this same very day your enemies, The kindred of the Queen, must die at Pomfret. HASTINGS. Indeed, I am no mourner for that news, Because they have been still my adversaries; But that I'll give my voice on Richard's side To bar my master's heirs in true descent, God knows I will not do it to the death. CATESBY. God keep your lordship in that gracious mind! HASTINGS. But I shall laugh at this a twelve month hence, That they which brought me in my master's hate, I live to look upon their tragedy. Well, Catesby, ere a fortnight make me older, I'll send some packing that yet think not on't. CATESBY. 'Tis a vile thing to die, my gracious lord, When men are unprepar'd and look not for it. HASTINGS. O monstrous, monstrous! And so falls it out With Rivers, Vaughan, Grey; and so 'twill do With some men else that think themselves as safe As thou and I, who, as thou knowest, are dear To princely Richard and to Buckingham. CATESBY. The Princes both make high account of you- [Aside] For they account his head upon the bridge. HASTINGS. I know they do, and I have well deserv'd it. Enter LORD STANLEY Come on, come on; where is your boar-spear, man? Fear you the boar, and go so unprovided? STANLEY. My lord, good morrow; good morrow, Catesby. You may jest on, but, by the holy rood, I do not like these several councils, I. HASTINGS. My lord, I hold my life as dear as yours, And never in my days, I do protest, Was it so precious to me as 'tis now. Think you, but that I know our state secure, I would be so triumphant as I am? STANLEY. The lords at Pomfret, when they rode from London, Were jocund and suppos'd their states were sure, And they indeed had no cause to mistrust; But yet you see how soon the day o'ercast. This sudden stab of rancour I misdoubt; Pray God, I say, I prove a needless coward. What, shall we toward the Tower? The day is spent. HASTINGS. Come, come, have with you. Wot you what, my Lord? To-day the lords you talk'd of are beheaded. STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads Than some that have accus'd them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let's away. Enter HASTINGS, a pursuivant HASTINGS. Go on before; I'll talk with this good fellow. Exeunt STANLEY and CATESBY How now, Hastings! How goes the world with thee? PURSUIVANT. The better that your lordship please to ask. HASTINGS. I tell thee, man, 'tis better with me now Than when thou met'st me last where now we meet: Then was I going prisoner to the Tower By the suggestion of the Queen's allies; But now, I tell thee-keep it to thyself- This day those enernies are put to death, And I in better state than e'er I was. PURSUIVANT. God hold it, to your honour's good content! HASTINGS. Gramercy, Hastings; there, drink that for me. [Throws him his purse] PURSUIVANT. I thank your honour. Exit Enter a PRIEST PRIEST. Well met, my lord; I am glad to see your honour. HASTINGS. I thank thee, good Sir John, with all my heart. I am in your debt for your last exercise; Come the next Sabbath, and I will content you. [He whispers in his ear] PRIEST. I'll wait upon your lordship. Enter BUCKINGHAM BUCKINGHAM. What, talking with a priest, Lord Chamberlain! Your friends at Pomfret, they do need the priest: Your honour hath no shriving work in hand. HASTINGS. Good faith, and when I met this holy man, The men you talk of came into my mind. What, go you toward the Tower? BUCKINGHAM. I do, my lord, but long I cannot stay there; I shall return before your lordship thence. HASTINGS. Nay, like enough, for I stay dinner there. BUCKINGHAM. [Aside] And supper too, although thou knowest it not.- Come, will you go? HASTINGS. I'll wait upon your lordship. Exeunt SCENE 3. Pomfret Castle Enter SIR RICHARD RATCLIFF, with halberds, carrying the Nobles, RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN, to death RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliff, let me tell thee this: To-day shalt thou behold a subject die For truth, for duty, and for loyalty. GREY. God bless the Prince from all the pack of you! A knot you are of damned blood-suckers. VAUGHAN. You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. RATCLIFF. Dispatch; the limit of your lives is out. RIVERS. O Pomfret, Pomfret! O thou bloody prison, Fatal and ominous to noble peers! Within the guilty closure of thy walls RICHARD the Second here was hack'd to death; And for more slander to thy dismal seat, We give to thee our guiltless blood to drink. GREY. Now Margaret's curse is fall'n upon our heads, When she exclaim'd on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabb'd her son. RIVERS. Then curs'd she Richard, then curs'd she Buckingham, Then curs'd she Hastings. O, remember, God, To hear her prayer for them, as now for us! And for my sister, and her princely sons, Be satisfied, dear God, with our true blood, Which, as thou know'st, unjustly must be spilt. RATCLIFF. Make haste; the hour of death is expiate. RIVERS. Come, Grey; come, Vaughan; let us here embrace. Farewell, until we meet again in heaven. Exeunt SCENE 4 London. The Tower Enter BUCKINGHAM, DERBY, HASTINGS, the BISHOP of ELY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL, with others and seat themselves at a table HASTINGS. Now, noble peers, the cause why we are met Is to determine of the coronation. In God's name speak-when is the royal day? BUCKINGHAM. Is all things ready for the royal time? DERBY. It is, and wants but nomination. BISHOP OF ELY. To-morrow then I judge a happy day. BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector's mind herein? Who is most inward with the noble Duke? BISHOP OF ELY. Your Grace, we think, should soonest know his mind. BUCKINGHAM. We know each other's faces; for our hearts, He knows no more of mine than I of yours; Or I of his, my lord, than you of mine. Lord Hastings, you and he are near in love. HASTINGS. I thank his Grace, I know he loves me well; But for his purpose in the coronation I have not sounded him, nor he deliver'd His gracious pleasure any way therein. But you, my honourable lords, may name the time; And in the Duke's behalf I'll give my voice, Which, I presume, he'll take in gentle part. Enter GLOUCESTER BISHOP OF ELY. In happy time, here comes the Duke himself. GLOUCESTER. My noble lords and cousins an, good morrow. I have been long a sleeper, but I trust My absence doth neglect no great design Which by my presence might have been concluded. BUCKINGHAM. Had you not come upon your cue, my lord, WILLIAM Lord Hastings had pronounc'd your part- I mean, your voice for crowning of the King. GLOUCESTER. Than my Lord Hastings no man might be bolder; His lordship knows me well and loves me well. My lord of Ely, when I was last in Holborn I saw good strawberries in your garden there. I do beseech you send for some of them. BISHOP of ELY. Marry and will, my lord, with all my heart. Exit GLOUCESTER. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [Takes him aside] Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business, And finds the testy gentleman so hot That he will lose his head ere give consent His master's child, as worshipfully he terms it, Shall lose the royalty of England's throne. BUCKINGHAM. Withdraw yourself awhile; I'll go with you. Exeunt GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM DERBY. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. To-morrow, in my judgment, is too sudden; For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolong'd. Re-enter the BISHOP OF ELY BISHOP OF ELY. Where is my lord the Duke of Gloucester? I have sent for these strawberries. HASTINGS. His Grace looks cheerfully and smooth this morning; There's some conceit or other likes him well When that he bids good morrow with such spirit. I think there's never a man in Christendom Can lesser hide his love or hate than he; For by his face straight shall you know his heart. DERBY. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any livelihood he show'd to-day? HASTINGS. Marry, that with no man here he is offended; For, were he, he had shown it in his looks. Re-enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM GLOUCESTER. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevail'd Upon my body with their hellish charms? HASTINGS. The tender love I bear your Grace, my lord, Makes me most forward in this princely presence To doom th' offenders, whosoe'er they be. I say, my lord, they have deserved death. GLOUCESTER. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil. Look how I am bewitch'd; behold, mine arm Is like a blasted sapling wither'd up. And this is Edward's wife, that monstrous witch, Consorted with that harlot strumpet Shore, That by their witchcraft thus have marked me. HASTINGS. If they have done this deed, my noble lord- GLOUCESTER. If?-thou protector of this damned strumpet, Talk'st thou to me of ifs? Thou art a traitor. Off with his head! Now by Saint Paul I swear I will not dine until I see the same. Lovel and Ratcliff, look that it be done. The rest that love me, rise and follow me. Exeunt all but HASTINGS, LOVEL, and RATCLIFF HASTINGS. Woe, woe, for England! not a whit for me; For I, too fond, might have prevented this. STANLEY did dream the boar did raze our helms, And I did scorn it and disdain to fly. Three times to-day my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when he look'd upon the Tower, As loath to bear me to the slaughter-house. O, now I need the priest that spake to me! I now repent I told the pursuivant, As too triumphing, how mine enemies To-day at Pomfret bloodily were butcher'd, And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings' wretched head! RATCLIFF. Come, come, dispatch; the Duke would be at dinner. Make a short shrift; he longs to see your head. HASTINGS. O momentary grace of mortal men, Which we more hunt for than the grace of God! Who builds his hope in air of your good looks Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep. LOVEL. Come, come, dispatch; 'tis bootless to exclaim. HASTINGS. O bloody Richard! Miserable England! I prophesy the fearfull'st time to thee That ever wretched age hath look'd upon. Come, lead me to the block; bear him my head. They smile at me who shortly shall be dead. Exeunt SCENE 5. London. The Tower-walls Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured GLOUCESTER. Come, cousin, canst thou quake and change thy colour, Murder thy breath in middle of a word, And then again begin, and stop again, As if thou were distraught and mad with terror? BUCKINGHAM. Tut, I can counterfeit the deep tragedian; Speak and look back, and pry on every side, Tremble and start at wagging of a straw, Intending deep suspicion. Ghastly looks Are at my service, like enforced smiles; And both are ready in their offices At any time to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone? GLOUCESTER. He is; and, see, he brings the mayor along. Enter the LORD MAYOR and CATESBY BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor- GLOUCESTER. Look to the drawbridge there! BUCKINGHAM. Hark! a drum. GLOUCESTER. Catesby, o'erlook the walls. BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent- GLOUCESTER. Look back, defend thee; here are enemies. BUCKINGHAM. God and our innocence defend and guard us! Enter LOVEL and RATCLIFF, with HASTINGS' head GLOUCESTER. Be patient; they are friends-Ratcliff and Lovel. LOVEL. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. GLOUCESTER. So dear I lov'd the man that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breath'd upon the earth a Christian; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thoughts. So smooth he daub'd his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted, I mean his conversation with Shore's wife- He liv'd from all attainder of suspects. BUCKINGHAM. Well, well, he was the covert'st shelt'red traitor That ever liv'd. Would you imagine, or almost believe- Were't not that by great preservation We live to tell it-that the subtle traitor This day had plotted, in the council-house, To murder me and my good Lord of Gloucester. MAYOR. Had he done so? GLOUCESTER. What! think you we are Turks or Infidels? Or that we would, against the form of law, Proceed thus rashly in the villain's death But that the extreme peril of the case, The peace of England and our persons' safety, Enforc'd us to this execution? MAYOR. Now, fair befall you! He deserv'd his death; And your good Graces both have well proceeded To warn false traitors from the like attempts. I never look'd for better at his hands After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. BUCKINGHAM. Yet had we not determin'd he should die Until your lordship came to see his end- Which now the loving haste of these our friends, Something against our meanings, have prevented- Because, my lord, I would have had you heard The traitor speak, and timorously confess The manner and the purpose of his treasons: That you might well have signified the same Unto the citizens, who haply may Misconster us in him and wail his death. MAYOR. But, my good lord, your Grace's words shall serve As well as I had seen and heard him speak; And do not doubt, right noble Princes both, But I'll acquaint our duteous citizens With all your just proceedings in this cause. GLOUCESTER. And to that end we wish'd your lordship here, T' avoid the the the censures of the carping world. BUCKINGHAM. Which since you come too late of our intent, Yet witness what you hear we did intend. And so, my good Lord Mayor, we bid farewell. Exit LORD MAYOR GLOUCESTER. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in an post. There, at your meet'st advantage of the time, Infer the bastardy of Edward's children. Tell them how Edward put to death a citizen Only for saying he would make his son Heir to the crown-meaning indeed his house, Which by the sign thereof was termed so. Moreover, urge his hateful luxury And bestial appetite in change of lust, Which stretch'd unto their servants, daughters, wives, Even where his raging eye or savage heart Without control lusted to make a prey. Nay, for a need, thus far come near my person: Tell them, when that my mother went with child Of that insatiate Edward, noble York My princely father then had wars in France And, by true computation of the time, Found that the issue was not his begot; Which well appeared in his lineaments, Being nothing like the noble Duke my father. Yet touch this sparingly, as 'twere far off; Because, my lord, you know my mother lives. BUCKINGHAM. Doubt not, my lord, I'll play the orator As if the golden fee for which I plead Were for myself; and so, my lord, adieu. GLOUCESTER. If you thrive well, bring them to Baynard's Castle; Where you shall find me well accompanied With reverend fathers and well learned bishops. BUCKINGHAM. I go; and towards three or four o'clock Look for the news that the Guildhall affords. Exit GLOUCESTER. Go, Lovel, with all speed to Doctor Shaw. [To CATESBY] Go thou to Friar Penker. Bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard's Castle. Exeunt all but GLOUCESTER Now will I go to take some privy order To draw the brats of Clarence out of sight, And to give order that no manner person Have any time recourse unto the Princes. Exit SCENE 6. London. A street Enter a SCRIVENER SCRIVENER. Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings; Which in a set hand fairly is engross'd That it may be to-day read o'er in Paul's. And mark how well the sequel hangs together: Eleven hours I have spent to write it over, For yesternight by Catesby was it sent me; The precedent was full as long a-doing; And yet within these five hours Hastings liv'd, Untainted, unexamin'd, free, at liberty. Here's a good world the while! Who is so gros That cannot see this palpable device? Yet who's so bold but says he sees it not? Bad is the world; and all will come to nought, When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. Exit SCENE 7. London. Baynard's Castle Enter GLOUCESTER and BUCKINGHAM, at several doors GLOUCESTER. How now, how now! What say the citizens? BUCKINGHAM. Now, by the holy Mother of our Lord, The citizens are mum, say not a word. GLOUCESTER. Touch'd you the bastardy of Edward's children? BUCKINGHAM. I did; with his contract with Lady Lucy, And his contract by deputy in France; Th' insatiate greediness of his desire, And his enforcement of the city wives; His tyranny for trifles; his own bastardy, As being got, your father then in France, And his resemblance, being not like the Duke. Withal I did infer your lineaments, Being the right idea of your father, Both in your form and nobleness of mind; Laid open all your victories in Scotland, Your discipline in war, wisdom in peace, Your bounty, virtue, fair humility; Indeed, left nothing fitting for your purpose Untouch'd or slightly handled in discourse. And when mine oratory drew toward end I bid them that did love their country's good Cry 'God save Richard, England's royal King!' GLOUCESTER. And did they so? BUCKINGHAM. No, so God help me, they spake not a word; But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, Star'd each on other, and look'd deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended them, And ask'd the Mayor what meant this wilfull silence. His answer was, the people were not used To be spoke to but by the Recorder. Then he was urg'd to tell my tale again. 'Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferr'd'- But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own At lower end of the hall hurl'd up their caps, And some ten voices cried 'God save King Richard!' And thus I took the vantage of those few- 'Thanks, gentle citizens and friends,' quoth I 'This general applause and cheerful shout Argues your wisdoms and your love to Richard.' And even here brake off and came away. GLOUCESTER. What, tongueless blocks were they? Would they not speak? Will not the Mayor then and his brethren come? BUCKINGHAM. The Mayor is here at hand. Intend some fear; Be not you spoke with but by mighty suit; And look you get a prayer-book in your hand, And stand between two churchmen, good my lord; For on that ground I'll make a holy descant; And be not easily won to our requests. Play the maid's part: still answer nay, and take it. GLOUCESTER. I go; and if you plead as well for them As I can say nay to thee for myself, No doubt we bring it to a happy issue. BUCKINGHAM. Go, go, up to the leads; the Lord Mayor knocks. Exit GLOUCESTER Enter the LORD MAYOR, ALDERMEN, and citizens Welcome, my lord. I dance attendance here; I think the Duke will not be spoke withal. Enter CATESBY Now, Catesby, what says your lord to my request? CATESBY. He doth entreat your Grace, my noble lord, To visit him to-morrow or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be mov'd, To draw him from his holy exercise. BUCKINGHAM. Return, good Catesby, to the gracious Duke; Tell him, myself, the Mayor and Aldermen, In deep designs, in matter of great moment, No less importing than our general good, Are come to have some conference with his Grace. CATESBY. I'll signify so much unto him straight. Exit BUCKINGHAM. Ah ha, my lord, this prince is not an Edward! He is not lolling on a lewd love-bed, But on his knees at meditation; Not dallying with a brace of courtezans, But meditating with two deep divines; Not sleeping, to engross his idle body, But praying, to enrich his watchful soul. Happy were England would this virtuous prince Take on his Grace the sovereignty thereof; But, sure, I fear we shall not win him to it. MAYOR. Marry, God defend his Grace should say us nay! BUCKINGHAM. I fear he will. Here Catesby comes again. Re-enter CATESBY Now, Catesby, what says his Grace? CATESBY. My lord, He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to come to him. His Grace not being warn'd thereof before, He fears, my lord, you mean no good to him. BUCKINGHAM. Sorry I am my noble cousin should Suspect me that I mean no good to him. By heaven, we come to him in perfect love; And so once more return and tell his Grace. Exit CATESBY When holy and devout religious men Are at their beads, 'tis much to draw them thence, So sweet is zealous contemplation. Enter GLOUCESTER aloft, between two BISHOPS. CATESBY returns MAYOR. See where his Grace stands 'tween two clergymen! BUCKINGHAM. Two props of virtue for a Christian prince, To stay him from the fall of vanity; And, see, a book of prayer in his hand, True ornaments to know a holy man. Famous Plantagenet, most gracious Prince, Lend favourable ear to our requests, And pardon us the interruption Of thy devotion and right Christian zeal. GLOUCESTER. My lord, there needs no such apology: I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God, Deferr'd the visitation of my friends. But, leaving this, what is your Grace's pleasure? BUCKINGHAM. Even that, I hope, which pleaseth God above, And all good men of this ungovern'd isle. GLOUCESTER. I do suspect I have done some offence That seems disgracious in the city's eye, And that you come to reprehend my ignorance. BUCKINGHAM. You have, my lord. Would it might please your Grace, On our entreaties, to amend your fault! GLOUCESTER. Else wherefore breathe I in a Christian land? BUCKINGHAM. Know then, it is your fault that you resign The supreme seat, the throne majestical, The scept'red office of your ancestors, Your state of fortune and your due of birth, The lineal glory of your royal house, To the corruption of a blemish'd stock; Whiles in the mildness of your sleepy thoughts, Which here we waken to our country's good, The noble isle doth want her proper limbs; Her face defac'd with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost should'red in the swallowing gulf Of dark forgetfulness and deep oblivion. Which to recure, we heartily solicit Your gracious self to take on you the charge And kingly government of this your land- Not as protector, steward, substitute, Or lowly factor for another's gain; But as successively, from blood to blood, Your right of birth, your empery, your own. For this, consorted with the citizens, Your very worshipful and loving friends, And by their vehement instigation, In this just cause come I to move your Grace. GLOUCESTER. I cannot tell if to depart in silence Or bitterly to speak in your reproof Best fitteth my degree or your condition. If not to answer, you might haply think Tongue-tied ambition, not replying, yielded To bear the golden yoke of sovereignty, Which fondly you would here impose on me; If to reprove you for this suit of yours, So season'd with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I check'd my friends. Therefore-to speak, and to avoid the first, And then, in speaking, not to incur the last- Definitively thus I answer you: Your love deserves my thanks, but my desert Unmeritable shuns your high request. First, if all obstacles were cut away, And that my path were even to the crown, As the ripe revenue and due of birth, Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, That I would rather hide me from my greatness- Being a bark to brook no mighty sea- Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But, God be thank'd, there is no need of me- And much I need to help you, were there need. The royal tree hath left us royal fruit Which, mellow'd by the stealing hours of time, Will well become the seat of majesty And make, no doubt, us happy by his reign. On him I lay that you would lay on me- The right and fortune of his happy stars, Which God defend that I should wring from him. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, this argues conscience in your Grace; But the respects thereof are nice and trivial, All circumstances well considered. You say that Edward is your brother's son. So say we too, but not by Edward's wife; For first was he contract to Lady Lucy- Your mother lives a witness to his vow- And afterward by substitute betroth'd To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-craz'd mother to a many sons, A beauty-waning and distressed widow, Even in the afternoon of her best days, Made prize and purchase of his wanton eye, Seduc'd the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loath'd bigamy. By her, in his unlawful bed, he got This Edward, whom our manners call the Prince. More bitterly could I expostulate, Save that, for reverence to some alive, I give a sparing limit to my tongue. Then, good my lord, take to your royal self This proffer'd benefit of dignity; If not to bless us and the land withal, Yet to draw forth your noble ancestry From the corruption of abusing times Unto a lineal true-derived course. MAYOR. Do, good my lord; your citizens entreat you. BUCKINGHAM. Refuse not, mighty lord, this proffer'd love. CATESBY. O, make them joyful, grant their lawful suit! GLOUCESTER. Alas, why would you heap this care on me? I am unfit for state and majesty. I do beseech you, take it not amiss: I cannot nor I will not yield to you. BUCKINGHAM. If you refuse it-as, in love and zeal, Loath to depose the child, your brother's son; As well we know your tenderness of heart And gentle, kind, effeminate remorse, Which we have noted in you to your kindred And egally indeed to all estates- Yet know, whe'er you accept our suit or no, Your brother's son shall never reign our king; But we will plant some other in the throne To the disgrace and downfall of your house; And in this resolution here we leave you. Come, citizens. Zounds, I'll entreat no more. GLOUCESTER. O, do not swear, my lord of Buckingham. Exeunt BUCKINGHAM, MAYOR, and citizens CATESBY. Call him again, sweet Prince, accept their suit. If you deny them, all the land will rue it. GLOUCESTER. Will you enforce me to a world of cares? Call them again. I am not made of stones, But penetrable to your kind entreaties, Albeit against my conscience and my soul. Re-enter BUCKINGHAM and the rest Cousin of Buckingham, and sage grave men, Since you will buckle fortune on my back, To bear her burden, whe'er I will or no, I must have patience to endure the load; But if black scandal or foul-fac'd reproach Attend the sequel of your imposition, Your mere enforcement shall acquittance me From all the impure blots and stains thereof; For God doth know, and you may partly see, How far I am from the desire of this. MAYOR. God bless your Grace! We see it, and will say it. GLOUCESTER. In saying so, you shall but say the truth. BUCKINGHAM. Then I salute you with this royal title- Long live King Richard, England's worthy King! ALL. Amen. BUCKINGHAM. To-morrow may it please you to be crown'd? GLOUCESTER. Even when you please, for you will have it so. BUCKINGHAM. To-morrow, then, we will attend your Grace; And so, most joyfully, we take our leave. GLOUCESTER. [To the BISHOPS] Come, let us to our holy work again. Farewell, my cousin; farewell, gentle friends. Exeunt <> ACT IV. SCENE 1. London. Before the Tower Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH, DUCHESS of YORK, and MARQUIS of DORSET, at one door; ANNE, DUCHESS of GLOUCESTER, leading LADY MARGARET PLANTAGENET, CLARENCE's young daughter, at another door DUCHESS. Who meets us here? My niece Plantagenet, Led in the hand of her kind aunt of Gloucester? Now, for my life, she's wand'ring to the Tower, On pure heart's love, to greet the tender Princes. Daughter, well met. ANNE. God give your Graces both A happy and a joyful time of day! QUEEN ELIZABETH. As much to you, good sister! Whither away? ANNE. No farther than the Tower; and, as I guess, Upon the like devotion as yourselves, To gratulate the gentle Princes there. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Kind sister, thanks; we'll enter all together. Enter BRAKENBURY And in good time, here the lieutenant comes. Master Lieutenant, pray you, by your leave, How doth the Prince, and my young son of York? BRAKENBURY. Right well, dear madam. By your patience, I may not suffer you to visit them. The King hath strictly charg'd the contrary. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The King! Who's that? BRAKENBURY. I mean the Lord Protector. QUEEN ELIZABETH. The Lord protect him from that kingly title! Hath he set bounds between their love and me? I am their mother; who shall bar me from them? DUCHESS. I am their father's mother; I will see them. ANNE. Their aunt I am in law, in love their mother. Then bring me to their sights; I'll bear thy blame, And take thy office from thee on my peril. BRAKENBURY. No, madam, no. I may not leave it so; I am bound by oath, and therefore pardon me. Exit Enter STANLEY STANLEY. Let me but meet you, ladies, one hour hence, And I'll salute your Grace of York as mother And reverend looker-on of two fair queens. [To ANNE] Come, madam, you must straight to Westminster, There to be crowned Richard's royal queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, cut my lace asunder That my pent heart may have some scope to beat, Or else I swoon with this dead-killing news! ANNE. Despiteful tidings! O unpleasing news! DORSET. Be of good cheer; mother, how fares your Grace? QUEEN ELIZABETH. O Dorset, speak not to me, get thee gone! Death and destruction dogs thee at thy heels; Thy mother's name is ominous to children. If thou wilt outstrip death, go cross the seas, And live with Richmond, from the reach of hell. Go, hie thee, hie thee from this slaughter-house, Lest thou increase the number of the dead, And make me die the thrall of Margaret's curse, Nor mother, wife, nor England's counted queen. STANLEY. Full of wise care is this your counsel, madam. Take all the swift advantage of the hours; You shall have letters from me to my son In your behalf, to meet you on the way. Be not ta'en tardy by unwise delay. DUCHESS. O ill-dispersing wind of misery! O my accursed womb, the bed of death! A cockatrice hast thou hatch'd to the world, Whose unavoided eye is murderous. STANLEY. Come, madam, come; I in all haste was sent. ANNE. And I with all unwillingness will go. O, would to God that the inclusive verge Of golden metal that must round my brow Were red-hot steel, to sear me to the brains! Anointed let me be with deadly venom, And die ere men can say 'God save the Queen!' QUEEN ELIZABETH. Go, go, poor soul; I envy not thy glory. To feed my humour, wish thyself no harm. ANNE. No, why? When he that is my husband now Came to me, as I follow'd Henry's corse; When scarce the blood was well wash'd from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping follow'd- O, when, I say, I look'd on Richard's face, This was my wish: 'Be thou' quoth I 'accurs'd For making me, so young, so old a widow; And when thou wed'st, let sorrow haunt thy bed; And be thy wife, if any be so mad, More miserable by the life of thee Than thou hast made me by my dear lord's death.' Lo, ere I can repeat this curse again, Within so small a time, my woman's heart Grossly grew captive to his honey words And prov'd the subject of mine own soul's curse, Which hitherto hath held my eyes from rest; For never yet one hour in his bed Did I enjoy the golden dew of sleep, But with his timorous dreams was still awak'd. Besides, he hates me for my father Warwick; And will, no doubt, shortly be rid of me. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Poor heart, adieu! I pity thy complaining. ANNE. No more than with my soul I mourn for yours. DORSET. Farewell, thou woeful welcomer of glory! ANNE. Adieu, poor soul, that tak'st thy leave of it! DUCHESS. [To DORSET] Go thou to Richmond, and good fortune guide thee! [To ANNE] Go thou to Richard, and good angels tend thee! [To QUEEN ELIZABETH] Go thou to sanctuary, and good thoughts possess thee! I to my grave, where peace and rest lie with me! Eighty odd years of sorrow have I seen, And each hour's joy wreck'd with a week of teen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Stay, yet look back with me unto the Tower. Pity, you ancient stones, those tender babes Whom envy hath immur'd within your walls, Rough cradle for such little pretty ones. Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell. Exeunt SCENE 2. London. The palace Sound a sennet. Enter RICHARD, in pomp, as KING; BUCKINGHAM, CATESBY, RATCLIFF, LOVEL, a PAGE, and others KING RICHARD. Stand all apart. Cousin of Buckingham! BUCKINGHAM. My gracious sovereign? KING RICHARD. Give me thy hand. [Here he ascendeth the throne. Sound] Thus high, by thy advice And thy assistance, is King Richard seated. But shall we wear these glories for a day; Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them? BUCKINGHAM. Still live they, and for ever let them last! KING RICHARD. Ah, Buckingham, now do I play the touch, To try if thou be current gold indeed. Young Edward lives-think now what I would speak. BUCKINGHAM. Say on, my loving lord. KING RICHARD. Why, Buckingham, I say I would be King. BUCKINGHAM. Why, so you are, my thrice-renowned lord. KING RICHARD. Ha! am I King? 'Tis so; but Edward lives. BUCKINGHAM. True, noble Prince. KING RICHARD. O bitter consequence: That Edward still should live-true noble Prince! Cousin, thou wast not wont to be so dull. Shall I be plain? I wish the bastards dead. And I would have it suddenly perform'd. What say'st thou now? Speak suddenly, be brief. BUCKINGHAM. Your Grace may do your pleasure. KING RICHARD. Tut, tut, thou art all ice; thy kindness freezes. Say, have I thy consent that they shall die? BUCKINGHAM. Give me some little breath, some pause, dear Lord, Before I positively speak in this. I will resolve you herein presently. Exit CATESBY. [Aside to another] The King is angry; see, he gnaws his lip. KING RICHARD. I will converse with iron-witted fools [Descends from the throne] And unrespective boys; none are for me That look into me with considerate eyes. High-reaching Buckingham grows circumspect. Boy! PAGE. My lord? KING RICHARD. Know'st thou not any whom corrupting gold Will tempt unto a close exploit of death? PAGE. I know a discontented gentleman Whose humble means match not his haughty spirit. Gold were as good as twenty orators, And will, no doubt, tempt him to anything. KING RICHARD. What is his name? PAGE. His name, my lord, is Tyrrel. KING RICHARD. I partly know the man. Go, call him hither, boy. Exit PAGE The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. Hath he so long held out with me, untir'd, And stops he now for breath? Well, be it so. Enter STANLEY How now, Lord Stanley! What's the news? STANLEY. Know, my loving lord, The Marquis Dorset, as I hear, is fled To Richmond, in the parts where he abides. [Stands apart] KING RICHARD. Come hither, Catesby. Rumour it abroad That Anne, my wife, is very grievous sick; I will take order for her keeping close. Inquire me out some mean poor gentleman, Whom I will marry straight to Clarence' daughter- The boy is foolish, and I fear not him. Look how thou dream'st! I say again, give out That Anne, my queen, is sick and like to die. About it; for it stands me much upon To stop all hopes whose growth may damage me. Exit CATESBY I must be married to my brother's daughter, Or else my kingdom stands on brittle glass. Murder her brothers, and then marry her! Uncertain way of gain! But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin. Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye. Re-enter PAGE, with TYRREL Is thy name Tyrrel? TYRREL. James Tyrrel, and your most obedient subject. KING RICHARD. Art thou, indeed? TYRREL. Prove me, my gracious lord. KING RICHARD. Dar'st'thou resolve to kill a friend of mine? TYRREL. Please you; But I had rather kill two enemies. KING RICHARD. Why, then thou hast it. Two deep enemies, Foes to my rest, and my sweet sleep's disturbers, Are they that I would have thee deal upon. TYRREL, I mean those bastards in the Tower. TYRREL. Let me have open means to come to them, And soon I'll rid you from the fear of them. KING RICHARD. Thou sing'st sweet music. Hark, come hither, Tyrrel. Go, by this token. Rise, and lend thine ear. [Whispers] There is no more but so: say it is done, And I will love thee and prefer thee for it. TYRREL. I will dispatch it straight. Exit Re-enter BUCKINGHAM BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I have consider'd in my mind The late request that you did sound me in. KING RICHARD. Well, let that rest. Dorset is fled to Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. I hear the news, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stanley, he is your wife's son: well, look unto it. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I claim the gift, my due by promise, For which your honour and your faith is pawn'd: Th' earldom of Hereford and the movables Which you have promised I shall possess. KING RICHARD. Stanley, look to your wife; if she convey Letters to Richmond, you shall answer it. BUCKINGHAM. What says your Highness to my just request? KING RICHARD. I do remember me: Henry the Sixth Did prophesy that Richmond should be King, When Richmond was a little peevish boy. A king!-perhaps- BUCKINGHAM. My lord- KING RICHARD. How chance the prophet could not at that time Have told me, I being by, that I should kill him? BUCKINGHAM. My lord, your promise for the earldom- KING RICHARD. Richmond! When last I was at Exeter, The mayor in courtesy show'd me the castle And call'd it Rugemount, at which name I started, Because a bard of Ireland told me once I should not live long after I saw Richmond. BUCKINGHAM. My lord- KING RICHARD. Ay, what's o'clock? BUCKINGHAM. I am thus bold to put your Grace in mind Of what you promis'd me. KING RICHARD. Well, but o'clock? BUCKINGHAM. Upon the stroke of ten. KING RICHARD. Well, let it strike. BUCKINGHAM. Why let it strike? KING RICHARD. Because that like a Jack thou keep'st the stroke Betwixt thy begging and my meditation. I am not in the giving vein to-day. BUCKINGHAM. May it please you to resolve me in my suit. KING RICHARD. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. Exeunt all but Buckingham BUCKINGHAM. And is it thus? Repays he my deep service With such contempt? Made I him King for this? O, let me think on Hastings, and be gone To Brecknock while my fearful head is on! Exit SCENE 3. London. The palace Enter TYRREL TYRREL. The tyrannous and bloody act is done, The most arch deed of piteous massacre That ever yet this land was guilty of. Dighton and Forrest, who I did suborn To do this piece of ruthless butchery, Albeit they were flesh'd villains, bloody dogs, Melted with tenderness and mild compassion, Wept like two children in their deaths' sad story. 'O, thus' quoth Dighton 'lay the gentle babes'- 'Thus, thus,' quoth Forrest 'girdling one another Within their alabaster innocent arms. Their lips were four red roses on a stalk, And in their summer beauty kiss'd each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay; Which once,' quoth Forrest 'almost chang'd my mind; But, O, the devil'-there the villain stopp'd; When Dighton thus told on: 'We smothered The most replenished sweet work of nature That from the prime creation e'er she framed.' Hence both are gone with conscience and remorse They could not speak; and so I left them both, To bear this tidings to the bloody King. Enter KING RICHARD And here he comes. All health, my sovereign lord! KING RICHARD. Kind Tyrrel, am I happy in thy news? TYRREL. If to have done the thing you gave in charge Beget your happiness, be happy then, For it is done. KING RICHARD. But didst thou see them dead? TYRREL. I did, my lord. KING RICHARD. And buried, gentle Tyrrel? TYRREL. The chaplain of the Tower hath buried them; But where, to say the truth, I do not know. KING RICHARD. Come to me, Tyrrel, soon at after supper, When thou shalt tell the process of their death. Meantime, but think how I may do thee good And be inheritor of thy desire. Farewell till then. TYRREL. I humbly take my leave. Exit KING RICHARD. The son of Clarence have I pent up close; His daughter meanly have I match'd in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham's bosom, And Anne my wife hath bid this world good night. Now, for I know the Britaine Richmond aims At young Elizabeth, my brother's daughter, And by that knot looks proudly on the crown, To her go I, a jolly thriving wooer. Enter RATCLIFF RATCLIFF. My lord! KING RICHARD. Good or bad news, that thou com'st in so bluntly? RATCLIFF. Bad news, my lord: Morton is fled to Richmond; And Buckingham, back'd with the hardy Welshmen, Is in the field, and still his power increaseth. KING RICHARD. Ely with Richmond troubles me more near Than Buckingham and his rash-levied strength. Come, I have learn'd that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-pac'd beggary. Then fiery expedition be my wing, Jove's Mercury, and herald for a king! Go, muster men. My counsel is my shield. We must be brief when traitors brave the field. Exeunt SCENE 4. London. Before the palace Enter old QUEEN MARGARET QUEEN MARGARET. So now prosperity begins to mellow And drop into the rotten mouth of death. Here in these confines slily have I lurk'd To watch the waning of mine enemies. A dire induction am I witness to, And will to France, hoping the consequence Will prove as bitter, black, and tragical. Withdraw thee, wretched Margaret. Who comes here? [Retires] Enter QUEEN ELIZABETH and the DUCHESS OF YORK QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, my poor princes! ah, my tender babes! My unblown flowers, new-appearing sweets! If yet your gentle souls fly in the air And be not fix'd in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother's lamentation. QUEEN MARGARET. Hover about her; say that right for right Hath dimm'd your infant morn to aged night. DUCHESS. So many miseries have craz'd my voice That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? QUEEN MARGARET. Plantagenet doth quit Plantagenet, Edward for Edward pays a dying debt. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Wilt thou, O God, fly from such gentle lambs And throw them in the entrails of the wolf? When didst thou sleep when such a deed was done? QUEEN MARGARET. When holy Harry died, and my sweet son. DUCHESS. Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal living ghost, Woe's scene, world's shame, grave's due by life usurp'd, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England's lawful earth, [Sitting down] Unlawfully made drunk with innocent blood. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah, that thou wouldst as soon afford a grave As thou canst yield a melancholy seat! Then would I hide my bones, not rest them here. Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we? [Sitting down by her] QUEEN MARGARET. [Coming forward] If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seniory, And let my griefs frown on the upper hand. If sorrow can admit society, [Sitting down with them] Tell o'er your woes again by viewing mine. I had an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; I had a husband, till a Richard kill'd him: Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard kill'd him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard kill'd him. DUCHESS. I had a Richard too, and thou didst kill him; I had a Rutland too, thou holp'st to kill him. QUEEN MARGARET. Thou hadst a Clarence too, and Richard kill'd him. From forth the kennel of thy womb hath crept A hell-hound that doth hunt us all to death. That dog, that had his teeth before his eyes To worry lambs and lap their gentle blood, That foul defacer of God's handiwork, That excellent grand tyrant of the earth That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls, Thy womb let loose to chase us to our graves. O upright, just, and true-disposing God, How do I thank thee that this carnal cur Preys on the issue of his mother's body And makes her pew-fellow with others' moan! DUCHESS. O Harry's wife, triumph not in my woes! God witness with me, I have wept for thine. QUEEN MARGARET. Bear with me; I am hungry for revenge, And now I cloy me with beholding it. Thy Edward he is dead, that kill'd my Edward; The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York he is but boot, because both they Match'd not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabb'd my Edward; And the beholders of this frantic play, Th' adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smother'd in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell's black intelligencer; Only reserv'd their factor to buy souls And send them thither. But at hand, at hand, Ensues his piteous and unpitied end. Earth gapes, hell burns, fiends roar, saints pray, To have him suddenly convey'd from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live and say 'The dog is dead.' QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, thou didst prophesy the time would come That I should wish for thee to help me curse That bottled spider, that foul bunch-back'd toad! QUEEN MARGARET. I Call'd thee then vain flourish of my fortune; I call'd thee then poor shadow, painted queen, The presentation of but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant, One heav'd a-high to be hurl'd down below, A mother only mock'd with two fair babes, A dream of what thou wast, a garish flag To be the aim of every dangerous shot, A sign of dignity, a breath, a bubble, A queen in jest, only to fill the scene. Where is thy husband now? Where be thy brothers? Where be thy two sons? Wherein dost thou joy? Who sues, and kneels, and says 'God save the Queen'? Where be the bending peers that flattered thee? Where be the thronging troops that followed thee? Decline an this, and see what now thou art: For happy wife, a most distressed widow; For joyful mother, one that wails the name; For one being su'd to, one that humbly sues; For Queen, a very caitiff crown'd with care; For she that scorn'd at me, now scorn'd of me; For she being fear'd of all, now fearing one; For she commanding all, obey'd of none. Thus hath the course of justice whirl'd about And left thee but a very prey to time, Having no more but thought of what thou wast To torture thee the more, being what thou art. Thou didst usurp my place, and dost thou not Usurp the just proportion of my sorrow? Now thy proud neck bears half my burden'd yoke, From which even here I slip my weary head And leave the burden of it all on thee. Farewell, York's wife, and queen of sad mischance; These English woes shall make me smile in France. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O thou well skill'd in curses, stay awhile And teach me how to curse mine enemies! QUEEN MARGARET. Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe; Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, And he that slew them fouler than he is. Bett'ring thy loss makes the bad-causer worse; Revolving this will teach thee how to curse. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My words are dull; O, quicken them with thine! QUEEN MARGARET. Thy woes will make them sharp and pierce like mine. Exit DUCHESS. Why should calamity be fun of words? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Windy attorneys to their client woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries, Let them have scope; though what they will impart Help nothing else, yet do they case the heart. DUCHESS. If so, then be not tongue-tied. Go with me, And in the breath of bitter words let's smother My damned son that thy two sweet sons smother'd. The trumpet sounds; be copious in exclaims. Enter KING RICHARD and his train, marching with drums and trumpets KING RICHARD. Who intercepts me in my expedition? DUCHESS. O, she that might have intercepted thee, By strangling thee in her accursed womb, From all the slaughters, wretch, that thou hast done! QUEEN ELIZABETH. Hidest thou that forehead with a golden crown Where't should be branded, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that ow'd that crown, And the dire death of my poor sons and brothers? Tell me, thou villain slave, where are my children? DUCHESS. Thou toad, thou toad, where is thy brother Clarence? And little Ned Plantagenet, his son? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Where is the gentle Rivers, Vaughan, Grey? DUCHESS. Where is kind Hastings? KING RICHARD. A flourish, trumpets! Strike alarum, drums! Let not the heavens hear these tell-tale women Rail on the Lord's anointed. Strike, I say! [Flourish. Alarums] Either be patient and entreat me fair, Or with the clamorous report of war Thus will I drown your exclamations. DUCHESS. Art thou my son? KING RICHARD. Ay, I thank God, my father, and yourself. DUCHESS. Then patiently hear my impatience. KING RICHARD. Madam, I have a touch of your condition That cannot brook the accent of reproof. DUCHESS. O, let me speak! KING RICHARD. Do, then; but I'll not hear. DUCHESS. I will be mild and gentle in my words. KING RICHARD. And brief, good mother; for I am in haste. DUCHESS. Art thou so hasty? I have stay'd for thee, God knows, in torment and in agony. KING RICHARD. And came I not at last to comfort you? DUCHESS. No, by the holy rood, thou know'st it well Thou cam'st on earth to make the earth my hell. A grievous burden was thy birth to me; Tetchy and wayward was thy infancy; Thy school-days frightful, desp'rate, wild, and furious; Thy prime of manhood daring, bold, and venturous; Thy age confirm'd, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, More mild, but yet more harmful-kind in hatred. What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever grac'd me with thy company? KING RICHARD. Faith, none but Humphrey Hour, that call'd your Grace To breakfast once forth of my company. If I be so disgracious in your eye, Let me march on and not offend you, madam. Strike up the drum. DUCHESS. I prithee hear me speak. KING RICHARD. You speak too bitterly. DUCHESS. Hear me a word; For I shall never speak to thee again. KING RICHARD. So. DUCHESS. Either thou wilt die by God's just ordinance Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror; Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish And never more behold thy face again. Therefore take with thee my most grievous curse, Which in the day of battle tire thee more Than all the complete armour that thou wear'st! My prayers on the adverse party fight; And there the little souls of Edward's children Whisper the spirits of thine enemies And promise them success and victory. Bloody thou art; bloody will be thy end. Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend. Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH. Though far more cause, yet much less spirit to curse Abides in me; I say amen to her. KING RICHARD. Stay, madam, I must talk a word with you. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I have no moe sons of the royal blood For thee to slaughter. For my daughters, Richard, They shall be praying nuns, not weeping queens; And therefore level not to hit their lives. KING RICHARD. You have a daughter call'd Elizabeth. Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And must she die for this? O, let her live, And I'll corrupt her manners, stain her beauty, Slander myself as false to Edward's bed, Throw over her the veil of infamy; So she may live unscarr'd of bleeding slaughter, I will confess she was not Edward's daughter. KING RICHARD. Wrong not her birth; she is a royal Princess. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To save her life I'll say she is not so. KING RICHARD. Her life is safest only in her birth. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And only in that safety died her brothers. KING RICHARD. Lo, at their birth good stars were opposite. QUEEN ELIZABETH. No, to their lives ill friends were contrary. KING RICHARD. All unavoided is the doom of destiny. QUEEN ELIZABETH. True, when avoided grace makes destiny. My babes were destin'd to a fairer death, If grace had bless'd thee with a fairer life. KING RICHARD. You speak as if that I had slain my cousins. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Cousins, indeed; and by their uncle cozen'd Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanc'd their tender hearts, Thy head, an indirectly, gave direction. No doubt the murd'rous knife was dull and blunt Till it was whetted on thy stone-hard heart To revel in the entrails of my lambs. But that stiff use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were anchor'd in thine eyes; And I, in such a desp'rate bay of death, Like a poor bark, of sails and tackling reft, Rush all to pieces on thy rocky bosom. KING RICHARD. Madam, so thrive I in my enterprise And dangerous success of bloody wars, As I intend more good to you and yours Than ever you or yours by me were harm'd! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What good is cover'd with the face of heaven, To be discover'd, that can do me good? KING RICHARD. advancement of your children, gentle lady. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Up to some scaffold, there to lose their heads? KING RICHARD. Unto the dignity and height of Fortune, The high imperial type of this earth's glory. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Flatter my sorrow with report of it; Tell me what state, what dignity, what honour, Canst thou demise to any child of mine? KING RICHARD. Even all I have-ay, and myself and all Will I withal endow a child of thine; So in the Lethe of thy angry soul Thou drown the sad remembrance of those wrongs Which thou supposest I have done to thee. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Be brief, lest that the process of thy kindness Last longer telling than thy kindness' date. KING RICHARD. Then know, that from my soul I love thy daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH. My daughter's mother thinks it with her soul. KING RICHARD. What do you think? QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou dost love my daughter from thy soul. So from thy soul's love didst thou love her brothers, And from my heart's love I do thank thee for it. KING RICHARD. Be not so hasty to confound my meaning. I mean that with my soul I love thy daughter And do intend to make her Queen of England. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Well, then, who dost thou mean shall be her king? KING RICHARD. Even he that makes her Queen. Who else should be? QUEEN ELIZABETH. What, thou? KING RICHARD. Even so. How think you of it? QUEEN ELIZABETH. How canst thou woo her? KING RICHARD. That would I learn of you, As one being best acquainted with her humour. QUEEN ELIZABETH. And wilt thou learn of me? KING RICHARD. Madam, with all my heart. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Send to her, by the man that slew her brothers, A pair of bleeding hearts; thereon engrave 'Edward' and 'York.' Then haply will she weep; Therefore present to her-as sometimes Margaret Did to thy father, steep'd in Rutland's blood- A handkerchief; which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brother's body, And bid her wipe her weeping eyes withal. If this inducement move her not to love, Send her a letter of thy noble deeds; Tell her thou mad'st away her uncle Clarence, Her uncle Rivers; ay, and for her sake Mad'st quick conveyance with her good aunt Anne. KING RICHARD. You mock me, madam; this is not the way To win your daughter. QUEEN ELIZABETH. There is no other way; Unless thou couldst put on some other shape And not be Richard that hath done all this. KING RICHARD. Say that I did all this for love of her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Nay, then indeed she cannot choose but hate thee, Having bought love with such a bloody spoil. KING RICHARD. Look what is done cannot be now amended. Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, Which after-hours gives leisure to repent. If I did take the kingdom from your sons, To make amends I'll give it to your daughter. If I have kill'd the issue of your womb, To quicken your increase I will beget Mine issue of your blood upon your daughter. A grandam's name is little less in love Than is the doating title of a mother; They are as children but one step below, Even of your metal, of your very blood; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endur'd of her, for whom you bid like sorrow. Your children were vexation to your youth; But mine shall be a comfort to your age. The loss you have is but a son being King, And by that loss your daughter is made Queen. I cannot make you what amends I would, Therefore accept such kindness as I can. Dorset your son, that with a fearful soul Leads discontented steps in foreign soil, This fair alliance quickly shall can home To high promotions and great dignity. The King, that calls your beauteous daughter wife, Familiarly shall call thy Dorset brother; Again shall you be mother to a king, And all the ruins of distressful times Repair'd with double riches of content. What! we have many goodly days to see. The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform'd to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten times double gain of happiness. Go, then, my mother, to thy daughter go; Make bold her bashful years with your experience; Prepare her ears to hear a wooer's tale; Put in her tender heart th' aspiring flame Of golden sovereignty; acquaint the Princes With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys. And when this arm of mine hath chastised The petty rebel, dull-brain'd Buckingham, Bound with triumphant garlands will I come, And lead thy daughter to a conqueror's bed; To whom I will retail my conquest won, And she shall be sole victoress, Caesar's Caesar. QUEEN ELIZABETH. What were I best to say? Her father's brother Would be her lord? Or shall I say her uncle? Or he that slew her brothers and her uncles? Under what title shall I woo for thee That God, the law, my honour, and her love Can make seem pleasing to her tender years? KING RICHARD. Infer fair England's peace by this alliance. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Which she shall purchase with still-lasting war. KING RICHARD. Tell her the King, that may command, entreats. QUEEN ELIZABETH. That at her hands which the King's King forbids. KING RICHARD. Say she shall be a high and mighty queen. QUEEN ELIZABETH. To wail the title, as her mother doth. KING RICHARD. Say I will love her everlastingly. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long shall that title 'ever' last? KING RICHARD. Sweetly in force unto her fair life's end. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But how long fairly shall her sweet life last? KING RICHARD. As long as heaven and nature lengthens it. QUEEN ELIZABETH. As long as hell and Richard likes of it. KING RICHARD. Say I, her sovereign, am her subject low. QUEEN ELIZABETH. But she, your subject, loathes such sovereignty. KING RICHARD. Be eloquent in my behalf to her. QUEEN ELIZABETH. An honest tale speeds best being plainly told. KING RICHARD. Then plainly to her tell my loving tale. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Plain and not honest is too harsh a style. KING RICHARD. Your reasons are too shallow and too quick. QUEEN ELIZABETH. O, no, my reasons are too deep and dead- Too deep and dead, poor infants, in their graves. KING RICHARD. Harp not on that string, madam; that is past. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Harp on it still shall I till heartstrings break. KING RICHARD. Now, by my George, my garter, and my crown- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profan'd, dishonour'd, and the third usurp'd. KING RICHARD. I swear- QUEEN ELIZABETH. By nothing; for this is no oath: Thy George, profan'd, hath lost his lordly honour; Thy garter, blemish'd, pawn'd his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurp'd, disgrac'd his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believ'd, Swear then by something that thou hast not wrong'd. KING RICHARD. Then, by my self- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy self is self-misus'd. KING RICHARD. Now, by the world- QUEEN ELIZABETH. 'Tis full of thy foul wrongs. KING RICHARD. My father's death- QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thy life hath it dishonour'd. KING RICHARD. Why, then, by God- QUEEN ELIZABETH. God's wrong is most of all. If thou didst fear to break an oath with Him, The unity the King my husband made Thou hadst not broken, nor my brothers died. If thou hadst fear'd to break an oath by Him, Th' imperial metal, circling now thy head, Had grac'd the tender temples of my child; And both the Princes had been breathing here, Which now, two tender bedfellows for dust, Thy broken faith hath made the prey for worms. What canst thou swear by now? KING RICHARD. The time to come. QUEEN ELIZABETH. That thou hast wronged in the time o'erpast; For I myself have many tears to wash Hereafter time, for time past wrong'd by thee. The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughter'd, Ungovern'd youth, to wail it in their age; The parents live whose children thou hast butcheed, Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come; for that thou hast Misus'd ere us'd, by times ill-us'd o'erpast. KING RICHARD. As I intend to prosper and repent, So thrive I in my dangerous affairs Of hostile arms! Myself myself confound! Heaven and fortune bar me happy hours! Day, yield me not thy light; nor, night, thy rest! Be opposite all planets of good luck To my proceeding!-if, with dear heart's love, Immaculate devotion, holy thoughts, I tender not thy beauteous princely daughter. In her consists my happiness and thine; Without her, follows to myself and thee, Herself, the land, and many a Christian soul, Death, desolation, ruin, and decay. It cannot be avoided but by this; It will not be avoided but by this. Therefore, dear mother-I must call you so- Be the attorney of my love to her; Plead what I will be, not what I have been; Not my deserts, but what I will deserve. Urge the necessity and state of times, And be not peevish-fond in great designs. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I be tempted of the devil thus? KING RICHARD. Ay, if the devil tempt you to do good. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I forget myself to be myself? KING RICHARD. Ay, if your self's remembrance wrong yourself. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Yet thou didst kill my children. KING RICHARD. But in your daughter's womb I bury them; Where, in that nest of spicery, they will breed Selves of themselves, to your recomforture. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Shall I go win my daughter to thy will? KING RICHARD. And be a happy mother by the deed. QUEEN ELIZABETH. I go. Write to me very shortly, And you shall understand from me her mind. KING RICHARD. Bear her my true love's kiss; and so, farewell. Kissing her. Exit QUEEN ELIZABETH Relenting fool, and shallow, changing woman! Enter RATCLIFF; CATESBY following How now! what news? RATCLIFF. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarm'd, and unresolv'd to beat them back. 'Tis thought that Richmond is their admiral; And there they hull, expecting but the aid Of Buckingham to welcome them ashore. KING RICHARD. Some light-foot friend post to the Duke of Norfolk. Ratcliff, thyself-or Catesby; where is he? CATESBY. Here, my good lord. KING RICHARD. Catesby, fly to the Duke. CATESBY. I will my lord, with all convenient haste. KING RICHARD. Ratcliff, come hither. Post to Salisbury; When thou com'st thither- [To CATESBY] Dull, unmindfull villain, Why stay'st thou here, and go'st not to the Duke? CATESBY. First, mighty liege, tell me your Highness' pleasure, What from your Grace I shall deliver to him. KING RICHARD. O, true, good Catesby. Bid him levy straight The greatest strength and power that he can make And meet me suddenly at Salisbury. CATESBY. I go. Exit RATCLIFF. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury? KING RICHARD. Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go? RATCLIFF. Your Highness told me I should post before. KING RICHARD. My mind is chang'd. Enter LORD STANLEY STANLEY, what news with you? STANLEY. None good, my liege, to please you with the hearing; Nor none so bad but well may be reported. KING RICHARD. Hoyday, a riddle! neither good nor bad! What need'st thou run so many miles about, When thou mayest tell thy tale the nearest way? Once more, what news? STANLEY. Richmond is on the seas. KING RICHARD. There let him sink, and be the seas on him! White-liver'd runagate, what doth he there? STANLEY. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. KING RICHARD. Well, as you guess? STANLEY. Stirr'd up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England here to claim the crown. KING RICHARD. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unsway'd? Is the King dead, the empire unpossess'd? What heir of York is there alive but we? And who is England's King but great York's heir? Then tell me what makes he upon the seas. STANLEY. Unless for that, my liege, I cannot guess. KING RICHARD. Unless for that he comes to be your liege, You cannot guess wherefore the Welshman comes. Thou wilt revolt and fly to him, I fear. STANLEY. No, my good lord; therefore mistrust me not. KING RICHARD. Where is thy power then, to beat him back? Where be thy tenants and thy followers? Are they not now upon the western shore, Safe-conducting the rebels from their ships? STANLEY. No, my good lord, my friends are in the north. KING RICHARD. Cold friends to me. What do they in the north, When they should serve their sovereign in the west? STANLEY. They have not been commanded, mighty King. Pleaseth your Majesty to give me leave, I'll muster up my friends and meet your Grace Where and what time your Majesty shall please. KING RICHARD. Ay, ay, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond; But I'll not trust thee. STANLEY. Most mighty sovereign, You have no cause to hold my friendship doubtful. I never was nor never will be false. KING RICHARD. Go, then, and muster men. But leave behind Your son, George Stanley. Look your heart be firm, Or else his head's assurance is but frail. STANLEY. So deal with him as I prove true to you. Exit Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. My gracious sovereign, now in Devonshire, As I by friends am well advertised, Sir Edward Courtney and the haughty prelate, Bishop of Exeter, his elder brother, With many moe confederates, are in arms. Enter another MESSENGER SECOND MESSENGER. In Kent, my liege, the Guilfords are in arms; And every hour more competitors Flock to the rebels, and their power grows strong. Enter another MESSENGER THIRD MESSENGER. My lord, the army of great Buckingham- KING RICHARD. Out on you, owls! Nothing but songs of death? [He strikes him] There, take thou that till thou bring better news. THIRD MESSENGER. The news I have to tell your Majesty Is that by sudden floods and fall of waters Buckingham's army is dispers'd and scatter'd; And he himself wand'red away alone, No man knows whither. KING RICHARD. I cry thee mercy. There is my purse to cure that blow of thine. Hath any well-advised friend proclaim'd Reward to him that brings the traitor in? THIRD MESSENGER. Such proclamation hath been made, my Lord. Enter another MESSENGER FOURTH MESSENGER. Sir Thomas Lovel and Lord Marquis Dorset, 'Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. But this good comfort bring I to your Highness- The Britaine navy is dispers'd by tempest. Richmond in Dorsetshire sent out a boat Unto the shore, to ask those on the banks If they were his assistants, yea or no; Who answer'd him they came from Buckingham Upon his party. He, mistrusting them, Hois'd sail, and made his course again for Britaine. KING RICHARD. March on, march on, since we are up in arms; If not to fight with foreign enemies, Yet to beat down these rebels here at home. Re-enter CATESBY CATESBY. My liege, the Duke of Buckingham is taken- That is the best news. That the Earl of Richmond Is with a mighty power landed at Milford Is colder tidings, yet they must be told. KING RICHARD. Away towards Salisbury! While we reason here A royal battle might be won and lost. Some one take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. Flourish. Exeunt SCENE 5. LORD DERBY'S house Enter STANLEY and SIR CHRISTOPHER URSWICK STANLEY. Sir Christopher, tell Richmond this from me: That in the sty of the most deadly boar My son George Stanley is frank'd up in hold; If I revolt, off goes young George's head; The fear of that holds off my present aid. So, get thee gone; commend me to thy lord. Withal say that the Queen hath heartily consented He should espouse Elizabeth her daughter. But tell me, where is princely Richmond now? CHRISTOPHER. At Pembroke, or at Ha'rford west in Wales. STANLEY. What men of name resort to him? CHRISTOPHER. Sir Walter Herbert, a renowned soldier; SIR Gilbert Talbot, Sir William Stanley, OXFORD, redoubted Pembroke, Sir James Blunt, And Rice ap Thomas, with a valiant crew; And many other of great name and worth; And towards London do they bend their power, If by the way they be not fought withal. STANLEY. Well, hie thee to thy lord; I kiss his hand; My letter will resolve him of my mind. Farewell. Exeunt <> ACT V. SCENE 1. Salisbury. An open place Enter the SHERIFF and guard, with BUCKINGHAM, led to execution BUCKINGHAM. Will not King Richard let me speak with him? SHERIFF. No, my good lord; therefore be patient. BUCKINGHAM. Hastings, and Edward's children, Grey, and Rivers, Holy King Henry, and thy fair son Edward, Vaughan, and all that have miscarried By underhand corrupted foul injustice, If that your moody discontented souls Do through the clouds behold this present hour, Even for revenge mock my destruction! This is All-Souls' day, fellow, is it not? SHERIFF. It is, my lord. BUCKINGHAM. Why, then All-Souls' day is my body's doomsday. This is the day which in King Edward's time I wish'd might fall on me when I was found False to his children and his wife's allies; This is the day wherein I wish'd to fall By the false faith of him whom most I trusted; This, this All-Souls' day to my fearful soul Is the determin'd respite of my wrongs; That high All-Seer which I dallied with Hath turn'd my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begg'd in jest. Thus doth He force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in their masters' bosoms. Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck. 'When he' quoth she 'shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember Margaret was a prophetess.' Come lead me, officers, to the block of shame; Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. Exeunt SCENE 2. Camp near Tamworth Enter RICHMOND, OXFORD, SIR JAMES BLUNT, SIR WALTER HERBERT, and others, with drum and colours RICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruis'd underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we march'd on without impediment; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoil'd your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowell'd bosoms-this foul swine Is now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leicester, as we learn. From Tamworth thither is but one day's march. In God's name cheerly on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace By this one bloody trial of sharp war. OXFORD. Every man's conscience is a thousand men, To fight against this guilty homicide. HERBERT. I doubt not but his friends will turn to us. BLUNT. He hath no friends but what are friends for fear, Which in his dearest need will fly from him. RICHMOND. All for our vantage. Then in God's name march. True hope is swift and flies with swallow's wings; Kings it makes gods, and meaner creatures kings. Exeunt SCENE 3. Bosworth Field Enter KING RICHARD in arms, with NORFOLK, RATCLIFF, the EARL of SURREYS and others KING RICHARD. Here pitch our tent, even here in Bosworth field. My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad? SURREY. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. KING RICHARD. My Lord of Norfolk! NORFOLK. Here, most gracious liege. KING RICHARD. Norfolk, we must have knocks; ha! must we not? NORFOLK. We must both give and take, my loving lord. KING RICHARD. Up With my tent! Here will I lie to-night; [Soldiers begin to set up the KING'S tent] But where to-morrow? Well, all's one for that. Who hath descried the number of the traitors? NORFOLK. Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. KING RICHARD. Why, our battalia trebles that account; Besides, the King's name is a tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse faction want. Up with the tent! Come, noble gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the ground. Call for some men of sound direction. Let's lack no discipline, make no delay; For, lords, to-morrow is a busy day. Exeunt Enter, on the other side of the field, RICHMOND, SIR WILLIAM BRANDON, OXFORD, DORSET, and others. Some pitch RICHMOND'S tent RICHMOND. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And by the bright tract of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day to-morrow. Sir William Brandon, you shall bear my standard. Give me some ink and paper in my tent. I'll draw the form and model of our battle, Limit each leader to his several charge, And part in just proportion our small power. My Lord of Oxford-you, Sir William Brandon- And you, Sir Walter Herbert-stay with me. The Earl of Pembroke keeps his regiment; Good Captain Blunt, bear my good night to him, And by the second hour in the morning Desire the Earl to see me in my tent. Yet one thing more, good Captain, do for me- Where is Lord Stanley quarter'd, do you know? BLUNT. Unless I have mista'en his colours much- Which well I am assur'd I have not done- His regiment lies half a mile at least South from the mighty power of the King. RICHMOND. If without peril it be possible, Sweet Blunt, make some good means to speak with him And give him from me this most needful note. BLUNT. Upon my life, my lord, I'll undertake it; And so, God give you quiet rest to-night! RICHMOND. Good night, good Captain Blunt. Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon to-morrow's business. In to my tent; the dew is raw and cold. [They withdraw into the tent] Enter, to his-tent, KING RICHARD, NORFOLK, RATCLIFF, and CATESBY KING RICHARD. What is't o'clock? CATESBY. It's supper-time, my lord; It's nine o'clock. KING RICHARD. I will not sup to-night. Give me some ink and paper. What, is my beaver easier than it was? And all my armour laid into my tent? CATESBY. It is, my liege; and all things are in readiness. KING RICHARD. Good Norfolk, hie thee to thy charge; Use careful watch, choose trusty sentinels. NORFOLK. I go, my lord. KING RICHARD. Stir with the lark to-morrow, gentle Norfolk. NORFOLK. I warrant you, my lord. Exit KING RICHARD. Catesby! CATESBY. My lord? KING RICHARD. Send out a pursuivant-at-arms To Stanley's regiment; bid him bring his power Before sunrising, lest his son George fall Into the blind cave of eternal night. Exit CATESBY Fill me a bowl of wine. Give me a watch. Saddle white Surrey for the field to-morrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. Ratcliff! RATCLIFF. My lord? KING RICHARD. Saw'st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? RATCLIFF. Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself, Much about cock-shut time, from troop to troop Went through the army, cheering up the soldiers. KING RICHARD. So, I am satisfied. Give me a bowl of wine. I have not that alacrity of spirit Nor cheer of mind that I was wont to have. Set it down. Is ink and paper ready? RATCLIFF. It is, my lord. KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me. RATCLIFF, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. Exit RATCLIFF. RICHARD sleeps Enter DERBY to RICHMOND in his tent; LORDS attending DERBY. Fortune and victory sit on thy helm! RICHMOND. All comfort that the dark night can afford Be to thy person, noble father-in-law! Tell me, how fares our loving mother? DERBY. I, by attorney, bless thee from thy mother, Who prays continually for Richmond's good. So much for that. The silent hours steal on, And flaky darkness breaks within the east. In brief, for so the season bids us be, Prepare thy battle early in the morning, And put thy fortune to the arbitrement Of bloody strokes and mortal-staring war. I, as I may-that which I would I cannot- With best advantage will deceive the time And aid thee in this doubtful shock of arms; But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest, being seen, thy brother, tender George, Be executed in his father's sight. Farewell; the leisure and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious vows of love And ample interchange of sweet discourse Which so-long-sund'red friends should dwell upon. God give us leisure for these rites of love! Once more, adieu; be valiant, and speed well! RICHMOND. Good lords, conduct him to his regiment. I'll strive with troubled thoughts to take a nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me down to-morrow When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen. Exeunt all but RICHMOND O Thou, whose captain I account myself, Look on my forces with a gracious eye; Put in their hands Thy bruising irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall The usurping helmets of our adversaries! Make us Thy ministers of chastisement, That we may praise Thee in the victory! To Thee I do commend my watchful soul Ere I let fall the windows of mine eyes. Sleeping and waking, O, defend me still! [Sleeps] Enter the GHOST Of YOUNG PRINCE EDWARD, son to HENRY THE SIXTH GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy on thy soul to-morrow! Think how thou stabb'dst me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury; despair, therefore, and die! [To RICHMOND] Be cheerful, Richmond; for the wronged souls Of butcher'd princes fight in thy behalf. King Henry's issue, Richmond, comforts thee. Enter the GHOST of HENRY THE SIXTH GHOST. [To RICHARD] When I was mortal, my anointed body By thee was punched full of deadly holes. Think on the Tower and me. Despair, and die. Harry the Sixth bids thee despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Virtuous and holy, be thou conqueror! Harry, that prophesied thou shouldst be King, Doth comfort thee in thy sleep. Live and flourish! Enter the GHOST of CLARENCE GHOST. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow! I that was wash'd to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to death! To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair and die! [To RICHMOND] Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster, The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee. Good angels guard thy battle! Live and flourish! Enter the GHOSTS of RIVERS, GREY, and VAUGHAN GHOST OF RIVERS. [To RICHARD] Let me sit heavy in thy soul to-morrow, Rivers that died at Pomfret! Despair and die! GHOST OF GREY. [To RICHARD] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair! GHOST OF VAUGHAN. [To RICHARD] Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear Let fall thy lance. Despair and die! ALL. [To RICHMOND] Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard's bosom Will conquer him. Awake and win the day. Enter the GHOST of HASTINGS GHOST. [To RICHARD] Bloody and guilty, guiltily awake, And in a bloody battle end thy days! Think on Lord Hastings. Despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Quiet untroubled soul, awake, awake! Arm, fight, and conquer, for fair England's sake! Enter the GHOSTS of the two young PRINCES GHOSTS. [To RICHARD] Dream on thy cousins smothered in the Tower. Let us be lead within thy bosom, Richard, And weigh thee down to ruin, shame, and death! Thy nephews' souls bid thee despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Sleep, Richmond, sleep in peace, and wake in joy; Good angels guard thee from the boar's annoy! Live, and beget a happy race of kings! Edward's unhappy sons do bid thee flourish. Enter the GHOST of LADY ANNE, his wife GHOST. [To RICHARD] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife That never slept a quiet hour with thee Now fills thy sleep with perturbations. To-morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgeless sword. Despair and die. [To RICHMOND] Thou quiet soul, sleep thou a quiet sleep; Dream of success and happy victory. Thy adversary's wife doth pray for thee. Enter the GHOST of BUCKINGHAM GHOST. [To RICHARD] The first was I that help'd thee to the crown; The last was I that felt thy tyranny. O, in the battle think on Buckingham, And die in terror of thy guiltiness! Dream on, dream on of bloody deeds and death; Fainting, despair; despairing, yield thy breath! [To RICHMOND] I died for hope ere I could lend thee aid; But cheer thy heart and be thou not dismay'd: God and good angels fight on Richmond's side; And Richard falls in height of all his pride. [The GHOSTS vanish. RICHARD starts out of his dream] KING RICHARD. Give me another horse. Bind up my wounds. Have mercy, Jesu! Soft! I did but dream. O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me! The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight. Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh. What do I fear? Myself? There's none else by. Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I. Is there a murderer here? No-yes, I am. Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why- Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself! Alack, I love myself. Wherefore? For any good That I myself have done unto myself? O, no! Alas, I rather hate myself For hateful deeds committed by myself! I am a villain; yet I lie, I am not. Fool, of thyself speak well. Fool, do not flatter. My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder, in the dir'st degree; All several sins, all us'd in each degree, Throng to the bar, crying all 'Guilty! guilty!' I shall despair. There is no creature loves me; And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself? Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd Came to my tent, and every one did threat To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter RATCLIFF RATCLIFF. My lord! KING RICHARD. Zounds, who is there? RATCLIFF. Ratcliff, my lord; 'tis I. The early village-cock Hath twice done salutation to the morn; Your friends are up and buckle on their armour. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I have dream'd a fearful dream! What think'st thou-will our friends prove all true? RATCLIFF. No doubt, my lord. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliff, I fear, I fear. RATCLIFF. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. KING RICHARD By the apostle Paul, shadows to-night Have stuck more terror to the soul of Richard Than can the substance of ten thousand soldiers Armed in proof and led by shallow Richmond. 'Tis not yet near day. Come, go with me; Under our tents I'll play the eaves-dropper, To see if any mean to shrink from me. Exeunt Enter the LORDS to RICHMOND sitting in his tent LORDS. Good morrow, Richmond! RICHMOND. Cry mercy, lords and watchful gentlemen, That you have ta'en a tardy sluggard here. LORDS. How have you slept, my lord? RICHMOND. The sweetest sleep and fairest-boding dreams That ever ent'red in a drowsy head Have I since your departure had, my lords. Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murder'd Came to my tent and cried on victory. I promise you my soul is very jocund In the remembrance of so fair a dream. How far into the morning is it, lords? LORDS. Upon the stroke of four. RICHMOND. Why, then 'tis time to arm and give direction. His ORATION to his SOLDIERS More than I have said, loving countrymen, The leisure and enforcement of the time Forbids to dwell upon; yet remember this: God and our good cause fight upon our side; The prayers of holy saints and wronged souls, Like high-rear'd bulwarks, stand before our faces; Richard except, those whom we fight against Had rather have us win than him they follow. For what is he they follow? Truly, gentlemen, A bloody tyrant and a homicide; One rais'd in blood, and one in blood establish'd; One that made means to come by what he hath, And slaughtered those that were the means to help him; A base foul stone, made precious by the foil Of England's chair, where he is falsely set; One that hath ever been God's enemy. Then if you fight against God's enemy, God will in justice ward you as his soldiers; If you do sweat to put a tyrant down, You sleep in peace, the tyrant being slain; If you do fight against your country's foes, Your country's foes shall pay your pains the hire; If you do fight in safeguard of your wives, Your wives shall welcome home the conquerors; If you do free your children from the sword, Your children's children quits it in your age. Then, in the name of God and all these rights, Advance your standards, draw your willing swords. For me, the ransom of my bold attempt Shall be this cold corpse on the earth's cold face; But if I thrive, the gain of my attempt The least of you shall share his part thereof. Sound drums and trumpets boldly and cheerfully; God and Saint George! Richmond and victory! Exeunt Re-enter KING RICHARD, RATCLIFF, attendants, and forces KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? RATCLIFF. That he was never trained up in arms. KING RICHARD. He said the truth; and what said Surrey then? RATCLIFF. He smil'd, and said 'The better for our purpose.' KING He was in the right; and so indeed it is. [Clock strikes] Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun to-day? RATCLIFF. Not I, my lord. KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine; for by the book He should have brav'd the east an hour ago. A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliff! RATCLIFF. My lord? KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen to-day; The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine to-day! Why, what is that to me More than to Richmond? For the selfsame heaven That frowns on me looks sadly upon him. Enter NORFOLK NORFOLK. Arm, arm, my lord; the foe vaunts in the field. KING RICHARD. Come, bustle, bustle; caparison my horse; Call up Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power. I will lead forth my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered: My foreward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot; Our archers shall be placed in the midst. John Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse. They thus directed, we will follow In the main battle, whose puissance on either side Shall be well winged with our chiefest horse. This, and Saint George to boot! What think'st thou, Norfolk? NORFOLK. A good direction, warlike sovereign. This found I on my tent this morning. [He sheweth him a paper] KING RICHARD. [Reads] 'Jockey of Norfolk, be not so bold, For Dickon thy master is bought and sold.' A thing devised by the enemy. Go, gentlemen, every man unto his charge. Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls; Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devis'd at first to keep the strong in awe. Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law. March on, join bravely, let us to it pell-mell; If not to heaven, then hand in hand to hell. His ORATION to his ARMY What shall I say more than I have inferr'd? Remember whom you are to cope withal- A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Britaines, and base lackey peasants, Whom their o'er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate adventures and assur'd destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; You having lands, and bless'd with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Britaine at our mother's cost? A milk-sop, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow? Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again; Lash hence these over-weening rags of France, These famish'd beggars, weary of their lives; Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hang'd themselves. If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Britaines, whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And, in record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands? lie with our wives, Ravish our daughters? [Drum afar off] Hark! I hear their drum. Fight, gentlemen of England! Fight, bold yeomen! Draw, archers, draw your arrows to the head! Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood; Amaze the welkin with your broken staves! Enter a MESSENGER What says Lord Stanley? Will he bring his power? MESSENGER. My lord, he doth deny to come. KING RICHARD. Off with his son George's head! NORFOLK. My lord, the enemy is pass'd the marsh. After the battle let George Stanley die. KING RICHARD. A thousand hearts are great within my bosom. Advance our standards, set upon our foes; Our ancient word of courage, fair Saint George, Inspire us with the spleen of fiery dragons! Upon them! Victory sits on our helms. Exeunt SCENE 4. Another part of the field Alarum; excursions. Enter NORFOLK and forces; to him CATESBY CATESBY. Rescue, my Lord of Norfolk, rescue, rescue! The King enacts more wonders than a man, Daring an opposite to every danger. His horse is slain, and all on foot he fights, Seeking for Richmond in the throat of death. Rescue, fair lord, or else the day is lost. Alarums. Enter KING RICHARD KING RICHARD. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! CATESBY. Withdraw, my lord! I'll help you to a horse. KING RICHARD. Slave, I have set my life upon a cast And I Will stand the hazard of the die. I think there be six Richmonds in the field; Five have I slain to-day instead of him. A horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse! Exeunt SCENE 5. Another part of the field Alarum. Enter RICHARD and RICHMOND; they fight; RICHARD is slain. Retreat and flourish. Enter RICHMOND, DERBY bearing the crown, with other LORDS RICHMOND. God and your arms be prais'd, victorious friends; The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. DERBY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I pluck'd off, to grace thy brows withal. Wear it, enjoy it, and make much of it. RICHMOND. Great God of heaven, say Amen to all! But, teLL me is young George Stanley living. DERBY. He is, my lord, and safe in Leicester town, Whither, if it please you, we may now withdraw us. RICHMOND. What men of name are slain on either side? DERBY. John Duke of Norfolk, Walter Lord Ferrers, Sir Robert Brakenbury, and Sir William Brandon. RICHMOND. Inter their bodies as becomes their births. Proclaim a pardon to the soldiers fled That in submission will return to us. And then, as we have ta'en the sacrament, We will unite the white rose and the red. Smile heaven upon this fair conjunction, That long have frown'd upon their emnity! What traitor hears me, and says not Amen? England hath long been mad, and scarr'd herself; The brother blindly shed the brother's blood, The father rashly slaughter'd his own son, The son, compell'd, been butcher to the sire; All this divided York and Lancaster, Divided in their dire division, O, now let Richmond and Elizabeth, The true succeeders of each royal house, By God's fair ordinance conjoin together! And let their heirs, God, if thy will be so, Enrich the time to come with smooth-fac'd peace, With smiling plenty, and fair prosperous days! Abate the edge of traitors, gracious Lord, That would reduce these bloody days again And make poor England weep in streams of blood! Let them not live to taste this land's increase That would with treason wound this fair land's peace! Now civil wounds are stopp'd, peace lives again- That she may long live here, God say Amen! Exeunt THE END <> 1595 THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Chorus. Escalus, Prince of Verona. Paris, a young Count, kinsman to the Prince. Montague, heads of two houses at variance with each other. Capulet, heads of two houses at variance with each other. An old Man, of the Capulet family. Romeo, son to Montague. Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo. Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet. Friar Laurence, Franciscan. Friar John, Franciscan. Balthasar, servant to Romeo. Abram, servant to Montague. Sampson, servant to Capulet. Gregory, servant to Capulet. Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse. An Apothecary. Three Musicians. An Officer. Lady Montague, wife to Montague. Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet. Juliet, daughter to Capulet. Nurse to Juliet. Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses; Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards, Watchmen, Servants, and Attendants. SCENE.--Verona; Mantua. THE PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. Chor. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean. From forth the fatal loins of these two foes A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows Doth with their death bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, naught could remove, Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend. [Exit.] <> ACT I. Scene I. Verona. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the house of Capulet. Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals. Greg. No, for then we should be colliers. Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Greg. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar. Samp. I strike quickly, being moved. Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Samp. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away. Samp. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall. Greg. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off their heads. Greg. The heads of the maids? Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. Take it in what sense thou wilt. Greg. They must take it in sense that feel it. Samp. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house of Montagues. Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar]. Samp. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee. Greg. How? turn thy back and run? Samp. Fear me not. Greg. No, marry. I fear thee! Samp. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. Greg. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. Samp. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is disgrace to them, if they bear it. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir. Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Samp. [aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side if I say ay? Greg. [aside to Sampson] No. Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. Greg. Do you quarrel, sir? Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. Samp. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as you. Abr. No better. Samp. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio. Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better.' Here comes one of my master's kinsmen. Samp. Yes, better, sir. Abr. You lie. Samp. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. They fight. Ben. Part, fools! [Beats down their swords.] Put up your swords. You know not what you do. Enter Tybalt. Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio! look upon thy death. Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee. Have at thee, coward! They fight. Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with clubs or partisans. Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them down! Citizens. Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! Enter Old Capulet in his gown, and his Wife. Cap. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! Wife. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Old Montague and his Wife. Mon. Thou villain Capulet!- Hold me not, let me go. M. Wife. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince Escalus, with his Train. Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel- Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts, That quench the fire of your pernicious rage With purple fountains issuing from your veins! On pain of torture, from those bloody hands Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground And hear the sentence of your moved prince. Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word By thee, old Capulet, and Montague, Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets And made Verona's ancient citizens Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments To wield old partisans, in hands as old, Cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate. If ever you disturb our streets again, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. For this time all the rest depart away. You, Capulet, shall go along with me; And, Montague, come you this afternoon, To know our farther pleasure in this case, To old Freetown, our common judgment place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. Exeunt [all but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio]. Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary And yours, close fighting ere I did approach. I drew to part them. In the instant came The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd; Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears, He swung about his head and cut the winds, Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn. While we were interchanging thrusts and blows, Came more and more, and fought on part and part, Till the Prince came, who parted either part. M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun Peer'd forth the golden window of the East, A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad; Where, underneath the grove of sycamore That westward rooteth from the city's side, So early walking did I see your son. Towards him I made; but he was ware of me And stole into the covert of the wood. I- measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self- Pursu'd my humour, not Pursuing his, And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me. Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen, With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew, Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs; But all so soon as the all-cheering sun Should in the farthest East bean to draw The shady curtains from Aurora's bed, Away from light steals home my heavy son And private in his chamber pens himself, Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove Unless good counsel may the cause remove. Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means? Mon. Both by myself and many other friend; But he, his own affections' counsellor, Is to himself- I will not say how true- But to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure as know. Enter Romeo. Ben. See, where he comes. So please you step aside, I'll know his grievance, or be much denied. Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away, Exeunt [Montague and Wife]. Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Rom. Is the day so young? Ben. But new struck nine. Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours? Rom. Not having that which having makes them short. Ben. In love? Rom. Out- Ben. Of love? Rom. Out of her favour where I am in love. Ben. Alas that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! Rom. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will! Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love. Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate! O anything, of nothing first create! O heavy lightness! serious vanity! Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms! Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health! Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is This love feel I, that feel no love in this. Dost thou not laugh? Ben. No, coz, I rather weep. Rom. Good heart, at what? Ben. At thy good heart's oppression. Rom. Why, such is love's transgression. Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast, Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown Doth add more grief to too much of mine own. Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears. What is it else? A madness most discreet, A choking gall, and a preserving sweet. Farewell, my coz. Ben. Soft! I will go along. An if you leave me so, you do me wrong. Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here: This is not Romeo, he's some other where. Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love? Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee? Ben. Groan? Why, no; But sadly tell me who. Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will. Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill! In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. Ben. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd. Rom. A right good markman! And she's fair I love. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd, From Love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. O, she's rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store. Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste; For beauty, starv'd with her severity, Cuts beauty off from all posterity. She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair, To merit bliss by making me despair. She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow Do I live dead that live to tell it now. Ben. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her. Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think! Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes. Examine other beauties. Rom. 'Tis the way To call hers (exquisite) in question more. These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows, Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair. He that is strucken blind cannot forget The precious treasure of his eyesight lost. Show me a mistress that is passing fair, What doth her beauty serve but as a note Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair? Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget. Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. Exeunt. Scene II. A Street. Enter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown. Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I, In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both, And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long. But now, my lord, what say you to my suit? Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before: My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride. Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made. Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made. The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she; She is the hopeful lady of my earth. But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart; My will to her consent is but a part. An she agree, within her scope of choice Lies my consent and fair according voice. This night I hold an old accustom'd feast, Whereto I have invited many a guest, Such as I love; and you among the store, One more, most welcome, makes my number more. At my poor house look to behold this night Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light. Such comfort as do lusty young men feel When well apparell'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads, even such delight Among fresh female buds shall you this night Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see, And like her most whose merit most shall be; Which, on more view of many, mine, being one, May stand in number, though in reck'ning none. Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay- Exeunt [Capulet and Paris]. Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time! Enter Benvolio and Romeo. Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning; One pain is lessoned by another's anguish; Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning; One desperate grief cures with another's languish. Take thou some new infection to thy eye, And the rank poison of the old will die. Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. Ben. For what, I pray thee? Rom. For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is; Shut up in Prison, kept without my food, Whipp'd and tormented and- God-den, good fellow. Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language. Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry! Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read. He reads. 'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces; Mercutio and his brother Valentine; Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters; My fair niece Rosaline and Livia; Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt; Lucio and the lively Helena.' [Gives back the paper.] A fair assembly. Whither should they come? Serv. Up. Rom. Whither? Serv. To supper, to our house. Rom. Whose house? Serv. My master's. Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry! Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st; With all the admired beauties of Verona. Go thither, and with unattainted eye Compare her face with some that I shall show, And I will make thee think thy swan a crow. Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires; And these, who, often drown'd, could never die, Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars! One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun. Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by, Herself pois'd with herself in either eye; But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd Your lady's love against some other maid That I will show you shining at this feast, And she shall scant show well that now seems best. Rom. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [Exeunt.] Scene III. Capulet's house. Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse. Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me. Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old, I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird! God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet! Enter Juliet. Jul. How now? Who calls? Nurse. Your mother. Jul. Madam, I am here. What is your will? Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again; I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel. Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. Wife. She's not fourteen. Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth- And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four- She is not fourteen. How long is it now To Lammastide? Wife. A fortnight and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen. Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls!) Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me. But, as I said, On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. 'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it), Of all the days of the year, upon that day; For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall. My lord and you were then at Mantua. Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool, To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug! Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow, To bid me trudge. And since that time it is eleven years, For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood, She could have run and waddled all about; For even the day before, she broke her brow; And then my husband (God be with his soul! 'A was a merry man) took up the child. 'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit; Wilt thou not, Jule?' and, by my holidam, The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay.' To see now how a jest shall come about! I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas, I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule?' quoth he, And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay.' Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace. Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay.' And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone; A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly. 'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face? Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age; Wilt thou not, Jule?' It stinted, and said 'Ay.' Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd. An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married? Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse, I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat. Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you, Here in Verona, ladies of esteem, Are made already mothers. By my count, I was your mother much upon these years That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief: The valiant Paris seeks you for his love. Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man As all the world- why he's a man of wax. Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower. Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower. Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman? This night you shall behold him at our feast. Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face, And find delight writ there with beauty's pen; Examine every married lineament, And see how one another lends content; And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies Find written in the margent of his eyes, This precious book of love, this unbound lover, To beautify him only lacks a cover. The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride For fair without the fair within to hide. That book in many's eyes doth share the glory, That in gold clasps locks in the golden story; So shall you share all that he doth possess, By having him making yourself no less. Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love? Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye Than your consent gives strength to make it fly. Enter Servingman. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd, my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you follow straight. Wife. We follow thee. Exit [Servingman]. Juliet, the County stays. Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days. Exeunt. Scene IV. A street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers; Torchbearers. Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology? Ben. The date is out of such prolixity. We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf, Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath, Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper; Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke After the prompter, for our entrance; But, let them measure us by what they will, We'll measure them a measure, and be gone. Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling. Being but heavy, I will bear the light. Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move. Mer. You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings And soar with them above a common bound. Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft To soar with his light feathers; and so bound I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe. Under love's heavy burthen do I sink. Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love- Too great oppression for a tender thing. Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn. Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love. Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down. Give me a case to put my visage in. A visor for a visor! What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me. Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs. Rom. A torch for me! Let wantons light of heart Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels; For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase, I'll be a candle-holder and look on; The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done. Mer. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word! If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho! Rom. Nay, that's not so. Mer. I mean, sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. Rom. And we mean well, in going to this masque; But 'tis no wit to go. Mer. Why, may one ask? Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night. Mer. And so did I. Rom. Well, what was yours? Mer. That dreamers often lie. Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep; Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs, The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider's web; Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams; Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid; Her chariot is an empty hazelnut, Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub, Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she 'gallops night by night Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream, Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues, Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are. Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose, And then dreams he of smelling out a suit; And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep, Then dreams he of another benefice. Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades, Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes, And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two And sleeps again. This is that very Mab That plats the manes of horses in the night And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs, Which once untangled much misfortune bodes This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs, That presses them and learns them first to bear, Making them women of good carriage. This is she- Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace! Thou talk'st of nothing. Mer. True, I talk of dreams; Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy; Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes Even now the frozen bosom of the North And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence, Turning his face to the dew-dropping South. Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves. Supper is done, and we shall come too late. Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars, Shall bitterly begin his fearful date With this night's revels and expire the term Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast, By some vile forfeit of untimely death. But he that hath the steerage of my course Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen! Ben. Strike, drum. They march about the stage. [Exeunt.] Scene V. Capulet's house. Servingmen come forth with napkins. 1. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher! 2. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing. 1. Serv. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert, look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone and Nell. Anthony, and Potpan! 2. Serv. Ay, boy, ready. 1. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and sought for, in the great chamber. 3. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys! Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. Exeunt. Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with Servants,] Capulet, his Wife, Juliet, Tybalt, and all the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers. Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you. Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty, She I'll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now? Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day That I have worn a visor and could tell A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear, Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone! You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play. A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls. Music plays, and they dance. More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up, And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot. Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well. Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet, For you and I are past our dancing days. How long is't now since last yourself and I Were in a mask? 2. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years. Cap. What, man? 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much! 'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio, Come Pentecost as quickly as it will, Some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd. 2. Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. Cap. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. Rom. [to a Servingman] What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? Serv. I know not, sir. Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear- Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear! So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night. Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague. Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave Come hither, cover'd with an antic face, To fleer and scorn at our solemnity? Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, To strike him dead I hold it not a sin. Cap. Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so? Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; A villain, that is hither come in spite To scorn at our solemnity this night. Cap. Young Romeo is it? Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo. Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone. 'A bears him like a portly gentleman, And, to say truth, Verona brags of him To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth. I would not for the wealth of all this town Here in my house do him disparagement. Therefore be patient, take no note of him. It is my will; the which if thou respect, Show a fair presence and put off these frowns, An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast. Tyb. It fits when such a villain is a guest. I'll not endure him. Cap. He shall be endur'd. What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to! Am I the master here, or you? Go to! You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul! You'll make a mutiny among my guests! You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man! Tyb. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame. Cap. Go to, go to! You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed? This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what. You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time.- Well said, my hearts!- You are a princox- go! Be quiet, or- More light, more light!- For shame! I'll make you quiet; what!- Cheerly, my hearts! Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting. I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall, Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall. Exit. Rom. If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, Which mannerly devotion shows in this; For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r. Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do! They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake. Rom. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd. [Kisses her.] Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd! Give me my sin again. [Kisses her.] Jul. You kiss by th' book. Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. Rom. What is her mother? Nurse. Marry, bachelor, Her mother is the lady of the house. And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous. I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal. I tell you, he that can lay hold of her Shall have the chinks. Rom. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! my life is my foe's debt. Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone; We have a trifling foolish banquet towards. Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all. I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night. More torches here! [Exeunt Maskers.] Come on then, let's to bed. Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late; I'll to my rest. Exeunt [all but Juliet and Nurse]. Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman? Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio. Jul. What's he that now is going out of door? Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio. Jul. What's he that follows there, that would not dance? Nurse. I know not. Jul. Go ask his name.- If he be married, My grave is like to be my wedding bed. Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague, The only son of your great enemy. Jul. My only love, sprung from my only hate! Too early seen unknown, and known too late! Prodigious birth of love it is to me That I must love a loathed enemy. Nurse. What's this? what's this? Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now Of one I danc'd withal. One calls within, 'Juliet.' Nurse. Anon, anon! Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone. Exeunt. <> PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. Chor. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir; That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair. Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again, Alike bewitched by the charm of looks; But to his foe suppos'd he must complain, And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks. Being held a foe, he may not have access To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear, And she as much in love, her means much less To meet her new beloved anywhere; But passion lends them power, time means, to meet, Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. Exit. ACT II. Scene I. A lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo alone. Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. [Climbs the wall and leaps down within it.] Enter Benvolio with Mercutio. Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo! Mer. He is wise, And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed. Ben. He ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall. Call, good Mercutio. Mer. Nay, I'll conjure too. Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover! Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh; Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied! Cry but 'Ay me!' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove'; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid! He heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not; The ape is dead, and I must conjure him. I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes. By her high forehead and her scarlet lip, By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh, And the demesnes that there adjacent lie, That in thy likeness thou appear to us! Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. Mer. This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle Of some strange nature, letting it there stand Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down. That were some spite; my invocation Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name, I conjure only but to raise up him. Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love and best befits the dark. Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark. Now will he sit under a medlar tree And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit As maids call medlars when they laugh alone. O, Romeo, that she were, O that she were An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear! Romeo, good night. I'll to my truckle-bed; This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go? Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain 'To seek him here that means not to be found. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo. Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Enter Juliet above at a window. But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the East, and Juliet is the sun! Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou her maid art far more fair than she. Be not her maid, since she is envious. Her vestal livery is but sick and green, And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off. It is my lady; O, it is my love! O that she knew she were! She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that? Her eye discourses; I will answer it. I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks. Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven, Having some business, do entreat her eyes To twinkle in their spheres till they return. What if her eyes were there, they in her head? The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven Would through the airy region stream so bright That birds would sing and think it were not night. See how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O that I were a glove upon that hand, That I might touch that cheek! Jul. Ay me! Rom. She speaks. O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head, As is a winged messenger of heaven Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name! Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, And I'll no longer be a Capulet. Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy. Thou art thyself, though not a Montague. What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part Belonging to a man. O, be some other name! What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet. So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd, Retain that dear perfection which he owes Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name; And for that name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. Rom. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night, So stumblest on my counsel? Rom. By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am. My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself, Because it is an enemy to thee. Had I it written, I would tear the word. Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike. Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore? The orchard walls are high and hard to climb, And the place death, considering who thou art, If any of my kinsmen find thee here. Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls; For stony limits cannot hold love out, And what love can do, that dares love attempt. Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me. Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee. Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here. Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight; And but thou love me, let them find me here. My life were better ended by their hate Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love. Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place? Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire. He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes. I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise. Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face; Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night. Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny What I have spoke; but farewell compliment! Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay'; And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st, Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries, They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo, If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully. Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won, I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay, So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world. In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond, And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light; But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true Than those that have more cunning to be strange. I should have been more strange, I must confess, But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware, My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me, And not impute this yielding to light love, Which the dark night hath so discovered. Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops- Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. Rom. What shall I swear by? Jul. Do not swear at all; Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self, Which is the god of my idolatry, And I'll believe thee. Rom. If my heart's dear love- Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract to-night. It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden; Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be Ere one can say 'It lightens.' Sweet, good night! This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet. Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast! Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night? Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine. Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again. And yet I wish but for the thing I have. My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite. I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu! [Nurse] calls within. Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true. Stay but a little, I will come again. [Exit.] Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard, Being in night, all this is but a dream, Too flattering-sweet to be substantial. Enter Juliet above. Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow, By one that I'll procure to come to thee, Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite; And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay And follow thee my lord throughout the world. Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. I come, anon.- But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee- Nurse. (within) Madam! Jul. By-and-by I come.- To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief. To-morrow will I send. Rom. So thrive my soul- Jul. A thousand times good night! Exit. Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light! Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books; But love from love, towards school with heavy looks. Enter Juliet again, [above]. Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice To lure this tassel-gentle back again! Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud; Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies, And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine With repetition of my Romeo's name. Romeo! Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears! Jul. Romeo! Rom. My dear? Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow Shall I send to thee? Rom. By the hour of nine. Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it. Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Rememb'ring how I love thy company. Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone- And yet no farther than a wanton's bird, That lets it hop a little from her hand, Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves, And with a silk thread plucks it back again, So loving-jealous of his liberty. Rom. I would I were thy bird. Jul. Sweet, so would I. Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing. Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I shall say good night till it be morrow. [Exit.] Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest! Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. Exit Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket. Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night, Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light; And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels. Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry, I must up-fill this osier cage of ours With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers. The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb. What is her burying gave, that is her womb; And from her womb children of divers kind We sucking on her natural bosom find; Many for many virtues excellent, None but for some, and yet all different. O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities; For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give; Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use, Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse. Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime's by action dignified. Within the infant rind of this small flower Poison hath residence, and medicine power; For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part; Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart. Two such opposed kings encamp them still In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will; And where the worser is predominant, Full soon the canker death eats up that plant. Enter Romeo. Rom. Good morrow, father. Friar. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distempered head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed. Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign. Therefore thy earliness doth me assure Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right- Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night. Rom. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine. Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline? Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. I have forgot that name, and that name's woe. Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then? Rom. I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again. I have been feasting with mine enemy, Where on a sudden one hath wounded me That's by me wounded. Both our remedies Within thy help and holy physic lies. I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo, My intercession likewise steads my foe. Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set On the fair daughter of rich Capulet; As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine, And all combin'd, save what thou must combine By holy marriage. When, and where, and how We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow, I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray, That thou consent to marry us to-day. Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here! Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear, So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes. Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline! How much salt water thrown away in waste, To season love, that of it doth not taste! The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears, Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears. Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet. If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine, Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline. And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then: Women may fall when there's no strength in men. Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline. Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. Rom. And bad'st me bury love. Friar. Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have. Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. The other did not so. Friar. O, she knew well Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell. But come, young waverer, come go with me. In one respect I'll thy assistant be; For this alliance may so happy prove To turn your households' rancour to pure love. Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste. Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. Exeunt. Scene IV. A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home to-night? Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man. Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, Torments him so that he will sure run mad. Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, Hath sent a letter to his father's house. Mer. A challenge, on my life. Ben. Romeo will answer it. Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter. Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares, being dared. Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt? Ben. Why, what is Tybalt? Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay. Ben. The what? Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes- these new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very tall man! a very good whore!' Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bones, their bones! Enter Romeo. Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo! Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified! Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy, Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive? Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. Mer. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. Rom. Meaning, to cursy. Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it. Rom. A most courteous exposition. Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. Rom. Pink for flower. Mer. Right. Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd. Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, solely singular. Rom. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness! Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio! My wits faint. Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a match. Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose? Rom. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose. Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not! Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce. Rom. And is it not, then, well serv'd in to a sweet goose? Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad! Rom. I stretch it out for that word 'broad,' which, added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole. Ben. Stop there, stop there! Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. Mer. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would have made it short; for I was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer. Rom. Here's goodly gear! Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter]. Mer. A sail, a sail! Ben. Two, two! a shirt and a smock. Nurse. Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. My fan, Peter. Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face of the two. Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. Nurse. Is it good-den? Mer. 'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon. Nurse. Out upon you! What a man are you! Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar. Nurse. By my troth, it is well said. 'For himself to mar,' quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young Romeo? Rom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse. Nurse. You say well. Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i' faith! wisely, wisely. Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. Ben. She will endite him to some supper. Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! Rom. What hast thou found? Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent He walks by them and sings. An old hare hoar, And an old hare hoar, Is very good meat in Lent; But a hare that is hoar Is too much for a score When it hoars ere it be spent. Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither. Rom. I will follow you. Mer. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell, [sings] lady, lady, lady. Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio. Nurse. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month. Nurse. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an 'a were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if I cannot, I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure! Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side. Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out. What she bid me say, I will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee- Nurse. Good heart, and I faith I will tell her as much. Lord, Lord! she will be a joyful woman. Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me. Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer. Rom. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon; And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains. Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny. Rom. Go to! I say you shall. Nurse. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall. Within this hour my man shall be with thee And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair, Which to the high topgallant of my joy Must be my convoy in the secret night. Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains. Farewell. Commend me to thy mistress. Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir. Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse? Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say, Two may keep counsel, putting one away? Rom. I warrant thee my man's as true as steel. Nurse. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord! when 'twas a little prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter? Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R. Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the- No; I know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it. Rom. Commend me to thy lady. Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.] Peter! Peter. Anon. Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace. Exeunt. Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet. Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse; In half an hour she 'promis'd to return. Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so. O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings. Now is the sun upon the highmost hill Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve Is three long hours; yet she is not come. Had she affections and warm youthful blood, She would be as swift in motion as a ball; My words would bandy her to my sweet love, And his to me, But old folks, many feign as they were dead- Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead. Enter Nurse [and Peter]. O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news? Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away. Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate. [Exit Peter.] Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news By playing it to me with so sour a face. Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile. Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had! Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news. Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak. Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile? Do you not see that I am out of breath? Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath? The excuse that thou dost make in this delay Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse. Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that. Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance. Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad? Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serve God. What, have you din'd at home? Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before. What says he of our marriage? What of that? Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I! It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces. My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down! Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well. Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love? Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where is your mother? Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within. Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest! 'Your love says, like an honest gentleman, "Where is your mother?"' Nurse. O God's Lady dear! Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow. Is this the poultice for my aching bones? Henceforward do your messages yourself. Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo? Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day? Jul. I have. Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell; There stays a husband to make you a wife. Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks: They'll be in scarlet straight at any news. Hie you to church; I must another way, To fetch a ladder, by the which your love Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark. I am the drudge, and toil in your delight; But you shall bear the burthen soon at night. Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell. Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell. Exeunt. Scene VI. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo. Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not! Rom. Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy That one short minute gives me in her sight. Do thou but close our hands with holy words, Then love-devouring death do what he dare- It is enough I may but call her mine. Friar. These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately: long love doth so; Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow. Enter Juliet. Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint. A lover may bestride the gossamer That idles in the wanton summer air, And yet not fall; so light is vanity. Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor. Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both Receive in either by this dear encounter. Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament. They are but beggars that can count their worth; But my true love is grown to such excess cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short work; For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone Till Holy Church incorporate two in one. [Exeunt.] <> ACT III. Scene I. A public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men. Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire. The day is hot, the Capulets abroad. And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl, For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring. Mer. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and says 'God send me no need of thee!' and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need. Ben. Am I like such a fellow? Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be moved. Ben. And what to? Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling! Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter. Mer. The fee simple? O simple! Enter Tybalt and others. Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets. Mer. By my heel, I care not. Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you. Mer. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion. Mer. Could you not take some occasion without giving Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men. Either withdraw unto some private place And reason coldly of your grievances, Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us. Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure, Enter Romeo. Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man. Mer. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery. Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower! Your worship in that sense may call him man. Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: thou art a villain. Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee Doth much excuse the appertaining rage To such a greeting. Villain am I none. Therefore farewell. I see thou knowest me not. Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw. Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee, But love thee better than thou canst devise Till thou shalt know the reason of my love; And so good Capulet, which name I tender As dearly as mine own, be satisfied. Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.] Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk? Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me? Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. Tyb. I am for you. [Draws.] Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. Mer. Come, sir, your passado! [They fight.] Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons. Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage! Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath Forbid this bandying in Verona streets. Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio! Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in, and flies [with his Followers]. Mer. I am hurt. A plague o' both your houses! I am sped. Is he gone and hath nothing? Ben. What, art thou hurt? Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough. Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon. [Exit Page.] Rom. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much. Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm. Rom. I thought all for the best. Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio, Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses! They have made worms' meat of me. I have it, And soundly too. Your houses! [Exit. [supported by Benvolio]. Rom. This gentleman, the Prince's near ally, My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt In my behalf- my reputation stain'd With Tybalt's slander- Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel Enter Benvolio. Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead! That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end. Enter Tybalt. Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. Rom. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain? Away to heaven respective lenity, And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now! Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company. Either thou or I, or both, must go with him. Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. Rom. This shall determine that. They fight. Tybalt falls. Ben. Romeo, away, be gone! The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain. Stand not amaz'd. The Prince will doom thee death If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away! Rom. O, I am fortune's fool! Ben. Why dost thou stay? Exit Romeo. Enter Citizens. Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio? Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he? Ben. There lies that Tybalt. Citizen. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the Prince's name obey. Enter Prince [attended], Old Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and [others]. Prince. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? Ben. O noble Prince. I can discover all The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl. There lies the man, slain by young Romeo, That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio. Cap. Wife. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child! O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill'd Of my dear kinsman! Prince, as thou art true, For blood of ours shed blood of Montague. O cousin, cousin! Prince. Benvolio, who began this bloody fray? Ben. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo's hand did stay. Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink How nice the quarrel was, and urg'd withal Your high displeasure. All this- uttered With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow'd- Could not take truce with the unruly spleen Of Tybalt deaf to peace, but that he tilts With piercing steel at bold Mercutio's breast; Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point, And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats Cold death aside and with the other sends It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity Retorts it. Romeo he cries aloud, 'Hold, friends! friends, part!' and swifter than his tongue, His agile arm beats down their fatal points, And 'twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled; But by-and-by comes back to Romeo, Who had but newly entertain'd revenge, And to't they go like lightning; for, ere I Could draw to part them, was stout Tybalt slain; And, as he fell, did Romeo turn and fly. This is the truth, or let Benvolio die. Cap. Wife. He is a kinsman to the Montague; Affection makes him false, he speaks not true. Some twenty of them fought in this black strife, And all those twenty could but kill one life. I beg for justice, which thou, Prince, must give. Romeo slew Tybalt; Romeo must not live. Prince. Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio. Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe? Mon. Not Romeo, Prince; he was Mercutio's friend; His fault concludes but what the law should end, The life of Tybalt. Prince. And for that offence Immediately we do exile him hence. I have an interest in your hate's proceeding, My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding; But I'll amerce you with so strong a fine That you shall all repent the loss of mine. I will be deaf to pleading and excuses; Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses. Therefore use none. Let Romeo hence in haste, Else, when he is found, that hour is his last. Bear hence this body, and attend our will. Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet alone. Jul. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus' lodging! Such a wagoner As Phaeton would whip you to the West And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway eyes may wink, and Romeo Leap to these arms untalk'd of and unseen. Lovers can see to do their amorous rites By their own beauties; or, if love be blind, It best agrees with night. Come, civil night, Thou sober-suited matron, all in black, And learn me how to lose a winning match, Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods. Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks, With thy black mantle till strange love, grown bold, Think true love acted simple modesty. Come, night; come, Romeo; come, thou day in night; For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night Whiter than new snow upon a raven's back. Come, gentle night; come, loving, black-brow'd night; Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun. O, I have bought the mansion of a love, But not possess'd it; and though I am sold, Not yet enjoy'd. So tedious is this day As is the night before some festival To an impatient child that hath new robes And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse, Enter Nurse, with cords. And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence. Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords That Romeo bid thee fetch? Nurse. Ay, ay, the cords. [Throws them down.] Jul. Ay me! what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands Nurse. Ah, weraday! he's dead, he's dead, he's dead! We are undone, lady, we are undone! Alack the day! he's gone, he's kill'd, he's dead! Jul. Can heaven be so envious? Nurse. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo! Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! Jul. What devil art thou that dost torment me thus? This torture should be roar'd in dismal hell. Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but 'I,' And that bare vowel 'I' shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I, if there be such an 'I'; Or those eyes shut that make thee answer 'I.' If be be slain, say 'I'; or if not, 'no.' Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe. Nurse. I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes, (God save the mark!) here on his manly breast. A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse; Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub'd in blood, All in gore-blood. I swounded at the sight. Jul. O, break, my heart! poor bankrout, break at once! To prison, eyes; ne'er look on liberty! Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here, And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier! Nurse. O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had! O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman That ever I should live to see thee dead! Jul. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaught'red, and is Tybalt dead? My dear-lov'd cousin, and my dearer lord? Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom! For who is living, if those two are gone? Nurse. Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished; Romeo that kill'd him, he is banished. Jul. O God! Did Romeo's hand shed Tybalt's blood? Nurse. It did, it did! alas the day, it did! Jul. O serpent heart, hid with a flow'ring face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical! Dove-feather'd raven! wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of divinest show! Just opposite to what thou justly seem'st- A damned saint, an honourable villain! O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh? Was ever book containing such vile matter So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell In such a gorgeous palace! Nurse. There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers. Ah, where's my man? Give me some aqua vitae. These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old. Shame come to Romeo! Jul. Blister'd be thy tongue For such a wish! He was not born to shame. Upon his brow shame is asham'd to sit; For 'tis a throne where honour may be crown'd Sole monarch of the universal earth. O, what a beast was I to chide at him! Nurse. Will you speak well of him that kill'd your cousin? Jul. Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband? Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it? But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin? That villain cousin would have kill'd my husband. Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring! Your tributary drops belong to woe, Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy. My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain; And Tybalt's dead, that would have slain my husband. All this is comfort; wherefore weep I then? Some word there was, worser than Tybalt's death, That murd'red me. I would forget it fain; But O, it presses to my memory Like damned guilty deeds to sinners' minds! 'Tybalt is dead, and Romeo- banished.' That 'banished,' that one word 'banished,' Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt's death Was woe enough, if it had ended there; Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship And needly will be rank'd with other griefs, Why followed not, when she said 'Tybalt's dead,' Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both, Which modern lamentation might have mov'd? But with a rearward following Tybalt's death, 'Romeo is banished'- to speak that word Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet, All slain, all dead. 'Romeo is banished'- There is no end, no limit, measure, bound, In that word's death; no words can that woe sound. Where is my father and my mother, nurse? Nurse. Weeping and wailing over Tybalt's corse. Will you go to them? I will bring you thither. Jul. Wash they his wounds with tears? Mine shall be spent, When theirs are dry, for Romeo's banishment. Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil'd, Both you and I, for Romeo is exil'd. He made you for a highway to my bed; But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed. Come, cords; come, nurse. I'll to my wedding bed; And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead! Nurse. Hie to your chamber. I'll find Romeo To comfort you. I wot well where he is. Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night. I'll to him; he is hid at Laurence' cell. Jul. O, find him! give this ring to my true knight And bid him come to take his last farewell. Exeunt. Scene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence]. Friar. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour'd of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. Rom. Father, what news? What is the Prince's doom What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand That I yet know not? Friar. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince's doom. Rom. What less than doomsday is the Prince's doom? Friar. A gentler judgment vanish'd from his lips- Not body's death, but body's banishment. Rom. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say 'death'; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say 'banishment.' Friar. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. Rom. There is no world without Verona walls, But purgatory, torture, hell itself. Hence banished is banish'd from the world, And world's exile is death. Then 'banishment' Is death misterm'd. Calling death 'banishment,' Thou cut'st my head off with a golden axe And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. Friar. O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath rush'd aside the law, And turn'd that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou seest it not. Rom. 'Tis torture, and not mercy. Heaven is here, Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog And little mouse, every unworthy thing, Live here in heaven and may look on her; But Romeo may not. More validity, More honourable state, more courtship lives In carrion flies than Romeo. They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin; But Romeo may not- he is banished. This may flies do, when I from this must fly; They are free men, but I am banished. And sayest thou yet that exile is not death? Hadst thou no poison mix'd, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me- 'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell; Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend profess'd, To mangle me with that word 'banished'? Friar. Thou fond mad man, hear me a little speak. Rom. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. Friar. I'll give thee armour to keep off that word; Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. Rom. Yet 'banished'? Hang up philosophy! Unless philosophy can make a Juliet, Displant a town, reverse a prince's doom, It helps not, it prevails not. Talk no more. Friar. O, then I see that madmen have no ears. Rom. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? Friar. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. Rom. Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel. Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love, An hour but married, Tybalt murdered, Doting like me, and like me banished, Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair, And fall upon the ground, as I do now, Taking the measure of an unmade grave. Knock [within]. Friar. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. Rom. Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans, Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. Knock. Friar. Hark, how they knock! Who's there? Romeo, arise; Thou wilt be taken.- Stay awhile!- Stand up; Knock. Run to my study.- By-and-by!- God's will, What simpleness is this.- I come, I come! Knock. Who knocks so hard? Whence come you? What's your will Nurse. [within] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand. I come from Lady Juliet. Friar. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. Nurse. O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar Where is my lady's lord, where's Romeo? Friar. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. Nurse. O, he is even in my mistress' case, Just in her case! Friar. O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament! Nurse. Even so lies she, Blubb'ring and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up! Stand, an you be a man. For Juliet's sake, for her sake, rise and stand! Why should you fall into so deep an O? Rom. (rises) Nurse- Nurse. Ah sir! ah sir! Well, death's the end of all. Rom. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murtherer, Now I have stain'd the childhood of our joy With blood remov'd but little from her own? Where is she? and how doth she! and what says My conceal'd lady to our cancell'd love? Nurse. O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps; And now falls on her bed, and then starts up, And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries, And then down falls again. Rom. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murther her; as that name's cursed hand Murder'd her kinsman. O, tell me, friar, tell me, In what vile part of this anatomy Doth my name lodge? Tell me, that I may sack The hateful mansion. [Draws his dagger.] Friar. Hold thy desperate hand. Art thou a man? Thy form cries out thou art; Thy tears are womanish, thy wild acts denote The unreasonable fury of a beast. Unseemly woman in a seeming man! Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both! Thou hast amaz'd me. By my holy order, I thought thy disposition better temper'd. Hast thou slain Tybalt? Wilt thou slay thyself? And slay thy lady that in thy life lives, By doing damned hate upon thyself? Why railest thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth? Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose. Fie, fie, thou shamest thy shape, thy love, thy wit, Which, like a usurer, abound'st in all, And usest none in that true use indeed Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit. Thy noble shape is but a form of wax Digressing from the valour of a man; Thy dear love sworn but hollow perjury, Killing that love which thou hast vow'd to cherish; Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love, Misshapen in the conduct of them both, Like powder in a skilless soldier's flask, is get afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismemb'red with thine own defence. What, rouse thee, man! Thy Juliet is alive, For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead. There art thou happy. Tybalt would kill thee, But thou slewest Tybalt. There art thou happy too. The law, that threat'ned death, becomes thy friend And turns it to exile. There art thou happy. A pack of blessings light upon thy back; Happiness courts thee in her best array; But, like a misbhav'd and sullen wench, Thou pout'st upon thy fortune and thy love. Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable. Go get thee to thy love, as was decreed, Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her. But look thou stay not till the watch be set, For then thou canst not pass to Mantua, Where thou shalt live till we can find a time To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends, Beg pardon of the Prince, and call thee back With twenty hundred thousand times more joy Than thou went'st forth in lamentation. Go before, nurse. Commend me to thy lady, And bid her hasten all the house to bed, Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto. Romeo is coming. Nurse. O Lord, I could have stay'd here all the night To hear good counsel. O, what learning is! My lord, I'll tell my lady you will come. Rom. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. Nurse. Here is a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. Exit. Rom. How well my comfort is reviv'd by this! Friar. Go hence; good night; and here stands all your state: Either be gone before the watch be set, Or by the break of day disguis'd from hence. Sojourn in Mantua. I'll find out your man, And he shall signify from time to time Every good hap to you that chances here. Give me thy hand. 'Tis late. Farewell; good night. Rom. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. Exeunt. Scene IV. Capulet's house Enter Old Capulet, his Wife, and Paris. Cap. Things have fall'n out, sir, so unluckily That we have had no time to move our daughter. Look you, she lov'd her kinsman Tybalt dearly, And so did I. Well, we were born to die. 'Tis very late; she'll not come down to-night. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. Par. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. Lady. I will, and know her mind early to-morrow; To-night she's mew'd up to her heaviness. Cap. Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender Of my child's love. I think she will be rul'd In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not. Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed; Acquaint her here of my son Paris' love And bid her (mark you me?) on Wednesday next- But, soft! what day is this? Par. Monday, my lord. Cap. Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon. Thursday let it be- a Thursday, tell her She shall be married to this noble earl. Will you be ready? Do you like this haste? We'll keep no great ado- a friend or two; For hark you, Tybalt being slain so late, It may be thought we held him carelessly, Being our kinsman, if we revel much. Therefore we'll have some half a dozen friends, And there an end. But what say you to Thursday? Par. My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow. Cap. Well, get you gone. A Thursday be it then. Go you to Juliet ere you go to bed; Prepare her, wife, against this wedding day. Farewell, My lord.- Light to my chamber, ho! Afore me, It is so very very late That we may call it early by-and-by. Good night. Exeunt Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window. Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark, That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear. Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn; No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops. I must be gone and live, or stay and die. Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I. It is some meteor that the sun exhales To be to thee this night a torchbearer And light thee on the way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone. Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so. I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye, 'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow; Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat The vaulty heaven so high above our heads. I have more care to stay than will to go. Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so. How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day. Jul. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away! It is the lark that sings so out of tune, Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps. Some say the lark makes sweet division; This doth not so, for she divideth us. Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes; O, now I would they had chang'd voices too, Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray, Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day! O, now be gone! More light and light it grows. Rom. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes! Enter Nurse. Nurse. Madam! Jul. Nurse? Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke; be wary, look about. Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. [Exit.] Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend. He goeth down. Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend? I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days. O, by this count I shall be much in years Ere I again behold my Romeo! Rom. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again? Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art below, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale. Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu! Exit. Jul. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle. If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune, For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long But send him back. Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you up? Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother. Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither? Enter Mother. Lady. Why, how now, Juliet? Jul. Madam, I am not well. Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live. Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love; But much of grief shows still some want of wit. Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. Jul. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him. Jul. What villain, madam? Lady. That same villain Romeo. Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.- God pardon him! I do, with all my heart; And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart. Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives. Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin's death! Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not. Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua, Where that same banish'd runagate doth live, Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram That he shall soon keep Tybalt company; And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied. Jul. Indeed I never shall be satisfied With Romeo till I behold him- dead- Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd. Madam, if you could find out but a man To bear a poison, I would temper it; That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof, Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him, To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him! Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man. But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child; One who, to put thee from thy heaviness, Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy That thou expects not nor I look'd not for. Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that? Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn The gallant, young, and noble gentleman, The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church, Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride. Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too, He shall not make me there a joyful bride! I wonder at this haste, that I must wed Ere he that should be husband comes to woo. I pray you tell my lord and father, madam, I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate, Rather than Paris. These are news indeed! Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself, And see how be will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew, But for the sunset of my brother's son It rains downright. How now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears? Evermore show'ring? In one little body Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind: For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea, Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs, Who, raging with thy tears and they with them, Without a sudden calm will overset Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife? Have you delivered to her our decree? Lady. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave! Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife. How? Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks? Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest, Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom? Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have. Proud can I never be of what I hate, But thankful even for hate that is meant love. Cap. How, how, how, how, choplogic? What is this? 'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank you not'- And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you, Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds, But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church, Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither. Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage! You tallow-face! Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad? Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch! I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday Or never after look me in the face. Speak not, reply not, do not answer me! My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest That God had lent us but this only child; But now I see this one is one too much, And that we have a curse in having her. Out on her, hilding! Nurse. God in heaven bless her! You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so. Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go! Nurse. I speak no treason. Cap. O, God-i-god-en! Nurse. May not one speak? Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl, For here we need it not. Lady. You are too hot. Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early, At home, abroad, alone, in company, Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been To have her match'd; and having now provided A gentleman of princely parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd, Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts, Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man- And then to have a wretched puling fool, A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender, To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love; I am too young, I pray you pardon me'! But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you. Graze where you will, you shall not house with me. Look to't, think on't; I do not use to jest. Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise: An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend; An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets, For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee, Nor what is mine shall never do thee good. Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit. Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week; Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies. Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit. Jul. O God!- O nurse, how shall this be prevented? My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven. How shall that faith return again to earth Unless that husband send it me from heaven By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me. Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems Upon so soft a subject as myself! What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy? Some comfort, nurse. Nurse. Faith, here it is. Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you; Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth. Then, since the case so stands as now it doth, I think it best you married with the County. O, he's a lovely gentleman! Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam, Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart, I think you are happy in this second match, For it excels your first; or if it did not, Your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were As living here and you no use of him. Jul. Speak'st thou this from thy heart? Nurse. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both. Jul. Amen! Nurse. What? Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in; and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell, To make confession and to be absolv'd. Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit. Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend! Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn, Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue Which she hath prais'd him with above compare So many thousand times? Go, counsellor! Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain. I'll to the friar to know his remedy. If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. <> ACT IV. Scene I. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] and County Paris. Friar. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. Par. My father Capulet will have it so, And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. Friar. You say you do not know the lady's mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. Par. Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt's death, And therefore have I little talk'd of love; For Venus smiles not in a house of tears. Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous That she do give her sorrow so much sway, And in his wisdom hastes our marriage To stop the inundation of her tears, Which, too much minded by herself alone, May be put from her by society. Now do you know the reason of this haste. Friar. [aside] I would I knew not why it should be slow'd.- Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. Par. Happily met, my lady and my wife! Jul. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. Par. That may be must be, love, on Thursday next. Jul. What must be shall be. Friar. That's a certain text. Par. Come you to make confession to this father? Jul. To answer that, I should confess to you. Par. Do not deny to him that you love me. Jul. I will confess to you that I love him. Par. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. Jul. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back, than to your face. Par. Poor soul, thy face is much abus'd with tears. Jul. The tears have got small victory by that, For it was bad enough before their spite. Par. Thou wrong'st it more than tears with that report. Jul. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth; And what I spake, I spake it to my face. Par. Thy face is mine, and thou hast sland'red it. Jul. It may be so, for it is not mine own. Are you at leisure, holy father, now, Or shall I come to you at evening mass Friar. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now. My lord, we must entreat the time alone. Par. God shield I should disturb devotion! Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye. Till then, adieu, and keep this holy kiss. Exit. Jul. O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me- past hope, past cure, past help! Friar. Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief; It strains me past the compass of my wits. I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it, On Thursday next be married to this County. Jul. Tell me not, friar, that thou hear'st of this, Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it. If in thy wisdom thou canst give no help, Do thou but call my resolution wise And with this knife I'll help it presently. God join'd my heart and Romeo's, thou our hands; And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo's seal'd, Shall be the label to another deed, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Turn to another, this shall slay them both. Therefore, out of thy long-experienc'd time, Give me some present counsel; or, behold, 'Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife Shall play the empire, arbitrating that Which the commission of thy years and art Could to no issue of true honour bring. Be not so long to speak. I long to die If what thou speak'st speak not of remedy. Friar. Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope, Which craves as desperate an execution As that is desperate which we would prevent. If, rather than to marry County Paris Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself, Then is it likely thou wilt undertake A thing like death to chide away this shame, That cop'st with death himself to scape from it; And, if thou dar'st, I'll give thee remedy. Jul. O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris, From off the battlements of yonder tower, Or walk in thievish ways, or bid me lurk Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears, Or shut me nightly in a charnel house, O'ercover'd quite with dead men's rattling bones, With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls; Or bid me go into a new-made grave And hide me with a dead man in his shroud- Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble- And I will do it without fear or doubt, To live an unstain'd wife to my sweet love. Friar. Hold, then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is to-morrow. To-morrow night look that thou lie alone; Let not the nurse lie with thee in thy chamber. Take thou this vial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off; When presently through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease; No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes, thy eyes' windows fall Like death when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv'd of supple government, Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death; And in this borrowed likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead. Then, as the manner of our country is, In thy best robes uncovered on the bier Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the mean time, against thou shalt awake, Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift; And hither shall he come; and he and I Will watch thy waking, and that very night Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua. And this shall free thee from this present shame, If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear Abate thy valour in the acting it. Jul. Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear! Friar. Hold! Get you gone, be strong and prosperous In this resolve. I'll send a friar with speed To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord. Jul. Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's house. Enter Father Capulet, Mother, Nurse, and Servingmen, two or three. Cap. So many guests invite as here are writ. [Exit a Servingman.] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. Serv. You shall have none ill, sir; for I'll try if they can lick their fingers. Cap. How canst thou try them so? Serv. Marry, sir, 'tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers. Therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. Cap. Go, begone. Exit Servingman. We shall be much unfurnish'd for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Laurence? Nurse. Ay, forsooth. Cap. Well, be may chance to do some good on her. A peevish self-will'd harlotry it is. Enter Juliet. Nurse. See where she comes from shrift with merry look. Cap. How now, my headstrong? Where have you been gadding? Jul. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests, and am enjoin'd By holy Laurence to fall prostrate here To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you! Henceforward I am ever rul'd by you. Cap. Send for the County. Go tell him of this. I'll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning. Jul. I met the youthful lord at Laurence' cell And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o'er the bounds of modesty. Cap. Why, I am glad on't. This is well. Stand up. This is as't should be. Let me see the County. Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither. Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar, All our whole city is much bound to him. Jul. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow? Mother. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. Cap. Go, nurse, go with her. We'll to church to-morrow. Exeunt Juliet and Nurse. Mother. We shall be short in our provision. 'Tis now near night. Cap. Tush, I will stir about, And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife. Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her. I'll not to bed to-night; let me alone. I'll play the housewife for this once. What, ho! They are all forth; well, I will walk myself To County Paris, to prepare him up Against to-morrow. My heart is wondrous light, Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim'd. Exeunt. Scene III. Juliet's chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. Jul. Ay, those attires are best; but, gentle nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself to-night; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou knowest, is cross and full of sin. Enter Mother. Mother. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? Jul. No, madam; we have cull'd such necessaries As are behooffull for our state to-morrow. So please you, let me now be left alone, And let the nurse this night sit up with you; For I am sure you have your hands full all In this so sudden business. Mother. Good night. Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need. Exeunt [Mother and Nurse.] Jul. Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again. I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins That almost freezes up the heat of life. I'll call them back again to comfort me. Nurse!- What should she do here? My dismal scene I needs must act alone. Come, vial. What if this mixture do not work at all? Shall I be married then to-morrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. Lays down a dagger. What if it be a poison which the friar Subtilly hath minist'red to have me dead, Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour'd Because he married me before to Romeo? I fear it is; and yet methinks it should not, For he hath still been tried a holy man. I will not entertain so bad a thought. How if, when I am laid into the tomb, I wake before the time that Romeo Come to redeem me? There's a fearful point! Shall I not then be stifled in the vault, To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in, And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes? Or, if I live, is it not very like The horrible conceit of death and night, Together with the terror of the place- As in a vault, an ancient receptacle Where for this many hundred years the bones Of all my buried ancestors are pack'd; Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth, Lies fest'ring in his shroud; where, as they say, At some hours in the night spirits resort- Alack, alack, is it not like that I, So early waking- what with loathsome smells, And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth, That living mortals, hearing them, run mad- O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught, Environed with all these hideous fears, And madly play with my forefathers' joints, And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud., And, in this rage, with some great kinsman's bone As with a club dash out my desp'rate brains? O, look! methinks I see my cousin's ghost Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body Upon a rapier's point. Stay, Tybalt, stay! Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee. She [drinks and] falls upon her bed within the curtains. Scene IV. Capulet's house. Enter Lady of the House and Nurse. Lady. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse. Nurse. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Old Capulet. Cap. Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow'd, The curfew bell hath rung, 'tis three o'clock. Look to the bak'd meats, good Angelica; Spare not for cost. Nurse. Go, you cot-quean, go, Get you to bed! Faith, you'll be sick to-morrow For this night's watching. Cap. No, not a whit. What, I have watch'd ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick. Lady. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. Exeunt Lady and Nurse. Cap. A jealous hood, a jealous hood! Enter three or four [Fellows, with spits and logs and baskets. What is there? Now, fellow, Fellow. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. Cap. Make haste, make haste. [Exit Fellow.] Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter; he will show thee where they are. Fellow. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. Cap. Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha! Thou shalt be loggerhead. [Exit Fellow.] Good faith, 'tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. Play music. I hear him near. Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, nurse, I say! Enter Nurse. Go waken Juliet; go and trim her up. I'll go and chat with Paris. Hie, make haste, Make haste! The bridegroom he is come already: Make haste, I say. [Exeunt.] Scene V. Juliet's chamber. [Enter Nurse.] Nurse. Mistress! what, mistress! Juliet! Fast, I warrant her, she. Why, lamb! why, lady! Fie, you slug-abed! Why, love, I say! madam! sweetheart! Why, bride! What, not a word? You take your pennyworths now! Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant, The County Paris hath set up his rest That you shall rest but little. God forgive me! Marry, and amen. How sound is she asleep! I needs must wake her. Madam, madam, madam! Ay, let the County take you in your bed! He'll fright you up, i' faith. Will it not be? [Draws aside the curtains.] What, dress'd, and in your clothes, and down again? I must needs wake you. Lady! lady! lady! Alas, alas! Help, help! My lady's dead! O weraday that ever I was born! Some aqua-vitae, ho! My lord! my lady! Enter Mother. Mother. What noise is here? Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. What is the matter? Nurse. Look, look! O heavy day! Mother. O me, O me! My child, my only life! Revive, look up, or I will die with thee! Help, help! Call help. Enter Father. Father. For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come. Nurse. She's dead, deceas'd; she's dead! Alack the day! Mother. Alack the day, she's dead, she's dead, she's dead! Cap. Ha! let me see her. Out alas! she's cold, Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated. Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field. Nurse. O lamentable day! Mother. O woful time! Cap. Death, that hath ta'en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar [Laurence] and the County [Paris], with Musicians. Friar. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? Cap. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath Death lain with thy wife. See, there she lies, Flower as she was, deflowered by him. Death is my son-in-law, Death is my heir; My daughter he hath wedded. I will die And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death's. Par. Have I thought long to see this morning's face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? Mother. Accurs'd, unhappy, wretched, hateful day! Most miserable hour that e'er time saw In lasting labour of his pilgrimage! But one, poor one, one poor and loving child, But one thing to rejoice and solace in, And cruel Death hath catch'd it from my sight! Nurse. O woe? O woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day That ever ever I did yet behold! O day! O day! O day! O hateful day! Never was seen so black a day as this. O woful day! O woful day! Par. Beguil'd, divorced, wronged, spited, slain! Most detestable Death, by thee beguil'd, By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown! O love! O life! not life, but love in death Cap. Despis'd, distressed, hated, martyr'd, kill'd! Uncomfortable time, why cam'st thou now To murther, murther our solemnity? O child! O child! my soul, and not my child! Dead art thou, dead! alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried! Friar. Peace, ho, for shame! Confusion's cure lives not In these confusions. Heaven and yourself Had part in this fair maid! now heaven hath all, And all the better is it for the maid. Your part in her you could not keep from death, But heaven keeps his part in eternal life. The most you sought was her promotion, For 'twas your heaven she should be advanc'd; And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc'd Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself? O, in this love, you love your child so ill That you run mad, seeing that she is well. She's not well married that lives married long, But she's best married that dies married young. Dry up your tears and stick your rosemary On this fair corse, and, as the custom is, In all her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature's tears are reason's merriment. Cap. All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast; Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change; Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse; And all things change them to the contrary. Friar. Sir, go you in; and, madam, go with him; And go, Sir Paris. Every one prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do low'r upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. Exeunt. Manent Musicians [and Nurse]. 1. Mus. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone. Nurse. Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up! For well you know this is a pitiful case. [Exit.] 1. Mus. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. Enter Peter. Pet. Musicians, O, musicians, 'Heart's ease,' 'Heart's ease'! O, an you will have me live, play 'Heart's ease.' 1. Mus. Why 'Heart's ease'', Pet. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays 'My heart is full of woe.' O, play me some merry dump to comfort me. 1. Mus. Not a dump we! 'Tis no time to play now. Pet. You will not then? 1. Mus. No. Pet. I will then give it you soundly. 1. Mus. What will you give us? Pet. No money, on my faith, but the gleek. I will give you the minstrel. 1. Mus. Then will I give you the serving-creature. Pet. Then will I lay the serving-creature's dagger on your pate. I will carry no crotchets. I'll re you, I'll fa you. Do you note me? 1. Mus. An you re us and fa us, you note us. 2. Mus. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. Pet. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger. Answer me like men. 'When griping grief the heart doth wound, And doleful dumps the mind oppress, Then music with her silver sound'- Why 'silver sound'? Why 'music with her silver sound'? What say you, Simon Catling? 1. Mus. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. Pet. Pretty! What say You, Hugh Rebeck? 2. Mus. I say 'silver sound' because musicians sound for silver. Pet. Pretty too! What say you, James Soundpost? 3. Mus. Faith, I know not what to say. Pet. O, I cry you mercy! you are the singer. I will say for you. It is 'music with her silver sound' because musicians have no gold for sounding. 'Then music with her silver sound With speedy help doth lend redress.' [Exit. 1. Mus. What a pestilent knave is this same? 2. Mus. Hang him, Jack! Come, we'll in here, tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner. Exeunt. <> ACT V. Scene I. Mantua. A street. Enter Romeo. Rom. If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustom'd spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts. I dreamt my lady came and found me dead (Strange dream that gives a dead man leave to think!) And breath'd such life with kisses in my lips That I reviv'd and was an emperor. Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess'd, When but love's shadows are so rich in joy! Enter Romeo's Man Balthasar, booted. News from Verona! How now, Balthasar? Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar? How doth my lady? Is my father well? How fares my Juliet? That I ask again, For nothing can be ill if she be well. Man. Then she is well, and nothing can be ill. Her body sleeps in Capel's monument, And her immortal part with angels lives. I saw her laid low in her kindred's vault And presently took post to tell it you. O, pardon me for bringing these ill news, Since you did leave it for my office, sir. Rom. Is it e'en so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou knowest my lodging. Get me ink and paper And hire posthorses. I will hence to-night. Man. I do beseech you, sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild and do import Some misadventure. Rom. Tush, thou art deceiv'd. Leave me and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the friar? Man. No, my good lord. Rom. No matter. Get thee gone And hire those horses. I'll be with thee straight. Exit [Balthasar]. Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night. Let's see for means. O mischief, thou art swift To enter in the thoughts of desperate men! I do remember an apothecary, And hereabouts 'a dwells, which late I noted In tatt'red weeds, with overwhelming brows, Culling of simples. Meagre were his looks, Sharp misery had worn him to the bones; And in his needy shop a tortoise hung, An alligator stuff'd, and other skins Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves A beggarly account of empty boxes, Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds, Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses Were thinly scattered, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, 'An if a man did need a poison now Whose sale is present death in Mantua, Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.' O, this same thought did but forerun my need, And this same needy man must sell it me. As I remember, this should be the house. Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut. What, ho! apothecary! Enter Apothecary. Apoth. Who calls so loud? Rom. Come hither, man. I see that thou art poor. Hold, there is forty ducats. Let me have A dram of poison, such soon-speeding gear As will disperse itself through all the veins That the life-weary taker mall fall dead, And that the trunk may be discharg'd of breath As violently as hasty powder fir'd Doth hurry from the fatal cannon's womb. Apoth. Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua's law Is death to any he that utters them. Rom. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness And fearest to die? Famine is in thy cheeks, Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes, Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back: The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law; The world affords no law to make thee rich; Then be not poor, but break it and take this. Apoth. My poverty but not my will consents. Rom. I pay thy poverty and not thy will. Apoth. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off, and if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would dispatch you straight. Rom. There is thy gold- worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none. Farewell. Buy food and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave; for there must I use thee. Exeunt. Scene II. Verona. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar John to Friar Laurence. John. Holy Franciscan friar, brother, ho! Enter Friar Laurence. Laur. This same should be the voice of Friar John. Welcome from Mantua. What says Romeo? Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter. John. Going to find a barefoot brother out, One of our order, to associate me Here in this city visiting the sick, And finding him, the searchers of the town, Suspecting that we both were in a house Where the infectious pestilence did reign, Seal'd up the doors, and would not let us forth, So that my speed to Mantua there was stay'd. Laur. Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo? John. I could not send it- here it is again- Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. Laur. Unhappy fortune! By my brotherhood, The letter was not nice, but full of charge, Of dear import; and the neglecting it May do much danger. Friar John, go hence, Get me an iron crow and bring it straight Unto my cell. John. Brother, I'll go and bring it thee. Exit. Laur. Now, must I to the monument alone. Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake. She will beshrew me much that Romeo Hath had no notice of these accidents; But I will write again to Mantua, And keep her at my cell till Romeo come- Poor living corse, clos'd in a dead man's tomb! Exit. Scene III. Verona. A churchyard; in it the monument of the Capulets. Enter Paris and his Page with flowers and [a torch]. Par. Give me thy torch, boy. Hence, and stand aloof. Yet put it out, for I would not be seen. Under yond yew tree lay thee all along, Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground. So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread (Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves) But thou shalt hear it. Whistle then to me, As signal that thou hear'st something approach. Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go. Page. [aside] I am almost afraid to stand alone Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure. [Retires.] Par. Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew (O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones) Which with sweet water nightly I will dew; Or, wanting that, with tears distill'd by moans. The obsequies that I for thee will keep Nightly shall be to strew, thy grave and weep. Whistle Boy. The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way to-night To cross my obsequies and true love's rite? What, with a torch? Muffle me, night, awhile. [Retires.] Enter Romeo, and Balthasar with a torch, a mattock, and a crow of iron. Rom. Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron. Hold, take this letter. Early in the morning See thou deliver it to my lord and father. Give me the light. Upon thy life I charge thee, Whate'er thou hearest or seest, stand all aloof And do not interrupt me in my course. Why I descend into this bed of death Is partly to behold my lady's face, But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger A precious ring- a ring that I must use In dear employment. Therefore hence, be gone. But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I farther shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs. The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea. Bal. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. Rom. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous; and farewell, good fellow. Bal. [aside] For all this same, I'll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [Retires.] Rom. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg'd with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, And in despite I'll cram thee with more food. Romeo opens the tomb. Par. This is that banish'd haughty Montague That murd'red my love's cousin- with which grief It is supposed the fair creature died- And here is come to do some villanous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. Stop thy unhallowed toil, vile Montague! Can vengeance be pursu'd further than death? Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee. Obey, and go with me; for thou must die. Rom. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desp'rate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, But not another sin upon my head By urging me to fury. O, be gone! By heaven, I love thee better than myself, For I come hither arm'd against myself. Stay not, be gone. Live, and hereafter say A madman's mercy bid thee run away. Par. I do defy thy, conjuration And apprehend thee for a felon here. Rom. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! They fight. Page. O Lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [Exit. Paris falls.] Par. O, I am slain! If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [Dies.] Rom. In faith, I will. Let me peruse this face. Mercutio's kinsman, noble County Paris! What said my man when my betossed soul Did not attend him as we rode? I think He told me Paris should have married Juliet. Said he not so? or did I dream it so? Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet To think it was so? O, give me thy hand, One writ with me in sour misfortune's book! I'll bury thee in a triumphant grave. A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught'red youth, For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes This vault a feasting presence full of light. Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr'd. [Lays him in the tomb.] How oft when men are at the point of death Have they been merry! which their keepers call A lightning before death. O, how may I Call this a lightning? O my love! my wife! Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty. Thou art not conquer'd. Beauty's ensign yet Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks, And death's pale flag is not advanced there. Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet? O, what more favour can I do to thee Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain To sunder his that was thine enemy? Forgive me, cousin.' Ah, dear Juliet, Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe That unsubstantial Death is amorous, And that the lean abhorred monster keeps Thee here in dark to be his paramour? For fear of that I still will stay with thee And never from this palace of dim night Depart again. Here, here will I remain With worms that are thy chambermaids. O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death! Come, bitter conduct; come, unsavoury guide! Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on The dashing rocks thy seasick weary bark! Here's to my love! [Drinks.] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. Falls. Enter Friar [Laurence], with lanthorn, crow, and spade. Friar. Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night Have my old feet stumbled at graves! Who's there? Bal. Here's one, a friend, and one that knows you well. Friar. Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend, What torch is yond that vainly lends his light To grubs and eyeless skulls? As I discern, It burneth in the Capels' monument. Bal. It doth so, holy sir; and there's my master, One that you love. Friar. Who is it? Bal. Romeo. Friar. How long hath he been there? Bal. Full half an hour. Friar. Go with me to the vault. Bal. I dare not, sir. My master knows not but I am gone hence, And fearfully did menace me with death If I did stay to look on his intents. Friar. Stay then; I'll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill unthrifty thing. Bal. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him. Friar. Romeo! Alack, alack, what blood is this which stains The stony entrance of this sepulchre? What mean these masterless and gory swords To lie discolour'd by this place of peace? [Enters the tomb.] Romeo! O, pale! Who else? What, Paris too? And steep'd in blood? Ah, what an unkind hour Is guilty of this lamentable chance! The lady stirs. Juliet rises. Jul. O comfortable friar! where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? Friar. I hear some noise. Lady, come from that nest Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep. A greater power than we can contradict Hath thwarted our intents. Come, come away. Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead; And Paris too. Come, I'll dispose of thee Among a sisterhood of holy nuns. Stay not to question, for the watch is coming. Come, go, good Juliet. I dare no longer stay. Jul. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. Exit [Friar]. What's here? A cup, clos'd in my true love's hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl! drunk all, and left no friendly drop To help me after? I will kiss thy lips. Haply some poison yet doth hang on them To make me die with a restorative. [Kisses him.] Thy lips are warm! Chief Watch. [within] Lead, boy. Which way? Yea, noise? Then I'll be brief. O happy dagger! [Snatches Romeo's dagger.] This is thy sheath; there rest, and let me die. She stabs herself and falls [on Romeo's body]. Enter [Paris's] Boy and Watch. Boy. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. Chief Watch. 'the ground is bloody. Search about the churchyard. Go, some of you; whoe'er you find attach. [Exeunt some of the Watch.] Pitiful sight! here lies the County slain; And Juliet bleeding, warm, and newly dead, Who here hath lain this two days buried. Go, tell the Prince; run to the Capulets; Raise up the Montagues; some others search. [Exeunt others of the Watch.] We see the ground whereon these woes do lie, But the true ground of all these piteous woes We cannot without circumstance descry. Enter [some of the Watch,] with Romeo's Man [Balthasar]. 2. Watch. Here's Romeo's man. We found him in the churchyard. Chief Watch. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. Enter Friar [Laurence] and another Watchman. 3. Watch. Here is a friar that trembles, sighs, and weeps. We took this mattock and this spade from him As he was coming from this churchyard side. Chief Watch. A great suspicion! Stay the friar too. Enter the Prince [and Attendants]. Prince. What misadventure is so early up, That calls our person from our morning rest? Enter Capulet and his Wife [with others]. Cap. What should it be, that they so shriek abroad? Wife. The people in the street cry 'Romeo,' Some 'Juliet,' and some 'Paris'; and all run, With open outcry, toward our monument. Prince. What fear is this which startles in our ears? Chief Watch. Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain; And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before, Warm and new kill'd. Prince. Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes. Chief Watch. Here is a friar, and slaughter'd Romeo's man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men's tombs. Cap. O heavens! O wife, look how our daughter bleeds! This dagger hath mista'en, for, lo, his house Is empty on the back of Montague, And it missheathed in my daughter's bosom! Wife. O me! this sight of death is as a bell That warns my old age to a sepulchre. Enter Montague [and others]. Prince. Come, Montague; for thou art early up To see thy son and heir more early down. Mon. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night! Grief of my son's exile hath stopp'd her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? Prince. Look, and thou shalt see. Mon. O thou untaught! what manners is in this, To press before thy father to a grave? Prince. Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while, Till we can clear these ambiguities And know their spring, their head, their true descent; And then will I be general of your woes And lead you even to death. Meantime forbear, And let mischance be slave to patience. Bring forth the parties of suspicion. Friar. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murther; And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus'd. Prince. Then say it once what thou dost know in this. Friar. I will be brief, for my short date of breath Is not so long as is a tedious tale. Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet; And she, there dead, that Romeo's faithful wife. I married them; and their stol'n marriage day Was Tybalt's doomsday, whose untimely death Banish'd the new-made bridegroom from this city; For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin'd. You, to remove that siege of grief from her, Betroth'd and would have married her perforce To County Paris. Then comes she to me And with wild looks bid me devise some mean To rid her from this second marriage, Or in my cell there would she kill herself. Then gave I her (so tutored by my art) A sleeping potion; which so took effect As I intended, for it wrought on her The form of death. Meantime I writ to Romeo That he should hither come as this dire night To help to take her from her borrowed grave, Being the time the potion's force should cease. But he which bore my letter, Friar John, Was stay'd by accident, and yesternight Return'd my letter back. Then all alone At the prefixed hour of her waking Came I to take her from her kindred's vault; Meaning to keep her closely at my cell Till I conveniently could send to Romeo. But when I came, some minute ere the time Of her awaking, here untimely lay The noble Paris and true Romeo dead. She wakes; and I entreated her come forth And bear this work of heaven with patience; But then a noise did scare me from the tomb, And she, too desperate, would not go with me, But, as it seems, did violence on herself. All this I know, and to the marriage Her nurse is privy; and if aught in this Miscarried by my fault, let my old life Be sacrific'd, some hour before his time, Unto the rigour of severest law. Prince. We still have known thee for a holy man. Where's Romeo's man? What can he say in this? Bal. I brought my master news of Juliet's death; And then in post he came from Mantua To this same place, to this same monument. This letter he early bid me give his father, And threat'ned me with death, going in the vault, If I departed not and left him there. Prince. Give me the letter. I will look on it. Where is the County's page that rais'd the watch? Sirrah, what made your master in this place? Boy. He came with flowers to strew his lady's grave; And bid me stand aloof, and so I did. Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb; And by-and-by my master drew on him; And then I ran away to call the watch. Prince. This letter doth make good the friar's words, Their course of love, the tidings of her death; And here he writes that he did buy a poison Of a poor pothecary, and therewithal Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet. Where be these enemies? Capulet, Montage, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at you, discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish'd. Cap. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter's jointure, for no more Can I demand. Mon. But I can give thee more; For I will raise her Statue in pure gold, That whiles Verona by that name is known, There shall no figure at such rate be set As that of true and faithful Juliet. Cap. As rich shall Romeo's by his lady's lie- Poor sacrifices of our enmity! Prince. A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun for sorrow will not show his head. Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished; For never was a story of more woe Than this of Juliet and her Romeo. Exeunt omnes. THE END <> 1594 THE TAMING OF THE SHREW by William Shakespeare Dramatis Personae Persons in the Induction A LORD CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker HOSTESS PAGE PLAYERS HUNTSMEN SERVANTS BAPTISTA MINOLA, a gentleman of Padua VINCENTIO, a Merchant of Pisa LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to Katherina Suitors to Bianca GREMIO HORTENSIO Servants to Lucentio TRANIO BIONDELLO Servants to Petruchio GRUMIO CURTIS A PEDANT Daughters to Baptista KATHERINA, the shrew BIANCA A WIDOW Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio SCENE: Padua, and PETRUCHIO'S house in the country SC_1 INDUCTION. SCENE I. Before an alehouse on a heath Enter HOSTESS and SLY SLY. I'll pheeze you, in faith. HOSTESS. A pair of stocks, you rogue! SLY. Y'are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues. Look in the chronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucas pallabris; let the world slide. Sessa! HOSTESS. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? SLY. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bed and warm thee. HOSTESS. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough. Exit SLY. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him by law. I'll not budge an inch, boy; let him come, and kindly. [Falls asleep] Wind horns. Enter a LORD from hunting, with his train LORD. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; Brach Merriman, the poor cur, is emboss'd; And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth'd brach. Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge corner, in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent; Trust me, I take him for the better dog. LORD. Thou art a fool; if Echo were as fleet, I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all; To-morrow I intend to hunt again. FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord. LORD. What's here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? SECOND HUNTSMAN. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. LORD. O monstrous beast, how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey'd to bed, Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. SECOND HUNTSMAN. It would seem strange unto him when he wak'd. LORD. Even as a flatt'ring dream or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest: Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet; Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, And with a low submissive reverence Say 'What is it your honour will command?' Let one attend him with a silver basin Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?' Some one be ready with a costly suit, And ask him what apparel he will wear; Another tell him of his hounds and horse, And that his lady mourns at his disease; Persuade him that he hath been lunatic, And, when he says he is, say that he dreams, For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs; It will be pastime passing excellent, If it be husbanded with modesty. FIRST HUNTSMAN. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part As he shall think by our true diligence He is no less than what we say he is. LORD. Take him up gently, and to bed with him; And each one to his office when he wakes. [SLY is carried out. A trumpet sounds] Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds- Exit SERVANT Belike some noble gentleman that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter a SERVINGMAN How now! who is it? SERVANT. An't please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. LORD. Bid them come near. Enter PLAYERS Now, fellows, you are welcome. PLAYERS. We thank your honour. LORD. Do you intend to stay with me to-night? PLAYER. So please your lordship to accept our duty. LORD. With all my heart. This fellow I remember Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son; 'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well. I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd. PLAYER. I think 'twas Soto that your honour means. LORD. 'Tis very true; thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time, The rather for I have some sport in hand Wherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play to-night; But I am doubtful of your modesties, Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour, For yet his honour never heard a play, You break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient. PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antic in the world. LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome every one; Let them want nothing that my house affords. Exit one with the PLAYERS Sirrah, go you to Bartholomew my page, And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady; That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber, And call him 'madam,' do him obeisance. Tell him from me- as he will win my love- He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observ'd in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say 'What is't your honour will command, Wherein your lady and your humble wife May show her duty and make known her love?' And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bosom, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoyed To see her noble lord restor'd to health, Who for this seven years hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar. And if the boy have not a woman's gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which, in a napkin being close convey'd, Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst; Anon I'll give thee more instructions. Exit a SERVINGMAN I know the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, and action, of a gentlewoman; I long to hear him call the drunkard 'husband'; And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to this simple peasant. I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence May well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into extremes. Exeunt SC_2 SCENE II. A bedchamber in the LORD'S house Enter aloft SLY, with ATTENDANTS; some with apparel, basin and ewer, and other appurtenances; and LORD SLY. For God's sake, a pot of small ale. FIRST SERVANT. Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack? SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your honour taste of these conserves? THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear to-day? SLY. I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor 'lordship.' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet- nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! SLY. What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly's son of Burton Heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if she know me not; if she say I am not fourteen pence on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the lying'st knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. [Taking a pot of ale] Here's- THIRD SERVANT. O, this it is that makes your lady mourn! SECOND SERVANT. O, this is it that makes your servants droop! LORD. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth! Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck. Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays, [Music] And twenty caged nightingales do sing. Or wilt thou sleep? We'll have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp'd, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark. Or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shall echoes from the hollow earth. FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe. SECOND SERVANT. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move and wanton with her breath Even as the waving sedges play wi' th' wind. LORD. We'll show thee lo as she was a maid And how she was beguiled and surpris'd, As lively painted as the deed was done. THIRD SERVANT. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. LORD. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord. Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. FIRST SERVANT. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none. SLY. Am I a lord and have I such a lady? Or do I dream? Or have I dream'd till now? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak; I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things. Upon my life, I am a lord indeed, And not a tinker, nor Christopher Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o' th' smallest ale. SECOND SERVANT. Will't please your Mightiness to wash your hands? O, how we joy to see your wit restor'd! O, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream; Or, when you wak'd, so wak'd as if you slept. SLY. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time? FIRST SERVANT. O, yes, my lord, but very idle words; For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door; And rail upon the hostess of the house, And say you would present her at the leet, Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. SLY. Ay, the woman's maid of the house. THIRD SERVANT. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up, As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell; And twenty more such names and men as these, Which never were, nor no man ever saw. SLY. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends! ALL. Amen. Enter the PAGE as a lady, with ATTENDANTS SLY. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it. PAGE. How fares my noble lord? SLY. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife? PAGE. Here, noble lord; what is thy will with her? SLY. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband? My men should call me 'lord'; I am your goodman. PAGE. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband; I am your wife in all obedience. SLY. I know it well. What must I call her? LORD. Madam. SLY. Al'ce madam, or Joan madam? LORD. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd And slept above some fifteen year or more. PAGE. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon'd from your bed. SLY. 'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Exeunt SERVANTS Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. PAGE. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two; Or, if not so, until the sun be set. For your physicians have expressly charg'd, In peril to incur your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed. I hope this reason stands for my excuse. SLY. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into my dreams again. I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a MESSENGER MESSENGER. Your honour's players, hearing your amendment, Are come to play a pleasant comedy; For so your doctors hold it very meet, Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood, And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy. Therefore they thought it good you hear a play And frame your mind to mirth and merriment, Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. SLY. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a comonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick? PAGE. No, my good lord, it is more pleasing stuff. SLY. What, household stuff? PAGE. It is a kind of history. SLY. Well, we'll see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip;-we shall ne'er be younger. [They sit down] A flourish of trumpets announces the play <> ACT I. SCENE I. Padua. A public place Enter LUCENTIO and his man TRANIO LUCENTIO. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv'd for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy, And by my father's love and leave am arm'd With his good will and thy good company, My trusty servant well approv'd in all, Here let us breathe, and haply institute A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii; Vincentio's son, brought up in Florence, It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv'd, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds. And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, Virtue and that part of philosophy Will I apply that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achiev'd. Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left And am to Padua come as he that leaves A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep, And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. TRANIO. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine; I am in all affected as yourself; Glad that you thus continue your resolve To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, Let's be no Stoics nor no stocks, I pray, Or so devote to Aristotle's checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur'd. Balk logic with acquaintance that you have, And practise rhetoric in your common talk; Music and poesy use to quicken you; The mathematics and the metaphysics, Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you. No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect. LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. Enter BAPTISTA with his two daughters, KATHERINA and BIANCA; GREMIO, a pantaloon; HORTENSIO, suitor to BIANCA. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand by But stay awhile; what company is this? TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther, For how I firmly am resolv'd you know; That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter Before I have a husband for the elder. If either of you both love Katherina, Because I know you well and love you well, Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. GREMIO. To cart her rather. She's too rough for me. There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? KATHERINA. [To BAPTISTA] I pray you, sir, is it your will To make a stale of me amongst these mates? HORTENSIO. Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you, Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. KATHERINA. I' faith, sir, you shall never need to fear; Iwis it is not halfway to her heart; But if it were, doubt not her care should be To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool, And paint your face, and use you like a fool. HORTENSIO. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us! GREMIO. And me, too, good Lord! TRANIO. Husht, master! Here's some good pastime toward; That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. LUCENTIO. But in the other's silence do I see Maid's mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio! TRANIO. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, that I may soon make good What I have said- Bianca, get you in; And let it not displease thee, good Bianca, For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl. KATHERINA. A pretty peat! it is best Put finger in the eye, an she knew why. BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe; My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look, and practise by myself. LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio, thou mayst hear Minerva speak! HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good will effects Bianca's grief. GREMIO. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue? BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv'd. Go in, Bianca. Exit BIANCA And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing-up; And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca. Exit KATHERINA. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha! Exit GREMIO. You may go to the devil's dam; your gifts are so good here's none will hold you. There! Love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out; our cake's dough on both sides. Farewell; yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. HORTENSIO. SO Will I, Signior Gremio; but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brook'd parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both- that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca's love- to labour and effect one thing specially. GREMIO. What's that, I pray? HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. GREMIO. A husband? a devil. HORTENSIO. I say a husband. GREMIO. I say a devil. Think'st thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell? HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, an a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp'd at the high cross every morning. HORTENSIO. Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten apples. But, come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintain'd till by helping Baptista's eldest daughter to a husband we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to't afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her! Come on. Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold? LUCENTIO. O Tranio, till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or likely. But see! while idly I stood looking on, I found the effect of love in idleness; And now in plainness do confess to thee, That art to me as secret and as dear As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was- Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst; Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. TRANIO. Master, it is no time to chide you now; Affection is not rated from the heart; If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so: 'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.' LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad. Go forward; this contents; The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound. TRANIO. Master, you look'd so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark'd not what's the pith of all. LUCENTIO. O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, Such as the daughter of Agenor had, That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand. TRANIO. Saw you no more? Mark'd you not how her sister Began to scold and raise up such a storm That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? LUCENTIO. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move, And with her breath she did perfume the air; Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. TRANIO. Nay, then 'tis time to stir him from his trance. I pray, awake, sir. If you love the maid, Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands: Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd That, till the father rid his hands of her, Master, your love must live a maid at home; And therefore has he closely mew'd her up, Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors. LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he! But art thou not advis'd he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her? TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now 'tis plotted. LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio. TRANIO. Master, for my hand, Both our inventions meet and jump in one. LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first. TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster, And undertake the teaching of the maid- That's your device. LUCENTIO. It is. May it be done? TRANIO. Not possible; for who shall bear your part And be in Padua here Vincentio's son; Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends, Visit his countrymen, and banquet them? LUCENTIO. Basta, content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish'd by our faces For man or master. Then it follows thus: Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should; I will some other be- some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. 'Tis hatch'd, and shall be so. Tranio, at once Uncase thee; take my colour'd hat and cloak. When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. TRANIO. So had you need. [They exchange habits] In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient-