part I

part I understand them, are to blame. GLOUCESTER. Let’s see, let’s see! EDMUND. I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay, or taste of my virtue. GLOUCESTER. [_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 suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother EDGAR.’ Hum! Conspiracy? ‘Sleep till I wake 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? EDMUND. It was not brought me, my lord, there’s the cunning of it. I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet. GLOUCESTER. You know the character to be your brother’s? EDMUND. 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. GLOUCESTER. It is his. EDMUND. It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents. GLOUCESTER. Has he never before sounded you in this business? EDMUND. Never, my lord. But I have heard him oft maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue. GLOUCESTER. 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? EDMUND. 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. GLOUCESTER. Think you so? EDMUND. 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. GLOUCESTER. He cannot be such a monster. EDMUND. Nor is not, sure. GLOUCESTER. 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. EDMUND. I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal. GLOUCESTER. 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 scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked ’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 banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange. [_Exit._] EDMUND. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune, often the surfeits 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 predominance; drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on. An admirable evasion of whoremaster 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. Enter Edgar. 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. EDGAR. How now, brother Edmund, what serious contemplation are you in? EDMUND. I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses. EDGAR. Do you busy yourself with that? EDMUND. 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. EDGAR. How long have you been a sectary astronomical? EDMUND. Come, come! when saw you my father last? EDGAR. The night gone by. EDMUND. Spake you with him? EDGAR. Ay, two hours together. EDMUND. Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him, by word nor countenance? EDGAR. None at all. EDMUND. 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. EDGAR. Some villain hath done me wrong. EDMUND. 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 armed. EDGAR. Armed, brother? EDMUND. Brother, I advise you to the best; 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! EDGAR. Shall I hear from you anon? EDMUND. 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. A Room in the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Goneril and Oswald. GONERIL. Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool? OSWALD. Ay, madam. GONERIL. 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._] OSWALD. He’s coming, madam; I hear him. GONERIL. 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 overruled. 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. OSWALD. Very well, madam. GONERIL. 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. A Hall in 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 rais’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 King 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 judgement; 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. You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter? OSWALD. 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. Re-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 called 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 judgement your highness is not entertained 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 wronged. LEAR. Thou but rememberest 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 Attendant._] Go you, call hither my fool. [_Exit another Attendant._] Re-enter Oswald. O, you, sir, you, come you hither, sir: who am I, sir? OSWALD. My lady’s father. LEAR. My lady’s father! my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur! OSWALD. I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon. LEAR. Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal? [_Striking him._] OSWALD. I’ll not be struck, my lord. KENT. Nor tripp’d neither, you base football player. [_Tripping 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 Oswald out._] LEAR. Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service. [_Giving Kent money._] Enter Fool. FOOL. Let me hire him too; here’s my coxcomb. [_Giving 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 has 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’d 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 whipped out, when the Lady Brach may stand by the 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 unfee’d 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 one? 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. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns. LEAR. What two crowns shall they be? FOOL. Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the 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 whipped that first finds it so. [_Singing._] Fools had ne’er less grace in a year; For wise men are grown foppish, And 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 used it, nuncle, e’er since thou mad’st thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gav’st them the rod, and put’st down thine own breeches, [_Singing._] 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 whipped. FOOL. I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true; thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped 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’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings. Enter Goneril. LEAR. How now, daughter? What makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the 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. [_Pointing to Lear_.] That’s a shealed peascod. GONERIL. 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 Will call discreet proceeding. FOOL. For you know, nuncle, The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long That it’s had it head bit off by it young. So out went the candle, and we were left darkling. LEAR. Are you our daughter? GONERIL. Come, sir, I would you would make use of that good wisdom, Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away These dispositions, which 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? GONERIL. This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour 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 Makes 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. GONERIL. You strike my people; and your disorder’d rabble Make servants of their betters. Enter Albany. LEAR. Woe that too late repents!— [_To Albany._] 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! ALBANY. 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! [_Striking his head._] Beat at this gate that let thy folly in And thy dear judgement out! Go, go, my people. ALBANY. My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant Of what hath moved 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._] ALBANY. Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this? GONERIL. Never afflict yourself to know more of it; But let his disposition have that scope That dotage gives it. Re-enter Lear. LEAR. What, fifty of my followers at a clap? Within a fortnight? ALBANY. 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. Ha! Let it be so. I have another 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. [_Exeunt Lear, Kent and Attendants._] GONERIL. Do you mark that? ALBANY. I cannot be so partial, Goneril, To the great love I bear you,— GONERIL. Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho! [_To the Fool._] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master. FOOL. Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear, tarry and 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._] GONERIL. 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 powers, And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say! ALBANY. Well, you may fear too far. GONERIL. 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,— Re-enter Oswald. How now, Oswald! What, have you writ that letter to my sister? OSWALD. Ay, madam. GONERIL. 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 not, yet, under pardon, You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom Than prais’d for harmful mildness. ALBANY. How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well. GONERIL. Nay then,— ALBANY. Well, well; the 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 not go slipshod. 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’the 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, he 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 more 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’d 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 Gentleman. How now? are the horses ready? GENTLEMAN. 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 and Curan, meeting. EDMUND. Save thee, Curan. CURAN. 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. EDMUND. How comes that? CURAN. Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad; I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments? EDMUND. Not I: pray you, what are they? CURAN. Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the two dukes of Cornwall and Albany? EDMUND. Not a word. CURAN. You may do, then, in time. Fare you well, sir. [_Exit._] EDMUND. The Duke be here tonight? 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’ the night, i’ the haste, And Regan with him: have you nothing said Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany? Advise yourself. EDGAR. I am sure on’t, not a word. EDMUND. 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: [_Wounds his arm._] I have seen drunkards Do more than this in sport. Father, father! Stop, stop! No help? Enter Gloucester and Servants with torches. GLOUCESTER. Now, Edmund, where’s the villain? EDMUND. Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out, Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon To stand auspicious mistress. GLOUCESTER. But where is he? EDMUND. Look, sir, I bleed. GLOUCESTER. Where is the villain, Edmund? EDMUND. Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could,— GLOUCESTER. Pursue him, ho! Go after. [_Exeunt Servants._] —By no means what? EDMUND. Persuade me to the murder 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 the 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, latch’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. GLOUCESTER. Let him fly far; Not in this land shall he remain uncaught; And found—dispatch’d. The noble Duke my master, My worthy arch and patron, comes tonight: By his authority I will proclaim it, That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks, Bringing the murderous coward to the stake; He that conceals him, death. EDMUND. 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’d 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. GLOUCESTER. O strange and fast’ned villain! Would he deny his letter, said he? 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. CORNWALL. How now, my noble friend! since I came hither, Which I can call but now, I have heard strange news. REGAN. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th’offender. How dost, my lord? GLOUCESTER. O madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d! REGAN. What, did my father’s godson seek your life? He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar? GLOUCESTER. O lady, lady, shame would have it hid! REGAN. Was he not companion with the riotous knights That tend upon my father? GLOUCESTER. I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad. EDMUND. Yes, madam, he was of that consort. REGAN. No marvel then though he were ill affected: ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death, To have the 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. CORNWALL. Nor I, assure thee, Regan. Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father A childlike office. EDMUND. It was my duty, sir. GLOUCESTER. He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him. CORNWALL. Is he pursued? GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord. CORNWALL. 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. EDMUND. I shall serve you, sir, truly, however else. GLOUCESTER. For him I thank your grace. CORNWALL. You know not why we came to visit you? REGAN. 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. GLOUCESTER. I serve you, madam: Your graces are right welcome. [_Exeunt. Flourish._] SCENE II. Before Gloucester’s Castle Enter Kent and Oswald, severally. OSWALD. Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house? KENT. Ay. OSWALD. Where may we set our horses? KENT. I’ the mire. OSWALD. Prithee, if thou lov’st me, tell me. KENT. I love thee not. OSWALD. Why then, I care not for thee. KENT. If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me. OSWALD. Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not. KENT. Fellow, I know thee. OSWALD. 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-livered, action-taking, whoreson, glass-gazing, super-serviceable, 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 deniest the least syllable of thy addition. OSWALD. 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-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days ago since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the King? Draw, you rogue: for, though it be night, yet the moon shines; I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you: draw, you whoreson cullionly barber-monger, draw! [_Drawing his sword._] OSWALD. 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! OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! help! KENT. Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike! [_Beating him._] OSWALD. Help, ho! murder! murder! Enter Edmund, Cornwall, Regan, Gloucester and Servants. EDMUND. How now! What’s the matter? Part! KENT. With you, goodman boy, if you please: come, I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master. GLOUCESTER. Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here? CORNWALL. Keep peace, upon your lives, he dies that strikes again. What is the matter? REGAN. The messengers from our sister and the King. CORNWALL. What is your difference? Speak. OSWALD. 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. CORNWALL. 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 years at the trade. CORNWALL. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? OSWALD. This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spared 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? CORNWALL. Peace, sirrah! You beastly knave, know you no reverence? KENT. Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege. CORNWALL. 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 a-twain Which are too intrince 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, if I had you upon Sarum plain, I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot. CORNWALL. What, art thou mad, old fellow? GLOUCESTER. How fell you out? Say that. KENT. No contraries hold more antipathy Than I and such a knave. CORNWALL. Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault? KENT. His countenance likes me not. CORNWALL. 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. CORNWALL. 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,— CORNWALL. 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 beguiled 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. CORNWALL. What was the offence you gave him? OSWALD. I never gave him any: It pleas’d the King his master very late To strike at me, upon his misconstruction; When he, compact, 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. CORNWALL. 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. CORNWALL. Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour, there shall he sit till noon. REGAN. 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. REGAN. Sir, being his knave, I will. [_Stocks brought out._] CORNWALL. This is a fellow of the selfsame colour Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks! GLOUCESTER. 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 contemned’st wretches For pilferings 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 restrained. CORNWALL. I’ll answer that. REGAN. 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._] CORNWALL. Come, my good lord, away. [_Exeunt all but Gloucester and Kent._] GLOUCESTER. 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! GLOUCESTER. 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 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! [_He sleeps._] SCENE III. The open Country Enter Edgar. EDGAR. 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. While 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, sheep-cotes, 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. GENTLEMAN. 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! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the heads; dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is overlusty 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 could not, would not do’t; ’tis worse than murder, 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 those 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._] GENTLEMAN. 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’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it. KENT. Why, fool? FOOL. We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’the 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’ the 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. GLOUCESTER. 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’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife. GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so. LEAR. Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man? GLOUCESTER. Ay, my good lord. LEAR. The King would speak with Cornwall; the dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands, tends, service, Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood! Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that— No, but not yet: maybe 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. [_Looking on Kent._] Death on my state! Wherefore Should he 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’d 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. GLOUCESTER. 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’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the 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 and Servants. LEAR. Good morrow to you both. CORNWALL. Hail to your grace! [_Kent here set at liberty._] REGAN. 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. [_Points to his heart._] I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan! REGAN. 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? REGAN. 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. REGAN. 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; [_Kneeling._] Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’ REGAN. Good sir, no more! These are unsightly tricks: Return you to my sister. LEAR. [_Rising._] 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! CORNWALL. 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 powerful sun, To fall and blast her pride! REGAN. 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’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow’d. REGAN. Good sir, to the purpose. LEAR. Who put my man i’ the stocks? [_Tucket within._] CORNWALL. What trumpet’s that? REGAN. I know’t, my sister’s: this approves her letter, That she would soon be here. Enter Oswald. 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! CORNWALL. What means your grace? LEAR. Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope Thou didst not know on’t. Who comes here? O heavens! Enter Goneril. 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? GONERIL. Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended? All’s not offence that indiscretion finds And dotage terms so. LEAR. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks? CORNWALL. I set him there, sir: but his own disorders Deserv’d much less advancement. LEAR. You? Did you? REGAN. I pray you, father, being weak, seem so. If, till the expiration of your month, You will return and sojourn with my sister, Dismissing half your train, come then to me: I am now from home, and out of that provision Which shall be needful for your entertainment. LEAR. Return to her, and fifty men dismiss’d? No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose To wage against the enmity o’ the air; To be a comrade with the wolf and owl, Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her? Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took Our youngest born, I could as well be brought 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. [_Pointing to Oswald._] GONERIL. 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, or 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. REGAN. 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? REGAN. 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. GONERIL. Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance From those that she calls servants, or from mine? REGAN. 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,— REGAN. 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? REGAN. 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. GONERIL. 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? REGAN. 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:— [_Storm and tempest._] 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._] CORNWALL. Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm. REGAN. This house is little: the old man and his people Cannot be well bestow’d. GONERIL. ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest And must needs taste his folly. REGAN. For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly, But not one follower. GONERIL. So am I purpos’d. Where is my lord of Gloucester? Enter Gloucester. CORNWALL. Followed the old man forth, he is return’d. GLOUCESTER. The King is in high rage. CORNWALL. Whither is he going? GLOUCESTER. He calls to horse; but will I know not whither. CORNWALL. ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself. GONERIL. My lord, entreat him by no means to stay. GLOUCESTER. Alack, the night comes on, and the high winds Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about There’s scarce a bush. REGAN. 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. CORNWALL. Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night. My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A Heath A storm with thunder and lightning. Enter Kent and a Gentleman, severally. KENT. Who’s there, besides foul weather? GENTLEMAN. One minded like the weather, most unquietly. KENT. I know you. Where’s the King? GENTLEMAN. 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? GENTLEMAN. None but the fool, who labours to out-jest 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 Throne’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 scatter’d 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. GENTLEMAN. 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. GENTLEMAN. 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._] SCENE II. Another part of the heath Storm continues. 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 sulphurous 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’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make 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 neither 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. LEAR. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Enter Kent. 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 of virtue That art incestuous. Caitiff, to 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. [_Singing._] He that has and a little tiny wit, With heigh-ho, the wind and the rain, Must make content with his fortunes fit, Though the rain it raineth every day. LEAR. True, boy. Come, bring us to this hovel. [_Exeunt Lear and Kent._] FOOL. This is a brave night to cool a courtezan. 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 cut-purses come not to throngs; When usurers tell their gold i’ the 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. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Gloucester and Edmund. GLOUCESTER. Alack, alack, Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me on pain of perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, or any way sustain him. EDMUND. Most savage and unnatural! GLOUCESTER. Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the Dukes, and a worse matter than that: I have received a letter this night;—’tis dangerous to be spoken;—I have locked 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 look 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. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the King my old master must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you be careful. [_Exit._] EDMUND. 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. A part of the Heath with a Hovel Storm continues. 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’ the 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. [_Fool goes in._] 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. EDGAR. [_Within._] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! [_The Fool runs out 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’ the straw? Come forth. Enter Edgar, disguised as a madman. EDGAR. Away! the foul fiend follows me! Through the sharp hawthorn blows the cold wind. Humh! go to thy cold bed, and warm thee. LEAR. Didst thou give all to thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? EDGAR. 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-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. 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 continues._] 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 shamed. 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. EDGAR. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, Alow, alow, loo loo! FOOL. This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen. EDGAR. 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 a-cold. LEAR. What hast thou been? EDGAR. A serving-man, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair; wore gloves in my cap; served 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 waked to do it. Wine loved 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 brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender’s book, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind: says suum, mun, nonny. Dolphin my boy, boy, sessa! let him trot by. [_Storm still continues._] LEAR. Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest 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 off 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. EDGAR. 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. Swithold 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? Enter Gloucester with a torch. LEAR. What’s he? KENT. Who’s there? What is’t you seek? GLOUCESTER. What are you there? Your names? EDGAR. 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 whipped from tithing to tithing, and stocked, punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, Horse to ride, and weapon 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! GLOUCESTER. What, hath your grace no better company? EDGAR. The prince of darkness is a gentleman: Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu. GLOUCESTER. Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile That it doth hate what gets it. EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. GLOUCESTER. 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 the house. LEAR. I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban. What is your study? EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. Canst thou blame him? His daughters seek his death. Ah, that good Kent! He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man! Thou sayest 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, [_Storm continues._] 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. EDGAR. Tom’s a-cold. GLOUCESTER. In, fellow, there, into the 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. GLOUCESTER. Take him you on. KENT. Sirrah, come on; go along with us. LEAR. Come, good Athenian. GLOUCESTER. No words, no words, hush. EDGAR. 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. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Cornwall and Edmund. CORNWALL. I will have my revenge ere I depart his house. EDMUND. How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of. CORNWALL. I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself. EDMUND. 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! CORNWALL. Go with me to the Duchess. EDMUND. If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand. CORNWALL. True or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension. EDMUND. [_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. CORNWALL. I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle Enter Gloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar. GLOUCESTER. 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._] EDGAR. 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 hissing in upon ’em. EDGAR. 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!— EDGAR. 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. EDGAR. 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’ the commission, Sit you too. EDGAR. 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 grey. 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? EDGAR. Bless thy five wits! KENT. O pity! Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft have boasted to retain? EDGAR. [_Aside._] My tears begin to take his part so much They mar my counterfeiting. LEAR. The little dogs and all, Trey, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me. EDGAR. 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 him, Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail, 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; but let them be changed. KENT. Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile. LEAR. Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains. So, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning. FOOL. And I’ll go to bed at noon. Enter Gloucester. GLOUCESTER. Come hither, friend; Where is the King my master? KENT. Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone. GLOUCESTER. 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 sinews, Which, if convenience will not allow, Stand in hard cure. Come, help to bear thy master; [_To the Fool._] Thou must not stay behind. GLOUCESTER. Come, come, away! [_Exeunt Kent, Gloucester and the Fool bearing off Lear._] EDGAR. When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes. Who alone suffers, suffers most i’ the 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 thoughts defile thee, In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee. What will hap more tonight, safe ’scape the King! Lurk, lurk. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Cornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund and Servants. CORNWALL. 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._] REGAN. Hang him instantly. GONERIL. Pluck out his eyes. CORNWALL. 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. How now! Where’s the King? OSWALD. 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 toward Dover: where they boast To have well-armed friends. CORNWALL. Get horses for your mistress. GONERIL. Farewell, sweet lord, and sister. CORNWALL. 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 courtesy to our wrath, which men May blame, but not control. Who’s there? The traitor? Enter Gloucester and Servants. REGAN. Ingrateful fox! ’tis he. CORNWALL. Bind fast his corky arms. GLOUCESTER. What mean your graces? Good my friends, consider you are my guests. Do me no foul play, friends. CORNWALL. Bind him, I say. [_Servants bind him._] REGAN. Hard, hard. O filthy traitor! GLOUCESTER. Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none. CORNWALL. To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find— [_Regan plucks his beard._] GLOUCESTER. By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done To pluck me by the beard. REGAN. So white, and such a traitor! GLOUCESTER. 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? CORNWALL. Come, sir, what letters had you late from France? REGAN. Be simple answer’d, for we know the truth. CORNWALL. And what confederacy have you with the traitors, Late footed in the kingdom? REGAN. To whose hands have you sent the lunatic King? Speak. GLOUCESTER. I have a letter guessingly set down, Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart, And not from one oppos’d. CORNWALL. Cunning. REGAN. And false. CORNWALL. Where hast thou sent the King? GLOUCESTER. To Dover. REGAN. Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril,— CORNWALL. Wherefore to Dover? Let him first answer that. GLOUCESTER. I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course. REGAN. Wherefore to Dover, sir? GLOUCESTER. 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 stelled 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. CORNWALL. See’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair. Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot. [_Gloucester is held down in his chair, while Cornwall plucks out one of his eyes and sets his foot on it._] GLOUCESTER. He that will think to live till he be old, Give me some help!—O cruel! O you gods! REGAN. One side will mock another; the other too! CORNWALL. If you see vengeance— FIRST SERVANT. 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. REGAN. How now, you dog! FIRST SERVANT. If you did wear a beard upon your chin, I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean? CORNWALL. My villain? [_Draws, and runs at him._] FIRST SERVANT. Nay, then, come on, and take the chance of anger. [_Draws. They fight. Cornwall is wounded._] REGAN. [_To another servant._] Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus? [_Snatches a sword, comes behind, and stabs him._] FIRST SERVANT. O, I am slain! My lord, you have one eye left To see some mischief on him. O! [_Dies._] CORNWALL. Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now? [_Tears out Gloucester’s other eye and throws it on the ground._] GLOUCESTER. All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature To quit this horrid act. REGAN. 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. GLOUCESTER. O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d. Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him! REGAN. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Dover. How is’t, my lord? How look you? CORNWALL. 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; Servants unbind Gloucester and lead him out._] SECOND SERVANT. I’ll never care what wickedness I do, If this man come to good. THIRD SERVANT. If she live long, And in the end meet the old course of death, Women will all turn monsters. SECOND SERVANT. Let’s follow the old Earl, and get the bedlam To lead him where he would: his roguish madness Allows itself to anything. THIRD SERVANT. 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. EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. 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. GLOUCESTER. 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. O dear son Edgar, The food of thy abused father’s wrath! Might I but live to see thee in my touch, I’d say I had eyes again! OLD MAN. How now! Who’s there? EDGAR. [_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. EDGAR. [_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? GLOUCESTER. Is it a beggar-man? OLD MAN. Madman, and beggar too. GLOUCESTER. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I’ the 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 the gods, They kill us for their sport. EDGAR. [_Aside._] How should this be? Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Angering itself and others. Bless thee, master! GLOUCESTER. Is that the naked fellow? OLD MAN. Ay, my lord. GLOUCESTER. Then prithee get thee away. If for my sake Thou wilt o’ertake us hence a mile or twain, I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love, And bring some covering for this naked soul, Which I’ll entreat to lead me. OLD MAN. Alack, sir, he is mad. GLOUCESTER. ’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._] GLOUCESTER. Sirrah naked fellow. EDGAR. Poor Tom’s a-cold. [_Aside._] I cannot daub it further. GLOUCESTER. Come hither, fellow. EDGAR. [_Aside._] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed. GLOUCESTER. Know’st thou the way to Dover? EDGAR. Both stile and gate, horseway and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared 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 darkness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing, who since possesses chambermaids and waiting women. So, bless thee, master! GLOUCESTER. Here, take this purse, thou whom the heaven’s 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 power quickly; So distribution should undo excess, And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover? EDGAR. Ay, master. GLOUCESTER. 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. EDGAR. Give me thy arm: Poor Tom shall lead thee. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Before the Duke of Albany’s Palace Enter Goneril, Edmund; Oswald meeting them. GONERIL. Welcome, my lord. I marvel our mild husband Not met us on the way. Now, where’s your master? OSWALD. 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. GONERIL. [_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 powers. I must change names 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. [_Giving a favour._] Wear this; spare speech; Decline your head. This kiss, if it durst speak, Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. Conceive, and fare thee well. EDMUND. Yours in the ranks of death. [_Exit Edmund._] GONERIL. My most dear Gloucester. O, the difference of man and man! To thee a woman’s services are due; My fool usurps my body. OSWALD. Madam, here comes my lord. [_Exit._] Enter Albany. GONERIL. I have been worth the whistle. ALBANY. O Goneril! You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face! I fear your disposition; That nature which contemns its 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. GONERIL. No more; the text is foolish. ALBANY. 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 benefitted! 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. GONERIL. 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, Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest ‘Alack, why does he so?’ ALBANY. See thyself, devil! Proper deformity seems not in the fiend So horrid as in woman. GONERIL. O vain fool! ALBANY. Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame! Be-monster 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. GONERIL. Marry, your manhood, mew! Enter a Messenger. ALBANY. What news? MESSENGER. O, my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead; Slain by his servant, going to put out The other eye of Gloucester. ALBANY. Gloucester’s eyes! MESSENGER. 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. ALBANY. This shows you are above, You justicers, that these our nether crimes So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester! Lost he his other eye? MESSENGER. Both, both, my lord. This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer; ’Tis from your sister. GONERIL. [_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._] ALBANY. Where was his son when they did take his eyes? MESSENGER. Come with my lady hither. ALBANY. He is not here. MESSENGER. No, my good lord; I met him back again. ALBANY. Knows he the wickedness? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. ’Twas he inform’d against him; And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might have the freer course. ALBANY. 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 no reason? GENTLEMAN. 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? GENTLEMAN. The Mareschal of France, Monsieur La Far. KENT. Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief? GENTLEMAN. 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. GENTLEMAN. 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 day. 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? GENTLEMAN. 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’ the storm? i’ the night? Let pity not be believ’d!’ There she shook The holy water from her heavenly eyes, And clamour master’d her: 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 make could not beget Such different issues. You spoke not with her since? GENTLEMAN. No. KENT. Was this before the King return’d? GENTLEMAN. No, since. KENT. Well, sir, the poor distressed Lear’s i’ the town; Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers What we are come about, and by no means Will yield to see his daughter. GENTLEMAN. 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. GENTLEMAN. Alack, poor gentleman! KENT. Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not? GENTLEMAN. ’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. A Tent Enter with drum and colours, Cordelia, Physician and Soldiers. CORDELIA. 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 harlocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, 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. PHYSICIAN. 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. CORDELIA. All bless’d 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 a Messenger. MESSENGER. News, madam; The British powers are marching hitherward. CORDELIA. ’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. A Room in Gloucester’s Castle Enter Regan and Oswald. REGAN. But are my brother’s powers set forth? OSWALD. Ay, madam. REGAN. Himself in person there? OSWALD. Madam, with much ado. Your sister is the better soldier. REGAN. Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home? OSWALD. No, madam. REGAN. What might import my sister’s letter to him? OSWALD. I know not, lady. REGAN. 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. OSWALD. I must needs after him, madam, with my letter. REGAN. Our troops set forth tomorrow; stay with us; The ways are dangerous. OSWALD. I may not, madam: My lady charg’d my duty in this business. REGAN. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you Transport her purposes by word? Belike, Somethings, I know not what, I’ll love thee much. Let me unseal the letter. OSWALD. Madam, I had rather— REGAN. I know your lady does not love her husband; I am sure of that; and at her late being here She gave strange oeillades and most speaking looks To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom. OSWALD. I, madam? REGAN. 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, fare you well. If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor, Preferment falls on him that cuts him off. OSWALD. Would I could meet him, madam! I should show What party I do follow. REGAN. Fare thee well. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The country near Dover Enter Gloucester, and Edgar dressed like a peasant. GLOUCESTER. When shall I come to the top of that same hill? EDGAR. You do climb up it now. Look how we labour. GLOUCESTER. Methinks the ground is even. EDGAR. Horrible steep. Hark, do you hear the sea? GLOUCESTER. No, truly. EDGAR. Why, then, your other senses grow imperfect By your eyes’ anguish. GLOUCESTER. So may it be indeed. Methinks thy voice is alter’d; and thou speak’st In better phrase and matter than thou didst. EDGAR. Y’are much deceiv’d: in nothing am I chang’d But in my garments. GLOUCESTER. Methinks you’re better spoken. EDGAR. 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. Half way down Hangs one that gathers samphire—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’unnumber’d idle pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more; Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight Topple down headlong. GLOUCESTER. Set me where you stand. EDGAR. Give me your hand. You are now within a foot of th’extreme verge. For all beneath the moon would I not leap upright. GLOUCESTER. Let go my hand. Here, friend, ’s 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. EDGAR. Now fare ye well, good sir. [_Seems to go._] GLOUCESTER. With all my heart. EDGAR. [_Aside._] Why I do trifle thus with his despair Is done to cure it. GLOUCESTER. O you mighty gods! 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. EDGAR. Gone, sir, farewell. [_Gloucester leaps, and falls along_] 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? GLOUCESTER. Away, and let me die. EDGAR. Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air, So many fathom 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. GLOUCESTER. But have I fall’n, or no? EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. 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. EDGAR. Give me your arm. Up, so. How is’t? Feel you your legs? You stand. GLOUCESTER. Too well, too well. EDGAR. This is above all strangeness. Upon the crown o’ the cliff what thing was that Which parted from you? GLOUCESTER. A poor unfortunate beggar. EDGAR. As I stood here below, methought his eyes Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses, Horns whelk’d and waved like the enraged sea. It was some fiend. Therefore, thou happy father, Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee. GLOUCESTER. 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. EDGAR. Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here? Enter Lear, fantastically dressed up with flowers. The safer sense will ne’er accommodate His master thus. LEAR. No, they cannot touch me for coining. I am the King himself. EDGAR. 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’ the clout, i’ the clout. Hewgh! Give the word. EDGAR. Sweet marjoram. LEAR. Pass. GLOUCESTER. I know that voice. LEAR. Ha! Goneril with a white beard! They flattered 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’ to 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. GLOUCESTER. 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 presages 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 is 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. GLOUCESTER. O, let me kiss that hand! LEAR. Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality. GLOUCESTER. 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. GLOUCESTER. Were all the letters suns, I could not see one. EDGAR. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breaks at it. LEAR. Read. GLOUCESTER. 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. GLOUCESTER. 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 yon justice rails upon yon 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? GLOUCESTER. 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 whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener. Through tatter’d clothes great 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 the 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. EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. 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 son-in-laws, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill! Enter a Gentleman with Attendants. GENTLEMAN. 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 surgeons; I am cut to the brains. GENTLEMAN. 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 water-pots, Ay, and for laying autumn’s dust. GENTLEMAN. 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. GENTLEMAN. You are a royal one, and we obey you. LEAR. Then there’s life in’t. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa! [_Exit running. Attendants follow._] GENTLEMAN. 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. EDGAR. Hail, gentle sir. GENTLEMAN. Sir, speed you. What’s your will? EDGAR. Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward? GENTLEMAN. Most sure and vulgar. Everyone hears that, which can distinguish sound. EDGAR. But, by your favour, How near’s the other army? GENTLEMAN. Near and on speedy foot; the main descry Stands on the hourly thought. EDGAR. I thank you sir, that’s all. GENTLEMAN. Though that the queen on special cause is here, Her army is mov’d on. EDGAR. I thank you, sir. [_Exit Gentleman._] GLOUCESTER. You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me; Let not my worser spirit tempt me again To die before you please. EDGAR. Well pray you, father. GLOUCESTER. Now, good sir, what are you? EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. Hearty thanks: The bounty and the benison of heaven To boot, and boot. Enter Oswald. OSWALD. 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. GLOUCESTER. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough to’t. [_Edgar interposes._] OSWALD. 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. EDGAR. Chill not let go, zir, without vurther ’casion. OSWALD. Let go, slave, or thou diest! EDGAR. Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volke pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered 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 vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder: chill be plain with you. OSWALD. Out, dunghill! EDGAR. Chill pick your teeth, zir. Come! No matter vor your foins. [_They fight, and Edgar knocks him down._] OSWALD. 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! [_Dies._] EDGAR. I know thee well. A serviceable villain, As duteous to the vices of thy mistress As badness would desire. GLOUCESTER. What, is he dead? EDGAR. Sit you down, father; rest you. Let’s see these pockets; the 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 rip their hearts, Their papers is more lawful. [_Reads._] ‘Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror: then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; 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 murderous 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. [_Exit Edgar, dragging out the body._] GLOUCESTER. 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._] EDGAR. 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 Lear on a bed, asleep, soft music playing; Physician, Gentleman and others attending. Enter Cordelia and Kent. CORDELIA. 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. CORDELIA. 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. CORDELIA. Then be’t so, my good lord. [_To the Physician._] How does the King? PHYSICIAN. Madam, sleeps still. CORDELIA. O you kind gods, Cure this great breach in his abused nature! The untun’d and jarring senses, O, wind up Of this child-changed father. PHYSICIAN. So please your majesty That we may wake the King: he hath slept long. CORDELIA. Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d? PHYSICIAN. Ay, madam. In the heaviness of sleep We put fresh garments on him. Be by, good madam, when we do awake him; I doubt not of his temperance. CORDELIA. Very well. PHYSICIAN. Please you draw near. Louder the music there! CORDELIA. 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! CORDELIA. Had you not been their father, these white flakes Did challenge 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. PHYSICIAN. Madam, do you; ’tis fittest. CORDELIA. How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty? LEAR. You do me wrong to take me out o’ the 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. CORDELIA. Sir, do you know me? LEAR. You are a spirit, I know: when did you die? CORDELIA. Still, still, far wide! PHYSICIAN. 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! CORDELIA. 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. CORDELIA. 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. CORDELIA. No cause, no cause. LEAR. Am I in France? KENT. In your own kingdom, sir. LEAR. Do not abuse me. PHYSICIAN. 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. CORDELIA. Will’t please your highness walk? LEAR. You must bear with me: Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish. [_Exeunt Lear, Cordelia, Physician and Attendants._] GENTLEMAN. Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain? KENT. Most certain, sir. GENTLEMAN. Who is conductor of his people? KENT. As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester. GENTLEMAN. They say Edgar, his banished 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. GENTLEMAN. 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 Camp of the British Forces near Dover Enter, with drum and colours Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers and others. EDMUND. 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. [_To an Officer, who goes out._] REGAN. Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried. EDMUND. ’Tis to be doubted, madam. REGAN. 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? EDMUND. In honour’d love. REGAN. But have you never found my brother’s way To the forfended place? EDMUND. That thought abuses you. REGAN. I am doubtful that you have been conjunct And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers. EDMUND. No, by mine honour, madam. REGAN. I never shall endure her, dear my lord, Be not familiar with her. EDMUND. Fear not, She and the Duke her husband! Enter with drum and colours Albany, Goneril and Soldiers. GONERIL. [_Aside._] I had rather lose the battle than that sister Should loosen him and me. ALBANY. Our very loving sister, well be-met. Sir, this I heard: 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. EDMUND. Sir, you speak nobly. REGAN. Why is this reason’d? GONERIL. Combine together ’gainst the enemy; For these domestic and particular broils Are not the question here. ALBANY. Let’s, then, determine with the ancient of war On our proceeding. EDMUND. I shall attend you presently at your tent. REGAN. Sister, you’ll go with us? GONERIL. No. REGAN. ’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us. GONERIL. [_Aside_.] O, ho, I know the riddle. I will go. [_Exeunt Edmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers and Attendants._] As they are going out, enter Edgar disguised. EDGAR. If e’er your grace had speech with man so poor, Hear me one word. ALBANY. I’ll overtake you. Speak. EDGAR. 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! ALBANY. Stay till I have read the letter. EDGAR. I was forbid it. When time shall serve, let but the herald cry, And I’ll appear again. ALBANY. Why, fare thee well. I will o’erlook thy paper. [_Exit Edgar._] Enter Edmund. EDMUND. 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. ALBANY. We will greet the time. [_Exit._] EDMUND. 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, Lear, Cordelia and their Forces, and exeunt. Enter Edgar and Gloucester. EDGAR. 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. GLOUCESTER. Grace go with you, sir! [_Exit Edgar._] Alarum and retreat within. Enter Edgar. EDGAR. Away, old man, give me thy hand, away! King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en: Give me thy hand; come on! GLOUCESTER. No further, sir; a man may rot even here. EDGAR. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all. Come on. GLOUCESTER. 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; Officers, Soldiers, &c. EDMUND. Some officers take them away: good guard Until their greater pleasures first be known That are to censure them. CORDELIA. We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurr’d the worst. For thee, oppressed King, I am cast down; Myself could else out-frown 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’ the 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 the moon. EDMUND. 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 good years shall devour them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make us weep! We’ll see ’em starve first: come. [_Exeunt Lear and Cordelia, guarded._] EDMUND. Come hither, captain, hark. Take thou this note [_giving 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. CAPTAIN. I’ll do’t, my lord. EDMUND. About it; and write happy when thou hast done. Mark, I say, instantly; and carry it so As I have set it down. CAPTAIN. 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, Officers and Attendants. ALBANY. Sir, you have show’d today your valiant strain, And fortune led you well: you have the captives Who were the opposites of this day’s strife: I do require them of you, so to use them As we shall find their merits and our safety May equally determine. EDMUND. 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 Tomorrow, or at further space, to 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. ALBANY. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subject of this war, Not as a brother. REGAN. 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. GONERIL. Not so hot: In his own grace he doth exalt himself, More than in your addition. REGAN. In my rights, By me invested, he compeers the best. ALBANY. That were the most, if he should husband you. REGAN. Jesters do oft prove prophets. GONERIL. Holla, holla! That eye that told you so look’d but asquint. REGAN. 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. GONERIL. Mean you to enjoy him? ALBANY. The let-alone lies not in your good will. EDMUND. Nor in thine, lord. ALBANY. Half-blooded fellow, yes. REGAN. [_To Edmund._] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine. ALBANY. Stay yet; hear reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capital treason; and, in thine arrest, This gilded serpent. [_pointing to Goneril._] For your claim, fair sister, I bar it in the interest of my wife; ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord, And I her husband contradict your bans. If you will marry, make your loves to me, My lady is bespoke. GONERIL. An interlude! ALBANY. 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. [_Throwing down a glove._] I’ll make it on thy heart, Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less Than I have here proclaim’d thee. REGAN. Sick, O, sick! GONERIL. [_Aside._] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine. EDMUND. There’s my exchange. [_Throwing 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. ALBANY. A herald, ho! Enter a Herald. Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers, All levied in my name, have in my name Took their discharge. REGAN. My sickness grows upon me. ALBANY. She is not well. Convey her to my tent. [_Exit Regan, led._] Come hither, herald. Let the trumpet sound And read out this. OFFICER. Sound, trumpet! [_A trumpet sounds._] HERALD. [_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.’ EDMUND. Sound! [_First trumpet._] HERALD. Again! [_Second trumpet._] HERALD. Again! Third trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar, armed, preceded by a trumpet. ALBANY. Ask him his purposes, why he appears Upon this call o’ the trumpet. HERALD. What are you? Your name, your quality? and why you answer This present summons? EDGAR. 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. ALBANY. Which is that adversary? EDGAR. What’s he that speaks for Edmund, Earl of Gloucester? EDMUND. Himself, what say’st thou to him? EDGAR. 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 the 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. EDMUND. 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. They fight. Edmund falls._] ALBANY. Save him, save him! GONERIL. This is mere practice, Gloucester: By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d, But cozen’d and beguil’d. ALBANY. Shut your mouth, dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir; Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil. No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it. [_Gives the letter to Edmund._] GONERIL. Say if I do, the laws are mine, not thine: Who can arraign me for’t? [_Exit._] ALBANY. Most monstrous! O! Know’st thou this paper? EDMUND. Ask me not what I know. ALBANY. [_To an Officer, who goes out._] Go after her; she’s desperate; govern her. EDMUND. 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. EDGAR. Let’s exchange charity. I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund; If more, the more thou 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 plague us: The dark and vicious place where thee he got Cost him his eyes. EDMUND. Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true; The wheel is come full circle; I am here. ALBANY. 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. EDGAR. Worthy prince, I know’t. ALBANY. Where have you hid yourself? How have you known the miseries of your father? EDGAR. 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 we’d 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. EDMUND. 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. ALBANY. If there be more, more woeful, hold it in; For I am almost ready to dissolve, Hearing of this. EDGAR. 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 bellow’d 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. ALBANY. But who was this? EDGAR. Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise Follow’d his enemy king and did him service Improper for a slave. Enter a Gentleman hastily, with a bloody knife. GENTLEMAN. Help, help! O, help! EDGAR. What kind of help? ALBANY. Speak, man. EDGAR. What means this bloody knife? GENTLEMAN. ’Tis hot, it smokes; It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead! ALBANY. Who dead? Speak, man. GENTLEMAN. Your lady, sir, your lady; and her sister By her is poisoned; she hath confesses it. EDMUND. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant. EDGAR. Here comes Kent. Enter Kent. ALBANY. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead. 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 Which very manners urges. KENT. I am come To bid my King and master aye good night: Is he not here? ALBANY. 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? EDMUND. Yet Edmund was belov’d. The one the other poisoned for my sake, And after slew herself. ALBANY. Even so. Cover their faces. EDMUND. I pant for life. Some good I mean to do, Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send, Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia; Nay, send in time. ALBANY. Run, run, O, run! EDGAR. To who, my lord? Who has the office? Send Thy token of reprieve. EDMUND. Well thought on: take my sword, Give it the captain. EDGAR. Haste thee for thy life. [_Exit Edgar._] EDMUND. 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. ALBANY. The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile. [_Edmund is borne off._] Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms; Edgar, Officer 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? EDGAR. Or image of that horror? ALBANY. Fall, and cease! LEAR. This feather stirs; she lives! If it be so, It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows That ever I have felt. KENT. O, my good master! [_Kneeling._] LEAR. Prithee, away! EDGAR. ’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. OFFICER. ’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’ the best, I’ll tell you straight. KENT. If Fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated, One of them we behold. LEAR. This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent? KENT. The same, Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius? LEAR. He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that; He’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 follow’d your sad steps. LEAR. You are 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. ALBANY. He knows not what he says; and vain is it That we present us to him. EDGAR. Very bootless. Enter an Officer. OFFICER. Edmund is dead, my lord. ALBANY. 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._] EDGAR. He faints! My lord, my lord! KENT. Break, heart; I prithee break! EDGAR. Look up, my lord. KENT. Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! He hates him That would upon the rack of this rough world Stretch him out longer. EDGAR. He is gone indeed. KENT. The wonder is, he hath endur’d so long: He but usurp’d his life. ALBANY. Bear them from hence. Our present business Is general woe. [_To Edgar and Kent._] 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. EDGAR. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most; we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long. [_Exeunt with a dead march._] LOVE’S LABOUR’S LOST Contents ACT I Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The park ACT II Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park. A pavilion and tents at a distance ACT III Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park ACT IV Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The same Scene III. The same ACT V Scene I. The King of Navarre’s park Scene II. The same. Before the Princess’s pavilion Dramatis Personæ KING of Navarre, also known as Ferdinand BEROWNE, Lord attending on the King LONGAVILLE, Lord attending on the King DUMAINE, Lord attending on the King The PRINCESS of France ROSALINE, Lady attending on the Princess MARIA, Lady attending on the Princess KATHARINE, Lady attending on the Princess BOYET, Lord attending on the Princess Don Adriano de ARMADO, a fantastical Spaniard MOTH, Page to Armado JAQUENETTA, a country wench COSTARD, a Clown DULL, a Constable HOLOFERNES, a Schoolmaster Sir NATHANIEL, a Curate A FORESTER MARCADÉ, a messenger from France Lords, Blackamoors, Officers and Others, Attendants on the King and Princess. SCENE: Navarre ACT I SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Ferdinand, King of Navarre, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine. KING. Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live registered 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, Dumaine and Longaville, Have sworn for three years’ term to live with me, My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes That are recorded in this schedule here. Your oaths are passed, and now subscribe your names, That his own hand may strike his honour down That violates the smallest branch herein. If you are armed to do as sworn to do, Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too. LONGAVILLE. I am resolved. ’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. [_He signs._] DUMAINE. My loving lord, Dumaine is mortified. The grosser manner of these world’s delights He throws upon the gross world’s baser slaves. To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die, With all these living in philosophy. [_He signs._] 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 passed 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 barred, 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 purchased, 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-searched 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 naught but fame, And every godfather can give a name. KING. How well he’s read, to reason against reading. DUMAINE. Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding. LONGAVILLE. He weeds the corn, and still lets grow the weeding. BEROWNE. The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding. DUMAINE. How follows that? BEROWNE. Fit in his place and time. DUMAINE. In reason nothing. BEROWNE. Something then in 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 you 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 sworn 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 devised this penalty? LONGAVILLE. Marry, that did I. BEROWNE. Sweet lord, and why? LONGAVILLE. To fright them hence with that dread penalty. BEROWNE. A dangerous law against gentility. [_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 overshot. 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 mastered, 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, 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. [_He signs._] 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 Arm… Arm… commends you. There’s villainy abroad. This letter will tell you more. COSTARD. Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me. KING. A letter from the magnificent Armado. BEROWNE. How long soever the matter, I hope in God for high words. LONGAVILLE. A high hope for a low heaven. God grant us patience! BEROWNE. To hear, or forbear laughing? LONGAVILLE. To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately, or to forbear both. BEROWNE. Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to climb in the merriness. COSTARD. The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta. The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner. BEROWNE. In what manner? COSTARD. In manner and form following, sir, all those three. I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with her upon the form, and taken following her into the park, which, put together, is “in manner and form following”. Now, sir, for the manner. It is the manner of a man to speak to a woman. For the form—in some form. BEROWNE. For the “following”, sir? COSTARD. As it shall follow in my correction, and God defend the right! KING. Will you hear this letter with attention? BEROWNE. As we would hear an oracle. COSTARD. Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh. KING. [_Reads_.] _Great deputy, the welkin’s vicegerent and sole dominator of Navarre, my soul’s earth’s god and body’s fostering patron—_ COSTARD. Not a word of Costard yet. KING. [_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 walked upon. It is ycleped thy park. Then for the place, where? Where, I mean, I did encounter that obscene and most preposterous event that draweth from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest. But to the place where? It standeth north-north-east and by east from the west corner of thy curious-knotted garden. There did I see that low-spirited swain, that base minnow of thy mirth—_ COSTARD. Me? KING. [_Reads_.] _That unlettered small-knowing soul—_ COSTARD. Me? KING. [_Reads_.] _That shallow vassal—_ COSTARD. Still me? KING. [_Reads_.] _Which, as I remember, hight Costard—_ COSTARD. O me! KING. [_Reads_.] _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. [_Reads_.] _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. [_Reads_.] _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 heartburning heat of duty, Don Adriano de Armado._ BEROWNE. This is not so well as I looked for, but the best that ever I heard. KING. Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say you to this? COSTARD. Sir, I confess the wench. KING. Did you hear the proclamation? COSTARD. I do confess much of the hearing it, but little of the marking of it. KING. It was proclaimed a year’s imprisonment to be taken with a wench. COSTARD. I was taken with none, sir. I was taken with a damsel. KING. Well, it was proclaimed “damsel”. COSTARD. This was no damsel neither, sir; she was a virgin. KING. It is so varied too, for it was proclaimed “virgin”. COSTARD. If it were, I deny her virginity. I was taken with a maid. KING. This maid will not serve your turn, sir. COSTARD. This maid will serve my turn, sir. KING. Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast a week with bran and water. COSTARD. I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge. KING. And Don Armado shall be your keeper. My Lord Berowne, see him delivered o’er; And go we, lords, to put in practice that Which each to other hath so strongly sworn. [_Exeunt King, Longaville and Dumaine._] BEROWNE. I’ll lay my head to any good man’s hat These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn. Sirrah, come on. COSTARD. I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is I was taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true girl. And therefore welcome the sour cup of prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again, and till then, sit thee down, sorrow. [_Exeunt._] 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 selfsame 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. What, that an eel is ingenious? MOTH. That an eel is quick. ARMADO. I do say thou art quick in answers. Thou heat’st my blood. MOTH. I am answered, sir. ARMADO. I love not to be crossed. MOTH. [_Aside_.] He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him. ARMADO. I have promised to study three years with the Duke. MOTH. You may do it in an hour, sir. ARMADO. Impossible. MOTH. How many is one thrice told? ARMADO. I am ill at reckoning. It fitteth the spirit of a tapster. MOTH. You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir. ARMADO. I confess both. They are both the varnish of a complete man. MOTH. Then I am sure you know how much the gross sum of deuce-ace amounts to. ARMADO. It doth amount to one more than two. MOTH. Which the base vulgar do call three. ARMADO. True. MOTH. Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here’s three studied ere ye’ll thrice wink. And how easy it is to put “years” to the word “three”, and study three years in two words, the dancing horse will tell you. ARMADO. A most fine figure! MOTH. [_Aside_.] To prove you a cipher. ARMADO. I will hereupon confess I am in love; and as it is base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour of affection would deliver me from the reprobate thought of it, I would take desire prisoner, and ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised curtsy. I think scorn to sigh; methinks I should outswear Cupid. Comfort me, boy. What great men have been in love? MOTH. Hercules, master. ARMADO. Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good repute and carriage. MOTH. Samson, master. He was a man of good carriage, great carriage, for he carried the town gates on his back like a porter, and he was in love. ARMADO. O well-knit Samson, strong-jointed Samson! I do excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson’s love, my dear Moth? MOTH. A woman, master. ARMADO. Of what complexion? MOTH. Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four. ARMADO. Tell me precisely of what complexion. MOTH. Of the sea-water green, sir. ARMADO. Is that one of the four complexions? MOTH. As I have read, sir; and the best of them too. ARMADO. Green indeed is the colour of lovers. But to have a love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason for it. He surely affected her for her wit. MOTH. It was so, sir, for she had a green wit. ARMADO. My love is most immaculate white and red. MOTH. Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under such colours. ARMADO. Define, define, well-educated infant. MOTH. My father’s wit and my mother’s tongue assist me! ARMADO. Sweet invocation of a child, most pretty, and pathetical! MOTH. If she be made of white and red, Her faults will ne’er be known; For blushing cheeks by faults are bred, And fears by pale white shown. Then if she fear, or be to blame, By this you shall not know, For still her cheeks possess the same Which native she doth owe. A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of white and red. ARMADO. Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar? MOTH. The world was very guilty of such a ballad some three ages since, but I think now ’tis not to be found; or if it were, it would neither serve for the writing nor the tune. ARMADO. I will have that subject newly writ o’er, that I may example my digression by some mighty precedent. Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the park with the rational hind Costard. She deserves well. MOTH. [_Aside_.] To be whipped: and yet a better love than my master. ARMADO. Sing, boy. My spirit grows heavy in love. MOTH. And that’s great marvel, loving a light wench. ARMADO. I say, sing. MOTH. Forbear till this company be past. Enter Costard the Clown, Dull the Constable and Jaquenetta a Wench. 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 he must fast three days a week. For this damsel, I must keep her at the park. She is allowed for the dey-woman. Fare you well. ARMADO. I do betray myself with blushing.—Maid. JAQUENETTA. Man. ARMADO. I will visit thee at the lodge. JAQUENETTA. That’s hereby. ARMADO. I know where it is situate. JAQUENETTA. Lord, how wise you are! ARMADO. I will tell thee wonders. JAQUENETTA. With that face? ARMADO. I love thee. JAQUENETTA. So I heard you say. ARMADO. And so, farewell. JAQUENETTA. Fair weather after you! DULL. Come, Jaquenetta, away. [_Exeunt Dull and 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 I. The King of Navarre’s park. A pavilion and tents at a distance Enter the Princess of France, with three attending Ladies: Rosaline, Maria, Katharine and three Lords: Boyet, and two others. BOYET. Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits. Consider who the King your father sends, To whom he sends, and what’s his embassy. Yourself, held precious in the world’s esteem, To parley with the sole inheritor Of all perfections that a man may owe, Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen. Be now as prodigal of all dear grace As Nature was in making graces dear When she did starve the general world beside And prodigally gave them all to you. PRINCESS. Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean, Needs not the painted flourish of your praise. Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, Not uttered 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-visaged suitors, his high will. BOYET. Proud of employment, willingly I go. PRINCESS. All pride is willing pride, and yours is so. [_Exit Boyet._] Who are the votaries, my loving lords, That are vow-fellows with this virtuous Duke? LORD. Lord Longaville is one. PRINCESS. Know you the man? MARIA. I know him, madam. At a marriage feast Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized In Normandy, saw I this Longaville. A man of sovereign parts, he is esteemed, 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 matched with too blunt a will, Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills It should none spare that come within his power. PRINCESS. Some merry mocking lord, belike. Is’t so? MARIA. They say so most that most his humours know. PRINCESS. Such short-lived wits do wither as they grow. Who are the rest? KATHARINE. The young Dumaine, a well-accomplished 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 Alençon’s once; And much too little of that good I saw Is my report to his great worthiness. ROSALINE. Another of these students at that time Was there with him, if I have heard a truth. Berowne they call him, but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour’s talk withal. His eye begets occasion for his wit, For every object that the one doth catch The other turns to a mirth-moving jest, Which his fair tongue, conceit’s expositor, Delivers in such apt and gracious words That aged ears play truant at his tales, And younger hearings are quite ravished, So sweet and voluble is his discourse. PRINCESS. God bless my ladies! Are they all in love, That every one her own hath garnished With such bedecking ornaments of praise? LORD. Here comes Boyet. Enter Boyet. PRINCESS. Now, what admittance, lord? BOYET. Navarre had notice of your fair approach, And he and his competitors in oath Were all addressed to meet you, gentle lady, Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learned: 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. Enter King of Navarre, Longaville, Dumaine, Berowne and Attendants. Here comes Navarre. KING. Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre. PRINCESS. “Fair” I give you back again, and “welcome” I have not yet. The roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine. KING. You shall be welcome, madam, to my court. PRINCESS. I will be welcome then. Conduct me thither. KING. Hear me, dear lady. I have sworn an oath. PRINCESS. Our Lady help my lord! He’ll be forsworn. KING. Not for the world, fair madam, by my will. PRINCESS. Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else. KING. Your ladyship is ignorant what it is. PRINCESS. Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise, Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance. I hear your Grace hath sworn out housekeeping. ’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. [_She gives him a paper._] KING. Madam, I will, if suddenly I may. PRINCESS. You will the sooner that I were away, For you’ll prove perjured if you make me stay. [_The King reads the paper._] BEROWNE. [_To Rosaline_.] Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? ROSALINE. Did not I dance with you in Brabant once? BEROWNE. I know you did. ROSALINE. How needless was it then To ask the question! BEROWNE. You must not be so quick. ROSALINE. ’Tis long of you that spur me with such questions. BEROWNE. Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ’twill tire. ROSALINE. Not till it leave the rider in the mire. BEROWNE. What time o’ day? ROSALINE. The hour that fools should ask. BEROWNE. Now fair befall your mask. ROSALINE. Fair fall the face it covers. BEROWNE. And send you many lovers! ROSALINE. Amen, so you be none. BEROWNE. Nay, then will I be gone. KING. Madam, your father here doth intimate The payment of a hundred thousand crowns, Being but the one half of an entire sum Disbursed by my father in his wars. But say that he or we, as neither have, Received that sum, yet there remains unpaid A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which One part of Aquitaine is bound to us, Although not valued to the money’s worth. If then the King your father will restore But that one half which is unsatisfied, We will give up our right in Aquitaine, And hold fair friendship with his majesty. But that, it seems, he little purposeth; For here he doth demand to have repaid A hundred thousand crowns, and not demands, On payment of a hundred thousand crowns, To have his title live in Aquitaine, Which we much rather had depart withal, And have the money by our father lent, Than Aquitaine, so gelded as it is. Dear Princess, were not his requests so far From reason’s yielding, your fair self should make A yielding ’gainst some reason in my breast, And go well satisfied to France again. PRINCESS. You do the King my father too much wrong, And wrong the reputation of your name, In so unseeming to confess receipt Of that which hath so faithfully been paid. KING. I do protest I never heard of it; And, if you prove it, I’ll repay it back Or yield up Aquitaine. PRINCESS. We arrest your word. Boyet, you can produce acquittances For such a sum from special officers Of Charles his father. KING. Satisfy me so. BOYET. So please your Grace, the packet is not come Where that and other specialties are bound. Tomorrow you shall have a sight of them. KING. It shall suffice me; at which interview All liberal reason I will yield unto. Meantime receive such welcome at my hand As honour, without breach of honour, may Make tender of to thy true worthiness. You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates, But here without you shall be so received As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart, Though so denied fair harbour in my house. Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell. Tomorrow shall we visit you again. PRINCESS. Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace. KING. Thy own wish wish I thee in every place. [_Exeunt the King, Longaville and Dumaine._] BEROWNE. Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart. ROSALINE. Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it. BEROWNE. I would you heard it groan. ROSALINE. Is the fool sick? BEROWNE. Sick at the heart. ROSALINE. Alack, let it blood. BEROWNE. Would that do it good? ROSALINE. My physic says “ay”. BEROWNE. Will you prick’t with your eye? ROSALINE. _Non point_, with my knife. BEROWNE. Now, God save thy life. ROSALINE. And yours from long living. BEROWNE. I cannot stay thanksgiving. [_He exits._] Enter Dumaine. DUMAINE. Sir, I pray you, a word. What lady is that same? BOYET. The heir of Alençon, Katharine her name. DUMAINE. A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well. [_He exits._] Enter Longaville. 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._] Enter Berowne. 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._] MARIA. That last is Berowne, the merry madcap lord. Not a word with him but a jest. BOYET. And every jest but a word. PRINCESS. It was well done of you to take him at his word. BOYET. I was as willing to grapple as he was to board. 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. [_He tries 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. Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree. This civil war of wits were much better used On Navarre and his bookmen, 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. With what? BOYET. With that which we lovers entitle “affected”. PRINCESS. Your reason. BOYET. Why, all his behaviours did make their retire To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire. His heart, like an agate, with your print 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 locked in his eye, As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy; Who, tend’ring their own worth from where they were glassed, Did point you to buy them, along as you passed. His face’s own margent did quote such amazes That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes. I’ll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his, An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss. PRINCESS. Come, to our pavilion. Boyet is disposed. BOYET. But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclosed. I only have made a mouth of his eye By adding a tongue which I know will not lie. ROSALINE. Thou art an old love-monger, and speakest skilfully. MARIA. He is Cupid’s grandfather, and learns news of him. ROSALINE. Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim. BOYET. Do you hear, my mad wenches? MARIA. No. BOYET. What, then, do you see? ROSALINE. Ay, our way to be gone. BOYET. You are too hard for me. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Armado the Braggart and Moth his Boy. ARMADO. Warble, child, make passionate my sense of hearing. MOTH. [_Singing_.] Concolinel. ARMADO. Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years, take this key, give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately hither. I must employ him in a letter to my love. MOTH. Master, will you win your love with a French brawl? ARMADO. How meanest thou? Brawling in French? MOTH. No, my complete master; but to jig off a tune at the tongue’s end, canary to it with your feet, humour it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you swallowed love with singing love, sometime through the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling love; with your hat penthouse-like o’er the shop of your eyes, with your arms crossed on your thin-belly doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in your pocket like a man after the old painting; and keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away. These are compliments, these are humours; these betray nice wenches that would be betrayed without these; and make them men of note—do you note me?—that most are affected to these. ARMADO. How hast thou purchased this experience? MOTH. By my penny of observation. ARMADO. But O—but O— MOTH. “The hobby-horse is forgot.” ARMADO. Call’st thou my love “hobby-horse”? MOTH. No, master. The hobby-horse is but a colt, and your love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love? ARMADO. Almost I had. MOTH. Negligent student! Learn her by heart. ARMADO. By heart and in heart, boy. MOTH. And out of heart, master. All those three I will prove. ARMADO. What wilt thou prove? MOTH. A man, if I live; and this, “by, in, and without,” upon the instant: “by” heart you love her, because your heart cannot come by her; “in” heart you love her, because your heart is in love with her; and “out” of heart you love her, being out of heart that you cannot enjoy her. ARMADO. I am all these three. MOTH. And three times as much more, and yet nothing at all. ARMADO. Fetch hither the swain. He must carry me a letter. MOTH. A message well sympathized: a horse to be ambassador for an ass. ARMADO. Ha, ha, what sayest thou? MOTH. Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse, for he is very slow-gaited. But I go. ARMADO. The way is but short. Away! MOTH. As swift as lead, sir. ARMADO. The meaning, pretty ingenious? Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow? MOTH. _Minime_, honest master; or rather, master, no. ARMADO. I say lead is slow. MOTH. You are too swift, sir, to say so. Is that lead slow which is fired 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, voluble 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 returned. Enter Moth and Costard. MOTH. A wonder, master! Here’s a costard broken in a shin. ARMADO. Some enigma, some riddle. Come, thy _l’envoi_ begin. COSTARD. No egma, no riddle, no _l’envoi_, no salve in the mail, sir. O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! No _l’envoi_, no _l’envoi_, 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’envoi_, and the word _l’envoi_ for a _salve?_ MOTH. Do the wise think them other? Is not _l’envoi_ 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’envoi_. MOTH. I will add the _l’envoi_. 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 stayed the odds by adding four. Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with my _l’envoi_. 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’envoi_, 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’envoi_—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 called you for the _l’envoi_. COSTARD. True, and I for a plantain. Thus came your argument in. Then the boy’s fat _l’envoi_, 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’envoi_. 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’envoi_, some goose, in this. ARMADO. By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty, enfreedoming thy person. Thou wert immured, restrained, captivated, bound. COSTARD. True, true; and now you will be my purgation, and let me loose. ARMADO. I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance, and, in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this: [_Giving him a letter_.] bear this significant to the country maid Jaquenetta. [_Giving money_.] There is remuneration for the best ward of mine honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow. [_Exit._] MOTH. Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu. [_Exit Moth._] COSTARD. My sweet ounce of man’s flesh, my incony Jew! 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 tomorrow 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 sealed-up counsel. [_Gives him money._] There’s thy guerdon. Go. COSTARD. Gardon, O sweet gardon! Better than remuneration, a ’levenpence 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 Signior 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 watched that it may still go right! Nay, to be perjured, 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 King of Navarre’s park Enter the Princess, a Forester, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine, Boyet and other Lords. PRINCESS. Was that the King that spurred his horse so hard Against the steep uprising of the hill? BOYET. I know not, but I think it was not he. PRINCESS. Whoe’er he was, he showed a mounting mind. Well, lords, today we shall have our dispatch; On Saturday we will return to France. Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush That we must stand and play the murderer in? FORESTER. Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice, A stand where you may make “the fairest shoot”. PRINCESS. I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot, And thereupon thou speak’st the fairest shoot. FORESTER. Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so. PRINCESS. What, what? First praise me, and again say no? O short-lived pride! Not fair? Alack for woe! FORESTER. Yes, madam, fair. PRINCESS. Nay, never paint me now. Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow. Here, good my glass, take this for telling true: [_She gives him money._] Fair payment for foul words is more than due. FORESTER. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit. PRINCESS. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit. O heresy in fair, fit for these days! A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise. But come, the bow. Now mercy goes to kill, And shooting well is then accounted ill. Thus will I save my credit in the shoot: Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t; If wounding, then it was to show my skill, That more for praise than purpose meant to kill. And out of question so it is sometimes, Glory grows guilty of detested crimes, When, for fame’s sake, for praise, an outward part, We bend to that the working of the heart; As I for praise alone now seek to spill The poor deer’s blood, that my heart means no ill. BOYET. Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty Only for praise’ sake, when they strive to be Lords o’er their lords? PRINCESS. Only for praise; and praise we may afford To any lady that subdues a lord. Enter Costard. BOYET. Here comes a member of the commonwealth. COSTARD. God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady? PRINCESS. Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads. COSTARD. Which is the greatest lady, the highest? PRINCESS. The thickest and the tallest. COSTARD. The thickest and the tallest. It is so, truth is truth. An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit, One o’ these maids’ girdles for your waist should be fit. Are not you the chief woman? You are the thickest here. PRINCESS. What’s your will, sir? What’s your will? COSTARD. I have a letter from Monsieur Berowne to one Lady Rosaline. PRINCESS. O, thy letter, thy letter! He’s a good friend of mine. Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve. Break up this capon. BOYET. I am bound to serve. This letter is mistook; it importeth none here. It is writ to Jaquenetta. PRINCESS. We will read it, I swear. Break the neck of the wax, and everyone 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, see, and overcame. He came, one; see, two; overcame, three. Who came? The King. Why did he come? To see. Why did he see? To overcome. To whom came he? To the beggar. What saw he? The beggar. Who overcame he? The beggar. The conclusion is victory. On whose side? The King’s. The captive is enriched. On whose side? The beggar’s. The catastrophe is a nuptial. On whose side? The King’s? No, on both in one, or one in both. I am the King, for so stands the comparison; thou the beggar, for so witnesseth thy lowliness. Shall I command thy love? I may. Shall I enforce thy love? I could. Shall I entreat thy love? I will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? Robes. For tittles? Titles. For thyself? Me. Thus expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot, my eyes on thy picture, and my heart on thy every part. Thine in the dearest design of industry, Don Adriano de Armado. Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar ’Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey. Submissive fall his princely feet before, And he from forage will incline to play. But if thou strive, poor soul, what are thou then? Food for his rage, repasture for his den._ PRINCESS. What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter? What vane? What weathercock? Did you ever hear better? BOYET. I am much deceived but I remember the style. PRINCESS. Else your memory is bad, going o’er it erewhile. BOYET. This Armado is a Spaniard that keeps here in court, A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport To the Prince and his book-mates. PRINCESS. Thou, fellow, a word. Who gave thee this letter? COSTARD. I told you: my lord. PRINCESS. To whom shouldst thou give it? COSTARD. From my lord to my lady. PRINCESS. From which lord to which lady? COSTARD. From my Lord Berowne, a good master of mine, To a lady of France that he called Rosaline. PRINCESS. Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away. Here, sweet, put up this: ’twill be thine another day. [_Exeunt all but Boyet, Rosaline, Maria and Costard._] 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 Guinevere of Britain was a little wench, as touching the hit it. ROSALINE. Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it, Thou canst not hit it, my good man. BOYET. An I cannot, cannot, cannot, An I cannot, another can. [_Exeunt Rosaline._] COSTARD. By my troth, most pleasant. How both did fit it! MARIA. A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it. BOYET. A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady! Let the mark have a prick in’t, to mete at, if it may be. MARIA. Wide o’ the bow hand! I’ faith, your hand is out. COSTARD. Indeed, a’ must shoot nearer, or he’ll ne’er hit the clout. BOYET. An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in. COSTARD. Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin. MARIA. Come, come, you talk greasily, your lips grow foul. COSTARD. She’s too hard for you at pricks, sir. Challenge her to bowl. BOYET. I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl. [_Exeunt Boyet and Maria._] COSTARD. By my soul, a swain, a most simple clown! Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down! O’ my troth, most sweet jests, most incony vulgar wit, When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it were, so fit. Armado, o’ the one side, O, a most dainty man! To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan! To see him kiss his hand and how most sweetly he will swear! And his page o’ t’other side, that handful of wit! Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit. [_Shout within._] Sola, sola! [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same Enter Dull, Holofernes, the Pedant and Nathaniel. NATHANIEL. Very reverend 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 “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Most barbarous intimation! Yet a kind of insinuation, as it were, _in via_, in way, of explication; _facere_, as it were, replication, or rather, _ostentare_, to show, as it were, his inclination, after his undressed, unpolished, uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather, unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to insert again my _haud credo_ for a deer. DULL. I said the deer was not a “auld grey doe”, ’twas a pricket. HOLOFERNES. Twice-sod simplicity, _bis coctus!_ O, thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look! NATHANIEL. Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred of a book. He hath not eat paper, as it were; he hath not drunk ink. His intellect is not replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in the duller parts. And such barren plants are set before us that we thankful should be— Which we of taste and feeling are—for those parts that do fructify in us more than he. For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool, So, were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school. But, _omne bene_, say I, being of an old father’s mind; Many can brook the weather that love not the wind. DULL. You two are bookmen. 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 pollution holds in the exchange, for the moon is never but a month old; and I say beside that ’twas a pricket that the Princess killed. HOLOFERNES. Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph on the death of the deer? And, to humour the ignorant, call I the deer the Princess killed a pricket. NATHANIEL. _Perge_, good Master Holofernes, _perge_, so it shall please you to abrogate scurrility. HOLOFERNES. I will something affect the letter; for it argues facility. The preyful Princess pierced and pricked a pretty pleasing pricket; Some say a sore; but not a sore till now made sore with shooting. The dogs did yell, put “l” to sore, then sorel jumps from thicket; Or pricket sore, or else sorel, the people fall a-hooting. If sore be sore, then “L” to “sore” makes fifty sores 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, nourished in the womb of _pia mater_, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am thankful for it. NATHANIEL. Sir, I praise the Lord for you, and so may my parishioners, for their sons are well tutored by you, and their daughters profit very greatly under you. You are a good member of the commonwealth. HOLOFERNES. _Mehercle!_ If their sons be ingenious, they shall want no instruction; if their daughters be capable, I will put it to them. But, _vir sapit qui pauca loquitur_. A soul feminine saluteth us. Enter Jaquenetta and Costard. JAQUENETTA. God give you good morrow, Master Person. HOLOFERNES. Master Person, _quasi_ pierce one. And if one should be pierced, which is the one? COSTARD. Marry, Master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead. HOLOFERNES. Of piercing a hogshead! A good lustre or conceit in a turf of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough for a swine. ’Tis pretty; it is well. JAQUENETTA. Good Master Parson, 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. [_Giving a letter to Nathaniel._] HOLOFERNES. _Fauste precor, gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra Ruminat_— and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan, I may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice: _Venetia, Venetia, Chi non ti vede, non ti pretia._ Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! Who understandeth thee not, loves thee not. [_He sings_.] Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa. Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? Or rather as Horace says in his—What, my soul, verses? NATHANIEL. Ay, sir, and very learned. HOLOFERNES. Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse, _Lege, domine_. NATHANIEL. [_Reads_.] _If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty 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 sings heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue._ HOLOFERNES. You find not the apostrophus, and so miss the accent. Let me supervise the canzonet. [_He takes the letter_.] 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 today 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 same Enter Berowne with a paper in his hand, alone. BEROWNE. The King, he is hunting the deer; I am coursing myself. They have pitched a toil; I am toiling 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 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! [_He stands aside._] Enter the King with a paper. KING. Ay me! BEROWNE. [_Aside_.] Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid, thou hast thumped him with thy birdbolt under the left pap. In faith, secrets! KING. [_Reads_.] [_So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not To those fresh morning drops upon the rose, As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows. Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright Through the transparent bosom of the deep As doth thy face, through tears of mine give light. Thou shin’st in every tear that I do weep. No drop but as a coach doth carry thee; So ridest thou triumphing in my woe. Do but behold the tears that swell in me, And they thy glory through my grief will show. But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep My tears for glasses, and still make me weep. O queen of queens, how far dost thou excel No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell._ How shall she know my griefs? I’ll drop the paper. Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here? [_Steps aside._] What, Longaville, and reading! Listen, ear. Enter Longaville with a paper. BEROWNE. [_Aside_.] 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 perjured 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 shop. 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 gained, 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. LONGAVILLE. By whom shall I send this?—Company! Stay. [_He steps aside._] Enter Dumaine with a paper. 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. Dumaine transformed! Four woodcocks in a dish! DUMAINE. O most divine Kate! BEROWNE. O most profane coxcomb! DUMAINE. By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye! BEROWNE. By earth, she is but corporal. There you lie. DUMAINE. Her amber hairs for foul hath amber quoted. BEROWNE. An amber-coloured raven was well noted. DUMAINE. As upright as the cedar. BEROWNE. Stoop, I say. Her shoulder is with child. DUMAINE. As fair as day. BEROWNE. Ay, as some days, but then no sun must shine. DUMAINE. O, that I had my wish! LONGAVILLE. And I had mine! KING. And I mine too, good Lord! BEROWNE. Amen, so I had mine. Is not that a good word? DUMAINE. I would forget her; but a fever she Reigns in my blood, and will remembered be. BEROWNE. A fever in your blood? Why, then incision Would let her out in saucers. Sweet misprision! DUMAINE. Once more I’ll read the ode that I have writ. BEROWNE. Once more I’ll mark how love can vary wit. DUMAINE. [_Dumaine reads his sonnet_.] _On a day—alack the day!— Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen, can passage find; That the lover, sick to death, Wished 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 perjured note, For none offend where all alike do dote. LONGAVILLE. [_Comes forward_.] Dumaine, thy love is far from charity, That in love’s grief desir’st society. You may look pale, but I should blush, I know, To be o’erheard and taken napping so. KING. [_Comes forward_.] 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 marked you both, and for you both did blush. I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion, Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion. “Ay, me!” says one. “O Jove!” the other cries. One, her hairs were gold; crystal the other’s eyes. [_To Longaville_.] You would for paradise break faith and troth; [_To Dumaine_.] And Jove, for your love would infringe an oath. What will Berowne say when that he shall hear Faith infringed which such zeal did swear? How will he scorn, how will he spend his wit! How will he triumph, leap, and laugh at it! For all the wealth that ever I did see, I would not have him know so much by me. BEROWNE. [_Comes forward_.] 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 perjured, ’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 foolery have I seen, Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow, and of teen! O me, with what strict patience have I sat, To see a king transformed to a gnat! To see great Hercules whipping a gig, And profound Solomon to tune a jig, And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys, And critic Timon laugh at idle toys. Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumaine? And, gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain? And where my liege’s? All about the breast? A caudle, ho! KING. Too bitter is thy jest. Are we betrayed thus to thy over-view? BEROWNE. Not you to me, but I betrayed by you. I that am honest, I that hold it sin To break the vow I am engaged in. I am betrayed by keeping company With men like 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, with a letter, 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. DUMAINE. [_Picking up the pieces_.] It is Berowne’s writing, and here is his name. BEROWNE. [_To Costard_.] Ah, you whoreson loggerhead, you were born to do me shame. Guilty, my lord, guilty. I confess, I confess. KING. What? BEROWNE. That you three fools lacked me fool to make up the mess. He, he, and you—and you, my liege—and I Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die. O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more. DUMAINE. Now the number is even. BEROWNE. True, true, we are four. Will these turtles be gone? KING. Hence, sirs, away! COSTARD. Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay. [_Exeunt Costard and Jaquenetta._] BEROWNE. Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace! As true we are as flesh and blood can be. The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face; Young blood doth not obey an old decree. We cannot cross the cause why we were born; Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn. KING. What, did these rent lines show some love of thine? BEROWNE. “Did they?” quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline That, like a rude and savage man of Ind, 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 inspired 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 culled 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 withered 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 word 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 decked, It mourns that painting and usurping hair Should ravish doters with a false aspect; And therefore is she born to make black fair. Her favour turns the fashion of the days, For native blood is counted painting now; And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise, Paints itself black, to imitate her brow. DUMAINE. To look like her are chimney-sweepers black. LONGAVILLE. And since her time are colliers counted bright. KING. And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack. DUMAINE. Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light. BEROWNE. Your mistresses dare never come in rain, For fear their colours should be washed away. KING. ’Twere good yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain, I’ll find a fairer face not washed today. BEROWNE. I’ll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here. KING. No devil will fright thee then so much as she. DUMAINE. I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear. LONGAVILLE. [_Showing his shoe_.] Look, here’s thy love, my foot and her face see. BEROWNE. O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes, Her feet were much too dainty for such tread. DUMAINE. O vile! Then, as she goes, what upward lies The street should see as she walked over head. KING. But what of this? Are we not all in love? BEROWNE. Nothing so sure, and thereby all forsworn. KING. Then leave this chat, and, good Berowne, now prove Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn. DUMAINE. Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil. LONGAVILLE. O, some authority how to proceed. Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil. DUMAINE. Some salve for perjury. BEROWNE. O, ’tis more than need. Have at you, then, affection’s men-at-arms. Consider what you first did swear unto: To fast, to study, and to see no woman— Flat treason ’gainst the kingly state of youth. Say, can you fast? Your stomachs are too young, And abstinence engenders maladies. 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 enriched 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 stopped. 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 tempered 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! But be first advised 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, masques, 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!_ Sowed cockle reaped no corn, And justice always whirls in equal measure. Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn; If so, our copper buys no better treasure. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. The King of Navarre’s park Enter Holofernes, Sir Nathaniel and Dull. HOLOFERNES. _Satis quod sufficit._ NATHANIEL. I praise God for you, sir. Your reasons at dinner have been sharp and sententious, pleasant without scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without impudency, learned without opinion, and strange without heresy. I did converse this _quondam_ day with a companion of the King’s, who is intituled, nominated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado. HOLOFERNES. _Novi hominem tanquam te._ His humour is lofty, his discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye ambitious, his gait majestical and his general behaviour vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it were, too peregrinate, as I may call it. NATHANIEL. A most singular and choice epithet. [_Draws out his table-book._] HOLOFERNES. He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument. I abhor such fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and point-devise companions, such rackers of orthography, as to speak “dout” _sine_ “b”, when he should say “doubt”, “det” when he should pronounce “debt”—_d, e, b, t_, not _d, e, t_. He clepeth a calf “cauf”, half “hauf”; neighbour _vocatur_ “nebour”, neigh abbreviated “ne”. This is abhominable, which he would call “abominable”. It insinuateth me of insanie. _Ne intelligis, domine?_ To make frantic, lunatic. NATHANIEL. _Laus Deo, bone intelligo._ HOLOFERNES. _Bone? Bone_ for _bene?_ Priscian a little scratched; ’twill serve. Enter Armado, Moth and Costard. NATHANIEL. _Videsne quis venit?_ HOLOFERNES. _Video, et gaudeo._ ARMADO. _Chirrah!_ HOLOFERNES. _Quare_ “chirrah”, not “sirrah”? ARMADO. Men of peace, well encountered. HOLOFERNES. Most military sir, salutation. MOTH. [_Aside to Costard_.] They have been at a great feast of languages and stolen the scraps. COSTARD. O, they have lived long on the almsbasket of words. I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word, for thou art not so long by the head as _honorificabilitudinitatibus_. Thou art easier swallowed than a flap-dragon. MOTH. Peace! The peal begins. ARMADO. [_To Holofernes_.] Monsieur, are you not lettered? MOTH. Yes, yes, he teaches boys the hornbook. What is _a, b_, spelt backward with the horn on his head? HOLOFERNES. _Ba, pueritia_, with a horn added. MOTH. _Ba_, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning. HOLOFERNES. _Quis, quis_, thou consonant? MOTH. The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or the fifth, if I. HOLOFERNES. I will repeat them: _a, e, i_— MOTH. The sheep. The other two concludes it: _o, u_. ARMADO. Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet touch, a quick venue of wit! Snip, snap, quick and home! It rejoiceth my intellect. True wit! MOTH. Offered by a child to an old man—which is wit-old. HOLOFERNES. What is the figure? What is the figure? MOTH. Horns. HOLOFERNES. Thou disputes like an infant. Go whip thy gig. MOTH. Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about your infamy _unum cita_. A gig of a cuckold’s horn. COSTARD. An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst have it to buy gingerbread. Hold, there is the very remuneration I had of thy master, thou 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 culled, chose, sweet, and apt, I do assure you, sir, I do assure. ARMADO. Sir, the King is a noble gentleman, and my familiar, I do assure ye, very good friend. For what is inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee, remember thy 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 rendered by our assistance, the King’s command, and this most gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before the Princess, I say, none so fit as to present the Nine Worthies. NATHANIEL. Where will you find men worthy enough to present them? HOLOFERNES. Joshua, yourself; myself; and 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 same. Before the Princess’s pavilion Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria. PRINCESS. Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart, If fairings come thus plentifully in. A lady walled about with diamonds! Look you what I have from the loving King. ROSALINE. Madam, came nothing else along with that? PRINCESS. Nothing but this? Yes, as much love in rhyme As would be crammed up in a sheet of paper Writ o’ both sides the leaf, margent and all, That he was fain to seal on Cupid’s name. ROSALINE. That was the way to make his godhead wax, For he hath been five thousand years a boy. KATHARINE. Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too. ROSALINE. You’ll ne’er be friends with him. He killed your sister. KATHARINE. He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy; And so she died. Had she been light, like you, Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit, She might ha’ been a grandam ere she died. And so may you, for a light heart lives long. ROSALINE. What’s your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word? KATHARINE. A light condition in a beauty dark. ROSALINE. We need more light to find your meaning out. KATHARINE. You’ll mar the light by taking it in snuff; Therefore I’ll darkly end the argument. ROSALINE. Look what you do, you do it still i’ 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. Well bandied both; a set of wit well played. But, Rosaline, you have a favour too. Who sent it? And what is it? ROSALINE. I would you knew. An if my face were but as fair as yours, My favour were as great. Be witness this. Nay, I have verses too, I thank Berowne; The numbers true, and, were the numbering too, I were the fairest goddess on the ground. I am compared to twenty thousand fairs. O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter. PRINCESS. Anything like? ROSALINE. Much in the letters, nothing in the praise. PRINCESS. Beauteous as ink: a good conclusion. KATHARINE. Fair as a text B in a copy-book. ROSALINE. ’Ware pencils, how! Let me not die your debtor, My red dominical, my golden letter. O, that your face were not so full of O’s! PRINCESS. A pox of that jest! And beshrew all shrews. But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumaine? KATHARINE. Madam, this glove. PRINCESS. Did he not send you twain? KATHARINE. Yes, madam, and moreover, Some thousand verses of a faithful lover. A huge translation of hypocrisy, Vilely compiled, profound simplicity. MARIA. This, and these pearls, to me sent Longaville. The letter is too long by half a mile. PRINCESS. I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart The chain were longer and the letter short? MARIA. Ay, or I would these hands might never part. PRINCESS. We are wise girls to mock our lovers so. ROSALINE. They are worse fools to purchase mocking so. That same Berowne I’ll torture ere I go. O that I knew he were but in by th’ week! How I would make him fawn, and beg, and seek, And wait the season, and observe the times, And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes, And shape his service wholly to my hests, And make him proud to make me proud that jests! So pair-taunt-like would I o’ersway his state, That he should be my fool, and I his fate. PRINCESS. None are so surely caught, when they are catched, As wit turned fool. Folly, in wisdom hatched, Hath wisdom’s warrant and the help of school And wit’s own grace to grace a learned fool. ROSALINE. The blood of youth burns not with such excess As gravity’s revolt to wantonness. MARIA. Folly in fools bears not so strong a note As fool’ry in the wise when wit doth dote, Since all the power thereof it doth apply To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity. Enter Boyet. PRINCESS. Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face. BOYET. O, I am stabbed with laughter! Where’s her Grace? PRINCESS. Thy news, Boyet? BOYET. Prepare, madam, prepare! Arm, wenches, arm! Encounters mounted are Against your peace. Love doth approach disguised, Armed in arguments. You’ll be surprised. Muster your wits, stand in your own defence, Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence. PRINCESS. Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they That charge their breath against us? Say, scout, say. BOYET. Under the cool shade of a sycamore I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour, When, lo, to interrupt my purposed rest, Toward that shade I might behold addressed The King and his companions. Warily I stole into a neighbour thicket by, And overheard what you shall overhear: That, by and by, disguised they will be here. Their herald is a pretty knavish page That well by heart hath conned 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 feared her had she been a devil.” With that all laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, Making the bold wag by their praises bolder. One rubbed his elbow thus, and fleered, 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 capered, and cried “All goes well!” The fourth turned on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous appears, To check their folly, passion’s solemn tears. PRINCESS. But what, but what, come they to visit us? BOYET. They do, they do, and are apparelled thus, Like Muscovites, or Russians, as I guess. Their purpose is to parley, court, and dance, And every one his love-feat will advance Unto his several mistress, which they’ll know By favours several which they did bestow. PRINCESS. And will they so? The gallants shall be tasked; For, ladies, we will every one be masked, 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, deceived by these removes. ROSALINE. Come on, then, wear the favours most in sight. KATHARINE. But in this changing, what is your intent? PRINCESS. The effect of my intent is to cross theirs. They do it but in mocking merriment, And mock for mock is only my intent. Their several counsels they unbosom shall To loves mistook, and so be mocked withal Upon the next occasion that we meet, With visages displayed to talk and greet. ROSALINE. But shall we dance, if they desire us to’t? PRINCESS. No, to the death we will not move a foot, Nor to their penned speech render we no grace, But while ’tis spoke each turn away her face. BOYET. Why, that contempt will kill the speaker’s heart, And quite divorce his memory from his part. PRINCESS. Therefore I do it, and I make no doubt The rest will ne’er come in, if he be out. There’s no such sport as sport by sport o’erthrown, To make theirs ours and ours none but our own. So shall we stay, mocking intended game, And they, well mocked, depart away with shame. [_Sound trumpet, within._] BOYET. The trumpet sounds. Be masked; the maskers come. [_The Ladies mask._] Enter Blackamoors with music, Moth, with a speech, the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine disguised. MOTH. _All hail, the richest beauties 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 turned their_—backs—_to mortal views!_ BEROWNE. _Their eyes_, villain, _their eyes._ MOTH. _That ever turned 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 measured many miles To tread a measure with her on this grass. BOYET. They say that they have measured many a mile To tread a measure with you on this grass. ROSALINE. It is not so. Ask them how many inches Is in one mile? If they have measured many, The measure then of one is easily told. BOYET. If to come hither you have measured 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 numbered 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 account. 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 bidd’st me beg; this begging is not strange. ROSALINE. Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon. [_Music plays._] Not yet? No dance! Thus change I like the moon. KING. Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged? ROSALINE. You took the moon at full, but now she’s 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 pleased with that. [_They converse apart._] BEROWNE. White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee. PRINCESS. Honey, and milk, and sugar: there is three. BEROWNE. Nay, then, two treys, an if you grow so nice, Metheglin, wort, and malmsey. Well run, dice! There’s half a dozen sweets. PRINCESS. Seventh sweet, adieu. Since you can cog, I’ll play no more with you. BEROWNE. One word in secret. PRINCESS. Let it not be sweet. BEROWNE. Thou griev’st my gall. PRINCESS. Gall! Bitter. BEROWNE. Therefore meet. [_They converse apart._] DUMAINE. Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word? MARIA. Name it. DUMAINE. Fair lady— MARIA. Say you so? Fair lord! Take that for your “fair lady”. DUMAINE. Please it you, As much in private, and I’ll bid adieu. [_They converse apart._] KATHARINE. What, was your visor made without a tongue? LONGAVILLE. I know the reason, lady, why you ask. KATHARINE. O, for your reason! Quickly, sir, I long. LONGAVILLE. You have a double tongue within your mask, And would afford my speechless visor half. KATHARINE. “Veal”, quoth the Dutchman. Is not veal a calf? LONGAVILLE. A calf, fair lady? KATHARINE. No, a fair lord calf. LONGAVILLE. Let’s part the word. KATHARINE. No, I’ll not be your half. Take all and wean it; it may prove an ox. LONGAVILLE. Look how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks. Will you give horns, chaste lady? Do not so. KATHARINE. Then die a calf before your horns do grow. LONGAVILLE. One word in private with you ere I die. KATHARINE. Bleat softly, then; the butcher hears you cry. [_They converse apart._] BOYET. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor’s edge invisible, Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen; Above the sense of sense, so sensible Seemeth their conference. Their conceits have wings Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things. ROSALINE. Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off. BEROWNE. By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff! KING. Farewell, mad wenches. You have simple wits. [_Exeunt King, Lords and Blackamoors._] PRINCESS. Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? BOYET. Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out. ROSALINE. Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat. PRINCESS. O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout! Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight? Or ever but in vizors show their faces? This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite. ROSALINE. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping-ripe for a good word. PRINCESS. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. MARIA. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword. “_Non point_,” quoth I; my servant straight was mute. KATHARINE. Lord Longaville said I came o’er his heart; And trow you what he called me? PRINCESS. Qualm, perhaps. KATHARINE. Yes, in good faith. PRINCESS. Go, sickness as thou art! ROSALINE. Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps. But will you hear? The King is my love sworn. PRINCESS. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. KATHARINE. And Longaville was for my service born. MARIA. Dumaine is mine as sure as bark on tree. BOYET. Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear. Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes, for it can never be They will digest this harsh indignity. PRINCESS. Will they return? BOYET. They will, they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows. Therefore, change favours and, when they repair, Blow like sweet roses in this summer air. PRINCESS. How “blow”? How “blow”? Speak to be understood. BOYET. Fair ladies masked are roses in their bud. Dismasked, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown. PRINCESS. Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do If they return in their own shapes to woo? ROSALINE. Good madam, if by me you’ll be advised, Let’s mock them still, as well known as disguised. Let us complain to them what fools were here, Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear; And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penned, And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our tent to us. BOYET. Ladies, withdraw. The gallants are at hand. PRINCESS. Whip to our tents, as roes run o’er the land. [_Exeunt Princess, Rosaline, Katharine and Maria._] Enter the King, Berowne, Longaville and Dumaine as themselves. 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 peas And utters it again when God doth please. He is wit’s pedlar, and retails his wares At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs; And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know, Have not the grace to grace it with such show. This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve. Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve. He can carve too, and lisp. Why, this is he That kissed his hand away in courtesy. This is the ape of form, Monsieur the Nice, That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice In honourable terms. Nay, he can sing A mean most meanly; and in ushering Mend him who can. The ladies call him sweet. The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet. This is the flower that smiles on everyone, To show his teeth as white as whale’s 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! Enter the Princess, Rosaline, Maria, Katharine with Boyet. BEROWNE. See where it comes! Behaviour, what wert thou Till this man showed thee, and what art thou now? KING. All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day. PRINCESS. “Fair” in “all hail” is foul, as I conceive. KING. Construe my speeches better, if you may. PRINCESS. Then wish me better. I will give you leave. KING. We came to visit you, and purpose now To lead you to our court. Vouchsafe it then. PRINCESS. This field shall hold me, and so hold your vow. Nor God nor I delights in perjured men. KING. Rebuke me not for that which you provoke. The virtue of your eye must break my oath. PRINCESS. You nickname virtue: “vice” you should have spoke; For virtue’s office never breaks men’s troth. Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure As the unsullied lily, I protest, A world of torments though I should endure, I would not yield to be your house’s guest, So much I hate a breaking cause to be Of heavenly oaths, vowed with integrity. KING. O, you have lived in desolation here, Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame. PRINCESS. Not so, my lord. It is not so, I swear. We have had pastimes here and pleasant game. A mess of Russians left us but of late. KING. How, madam? Russians? PRINCESS. Ay, in truth, my lord. Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state. ROSALINE. Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord. My lady, to the manner of the days, In courtesy gives undeserving praise. We four indeed confronted were with four In Russian habit. Here they stayed an hour And talked 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. My 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 visors was it that you wore? BEROWNE. Where, when, what visor? Why demand you this? ROSALINE. There, then, that visor; that superfluous case That hid the worse and showed the better face. KING. We are descried. They’ll mock us now downright. DUMAINE. Let us confess and turn it to a jest. PRINCESS. Amazed, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad? ROSALINE. Help! Hold his brows! He’ll swoon. Why look you pale? Seasick, 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 penned, Nor to the motion of a school-boy’s tongue, Nor never come in visor to my friend, Nor woo in rhyme like a blind harper’s song. Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise, Three-piled 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 expressed 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. No, they are free that gave these tokens to us. BEROWNE. Our states are forfeit. Seek not to undo us. ROSALINE. It is not so. For how can this be true, That you stand forfeit, being those that sue? BEROWNE. Peace! for I will not have to do with you. ROSALINE. Nor shall not, if I do as I intend. BEROWNE. Speak for yourselves. My wit is at an end. KING. Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression Some fair excuse. PRINCESS. The fairest is confession. Were not you here but even now, disguised? KING. Madam, I was. PRINCESS. And were you well advised? KING. I was, fair madam. PRINCESS. When you then were here, What did you whisper in your lady’s ear? KING. That more than all the world I did respect her. PRINCESS. When she shall challenge this, you will reject her. KING. Upon mine honour, no. PRINCESS. Peace, peace, forbear! Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear. KING. Despise me when I break this oath of mine. PRINCESS. I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline, What did the Russian whisper in your ear? ROSALINE. Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear As precious eyesight, and did value me Above this world; adding thereto, moreover, That he would wed me, or else die my lover. PRINCESS. God give thee joy of him! The noble lord Most honourably doth uphold his word. KING. What mean you, madam? By my life, my troth, I never swore this lady such an oath. ROSALINE. By heaven, you did! And to confirm it plain, You gave me this. But take it, sir, again. KING. My faith and this the Princess I did give. I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve. PRINCESS. Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear, And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear. What, will you have me, or your pearl again? BEROWNE. Neither of either; I remit both twain. I see the trick on’t. Here was a consent, Knowing aforehand of our merriment, To dash it like a Christmas comedy. Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany, Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick, That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick To make my lady laugh when she’s disposed, Told our intents before; which once disclosed, The ladies did change favours, and then we, Following the signs, wooed but the sign of she. Now, to our perjury to add more terror, We are again forsworn in will and error. Much upon this ’tis. [_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 allowed; Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud. You leer upon me, do you? There’s an eye Wounds like a leaden sword. BOYET. Full merrily Hath this brave manage, this career, been run. BEROWNE. Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done. Enter Costard. Welcome, pure wit! Thou part’st a fair fray. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, they would know Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no. BEROWNE. What, are there but three? COSTARD. No, sir; but it is vara fine, For every one pursents three. BEROWNE. And three times thrice is nine. COSTARD. Not so, sir, under correction, sir, I hope it is not so. You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we know. I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir— BEROWNE. Is not nine? COSTARD. Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount. BEROWNE. By Jove, I always took three threes for nine. COSTARD. O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living by reckoning, sir. BEROWNE. How much is it? COSTARD. O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount. For mine own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man in one poor man—Pompion the Great, sir. BEROWNE. Art thou one of the Worthies? COSTARD. It pleased them to think me worthy of 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. Nay, my good lord, let me o’errule you now. That sport best pleases that doth least know how, Where zeal strives to content, and the contents Die in the zeal of 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, the Braggart. ARMADO. Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet breath as will utter a brace of words. [_Armado and King talk apart._] PRINCESS. Doth this man serve God? BEROWNE. Why ask you? PRINCESS. He speaks not like a man of God his making. ARMADO. That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too, too vain, too, too vain. But we will put it, as they say, to _fortuna de la guerra_. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement! [_Exit._] KING. Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado’s page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus. _And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive, These four will change habits and present the other five._ BEROWNE. There is five in the first show. KING. You are deceived. ’Tis not so. BEROWNE. The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and the boy. Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein. KING. The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain. Enter Costard as Pompey. COSTARD. _I Pompey am_— BEROWNE. You lie, you are not he. COSTARD. _I Pompey am_— BOYET. With leopard’s head on knee. BEROWNE. Well said, old mocker. I must needs be friends with thee. COSTARD. _I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big._ DUMAINE. The “Great”. COSTARD. It is “Great”, sir; _Pompey surnamed the Great, That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to sweat. And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance, And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France._ If your ladyship would say, “Thanks, Pompey”, I had done. PRINCESS. Great thanks, great Pompey. COSTARD. ’Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect. I made a little fault in “Great”. BEROWNE. My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy. Enter Nathaniel, the Curate, for Alexander. NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander; By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might. My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander._ BOYET. Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right. BEROWNE. Your nose smells “no” in this, most tender-smelling knight. PRINCESS. The conqueror is dismayed. Proceed, good Alexander. NATHANIEL. _When in the world I lived, I was the world’s commander_— BOYET. Most true; ’tis right. You were so, Alisander. BEROWNE. Pompey the Great— COSTARD. Your servant, and Costard. BEROWNE. Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander. COSTARD. [_To Sir Nathaniel_.] O sir, you have overthrown Alisander the Conqueror. You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for this. Your lion, that holds his pole-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given to Ajax. He will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror, and afeard to speak? Run away for shame, Alisander. [_Nathaniel retires_.] There, an’t shall please you, a foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for Alisander, alas you see how ’tis—a little o’erparted. But there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort. PRINCESS. Stand aside, good Pompey. Enter Holofernes, the Pedant, as Judas, and Moth, the Boy, as Hercules. HOLOFERNES. _Great Hercules is presented by this imp, Whose club killed Cerberus, that three-headed_ canus, _And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp, Thus did he strangle serpents in his_ manus. Quoniam _he seemeth in minority_, Ergo _I come with this apology._ Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish. [_Moth retires._] _Judas I am._— DUMAINE. A Judas! HOLOFERNES. Not Iscariot, sir. _Judas I am, ycleped Maccabaeus._ DUMAINE. Judas Maccabaeus clipped is plain Judas. BEROWNE. A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas? HOLOFERNES. _Judas I am_— DUMAINE. The more shame for you, Judas. HOLOFERNES. What mean you, sir? BOYET. To make Judas hang himself. HOLOFERNES. Begin, sir; you are my elder. BEROWNE. Well 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. DUMAINE. The head of a bodkin. BEROWNE. A death’s face in a ring. LONGAVILLE. The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen. BOYET. The pommel of Caesar’s falchion. DUMAINE. The carved-bone face on a flask. BEROWNE. Saint George’s half-cheek in a brooch. DUMAINE. Ay, and in a brooch of lead. BEROWNE. Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer. And now forward, for we have put thee in countenance. HOLOFERNES. You have put me out of countenance. BEROWNE. False. We have given thee faces. HOLOFERNES. But you have outfaced them all. BEROWNE. An thou wert a lion, we would do so. BOYET. Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go. And so adieu, sweet Jude. Nay, why dost thou stay? DUMAINE. For the latter end of his name. BEROWNE. For the ass to the Jude? Give it him. Jud-as, away! HOLOFERNES. This is not generous, not gentle, not humble. BOYET. A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark; he may stumble. [_Exit Holofernes._] PRINCESS. Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited! Enter Armado, the Braggart, as Hector. BEROWNE. Hide thy head, Achilles. Here comes Hector in arms. DUMAINE. Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry. KING. Hector was but a Trojan in respect of this. BOYET. But is this Hector? DUMAINE. I think Hector was not so clean-timbered. LONGAVILLE. His leg is too big for Hector’s. DUMAINE. More calf, certain. BOYET. No, he is best endued in the small. BEROWNE. This cannot be Hector. DUMAINE. He’s a god or a painter, for he makes faces. ARMADO. _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift_— DUMAINE. A gilt nutmeg. BEROWNE. A lemon. LONGAVILLE. Stuck with cloves. DUMAINE. No, cloven. ARMADO. Peace! _The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty, Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion; A man so breathed that certain he would fight, yea, From morn till night, out of his pavilion. I am that flower_— DUMAINE. That mint. LONGAVILLE. That columbine. ARMADO. Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue. LONGAVILLE. I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector. DUMAINE. Ay, and Hector’s a greyhound. ARMADO. The sweet war-man is dead and rotten. Sweet chucks, beat not the bones of the buried. When he breathed, he was a man. But I will forward with my device. [_To the Princess_.] Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing. PRINCESS. Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted. ARMADO. I do adore thy sweet Grace’s slipper. BOYET. Loves her by the foot. DUMAINE. He may not by the yard. ARMADO. _This Hector far surmounted Hannibal. The party is gone_— COSTARD. Fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two months on her way. ARMADO. What meanest thou? COSTARD. Faith, unless you play the honest Trojan, the poor wench is cast away. She’s quick; the child brags in her belly already. ’Tis yours. ARMADO. Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die. COSTARD. Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him. DUMAINE. Most rare Pompey! BOYET. Renowned Pompey! BEROWNE. Greater than “Great”! Great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the Huge! DUMAINE. Hector trembles. BEROWNE. Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on, stir them on! DUMAINE. Hector will challenge him. BEROWNE. Ay, if he have no more man’s blood in his belly than will sup a flea. ARMADO. By the north pole, I do challenge thee. COSTARD. I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man. I’ll slash, I’ll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my arms again. DUMAINE. Room for the incensed Worthies! COSTARD. I’ll do it in my shirt. DUMAINE. Most resolute Pompey! MOTH. Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose your reputation. ARMADO. Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me. I will not combat in my shirt. DUMAINE. You may not deny it. Pompey hath made the challenge. ARMADO. Sweet bloods, I both may and will. BEROWNE. What reason have you for ’t? ARMADO. The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt. I go woolward for penance. BOYET. True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen; since when, I’ll be sworn, he wore none but a dishclout of Jaquenetta’s, and that he wears next his heart for a favour. Enter a Messenger, Monsieur Marcadé. MARCADÉ. God save you, madam. PRINCESS. Welcome, Marcadé, But that thou interruptest our merriment. MARCADÉ. I am sorry, madam, for the news I bring Is heavy in my tongue. The King your father— PRINCESS. Dead, for my life! MARCADÉ. Even so. My tale is told. BEROWNE. Worthies away! The scene begins to cloud. ARMADO. For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier. [_Exeunt Worthies._] KING. How fares your Majesty? PRINCESS. Boyet, prepare. I will away tonight. KING. Madam, not so. I do beseech you stay. PRINCESS. Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords, For all your fair endeavours, and entreat, Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide The liberal opposition of our spirits, If over-boldly we have borne ourselves In the converse of breath; your gentleness Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord! A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue. Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks For my great suit so easily obtained. 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 jostle it From what it purposed; since to wail friends lost Is not by much so wholesome-profitable As to rejoice at friends but newly found. PRINCESS. I understand you not. My griefs are double. BEROWNE. Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief; And by these badges understand the King. For your fair sakes have we neglected time, Played 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 seemed ridiculous— As love is full of unbefitting strains, All wanton as a child, skipping and vain, Formed 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 misbecomed our oaths and gravities, Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies, Our love being yours, the error that love makes Is likewise yours. We to ourselves prove false By being once false for ever to be true To those that make us both—fair ladies, you. And even that falsehood, in itself a sin, Thus purifies itself and turns to grace. PRINCESS. We have received your letters, full of love; Your favours, the ambassadors of love; And in our maiden council rated them At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy, As bombast and as lining to the time. But more devout than this in our respects Have we not been; and therefore met your loves In their own fashion, like a merriment. DUMAINE. Our letters, madam, showed much more than jest. LONGAVILLE. So did our looks. ROSALINE. We did not quote them so. KING. Now, at the latest minute of the hour, Grant us your loves. PRINCESS. A time, methinks, too short To make a world-without-end bargain in. No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjured 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 instance, 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 entitled 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. [_They converse apart_] DUMAINE. And 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. DUMAINE. O, shall I say, “I thank you, gentle wife”? KATHARINE. No so, my lord. A twelvemonth and a day I’ll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say. Come when the King doth to my lady come; Then, if I have much love, I’ll give you some. DUMAINE. I’ll serve thee true and faithfully till then. KATHARINE. Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again. [_They converse apart_] 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. [_They converse apart_] 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, Deafed with the clamours of their own dear groans, Will hear your idle scorns, continue then, And I will have you and that fault withal; But if they will not, throw away that spirit, And I shall find you empty of that fault, Right joyful of your reformation. BEROWNE. A twelvemonth? Well, befall what will befall, I’ll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital. PRINCESS. [_To the King_.] Ay, sweet my lord, and so I take my leave. KING. No, madam, we will bring you on your way. BEROWNE. Our wooing doth not end like an old play. Jack hath not Jill. These ladies’ courtesy Might well have made our sport a comedy. KING. Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day, And then ’twill end. BEROWNE. That’s too long for a play. Enter Armado, the Braggart. ARMADO. Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me— PRINCESS. Was not that Hector? DUMAINE. The worthy knight of Troy. ARMADO. I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her sweet love three 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. The Song 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 nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl: “Tu-whit, Tu-whoo!” 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-whit, Tu-whoo!” 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 TRAGEDY OF MACBETH Contents ACT I Scene I. An open Place. Scene II. A Camp near Forres. Scene III. A heath. Scene IV. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene V. Inverness. A Room in Macbeth’s Castle. Scene VI. The same. Before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. ACT II Scene I. Inverness. Court within the Castle. Scene II. The same. Scene III. The same. Scene IV. The same. Without the Castle. ACT III Scene I. Forres. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. Another Room in the Palace. Scene III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Scene IV. The same. A Room of state in the Palace. Scene V. The heath. Scene VI. Forres. A Room in the Palace. ACT IV Scene I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Scene II. Fife. A Room in Macduff’s Castle. Scene III. England. Before the King’s Palace. ACT V Scene I. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene II. The Country near Dunsinane. Scene III. Dunsinane. A Room in the Castle. Scene IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Scene V. Dunsinane. Within the castle. Scene VI. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Scene VII. The same. Another part of the Plain. Scene VIII. The same. Another part of the field. Dramatis Personæ DUNCAN, King of Scotland. MALCOLM, his Son. DONALBAIN, his Son. MACBETH, General in the King’s Army. BANQUO, General in the King’s Army. MACDUFF, Nobleman of Scotland. LENNOX, Nobleman of Scotland. ROSS, Nobleman of Scotland. MENTEITH, Nobleman of Scotland. ANGUS, Nobleman of Scotland. CAITHNESS, Nobleman of Scotland. FLEANCE, Son to Banquo. SIWARD, Earl of Northumberland, General of the English Forces. YOUNG SIWARD, his Son. SEYTON, an Officer attending on Macbeth. BOY, Son to Macduff. An English Doctor. A Scottish Doctor. A Soldier. A Porter. An Old Man. LADY MACBETH. LADY MACDUFF. Gentlewoman attending on Lady Macbeth. HECATE, and three Witches. Lords, Gentlemen, Officers, Soldiers, Murderers, Attendants and Messengers. The Ghost of Banquo and several other Apparitions. SCENE: In the end of the Fourth Act, in England; through the rest of the Play, in Scotland; and chiefly at Macbeth’s Castle. ACT I SCENE I. An open 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! SECOND WITCH. Paddock calls. THIRD WITCH. Anon. ALL. Fair is foul, and foul is fair: Hover through the fog and filthy air. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Camp near Forres. Alarum within. Enter King Duncan, Malcolm, Donalbain, Lennox, with Attendants, meeting a bleeding Captain. 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. SOLDIER. 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 smok’d with bloody execution, Like Valour’s minion, carv’d out his passage, Till he fac’d the slave; Which ne’er shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, Till he unseam’d him from the nave to the chops, And fix’d his head upon our battlements. DUNCAN. O valiant cousin! worthy gentleman! SOLDIER. As whence the sun ’gins his reflection Shipwracking 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 valour 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? SOLDIER. Yes; As sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were As cannons overcharg’d 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 honour both.—Go, get him surgeons. [_Exit Captain, attended._] Enter Ross and Angus. Who comes here? 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 cam’st 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 o’ th’ _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. Th’art 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 pent-house lid; He shall live a man forbid. Weary sev’n-nights nine times nine, Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine: Though his bark cannot be lost, Yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have. SECOND WITCH. Show me, show me. FIRST WITCH. Here I have a pilot’s thumb, Wrack’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’ th’ 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’ th’ 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 favours 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 receiv’d, 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: silenc’d with that, In viewing o’er the rest o’ th’ selfsame day, He finds thee in the stout Norweyan ranks, Nothing afeard of what thyself didst make, Strange images of death. As thick as tale Came post with post; and everyone did bear Thy praises in his kingdom’s great defence, 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 honour, 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 combin’d With those of Norway, or did line the rebel With hidden help and vantage, or that with both He labour’d in his country’s wrack, I know not; But treasons capital, confess’d and prov’d, Have overthrown him. MACBETH. [_Aside._] Glamis, and Thane of Cawdor: The greatest is behind. [_To Ross and Angus._] Thanks for your pains. [_To Banquo._] Do you not hope your children shall be kings, When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me Promis’d no less to them? BANQUO. 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 murder 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 honours 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 favour. 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 chanc’d; 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. A Room in 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, Implor’d 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 ow’d 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 deserv’d; 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 I owe, 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 honour. DUNCAN. Welcome hither: I have begun to plant thee, and will labour To make thee full of growing.—Noble Banquo, That hast no less deserv’d, 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 fulness, 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 honour 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 labour, which is not us’d 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. A Room in 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 perfect’st 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 might’st not lose the dues of rejoicing, by being ignorant of what greatness is promis’d thee. Lay it to thy heart, and farewell.” Glamis thou art, and Cawdor; and shalt be What thou art promis’d. Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o’ th’ 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’dst 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 valour 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 th’ access and passage to remorse, That no compunctious visitings of nature Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between Th’ effect and it! Come to my woman’s breasts, And take my milk for gall, your murd’ring 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’t. 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 favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. Before the Castle. Hautboys. Servants of Macbeth attending. 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 observ’d The air is delicate. Enter Lady Macbeth. DUNCAN. See, see, our honour’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 ’ild 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 honours 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 cours’d 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. The same. A Lobby in the Castle. Hautboys and torches. Enter, and pass over, a Sewer and divers Servants with dishes and service. Then enter Macbeth. MACBETH. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well It were done quickly. If th’ 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’d 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 th’ inventor. This even-handed justice Commends th’ ingredience 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 murderer 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, hors’d 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 th’ 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 honour’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 valour 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’ th’ adage? MACBETH. Pr’ythee, peace! I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more is none. LADY MACBETH. What beast was’t, 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 Th’ 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 receiv’d, When we have mark’d with blood those sleepy two Of his own chamber, and us’d their very daggers, That they have done’t? LADY MACBETH. Who dares receive it other, As we shall make our griefs and clamour 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 within the Castle. Enter Banquo and Fleance with 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 unprepar’d, 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 honour for you. BANQUO. So I lose none In seeking to augment it, but still keep My bosom franchis’d, and allegiance clear, I shall be counsell’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 marshall’st me the way that I was going; And such an instrument I was to use. Mine eyes are made the fools o’ the other senses, Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still; And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, Which was not so before.—There’s no such thing. It is the bloody business which informs Thus to mine eyes.—Now o’er the one half-world Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse The curtain’d sleep. Witchcraft celebrates Pale Hecate’s off’rings; and wither’d murder, 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 awak’d, And ’tis not done. Th’ 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.—My husband! Enter Macbeth. 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’ th’ second chamber? LADY MACBETH. Donalbain. MACBETH. This is a sorry sight. [_Looking 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, “Murder!” 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 lodg’d together. MACBETH. One cried, “God bless us!” and, “Amen,” the other, As they had seen me with these hangman’s hands. List’ning 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. Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep,”—the innocent sleep; Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care, The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course, Chief nourisher in life’s feast. LADY MACBETH. What do you mean? MACBETH. Still it cried, “Sleep no more!” to all the house: “Glamis hath murder’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. 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._] Knock, knock, knock. Who’s there, i’ th’ name of Belzebub? Here’s a farmer that hanged himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins enow about you; here you’ll sweat for’t. [_Knocking._] Knock, knock! Who’s there, i’ 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._] 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._] 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 th’ everlasting bonfire. [_Knocking._] 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 I requited him for his lie; and (I think) being too strong for him, though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast him. MACDUFF. Is thy master stirring? Enter Macbeth. Our knocking has awak’d him; here he comes. LENNOX. Good morrow, noble sir! MACBETH. Good 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 labour we delight in physics pain. This is the door. MACDUFF. I’ll make so bold to call. For ’tis my limited service. [_Exit Macduff._] 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’ th’ air, strange screams of death, And prophesying, with accents terrible, Of dire combustion and confus’d events, New hatch’d to the woeful time. The obscure bird Clamour’d the live-long night. Some say the earth Was feverous, and did shake. MACBETH. ’Twas a rough night. LENNOX. My young remembrance cannot parallel A fellow to it. 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 murder hath broke ope The Lord’s anointed temple, and stole thence The life o’ th’ 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.—Murder 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! [_Alarum-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 murder as it fell. Enter Banquo. O Banquo, Banquo! Our royal master’s murder’d! LADY MACBETH. Woe, alas! What, in our house? BANQUO. Too cruel anywhere.— Dear Duff, I pr’ythee, contradict thyself, And say it is not so. Enter Macbeth and Lennox with Ross. MACBETH. Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv’d 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 stopp’d; the very source of it is stopp’d. MACDUFF. Your royal father’s murder’d. MALCOLM. O, by whom? LENNOX. Those of his chamber, as it seem’d, had done’t: Their hands and faces were all badg’d with blood; So were their daggers, which, unwip’d, we found Upon their pillows. They star’d, 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, amaz’d, temperate, and furious, Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man: Th’ expedition of my violent love Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan, His silver skin lac’d with his golden blood; And his gash’d stabs look’d like a breach in nature For ruin’s wasteful entrance: there, the murderers, Steep’d in the colours 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. Why do we hold our tongues, That most may claim this argument for ours? DONALBAIN. 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. 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 undivulg’d pretence I fight Of treasonous malice. MACDUFF. And so do I. ALL. So all. MACBETH. Let’s briefly put on manly readiness, And meet i’ th’ 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 murderous 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. The same. Without the Castle. Enter Ross and 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. Ha, good father, Thou seest the heavens, as troubled with man’s act, Threatens his bloody stage: by the clock ’tis day, And yet dark night strangles the travelling 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. Here comes the good Macduff. Enter 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 will ravin up Thine own life’s means!—Then ’tis most like The sovereignty will fall upon Macbeth. MACDUFF. He is already nam’d; 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. A Room in the Palace. Enter Banquo. BANQUO. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all, As the Weird Women promis’d; 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 sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Macbeth as Queen; Lennox, Ross, Lords, 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 For ever knit. MACBETH. Ride you this afternoon? BANQUO. Ay, my good lord. MACBETH. We should have else desir’d 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 Lady Macbeth, Lords, &c._] Sirrah, a word with you. Attend those men Our pleasure? SERVANT. They are, my lord, without the palace gate. MACBETH. Bring them before us. [_Exit Servant._] 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 valour To act in safety. There is none but he Whose being I do fear: and under him My genius is rebuk’d; 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 plac’d 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 fil’d my mind; For them the gracious Duncan have I murder’d; Put rancours 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 th’ utterance!—Who’s there?— Enter Servant with two Murderers. Now go to the door, and stay there till we call. [_Exit Servant._] Was it not yesterday we spoke together? FIRST MURDERER. 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 craz’d Say, “Thus did Banquo.” FIRST MURDERER. 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 gospell’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 MURDERER. We are men, my liege. MACBETH. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves are clept All by the name of dogs: the valu’d file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him clos’d; 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’ th’ worst rank of manhood, say’t; 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 MURDERER. I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Hath so incens’d that I am reckless what I do to spite the world. FIRST MURDERER. 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 MURDERERS. 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 barefac’d 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 MURDERER. We shall, my lord, Perform what you command us. FIRST MURDERER. 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’ th’ time, The moment on’t; for’t 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 MURDERERS. We are resolv’d, my lord. MACBETH. I’ll call upon you straight: abide within. [_Exeunt Murderers._] It is concluded. Banquo, thy soul’s flight, If it find heaven, must find it out tonight. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. Another Room in 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. Naught’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 scorch’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, Gently 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 honours 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-born 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 th’ rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, Whiles night’s black agents to their preys do rouse. Thou marvell’st at my words: but hold thee still; Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill. So, pr’ythee, go with me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Park or Lawn, with a gate leading to the Palace. Enter three Murderers. FIRST MURDERER. But who did bid thee join with us? THIRD MURDERER. Macbeth. SECOND MURDERER. He needs not our mistrust; since he delivers Our offices and what we have to do To the direction just. FIRST MURDERER. Then stand with us. The west yet glimmers with some streaks of day. Now spurs the lated traveller apace, To gain the timely inn; and near approaches The subject of our watch. THIRD MURDERER. Hark! I hear horses. BANQUO. [_Within._] Give us a light there, ho! SECOND MURDERER. Then ’tis he; the rest That are within the note of expectation Already are i’ th’ court. FIRST MURDERER. His horses go about. THIRD MURDERER. Almost a mile; but he does usually, So all men do, from hence to the palace gate Make it their walk. Enter Banquo and Fleance with a torch. SECOND MURDERER. A light, a light! THIRD MURDERER. ’Tis he. FIRST MURDERER. Stand to’t. BANQUO. It will be rain tonight. FIRST MURDERER. Let it come down. [_Assaults Banquo._] BANQUO. O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Thou mayst revenge—O slave! [_Dies. Fleance escapes._] THIRD MURDERER. Who did strike out the light? FIRST MURDERER. Was’t not the way? THIRD MURDERER. There’s but one down: the son is fled. SECOND MURDERER. We have lost best half of our affair. FIRST MURDERER. Well, let’s away, and say how much is done. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same. A Room of state 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 Murderer to the door. MACBETH. See, they encounter thee with their hearts’ thanks. Both sides are even: here I’ll sit i’ th’ midst. Be large in mirth; anon we’ll drink a measure The table round. There’s blood upon thy face. MURDERER. ’Tis Banquo’s then. MACBETH. ’Tis better thee without than he within. Is he dispatch’d? MURDERER. My lord, his throat is cut. That I did for him. MACBETH. Thou art the best o’ th’ cut-throats; Yet he’s good that did the like for Fleance: If thou didst it, thou art the nonpareil. MURDERER. Most royal sir, Fleance is ’scap’d. MACBETH. 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? MURDERER. 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 th’ present.—Get thee gone; tomorrow We’ll hear, ourselves, again. [_Exit Murderer._] LADY MACBETH. My royal lord, You do not give the cheer: the feast is sold That is not often vouch’d, while ’tis a-making, ’Tis given with welcome. To feed were best at home; From thence the sauce to meat is ceremony; Meeting were bare without it. The Ghost of Banquo rises, and sits in Macbeth’s place. MACBETH. Sweet remembrancer!— Now, good digestion wait on appetite, And health on both! LENNOX. May’t please your Highness sit. MACBETH. Here had we now our country’s honour roof’d, Were the grac’d 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 reserv’d, 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 not 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, Authoris’d by her grandam. Shame itself! Why do you make such faces? When all’s done, You look but on a stool. MACBETH. Pr’ythee, 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. [_Ghost disappears._] 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’ th’ olden time, Ere humane statute purg’d the gentle weal; Ay, and since too, murders 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 murders on their crowns, And push us from our stools. This is more strange Than such a murder 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’ th’ whole table, And to our dear friend Banquo, whom we miss: Would he were here. Ghost rises again. To all, and him, we thirst, And all to all. LORDS. Our duties, and the pledge. 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 th’ 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 mock’ry, hence! [_Ghost disappears._] 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 admir’d 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 are 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 Lords and Attendants._] MACBETH. It will have blood, they say, blood will have blood. Stones have been known to move, and trees to speak; Augurs, and understood relations, have By magot-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 fee’d. 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. The 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’ th’ morning: thither he Will come to know his destiny. Your vessels and your spells provide, Your charms, and everything beside. I am for th’ 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 vap’rous 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 song within, “Come away, come away” &c._] 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. A Room in 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, and’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 receiv’d 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 honours, 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, t’ 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 accurs’d! LORD. I’ll send my prayers with him. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A dark Cave. In the middle, a Cauldron Boiling. Thunder. Enter the three Witches. FIRST WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d. SECOND WITCH. Thrice, and once the hedge-pig whin’d. 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’ th’ 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’ th’ 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 chaudron, For th’ ingredients of our cauldron. 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. HECATE. O, well done! I commend your pains, And everyone shall share i’ th’ 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,” &c._] [_Exit Hecate._] 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, (Howe’er 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 lodg’d, 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 germens 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 murderer’s gibbet throw Into the flame. ALL. Come, high or low; Thyself and office deftly show! [_Thunder. An Apparition of an armed Head rises._] MACBETH. Tell me, thou unknown power,— FIRST WITCH. He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou naught. 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. An Apparition of a bloody Child rises._] APPARITION. Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! MACBETH. Had I three ears, I’d hear thee. 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. An Apparition of a Child crowned, with a tree in his hand, rises._] 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. 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! Rebellious head, rise never till the wood Of Birnam rise, and our high-plac’d 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 appear, and pass over in order, the last with a glass in his hand; Banquo 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 th’ 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 vanish._] MACBETH. Where are they? Gone?—Let this pernicious hour Stand aye 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 was’t 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. Time, thou anticipat’st 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 th’ edge o’ th’ 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. A Room in 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’ th’ season. I dare not speak much further: But cruel are the times, when we are traitors, And do not know ourselves; when we hold rumour 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’dst never fear the net nor lime, The pit-fall 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 a 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. Every one that does so is a traitor, and must be hanged. SON. And must they all be hanged that swear and lie? LADY MACDUFF. Every one. 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 honour 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 defence, To say I have done no harm? What are these faces? Enter Murderers. FIRST MURDERER. Where is your husband? LADY MACDUFF. I hope, in no place so unsanctified Where such as thou mayst find him. FIRST MURDERER. He’s a traitor. SON. Thou liest, thou shag-ear’d villain! FIRST MURDERER. What, you egg! [_Stabbing him._] Young fry of treachery! SON. He has kill’d me, mother: Run away, I pray you! [_Dies. Exit Lady Macduff, crying “Murder!” and pursued by the Murderers._] 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 down-fall’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 dolour. MALCOLM. What I believe, I’ll wail; 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 dishonours, 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 compar’d 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 cistern 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 Th’ 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 inclin’d. MALCOLM. With this there grows In my most ill-compos’d affection such A staunchless 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, temp’rance, 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 accus’d, And does blaspheme his breed? Thy royal father Was a most sainted king. The queen that bore thee, Oft’ner 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, reconcil’d my thoughts To thy good truth and honour. 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 swoln 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 rent 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 goes’t? ROSS. When I came hither to transport the tidings, Which I have heavily borne, there ran a rumour 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 for ever, Which shall possess them with the heaviest sound That ever yet they heard. MACDUFF. Humh! I guess at it. ROSS. Your castle is surpris’d; your wife and babes Savagely slaughter’d. To relate the manner Were, on the quarry of these murder’d deer, To add the death of you. MALCOLM. Merciful heaven!— What, man! ne’er pull your hat upon your brows. Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak Whispers the o’er-fraught 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 med’cines 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. A Room 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, I 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 are 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 ne’er 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 whisp’rings 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 amaz’d my sight. I think, but dare not speak. GENTLEWOMAN. Good night, good doctor. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Country near Dunsinane. Enter, with drum and colours 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 Siward’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 murders 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 ow’d: Meet we the med’cine 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 pronounc’d 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-fac’d loon! Where gott’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 counsellors 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 liv’d long enough: my way of life Is fall’n into the sere, the yellow leaf; And that which should accompany old age, As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends, I must not look to have; but, in their stead, Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, 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 till from my bones my flesh be hack’d. Give me my armour. 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 armour.— 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 diseas’d, 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 armour on; give me my staff: Seyton, send out.—Doctor, the Thanes fly from me.— Come, sir, despatch.—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, senna, or what purgative drug, Would scour these English hence? Hear’st 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. [_Exeunt all except Doctor._] DOCTOR. Were I from Dunsinane away and clear, Profit again should hardly draw me here. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Country near Dunsinane: a Wood in view. Enter, with drum and colours Malcolm, old Siward 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 with drum and colours, Macbeth, Seyton and Soldiers. 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 forc’d 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. 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 com’st 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’t. 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 th’ 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 th’ estate o’ th’ 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. The same. A Plain before the Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Macduff and their Army, with boughs. MALCOLM. Now near enough. Your leafy 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. The same. Another part of the Plain. 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. Thou liest, abhorred tyrant. With my sword I’ll prove the lie thou speak’st. [_They fight, and young Siward 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 be’st 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. Alarums._] SCENE VIII. The same. 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 charg’d 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 labour: 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 serv’d 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 believ’d, That palter 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’ th’ 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 oppos’d, 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._] Retreat. Flourish. Enter, with drum and colours, Malcolm, old Siward, Ross, Thanes and Soldiers. MALCOLM. I would the friends we miss were safe arriv’d. 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 liv’d 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 measur’d 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. Enter Macduff with Macbeth’s head. MACDUFF. Hail, King, for so thou art. Behold, where stands Th’ 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 honour nam’d. What’s more to do, Which would be planted newly with the time,— As calling home our exil’d 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._] MEASURE FOR MEASURE Contents ACT I Scene I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace Scene II. A street Scene III. A monastery Scene IV. A nunnery ACT II Scene I. A hall in Angelo’s house Scene II. Another room in the same Scene III. A room in a prison Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house ACT III Scene I. A room in the prison Scene II. The street before the prisons ACT IV Scene I. A room in Mariana’s house Scene II. A room in the prison Scene III. Another room in the same Scene IV. A room in Angelo’s house Scene V. Fields without the town Scene VI. Street near the city gate ACT V Scene I. A public place near the city gate Dramatis Personæ Vincentio, DUKE of Vienna ESCALUS, an ancient Lord PROVOST ELBOW, a simple constable ABHORSON, an executioner A JUSTICE VARRIUS, a Gentleman, Servant to the Duke ANGELO, Deputy to the Duke MARIANA, betrothed to Angelo BOY, singer SERVANT, to Angelo MESSENGER, from Angelo ISABELLA, Sister to Claudio FRANCISCA, a nun CLAUDIO, a young Gentleman JULIET, betrothed to Claudio LUCIO, a fantastic Two GENTLEMEN FRIAR THOMAS FRIAR PETER Mistress Overdone, a BAWD POMPEY, Servant to Mistress Overdone FROTH, a foolish gentleman BARNARDINE, a dissolute prisoner Lords, Officers, Servants, Citizens and Attendants SCENE: Vienna ACT I SCENE I. An apartment in the Duke’s palace. Enter Duke, Escalus, Lords and Attendants. DUKE. Escalus. ESCALUS. My lord. DUKE. Of government the properties to unfold Would seem in me 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, you’re as pregnant in As art and practice hath enriched any That we remember. There is our commission, From which we would not have you warp.—Call hither, I say, bid come before us, Angelo. [_Exit an Attendant._] What figure of us think you he will bear? For you must know we have with special soul Elected him our absence to supply; Lent him our terror, drest him with our love, And given his deputation all the organs Of our own power. What think you of it? ESCALUS. If any in Vienna be of worth To undergo such ample grace and honour, It is Lord Angelo. Enter Angelo. DUKE. Look where he comes. ANGELO. Always obedient to your Grace’s will, I come to know your pleasure. DUKE. Angelo, There is a kind of character in thy life That to th’ observer doth thy history Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings Are not thine own so proper as to waste Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee. Heaven doth with us as we with torches do, Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues; nor nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines Herself the glory of a creditor, Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech To one that can my part in him advertise. Hold, therefore, Angelo. In our remove be thou at full ourself. Mortality and mercy in Vienna Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus, Though first in question, is thy secondary. Take thy commission. ANGELO. Now, good my lord, Let there be some more test made of my metal, Before so noble and so great a figure Be stamped upon it. DUKE. No more evasion. We have with a leavened 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 unquestioned 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 power 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 scraped one out of the table. SECOND GENTLEMAN. “Thou shalt not steal”? LUCIO. Ay, that he razed. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions! They put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all that, in the thanksgiving before meat, do relish the petition well that prays for peace. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I never heard any soldier dislike it. LUCIO. I believe thee; for I think thou never wast where grace was said. SECOND GENTLEMAN. No? A dozen times at least. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What? In metre? LUCIO. In any proportion or in any language. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think, or in any religion. LUCIO. Ay, why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy; as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Well, there went but a pair of shears between us. LUCIO. I grant, as there may between the lists and the velvet. Thou art the list. FIRST GENTLEMAN. And thou the velvet. Thou art good velvet; thou’rt a three-piled piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now? LUCIO. I think thou dost, and indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech. I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I think I have done myself wrong, have I not? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free. Enter Mistress Overdone, a Bawd. LUCIO. Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to— SECOND GENTLEMAN. To what, I pray? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Judge. SECOND GENTLEMAN. To three thousand 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? BAWD. Well, well! There’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who’s that, I pray thee? BAWD. Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Claudio to prison? ’Tis not so. BAWD. Nay, but I know ’tis so. I saw him arrested, saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off. LUCIO. But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this? BAWD. I am too sure of it. And it is for getting Madam Julietta with child. LUCIO. Believe me, this may be. He promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But most of all agreeing with the proclamation. LUCIO. Away! Let’s go learn the truth of it. [_Exeunt Lucio and Gentlemen._] BAWD. Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows, and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk. Enter Pompey. How now? What’s the news with you? POMPEY. Yonder man is carried to prison. BAWD. Well, what has he done? POMPEY. A woman. BAWD. But what’s his offence? POMPEY. Groping for trouts in a peculiar river. BAWD. 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? BAWD. What proclamation, man? POMPEY. All houses in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down. BAWD. 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. BAWD. But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down? POMPEY. To the ground, mistress. BAWD. 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. Enter Provost, Claudio, Juliet and Officers. BAWD. 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 Bawd and Pompey._] CLAUDIO. Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world? Bear me to prison, where I am committed. PROVOST. I do it not in evil disposition, But from Lord Angelo by special charge. CLAUDIO. Thus can the demi-god Authority Make us pay down for our offence by weight. The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will; On whom it will not, so; yet still ’tis just. Enter Lucio and two Gentlemen. 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 looked after? CLAUDIO. Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract I got possession of Julietta’s bed. You know the lady; she is fast my wife, Save that we do the denunciation lack Of outward order. This we came not to Only for propagation of a dower Remaining in the coffer of her friends, From whom we thought it meet to hide our love Till time had made them for us. But it chances The stealth of our most mutual entertainment With character too gross is writ on Juliet. LUCIO. With child, perhaps? CLAUDIO. Unhappily, even so. And the new deputy now for the Duke— Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness, Or whether that the body public be A horse whereon the governor doth ride, Who, newly in the seat, that it may know He can command, lets it straight feel the spur; Whether the tyranny be in his place, Or in his eminence that fills it up, I stagger in—but this new governor Awakes me all the enrolled penalties Which have, like unscoured 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 moves men; beside, she hath prosperous art When she will play with reason and discourse, And well she can persuade. LUCIO. I pray she may, as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her. CLAUDIO. I thank you, good friend Lucio. LUCIO. Within two hours. CLAUDIO. Come, officer, away. [_Exeunt._] 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 THOMAS. May your Grace speak of it? DUKE. My holy sir, none better knows than you How I have ever loved the life removed, And held in idle price to haunt assemblies Where youth, and cost, a witless bravery keeps. I have delivered to Lord Angelo, A man of stricture and firm abstinence, My absolute power and place here in Vienna, And he supposes me travelled to Poland; For so I have strewed it in the common ear, And so it is received. Now, pious sir, You will demand of me why I do this? FRIAR THOMAS. Gladly, my lord. DUKE. We have strict statutes and most biting laws, The needful bits and curbs to headstrong weeds, 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 mocked than feared: 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 THOMAS. It rested in your Grace To unloose this tied-up justice when you pleased; And it in you more dreadful would have seemed 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 imposed 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 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, a Nun. 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 vowed, 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. ’Tis 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 talked with in sincerity, As with a saint. ISABELLA. You do blaspheme the good in mocking me. LUCIO. Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus: Your brother and his lover have embraced; As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time That from the seedness the bare fallow brings To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry. ISABELLA. Someone 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 picked 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 censured him already; And, as I hear, the Provost hath a warrant For’s execution. ISABELLA. Alas, what poor ability’s in me To do him good? LUCIO. Assay the power you have. ISABELLA. My power? Alas, I doubt. LUCIO. Our doubts are traitors, And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo, And let him learn to know, when maidens sue, Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel, All their petitions are as freely theirs As they themselves would owe them. ISABELLA. I’ll see what I can do. LUCIO. But speedily. ISABELLA. I will about it straight; No longer staying but to give the Mother Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you. Commend me to my brother. Soon at night I’ll send him certain word of my success. LUCIO. I take my leave of you. ISABELLA. Good sir, adieu. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A hall in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo, Escalus, Servants, and a Justice. 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 cohered with place, or place with wishing, Or that the resolute acting of your blood Could have attained th’ effect of your own purpose, Whether you had not sometime in your life Erred in this point which now you censure him, And pulled 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 judgement pattern out my death, And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die. Enter Provost. 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 tomorrow morning. Bring him his confessor, let him be prepared, For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage. [_Exit Provost._] ESCALUS. Well, heaven forgive him; and forgive us all. Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none, And some condemned for a fault alone. Enter Elbow 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, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think is a very ill house too. ESCALUS. How know you that? ELBOW. My 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 accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there. ESCALUS. By the woman’s means? ELBOW. Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means; but as she spit in his face, so she defied him. POMPEY. Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so. ELBOW. Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it. ESCALUS. [_To Angelo_.] Do you hear how he misplaces? POMPEY. Sir, she came in great with child; and longing, saving your honour’s reverence, for stewed prunes; sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit dish, a dish of some threepence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not china dishes, but very good dishes— ESCALUS. Go to, go to. No matter for the dish, sir. 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 threepence again— FROTH. No, indeed. POMPEY. Very well. You being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes— FROTH. Ay, so I did indeed. POMPEY. Why, very well. I telling you then, if you be remembered, 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 supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then, if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your honour. ESCALUS. He’s in the right. Constable. What say you to it? ELBOW. First, an it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow; and his mistress is a respected woman. POMPEY. By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all. ELBOW. Varlet, thou liest; thou liest, wicked varlet! The time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child. 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 battery on thee. ESCALUS. If he took you a box o’ th’ ear, you might have your action of slander too. ELBOW. Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I 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. [_To Froth_.] Where were you born, friend? FROTH. Here in Vienna, sir. ESCALUS. Are you of fourscore pounds a year? FROTH. Yes, an’t please you, sir. ESCALUS. So. [_To Pompey_.] 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. 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 whipped. 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 whipped 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 sometime. You say seven years together? ELBOW. And a half, sir. ESCALUS. Alas, it hath been great pains to you. They do you wrong to put you so oft upon’t. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it? ELBOW. Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them; I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all. ESCALUS. Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish. ELBOW. To your worship’s house, sir? ESCALUS. To my house. Fare you well. [_Exit Elbow._] What’s o’clock, think you? JUSTICE. Eleven, sir. ESCALUS. I pray you home to dinner with me. JUSTICE. I humbly thank you. ESCALUS. It grieves me for the death of Claudio, But there’s no remedy. JUSTICE. Lord Angelo is severe. ESCALUS. It is but needful. Mercy is not itself that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe. But yet, Poor Claudio! There’s no remedy. Come, sir. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another room in the same. Enter Provost and a Servant. SERVANT. He’s hearing of a cause. He will come straight. I’ll tell him of you. PROVOST. Pray you do. [_Exit Servant._] I’ll know His pleasure, may be he will relent. Alas, He hath but as offended in a dream; All sects, all ages, smack of this vice, and he To die for ’t! Enter Angelo. ANGELO. Now, what’s the matter, Provost? PROVOST. Is it your will Claudio shall die tomorrow? 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, judgement hath Repented o’er his doom. ANGELO. Go to; let that be mine. Do you your office, or give up your place, And you shall well be spared. PROVOST. I crave your honour’s pardon. What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet? She’s very near her hour. ANGELO. Dispose of her To some more fitter place; and that with speed. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Here is the sister of the man condemned Desires access to you. ANGELO. Hath he a sister? PROVOST. Ay, my good lord, a very virtuous maid, And to be shortly of a sisterhood, If not already. ANGELO. Well, let her be admitted. [_Exit Servant._] See you the fornicatress be removed; Let her have needful but not lavish means; There shall be order for it. Enter Lucio and Isabella. PROVOST. [_Offering to retire_.] Save your honour! ANGELO. Stay a little while. [_To Isabella_.] You are welcome. What’s your will? ISABELLA. I am a woeful suitor to your honour, Please but your honour hear me. ANGELO. Well, what’s your suit? ISABELLA. There is a vice that most I do abhor, And most desire should meet the blow of justice; For which I would not plead, but that I must; For which I must not plead, but that I am At war ’twixt will and will not. ANGELO. Well, the matter? ISABELLA. I have a brother is condemned to die; I do beseech you, let it be his fault, And not my brother. PROVOST. Heaven give thee moving graces. ANGELO. Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it? Why, every fault’s condemned ere it be done. Mine were the very cipher of a function To find the faults whose fine stands in record, And let go by the actor. ISABELLA. O just but severe law! I had a brother, then. Heaven keep your honour! [_Going._] 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 touched with that remorse As mine is to him? ANGELO. He’s sentenced, ’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 slipped like him, but he like you Would not have been so stern. ANGELO. Pray you be gone. ISABELLA. I would to heaven I had your potency, And you were Isabel! Should it then be thus? No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge And what a prisoner. LUCIO. [_Aside_.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein. ANGELO. Your brother is a forfeit of the law, And you but waste your words. ISABELLA. Alas, alas! Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once, And He that might the vantage best have took Found out the remedy. How would you be If He, which is the top of judgement, should But judge you as you are? O, think on that, And mercy then will breathe within your lips, Like man new made. ANGELO. Be you content, fair maid. It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, It should be thus with him. He must die tomorrow. ISABELLA. Tomorrow? O, that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him! He’s not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens We kill the fowl of season. Shall we serve heaven With less respect than we do minister To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you. Who is it that hath died for this offence? There’s many have committed it. LUCIO. Ay, well said. ANGELO. The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept. Those many had not dared to do that evil If the first that did th’ edict infringe Had answered 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 conceived, And so in progress to be hatched and born, Are now to have no successive degrees, But, where they live, to end. ISABELLA. Yet show some pity. ANGELO. I show it most of all when I show justice; For then I pity those I do not know, Which a dismissed offence would after gall, And do him right that, answering one foul wrong, Lives not to act another. Be satisfied; Your brother dies tomorrow; be content. ISABELLA. So you must be the first that gives this sentence, And he that suffers. O, it is excellent To have a giant’s strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant. LUCIO. That’s well said. ISABELLA. Could great men thunder As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet, For every pelting petty officer Would use his heaven for thunder. Nothing but thunder. Merciful Heaven, Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt Splits the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, Than the soft myrtle. But man, proud man, Dressed in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he’s most assured, His glassy essence, like an angry ape Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven As makes the angels weep; who, with our spleens, Would all themselves laugh mortal. LUCIO. O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent; He’s coming. I perceive ’t. PROVOST. Pray heaven she win him. ISABELLA. We cannot weigh our brother with ourself. Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them, But in the less, foul profanation. LUCIO. Thou’rt i’ th’ right, girl; more o’ that. ISABELLA. That in the captain’s but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy. LUCIO. Art advised o’ that? More on’t. ANGELO. Why do you put these sayings upon me? ISABELLA. Because authority, though it err like others, Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself That skins the vice o’ 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. She speaks, and ’tis such sense That my sense breeds with it. [_Going_.] Fare you well. ISABELLA. Gentle my lord, turn back. ANGELO. I will bethink me. Come again tomorrow. ISABELLA. Hark how I’ll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back. ANGELO. How? Bribe me? ISABELLA. Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you. LUCIO. You had marred all else. ISABELLA. Not with fond shekels of the tested gold, Or stones, whose rates are either rich or poor As fancy values them, but with true prayers, That shall be up at heaven and enter there Ere sunrise, prayers from preserved souls, From fasting maids, whose minds are dedicate To nothing temporal. ANGELO. Well; come to me tomorrow. LUCIO. [_Aside to Isabella_.] Go to, ’tis well; away. ISABELLA. Heaven keep your honour safe. ANGELO. [_Aside_.] Amen. For I am that way going to temptation, Where prayers cross. ISABELLA. At what hour tomorrow Shall I attend your lordship? ANGELO. At any time ’fore noon. ISABELLA. Save your honour. [_Exeunt Isabella, Lucio and Provost._] ANGELO. From thee, even from thy virtue! What’s this? What’s this? Is this her fault or mine? The tempter or the tempted, who sins most, ha? Not she; nor doth she tempt; but it is I That, lying by the violet in the sun, Do as the carrion does, not as the flower, Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be That modesty may more betray our sense Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough, Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie! What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo? Dost thou desire her foully for those things That make her good? O, let her brother live. Thieves for their robbery have authority When judges steal themselves. What, do I love her, That I desire to hear her speak again And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on? O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint, With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous Is that temptation that doth goad us on To sin in loving virtue. Never could the strumpet With all her double vigour, art, and nature, Once stir my temper, but this virtuous maid Subdues me quite. Ever till now When men were fond, I smiled and wondered how. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A room in a prison. Enter 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 blessed 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 blistered her report. She is with child, And he that got it, sentenced: a young man More fit to do another such offence Than die for this. DUKE. When must he die? PROVOST. As I do think, tomorrow. [_To Juliet_.] I have provided for you; stay a while And you shall be conducted. DUKE. Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry? JULIET. I do; and bear the shame most patiently. DUKE. I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience, And try your penitence, if it be sound Or hollowly put on. JULIET. I’ll gladly learn. DUKE. Love you the man that wronged you? JULIET. Yes, as I love the woman that wronged 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 tomorrow, And I am going with instruction to him. Grace go with you! _Benedicite!_ [_Exit._] JULIET. Must die tomorrow? O, injurious love That respites me a life, whose very comfort Is still a dying horror! PROVOST. ’Tis pity of him. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo. ANGELO. When I would pray and think, I think and pray To several subjects. Heaven hath my empty words, Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue, Anchors on Isabel. Heaven in my mouth, As if I did but only chew his name, And in my heart the strong and swelling evil Of my conception. The state whereon I studied Is, like a good thing being often read, Grown 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. [_Knock within._] How now, who’s there? Enter Servant. 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-wished king Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love Must needs appear offence. Enter Isabella. How now, fair maid? ISABELLA. I am come to know your pleasure. ANGELO. That you might know it, would much better please me Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live. ISABELLA. Even so. Heaven keep your honour. ANGELO. Yet may he live a while. And, it may be, As long as you or I. Yet he must die. ISABELLA. Under your sentence? ANGELO. Yea. ISABELLA. When, I beseech you? That in his reprieve, Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted That his soul sicken not. ANGELO. Ha! Fie, these filthy vices! It were as good To pardon him that hath from nature stolen A man already made, as to remit Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image In stamps that are forbid. ’Tis all as easy Falsely to take away a life true made As to put metal in restrained means To make a false one. ISABELLA. ’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth. ANGELO. Say you so? Then I shall pose you quickly. Which had you rather, that the most just law Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him, Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness As she that he hath stained? ISABELLA. Sir, believe this: I had rather give my body than my soul. ANGELO. I talk not of your soul. Our compelled 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. Pleased 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, crafty; 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 enshield beauty ten times louder Than beauty could, displayed. But mark me; To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross. Your brother is to die. ISABELLA. So. ANGELO. And his offence is so, as it appears, Accountant to the law upon that pain. ISABELLA. True. ANGELO. Admit no other way to save his life— As I subscribe not that, nor any other, But, in the loss of question, that you, his sister, Finding yourself desired 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 slandered so? ISABELLA. Ignominy in ransom and free pardon Are of two houses. Lawful mercy Is nothing kin to foul redemption. ANGELO. You seemed of late to make the law a tyrant, And rather proved the sliding of your brother A merriment than a vice. ISABELLA. O, pardon me, my lord. It oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean. I something do excuse the thing I hate For his advantage that I dearly love. ANGELO. We are all frail. ISABELLA. Else let my brother die, If not a feodary but only he Owe and succeed by weakness. ANGELO. Nay, women are frail too. ISABELLA. Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves, Which are as easy broke as they make forms. Women?—Help, heaven! Men their creation mar In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail; For we are soft as our complexions are, And credulous to false prints. ANGELO. I think it well. And from this testimony of your own sex, Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger Than faults may shake our frames, let me be bold. I do arrest your words. Be that you are, That is, a woman. If you be more, you’re none. If you be one, as you are well expressed By all external warrants, show it now By putting on the destined 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 believed, And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming! I will proclaim thee, Angelo, look for’t. Sign me a present pardon for my brother Or with an outstretched throat I’ll tell the world aloud What man thou art. ANGELO. Who will believe thee, Isabel? My unsoiled 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 tomorrow, 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 abhorred pollution. Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die. More than our brother is our chastity. I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request, And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. A room in the prison. Enter Duke, Claudio and Provost. DUKE. So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo? CLAUDIO. The miserable have no other medicine But only hope. I have hope to live, and am prepared 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 runn’st toward him still. Thou art not noble; For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st Are nursed 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 more thousand deaths; yet death we fear, That makes these odds all even. CLAUDIO. I humbly thank you. To sue to live, I find I seek to die, And seeking death, find life. Let it come on. ISABELLA. [_Within_.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company! PROVOST. Who’s there? Come in. The wish deserves a welcome. DUKE. Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again. CLAUDIO. Most holy sir, I thank you. Enter Isabella. ISABELLA. My business is a word or two with Claudio. PROVOST. And very welcome. Look, signior, here’s your sister. DUKE. Provost, a word with you. PROVOST. As many as you please. DUKE. Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be concealed. [_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; Tomorrow 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 determined scope. CLAUDIO. But in what nature? ISABELLA. In such a one as, you consenting to’t, Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear, And leave you naked. CLAUDIO. Let me know the point. ISABELLA. O, I do fear thee, Claudio, and I quake, Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain, And six or seven winters more respect Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die? The sense of death is most in apprehension; And the poor beetle that we tread upon In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies. CLAUDIO. Why give you me this shame? Think you I can a resolution fetch From flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride And hug it in mine arms. ISABELLA. There spake my brother! There my father’s grave Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die. Thou art too noble to conserve a life In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy, Whose settled visage and deliberate word Nips youth i’ 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 it thee, from this rank offence, So to offend him still. This night’s the time That I should do what I abhor to name, Or else thou diest tomorrow. CLAUDIO. Thou shalt not do’t. ISABELLA. O, were it but my life, I’d throw it down for your deliverance As frankly as a pin. CLAUDIO. Thanks, dear Isabel. ISABELLA. Be ready, Claudio, for your death tomorrow. CLAUDIO. Yes. Has he affections in him That thus can make him bite the law by 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 fined? O Isabel! ISABELLA. What says my brother? CLAUDIO. Death is a fearful thing. ISABELLA. And shamed life a hateful. CLAUDIO. Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction, and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprisoned 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 played my father fair, For such a warped slip of wilderness Ne’er issued from his blood. Take my defiance, Die, perish! Might but my bending down Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed. I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death, No word to save thee. CLAUDIO. Nay, hear me, Isabel. ISABELLA. O fie, fie, fie! Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade. Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd. ’Tis best that thou diest quickly. [_Going._] CLAUDIO. O, hear me, Isabella. Enter Duke as a Friar. 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 a while. DUKE. [_To Claudio aside_.] Son, I have overheard what hath passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue, to practise his judgement 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. Tomorrow 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._] Enter Provost. Provost, a word with you. PROVOST. What’s your will, father? DUKE. That, now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me a while with the maid; my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company. PROVOST. In good time. [_Exit Provost._] DUKE. The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good. The goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother? ISABELLA. I am now going to resolve him. I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good Duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government. DUKE. That shall not be much amiss. Yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation: he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings, to the love I have in doing good, a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. ISABELLA. Let me hear you speak 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 oath, and the nuptial appointed. Between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman. There she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. ISABELLA. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her? DUKE. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort, swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestowed 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. [_Exit Isabella._] SCENE II. The street before the prison. Enter Elbow, Pompey and Officers. ELBOW. Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard. DUKE. O heavens, what stuff is here? POMPEY. ’Twas never merry world since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox on lambskins 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, Free from our faults, as 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 clutched? What reply, ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter, and method? Is’t not drowned 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 powdered bawd; an unshunned 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 spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stockfishes. But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative; that’s infallible. DUKE. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace. LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy. DUKE. I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way. LUCIO. O, sir, you are deceived. DUKE. ’Tis not possible. LUCIO. Who, not the Duke? Yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too, that let me inform you. DUKE. You do him wrong, surely. LUCIO. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke; and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing. DUKE. What, I prithee, might be the cause? LUCIO. No, pardon. ’Tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips. But this I can let you understand: the greater file of the subject held the Duke to be wise. DUKE. Wise? Why, no question but he was. LUCIO. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow. DUKE. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking. The very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully. Or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice. LUCIO. Sir, I know him, and I love him. DUKE. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love. LUCIO. Come, sir, I know what I know. DUKE. I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I am bound to call upon you, and I pray you your name? LUCIO. Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the Duke. DUKE. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you. LUCIO. I fear you not. DUKE. O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed, I can do you little harm. You’ll forswear this again. LUCIO. I’ll be hanged first! Thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die tomorrow or no? DUKE. Why should he die, sir? LUCIO. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of were returned again. This ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency. Sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered. He would never bring them to light. Would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar, I prithee pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He’s now 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, a Bawd. ESCALUS. Go, away with her to prison. BAWD. Good my lord, be good to me. Your honour is accounted a merciful man, good my lord. ESCALUS. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant. PROVOST. A bawd of eleven years’ continuance, may it please your honour. BAWD. My lord, this is one Lucio’s information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke’s time; he promised her marriage. His child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob. I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me. ESCALUS. That fellow is a fellow of much license. Let him be called before us. Away with her to prison. Go to, no more words. [_Exeunt Officers with Bawd._] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die tomorrow. Let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him. PROVOST. So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for 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 undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accursed. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day’s news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the Duke? ESCALUS. One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself. DUKE. What pleasure was he given to? ESCALUS. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which professed to make him rejoice. A gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous, and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation. DUKE. He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice. Yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life, which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and now he is resolved to die. ESCALUS. You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty, but my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice. DUKE. If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself. ESCALUS. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well. DUKE. Peace be with you. [_Exeunt Escalus and Provost._] He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe, Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice, and let his grow! O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side! How may likeness, made in crimes, Make practice on the times, To draw with idle spiders’ strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apply. With Angelo tonight 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. A room in Mariana’s house. Enter Mariana and a Boy singing. SONG _ Take, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn. But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, Sealed in vain._ Enter Duke as a Friar. MARIANA. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away; Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled 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 displeased, but pleased my woe. DUKE. ’Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good and good provoke to harm. I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here today? Much upon this time have I promised here to meet. MARIANA. You have not been inquired after. I have sat here all day. Enter Isabella. DUKE. I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little. Maybe I will call upon you anon for some advantage to yourself. MARIANA. I am always bound to you. [_Exit._] DUKE. Very well met, and welcome. What is the news from this good deputy? ISABELLA. He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard backed; 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 on 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 possessed 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. 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. 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. A room in 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 off a woman’s head. PROVOST. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. Tomorrow 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 instruction from my fellow-partner. PROVOST. What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there? Enter Abhorson. ABHORSON. Do you call, sir? PROVOST. Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you tomorrow 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 hanged, 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. 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine? CLAUDIO. As fast locked 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. Knock within._] By and by!— I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio. Enter Duke. Welcome, father. DUKE. The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night Envelop you, good Provost! Who called 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 paralleled Even with the stroke and line of his great justice. He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others. Were he mealed with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he’s just. [_Knocking within. Provost goes to the door._] Now are they come. This is a gentle provost. Seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men. [_Knocking within_.] How now? What noise? That spirit’s possessed with haste That wounds th’ unsisting postern with these strokes. Provost returns. PROVOST. There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in. He is called up. DUKE. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die tomorrow? PROVOST. None, sir, none. DUKE. As near the dawning, Provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning. PROVOST. Happily You something know, yet I believe there comes No countermand. No such example have we. Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Professed 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, purchased 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 used it before. DUKE. Pray you, let’s hear. PROVOST. [_Reads_.] _Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock, and in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio’s head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed, with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril._ What say you to this, sir? DUKE. What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in th’ afternoon? PROVOST. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old. DUKE. How came it that the absent Duke had not either delivered him to his liberty, or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so. PROVOST. His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and indeed, his fact till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof. DUKE. It is now apparent? PROVOST. Most manifest, and not denied by himself. DUKE. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touched? PROVOST. A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what’s past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality and desperately mortal. DUKE. He wants advice. PROVOST. He will hear none. He hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not. Drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it. It hath not moved him at all. DUKE. More of him anon. There is written in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy; if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me. But in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days’ respite, for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy. PROVOST. Pray, sir, in what? DUKE. In the delaying death. PROVOST. Alack, how may I do it? Having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio’s, to cross this in the smallest. DUKE. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo. PROVOST. Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour. DUKE. O, death’s a great disguiser, and you may add to it. Shave the head and tie the beard, and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death. You know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life. PROVOST. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath. DUKE. Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the Deputy? PROVOST. To him and to his substitutes. DUKE. You will think you have made no offence if the Duke avouch the justice of your dealing? PROVOST. But what likelihood is in that? DUKE. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the character, I doubt not, and the signet is not strange to you. PROVOST. I know them both. DUKE. The contents of this is the return of the Duke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour, perchance of the Duke’s death, perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, 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 amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another room in the same. 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 Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizie, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey, the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthright the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and I think forty more, all great doers in our trade, and are now “for the Lord’s sake.” Enter Abhorson. ABHORSON. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither. POMPEY. Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine. ABHORSON. What ho, Barnardine! BARNARDINE. [_Within_.] A pox o’ your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you? 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. ABHORSON. Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you? DUKE. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you. BARNARDINE. Friar, not I. I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not consent to die this day, that’s certain. DUKE. O, sir, you must; and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go. BARNARDINE. I swear I will not die today for any man’s persuasion. DUKE. But hear you— BARNARDINE. Not a word. If you have anything to say to me, come to my ward, for thence will not I today. [_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 unprepared, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable. PROVOST. Here in the prison, father, There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio’s years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined, And satisfy the Deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio? DUKE. O, ’tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefixed 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 yonder generation, you shall find Your safety manifested. PROVOST. I am your free dependant. DUKE. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo. [_Exit Provost._] Now will I write letters to Angelo, The Provost, he shall bear them, whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home; And that by great injunctions I am bound To enter publicly. Him I’ll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount, A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanced form. We shall proceed with Angelo. Enter Provost. PROVOST. Here is the head; I’ll carry it myself. DUKE. Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours. PROVOST. I’ll make all speed. [_Exit._] ISABELLA. [_Within_.] Peace, ho, be here! DUKE. The tongue of Isabel. She’s come to know If yet her brother’s pardon be come hither. But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair When it is least expected. Enter Isabella. ISABELLA. Ho, by your leave! DUKE. Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter. ISABELLA. The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the Deputy sent my brother’s pardon? DUKE. He hath released him, Isabel, from the world. His head is off, and sent to Angelo. ISABELLA. Nay, but it is not so. DUKE. It is no other. Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience. ISABELLA. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes! DUKE. You shall not be admitted to his sight. ISABELLA. Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel! Injurious world! Most damned Angelo! DUKE. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot. Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity. The Duke comes home tomorrow;—nay, dry your eyes. One of our convent, and his confessor, Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour. ISABELLA. I am directed by you. DUKE. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; ’Tis that he sent me of the Duke’s return. Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana’s house tonight. Her cause and yours I’ll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow, And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter. Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course.—Who’s here? Enter Lucio. LUCIO. Good even. Friar, where is the Provost? DUKE. Not within, sir. LUCIO. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran. I dare not for my head fill my belly. One fruitful meal would set me to’t. But they say the Duke will be here tomorrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. [_Exit Isabella._] DUKE. Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them. LUCIO. Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do. He’s a better woodman than thou 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. A room in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo and Escalus. ESCALUS. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other. ANGELO. In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness; pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted. And why meet him at the gates and redeliver our authorities there? ESCALUS. I guess not. ANGELO. And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street? ESCALUS. He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us. ANGELO. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed. 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. [_Exit._] ANGELO. Good night. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings. A deflowered maid; And by an eminent body that enforced The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no, For my authority bears so credent bulk That no particular scandal once can touch But it confounds the breather. He should have lived, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge By so receiving a dishonoured life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived. 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. 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 Valencius, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate. But send me Flavius first. FRIAR PETER. It shall be speeded well. [_Exit Friar Peter._] 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. 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 advised to do it, He says, to veil full purpose. MARIANA. Be ruled by him. ISABELLA. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange, for ’tis a physic That’s bitter to sweet end. MARIANA. I would Friar Peter— Enter Friar Peter. ISABELLA. O, peace, the friar is come. FRIAR PETER. Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, Where you may have such vantage on the Duke He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded. The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The Duke is entering. Therefore hence, away. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. A public place near the city gate. 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 and ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal grace! DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital. ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater. DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud, and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves with characters of brass A forted residence ’gainst the tooth of time And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand. And good supporters are you. Enter Friar Peter and Isabella. FRIAR PETER. Now is your time. Speak loud, and kneel before him. ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wronged—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 believed, 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 reckoning. 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 touched 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, Condemned upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemned 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 desired 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 wished to hold my peace. DUKE. I wish you now, then; Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect. LUCIO. I warrant your honour. DUKE. The warrant’s for yourself. Take heed to it. ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale. LUCIO. Right. DUKE. It may be right, but you are 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 prayed and kneeled, How he refelled 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 suborned 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 weighed thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Someone 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 wronged, 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. [_Exeunt Officer with Isabella._] 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 swinged 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. FRIAR PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First hath this woman Most wrongfully accused 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? FRIAR 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. FRIAR 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 accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it. DUKE. Good friar, let’s hear it. 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 more than me? MARIANA. Not that I know. DUKE. No? You say your husband. MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne’er knew my body, But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel’s. ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face. MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [_Unveiling_.] This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor’st was worth the looking on. This is the hand which, with a vowed contract, Was fast belocked in thine. This is the body That took away the match from Isabel And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined 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 affianced 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 touched. 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 sealed in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence ’tis derived. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for. FRIAR PETER. Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint. Your Provost knows the place where he abides, And he may fetch him. DUKE. Go, do it instantly. [_Exit Provost._] And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best In any chastisement. I for a while Will leave you; but stir not you till you have Well determined upon these slanderers. ESCALUS. My lord, we’ll do it throughly. [_Exit Duke._] Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person? LUCIO. _Cucullus non facit monachum_, honest in nothing but in his clothes, and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke. ESCALUS. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come, and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow. LUCIO. As any in Vienna, on my word. ESCALUS. Call that same Isabel here once again. 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 ashamed. Enter at several doors Duke as a friar, Provost and Isabella with Officers. ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her. LUCIO. That’s the way; for women are light at midnight. ESCALUS. [_To Isabella_.] 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 confessed you did. DUKE. ’Tis false. ESCALUS. How! Know you where you are? DUKE. Respect to your great place; and let the devil Be sometime honoured 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 suborned 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 touse 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 countenanced that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop, As much in mock as mark. ESCALUS. Slander to the state! Away with him to prison! ANGELO. What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of? LUCIO. ’Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman Baldpate. 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 talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him. Let him speak no more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion! [_The Provost lays hands on the Duke._] DUKE. Stay, sir, stay a while. ANGELO. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio. LUCIO. Come, sir, come, sir, come, sir. Foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal! You must be hooded, must you? Show your knave’s visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off? [_Pulls off the friar’s hood and discovers the Duke._] DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e’er 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 power divine, Hath looked 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 amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it. DUKE. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince. As I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorneyed at your service. ISABELLA. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employed and pained Your unknown sovereignty. DUKE. You are pardoned, 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 obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brained 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. Enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost. DUKE. For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wronged Your well-defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudged 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 stooped 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 mocked 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 with all 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. [_Kneeling_.] Gentle my liege— 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 are 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 condemned As if my brother lived. I partly think A due sincerity governed his deeds Till he did look on me. Since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died. For Angelo, His act did not o’ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perished by the way. Thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts. MARIANA. Merely, my lord. DUKE. Your suit’s unprofitable. Stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour? PROVOST. It was commanded so. DUKE. Had you a special warrant for the deed? PROVOST. No, my good lord, it was by private message. DUKE. For which I do discharge you of your office. Give up your keys. PROVOST. Pardon me, noble lord. I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me after more advice. For testimony whereof, one in the prison That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive. DUKE. What’s he? PROVOST. His name is Barnardine. DUKE. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither, let me look upon him. [_Exit Provost._] ESCALUS. I am sorry one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appeared, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood And lack of tempered judgement 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. 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 condemned; But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow’s that? PROVOST. This is another prisoner that I saved, 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 pardoned; and for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too. But fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he’s safe; Methinks I see a quick’ning in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. Look that you love your wife, her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself. And yet here’s one in place I cannot pardon. [_To Lucio_.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman. Wherein have I so deserved of you That you extol me thus? LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may, but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped. DUKE. Whipped first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, If any woman wronged 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 finished, Let him be whipped and hanged. 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 wronged, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo. I have confessed 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 MERCHANT OF VENICE Contents ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene III. Venice. A public place. ACT II Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene II. Venice. A street. Scene III. The same. A room in Shylock’s house. Scene IV. The same. A street. Scene V. The same. Before Shylock’s house. Scene VI. The same. Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene VIII. Venice. A street. Scene IX. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. ACT III Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene III. Venice. A street. Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Scene V. The same. A garden. ACT IV Scene I. Venice. A court of justice. Scene II. The same. A street. ACT V Scene I. Belmont. The avenue to Portia’s house. Dramatis Personæ THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELET GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelet LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHAZAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, servant to Portia SALERIO, a messenger from Venice PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-woman JESSICA, daughter to Shylock Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, a Gaoler, Servants and other Attendants SCENE: Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia on the Continent ACT I SCENE I. Venice. A street. Enter Antonio, Salarino 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. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. Why then you are in love. ANTONIO. Fie, fie! SALARINO. 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 bagpiper. 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. SOLANIO. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. Good morrow, my good lords. BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so? SALARINO. We’ll make our leisures to attend on yours. [_Exeunt Salarino 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 a while. 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 today 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. A room in 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 afeard my lady his mother play’d false with a smith. NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine. PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say “And 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. And 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 tonight. 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 squandered 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 assured you may. SHYLOCK. I will be assured I may. And that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio? BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us. SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here? Enter Antonio. BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio. SHYLOCK. [_Aside._] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him! BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear? SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And by the near guess of my memory I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [_To Antonio._] Rest you fair, good signior, Your worship was the last man in our mouths. ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I’ll break a custom. [_To Bassanio._] Is he yet possess’d How much ye would? SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats. ANTONIO. And for three months. SHYLOCK. I had forgot, three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond. And let me see, but hear you, Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage. ANTONIO. I do never use it. SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz’d his uncle Laban’s sheep,— This Jacob from our holy Abram was As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third. ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest? SHYLOCK. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest; mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromis’d That all the eanlings which were streak’d and pied Should fall as Jacob’s hire, the ewes being rank In end of autumn turned to the rams, And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd 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. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, ’tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate. ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you? SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances. Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, (For suff’rance is the badge of all our tribe.) You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to, then, you come to me, and you say “Shylock, we would have moneys.” You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold, moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say “Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?” Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman’s key, With bated breath and whisp’ring humbleness, Say this: “Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurn’d me such a day; another time You call’d me dog; and for these courtesies I’ll lend you thus much moneys”? ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends, for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty. SHYLOCK. Why, look you how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain’d me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you’ll not hear me, This is kind I offer. BASSANIO. This were kindness. SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond; and in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express’d in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me. ANTONIO. Content, in faith, I’ll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew. BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, I’ll rather dwell in my necessity. ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man, I will not forfeit it, Within these two months, that’s a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond. SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this, If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man’s flesh, taken from a man, Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship. If he will take it, so. If not, adieu, And for my love I pray you wrong me not. ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond. SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary’s, Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I’ll be with you. ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew. [_Exit Shylock._] This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind. BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain’s mind. ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa and their 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 Phœbus’ 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 he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his rage, 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. Exeunt._] SCENE II. Venice. A street. Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone. LAUNCELET. 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, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet” or “good Gobbo,” or “good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away.” My conscience says “No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo” or, as aforesaid, “honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels.” Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. “Fia!” 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 Launcelet, 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 “Launcelet, budge not.” “Budge,” says the fiend. “Budge not,” says my conscience. “Conscience,” say I, “you counsel well.” “Fiend,” say I, “you counsel well.” To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil 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? LAUNCELET. [_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? LAUNCELET. 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 Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no? LAUNCELET. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [_Aside._] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? 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. LAUNCELET. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launcelet. GOBBO. Your worship’s friend, and Launcelet, sir. LAUNCELET. But I pray you, _ergo_, old man, _ergo_, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelet? GOBBO. Of Launcelet, an’t please your mastership. LAUNCELET. _Ergo_, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, 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. LAUNCELET. [_Aside._] 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? LAUNCELET. Do you not know me, father? GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not. LAUNCELET. 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 Launcelet my boy. LAUNCELET. Pray you, let’s have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be. GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son. LAUNCELET. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, 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 Launcelet, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail. LAUNCELET. It should seem, then, that Dobbin’s tail grows backward. I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him. GOBBO. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How ’gree you now? LAUNCELET. Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master’s a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer. Enter Bassanio with Leonardo and 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._] LAUNCELET. To him, father. GOBBO. God bless your worship! BASSANIO. Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me? GOBBO. Here’s my son, sir, a poor boy. LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. 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— LAUNCELET. 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? LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. 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; eleven 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 Launcelet and Old Gobbo._] BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestow’d, Return in haste, for I do feast tonight 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 tonight, you shall not gauge me By what we do tonight. 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. The same. A room in Shylock’s house. Enter Jessica and Launcelet. 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, Launcelet, 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. LAUNCELET. 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 Launcelet. [_Exit Launcelet._] Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed 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. The same. A street. Enter Gratiano, Lorenzo, Salarino and Solanio. LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour. GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation. SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers. SOLANIO. ’Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order’d, And better in my mind not undertook. LORENZO. ’Tis now but four o’clock, we have two hours To furnish us. Enter Launcelet with a letter. Friend Launcelet, what’s the news? LAUNCELET. And 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. LAUNCELET. By your leave, sir. LORENZO. Whither goest thou? LAUNCELET. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight 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 Launcelet._] Will you prepare you for this masque tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. ’Tis good we do so. [_Exeunt Salarino 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. The same. Before Shylock’s house. Enter Shylock the Jew and Launcelet his man that was the clown. 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! LAUNCELET. Why, Jessica! SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call. LAUNCELET. 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 tonight. LAUNCELET. I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach. SHYLOCK. So do I his. LAUNCELET. 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 tonight. But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah. Say I will come. LAUNCELET. 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 Launcelet._] 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. The same. Enter the masquers, Gratiano and Salarino. GRATIANO. This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand. SALARINO. His hour is almost past. GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock. SALARINO. O ten times faster Venus’ pigeons fly To seal love’s bonds new-made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited! GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy’d. How like a younger 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. SALARINO. 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. What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay. [_Exit with Jessica and Salarino._] 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 tonight, 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 tonight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VII. Belmont. A room in Portia’s house. Flourish of cornets. Enter Portia with the Prince of Morocco and both their trains. PORTIA. Go, draw aside the curtains and discover The several caskets to this noble prince. Now make your choice. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. The first, of gold, who this inscription bears, “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” The second, silver, which this promise carries, “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt, “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” How shall I know if I do choose the right? PORTIA. The one of them contains my picture, prince. If you choose that, then I am yours withal. PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Some god direct my judgment! Let me see. I will survey the inscriptions back again. What says this leaden casket? “Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.” Must give, for what? For lead? Hazard for lead! This casket threatens; men that hazard all Do it in hope of fair advantages: A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross, I’ll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead. What says the silver with her virgin hue? “Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.” As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco, And weigh thy value with an even hand. If thou be’st rated by thy estimation Thou dost deserve enough, and yet enough May not extend so far as to the lady. And yet to be afeard of my deserving Were but a weak disabling of myself. As much as I deserve! Why, that’s the lady: I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes, In graces, and in qualities of breeding; But more than these, in love I do deserve. What if I stray’d no farther, but chose here? Let’s see once more this saying grav’d in gold: “Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.” Why, that’s the lady, all the world desires her. From the four corners of the earth they come To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint. The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds Of wide Arabia are as throughfares now For princes to come view fair Portia. The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head Spets 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 Stamped in gold; but that’s insculp’d upon; But here an angel in a golden bed Lies all within. Deliver me the key. Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may. PORTIA. There, take it, prince, and if my form lie there, Then I am yours. [_He unlocks the golden casket._] PRINCE OF MOROCCO. O hell! what have we here? A carrion Death, within whose empty eye There is a written scroll. I’ll read the writing. _All that glisters is not gold, Often have you heard that told. Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold. Gilded tombs do worms infold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgment old, Your answer had not been inscroll’d, Fare you well, your suit is cold._ Cold indeed and labour lost, Then farewell heat, and welcome frost. Portia, adieu! I have too griev’d a heart To take a tedious leave. Thus losers part. [_Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets._] PORTIA. A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go. Let all of his complexion choose me so. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VIII. Venice. A street. Enter Salarino and Solanio. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. 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.” SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. Do we so. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IX. Belmont. A room in 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, his train, and Portia. 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 anyone 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 everyone 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. Too long a pause for that which you find there. ARRAGON. What’s here? The portrait of a blinking idiot Presenting me a schedule! I will read it. How much unlike art thou to Portia! How much unlike my hopes and my deservings! “Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.” Did I deserve no more than a fool’s head? Is that my prize? Are my deserts no better? PORTIA. To offend and judge are distinct offices, And of opposed natures. ARRAGON. What is here? _The fire seven times tried this; Seven times tried that judgment is That did never choose amiss. Some there be that shadows kiss; Such have but a shadow’s bliss. There be fools alive, I wis, Silver’d o’er, and so was this. Take what wife you will to bed, I will ever be your head: So be gone; you are sped._ Still more fool I shall appear By the time I linger here. With one fool’s head I came to woo, But I go away with two. Sweet, adieu! I’ll keep my oath, Patiently to bear my wroth. [_Exit Arragon 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 Messenger. MESSENGER. Where is my lady? PORTIA. Here. What would my lord? MESSENGER. 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 Salarino. SOLANIO. Now, what news on the Rialto? SALARINO. Why, yet it lives there unchecked that Antonio hath a ship of rich lading wrack’d on the narrow seas; the Goodwins, I think they call the place, a very dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. SOLANIO. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she wept for the death of a third husband. But it is true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the honest Antonio,—O that I had a title good enough to keep his name company!— SALARINO. Come, the full stop. SOLANIO. Ha, what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath lost a ship. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. That’s certain, I, for my part, knew the tailor that made the wings she flew withal. SOLANIO. And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all to leave the dam. SHYLOCK. She is damn’d for it. SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. There is more difference between thy flesh and hers than between jet and ivory, more between your bloods than there is between red wine and Rhenish. But tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any loss at sea or no? SHYLOCK. There I have another bad match, a bankrupt, a prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the Rialto, a beggar that used to come so smug upon the mart; let him look to his bond. He was wont to call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was wont to lend money for a Christian cur’sy; let him look to his bond. SALARINO. 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 it shall go hard but I will better the instruction. Enter a man from Antonio. SERVANT. Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house, and desires to speak with you both. SALARINO. 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, Salarino and the Servant._] SHYLOCK. How now, Tubal, what news from Genoa? Hast thou found my daughter? TUBAL. I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her. SHYLOCK. Why there, there, there, there! A diamond gone cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse never fell upon our nation till now, I never felt it till now. Two thousand ducats in that, and other precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear; would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in her coffin. No news of them? Why so? And I know not what’s spent in the search. Why, thou—loss upon loss! The thief gone with so much, and so much to find the thief, and no satisfaction, no revenge, nor no ill luck stirring but what lights 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 wrack. 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. A room in 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 peise the time, To eche 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, 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 palenness 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. What find I here? [_Opening the leaden casket_.] Fair Portia’s counterfeit! What demi-god Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes? Or whether, riding on the balls of mine, Seem they in motion? Here are sever’d lips, Parted with sugar breath, so sweet a bar Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs The painter plays the spider, and hath woven A golden mesh t’entrap the hearts of men Faster than gnats in cobwebs. But her eyes!— How could he see to do them? Having made one, Methinks it should have power to steal both his And leave itself unfurnish’d. Yet look how far The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow In underprizing it, so far this shadow Doth limp behind the substance. Here’s the scroll, The continent and summary of my fortune. _You that choose not by the view Chance as fair and choose as true! Since this fortune falls to you, Be content and seek no new. If you be well pleas’d with this, And hold your fortune for your bliss, Turn to where your lady is, And claim her with a loving kiss._ A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave, [_Kissing her_.] I come by note to give and to receive. Like one of two contending in a prize That thinks he hath done well in people’s eyes, Hearing applause and universal shout, Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt Whether those peals of praise be his or no, So, thrice-fair lady, stand I even so, As doubtful whether what I see be true, Until confirm’d, sign’d, ratified by you. PORTIA. You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand, Such as I am; though for myself alone I would not be ambitious in my wish To wish myself much better, yet for you I would be trebled twenty times myself, A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times More rich, That only to stand high in your account, I might in virtues, beauties, livings, friends, Exceed account. But the full sum of me Is sum of something, which, to term in gross, Is an unlesson’d girl, unschool’d, unpractis’d; Happy in this, she is not yet so old But she may learn; happier than this, She is not bred so dull but she can learn; Happiest of all, is that her gentle spirit Commits itself to yours to be directed, As from her lord, her governor, her king. Myself, and what is mine, to you and yours Is now converted. But now I was the lord Of this fair mansion, master of my servants, Queen o’er myself; and even now, but now, This house, these servants, and this same myself Are yours,—my lord’s. I give them with this ring, Which when you part from, lose, or give away, Let it presage the ruin of your love, And be my vantage to exclaim on you. BASSANIO. Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins, And there is such confusion in my powers As after some oration fairly spoke By a beloved prince, there doth appear Among the buzzing pleased multitude, Where every something being blent together, Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy Express’d and not express’d. But when this ring Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence. O then be bold to say Bassanio’s dead! NERISSA. My lord and lady, it is now our time, That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper, To cry, good joy. Good joy, my lord and lady! GRATIANO. My Lord Bassanio, and my gentle lady, I wish you all the joy that you can wish; For I am sure you can wish none from me. And when your honours mean to solemnize The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you Even at that time I may be married too. BASSANIO. With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife. GRATIANO. I thank your lordship, you have got me one. My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours: You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid. You lov’d, I lov’d; for intermission No more pertains to me, my lord, than you. Your fortune stood upon the caskets there, And so did mine too, as the matter falls. For wooing here until I sweat again, And swearing till my very roof was dry With oaths of love, at last, (if promise last) I got a promise of this fair one here To have her love, provided that your fortune Achiev’d her mistress. PORTIA. Is this true, Nerissa? NERISSA. Madam, it is, so you stand pleas’d withal. BASSANIO. And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith? GRATIANO. Yes, faith, my lord. BASSANIO. Our feast shall be much 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. 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. _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, Salarino, Antonio and Gaoler. SHYLOCK. Gaoler, look to him. Tell not me of mercy. This is the fool that lent out money gratis. Gaoler, look to him. ANTONIO. Hear me yet, good Shylock. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond, speak not against my bond. I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond. Thou call’dst me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs; The Duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder, Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond To come abroad with him at his request. ANTONIO. I pray thee hear me speak. SHYLOCK. I’ll have my bond. I will not hear thee speak. I’ll have my bond, and therefore speak no more. I’ll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool, To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield To Christian intercessors. Follow not, I’ll have no speaking, I will have my bond. [_Exit._] SALARINO. 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. SALARINO. I am sure the Duke Will never grant this forfeiture to hold. ANTONIO. The Duke cannot deny the course of law, For the commodity that strangers have With us in Venice, if it be denied, ’Twill much impeach the justice of the state, Since that the trade and profit of the city Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go. These griefs and losses have so bated me That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh Tomorrow 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. A room in Portia’s house. Enter Portia, Nerissa, Lorenzo, Jessica and Balthazar. 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 all 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, Balthazar, 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. BALTHAZAR. 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 accoutered 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 today. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. A garden. Enter Launcelet and Jessica. LAUNCELET. Yes, truly, for look you, the sins of the father are to be laid upon the children, therefore, I promise you, I fear you. I was always plain with you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter. Therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you are damn’d. There is but one hope in it that can do you any good, and that is but a kind of bastard hope neither. JESSICA. And what hope is that, I pray thee? LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. Truly then I fear you are damn’d both by father and mother; thus when I shun Scylla your father, I fall into Charybdis your mother. Well, you are gone both ways. JESSICA. I shall be saved by my husband. He hath made me a Christian. LAUNCELET. 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, Launcelet, what you say. Here he comes. LORENZO. I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelet, if you thus get my wife into corners! JESSICA. Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo. Launcelet 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, Launcelet. LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. That is done, sir, they have all stomachs. LORENZO. Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! Then bid them prepare dinner. LAUNCELET. That is done too, sir, only “cover” is the word. LORENZO. Will you cover, then, sir? LAUNCELET. 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. LAUNCELET. For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and conceits shall govern. [_Exit._] LORENZO. O dear discretion, how his words are suited! The fool hath planted in his memory An army of good words, and I do know A many fools that stand in better place, Garnish’d like him, that for a tricksy word Defy the matter. How cheer’st thou, Jessica? And now, good sweet, say thy opinion, How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio’s wife? JESSICA. Past all expressing. It is very meet The Lord Bassanio live an upright life, For having such a blessing in his lady, He finds the joys of heaven here on earth, And if on earth he do not merit it, In reason he should never come to heaven. Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match, And on the wager lay two earthly women, And Portia one, there must be something else Pawn’d with the other, for the poor rude world Hath not her fellow. LORENZO. Even such a husband Hast thou of me as she is for a wife. JESSICA. Nay, but ask my opinion too of that. LORENZO. I will anon. First let us go to dinner. JESSICA. Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach. LORENZO. No pray thee, let it serve for table-talk. Then 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. A court of justice. Enter the Duke, the Magnificoes, Antonio, Bassanio, Gratiano, Salerio and others. DUKE. What, is Antonio here? ANTONIO. Ready, so please your Grace. DUKE. I am sorry for thee, thou art come to answer A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch, Uncapable of pity, void and empty From any dram of mercy. ANTONIO. I have heard Your Grace hath ta’en great pains to qualify His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate, And that no lawful means can carry me Out of his envy’s reach, I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm’d To suffer with a quietness of spirit The very tyranny and rage of his. DUKE. Go one and call the Jew into the court. SALARINO. He is ready at the door. He comes, my lord. Enter Shylock. DUKE. Make room, and let him stand before our face. Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too, That thou but leadest this fashion of thy malice To the last hour of act, and then, ’tis thought, Thou’lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange Than is thy strange apparent cruelty; And where thou now exacts the penalty, Which is a pound of this poor merchant’s flesh, Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture, But, touch’d with human gentleness and love, Forgive a moiety of the principal, Glancing an eye of pity on his losses That have of late so huddled on his back, Enow to press a royal merchant down, And pluck commiseration of his state From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint, From stubborn Turks and Tartars never train’d To offices of tender courtesy. We all expect a gentle answer, Jew. SHYLOCK. I have possess’d your Grace of what I purpose, And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn To have the due and forfeit of my bond. If you deny it, let the danger light Upon your charter and your city’s freedom! You’ll ask me why I rather choose to have A weight of carrion flesh than to receive Three thousand ducats. I’ll not answer that, But say it is my humour. Is it answer’d? What if my house be troubled with a rat, And I be pleas’d to give ten thousand ducats To have it ban’d? What, are you answer’d yet? Some men there are love not a gaping pig; Some that are mad if they behold a cat; And others, when the bagpipe sings i’ the nose, Cannot contain their urine; for affection Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer: As there is no firm reason to be render’d Why he cannot abide a gaping pig, Why he a harmless necessary cat, Why he a 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 answer. BASSANIO. Do all men kill the things they do not love? SHYLOCK. Hates any man the thing he would not kill? BASSANIO. Every offence is not a hate at first. SHYLOCK. What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice? ANTONIO. I pray you, think you question with the Jew. You may as well go stand upon the beach And bid the main flood bate his usual height; You may as well use question with the wolf, Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb; You may as well forbid the mountain pines To wag their high tops and to make no noise When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven; You may as well do anything most hard As seek to soften that—than which what’s harder?— His Jewish heart. Therefore, I do beseech you, Make no moe offers, use no farther means, But with all brief and plain conveniency. Let me have judgment, and the Jew his will. BASSANIO. For thy three thousand ducats here is six. SHYLOCK. If every ducat in six thousand ducats Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, I would not draw them, I would have my bond. DUKE. How shalt thou hope for mercy, rend’ring none? SHYLOCK. What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong? You have among you many a purchas’d slave, Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules, You use in abject and in slavish parts, Because you bought them. Shall I say to you “Let them be free, marry them to your heirs? Why sweat they under burdens? Let their beds Be made as soft as yours, and let their palates Be season’d with such viands”? You will answer “The slaves are ours.” So do I answer you: The pound of flesh which I demand of him Is dearly bought; ’tis mine and I will have it. If you deny me, fie upon your law! There is no force in the decrees of Venice. I stand for judgment. Answer; shall I have it? DUKE. Upon my power I may dismiss this court, Unless Bellario, a learned doctor, Whom I have sent for to determine this, Come here today. SALARINO. My lord, here stays without A messenger with letters from the doctor, New come from Padua. DUKE. Bring us the letters. Call the messenger. BASSANIO. Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet! The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones, and all, Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood. ANTONIO. I am a tainted wether of the flock, Meetest for death, the weakest kind of fruit Drops earliest to the ground, and so let me. You cannot better be employ’d, Bassanio, Than to live still, and write mine epitaph. Enter Nerissa dressed like a lawyer’s clerk. DUKE. Came you from Padua, from Bellario? NERISSA. From both, my lord. Bellario greets your Grace. [_Presents a letter._] BASSANIO. Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly? SHYLOCK. To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there. GRATIANO. Not on thy sole but on thy soul, harsh Jew, Thou mak’st thy knife keen. But no metal can, No, not the hangman’s axe, bear half the keenness Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee? SHYLOCK. No, none that thou hast wit enough to make. GRATIANO. O, be thou damn’d, inexecrable dog! And for thy life let justice be accus’d; Thou almost mak’st me waver in my faith, To hold opinion with Pythagoras That souls of animals infuse themselves Into the trunks of men. Thy currish spirit Govern’d a wolf who, hang’d for human slaughter, Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet, And whilst thou 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. 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. [_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._ You hear the learn’d Bellario what he writes, And here, I take it, is the doctor come. Enter Portia dressed like a doctor of laws. Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario? PORTIA. I did, my lord. DUKE. You are welcome. Take your place. Are you acquainted with the difference That holds this present question in the court? PORTIA. I am informed throughly of the cause. Which is the merchant here? And which the Jew? DUKE. Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth. PORTIA. Is your name Shylock? SHYLOCK. Shylock is my name. PORTIA. Of a strange nature is the suit you follow, Yet in such rule that the Venetian law Cannot impugn you as you do proceed. [_To Antonio_.] You stand within his danger, do you not? ANTONIO. Ay, so he says. PORTIA. Do you confess the bond? ANTONIO. I do. PORTIA. Then must the Jew be merciful. SHYLOCK. On what compulsion must I? Tell me that. PORTIA. The quality of mercy is not strain’d, It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest, It blesseth him that gives and him that takes. ’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown. His sceptre shows the force of temporal power, The attribute to awe and majesty, Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; But mercy is above this sceptred sway, It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, It is an attribute to God himself; And earthly power doth then show likest God’s When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, Though justice be thy plea, consider this, That in the course of justice none of us Should see salvation. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much To mitigate the justice of thy plea, Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice Must needs give sentence ’gainst the merchant there. SHYLOCK. My deeds upon my head! I crave the law, The penalty and forfeit of my bond. PORTIA. Is he not able to discharge the money? BASSANIO. Yes, here I tender it for him in the court, Yea, twice the sum, if that will not suffice, I will be bound to pay it ten times o’er On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart. If this will not suffice, it must appear That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority. To do a great right, do a little wrong, And curb this cruel devil of his will. PORTIA. It must not be, there is no power in Venice Can alter a decree established; ’Twill be recorded for a precedent, And many an error by the same example Will rush into the state. It cannot be. SHYLOCK. A Daniel come to judgment! Yea, a Daniel! O wise young judge, how I do honour thee! PORTIA. I pray you let me look upon the bond. SHYLOCK. Here ’tis, most reverend doctor, here it is. PORTIA. Shylock, there’s thrice thy money offered thee. SHYLOCK. An oath, an oath! I have an oath in heaven. Shall I lay perjury upon my soul? No, not for Venice. PORTIA. Why, this bond is forfeit, And lawfully by this the Jew may claim A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off Nearest the merchant’s heart. Be merciful, Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond. SHYLOCK. When it is paid according to the tenour. It doth appear you are a worthy judge; You know the law; your exposition Hath been most sound. I charge you by the law, Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar, Proceed to judgment. By my soul I swear There is no power in the tongue of man To alter me. I stay here on my bond. ANTONIO. Most heartily I do beseech the court To give the judgment. PORTIA. Why then, thus it is: You must prepare your bosom for his knife. SHYLOCK. O noble judge! O excellent young man! PORTIA. For the intent and purpose of the law Hath full relation to the penalty, Which here appeareth due upon the bond. SHYLOCK. ’Tis very true. O wise and upright judge, How much more elder art thou than thy looks! PORTIA. Therefore lay bare your bosom. SHYLOCK. Ay, his breast So says the bond, doth it not, noble judge? “Nearest his heart”: those are the very words. PORTIA. It is so. Are there balance here to weigh The flesh? SHYLOCK. I have them ready. PORTIA. Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge, To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death. SHYLOCK. Is it so nominated in the bond? PORTIA. It is not so express’d, but what of that? ’Twere good you do so much for charity. SHYLOCK. I cannot find it; ’tis not in the bond. PORTIA. You, merchant, have you anything to say? ANTONIO. But little. I am arm’d and well prepar’d. Give me your hand, Bassanio. Fare you well, Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you, For herein Fortune shows herself more kind Than is her custom: it is still her use To let the wretched man outlive his wealth, To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow An age of poverty, from which 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. These be the Christian husbands! I have a daughter— Would any of the stock of Barabbas Had been her husband, rather than a Christian! We trifle time, I pray thee, pursue sentence. PORTIA. A pound of that same merchant’s flesh is thine, The court awards it and the law doth give it. SHYLOCK. Most rightful judge! PORTIA. And you must cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it and the court awards it. SHYLOCK. Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare. PORTIA. Tarry a little, there is something else. This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood. The words expressly are “a pound of flesh”: Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh, But in the cutting it, if thou dost shed One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate Unto the state of Venice. GRATIANO. O upright judge! Mark, Jew. O learned judge! SHYLOCK. Is that the law? PORTIA. Thyself shalt see the act. For, as thou urgest justice, be assur’d Thou shalt have justice more than thou desir’st. GRATIANO. O learned judge! Mark, Jew, 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. 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. He shall do this, or else I do recant The pardon that I late pronounced here. PORTIA. Art thou contented, Jew? What dost thou say? SHYLOCK. I am content. PORTIA. Clerk, draw a deed of gift. SHYLOCK. I pray you give me leave to go from hence; I am not well; send the deed after me And I will sign it. DUKE. Get thee gone, but do it. GRATIANO. In 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. Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner. PORTIA. I humbly do desire your Grace of pardon, I must away this night toward Padua, And it is meet I presently set forth. DUKE. I am sorry that your leisure serves you not. Antonio, gratify this gentleman, For in my mind you are much bound to him. [_Exeunt Duke and his 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. The same. A street. Enter Portia and Nerissa. PORTIA. Inquire the Jew’s house out, give him this deed, And let him sign it, we’ll away tonight, And be a day before our husbands home. This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo. Enter Gratiano. GRATIANO. Fair sir, you are well o’erta’en. My Lord Bassanio upon more advice, Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat Your company at dinner. PORTIA. That cannot be; His ring I do accept most thankfully, And so I pray you tell him. Furthermore, I pray you show my youth old Shylock’s house. GRATIANO. That will I do. NERISSA. Sir, I would speak with you. [_Aside to Portia_.] I’ll see if I can get my husband’s ring, Which I did make him swear to keep for ever. PORTIA. [_To Nerissa_.] Thou mayst, I warrant. We shall have old swearing That they did give the rings away to men; But we’ll outface them, and outswear them too. Away! make haste! Thou know’st where I will tarry. NERISSA. Come, good sir, will you show me to this house? [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Belmont. The avenue to Portia’s house. Enter Lorenzo and Jessica. LORENZO. The moon shines bright. In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise, in such a night, Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls, And sigh’d his soul toward the Grecian tents Where Cressid lay that night. JESSICA. In such a night Did Thisbe fearfully o’ertrip the dew, And saw the lion’s shadow ere himself, And ran dismay’d away. LORENZO. In such a night Stood Dido with a willow in her hand Upon the wild sea-banks, and waft her love To come again to Carthage. JESSICA. In such a night Medea gathered the enchanted herbs That did renew old Æson. 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 loved 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 Launcelet. LAUNCELET. Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola! LORENZO. Who calls? LAUNCELET. Sola! Did you see Master Lorenzo? Master Lorenzo! Sola, sola! LORENZO. Leave holloaing, man. Here! LAUNCELET. Sola! Where, where? LORENZO. Here! LAUNCELET. 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 patens of bright gold. There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it. Enter Musicians. Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn. With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear, And draw her home with music. [_Music._] JESSICA. I am never merry when I hear sweet music. LORENZO. The reason is, your spirits are attentive. For do but note a wild and wanton herd Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their blood, If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound, Or any air of music touch their ears, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods, Since naught 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 The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many things by season season’d are To their right praise and true perfection! Peace! How the moon sleeps with Endymion, And would not be awak’d! [_Music ceases._] LORENZO. That is the voice, Or I am much deceiv’d, of Portia. PORTIA. He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo, By the bad voice. LORENZO. Dear lady, welcome home. PORTIA. We have been praying for our husbands’ welfare, Which speed, we hope, the better for our words. Are they return’d? LORENZO. Madam, they are not yet; But there is come a messenger before To signify their coming. PORTIA. Go in, Nerissa. Give order to my servants, that they take No note at all of our being absent hence, Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you. [_A tucket sounds._] LORENZO. Your husband is at hand, I hear his trumpet. We are no tell-tales, madam, fear you not. PORTIA. This night methinks is but the daylight sick, It looks a little paler. ’Tis a day Such as the day is when the sun is hid. Enter Bassanio, Antonio, Gratiano and their Followers. BASSANIO. We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun. PORTIA. Let me give light, but let me not be light, For a light wife doth make a heavy husband, And never be Bassanio so for me. But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord. BASSANIO. I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend. This is the man, this is Antonio, To whom I am so infinitely bound. PORTIA. You should in all sense be much bound to him, For, as I hear, he was much bound for you. ANTONIO. No more than I am well acquitted of. PORTIA. Sir, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy. GRATIANO. [_To Nerissa_.] By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong, In faith, I gave it to the judge’s clerk. Would he were gelt that had it, for my part, Since you do take it, love, so much at heart. PORTIA. A quarrel, ho, already! What’s the matter? GRATIANO. About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutlers’ poetry Upon a knife, “Love me, and leave me not.” NERISSA. What talk you of the posy, or the value? You swore to me when I did give it you, That you would wear it till your hour of death, And that it should lie with you in your grave. Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths, You should have been respective and have kept it. Gave it a judge’s clerk! No, God’s my judge, The clerk will ne’er wear hair on’s face that had it. GRATIANO. He will, and 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 notwithstanding. BASSANIO. Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong, And in the hearing of these many friends I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes, Wherein I see myself— PORTIA. Mark you but that! In both my eyes he doubly sees himself, In each eye one. Swear by your double self, And there’s an oath of credit. BASSANIO. Nay, but hear me. Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear I never more will break an oath with thee. ANTONIO. I once did lend my body for his wealth, Which but for him that had your husband’s ring Had quite miscarried. I dare be bound again, My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord Will never more break faith advisedly. PORTIA. Then you shall be his surety. Give him this, And bid him keep it better than the other. ANTONIO. Here, Lord Bassanio, swear to keep this ring. BASSANIO. By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor! PORTIA. I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio, For by this ring, the doctor lay with me. NERISSA. And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano, For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor’s clerk, In lieu of this, last night did lie with me. GRATIANO. Why, this is like the mending of 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 MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR Contents ACT I Scene I. Windsor. Before Page’s house Scene II. The same Scene III. A room in the Garter Inn Scene IV. A room in Doctor Caius’s house ACT II Scene I. Before Page’s house Scene II. A room in the Garter Inn Scene III. A field near Windsor ACT III Scene I. A field near Frogmore Scene II. A street in Windsor Scene III. A room in Ford’s house Scene IV. A room in Page’s house Scene V. A room in the Garter Inn ACT IV Scene I. The street Scene II. A room in Ford’s house Scene III. A room in the Garter Inn Scene IV. A room in Ford’s house Scene V. A room in the Garter Inn Scene VI. Another room in the Garter Inn ACT V Scene I. A room in the Garter Inn Scene II. Windsor Park Scene III. The street in Windsor Scene IV. Windsor Park Scene V. Another part of the Park Dramatis Personæ HOST of the Garter Inn SIR JOHN FALSTAFF ROBIN, page to Falstaff BARDOLPH, follower of Falstaff PISTOL, follower of Falstaff NYM, follower of Falstaff Robert SHALLOW, a country justice Abraham SLENDER, cousin to Shallow Peter SIMPLE, servant to Slender FENTON, a young gentleman George PAGE, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS PAGE, his wife MISTRESS ANNE PAGE, her daughter, in love with Fenton WILLIAM PAGE, a boy, son to Page Frank FORD, a Gentleman dwelling at Windsor MISTRESS FORD, his wife JOHN, Servant to Ford ROBERT, Servant to Ford SIR HUGH EVANS, a Welsh parson DOCTOR CAIUS, a French physician MISTRESS QUICKLY, servant to Doctor Caius John RUGBY, servant to Doctor Caius SERVANTS to Page, &c. SCENE: Windsor and the neighbourhood ACT I SCENE I. Windsor. Before Page’s house Enter Justice Shallow, Slender and Sir Hugh Evans. SHALLOW. Sir Hugh, persuade me not. I will make a Star Chamber matter of it. If he were twenty Sir John Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire. SLENDER. In the county of Gloucester, Justice of Peace and Coram. SHALLOW. Ay, cousin Slender, and 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, ho! Got pless your house here! PAGE. [_Within_.] Who’s there? EVANS. Here is Got’s plessing, and your friend, and Justice Shallow, and here young Master Slender, that peradventures shall tell you another tale, if matters grow to your likings. Enter Page. PAGE. I am glad to see your worships well. I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. Master Page, I am glad to see you, much good do it your good heart! I wished your venison better; it was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page? And I thank you always with my heart, la, with my heart. PAGE. Sir, I thank you. SHALLOW. Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do. PAGE. I am glad to see you, good Master Slender. SLENDER. How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he was outrun on Cotsall. PAGE. It could not be judged, sir. SLENDER. You’ll not confess, you’ll not confess. SHALLOW. That he will not. ’Tis your fault; ’tis your fault. ’Tis a good dog. PAGE. A cur, sir. SHALLOW. Sir, he’s a good dog, and a fair dog, can there be more said? He is good, and fair. Is Sir John Falstaff here? PAGE. Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good office between you. EVANS. It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak. SHALLOW. He hath wronged me, Master Page. PAGE. Sir, he doth in some sort confess it. SHALLOW. If it be confessed, it is not redressed. Is not that so, Master Page? He hath wronged me, indeed he hath, at a word, he hath. Believe me. Robert Shallow, esquire, saith he is wronged. PAGE. Here comes Sir John. Enter Sir John Falstaff, Bardolph, Nym and Pistol. FALSTAFF. Now, Master Shallow, you’ll complain of me to the King? SHALLOW. Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and broke open my lodge. FALSTAFF. But not kissed your keeper’s daughter! SHALLOW. Tut, a pin! This shall be answered. FALSTAFF. I will answer it straight: I have done all this. That is now answered. SHALLOW. The Council shall know this. FALSTAFF. ’Twere better for you if it were known in counsel: you’ll be laughed at. EVANS. _Pauca verba_, Sir John; goot worts. FALSTAFF. Good worts? Good cabbage!—Slender, I broke your head. What matter have you against me? SLENDER. Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you, and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph, Nym, and Pistol. They carried me to the tavern and made me drunk, and afterwards picked my pocket. BARDOLPH. You Banbury cheese! SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. PISTOL. How now, Mephostophilus? SLENDER. Ay, it is no matter. NYM. Slice, I say! _Pauca, pauca_, slice, that’s my humour. SLENDER. Where’s Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin? EVANS. Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand; there is three umpires in this matter, as I understand: that is, Master Page, _fidelicet_ Master Page; and there is myself, _fidelicet_ myself; and the three party is, lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter. PAGE. We three to hear it and end it between them. EVANS. Fery goot. I will make a prief of it in my notebook, and we will afterwards ’ork upon the cause with as great discreetly as we can. FALSTAFF. Pistol! PISTOL. He hears with ears. EVANS. The tevil and his tam! What phrase is this, “He hears with ear”? Why, it is affectations. FALSTAFF. Pistol, did you pick Master Slender’s purse? SLENDER. Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might never come in mine own great chamber again else! Of seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward shovel-boards that cost me two shilling and two pence a-piece of Yed 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. [_Points at Nym_.] By these gloves, then, ’twas he. NYM. Be avised, sir, and pass good humours. I will say “marry trap with you”, if you run the nuthook’s humour on me. That is the very note of it. SLENDER. By this hat, then, he in the red face had it. For though I cannot remember what I did when you made me drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass. FALSTAFF. What say you, Scarlet and John? BARDOLPH. Why, sir, for my part, I say the gentleman had drunk himself out of his five sentences. EVANS. It is his “five senses”. Fie, what the ignorance is! BARDOLPH. And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashiered; and so conclusions passed 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 denied, gentlemen; you hear it. Enter Mistress Ford, Mistress Page and her daughter Anne Page with wine. 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 Slender._] SLENDER. I had rather than forty shillings I had my book of _Songs and Sonnets_ here. Enter Simple. How now, 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? Enter Shallow and Sir Hugh Evans. 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 hanged, la! SHALLOW. Here comes fair Mistress Anne. 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 Sir Hugh 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. [_To Simple_.] Go, sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my cousin Shallow. [_Exit Simple._] A Justice of Peace sometime may be beholding to his friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy yet, till my mother be dead. But what though? Yet I live like a poor gentleman born. ANNE. I may not go in without your worship. They will not sit till you come. SLENDER. I’ faith, I’ll eat nothing. I thank you as much as though I did. ANNE. I pray you, sir, walk in. SLENDER. I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised my shin th’ other day with playing at sword and dagger with a master of fence—three veneys for a dish of stewed prunes—and, by my troth, I cannot abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your dogs bark so? Be there bears i’ the town? ANNE. I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of. SLENDER. I love the sport well, but I shall as soon quarrel at it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see the bear loose, are you not? ANNE. Ay, indeed, sir. SLENDER. That’s meat and drink to me now. I have seen Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by the chain. But, I warrant you, the women have so cried and shrieked at it that it passed. But women, indeed, cannot abide ’em; they are very ill-favoured rough things. 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 II. The same Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. EVANS. Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius’ house which is the way. And there dwells one Mistress Quickly, which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer and his wringer. SIMPLE. Well, sir. EVANS. Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter. For it is a ’oman that altogether’s acquaintance with Mistress Anne Page; and the letter is to desire and require her to solicit your master’s desires to Mistress Anne Page. I pray you be gone. I will make an end of my dinner; there’s pippins and cheese to come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff, Host, Bardolph, Nym, Pistol and Robin. FALSTAFF. Mine host of the Garter! HOST. What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely. FALSTAFF. Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers. HOST. Discard, bully Hercules; cashier. Let them wag; trot, trot. FALSTAFF. I sit at ten pounds a week. HOST. Thou’rt an emperor—Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain Bardolph. He shall draw, he shall tap. Said I well, bully Hector? FALSTAFF. Do so, good mine host. HOST. I have spoke, let him follow.—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 withered servingman a fresh tapster. Go, adieu. BARDOLPH. It is a life that I have desired. I will thrive. PISTOL. O base Hungarian wight, wilt thou the spigot wield? [_Exit Bardolph._] NYM He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited? FALSTAFF. I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox. 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 Englished rightly, is “I am Sir John Falstaff’s.” PISTOL. He hath studied her will and translated her will—out of honesty into English. NYM. The anchor is deep. Will that humour pass? FALSTAFF. Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband’s purse. He hath a legion of angels. PISTOL. As many devils 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, examined my parts with most judicious oeillades. Sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot, sometimes my portly belly. PISTOL. Then did the sun on dunghill shine. NYM. I thank thee for that humour. FALSTAFF. O, she did so course o’er my exteriors with such a greedy intention that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass. Here’s another letter to her. She bears the purse too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be 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 o’ th’ hoof, seek shelter, pack! Falstaff will learn the humour of this age: French thrift, you rogues—myself and skirted page. [_Exeunt Falstaff and Robin._] PISTOL Let vultures gripe thy guts! For gourd and fullam holds, And high and low beguile the rich and poor. Tester I’ll have in pouch when thou shalt lack, Base Phrygian Turk! NYM. I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge. PISTOL. Wilt thou revenge? NYM. By welkin and her star! PISTOL. With wit or steel? NYM. With both the humours, I. I will discuss the humour of this love to Ford. PISTOL. And I to Page 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 Ford 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 IV. A room in Doctor Caius’s house Enter Mistress Quickly and Simple. MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby! Enter Rugby. I pray thee go to the casement, and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor Caius, coming. If he do, i’ faith, and find anybody in the house, here will be an old abusing of God’s patience and the King’s English. RUGBY. I’ll go watch. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And Master Slender’s your master? SIMPLE. Ay, forsooth. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Does he not wear a great round beard, like a glover’s paring-knife? SIMPLE. No, forsooth, he hath but a little wee face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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— Enter Rugby. RUGBY Out, alas! Here comes my master. MISTRESS QUICKLY. We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man, go into this closet. He will not stay long. [_Simple steps into the closet._] What, John Rugby! John! What, John, I say! Go, John, go inquire for my master. I doubt he be not well, that he comes not home. [_Exit Rugby._] [_Sings_.] _And down, down, adown-a, etc._ Enter Doctor Caius. CAIUS Vat is you sing? I do not like dese toys. Pray you, go and vetch me in my closet _une boîtine verte_, a box, a green-a box. Do intend vat I speak? A green-a box. MISTRESS 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 à la cour—la grande affaire._ MISTRESS QUICKLY. Is it this, sir? CAIUS. _Oui, mette-le au mon_ pocket. _Dépêche_, quickly—Vere is dat knave Rugby? MISTRESS QUICKLY. What, John Rugby, John! Enter Rugby. RUGBY Here, sir. CAIUS. You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come, take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court. RUGBY. ’Tis ready, sir, here in the porch. CAIUS. By my trot, I tarry too long. ’Od’s me! _Qu’ay j’oublié?_ Dere is some simples in my closet dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind. MISTRESS 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! MISTRESS QUICKLY. Good master, be content. CAIUS. Wherefore shall I be content-a? MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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— MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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, _baille_ me some paper.—Tarry you a little-a while. [_Writes._] MISTRESS 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 Mistress Quickly_.] ’Tis a great charge to come under one body’s hand. MISTRESS QUICKLY. [_Aside to Simple_.] Are you avised o’ that? You shall find it a great charge, and to be up early and down late; but notwithstanding—to tell you in your ear, I would have no words of it—my master himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page; but notwithstanding that, I know Anne’s mind. That’s neither here nor there. CAIUS. You jack’nape, give-a dis letter to Sir Hugh. By gar, it is a shallenge. I will cut his troat in de park, and I will teach a scurvy jackanape 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._] MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. [_To Mistress Quickly_.] 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._] MISTRESS 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? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Who’s there, I trow? Come near the house, I pray you. Enter Fenton. FENTON How now, good woman? How dost thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. The better, that it pleases your good worship to ask. FENTON. What news? How does pretty Mistress Anne? MISTRESS 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? MISTRESS 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? MISTRESS 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 today. Hold, there’s money for thee. Let me have thy voice in my behalf. If thou seest her before me, commend me. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Farewell to your worship. [_Exit Fenton._] Truly, an honest gentleman—but Anne loves him not, for I know Anne’s mind as well as another does. Out upon ’t, what have I forgot? [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. Before Page’s house Enter Mistress Page reading a letter. MISTRESS PAGE. What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them? Let me see. [_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 picked—with the devil’s name!—out of my conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me? Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What should I say to him? I was then frugal of my mirth. Heaven forgive me! Why, I’ll exhibit a bill in the parliament for the putting down of men. How shall I be revenged on him? For revenged I will be, as sure as his guts are made of puddings. Enter Mistress Ford. MISTRESS FORD. Mistress Page! Trust me, I was going to your house. MISTRESS PAGE. And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very ill. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe that. I have to show to the contrary. MISTRESS PAGE. Faith, but you do, in my mind. MISTRESS FORD. Well, I do, then. Yet I say I could show you to the contrary. O, Mistress Page, give me some counsel. MISTRESS PAGE. What’s the matter, woman? MISTRESS FORD. O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I could come to such honour! MISTRESS PAGE. Hang the trifle, woman; take the honour. What is it? Dispense with trifles. What is it? MISTRESS FORD. If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so, I could be knighted. MISTRESS PAGE. What? Thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights will hack, and so thou shouldst not alter the article of thy gentry. MISTRESS FORD. We burn daylight. Here, read, read. Perceive how I might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat men as long as I have an eye to make difference of men’s liking. And yet he would not swear; praised women’s modesty; and gave such orderly and well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness that I would have sworn his disposition would have gone to the truth of his words. But they do no more adhere and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to the tune of “Greensleeves.” What tempest, I trow, threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged on him? I think the best way were to entertain him with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like? MISTRESS PAGE. Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery of ill opinions, here’s the twin brother of thy letter. But let thine inherit first, for I protest mine never shall. I warrant he hath a thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for different names—sure, more, and these are of the second edition. He will print them, out of doubt; for he cares not what he puts into the press, when he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man. MISTRESS FORD. Why, this is the very same—the very hand, the very words. What doth he think of us? MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, I know not. It makes me almost ready to wrangle with mine own honesty. I’ll entertain myself like one that I am not acquainted withal; for, sure, unless he know some strain in me that I know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury. MISTRESS FORD. “Boarding” call you it? I’ll be sure to keep him above deck. MISTRESS PAGE. So will I. If he come under my hatches, I’ll never to sea again. Let’s be revenged on him. Let’s appoint him a meeting, give him a show of comfort in his suit, and lead him on with a fine-baited delay, till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I will consent to act any villainy against him that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O, that my husband saw this letter! It would give eternal food to his jealousy. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, look where he comes; and my good man too. He’s as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause, and that, I hope, is an unmeasurable distance. MISTRESS FORD. You are the happier woman. MISTRESS PAGE. Let’s consult together against this greasy knight. Come hither. [_They retire._] Enter Ford 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 humoured letter to her; but I have a sword, and it shall bite upon my necessity. He loves your wife; there’s the short and the long. My name is Corporal Nym. I speak, and I avouch ’tis true. My name is Nym, and Falstaff loves your wife. Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese. Adieu. [_Exit Nym._] PAGE [_Aside_.] “The humour of it,” quoth ’a! Here’s a fellow frights English out of his wits. FORD. [_Aside_.] I will seek out Falstaff. PAGE. [_Aside_.] I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue. FORD. [_Aside_.] If I do find it—well. PAGE. [_Aside_.] I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest o’ the town commended him for a true man. FORD. [_Aside_.] ’Twas a good sensible fellow—well. Mistress Page and Mistress Ford come forward. PAGE. How now, Meg? MISTRESS PAGE. Whither go you, George? Hark you. MISTRESS FORD. How now, sweet Frank, why art thou melancholy? FORD. I melancholy? I am not melancholy. Get you home, go. MISTRESS FORD. Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head now.—Will you go, Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. Have with you. You’ll come to dinner, George? [_Aside to Mistress Ford_.] Look who comes yonder. She shall be our messenger to this paltry knight. MISTRESS FORD. [_Aside to Mistress Page_.] Trust me, I thought on her. She’ll fit it. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS PAGE. You are come to see my daughter Anne? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Ay, forsooth. And, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne? MISTRESS PAGE. Go in with us and see. We’d have an hour’s talk with you. [_Exeunt Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Mistress Quickly._] PAGE How now, Master Ford? FORD. You heard what this knave told me, did you not? PAGE. Yes, and you heard what the other told me? FORD. Do you think there is truth in them? PAGE. Hang ’em, slaves! I do not think the knight would offer it, but these that accuse him in his intent towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men, very rogues, now they be out of service. FORD. Were they his men? PAGE. Marry, were they. FORD. I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at the Garter? PAGE. Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage toward my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it lie on my head. FORD. I do not misdoubt my wife, but I would be loath to turn them together. A man may be too confident. I would have nothing lie on my head. I cannot be thus satisfied. 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.—Cavaliero 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, Cavaliero Justice; tell him, bully rook. SHALLOW. Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor. FORD. Good mine host o’ the Garter, a word with you. HOST. What say’st thou, my bully rook? [_Ford and the Host talk apart._] 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. [_Shallow and Page talk apart. Ford and the Host come forward._] HOST Hast thou no suit against my knight, my guest cavaliero? FORD. None, I protest. But I’ll give you a pottle of burnt sack to give me recourse to him, and tell him my name is Brook, only for a jest. HOST. My hand, bully. Thou shalt have egress and regress—said I well?—and thy name shall be Brook. It is a merry knight. Will you go, myn-heers? SHALLOW. Have with you, mine host. PAGE. I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in his rapier. SHALLOW. Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times you stand on distance—your passes, stoccadoes, and I know not what. ’Tis the heart, Master Page; ’tis here, ’tis here. I have seen the time, with my long sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats. HOST. Here, boys, here, here! Shall we wag? PAGE. Have with you. I had rather hear them scold than fight. [_Exeunt Host, Shallow and Page._] FORD Though Page be a secure fool, and stands so firmly on his wife’s frailty, yet I cannot put off my opinion so easily. She was in his company at Page’s house, and what they made there I know not. Well, I will look further into ’t, and I have a disguise to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not my labour. If she be otherwise, ’tis labour well bestowed. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff and Pistol. FALSTAFF. I will not lend thee a penny. PISTOL. Why then, the world’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open. FALSTAFF. Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my good friends for three reprieves for you and your coach-fellow Nym, or else you had looked through the grate like a gemini of baboons. I am damned in hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends you were good soldiers and tall fellows. And when Mistress Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took ’t upon mine honour thou hadst it not. PISTOL. Didst not thou share? Hadst thou not fifteen pence? FALSTAFF. Reason, you rogue, reason. 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. Ay, ay, I myself sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand, and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to shuffle, to hedge, and to lurch; and yet you, rogue, will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your bold beating oaths, under the shelter of your honour! You will not do it! You! PISTOL. I do relent. What wouldst thou more of man? Enter Robin. ROBIN Sir, here’s a woman would speak with you. FALSTAFF. Let her approach. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Give your worship good morrow. FALSTAFF. Good morrow, goodwife. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Not so, an’t please your worship. FALSTAFF. Good maid, then. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I’ll be sworn, as my mother was, the first hour I was born. FALSTAFF. I do believe the swearer. What with me? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two? FALSTAFF. Two thousand, fair woman; and I’ll vouchsafe thee the hearing. MISTRESS 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— MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Are they so? God bless them, and make them His servants! FALSTAFF. Well, Mistress Ford, what of her? MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you to notify that her husband will be absence from his house between ten and eleven. FALSTAFF. Ten and eleven? MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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? MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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 anything; 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.—This news distracts me. [_Exeunt Mistress Quickly and Robin._] PISTOL. This punk is one of Cupid’s carriers; Clap on more sails, pursue; up with your fights; Give fire! She is my prize, or ocean whelm them all! [_Exit Pistol._] FALSTAFF. Sayst thou so, old Jack? Go thy ways, I’ll make more of thy old body than I have done. Will they yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I thank thee. Let them say ’tis grossly done; so it be fairly done, no matter. Enter Bardolph with a cup of sack. BARDOLPH Sir John, there’s one Master Brook below would fain speak with you and be acquainted with you, and hath sent your worship a morning’s draught of sack. FALSTAFF. Brook is his name? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. FALSTAFF. Call him in. [_Exit Bardolph._] Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o’erflow such liquor. Ah, ha, Mistress Ford and Mistress Page, have I encompassed you? Go to, _via!_ Enter Bardolph with Ford disguised as Brook. FORD God 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 emboldened me to this unseasoned intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all ways do lie open. FALSTAFF. Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on. FORD. Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me. If you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or half, for easing me of the carriage. FALSTAFF. Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter. FORD. I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing. FALSTAFF. Speak, good Master Brook. I shall be glad to be your servant. FORD. Sir, I hear you are a scholar—I will be brief with you—and you have been a man long known to me, though I had never so good means as desire to make myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine own imperfection. But, good Sir John, as you have one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded, turn another into the register of your own, that I may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender. FALSTAFF. Very well, sir, proceed. FORD. There is a gentlewoman in this town, her husband’s name is Ford. FALSTAFF. Well, sir. FORD. I have long loved her, and, I protest to you, bestowed much on her, followed her with a doting observance, engrossed opportunities to meet her, fee’d every slight occasion that could but niggardly give me sight of her, not only bought many presents to give her, but have given largely to many to know what she would have given. Briefly, I have pursued her as love hath pursued me, which hath been on the wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have merited, either in my mind or in my means, meed, I am sure, I have received none, unless experience be a jewel. That I have purchased at an infinite rate, and that hath taught me to say this: Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues, Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues. FALSTAFF. Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Have you importuned her to such a purpose? FORD. Never. FALSTAFF. Of what quality was your love, then? FORD. Like a fair house built on another man’s ground, so that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place where I erected it. FALSTAFF. To what purpose have you unfolded this to me? FORD. When I have told you that, I have told you all. Some say that though she appear honest to me, yet in other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your place and person, generally allowed for your many warlike, 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 looked against. Now, could I come to her with any detection in my hand, my desires had instance and argument to commend themselves. I could drive her then from the ward of her purity, her reputation, her marriage vow, and a thousand other her defences, which now are too too strongly embattled against me. What say you to’t, Sir John? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will first make bold with your money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford’s wife. FORD. O good sir! FALSTAFF. I say you shall. FORD. Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none. FALSTAFF. Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her own appointment; even as you came in to me, her assistant or go-between parted from me. I say I shall be with her between ten and eleven, for at that time the jealous rascally knave her husband will be forth. Come you to me at night. You shall know how I speed. FORD. I am blessed in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford, sir? FALSTAFF. Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not. Yet I wrong him to call him poor. They say the jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money, for the which his wife seems to me well-favoured. I will use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue’s coffer, and there’s my harvest-home. FORD. I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him if you saw him. FALSTAFF. Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will stare him out of his wits, I will awe him with my cudgel; it shall hang like a meteor o’er the cuckold’s horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night. Ford’s a knave, and I will aggravate his style. Thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and cuckold. Come to me soon at night. [_Exit Falstaff._] FORD. What a damned epicurean rascal is this! My heart is ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is improvident jealousy? My wife hath sent to him, the hour is fixed, the match is made. Would any man have thought this? See the hell of having a false woman: my bed shall be abused, my coffers ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that does me this wrong. Terms, names! Amaimon sounds well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are devils’ additions, the names of fiends. But cuckold? Wittol? Cuckold? The devil himself hath not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass; he will trust his wife, he will not be jealous. I will rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling gelding, than my wife with herself. Then she plots, then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they think in their hearts they may effect, they will break their hearts but they will effect. God be praised for my jealousy! Eleven o’clock the hour. I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it. Better three hours too soon than a minute too late. Fie, fie, fie! Cuckold, cuckold, cuckold! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A field near Windsor Enter Doctor Caius and Rugby. CAIUS. Jack Rugby! RUGBY. Sir? CAIUS. Vat is de clock, Jack? RUGBY. ’Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet. CAIUS. By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come. He has pray his Pible 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 Page, Shallow, Slender and Host. HOST God bless thee, bully doctor! SHALLOW. God 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 vorld. He is not show his face. HOST. Thou art a Castalion King Urinal Hector of Greece, my boy! CAIUS. I pray you, bear witness that me have stay six or seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come. SHALLOW. He is the wiser man, Master doctor. He is a curer of souls, and you a curer of bodies. If you should fight, you go against the hair of your professions. Is it not true, Master Page? PAGE. Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great fighter, though now a man of peace. SHALLOW. Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old, and of the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to make one. Though we are justices and doctors and churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our youth in us. We are the sons of women, Master Page. PAGE. ’Tis true, Master Shallow. SHALLOW. It will be found so, Master Page.—Master Doctor Caius, I come to fetch you home. I am sworn of the peace. You have showed yourself a wise physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise and patient churchman. You must go with me, Master Doctor. HOST. Pardon, guest justice.—A word, Monsieur Mockwater. CAIUS. Mockvater? Vat is dat? HOST. Mockwater, in our English tongue, is valour, bully. CAIUS. By gar, then I have as much mockvater as de Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! By gar, me vill cut his ears. HOST. He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully. CAIUS. Clapper-de-claw? Vat is dat? HOST. That is, he will make thee amends. CAIUS. By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me, for, by gar, me vill have it. HOST. And I will provoke him to’t, or let him wag. CAIUS. Me tank you for dat. HOST. And, moreover, bully—but first, Master guest, and Master Page, and eke Cavaliero Slender, go you through the town to Frogmore. PAGE [_Aside to Host_.] Sir Hugh is there, is he? HOST. [_Aside to Page_.] 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 to Host_.] 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 jackanape to Anne Page. HOST. Let him die. Sheathe thy impatience; throw cold water on thy choler. Go about the fields with me through Frogmore. I will bring thee where Mistress Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting, and thou shalt woo her. Cried game! Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, me tank you for dat. By gar, I love you; and I shall procure-a you de good guest: de earl, de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients. HOST. For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne Page. Said I well? CAIUS. By gar, ’tis good; vell said. HOST. Let us wag, then. CAIUS. Come at my heels, Jack Rugby. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. A field near Frogmore Enter Sir Hugh Evans and Simple. EVANS. I pray you now, good Master Slender’s servingman, and friend Simple by your name, which way have you looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic? SIMPLE. Marry, sir, the Petty-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 Simple._] EVANS Pless my soul, how full of cholers 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 good 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 rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals._ 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. 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. God save you, good Sir Hugh! EVANS. God pless you from his mercy sake, all of you! SHALLOW. What, the sword and the word? Do you study them both, Master Parson? PAGE. And youthful still—in your doublet and hose, this raw rheumatic day? EVANS. There is reasons and causes for it. PAGE. We are come to you to do a good office, Master Parson. EVANS. Fery well; what is it? PAGE. Yonder is a most reverend gentleman who, belike having received wrong by some person, is at most odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you saw. SHALLOW. I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never heard a man of his place, gravity, and learning, so wide of his own respect. EVANS. What is he? PAGE. I think you know him: Master Doctor Caius, the renowned French physician. EVANS. Got’s will and His passion of my heart! I had as lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge. PAGE. Why? EVANS. He has no more knowledge in Hibbocrates and Galen, and he is a knave besides, a cowardly knave as you would desires to be acquainted withal. PAGE. I warrant you, he’s the man should fight with him. SLENDER. [_Aside_.] O, sweet Anne Page! SHALLOW. It appears so by his weapons. Keep them asunder. Here comes Doctor Caius. Enter Host, Caius and Rugby. PAGE Nay, good Master Parson, keep in your weapon. SHALLOW. So do you, good Master Doctor. HOST. Disarm them, and let them question. Let them keep their limbs whole and hack our English. CAIUS. I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear. Verefore will you not meet-a me? EVANS. [_Aside to Caius_.] Pray you, use your patience. In good time. CAIUS. By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape. EVANS. [_Aside to Caius_.] Pray you, let us not be laughing stocks to other men’s humours. I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends. [_Aloud_.] By Jeshu, I will knog your urinal about your knave’s cogscomb. 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 no-verbs. [_To Caius_.] Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. [_To Evans_.] Give me thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have deceived you both. I have directed you to wrong places. Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace, follow, follow, follow. [_Exit Host._] SHALLOW. Afore God, a mad host! Follow, gentlemen, follow. SLENDER. [_Aside_.] O, sweet Anne Page! [_Exeunt Shallow, Slender and Page._] 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 II. A street in Windsor Enter Mistress Page following Robin. MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, keep your way, little gallant. You were wont to be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather, lead mine eyes, or eye your master’s heels? ROBIN. I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him like a dwarf. MISTRESS PAGE. O, you are a flattering boy! Now I see you’ll be a courtier. Enter Ford. FORD Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you? MISTRESS PAGE. Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home? FORD. Ay, and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company. I think if your husbands were dead you two would marry. MISTRESS PAGE. Be sure of that—two other husbands. FORD. Where had you this pretty weathercock? MISTRESS PAGE. I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of. What do you call your knight’s name, sirrah? ROBIN. Sir John Falstaff. FORD. Sir John Falstaff! MISTRESS PAGE. He, he; I can never hit on’s name. There is such a league between my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed? FORD. Indeed she is. MISTRESS PAGE. By your leave, sir, I am sick till I see her. [_Exeunt Mistress Page and Robin._] FORD Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve score. He pieces out his wife’s inclination, he gives her folly motion and advantage. And now she’s going to my wife, and Falstaff’s boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And Falstaff’s boy with her! Good plots they are laid, and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well, I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from the so-seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and wilful Actaeon, and to these violent proceedings all my neighbours shall cry aim. [_Clock strikes_.] The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me search. There I shall find Falstaff. I shall be rather praised for this than mocked, for it is as positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go. Enter Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Sir Hugh Evans, Caius and Rugby. SHALLOW, PAGE, etc. Well met, Master Ford. FORD. Trust me, a good knot. I have good cheer at home, and I pray you all go with me. SHALLOW. I must excuse myself, Master Ford. SLENDER. And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for more money than I’ll speak of. SHALLOW. We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer. SLENDER. I hope I have your good will, father Page. PAGE. You have, Master Slender, I stand wholly for you.—But my wife, Master doctor, is for you altogether. CAIUS. Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me! My nursh-a Quickly tell me so mush. HOST. What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May. He will carry ’t, he will carry ’t. ’Tis in his buttons he will carry ’t. PAGE. Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having. He kept company with the wild Prince and 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 III. A room in Ford’s house Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. MISTRESS FORD. What, John! What, Robert! MISTRESS PAGE. Quickly, quickly! Is the buck-basket— MISTRESS FORD. I warrant.—What, Robin, I say! Enter John and Robert with a great buck-basket. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, come, come. MISTRESS FORD. Here, set it down. MISTRESS PAGE. Give your men the charge; we must be brief. MISTRESS FORD. Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be ready here hard by in the brew-house; and when I suddenly call you, come forth, and, without any pause or staggering, take this basket on your shoulders. That done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry it among the whitsters in Datchet Mead, and there empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side. MISTRESS PAGE. You will do it? MISTRESS FORD. I ha’ told them over and over, they lack no direction.—Be gone, and come when you are called. [_Exeunt John and Robert._] MISTRESS PAGE. Here comes little Robin. Enter Robin. MISTRESS FORD. How now, my eyas-musket, what news with you? ROBIN. My Master, Sir John, is come in at your back door, Mistress Ford, and requests your company. MISTRESS PAGE. You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us? ROBIN. Ay, I’ll be sworn. My master knows not of your being here, and hath threatened to put me into everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he swears he’ll turn me away. MISTRESS PAGE. Thou’rt a good boy, this secrecy of thine shall be a tailor to thee, and shall make thee a new doublet and hose. I’ll go hide me. MISTRESS FORD. Do so.—Go tell thy master I am alone. [_Exit Robin._] Mistress Page, remember you your cue. MISTRESS PAGE. I warrant thee. If I do not act it, hiss me. [_Exit Mistress Page._] MISTRESS FORD. Go to, then. We’ll use this unwholesome humidity, this gross watery pumpion; we’ll teach him to know turtles from jays. Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. “Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel?” Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough. This is the period of my ambition. O this blessed hour! MISTRESS FORD. O, sweet Sir John! FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate, Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would thy husband were dead. I’ll speak it before the best lord: I would make thee my lady. MISTRESS FORD. I your lady, Sir John? Alas, I should be a pitiful lady. FALSTAFF. Let the court of France show me such another. I see how thine eye would emulate the diamond. Thou hast the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of Venetian admittance. MISTRESS FORD. A plain kerchief, Sir John. My brows become nothing else, nor that well neither. FALSTAFF. By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so. Thou wouldst make an absolute courtier, and the firm fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it. MISTRESS FORD. Believe me, there’s no such thing in me. FALSTAFF. What made me love thee? Let that persuade thee there’s something extraordinary in thee. Come, I cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a many of these lisping hawthorn buds that come like women in men’s apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury in simple-time. I cannot. But I love thee, none but thee; and thou deservest it. MISTRESS FORD. Do not betray me, sir; I fear you love Mistress Page. FALSTAFF. Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the Counter gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek of a lime-kiln. MISTRESS FORD. Well, heaven knows how I love you, and you shall one day find it. FALSTAFF. Keep in that mind, I’ll deserve it. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not be in that mind. Enter Robin. ROBIN. Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford, here’s Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently. FALSTAFF. She shall not see me; I will ensconce me behind the arras. MISTRESS FORD. Pray you, do so; she’s a very tattling woman. [_Falstaff hides himself behind the arras._] Enter Mistress Page. What’s the matter? How now? MISTRESS PAGE. O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You’re shamed, you’re overthrown, you’re undone for ever! MISTRESS FORD. What’s the matter, good Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. O well-a-day, Mistress Ford, having an honest man to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion! MISTRESS FORD. What cause of suspicion? MISTRESS PAGE. What cause of suspicion? Out upon you! How am I mistook in you! MISTRESS FORD. Why, alas, what’s the matter? MISTRESS PAGE. Your husband’s coming hither, woman, with all the officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that he says is here now in the house, by your consent, to take an ill advantage of his absence. You are undone. MISTRESS FORD. ’Tis not so, I hope. MISTRESS PAGE. Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man here! But ’tis most certain your husband’s coming, with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a one. I come before to tell you. If you know yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you have a friend here, convey, convey him out. Be not amazed, call all your senses to you; defend your reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever. MISTRESS FORD. What shall I do? There is a gentleman, my dear friend; and I fear not mine own shame as much as his peril. I had rather than a thousand pound he were out of the house. MISTRESS PAGE. For shame! Never stand “you had rather” and “you had rather”. Your husband’s here at hand. Bethink you of some conveyance. In the house you cannot hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here is a basket. If he be of any reasonable stature, he may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as if it were going to bucking. Or—it is whiting-time—send him by your two men to Datchet Mead. MISTRESS FORD. He’s too big to go in there. What shall I do? FALSTAFF. [_Comes out of hiding_.] Let me see ’t, let me see ’t! O, let me see ’t! I’ll in, I’ll in. Follow your friend’s counsel. I’ll in. MISTRESS PAGE. What, Sir John Falstaff? Are these your letters, knight? FALSTAFF. I love thee, and none but thee. Help me away. Let me creep in here. I’ll never— [_He goes into the basket; they cover him with dirty clothes._] MISTRESS PAGE. Help to cover your master, boy.—Call your men, Mistress Ford.—You dissembling knight! [_Exit Robin._] MISTRESS FORD. What, John! Robert! John! Enter John and Robert. 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? JOHN and ROBERT. To the laundress, forsooth. MISTRESS FORD. Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You were best meddle with buck-washing! FORD. Buck? I would I could wash myself of the buck! Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck! I warrant you, buck, and of the season too, it shall appear. [_Exeunt John and Robert with the basket._] Gentlemen, I have dreamed tonight; 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. [_Locks 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 Ford._] 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 Page, Evans and Caius._] MISTRESS PAGE. Is there not a double excellency in this? MISTRESS FORD. I know not which pleases me better, that my husband is deceived, or Sir John. MISTRESS PAGE. What a taking was he in when your husband asked who was in the basket! MISTRESS FORD. I am half afraid he will have need of washing, so throwing him into the water will do him a benefit. MISTRESS PAGE. Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same strain were in the same distress. MISTRESS FORD. I think my husband hath some special suspicion of Falstaff’s being here, for I never saw him so gross in his jealousy till now. MISTRESS PAGE. I will lay a plot to try that, and we will yet have more tricks with Falstaff. His dissolute disease will scarce obey this medicine. MISTRESS FORD. Shall we send that foolish carrion Mistress Quickly to him, and excuse his throwing into the water, and give him another hope, to betray him to another punishment? MISTRESS PAGE. We will do it. Let him be sent for tomorrow eight o’clock to have amends. Enter Ford, Page, Caius and Sir Hugh Evans. FORD I cannot find him. Maybe the knave bragged of that he could not compass. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Aside to Mistress Ford_.] Heard you that? MISTRESS FORD. You use me well, Master Ford, do you? FORD. Ay, I do so. MISTRESS FORD. Heaven make you better than your thoughts! FORD. Amen! MISTRESS PAGE. You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford. FORD. Ay, ay; I must bear it. EVANS. If there be anypody in the house, and in the chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses, heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment! CAIUS. Be gar, nor I too; there is nobodies. PAGE. Fie, fie, Master Ford, are you not ashamed? What spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I would not ha’ your distemper in this kind for the wealth of Windsor Castle. FORD. ’Tis my fault, Master Page. I suffer for it. EVANS. You suffer for a pad conscience. Your wife is as honest a ’omans as I will desires among five thousand, and five hundred too. CAIUS. By gar, I see ’tis an honest woman. FORD. Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in the park. I pray you pardon me; I will hereafter make known to you why I have done this. Come, wife, come, Mistress Page, I pray you pardon me. Pray heartily, pardon me. PAGE. Let’s go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we’ll mock him. I do invite you tomorrow 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. Anything. 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. [_Exeunt all but Evans and Caius._] EVANS. I pray you now, remembrance tomorrow 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 IV. A room in 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 galled 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. Maybe he tells you true. FENTON. No, heaven so speed me in my time to come! Albeit I will confess thy father’s wealth Was the first motive that I wooed thee, Anne, Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags. And ’tis the very riches of thyself That now I aim at. ANNE. Gentle Master Fenton, Yet seek my father’s love, still seek it, sir. If opportunity and humblest suit Cannot attain it, why then—hark you hither. [_They talk apart._] Enter Shallow, Slender and Mistress Quickly. SHALLOW. Break their talk, Mistress Quickly. My kinsman shall speak for himself. SLENDER. I’ll make a shaft or a bolt on ’t. ’Slid, ’tis but venturing. SHALLOW. Be not dismayed. SLENDER. No, she shall not dismay me. I care not for that, but that I am afeard. MISTRESS 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-favoured faults Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year! MISTRESS QUICKLY. And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you. [_They talk aside._] SHALLOW. [_To Slender_.] She’s coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father! SLENDER. I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you good jests of him.—Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress Anne the jest how my father stole two geese out of a pen, good uncle. SHALLOW. Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you. SLENDER. Ay, that I do, as well as I love any woman in Gloucestershire. SHALLOW. He will maintain you like a gentlewoman. SLENDER. Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the degree of a squire. SHALLOW. He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure. ANNE. Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself. SHALLOW. Marry, I thank you for it, I thank you for that good comfort.—She calls you, coz; I’ll leave you. ANNE. Now, Master Slender. SLENDER. Now, good Mistress Anne. ANNE. What is your will? SLENDER. My will? ’Od’s heartlings, that’s a pretty jest indeed! I ne’er made my will yet, I thank heaven. I am not such a sickly creature, I give 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 disposed of. FENTON. Nay, Master Page, be not impatient. MISTRESS PAGE. Good Master Fenton, come not to my child. PAGE. She is no match for you. FENTON. Sir, will you hear me? PAGE. No, good Master Fenton.— Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.— Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton. [_Exeunt Page, Shallow and Slender._] MISTRESS QUICKLY. Speak to Mistress Page. FENTON. Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter In such a righteous fashion as I do, Perforce, against all checks, rebukes, and manners, I must advance the colours of my love And not retire. Let me have your good will. ANNE. Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool. MISTRESS PAGE. I mean it not; I seek you a better husband. MISTRESS QUICKLY. That’s my master, Master Doctor. ANNE. Alas, I had rather be set quick i’ th’ earth, And bowled to death with turnips. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, trouble not yourself, good Master Fenton, I will not be your friend, nor enemy. My daughter will I question how she loves you, And as I find her, so am I affected. Till then, farewell, sir. She must needs go in; Her father will be angry. FENTON. Farewell, gentle mistress. Farewell, Nan. [_Exeunt Mistress Page and Anne._] MISTRESS 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 tonight Give my sweet Nan this ring. There’s for thy pains. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Now Heaven send thee good fortune! [_Exit Fenton._] A kind heart he hath. A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I would my master had Mistress Anne, or I would Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master Fenton had her. I will do what I can for them all three, for so I have promised and I’ll be as good as my word—but speciously for Master Fenton. Well, I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from my two mistresses. What a beast am I to slack it! [_Exit._] SCENE V. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. Bardolph, I say! Enter Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Here, sir. FALSTAFF. Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in ’t. [_Exit Bardolph._] Have I lived to be carried in a basket like a barrow of butcher’s offal, and to be thrown in the Thames? Well, if I be served such another trick, I’ll have my brains ta’en out and buttered, and give them to a dog for a New Year’s gift. ’Sblood, the rogues slighted me into the river with as little remorse as they would have drowned a blind bitch’s puppies, fifteen i’ the litter; and you may know by my size that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and shallow—a death that I abhor, for the water swells a man, and what a thing should I have been when I had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy. 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 swallowed snowballs for pills to cool the reins. Call her in. BARDOLPH. Come in, woman. Enter Mistress Quickly. MISTRESS 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? MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS 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. MISTRESS QUICKLY. I will tell her. FALSTAFF. Do so. Between nine and ten, sayst thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Eight and nine, sir. FALSTAFF. Well, be gone. I will not miss her. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Peace be with you, sir. [_Exit Mistress Quickly._] 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 God bless you, sir. FALSTAFF. Now, Master Brook, you come to know what hath passed between me and Ford’s wife? FORD. That indeed, Sir John, is my business. FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will not lie to you. I was at her house the hour she appointed me. FORD. And how sped you, sir? FALSTAFF. Very ill-favouredly, Master Brook. FORD. How so, sir? Did she change her determination? FALSTAFF. No. Master Brook, but the peaking cornuto her husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual ’larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy; and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither provoked and instigated by his distemper, and, forsooth, to search his house for his wife’s love. FORD. What, while you were there? FALSTAFF. While I was there. FORD. And did he search for you, and could not find you? FALSTAFF. You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford’s approach; and, in her invention and Ford’s wife’s distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket. FORD. A buck-basket! FALSTAFF. By the Lord, a buck-basket! Rammed me in with foul shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy napkins, that, Master Brook, there was the rankest compound of villainous smell that ever offended nostril. FORD. And how long lay you there? FALSTAFF. Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good. Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford’s knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to Datchet Lane. They took me on their shoulders, met the jealous knave their master in the door, who asked them once or twice what they had in their basket. I quaked for fear lest the lunatic knave would have searched it; but Fate, ordaining he should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well, on went he for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But mark the sequel, Master Brook. I suffered the pangs of three several deaths: first, an intolerable fright to be detected with a jealous rotten bell-wether; next, to be compassed like a good bilbo in the circumference of a peck, hilt to point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in, like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes that fretted in their own grease. Think of that, a man of my kidney, think of that—that am as subject to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution and thaw. It was a miracle to ’scape suffocation. And in the height of this bath, when I was more than half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be thrown into the Thames and cooled, glowing hot, in that surge, like a horseshoe! Think of that—hissing hot—think of that, Master Brook. FORD. In good sadness, sir, I am sorry that for my sake you have suffered all this. My suit, then, is desperate. You’ll undertake her no more? FALSTAFF. Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her husband is this morning gone a-birding; I have received from her another embassy of meeting. ’Twixt eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook. FORD. ’Tis past eight already, sir. FALSTAFF. Is it? I will then address me to my appointment. Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall have her, Master Brook. Master Brook, you shall cuckold Ford. [_Exit Falstaff._] FORD Hum! Ha! Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep? Master Ford, awake; awake, Master Ford! There’s a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford. This ’tis to be married; this ’tis to have linen and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself what I am. I will now take the lecher. He is at my house. He cannot scape me. ’Tis impossible he should. He cannot creep into a half-penny purse, nor into a pepperbox. But, lest the devil that guides him should aid him, I will search impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid, yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame. If I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go with me: I’ll be horn-mad. [_Exit._] ACT IV SCENE I. The street Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Quickly and William. MISTRESS PAGE. Is he at Master Ford’s already, think’st thou? MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sure he is by this; or will be presently. But truly he is very courageous mad about his throwing into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly. MISTRESS PAGE. I’ll be with her by and by. I’ll but bring my young man here to school. Look where his master comes; ’tis a playing day, I see. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. How now, Sir Hugh, no school today? EVANS. No, Master Slender is let the boys leave to play. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Blessing of his heart! MISTRESS PAGE. Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in the world at his book. I pray you ask him some questions in his accidence. EVANS. Come hither, William. Hold up your head, come. MISTRESS PAGE. Come on, sirrah. Hold up your head. Answer your master, be not afraid. EVANS. William, how many numbers is in nouns? WILLIAM. Two. MISTRESS 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_. MISTRESS 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, haeg, hog_, pray you, mark: _genitivo, huius_. Well, what is your accusative case? WILLIAM. _Accusativo, hinc_. EVANS. I pray you, have your remembrance, child. _Accusativo, hung, hang, hog_. MISTRESS 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_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And that’s a good root. EVANS. ’Oman, forbear. MISTRESS PAGE. Peace. EVANS. What is your genitive case plural, William? WILLIAM. Genitive case? EVANS. Ay. WILLIAM. Genitive: _horum, harum, horum_. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Vengeance of Jenny’s case, fie on her! Never name her, child, if she be a whore. EVANS. For shame, ’oman. MISTRESS QUICKLY. You do ill to teach the child such words.—He teaches him to hick and to hack, which they’ll do fast enough of themselves; and to call “whore ’m”!—Fie upon you! EVANS. ’Oman, art thou lunatics? Hast thou no understandings for thy cases, and the numbers of the genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as I would desires. MISTRESS PAGE. [_To Quickly_.] Prithee, hold thy peace. EVANS. Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns. WILLIAM. Forsooth, I have forgot. EVANS. It is _qui, quae, quod_. If you forget your _quis_, your _quaes_, and your _quods_, you must be preeches. Go your ways and play, go. MISTRESS PAGE. He is a better scholar than I thought he was. EVANS. He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. Adieu, good Sir Hugh. [_Exit Sir Hugh Evans._] Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in Ford’s house Enter Falstaff and Mistress Ford. FALSTAFF. Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love, and I profess requital to a hair’s breadth, not only, Mistress Ford, in the simple office of love, but in all the accoutrement, compliment, and ceremony of it. But are you sure of your husband now? MISTRESS FORD. He’s a-birding, sweet Sir John. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Within_.] What ho, gossip Ford, what ho! MISTRESS FORD. Step into the chamber, Sir John. [_Exit Falstaff._] Enter Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. How now, sweetheart, who’s at home besides yourself? MISTRESS FORD. Why, none but mine own people. MISTRESS PAGE. Indeed? MISTRESS FORD. No, certainly. [_Aside to her_.] Speak louder. MISTRESS PAGE. Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here. MISTRESS FORD. Why? MISTRESS PAGE. Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again. He so takes on yonder with my husband, so rails against all married mankind, so curses all Eve’s daughters, of what complexion soever, and so buffets himself on the forehead, crying “Peer out, peer out!” that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but tameness, civility, and patience, to this his distemper he is in now. I am glad the fat knight is not here. MISTRESS FORD. Why, does he talk of him? MISTRESS PAGE. Of none but him, and swears he was carried out, the last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests to my husband he is now here; and hath drawn him and the rest of their company from their sport, to make another experiment of his suspicion. But I am glad the knight is not here. Now he shall see his own foolery. MISTRESS FORD. How near is he, Mistress Page? MISTRESS PAGE. Hard by, at street end. He will be here anon. MISTRESS FORD. I am undone! The knight is here. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, then, you are utterly shamed, and he’s but a dead man. What a woman are you! Away with him, away with him! Better shame than murder. MISTRESS FORD. Which way should he go? How should I bestow him? Shall I put him into the basket again? Enter Falstaff. FALSTAFF. No, I’ll come no more i’ the basket. May I not go out ere he come? MISTRESS PAGE. Alas, three of Master Ford’s brothers watch the door with pistols, that none shall issue out, otherwise you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here? FALSTAFF. What shall I do? I’ll creep up into the chimney. MISTRESS FORD. There they always use to discharge their birding-pieces. MISTRESS PAGE. Creep into the kiln-hole. FALSTAFF. Where is it? MISTRESS FORD. He will seek there, on my word. Neither press, coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an abstract for the remembrance of such places, and goes to them by his note. There is no hiding you in the house. FALSTAFF. I’ll go out then. MISTRESS PAGE. If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir John—unless you go out disguised. MISTRESS FORD. How might we disguise him? MISTRESS PAGE. Alas the day, I know not. There is no woman’s gown big enough for him; otherwise he might put on a hat, a muffler, and a kerchief, and so escape. FALSTAFF. Good hearts, devise something. Any extremity rather than a mischief. MISTRESS FORD. My maid’s aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a gown above. MISTRESS PAGE. On my word, it will serve him. She’s as big as he is. And there’s her thrummed hat, and her muffler too.—Run up, Sir John. MISTRESS FORD. Go, go, sweet Sir John. Mistress Page and I will look some linen for your head. MISTRESS PAGE. Quick, quick! We’ll come dress you straight; put on the gown the while. [_Exit Falstaff._] MISTRESS FORD. I would my husband would meet him in this shape. He cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears she’s a witch, forbade her my house, and hath threatened to beat her. MISTRESS PAGE. Heaven guide him to thy husband’s cudgel and the devil guide his cudgel afterwards! MISTRESS FORD. But is my husband coming? MISTRESS PAGE. Ay, in good sadness is he, and talks of the basket too, howsoever he hath had intelligence. MISTRESS FORD. We’ll try that; for I’ll appoint my men to carry the basket again, to meet him at the door with it as they did last time. MISTRESS PAGE. Nay, but he’ll be here presently. Let’s go dress him like the witch of Brentford. MISTRESS FORD. I’ll first direct my men what they shall do with the basket. Go up, I’ll bring linen for him straight. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] MISTRESS PAGE. Hang him, dishonest varlet! We cannot misuse him enough. We’ll leave a proof, by that which we will do, Wives may be merry and yet honest too. We do not act that often jest and laugh; ’Tis old but true: “Still swine eats all the draff.” [_Exit._] Enter Mistress Ford with John and Robert. MISTRESS FORD. Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders. Your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it down, obey him. Quickly, dispatch. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] JOHN. Come, come, take it up. ROBERT. Pray heaven it be not full of knight again. JOHN. 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 gin, a pack, a conspiracy against me. Now shall the devil be shamed.—What, wife, I say! Come, come forth! Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching! PAGE. Why, this passes, Master Ford! You are not to go loose any longer; you must be pinioned. EVANS. Why, this is lunatics, this is mad as a mad dog. SHALLOW. Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed. FORD. So say I too, sir. 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? MISTRESS FORD. Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in any dishonesty. FORD. Well said, brazen-face, hold it out.—Come forth, sirrah. [_Pulls clothes out of the basket._] PAGE. This passes. MISTRESS FORD. Are you not ashamed? Let the clothes alone. FORD. I shall find you anon. EVANS. ’Tis unreasonable. Will you take up your wife’s clothes? Come, away. FORD. Empty the basket, I say. MISTRESS FORD. Why, man, why? FORD. Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed out of my house yesterday in this basket. Why may not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is. My intelligence is true, my jealousy is reasonable.—Pluck me out all the linen. MISTRESS FORD. If you find a man there, he shall die a flea’s death. PAGE. Here’s no man. SHALLOW. By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford, this wrongs you. EVANS. Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the imaginations of your own heart. This is jealousies. FORD. Well, he’s not here I seek for. PAGE. No, nor nowhere else but in your brain. FORD Help to search my house this one time. If I find not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity, let me for ever be your table-sport. Let them say of me “As jealous as Ford, that searched a hollow walnut for his wife’s leman.” Satisfy me once more, once more search with me. [_Exeunt John and Robert with the basket._] MISTRESS FORD. What, ho, Mistress Page! Come you and the old woman down; my husband will come into the chamber. FORD. Old woman? What old woman’s that? MISTRESS FORD. Why, it is my maid’s aunt of Brentford. FORD. A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does she? We are simple men; we do not know what’s brought to pass under the profession of fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells, by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond our element. We know nothing.—Come down, you witch, you hag, you! Come down, I say! MISTRESS FORD. Nay, good sweet husband!—Good gentlemen, let him not strike the old woman. Enter Falstaff disguised as an old woman, led by Mistress Page. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand. FORD. I’ll prat her. [_Beats him_.] Out of my door, you witch, you rag, you baggage, you polecat, you runnion! Out, out! I’ll conjure you, I’ll fortune-tell you. [_Exit Falstaff._] MISTRESS PAGE. Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the poor woman. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, he will do it. ’Tis a goodly credit for you. FORD. Hang her, witch! EVANS. By yea and no, I think the ’oman is a witch indeed. I like not when a ’oman has a great peard. I spy a great peard under her muffler. FORD. Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you follow, see but the issue of my jealousy. If I cry out thus upon no trail, never trust me when I open again. PAGE. Let’s obey his humour a little further. Come, gentlemen. [_Exeunt Ford, Page, Caius, Evans and Shallow._] MISTRESS PAGE. Trust me, he beat him most pitifully. MISTRESS FORD. Nay, by th’ mass, that he did not; he beat him most unpitifully, methought. MISTRESS PAGE. I’ll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o’er the altar. It hath done meritorious service. MISTRESS FORD. What think you? May we, with the warrant of womanhood and the witness of a good conscience, pursue him with any further revenge? MISTRESS PAGE. The spirit of wantonness is sure scared out of him. If the devil have him not in fee-simple, with fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the way of waste, attempt us again. MISTRESS FORD. Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him? MISTRESS PAGE. Yes, by all means, if it be but to scrape the figures out of your husband’s brains. If they can find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be the ministers. MISTRESS FORD. I’ll warrant they’ll have him publicly shamed, and methinks there would be no period to the jest should he not be publicly shamed. MISTRESS PAGE. Come, to the forge with it, then shape it. I would not have things cool. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Host and Bardolph. BARDOLPH. Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your horses. The Duke himself will be tomorrow at court, and they are going to meet him. HOST. What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear not of him in the court. Let me speak with the gentlemen. They speak English? BARDOLPH. Ay, sir. I’ll call them to you. HOST. They shall have my horses, but I’ll make them pay, I’ll sauce them. They have had my house a week at command; I have turned away my other guests. They must come off, I’ll sauce them. Come. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Ford’s house Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Sir Hugh Evans. EVANS. ’Tis one of the best discretions of a ’oman as ever I did look upon. PAGE. And did he send you both these letters at an instant? MISTRESS PAGE. Within a quarter of an hour. FORD. Pardon me, wife. Henceforth, do what thou wilt. I rather will suspect the sun with cold Than thee with wantonness. Now doth thy honour stand, In him that was of late an heretic, As firm as faith. PAGE. ’Tis well, ’tis well, no more. Be not as extreme in submission as in offence. But let our plot go forward. Let our wives Yet once again, to make us public sport, Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow, Where we may take him and disgrace him for it. FORD. There is no better way than that they spoke of. PAGE. How? To send him word they’ll meet him in the park at midnight? Fie, fie, he’ll never come. EVANS. You say he has been thrown in the rivers, and has been grievously peaten as an old ’oman. Methinks there should be terrors in him, that he should not come. Methinks his flesh is punished; he shall have no desires. PAGE. So think I too. MISTRESS FORD. Devise but how you’ll use him when he comes, And let us two devise to bring him thither. MISTRESS PAGE. There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter time, at still midnight, Walk round about an oak, with great ragged horns, And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle, And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain In a most hideous and dreadful manner. You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know The superstitious idle-headed eld Received and did deliver to our age, This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth. PAGE. Why, yet there want not many that do fear In deep of night to walk by this Herne’s oak. But what of this? MISTRESS FORD. Marry, this is our device, That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us, Disguised like Herne, with huge horns on his head. PAGE. Well, let it not be doubted but he’ll come, And in this shape; when you have brought him thither, What shall be done with him? What is your plot? MISTRESS PAGE. That likewise have we thought upon, and thus: Nan Page my daughter, and my little son, And three or four more of their growth, we’ll dress Like urchins, oafs and fairies, green and white, With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads And rattles in their hands. Upon a sudden, As Falstaff, she, and I are newly met, Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once With some diffused song; upon their sight We two in great amazedness will fly. Then let them all encircle him about, And fairy-like, to pinch the unclean knight, And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel, In their so sacred paths he dares to tread In shape profane. MISTRESS FORD. And till he tell the truth, Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound And burn him with their tapers. MISTRESS PAGE. The truth being known, We’ll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit, And mock him home to Windsor. FORD. The children must Be practised well to this, or they’ll ne’er do ’t. EVANS. I will teach the children their behaviours, and I will be like a jackanapes also, to burn the knight with my taber. FORD. That will be excellent. I’ll go buy them vizards. MISTRESS PAGE. My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies, Finely attired in a robe of white. PAGE. That silk will I go buy. [_Aside_.] And in that time Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away, And marry her at Eton.—Go, send to Falstaff straight. FORD. Nay, I’ll to him again in name of Brook. He’ll tell me all his purpose. Sure, he’ll come. MISTRESS PAGE. Fear not you that. Go, get us properties And tricking for our fairies. EVANS. Let us about it. It is admirable pleasures and fery honest knaveries. [_Exeunt Page, Ford and Evans._] MISTRESS PAGE. Go, Mistress Ford. Send quickly to Sir John to know his mind. [_Exit Mistress Ford._] I’ll to the Doctor. He hath my good will, And none but he, to marry with Nan Page. That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot, And he my husband best of all affects. The Doctor is well moneyed, and his friends Potent at court. He, none but he, shall have her, Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her. [_Exit._] SCENE V. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Host and Simple. HOST. What wouldst thou have, boor? What, thick-skin? Speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap. SIMPLE. Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff from Master Slender. HOST. There’s his chamber, his house, his castle, his standing-bed and truckle-bed. ’Tis painted about with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go, knock and call. He’ll speak like an Anthropophaginian unto thee. Knock, I say. SIMPLE. There’s an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his chamber. I’ll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come down. I come to speak with her, indeed. HOST. Ha? A fat woman? The knight may be robbed. I’ll call.—Bully knight! Bully Sir John! Speak from thy lungs military. Art thou there? It is thine host, thine Ephesian, calls. FALSTAFF. [_Above_.] How now, mine host? HOST. Here’s a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her descend. My chambers are honourable. 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 Brentford? 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 through the streets, to know, sir, whether one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the chain or no. FALSTAFF. I spake with the old woman about it. SIMPLE. And what says she, I pray, sir? FALSTAFF. Marry, she says that the very same man that beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of it. SIMPLE. I would I could have spoken with the woman herself. I had other things to have spoken with her too, from him. FALSTAFF. What are they? Let us know. HOST. Ay, come. Quick. SIMPLE. I may not conceal them, sir. FALSTAFF. Conceal them, or thou diest. SIMPLE. Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne Page, to know if it were my master’s fortune to have her or no. FALSTAFF. ’Tis, ’tis his fortune. SIMPLE. What sir? FALSTAFF. To have her, or no. Go, say the woman told me so. SIMPLE. May I be bold to say so, sir? FALSTAFF. Ay, sir; 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 learned before in my life; and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for my learning. Enter Bardolph. BARDOLPH Out, alas, sir, cozenage, mere cozenage! HOST. Where be my horses? Speak well of them, varletto. BARDOLPH. Run away, with the cozeners. For so soon as I came beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of them, in a slough of mire, and set spurs and away, like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses. HOST. They are gone but to meet the Duke, villain, do not say they be fled. Germans are honest men. Enter Sir Hugh Evans. EVANS Where is mine host? HOST. What is the matter, sir? EVANS. Have a care of your entertainments. There is a friend of mine come to town tells me there is three cozen-Germans that has cozened all the hosts of Readings, 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-stocks, and ’tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well. [_Exit Evans._] 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 Doctor Caius._] HOST Hue and cry, villain, go!—Assist me, knight, I am undone.—Fly, run, hue and cry, villain, I am undone! [_Exeunt Host and Bardolph._] FALSTAFF. I would all the world might be cozened, for I have been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to the ear of the court how I have been transformed, and how my transformation hath been washed and cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by drop, and liquor fishermen’s boots with me. I warrant they would whip me with their fine wits till I were as crestfallen as a dried pear. I never prospered since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my wind were but long enough, I would repent. Enter Mistress Quickly. Now, whence come you? MISTRESS QUICKLY. From the two parties, forsooth. FALSTAFF. The devil take one party and his dam the other, and so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more for their sakes, more than the villainous inconstancy of man’s disposition is able to bear. MISTRESS QUICKLY. And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant, speciously one of them. Mistress Ford, good heart, is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a white spot about her. FALSTAFF. What tellst 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 Brentford. But that my admirable dexterity of wit, my counterfeiting the action of an old woman, delivered me, the knave constable had set me i’ the stocks, i’ the common stocks, for a witch. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber, you shall hear how things go, and, I warrant, to your content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good hearts, what ado here is to bring you together! Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that you are so crossed. FALSTAFF. Come up into my chamber. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Another room in the Garter Inn Enter Fenton and Host. HOST. Master Fenton, talk not to me. My mind is heavy. I will give over all. FENTON. Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose, And, as I am a gentleman, I’ll give thee A hundred pound in gold more than your loss. HOST. I will hear you, Master Fenton, and I will, at the least, keep your counsel. FENTON. From time to time I have acquainted you With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page, Who mutually hath answered my affection, So far forth as herself might be her chooser, Even to my wish. I have a letter from her Of such contents as you will wonder at, The mirth whereof so larded with my matter That neither singly can be manifested Without the show of both, wherein fat Falstaff Hath a great scene; the image of the jest I’ll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host: Tonight at Herne’s oak, just ’twixt twelve and one, Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen— The purpose why is here—in which disguise, While other jests are something rank on foot, Her father hath commanded her to slip Away with Slender, and with him at Eton Immediately to marry. She hath consented. Now, sir, Her mother, even strong against that match And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed That he shall likewise shuffle her away, While other sports are tasking of their minds, And at the 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 masked and vizarded— That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed, With ribbons pendant flaring ’bout her head; And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe, To pinch her by the hand, and on that token The maid hath given consent to go with him. HOST. Which means she to deceive, father or mother? FENTON. Both, my good host, to go along with me. And here it rests, that you’ll procure the vicar To stay for me at church, ’twixt twelve and one, And, in the lawful name of marrying, To give our hearts united ceremony. HOST. Well, husband your device; I’ll to the vicar. Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest. FENTON. So shall I evermore be bound to thee; Besides, I’ll make a present recompense. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. A room in the Garter Inn Enter Falstaff and Mistress Quickly. FALSTAFF. Prithee, no more prattling. Go. I’ll hold. This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away, go! They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away! MISTRESS QUICKLY. I’ll provide you a chain, and I’ll do what I can to get you a pair of horns. FALSTAFF. Away, I say; time wears. Hold up your head, and mince. [_Exit Mistress Quickly._] Enter Ford. How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter will be known tonight or never. Be you in the park about midnight, at Herne’s oak, and you shall see wonders. FORD. Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me you had appointed? FALSTAFF. I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor old man, but I came from her, Master Brook, like a poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband, hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him, Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell you he beat me grievously, in the shape of a woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear not Goliath with a weaver’s beam, because I know also life is a shuttle. I am in haste. Go along with me; I’ll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I plucked geese, played truant, and whipped top, I knew not what ’twas to be beaten till lately. Follow me, I’ll tell you strange things of this knave Ford, on whom tonight I will be revenged, and I will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow. Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Windsor Park Enter Page, Shallow and Slender. PAGE. Come, come. We’ll couch i’ the castle ditch till we see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender, my daughter— SLENDER. Ay, forsooth. I have spoke with her, and we have a nay-word how to know one another. I come to her in white and cry “mum”; she cries “budget”; and by that we know one another. SHALLOW. That’s good too. But what needs either your “mum” or her “budget”? The white will decipher her well enough. It hath struck ten o’clock. PAGE. The night is dark. Light and spirits will become it well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns. Let’s away; follow me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The street in Windsor Enter Mistress Page, Mistress Ford and Doctor Caius. MISTRESS PAGE. Master Doctor, my daughter is in green. When you see your time, take her by the hand, away with her to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before into the park. We two must go together. CAIUS. I know vat I have to do. Adieu. MISTRESS PAGE. Fare you well, sir. [_Exit Caius._] My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor’s marrying my daughter. But ’tis no matter. Better a little chiding than a great deal of heartbreak. MISTRESS FORD. Where is Nan now, and her troop of fairies, and the Welsh devil Hugh? MISTRESS PAGE. They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne’s oak, with obscured lights, which, at the very instant of Falstaff’s and our meeting, they will at once display to the night. MISTRESS FORD. That cannot choose but amaze him. MISTRESS PAGE. If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be amazed, he will every way be mocked. MISTRESS FORD. We’ll betray him finely. MISTRESS PAGE. Against such lewdsters and their lechery, Those that betray them do no treachery. MISTRESS FORD. The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Windsor Park Enter Sir Hugh Evans disguised, and children 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 V. Another part of the Park Enter Falstaff wearing a buck’s head. FALSTAFF. The Windsor bell hath struck twelve, the minute draws on. Now the hot-blooded gods assist me! Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love set on thy horns. O powerful love, that in some respects, makes a beast a man, in some other a man a beast! You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love of Leda. O omnipotent love, how near the god drew to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in the form of a beast; O Jove, a beastly fault! And then another fault in the semblance of a fowl; think on’t, Jove, a foul fault! When gods have hot backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a Windsor stag, and the fattest, I think, i’ the forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? My doe? Enter Mistress Ford and Mistress Page. MISTRESS FORD. Sir John? Art thou there, my deer, my male deer? FALSTAFF. My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain potatoes, let it thunder to the tune of “Greensleeves”, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here. [_He embraces her._] MISTRESS FORD. Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart. FALSTAFF. Divide me like a bribed buck, each a haunch. I will keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands. Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter? Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome! [_A noise of horns within._] MISTRESS PAGE. Alas, what noise? MISTRESS FORD. Heaven forgive our sins! FALSTAFF. What should this be? MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE. Away, away! [_They run off._] FALSTAFF. I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that’s in me should set hell on fire; he would never else cross me thus. Enter Mistress Quickly as the Queen of Fairies, Sir Hugh Evans as a Satyr, Pistol as Hobgoblin, Anne Page and children as Fairies, carrying tapers. MISTRESS QUICKLY. Fairies, black, grey, green, and white, You moonshine revellers and shades of night, You orphan heirs of fixed destiny, Attend your office and your quality. Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes. PISTOL. Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys! Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap, Where fires thou find’st unraked 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 Bead? Go you, and where you find a maid That ere she sleep has thrice her prayers said, Rein up the organs of her fantasy; Sleep she as sound as careless infancy. But those as sleep and think not on their sins, Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides, and shins. MISTRESS QUICKLY. About, about! Search Windsor castle, elves, within and out. Strew good luck, oafs, on every sacred room, That it may stand till the perpetual doom In state as wholesome as in state ’tis fit, Worthy the owner and the owner it. The several chairs of order look you scour With juice of balm and every precious flower. Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest, With loyal blazon, evermore be blest! And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing, Like to the Garter’s compass, in a ring. 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, flowers purple, blue and white, Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery, Buckled below fair knighthood’s bending knee. Fairies use flowers for their charactery. Away, disperse! But till ’tis one o’clock, Our dance of custom round about the oak Of Herne the hunter let us not forget. EVANS. Pray you, lock hand in hand, yourselves in order set; And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be, To guide our measure round about the tree. But stay, I smell a man of middle earth. FALSTAFF. Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he transform me to a piece of cheese! PISTOL. Vile worm, thou wast o’erlooked even in thy birth. MISTRESS QUICKLY. With trial-fire touch me his finger-end. If he be chaste, the flame will back descend And turn him to no pain; but if he start, It is the flesh of a corrupted heart. PISTOL. A trial, come. EVANS. Come, will this wood take fire? [_They put the tapers to his fingers, and he starts._] FALSTAFF. O, o, o! MISTRESS QUICKLY. Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire! About him, fairies, sing a scornful rhyme, And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time. SONG. Fie on sinful fantasy! Fie on lust and luxury! Lust is but a bloody fire, Kindled with unchaste desire, Fed in heart, whose flames aspire, As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher. Pinch him, fairies, mutually; Pinch him for his villainy. Pinch him and burn him and turn him about, Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out. [_During the song they pinch him, and Doctor Caius comes one way and steals away a boy in green; and Slender another way takes a boy in white; Fenton comes in and steals away Anne Page. A noise of hunting is heard within and all the fairies run away. Falstaff pulls off his buck’s head, and rises up._] Enter Page, Ford, Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. PAGE. Nay, do not fly. I think we have watched you now. Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn? MISTRESS PAGE. I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher.— Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives? See you these, husband? [_She points to the horns._] Do not these fair yokes Become the forest better than the town? FORD. Now, sir, who’s a cuckold now? Master Brook, Falstaff’s a knave, a cuckoldly knave. Here are his horns, Master Brook. And, Master Brook, he hath enjoyed nothing of Ford’s but his buck-basket, his cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be paid to Master Brook. His horses are arrested for it, Master Brook. MISTRESS FORD. Sir John, we have had ill luck, we could never meet. I will never take you for my love again, but I will always count you my deer. FALSTAFF. I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass. FORD. Ay, and an ox too. Both the proofs are extant. FALSTAFF. And these are not fairies? I was three or four times in the thought they were not fairies; and yet the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a received belief, in despite of the teeth of all rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent when ’tis upon ill employment! EVANS. Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your desires, and fairies will not pinse you. FORD. Well said, fairy Hugh. EVANS. And leave you your jealousies too, I pray you. FORD. I will never mistrust my wife again, till thou art able to woo her in good English. FALSTAFF. Have I laid my brain in the sun, and dried it, that it wants matter to prevent so gross o’erreaching as this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? Shall I have a cox-comb of frieze? ’Tis time I were choked with a piece of toasted cheese. EVANS. Seese is not good to give putter. Your belly is all putter. FALSTAFF. “Seese” and “putter”? Have I lived to stand at the taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking through the realm. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, Sir John, do you think, though we would have thrust virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders, and have given ourselves without scruple to hell, that ever the devil could have made you our delight? FORD. What, a hodge-pudding? A bag of flax? MISTRESS PAGE. A puffed man? PAGE. Old, cold, withered, and of intolerable entrails? FORD. And one that is as slanderous as Satan? PAGE. And as poor as Job? FORD. And as wicked as his wife? EVANS. And given to fornications, and to taverns, and sack, and wine, and metheglins, and to drinkings and swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles? FALSTAFF. Well, I am your theme. You have the start of me. I am dejected, I am not able to answer the Welsh flannel. Ignorance itself is a plummet o’er me. Use me as you will. FORD. Marry, sir, we’ll bring you to Windsor to one Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to whom you should have been a pander. Over and above that you have suffered, I think to repay that money will be a biting affliction. PAGE. Yet be cheerful, knight. Thou shalt eat a posset tonight at my house, where I will desire thee to laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee. Tell her Master Slender hath married her daughter. MISTRESS PAGE. [_Aside_.] Doctors doubt that. If Anne Page be my daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius’ wife. Enter Slender. SLENDER Whoa, ho, ho, father Page! PAGE. Son, how now! How now, son, have you dispatched? SLENDER. Dispatched? I’ll make the best in Gloucestershire know on’t. Would I were hanged, la, else! PAGE. Of what, son? SLENDER. I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page, and she’s a great lubberly boy. If it had not been i’ the church, I would have swinged him, or he should have swinged me. If I did not think it had been Anne Page, would I might never stir! And ’tis a postmaster’s boy. PAGE. Upon my life, then, you took the wrong. SLENDER. What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for all he was in woman’s apparel, I would not have had him. PAGE. Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how you should know my daughter by her garments? SLENDER. I went to her in white and cried “mum”, and she cried “budget”, as Anne and I had appointed, and yet it was not Anne, but a postmaster’s boy. MISTRESS PAGE. Good George, be not angry. I knew of your purpose, turned my daughter into green, and indeed she is now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married. Enter Doctor Caius. CAIUS Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened, I ha’ married _un garçon_, a boy; _un paysan_, by gar, a boy. It is not Anne Page. By gar, I am cozened. MISTRESS PAGE. Why, did you take her in green? CAIUS. Ay, by gar, and ’tis a boy. By gar, I’ll raise all Windsor. FORD This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne? Enter Fenton and Anne Page. PAGE. My heart misgives me. Here comes Master Fenton.—How now, Master Fenton! ANNE. Pardon, good father. Good my mother, pardon. PAGE. Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender? MISTRESS PAGE. Why went you not with Master Doctor, maid? FENTON. You do amaze her. Hear the truth of it. You would have married her most shamefully, Where there was no proportion held in love. The truth is, she and I, long since contracted, Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us. 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 amazed, here is no remedy. In love, the heavens themselves do guide the state. Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate. FALSTAFF. I am glad, though you have ta’en a special stand to strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced. PAGE. Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy! What cannot be eschewed must be embraced. FALSTAFF. When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased. MISTRESS PAGE. Well, I will muse no further.—Master Fenton, Heaven give you many, many merry days! Good husband, let us every one go home, And laugh this sport o’er by a country fire, Sir John and all. FORD. Let it be so, Sir John, To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word, For he tonight shall lie with Mistress Ford. [_Exeunt._] A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Scene II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage ACT II Scene I. A wood near Athens Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT III Scene I. The Wood. Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT IV Scene I. The Wood Scene II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House ACT V Scene I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Dramatis Personæ THESEUS, Duke of Athens HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus EGEUS, Father to Hermia HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander HELENA, in love with Demetrius LYSANDER, in love with Hermia DEMETRIUS, in love with Hermia PHILOSTRATE, Master of the Revels to Theseus QUINCE, the Carpenter SNUG, the Joiner BOTTOM, the Weaver FLUTE, the Bellows-mender SNOUT, the Tinker STARVELING, the Tailor OBERON, King of the Fairies TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a Fairy PEASEBLOSSOM, Fairy COBWEB, Fairy MOTH, Fairy MUSTARDSEED, Fairy PYRAMUS, THISBE, WALL, MOONSHINE, LION; Characters in the Interlude performed by the Clowns Other Fairies attending their King and Queen Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta SCENE: Athens, and a wood not far from it ACT I SCENE I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate and Attendants. THESEUS. Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour Draws on apace; four happy days bring in Another moon; but oh, methinks, how slow This old moon wanes! She lingers my desires, Like to a step-dame or a dowager, Long withering out a young man’s revenue. HIPPOLYTA. Four days will quickly steep themselves in 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, Hermia, Lysander and Demetrius. EGEUS. Happy be Theseus, our renownèd 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, gauds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats (messengers Of strong prevailment in unharden’d 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 in shady cloister mew’d, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessèd 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 unwishèd 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 crazèd 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 misgraffèd 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 momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And, ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion. HERMIA. If then true lovers have ever cross’d, It stands as an edict in destiny. Then let us teach our trial patience, Because it is a customary cross, As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs, Wishes and tears, poor fancy’s followers. LYSANDER. A good persuasion; therefore, hear me, Hermia. I have a widow aunt, a dowager Of great revenue, and she hath no child. From Athens is her house remote seven leagues, And she respects me as her only son. There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee, And to that place the sharp Athenian law Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then, Steal forth thy father’s house tomorrow night; And in the wood, a league without the town (Where I did meet thee once with Helena To do observance to a morn of May), There will I stay for thee. HERMIA. My good Lysander! I swear to thee by Cupid’s strongest bow, By his best arrow with the golden head, By the simplicity of Venus’ doves, By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves, And by that fire which burn’d the Carthage queen When the false Trojan under sail was seen, By all the vows that ever men have broke (In number more than ever women spoke), In that same place thou hast appointed me, Tomorrow truly will I meet with thee. LYSANDER. Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena. Enter Helena. HERMIA. God speed fair Helena! Whither away? HELENA. Call you me fair? That fair again unsay. Demetrius loves your fair. O happy fair! Your eyes are lode-stars and your tongue’s sweet air More tuneable than lark to shepherd’s ear, When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear. Sickness is catching. O were favour so, Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go. My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye, My tongue should catch your tongue’s sweet melody. Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated, The rest I’d give to be to you translated. O, teach me how you look, and with what art You sway the motion of Demetrius’ heart! HERMIA. I frown upon him, yet he loves me still. HELENA. O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill! HERMIA. I give him curses, yet he gives me love. HELENA. O that my prayers could such affection move! HERMIA. The more I hate, the more he follows me. HELENA. The more I love, the more he hateth me. HERMIA. His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine. HELENA. None but your beauty; would that fault were mine! HERMIA. Take comfort: he no more shall see my face; Lysander and myself will fly this place. Before the time I did Lysander see, Seem’d Athens as a paradise to me. O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, That he hath turn’d a heaven into hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: Tomorrow night, when Phoebe doth behold Her silver visage in the watery glass, Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass (A time that lovers’ flights doth still conceal), Through Athens’ gates have we devis’d to steal. HERMIA. And in the wood where often you and I Upon faint primrose beds were wont to lie, Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet, There my Lysander and myself shall meet, And thence from Athens turn away our eyes, To seek new friends and stranger companies. Farewell, sweet playfellow. Pray thou for us, And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius! Keep word, Lysander. We must starve our sight From lovers’ food, till morrow deep midnight. LYSANDER. I will, my Hermia. [_Exit Hermia._] Helena, adieu. As you on him, Demetrius dote on you! [_Exit Lysander._] HELENA. How happy some o’er other some can be! Through Athens I am thought as fair as she. But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so; He will not know what all but he do know. And as he errs, doting on Hermia’s eyes, So I, admiring of his qualities. Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste. Wings, and no eyes, figure unheedy haste. And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d. As waggish boys in game themselves forswear, So the boy Love is perjur’d everywhere. For, ere Demetrius look’d on Hermia’s eyne, He hail’d down oaths that he was only mine; And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt, So he dissolv’d, and showers of oaths did melt. I will go tell him of fair Hermia’s flight. Then to the wood will he tomorrow night Pursue her; and for this intelligence If I have thanks, it is a dear expense. But herein mean I to enrich my pain, To have his sight thither and back again. [_Exit Helena._] SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage 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 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 Thisbe_. BOTTOM. A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves. QUINCE. Answer, as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver. BOTTOM. Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed. QUINCE. You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus. BOTTOM. What is Pyramus—a lover, or a tyrant? QUINCE. A lover, that kills himself most gallantly for love. BOTTOM. That will ask some tears in the true performing of it. If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest—yet my chief humour is for a tyrant. I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to tear a cat in, to make all split. The raging rocks And shivering shocks Shall break the locks Of prison gates, And Phibbus’ car Shall shine from far, And make and mar The foolish Fates. This was lofty. Now name the rest of the players. This is Ercles’ vein, a tyrant’s vein; a lover is more condoling. QUINCE. Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Flute, you must take Thisbe on you. FLUTE. What is Thisbe? A wandering knight? QUINCE. It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE. Nay, faith, let not me play a woman. I have a beard coming. QUINCE. That’s all one. You shall play it in a mask, and you may speak as small as you will. BOTTOM. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too. I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice; ‘Thisne, Thisne!’—‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisbe dear! and lady dear!’ QUINCE. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisbe. BOTTOM. Well, proceed. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, the tailor. STARVELING. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisbe’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. SNOUT Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. You, Pyramus’ father; myself, Thisbe’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. If you should do it too terribly, you would fright the Duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek; and that were enough to hang us all. ALL That would hang us every mother’s son. BOTTOM. I grant you, friends, if you should fright the ladies out of their wits, they would have no more discretion but to hang us. But I will aggravate my voice so, that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove; I will roar you an ’twere any nightingale. QUINCE. You can play no part but Pyramus, for Pyramus is a sweet-faced man; a proper man as one shall see in a summer’s day; a most lovely gentleman-like man. Therefore you must needs play Pyramus. BOTTOM. Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? QUINCE. Why, what you will. BOTTOM. I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow. QUINCE. Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here are your parts, and I am to entreat you, request you, and desire you, to con them by tomorrow night; and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if we meet in the city, we shall be dogg’d with company, and our devices known. In the meantime I will draw a bill of properties, such as our play wants. I pray you fail me not. BOTTOM. We will meet, and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously. Take pains, be perfect; adieu. QUINCE. At the Duke’s oak we meet. BOTTOM. Enough. Hold, or cut bow-strings. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. A wood near Athens Enter a Fairy at one door, and Puck at another. PUCK. How now, spirit! Whither wander you? FAIRY Over hill, over dale, Thorough bush, thorough brier, Over park, over pale, Thorough flood, thorough fire, I do wander everywhere, Swifter than the moon’s sphere; And I serve the Fairy Queen, To dew her orbs upon the green. The cowslips tall her pensioners be, In their gold coats spots you see; Those be rubies, fairy favours, In those freckles live their savours. I must go seek some dew-drops here, And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear. Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone. Our Queen and all her elves come here anon. PUCK. The King doth keep his revels here tonight; Take heed the Queen come not within his sight, For Oberon is passing fell and wrath, Because that she, as her attendant, hath A lovely boy, stol’n from an Indian king; She never had so sweet a changeling. And jealous Oberon would have the child Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild: But she perforce withholds the lovèd boy, Crowns him with flowers, and makes him all her joy. And now they never meet in grove or green, By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen, But they do square; that all their elves for fear Creep into acorn cups, and hide them there. FAIRY Either I mistake your shape and making quite, Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite Call’d Robin Goodfellow. Are not you he That frights the maidens of the villagery, Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, And bootless make the breathless housewife churn, And sometime make the drink to bear no barm, Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm? Those that Hobgoblin call you, and sweet Puck, You do their work, and they shall have good luck. Are not you he? PUCK. Thou speak’st aright; I am that merry wanderer of the night. I jest to Oberon, and make him smile, When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile, Neighing in likeness of a filly foal; And sometime lurk I in a gossip’s bowl In very likeness of a roasted crab, And, when she drinks, against her lips I bob, And on her withered dewlap pour the ale. The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale, Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me; Then slip I from her bum, down topples she, And ‘tailor’ cries, and falls into a cough; And then the whole quire hold their hips and loffe And waxen in their mirth, and neeze, and swear A merrier hour was never wasted there. But room, fairy. Here comes Oberon. FAIRY And here my mistress. Would that he were gone! Enter Oberon at one door, with his Train, and Titania at another, with hers. OBERON. Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania. TITANIA. What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence; I have forsworn his bed and company. OBERON. Tarry, rash wanton; am not I thy lord? TITANIA. Then I must be thy lady; but I know When thou hast stol’n away from fairyland, And in the shape of Corin sat all day Playing on pipes of corn, and versing love To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here, Come from the farthest steep of India, But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon, Your buskin’d mistress and your warrior love, To Theseus must be wedded; and you come To give their bed joy and prosperity? OBERON. How canst thou thus, for shame, Titania, Glance at my credit with Hippolyta, Knowing I know thy love to Theseus? Didst not thou lead him through the glimmering night From Perigenia, whom he 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 pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beachèd 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 drownèd 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 fairyland buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot’ress of my order, And in the spicèd Indian air, by night, Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, Marking th’ embarkèd 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, thronèd by the west, And loos’d his love-shaft smartly from his bow As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. But I might see young Cupid’s fiery shaft Quench’d in the chaste beams of the watery moon; And the imperial votress passed on, In maiden meditation, fancy-free. Yet mark’d I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love’s wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness. Fetch me that flower, the herb I showed thee once: The juice of it on sleeping eyelids laid Will make or man or woman madly dote Upon the next live creature that it sees. Fetch me this herb, and be thou here again Ere the leviathan can swim a league. PUCK. I’ll put a girdle round about the earth In forty minutes. [_Exit Puck._] OBERON. Having once this juice, I’ll watch Titania when she is asleep, And drop the liquor of it in her eyes: The next thing then she waking looks upon (Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, On meddling monkey, or on busy ape) She shall pursue it with the soul of love. And ere I take this charm from off her sight (As I can take it with another herb) I’ll make her render up her page to me. But who comes here? I am invisible; And I will overhear their conference. Enter Demetrius, Helena following him. DEMETRIUS. I love thee not, therefore pursue me not. Where is Lysander and fair Hermia? The one I’ll slay, the other slayeth me. Thou told’st me they were stol’n into this wood, And here am I, and wode within this wood Because I cannot meet with Hermia. Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more. HELENA. You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant, But yet you draw not iron, for my heart Is true as steel. Leave you your power to draw, And I shall have no power to follow you. DEMETRIUS. Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair? Or rather do I not in plainest truth Tell you I do not, nor I cannot love you? HELENA. And even for that do I love you the more. I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius, The more you beat me, I will fawn on you. Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me, Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave, Unworthy as I am, to follow you. What worser place can I beg in your love, (And yet a place of high respect with me) Than to be usèd 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. 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 reremice 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. 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. FIRST FAIRY. Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg’d spinners, hence. Beetles black, approach not near; Worm nor snail do no offence. CHORUS. Philomel with melody, &c. SECOND FAIRY. Hence away! Now all is well. One aloof stand sentinel. [_Exeunt Fairies. Titania sleeps._] Enter Oberon. OBERON. What thou seest when thou dost wake, [_Squeezes the flower on Titania’s eyelids._] Do it for thy true love take; Love and languish for his sake. Be it ounce, or cat, or bear, Pard, or boar with bristled hair, In thy eye that shall appear When thou wak’st, it is thy dear. Wake when some vile thing is near. [_Exit._] Enter Lysander and Hermia. LYSANDER. Fair love, you faint with 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 interchainèd with an oath, So then two bosoms and a single troth. Then by your side no bed-room me deny; For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie. HERMIA. Lysander riddles very prettily. Now much beshrew my manners and my pride, If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied! But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy Lie further off, in human modesty, Such separation as may well be said Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid, So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: Thy love ne’er alter till thy sweet life end! LYSANDER. Amen, amen, to that fair prayer say I; And then end life when I end loyalty! Here is my bed. Sleep give thee all his rest! HERMIA. With half that wish the wisher’s eyes be pressed! [_They sleep._] Enter Puck. PUCK. Through the forest have I gone, But Athenian found I none, On whose eyes I might approve This flower’s force in stirring love. Night and silence! Who is here? Weeds of Athens he doth wear: This is he, my master said, Despisèd the Athenian maid; And here the maiden, sleeping sound, On the dank and dirty ground. Pretty soul, she durst not lie Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy. Churl, upon thy eyes I throw All the power this charm doth owe; When thou wak’st let love forbid Sleep his seat on thy eyelid. So awake when I am gone; For I must now to Oberon. [_Exit._] Enter Demetrius and Helena, running. HELENA. Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus. HELENA. O, wilt thou darkling leave me? Do not so. DEMETRIUS. Stay, on thy peril; I alone will go. [_Exit Demetrius._] HELENA. O, I am out of breath in this fond chase! The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace. Happy is Hermia, wheresoe’er she lies, For she hath blessèd and attractive eyes. How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears. If so, my eyes are oftener wash’d than hers. No, no, I am as ugly as a bear, For beasts that meet me run away for fear: Therefore no marvel though Demetrius Do, as a monster, fly my presence thus. What wicked and dissembling glass of mine Made me compare with Hermia’s sphery eyne? But who is here? Lysander, on the ground! Dead or asleep? I see no blood, no wound. Lysander, if you live, good sir, awake. LYSANDER. [_Waking._] And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake. Transparent Helena! Nature shows art, That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart. Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word Is that vile name to perish on my sword! HELENA. Do not say so, Lysander, say not so. What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though? Yet Hermia still loves you. Then be content. LYSANDER. Content with Hermia? No, I do repent The tedious minutes I with her have spent. Not Hermia, but Helena I love. Who will not change a raven for a dove? The will of man is by his reason sway’d, And reason says you are the worthier maid. Things growing are not ripe until their season; So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason; And touching now the point of human skill, Reason becomes the marshal to my will, And leads me to your eyes, where I o’erlook Love’s stories, written in love’s richest book. HELENA. Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is’t not enough, is’t not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius’ eye, But you must flout my insufficiency? Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do, In such disdainful manner me to woo. But fare you well; perforce I must confess, I thought you lord of more true gentleness. O, that a lady of one man refus’d, Should of another therefore be abus’d! [_Exit._] LYSANDER. She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there, And never mayst thou come Lysander near! For, as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings; Or as the heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive; So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me! And, all my powers, address your love and might To honour Helen, and to be her knight! [_Exit._] HERMIA. [_Starting._] Help me, Lysander, help me! Do thy best To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast! Ay me, for pity! What a dream was here! Lysander, look how I do quake with fear. Methought a serpent eat my heart away, And you sat smiling at his cruel prey. Lysander! What, removed? Lysander! lord! What, out of hearing? Gone? No sound, no word? Alack, where are you? Speak, and if you hear; Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear. No? Then I well perceive you are not nigh. Either death or you I’ll find immediately. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies still lying asleep. Enter Bottom, Quince, Snout, Starveling, Snug and Flute. 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 Thisbe that will never please. First, Pyramus must draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies cannot abide. How answer you that? SNOUT By’r lakin, a parlous fear. STARVELING. I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done. BOTTOM. Not a whit; I have a device to make all well. Write me a prologue, and let the prologue seem to say we will do no harm with our swords, and that Pyramus is not killed indeed; and for the more better assurance, tell them that I Pyramus am not Pyramus but Bottom the weaver. This will put them out of fear. QUINCE. Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be written in eight and six. BOTTOM. No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight. SNOUT Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion? STARVELING. I fear it, I promise you. BOTTOM. Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves, to bring in (God shield us!) a lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing. For there is not a more fearful wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to look to it. SNOUT Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion. BOTTOM. Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must be seen through the lion’s neck; and he himself must speak through, saying thus, or to the same defect: ‘Ladies,’ or, ‘Fair ladies, I would wish you,’ or, ‘I would request you,’ or, ’I would entreat you, not to fear, not to tremble: my life for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it were pity of my life. No, I am no such thing; I am a man as other men are’: and there, indeed, let him name his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner. QUINCE. Well, it shall be so. But there is two hard things: that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber, for you know, Pyramus and Thisbe meet by moonlight. SNOUT Doth the moon shine that night we play our play? BOTTOM. A calendar, a calendar! Look in the almanack; find out moonshine, find out moonshine. QUINCE. Yes, it doth shine that night. BOTTOM. Why, then may you leave a casement of the great chamber window, where we play, open; and the moon may shine in at the casement. QUINCE. Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns and a lantern, and say he comes to disfigure or to present the person of Moonshine. Then there is another thing: we must have a wall in the great chamber; for Pyramus and Thisbe, 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 Thisbe 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 everyone according to his cue. Enter Puck behind. PUCK. What hempen homespuns have we swaggering here, So near the cradle of the Fairy Queen? What, a play toward? I’ll be an auditor; An actor too perhaps, if I see cause. QUINCE. Speak, Pyramus.—Thisbe, stand forth. PYRAMUS. _Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet_ QUINCE. Odours, odours. PYRAMUS. _. . . odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe 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._] THISBE. Must I speak now? QUINCE. Ay, marry, must you, For you must understand he goes but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again. THISBE. _Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue, Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier, Most brisky juvenal, and eke most lovely Jew, As true as truest horse, that yet 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.’ THISBE. O, _As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire._ Enter Puck and Bottom with an ass’s head. PYRAMUS. _If I were fair, Thisbe, I were only thine._ QUINCE. O monstrous! O strange! We are haunted. Pray, masters, fly, masters! Help! [_Exeunt Clowns._] PUCK. I’ll follow you. I’ll lead you about a round, Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier; Sometime a horse I’ll be, sometime a hound, A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire; And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn, Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn. [_Exit._] BOTTOM. Why do they run away? This is a knavery of them to make me afeard. Enter Snout. SNOUT O Bottom, thou art changed! What do I see on thee? BOTTOM. What do you see? You see an ass-head of your own, do you? [_Exit Snout._] Enter Quince. QUINCE. Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! Thou art translated. [_Exit._] BOTTOM. I see their knavery. This is to make an ass of me, to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir from this place, do what they can. I will walk up and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear I am not afraid. [_Sings._] The ousel cock, so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill. TITANIA. [_Waking._] What angel wakes me from my flowery bed? BOTTOM. [_Sings._] The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo gray, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay. for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish a bird? Who would give a bird the lie, though he cry ‘cuckoo’ never so? TITANIA. I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again. Mine ear is much enamour’d of thy note. So is mine eye enthrallèd 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 nowadays. 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 pressèd 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 four Fairies. 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 devoured many a gentleman of your house. I promise you, your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you of more acquaintance, good Master Mustardseed. TITANIA. Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower. The moon, methinks, looks with a watery eye, And when she weeps, weeps every little flower, Lamenting some 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 thick-skin of that barren sort Who Pyramus presented in their sport, Forsook his scene and enter’d in a brake. When I did him at this advantage take, An ass’s nole I fixed on his head. Anon, his Thisbe must be answerèd, And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy, As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye, Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort, Rising and cawing at the gun’s report, Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky, So at his sight away his fellows fly, And at our stamp, here o’er and o’er one falls; He murder cries, and help from Athens calls. Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears, thus strong, Made senseless things begin to do them wrong; For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch; Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all things catch. I led them on in this distracted fear, And left sweet Pyramus translated there. When in that moment, so it came to pass, Titania wak’d, and straightway lov’d an ass. OBERON. This falls out better than I could devise. But hast thou yet latch’d the Athenian’s eyes With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do? PUCK. I took him sleeping—that is finish’d too— And the Athenian woman by his side, That, when he wak’d, of force she must be ey’d. Enter Demetrius and Hermia. OBERON. Stand close. This is the same Athenian. PUCK. This is the woman, but not this the man. DEMETRIUS. O why rebuke you him that loves you so? Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe. HERMIA. Now I but chide, but I should use thee worse, For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse. If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep, Being o’er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep, And kill me too. The sun was not so true unto the day As he to me. Would he have stol’n away From sleeping Hermia? I’ll believe as soon This whole earth may be bor’d, and that the moon May through the centre creep and so displease Her brother’s noontide with th’ Antipodes. It cannot be but thou hast murder’d him. So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim. DEMETRIUS. So should the murder’d look, and so should I, Pierc’d through the heart with your stern cruelty. Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear, As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere. HERMIA. What’s this to my Lysander? Where is he? Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me? DEMETRIUS. I had rather give his carcass to my hounds. HERMIA. Out, dog! Out, cur! Thou driv’st me past the bounds Of maiden’s patience. Hast thou slain him, then? Henceforth be never number’d among men! 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. And 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. 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 had no judgment when to her I swore. HELENA. Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o’er. LYSANDER. Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you. DEMETRIUS. [_Waking._] 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 congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow, Fann’d with the eastern wind, turns to a crow When thou hold’st up thy hand. O, let me kiss This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss! HELENA. O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent To set against me for your merriment. If you were civil, and knew courtesy, You would not do me thus much injury. Can you not hate me, as I know you do, But you must join in souls to mock me too? If you were men, as men you are in show, You would not use a gentle lady so; To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts, When I am sure you hate me with your hearts. You both are rivals, and love Hermia; And now both rivals, to mock Helena. A trim exploit, a manly enterprise, To conjure tears up in a poor maid’s eyes With your derision! None of noble sort Would so offend a virgin, and extort A poor soul’s patience, all to make you sport. LYSANDER. You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so, For you love Hermia; this you know I know. And here, with all good will, with all my heart, In Hermia’s love I yield you up my part; And yours of Helena to me bequeath, Whom I do love and will do till my death. HELENA. Never did mockers waste more idle breath. DEMETRIUS. Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none. If e’er I lov’d her, all that love is gone. My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn’d; And now to Helen is it home return’d, There to remain. LYSANDER. Helen, it is not so. DEMETRIUS. Disparage not the faith thou dost not know, Lest to thy peril thou aby it dear. Look where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Dark night, that from the eye his function takes, The ear more quick of apprehension makes; Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense, It pays the hearing double recompense. Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found; Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound. But why unkindly didst thou leave me so? LYSANDER. Why should he stay whom love doth press to go? HERMIA. What love could press Lysander from my side? LYSANDER. Lysander’s love, that would not let him bide, Fair Helena, who more engilds the night Than all yon fiery oes and eyes of light. Why seek’st thou me? Could not this make thee know The hate I bare thee made me leave thee so? HERMIA. You speak not as you think; it cannot be. HELENA. Lo, she is one of this confederacy! Now I perceive they have conjoin’d all three To fashion this false sport in spite of me. Injurious Hermia, most ungrateful maid! Have you conspir’d, have you with these contriv’d, To bait me with this foul derision? Is all the counsel that we two have shar’d, The sisters’ vows, the hours that we have spent, When we have chid the hasty-footed time For parting us—O, is all forgot? All school-days’ friendship, childhood innocence? We, Hermia, like two artificial gods, Have with our needles created both one flower, Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion, Both warbling of one song, both in one key, As if our hands, our sides, voices, and minds, Had been incorporate. So we grew together, Like to a double cherry, seeming parted, But yet a union in partition, Two lovely berries moulded on one stem; So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart; Two of the first, like coats in heraldry, Due but to one, and crownèd 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 amazèd 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, loathèd medicine! 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 follow’d you; for love I follow’d him; But he hath chid me hence, and threaten’d me To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too: And now, so you will let me quiet go, To Athens will I bear my folly back, And follow you no 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’s angry, she is keen and shrewd. She was a vixen when she went to school, And though she be but little, she is fierce. HERMIA. Little again! Nothing but low and little? Why will you suffer her to flout me thus? Let me come to her. LYSANDER. Get you gone, you dwarf; You minimus, of hind’ring knot-grass made; You bead, you acorn. DEMETRIUS. You are too officious In her behalf that scorns your services. Let her alone. Speak not of Helena; Take not her part; for if thou dost intend Never so little show of love to her, Thou shalt aby it. LYSANDER. Now she holds me not. Now follow, if thou dar’st, to try whose right, Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. DEMETRIUS. Follow! Nay, I’ll go with thee, cheek by jole. [_Exeunt Lysander and Demetrius._] HERMIA. You, mistress, all this coil is long of you. Nay, go not back. HELENA. I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray. My legs are longer though, to run away. [_Exit._] HERMIA. I am amaz’d, and know not what to say. [_Exit, pursuing Helena._] OBERON. This is thy negligence: still thou mistak’st, Or else commit’st thy knaveries willfully. PUCK. Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook. Did not you tell me I should know the man By the Athenian garments he had on? And so far blameless proves my enterprise That I have ’nointed an Athenian’s eyes: And so far am I glad it so did sort, As this their jangling I esteem a sport. OBERON. Thou seest these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night; The starry welkin cover thou anon With drooping fog, as black as Acheron, And lead these testy rivals so astray As one come not within another’s way. Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue, Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong; And sometime rail thou like Demetrius. And from each other look thou lead them thus, Till o’er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep. Then crush this herb into Lysander’s eye, Whose liquor hath this virtuous property, To take from thence all error with his might And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight. When they next wake, all this derision Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision; And back to Athens shall the lovers wend, With league whose date till death shall never end. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I’ll to my queen, and beg her Indian boy; And then I will her charmèd eye release From monster’s view, and all things shall be peace. PUCK. My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, For night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast; And yonder shines Aurora’s harbinger, At whose approach, ghosts wandering here and there Troop home to churchyards. Damnèd 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 exile 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 blessèd 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._] 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 follow’d fast, but faster he did fly, That fallen am I in dark uneven way, And here will rest me. Come, thou gentle day! [_Lies down._] For if but once thou show me thy grey light, I’ll find Demetrius, and revenge this spite. [_Sleeps._] 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 runn’st before me, shifting every place, And dar’st not stand, nor look me in the face. Where art thou? PUCK. Come hither; I am here. DEMETRIUS. Nay, then, thou mock’st me. Thou shalt buy this dear If ever I thy face by daylight see: Now go thy way. Faintness constraineth me To measure out my length on this cold bed. By day’s approach look to be visited. [_Lies down and sleeps._] Enter Helena. HELENA. O weary night, O long and tedious night, Abate thy hours! Shine, comforts, from the east, That I may back to Athens by daylight, From these that my poor company detest. And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow’s eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company. [_Sleeps._] PUCK. Yet but three? Come one more. Two of both kinds makes up four. Here she comes, curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad Thus to make poor females mad. Enter Hermia. HERMIA. Never so weary, never so in woe, Bedabbled with the dew, and torn with briers, I can no further crawl, no further go; My legs can keep no pace with my desires. Here will I rest me till the break of day. Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray! [_Lies down._] PUCK. On the ground Sleep sound. I’ll apply To your eye, Gentle lover, remedy. [_Squeezing the juice on Lysander’s eye._] When thou wak’st, Thou tak’st True delight In the sight Of thy former lady’s eye. And the country proverb known, That every man should take his own, In your waking shall be shown: Jack shall have Jill; Nought shall go ill; The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well. [_Exit Puck._] ACT IV SCENE I. The Wood Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia still asleep. Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, Mustardseed and other Fairies attending; Oberon behind, unseen. TITANIA. Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed, While I thy amiable cheeks do coy, And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head, And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy. BOTTOM. Where’s Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. Where’s Monsieur Cobweb? COBWEB. Ready. BOTTOM. Monsieur Cobweb; good monsieur, get you your weapons in your hand and kill me a red-hipped humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, monsieur; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loath to have you overflown with a honey-bag, signior. Where’s Monsieur Mustardseed? MUSTARDSEED. Ready. BOTTOM. Give me your neaf, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What’s your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb to scratch. I must to the barber’s, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch. TITANIA. What, wilt thou hear some music, my sweet love? BOTTOM. I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let us have the tongs and the bones. TITANIA. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. BOTTOM. Truly, a peck of provender; I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow. TITANIA. I have a venturous fairy that shall seek The squirrel’s hoard, and fetch thee new nuts. BOTTOM. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas. But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon me. TITANIA. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms. Fairies, be gone, and be all ways away. So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle Gently entwist, the female ivy so Enrings the barky fingers of the elm. O, how I love thee! How I dote on thee! [_They sleep._] Oberon advances. Enter Puck. OBERON. Welcome, good Robin. Seest thou this sweet sight? Her dotage now I do begin to pity. For, meeting her of late behind the wood, Seeking sweet favours for this hateful fool, I did upbraid her and fall out with her: For she his hairy temples then had rounded With coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers; And that same dew, which sometime on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty flouriets’ 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 fairyland. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformèd 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 with an herb._] 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. [_Still music._] Come, my queen, take hands with me, And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be. Now thou and I are new in amity, And will tomorrow midnight solemnly Dance in Duke Theseus’ house triumphantly, And bless it to all fair prosperity: There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity. PUCK. Fairy king, attend and mark. I do hear the morning lark. OBERON. Then, my queen, in silence sad, Trip we after night’s shade. We the globe can compass soon, Swifter than the wand’ring moon. TITANIA. Come, my lord, and in our flight, Tell me how it came this night That I sleeping here was found With these mortals on the ground. [_Exeunt. Horns sound within._] Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Egeus and Train. THESEUS. Go, one of you, find out the forester; For now our observation is perform’d; And since we have the vaward of the day, My love shall hear the music of my hounds. Uncouple in the western valley; 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 dewlap’d like Thessalian bulls; Slow in pursuit, but match’d in mouth like bells, Each under each. A cry more tuneable Was never holla’d to, nor cheer’d with horn, In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly. Judge when you hear.—But, soft, what nymphs are these? EGEUS. My lord, this is my daughter here asleep, And this Lysander; this Demetrius is; This Helena, old Nedar’s Helena: I wonder of their being here together. THESEUS. No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity. But speak, Egeus; is not this the day That Hermia should give answer of her choice? EGEUS. It is, my lord. THESEUS. Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns. Horns, and shout within. Demetrius, Lysander, Hermia and Helena wake and start up. Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past. Begin these wood-birds but to couple now? LYSANDER. Pardon, my lord. He and the rest kneel to Theseus. THESEUS. I pray you all, stand up. I know you two are rival enemies. How comes this gentle concord in the world, That hatred is so far from jealousy To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity? LYSANDER. My lord, I shall reply amazedly, Half sleep, half waking; but as yet, I swear, I cannot truly say how I came here. But, as I think (for truly would I speak) And now I do bethink me, so it is: I came with Hermia hither. Our intent Was to be gone from Athens, where we might be Without the peril of the Athenian law. EGEUS. Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough. I beg the law, the law upon his head. They would have stol’n away, they would, Demetrius, Thereby to have defeated you and me: You of your wife, and me of my consent, Of my consent that she should be your wife. DEMETRIUS. My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth, Of this their purpose hither to this wood; And I in fury hither follow’d them, Fair Helena in fancy following me. But, my good lord, I wot not by what power, (But by some power it is) my love to Hermia, Melted as the snow, seems to me now As the remembrance of an idle 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 turnèd into clouds. HERMIA. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When everything 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. [_Waking._] When my cue comes, call me, and I will answer. My next is ‘Most fair Pyramus.’ Heigh-ho! Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout, the tinker! Starveling! God’s my life! Stol’n hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was. Man is but an ass if he go about to expound this dream. Methought I was—there is no man can tell what. Methought I was, and methought I had—but man is but a patched fool if he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man’s hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of this dream: it shall be called ‘Bottom’s Dream’, because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the latter end of a play, before the Duke. Peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall sing it at her death. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House Enter Quince, Flute, Snout and Starveling. QUINCE. Have you sent to Bottom’s house? Is he come home yet? STARVELING. He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is transported. FLUTE. If he come not, then the play is marred. It goes not forward, doth it? QUINCE. It is not possible. You have not a man in all Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he. FLUTE. No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft man in Athens. QUINCE. Yea, and the best person too, and he is a very paramour for a sweet voice. FLUTE. You must say paragon. A paramour is, God bless us, a thing of naught. Enter Snug. SNUG Masters, the Duke is coming from the temple, and there is two or three lords and ladies more married. If our sport had gone forward, we had all been made men. FLUTE. O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a day during his life; he could not have ’scaped sixpence a day. An the Duke had not given him sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I’ll be hanged. He would have deserved it: sixpence a day in Pyramus, or nothing. Enter Bottom. BOTTOM. Where are these lads? Where are these hearts? QUINCE. Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour! BOTTOM. Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not what; for if I tell you, I am not true Athenian. I will tell you everything, right as it fell out. QUINCE. Let us hear, sweet Bottom. BOTTOM. Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that the Duke hath dined. Get your apparel together, good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look o’er his part. For the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisbe have clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion pare his nails, for they shall hang out for the lion’s claws. And most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlick, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I do not doubt but to hear them say it is a sweet comedy. No more words. Away! Go, away! [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Philostrate, Lords and Attendants. HIPPOLYTA. ’Tis strange, my Theseus, that these lovers speak of. THESEUS. More strange than true. I never may believe These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. The lunatic, the lover, and the poet Are of imagination all compact: One sees more devils than vast hell can hold; That is the madman: the lover, all as frantic, Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt: The poet’s eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; And as imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name. Such tricks hath strong imagination, That if it would but apprehend some joy, It comprehends some bringer of that joy. Or in the night, imagining some fear, How easy is a bush supposed a bear? HIPPOLYTA. But all the story of the night told over, And all their minds transfigur’d so together, More witnesseth than fancy’s images, And grows to something of great constancy; But, howsoever, strange and admirable. Enter lovers: Lysander, Demetrius, Hermia and Helena. THESEUS. Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth. Joy, gentle friends, joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts! LYSANDER. More than to us Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed! THESEUS. Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have, To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bed-time? Where is our usual manager of mirth? What revels are in hand? Is there no play To ease the anguish of a torturing hour? Call Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. Here, mighty Theseus. THESEUS. Say, what abridgment have you for this evening? What masque? What music? How shall we beguile The lazy time, if not with some delight? PHILOSTRATE. There is a brief how many sports are ripe. Make choice of which your Highness will see first. [_Giving a paper._] THESEUS. [_Reads_] ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.’ We’ll none of that. That have I told my love In glory of my kinsman Hercules. ‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage?’ That is an old device, and it was play’d When I from Thebes came last a conqueror. ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death Of learning, late deceas’d in beggary.’ That is some satire, keen and critical, Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony. ‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’ Merry and tragical? Tedious and brief? That is hot ice and wondrous strange snow. How shall we find the concord of this discord? PHILOSTRATE. A play there is, my lord, some ten words long, Which is as brief as I have known a play; But by ten words, my lord, it is too long, Which makes it tedious. For in all the play There is not one word apt, one player fitted. And tragical, my noble lord, it is. For Pyramus therein doth kill himself, Which, when I saw rehears’d, I must confess, Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears The passion of loud laughter never shed. THESEUS. What are they that do play it? PHILOSTRATE. Hard-handed men that work in Athens here, Which never labour’d in their minds till now; And now have toil’d their unbreath’d memories With this same play against your nuptial. THESEUS. And we will hear it. PHILOSTRATE. No, my noble lord, It is not for you: I have heard it over, And it is nothing, nothing in the world; Unless you can find sport in their intents, Extremely stretch’d and conn’d with cruel pain To do you service. THESEUS. I will hear that play; For never anything can be amiss When simpleness and duty tender it. Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies. [_Exit Philostrate._] HIPPOLYTA. I love not to see wretchedness o’ercharged, And duty in his service perishing. THESEUS. Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing. HIPPOLYTA. He says they can do nothing in this kind. THESEUS. The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing. Our sport shall be to take what they mistake: And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect Takes it in might, not merit. Where I have come, great clerks have purposed To greet me with premeditated welcomes; Where I have seen them shiver and look pale, Make periods in the midst of sentences, Throttle their practis’d accent in their fears, And, in conclusion, dumbly have broke off, Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet, Out of this silence yet I pick’d a welcome; And in the modesty of fearful duty I read as much as from the rattling tongue Of saucy and audacious eloquence. Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most to my capacity. Enter Philostrate. PHILOSTRATE. So please your grace, the Prologue is address’d. THESEUS. Let him approach. Flourish of trumpets. Enter 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 hand, and, by their show, You shall know all that you are like to know. THESEUS. This fellow doth not stand upon points. LYSANDER. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true. HIPPOLYTA. Indeed he hath played on this prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government. THESEUS. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but all disordered. Who is next? Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine and Lion as in dumb show. PROLOGUE Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show; But wonder on, till truth make all things plain. This man is Pyramus, if you would know; This beauteous lady Thisbe is certain. This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present Wall, that vile wall which did these lovers sunder; And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content To whisper, at the which let no man wonder. This man, with lantern, 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 Thisbe, 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 Thisbe’s mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; And Thisbe, 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, Thisbe, Lion and Moonshine._] THESEUS. I wonder if the lion be to speak. DEMETRIUS. No wonder, my lord. One lion may, when many asses do. WALL. In this same interlude it doth befall That I, one Snout by name, present a wall: And such a wall as I would have you think That had in it a crannied hole or chink, Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisbe, Did whisper often very secretly. This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone, doth show That I am that same wall; the truth is so: And this the cranny is, right and sinister, Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper. THESEUS. Would you desire lime and hair to speak better? DEMETRIUS. It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard discourse, my lord. THESEUS. Pyramus draws near the wall; silence. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. O grim-look’d night! O night with hue so black! O night, which ever art when day is not! O night, O night, alack, alack, alack, I fear my Thisbe’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 I? No Thisbe do I see. O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss, Curs’d be thy stones for thus deceiving me! THESEUS. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again. PYRAMUS. No, in truth, sir, he should not. ‘Deceiving me’ is Thisbe’s cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see it will fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans, For parting my fair Pyramus and me. My cherry lips have often kiss’d thy stones, Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee. PYRAMUS. I see a voice; now will I to the chink, To spy an I can hear my Thisbe’s face. Thisbe? THISBE. My love thou art, my love I think. PYRAMUS. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover’s grace; And like Limander am I trusty still. THISBE. And I like Helen, till the fates me kill. PYRAMUS. Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true. THISBE. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you. PYRAMUS. O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall. THISBE. I kiss the wall’s hole, not your lips at all. PYRAMUS. Wilt thou at Ninny’s tomb meet me straightway? THISBE. ’Tide life, ’tide death, I come without delay. WALL. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go. [_Exeunt Wall, Pyramus and Thisbe._] THESEUS. Now is the mural down 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, one Snug the joiner, am A lion fell, nor else no lion’s dam; For if I should as lion come in strife Into this place, ’twere pity on my life. THESEUS. A very gentle beast, and of a good conscience. DEMETRIUS. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e’er I saw. LYSANDER. This lion is a very fox for his valour. THESEUS. True; and a goose for his discretion. DEMETRIUS. Not so, my lord, for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. THESEUS. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour; for the goose carries not the fox. It is well; leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon. MOONSHINE. This lanthorn doth the hornèd 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 hornèd moon present; Myself the man i’ the moon do seem to be. THESEUS. This is the greatest error of all the rest; the man should be put into the lantern. How is it else the man i’ the moon? DEMETRIUS. He dares not come there for the candle, for you see, it is already in snuff. HIPPOLYTA. I am aweary of this moon. Would he would change! THESEUS. It appears by his small light of discretion that he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all reason, we must stay the time. LYSANDER. Proceed, Moon. MOON. All that I have to say, is to tell you that the lantern is the moon; I the man i’ the moon; this thorn-bush my thorn-bush; and this dog my dog. DEMETRIUS. Why, all these should be in the lantern, for all these are in the moon. But silence; here comes Thisbe. Enter Thisbe. THISBE. This is old Ninny’s tomb. Where is my love? LION. Oh! [_The Lion roars, Thisbe runs off._] DEMETRIUS. Well roared, Lion. THESEUS. Well run, Thisbe. HIPPOLYTA. Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a good grace. [_The Lion tears Thisbe’s mantle, and exit._] THESEUS. Well moused, Lion. DEMETRIUS. And then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanished. Enter Pyramus. PYRAMUS. Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams; I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright; For, by thy gracious golden, glittering gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisbe sight. But stay! O spite! But mark, poor knight, What dreadful dole is here! Eyes, do you see? How can it be? O dainty duck! O dear! Thy mantle good, What, stained with blood? Approach, ye Furies fell! O Fates, come, come; Cut thread and thrum; Quail, rush, conclude, and quell! THESEUS. This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would go near to make a man look sad. HIPPOLYTA. Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man. PYRAMUS. O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame, Since lion vile hath here deflower’d my dear? Which is—no, no—which was the fairest dame That liv’d, that lov’d, that lik’d, that look’d with cheer. Come, tears, confound! Out, sword, and wound The pap of Pyramus; Ay, that left pap, Where heart doth hop: Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled; My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light! Moon, take thy flight! Now die, die, die, die, die. [_Dies. Exit Moonshine._] DEMETRIUS. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one. LYSANDER. Less than an ace, man; for he is dead, he is nothing. THESEUS. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover and prove an ass. HIPPOLYTA. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover? THESEUS. She will find him by starlight. Enter Thisbe. 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 Thisbe, 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 means, _videlicet_— THISBE. Asleep, my love? What, dead, my dove? O Pyramus, arise, Speak, speak. Quite dumb? Dead, dead? A tomb Must cover thy sweet eyes. These lily lips, This cherry nose, These yellow cowslip cheeks, Are gone, are gone! Lovers, make moan; His eyes were green as leeks. O Sisters Three, Come, come to me, With hands as pale as milk; Lay them in gore, Since you have shore With shears his thread of silk. Tongue, not a word: Come, trusty sword, Come, blade, my breast imbrue; And farewell, friends. Thus Thisbe ends. Adieu, adieu, adieu. [_Dies._] THESEUS. Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead. DEMETRIUS. Ay, and Wall too. BOTTOM. No, I assure you; the wall is down that parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two of our company? THESEUS. No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe’s garter, it would have been a fine tragedy; and so it is, truly; and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask; let your epilogue alone. [_Here a dance of Clowns._] The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve. Lovers, to bed; ’tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outsleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch’d. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil’d The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed. A fortnight hold we this solemnity In nightly revels and new jollity. [_Exeunt._] Enter Puck. PUCK. Now the hungry lion roars, And the wolf behowls the moon; Whilst the heavy ploughman snores, All with weary task fordone. Now the wasted brands do glow, Whilst the 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 hallow’d house. I am sent with broom before, To sweep the dust behind the door. Enter Oberon and Titania with their Train. OBERON. Through the house give glimmering light, By the dead and drowsy fire. Every elf and fairy sprite Hop as light as bird from brier, And this ditty after me, Sing and dance it trippingly. TITANIA. First rehearse your song by rote, To each word a warbling note; Hand in hand, with fairy grace, Will we sing, and bless this place. [_Song and Dance._] OBERON. Now, until the break of day, Through this house each fairy stray. To the best bride-bed will we, Which by us shall blessèd 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 it in safety rest, Trip away. Make no stay; Meet me all by break of day. [_Exeunt Oberon, Titania and Train._] PUCK. If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber’d here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend. If you pardon, we will mend. And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearnèd 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._] MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING Contents ACT I Scene I. Before Leonato’s House. Scene II. A room in Leonato’s house. Scene III. Another room in Leonato’s house. ACT II Scene I. A hall in Leonato’s house. Scene II. Another room in Leonato’s house. Scene III. Leonato’s Garden. ACT III Scene I. Leonato’s Garden. Scene II. A Room in Leonato’s House. Scene III. A Street. Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Scene V. Another Room in Leonato’s House. ACT IV Scene I. The Inside of a Church. Scene II. A Prison. ACT V Scene I. Before Leonato’s House. Scene II. Leonato’s Garden. Scene III. The Inside of a Church. Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Dramatis Personæ DON PEDRO, Prince of Arragon. DON JOHN, his bastard Brother. CLAUDIO, a young Lord of Florence. BENEDICK, a young Lord of Padua. LEONATO, Governor of Messina. ANTONIO, his Brother. BALTHASAR, Servant to Don Pedro. BORACHIO, follower of Don John. CONRADE, follower of Don John. DOGBERRY, a Constable. VERGES, a Headborough. FRIAR FRANCIS. A Sexton. A Boy. HERO, Daughter to Leonato. BEATRICE, Niece to Leonato. MARGARET, Waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. URSULA, Waiting gentlewoman attending on Hero. Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c. SCENE. Messina. ACT I SCENE I. Before Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato, Hero, Beatrice and others, with a Messenger. LEONATO. I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina. MESSENGER. He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off when I left him. LEONATO. How many gentlemen have you lost in this action? MESSENGER. But few of any sort, and none of name. LEONATO. A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers. I find here that Don Pedro hath bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio. MESSENGER. Much deserved on his part, and equally remembered by Don Pedro. He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing in the figure of a lamb the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better bettered expectation than you must expect of me to tell you how. LEONATO. He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much glad of it. MESSENGER. I have already delivered him letters, and there appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could not show itself modest enough without a badge of bitterness. LEONATO. Did he break out into tears? MESSENGER. In great measure. LEONATO. A kind overflow of kindness. There are no faces truer than those that are so washed; how much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping! BEATRICE. I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the wars or no? MESSENGER. I know none of that name, lady: there was none such in the army of any sort. LEONATO. What is he that you ask for, niece? HERO. My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua. MESSENGER. O! he is returned, and as pleasant as ever he was. BEATRICE. He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged Cupid at the flight; and my uncle’s fool, reading the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he killed? for, indeed, I promised to eat all of his killing. LEONATO. Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much; but he’ll be meet with you, I doubt it not. MESSENGER. He hath done good service, lady, in these wars. BEATRICE. You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it; he is a very valiant trencher-man; he hath an excellent stomach. MESSENGER. And a good soldier too, lady. BEATRICE. And a good soldier to a lady; but what is he to a lord? MESSENGER. A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all honourable virtues. BEATRICE. It is so indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man; but for the stuffing,—well, we are all mortal. LEONATO. You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her; they never meet but there’s a skirmish of wit between them. BEATRICE. Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and now is the whole man governed with one! so that if he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him bear it for a difference between himself and his horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother. MESSENGER. Is’t possible? BEATRICE. Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block. MESSENGER. I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books. BEATRICE. No; and he were, I would burn my study. But I pray you, who is his companion? Is there no young squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil? MESSENGER. He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio. BEATRICE. O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! If he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a thousand pound ere he be cured. MESSENGER. I will hold friends with you, lady. BEATRICE. Do, good friend. LEONATO. You will never run mad, niece. BEATRICE. No, not till a hot January. MESSENGER. Don Pedro is approached. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar and Others. DON PEDRO. Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it. LEONATO. Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of your Grace, for trouble being gone, comfort should remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides and happiness takes his leave. DON PEDRO. You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this is your daughter. LEONATO. Her mother hath many times told me so. BENEDICK. Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her? LEONATO. Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child. DON PEDRO. You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this what you are, being a man. Truly the lady fathers herself. Be happy, lady, for you are like an honourable father. BENEDICK. If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as like him as she is. BEATRICE. I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior Benedick: nobody marks you. BENEDICK. What! my dear Lady Disdain, are you yet living? BEATRICE. Is it possible Disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain if you come in her presence. BENEDICK. Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none. BEATRICE. A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that. I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. BENEDICK. God keep your Ladyship still in that mind; so some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratched face. BEATRICE. Scratching could not make it worse, and ’twere such a face as yours were. BENEDICK. Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher. BEATRICE. A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours. BENEDICK. I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way, i’ God’s name; I have done. BEATRICE. You always end with a jade’s trick: I know you of old. DON PEDRO. That is the sum of all, Leonato: Signior Claudio, and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at the least a month, and he heartly prays some occasion may detain us longer: I dare swear he is no hypocrite, but prays from his heart. LEONATO. If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn. [To Don John] Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to the Prince your brother, I owe you all duty. DON JOHN. I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank you. LEONATO. Please it your Grace lead on? DON PEDRO. Your hand, Leonato; we will go together. [Exeunt all but Benedick and Claudio.] CLAUDIO. Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato? BENEDICK. I noted her not; but I looked on her. CLAUDIO. Is she not a modest young lady? BENEDICK. Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex? CLAUDIO. No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment. BENEDICK. Why, i’ faith, methinks she’s too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise, and too little for a great praise; only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome, and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. CLAUDIO. Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me truly how thou likest her. BENEDICK. Would you buy her, that you enquire after her? CLAUDIO. Can the world buy such a jewel? BENEDICK. Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this with a sad brow, or do you play the flouting Jack, to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder, and Vulcan a rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take you, to go in the song? CLAUDIO. In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I looked on. BENEDICK. I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such matter: there’s her cousin and she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December. But I hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you? CLAUDIO. I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn to the contrary, if Hero would be my wife. BENEDICK. Is’t come to this, 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; and thou wilt needs thrust thy neck into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away Sundays. Re-enter Don Pedro. Look! Don Pedro is returned to seek you. DON PEDRO. What secret hath held you here, that you followed not to Leonato’s? BENEDICK. I would your Grace would constrain me to tell. DON PEDRO. I charge thee on thy allegiance. BENEDICK. You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb man; I would have you think so; but on my allegiance mark you this, on my allegiance: he is in love. With who? now that is your Grace’s part. Mark how short his answer is: with Hero, Leonato’s short daughter. CLAUDIO. If this were so, so were it uttered. BENEDICK. Like the old tale, my lord: ‘it is not so, nor ’twas not so; but indeed, God forbid it should be so.’ CLAUDIO. If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it should be otherwise. DON PEDRO. Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy. CLAUDIO. You speak this to fetch me in, my lord. DON PEDRO. By my troth, I speak my thought. CLAUDIO. And in faith, my lord, I spoke mine. BENEDICK. And by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine. CLAUDIO. That I love her, I feel. DON PEDRO. That she is worthy, I know. BENEDICK. That I neither feel how she should be loved, nor know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake. DON PEDRO. Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite of beauty. CLAUDIO. And never could maintain his part but in the force of his will. BENEDICK. That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks; but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is,—for the which I may go the finer,—I will live a bachelor. DON PEDRO. I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love. BENEDICK. With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord; not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood with love than I will get again with drinking, pick out mine eyes with a ballad-maker’s pen and hang me up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of blind Cupid. DON PEDRO. Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou wilt prove a notable argument. BENEDICK. If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on the shoulder and called Adam. DON PEDRO. Well, as time shall try: ‘In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.’ BENEDICK. The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull’s horns and set them in my forehead; and let me be vilely painted, and in such great letters as they write, ‘Here is good horse to hire,’ let them signify under my sign ‘Here you may see Benedick the married man.’ CLAUDIO. If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad. DON PEDRO. Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly. BENEDICK. I look for an earthquake too then. DON PEDRO. Well, you will temporize with the hours. In the meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to Leonato’s: commend me to him and tell him I will not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made great preparation. BENEDICK. I have almost matter enough in me for such an embassage; and so I commit you— CLAUDIO. To the tuition of God: from my house, if I had it,— DON PEDRO. The sixth of July: your loving friend, Benedick. BENEDICK. Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere you flout old ends any further, examine your conscience: and so I leave you. [Exit.] CLAUDIO. My liege, your Highness now may do me good. DON PEDRO. My love is thine to teach: teach it but how, And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn Any hard lesson that may do thee good. CLAUDIO. Hath Leonato any son, my lord? DON PEDRO. No child but Hero; she’s his only heir. Dost thou affect her, Claudio? CLAUDIO. O! my lord, When you went onward on this ended action, I looked upon her with a soldier’s eye, That lik’d, but had a rougher task in hand Than to drive liking to the name of love; But now I am return’d, and that war-thoughts Have left their places vacant, in their rooms Come thronging soft and delicate desires, All prompting me how fair young Hero is, Saying, I lik’d her ere I went to wars. DON PEDRO. Thou wilt be like a lover presently, And tire the hearer with a book of words. If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it, And I will break with her, and with her father, And thou shalt have her. Was’t not to this end That thou began’st to twist so fine a story? CLAUDIO. How sweetly you do minister to love, That know love’s grief by his complexion! But lest my liking might too sudden seem, I would have salv’d it with a longer treatise. DON PEDRO. What need the bridge much broader than the flood? The fairest grant is the necessity. Look, what will serve is fit: ’tis once, thou lov’st, And I will fit thee with the remedy. I know we shall have revelling tonight: 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 Leonato and Antonio, meeting. LEONATO. How now, brother? Where is my cousin your son? Hath he provided this music? ANTONIO. He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell you strange news that you yet dreamt not of. LEONATO. Are they good? ANTONIO. As the event stamps them: but they have a good cover; they show well outward. The Prince and Count Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in my orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine: the Prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it this night in a dance; and if he found her accordant, he meant to take the present time by the top and instantly break with you of it. LEONATO. Hath the fellow any wit that told you this? ANTONIO. A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and question him yourself. LEONATO. No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal, that she may be the better prepared for an answer, if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it. [Several persons cross the stage.] Cousins, you know what you have to do. O! I cry you mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Another room in Leonato’s house. Enter Don John and Conrade. CONRADE. What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out of measure sad? DON JOHN. There is no measure in the occasion that breeds; therefore the sadness is without limit. CONRADE. You should hear reason. DON JOHN. And when I have heard it, what blessings brings it? CONRADE. If not a present remedy, at least a patient sufferance. DON JOHN. I wonder that thou (being as thou say’st thou art, born under Saturn) goest about to apply a moral medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide what I am: I must be sad when I have cause, and smile at no man’s jests; eat when I have stomach, and wait for no man’s leisure; sleep when I am drowsy, and tend on no man’s business; laugh when I am merry, and claw no man in his humour. CONRADE. Yea; but you must not make the full show of this till you may do it without controlment. You have of late stood out against your brother, and he hath ta’en you newly into his grace; where it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful that you frame the season for your own harvest. DON JOHN. I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in his grace; and it better fits my blood to be disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking: in the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not to alter me. CONRADE. Can you make no use of your discontent? DON JOHN. I make all use of it, for I use it only. Who comes here? Enter Borachio. What news, Borachio? BORACHIO. I came yonder from a great supper: the Prince your brother is royally entertained by Leonato; and I can give you intelligence of an intended marriage. DON JOHN. Will it serve for any model to build mischief on? What is he for a fool that betroths himself to unquietness? BORACHIO. Marry, it is your brother’s right hand. DON JOHN. Who? the most exquisite Claudio? BORACHIO. Even he. DON JOHN. A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks he? BORACHIO. Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato. DON JOHN. A very forward March-chick! How came you to this? BORACHIO. Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a musty room, comes me the Prince and Claudio, hand in hand, in sad conference: I whipt me behind the arras, and there heard it agreed upon that the Prince should woo Hero for himself, and having obtained her, give her to Count Claudio. DON JOHN. Come, come; let us thither: this may prove food to my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me? CONRADE. To the death, my lord. DON JOHN. Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of my mind! Shall we go to prove what’s to be done? BORACHIO. We’ll wait upon your Lordship. [Exeunt.] ACT II SCENE I. A hall in Leonato’s house. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Hero, Beatrice and others. LEONATO. Was not Count John here at supper? ANTONIO. I saw him not. BEATRICE. How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burned an hour after. HERO. He is of a very melancholy disposition. BEATRICE. He were an excellent man that were made just in the mid-way between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image, and says nothing; and the other too like my lady’s eldest son, evermore tattling. LEONATO. Then half Signior Benedick’s tongue in Count John’s mouth, and half Count John’s melancholy in Signior Benedick’s face— BEATRICE. With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman in the world if a’ could get her good will. LEONATO. By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue. ANTONIO. In faith, she’s too curst. BEATRICE. Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God’s sending that way; for it is said, ‘God sends a curst cow short horns;’ but to a cow too curst he sends none. LEONATO. So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns? BEATRICE. Just, if he send me no husband; for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening. Lord! I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen. LEONATO. You may light on a husband that hath no beard. BEATRICE. What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel and make him my waiting gentlewoman? He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man; and he that is more than a youth is not for me; and he that is less than a man, I am not for him: therefore I will even take sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his apes into hell. LEONATO. Well then, go you into hell? BEATRICE. No; but to the gate; and there will the Devil meet me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and say, ‘Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to heaven; here’s no place for you maids.’ So deliver I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the heavens: he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long. ANTONIO. [To Hero.] Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled by your father. BEATRICE. Yes, faith; it is my cousin’s duty to make curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please you:’— but yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy, and say, ‘Father, as it please me.’ LEONATO. Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. BEATRICE. Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered with a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I’ll none: Adam’s sons are my brethren; and truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred. LEONATO. Daughter, remember what I told you: if the Prince do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer. BEATRICE. The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be not wooed in good time: if the Prince be too important, tell him there is measure in everything, and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero: wooing, wedding, and repenting is as a Scotch jig, a measure, and a cinquepace: the first suit is hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as fantastical; the wedding, mannerly modest, as a measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes Repentance, and with his bad legs, falls into the cinquepace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave. LEONATO. Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly. BEATRICE. I have a good eye, uncle: I can see a church by daylight. LEONATO. The revellers are entering, brother: make good room. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick, Balthasar, Don John, Borachio, Margaret, Ursula and Others, masked. DON PEDRO. Lady, will you walk about with your friend? HERO. So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing, I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away. DON PEDRO. With me in your company? HERO. I may say so, when I please. DON PEDRO. And when please you to say so? HERO. When I like your favour; for God defend the lute should be like the case! DON PEDRO. My visor is Philemon’s roof; within the house is Jove. HERO. Why, then, your visor should be thatch’d. DON PEDRO. Speak low, if you speak love. [Takes her aside.] BALTHASAR. Well, I would you did like me. MARGARET. So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many ill qualities. BALTHASAR. Which is one? MARGARET. I say my prayers aloud. BALTHASAR. I love you the better; the hearers may cry Amen. MARGARET. God match me with a good dancer! BALTHASAR. Amen. MARGARET. And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is done! Answer, clerk. BALTHASAR. No more words: the clerk is answered. URSULA. I know you well enough: you are Signior Antonio. ANTONIO. At a word, I am not. URSULA. I know you by the waggling of your head. ANTONIO. To tell you true, I counterfeit him. URSULA. You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were the very man. Here’s his dry hand up and down: you are he, you are he. ANTONIO. At a word, I am not. URSULA. Come, come; do you think I do not know you by your excellent wit? Can virtue hide itself? Go to, mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there’s an end. BEATRICE. Will you not tell me who told you so? BENEDICK. No, you shall pardon me. BEATRICE. Nor will you not tell me who you are? BENEDICK. Not now. BEATRICE. That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit out of the ‘Hundred Merry Tales.’ Well, this was Signior Benedick that said so. BENEDICK. What’s he? BEATRICE. I am sure you know him well enough. BENEDICK. Not I, believe me. BEATRICE. Did he never make you laugh? BENEDICK. I pray you, what is he? BEATRICE. Why, he is the Prince’s jester: a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders: none but libertines delight in him; and the commendation is not in his wit, but in his villainy; for he both pleases men and angers them, and then they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in the fleet: I would he had boarded me! BENEDICK. When I know the gentleman, I’ll tell him what you say. BEATRICE. Do, do: he’ll but break a comparison or two on me; which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at, strikes him into melancholy; and then there’s a partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no supper that night. [Music within.] We must follow the leaders. BENEDICK. In every good thing. BEATRICE. Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at the next turning. [Dance. Then exeunt all but Don John, Borachio and Claudio.] DON JOHN. Sure my brother is amorous on Hero, and hath withdrawn her father to break with him about it. The ladies follow her and but one visor remains. BORACHIO. And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing. DON JOHN. Are you not Signior Benedick? CLAUDIO. You know me well; I am he. DON JOHN. Signior, you are very near my brother in his love: he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him from her; she is no equal for his birth: you may do the part of an honest man in it. CLAUDIO. How know you he loves her? DON JOHN. I heard him swear his affection. BORACHIO. So did I too; and he swore he would marry her tonight. DON JOHN. Come, let us to the banquet. [Exeunt Don John and Borachio.] CLAUDIO. Thus answer I in name of Benedick, But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio. ’Tis certain so; the Prince wooss 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! Re-enter Benedick. BENEDICK. Count Claudio? CLAUDIO. Yea, the same. BENEDICK. Come, will you go with me? CLAUDIO. Whither? BENEDICK. Even to the next willow, about your own business, Count. What fashion will you wear the garland of? About your neck, like a usurer’s chain? or under your arm, like a lieutenant’s scarf? You must wear it one way, for the Prince hath got your Hero. CLAUDIO. I wish him joy of her. BENEDICK. Why, that’s spoken like an honest drovier: so they sell bullocks. But did you think the Prince would have served you thus? CLAUDIO. I pray you, leave me. BENEDICK. Ho! now you strike like the blind man: ’twas the boy that stole your meat, and you’ll beat the post. CLAUDIO. If it will not be, I’ll leave you. [Exit.] BENEDICK. Alas! poor hurt fowl. Now will he creep into sedges. But, that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not know me! The Prince’s fool! Ha! it may be I go under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it is the base though bitter disposition of Beatrice that puts the world into her person, and so gives me out. Well, I’ll be revenged as I may. Re-enter Don Pedro. DON PEDRO. Now, signior, where’s the Count? Did you see him? BENEDICK. Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame. I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a warren. I told him, and I think I told him true, that your Grace had got the good will of this young lady; and I offered him my company to a willow tree, either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped. DON PEDRO. To be whipped! What’s his fault? BENEDICK. The flat transgression of a school-boy, who, being overjoy’d with finding a bird’s nest, shows it his companion, and he steals it. DON PEDRO. Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The transgression is in the stealer. BENEDICK. Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made, and the garland too; for the garland he might have worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on you, who, as I take it, have stolen his bird’s nest. DON PEDRO. I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to the owner. BENEDICK. If their singing answer your saying, by my faith, you say honestly. DON PEDRO. The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the gentleman that danced with her told her she is much wronged by you. BENEDICK. O! she misused me past the endurance of a block: an oak but with one green leaf on it would have answered her: my very visor began to assume life and scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been myself, that I was the Prince’s jester, that I was duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest with such impossible conveyance upon me, that I stood like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her; she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam had left him before he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make the fire too. Come, talk not of her; you shall find her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God some scholar would conjure her, for certainly, while she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose because they would go thither; so indeed, all disquiet, horror and perturbation follow her. Re-enter Claudio, Beatrice, Hero and Leonato. DON PEDRO. Look! here she comes. BENEDICK. Will your Grace command me any service to the world’s end? I will go on the slightest errand now to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on; I will fetch you a toothpicker now from the furthest inch of Asia; bring you the length of Prester John’s foot; fetch you a hair off the Great Cham’s beard; do you any embassage to the Pygmies, rather than hold three words’ conference with this harpy. You have no employment for me? DON PEDRO. None, but to desire your good company. BENEDICK. O God, sir, here’s a dish I love not: I cannot endure my Lady Tongue. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick. BEATRICE. Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for a single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your Grace may well say I have lost it. DON PEDRO. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. BEATRICE. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. DON PEDRO. Why, how now, Count! wherefore are you sad? CLAUDIO. Not sad, my lord. DON PEDRO. How then? Sick? CLAUDIO. Neither, my lord. BEATRICE. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil Count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. DON PEDRO. I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy! LEONATO. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it! BEATRICE. Speak, Count, ’tis your cue. CLAUDIO. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. BEATRICE. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. DON PEDRO. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. BEATRICE. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. CLAUDIO. And so she doth, cousin. BEATRICE. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! DON PEDRO. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. BEATRICE. I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. DON PEDRO. Will you have me, lady? BEATRICE. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your Grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter. DON PEDRO. Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born. Cousins, God give you joy! LEONATO. Niece, will you look to those things I told you of? BEATRICE. I cry you mercy, uncle. By your Grace’s pardon. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. By my troth, a pleasant spirited lady. LEONATO. There’s little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps; and not ever sad then, for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked herself with laughing. DON PEDRO. She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband. LEONATO. O! by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit. DON PEDRO. She were an excellent wife for Benedick. LEONATO. O Lord! my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad. DON PEDRO. Count Claudio, when mean you to go to church? CLAUDIO. Tomorrow, my lord. Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites. LEONATO. Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just seven-night; and a time too brief too, to have all things answer my mind. DON PEDRO. Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing; but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of Hercules’ labours, which is, to bring Signior Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of affection the one with the other. I would fain have it a match; and I doubt not but to fashion it, if you three will but minister such assistance as I shall give you direction. LEONATO. My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten nights’ watchings. CLAUDIO. And I, my lord. DON PEDRO. And you too, gentle Hero? HERO. I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my cousin to a good husband. DON PEDRO. And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble strain, of approved valour, and confirmed honesty. I will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this, Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me, and I will tell you my drift. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. Another room in Leonato’s house. Enter Don John and Borachio. DON JOHN. It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the daughter of Leonato. BORACHIO. Yea, my lord; but I can cross it. DON JOHN. Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him, and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage? BORACHIO. Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no dishonesty shall appear in me. DON JOHN. Show me briefly how. BORACHIO. I think I told your lordship, a year since, how much I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting gentlewoman to Hero. DON JOHN. I remember. BORACHIO. I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night, appoint her to look out at her lady’s chamber window. DON JOHN. What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage? BORACHIO. The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to the Prince your brother; spare not to tell him, that he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned Claudio,—whose estimation do you mightily hold up,—to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero. DON JOHN. What proof shall I make of that? BORACHIO. Proof enough to misuse the Prince, to vex Claudio, to undo Hero, and kill Leonato. Look you for any other issue? DON JOHN. Only to despite them, I will endeavour anything. BORACHIO. Go then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the Prince and Claudio, as—in love of your brother’s honour, who hath made this match, and his friend’s reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the semblance of a maid,—that you have discovered thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial: offer them instances, which shall bear no less likelihood than to see me at her chamber window, hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night before the intended wedding: for in the meantime I will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be absent; and there shall appear such seeming truth of Hero’s disloyalty, that jealousy shall be called assurance, and all the preparation overthrown. DON JOHN. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this, and thy fee is a thousand ducats. BORACHIO. Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning shall not shame me. DON JOHN. I will presently go learn their day of marriage. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Benedick. BENEDICK. Boy! Enter a Boy. BOY. Signior? BENEDICK. In my chamber window lies a book; bring it hither to me in the orchard. BOY. I am here already, sir. BENEDICK. I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again. [Exit Boy.] I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love, will, after he hath laughed at such shallow follies in others, become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love: and such a man is Claudio. I have known, when there was no music with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor and the pipe: I have known when he would have walked ten mile afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake, carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted, and see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I’ll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace. Rich she shall be, that’s certain; wise, or I’ll none; virtuous, or I’ll never cheapen her; fair, or I’ll never look on her; mild, or come not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it please God. Ha! the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour. [Withdraws.] Enter Don Pedro, Leonato and Claudio, followed by Balthasar and Musicians. DON PEDRO. Come, shall we hear this music? CLAUDIO. Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is, As hush’d on purpose to grace harmony! DON PEDRO. See you where Benedick hath hid himself? CLAUDIO. O! very well, my lord: the music ended, We’ll fit the kid-fox with a penny-worth. DON PEDRO. Come, Balthasar, we’ll hear that song again. BALTHASAR. O! good my lord, tax not so bad a voice To slander music any more than once. DON PEDRO. It is the witness still of excellency, To put a strange face on his own perfection. I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more. BALTHASAR. Because you talk of wooing, I will sing; Since many a wooer doth commence his suit To her he thinks not worthy; yet he wooes; Yet will he swear he loves. DON PEDRO. Nay, pray thee come; Or if thou wilt hold longer argument, Do it in notes. BALTHASAR. Note this before my notes; There’s not a note of mine that’s worth the noting. DON PEDRO. Why these are very crotchets that he speaks; Notes, notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.] BENEDICK. Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it not strange that sheep’s guts should hale souls out of men’s bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when all’s done. BALTHASAR [sings.] Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever; One foot in sea, and one on shore, To one thing constant never. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. Sing no more ditties, sing no mo Of dumps so dull and heavy; The fraud of men was ever so, Since summer first was leavy. Then sigh not so, but let them go, And be you blithe and bonny, Converting all your sounds of woe Into Hey nonny, nonny. DON PEDRO. By my troth, a good song. BALTHASAR. And an ill singer, my lord. DON PEDRO. Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift. BENEDICK. [Aside] And he had been a dog that should have howled thus, they would have hanged him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the night-raven, come what plague could have come after it. DON PEDRO. Yea, marry; dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee, get us some excellent music, for tomorrow night we would have it at the Lady Hero’s chamber window. BALTHASAR. The best I can, my lord. DON PEDRO. Do so: farewell. [Exeunt Balthasar and Musicians.] Come hither, Leonato: what was it you told me of today, that your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick? CLAUDIO. O! ay:—[Aside to Don Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. I did never think that lady would have loved any man. LEONATO. No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seemed ever to abhor. BENEDICK. [Aside] Is’t possible? Sits the wind in that corner? LEONATO. By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it but that she loves him with an enraged affection: it is past the infinite of thought. DON PEDRO. Maybe she doth but counterfeit. CLAUDIO. Faith, like enough. LEONATO. O God! counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as she discovers it. DON PEDRO. Why, what effects of passion shows she? CLAUDIO. [Aside] Bait the hook well: this fish will bite. LEONATO. What effects, my lord? She will sit you; [To Claudio] You heard my daughter tell you how. CLAUDIO. She did, indeed. DON PEDRO. How, how, I pray you? You amaze me: I would have thought her spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection. LEONATO. I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially against Benedick. BENEDICK. [Aside] I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence. CLAUDIO. [Aside] He hath ta’en the infection: hold it up. DON PEDRO. Hath she made her affection known to Benedick? LEONATO. No; and swears she never will: that’s her torment. CLAUDIO. ’Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: ‘Shall I,’ says she, ‘that have so oft encountered him with scorn, write to him that I love him?’ LEONATO. This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for she’ll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all. CLAUDIO. Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your daughter told us of. LEONATO. O! when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet? CLAUDIO. That. LEONATO. O! she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence; railed at herself, that she should be so immodest to write to one that she knew would flout her: ‘I measure him,’ says she, ‘by my own spirit; for I should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I love him, I should.’ CLAUDIO. Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; ‘O sweet Benedick! God give me patience!’ LEONATO. She doth indeed; my daughter says so; and the ecstasy hath so much overborne her, that my daughter is sometimes afeard she will do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true. DON PEDRO. It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will not discover it. CLAUDIO. To what end? he would make but a sport of it and torment the poor lady worse. DON PEDRO. And he should, it were an alms to hang him. She’s an excellent sweet lady, and, out of all suspicion, she is virtuous. CLAUDIO. And she is exceeding wise. DON PEDRO. In everything but in loving Benedick. LEONATO. O! my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her guardian. DON PEDRO. I would she had bestowed this dotage on me; I would have daffed all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear what he will say. LEONATO. Were it good, think you? CLAUDIO. Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and she will die if he woo her, rather than she will bate one breath of her accustomed crossness. DON PEDRO. She doth well: if she should make tender of her love, ’tis very possible he’ll scorn it; for the man,—as you know all,—hath a contemptible spirit. CLAUDIO. He is a very proper man. DON PEDRO. He hath indeed a good outward happiness. CLAUDIO. ’Fore God, and in my mind, very wise. DON PEDRO. He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit. CLAUDIO. And I take him to be valiant. DON PEDRO. As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes them with a most Christian-like fear. LEONATO. If he do fear God, a’ must necessarily keep peace: if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and trembling. DON PEDRO. And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love? CLAUDIO. Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with good counsel. LEONATO. Nay, that’s impossible: she may wear her heart out first. DON PEDRO. Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter: let it cool the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see how much he is unworthy so good a lady. LEONATO. My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready. CLAUDIO. [Aside] If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation. DON PEDRO. [Aside] Let there be the same net spread for her; and that must your daughter and her gentlewoman carry. The sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of another’s dotage, and no such matter: that’s the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio and Leonato.] BENEDICK. [Advancing from the arbour.] This can be no trick: the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured: they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive the love come from her; they say too that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending. They say the lady is fair: ’tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous: ’tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving me: by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage; but doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No; the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day! she’s a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in her. Enter Beatrice. BEATRICE. Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner. BENEDICK. Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains. BEATRICE. I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would not have come. BENEDICK. You take pleasure then in the message? BEATRICE. Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior: fare you well. [Exit.] BENEDICK. Ha! ‘Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner,’ there’s a double meaning in that. ‘I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains to thank me,’ that’s as much as to say, Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture. [Exit.] ACT III SCENE I. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula. HERO. Good Margaret, run thee to the parlour; There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice Proposing with the Prince and Claudio: Whisper her ear, and tell her, I and Ursala Walk in the orchard, and our whole discourse Is all of her; say that thou overheard’st us, And bid her steal into the pleached bower, Where honey-suckles, ripen’d by the sun, Forbid the sun to enter; like favourites, Made proud by princes, that advance their pride Against that power that bred it. There will she hide her, To listen our propose. This is thy office; Bear thee well in it and leave us alone. MARGARET. I’ll make her come, I warrant you, presently. [Exit.] HERO. Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come, As we do trace this alley up and down, Our talk must only be of Benedick: When I do name him, let it be thy part To praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to thee must be how Benedick Is sick in love with Beatrice: of this matter Is little Cupid’s crafty arrow made, That only wounds by hearsay. Enter Beatrice behind. Now begin; For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs Close by the ground, to hear our conference. URSULA. The pleasant’st angling is to see the fish Cut with her golden oars the silver stream, And greedily devour the treacherous bait: So angle we for Beatrice; who even now Is couched in the woodbine coverture. Fear you not my part of the dialogue. HERO. Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it. [They advance to the bower.] No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful; I know her spirits are as coy and wild As haggards of the rock. URSULA. But are you sure That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely? HERO. So says the Prince, and my new-trothed lord. URSULA. And did they bid you tell her of it, madam? HERO. They did entreat me to acquaint her of it; But I persuaded them, if they lov’d Benedick, To wish him wrestle with affection, And never to let Beatrice know of it. URSULA. Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman Deserve as full as fortunate a bed As ever Beatrice shall couch upon? HERO. O god of love! I know he doth deserve As much as may be yielded to a man; But Nature never fram’d a woman’s heart Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice; Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes, Misprising what they look on, and her wit Values itself so highly, that to her All matter else seems weak. She cannot love, Nor take no shape nor project of affection, She is so self-endear’d. URSULA. Sure I think so; And therefore certainly it were not good She knew his love, lest she make sport at it. HERO. Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man, How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featur’d, But she would spell him backward: if fair-fac’d, She would swear the gentleman should be her sister; If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antick, Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed; If low, an agate very vilely cut; If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds; If silent, why, a block moved with none. So turns she every man the wrong side out, And never gives to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth. URSULA. Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable. HERO. No; not to be so odd, and from all fashions, As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable. But who dare tell her so? If I should speak, She would mock me into air: O! she would laugh me Out of myself, press me to death with wit. Therefore let Benedick, like cover’d fire, Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly: It were a better death than die with mocks, Which is as bad as die with tickling. URSULA. Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say. HERO. No; rather I will go to Benedick, And counsel him to fight against his passion. And, truly, I’ll devise some honest slanders To stain my cousin with. One doth not know How much an ill word may empoison liking. URSULA. O! do not do your cousin such a wrong. She cannot be so much without true judgment,— Having so swift and excellent a wit As she is priz’d to have,—as to refuse So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick. HERO. He is the only man of Italy, Always excepted my dear Claudio. URSULA. I pray you, be not angry with me, madam, Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick, For shape, for bearing, argument and valour, Goes foremost in report through Italy. HERO. Indeed, he hath an excellent good name. URSULA. His excellence did earn it, ere he had it. When are you married, madam? HERO. Why, every day, tomorrow. Come, go in: I’ll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel Which is the best to furnish me tomorrow. URSULA. She’s lim’d, I warrant you, We have caught her, madam. HERO. If it prove so, then loving goes by haps: Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps. [Exeunt Hero and Ursula.] BEATRICE. [Advancing.] What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much? Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such. And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee, Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand: If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee To bind our loves up in a holy band; For others say thou dost deserve, and I Believe it better than reportingly. [Exit.] SCENE II. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedick and Leonato. DON PEDRO. I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and then go I toward Arragon. CLAUDIO. I’ll bring you thither, my lord, if you’ll vouchsafe me. DON PEDRO. Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss of your marriage, as to show a child his new coat and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all mirth; he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid’s bowstring, and the little hangman dare not shoot at him. He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks, his tongue speaks. BENEDICK. Gallants, I am not as I have been. LEONATO. So say I: methinks you are sadder. CLAUDIO. I hope he be in love. DON PEDRO. Hang him, truant! there’s no true drop of blood in him to be truly touched with love. If he be sad, he wants money. BENEDICK. I have the tooth-ache. DON PEDRO. Draw it. BENEDICK. Hang it. CLAUDIO. You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards. DON PEDRO. What! sigh for the tooth-ache? LEONATO. Where is but a humour or a worm? BENEDICK. Well, everyone can master a grief but he that has it. CLAUDIO. Yet say I, he is in love. DON PEDRO. There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as to be a Dutchman today, a Frenchman tomorrow; or in the shape of two countries at once, as a German from the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is. CLAUDIO. If he be not in love with some woman, there is no believing old signs: a’ brushes his hat a mornings; what should that bode? DON PEDRO. Hath any man seen him at the barber’s? CLAUDIO. No, but the barber’s man hath been seen with him; and the old ornament of his cheek hath already stuffed tennis balls. LEONATO. Indeed he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard. DON PEDRO. Nay, a’ rubs himself with civet: can you smell him out by that? CLAUDIO. That’s as much as to say the sweet youth’s in love. DON PEDRO. The greatest note of it is his melancholy. CLAUDIO. And when was he wont to wash his face? DON PEDRO. Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear what they say of him. CLAUDIO. Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into a lute-string, and now governed by stops. DON PEDRO. Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him. Conclude, conclude he is in love. CLAUDIO. Nay, but I know who loves him. DON PEDRO. That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not. CLAUDIO. Yes, and his ill conditions; and in despite of all, dies for him. DON PEDRO. She shall be buried with her face upwards. BENEDICK. Yet is this no charm for the tooth-ache. Old signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight or nine wise words to speak to you, which these hobby-horses must not hear. [Exeunt Benedick and Leonato.] DON PEDRO. For my life, to break with him about Beatrice. CLAUDIO. ’Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this played their parts with Beatrice, and then the two bears will not bite one another when they meet. Enter Don John. DON JOHN. My lord and brother, God save you! DON PEDRO. Good den, brother. DON JOHN. If your leisure served, I would speak with you. DON PEDRO. In private? DON JOHN. If it please you; yet Count Claudio may hear, for what I would speak of concerns him. DON PEDRO. What’s the matter? DON JOHN. [To Claudio.] Means your lordship to be married tomorrow? DON PEDRO. You know he does. DON JOHN. I know not that, when he knows what I know. CLAUDIO. If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it. DON JOHN. You may think I love you not: let that appear hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect your ensuing marriage; surely suit ill-spent and labour ill bestowed! DON PEDRO. Why, what’s the matter? DON JOHN. I came hither to tell you; and circumstances shortened,—for she has been too long a talking of,—the lady is disloyal. CLAUDIO. Who, Hero? DON JOHN. Even she: Leonato’s Hero, your Hero, every man’s Hero. CLAUDIO. Disloyal? DON JOHN. The word’s too good to paint out her wickedness; I could say, she were worse: think you of a worse title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till further warrant: go but with me tonight, you shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her wedding-day: if you love her then, tomorrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour to change your mind. CLAUDIO. May this be so? DON PEDRO. I will not think it. DON JOHN. If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me, I will show you enough; and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly. CLAUDIO. If I see anything tonight why I should not marry her tomorrow, in the congregation, where I should wed, there will I shame her. DON PEDRO. And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join with thee to disgrace her. DON JOHN. I will disparage her no farther till you are my witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and let the issue show itself. DON PEDRO. O day untowardly turned! CLAUDIO. O mischief strangely thwarting! DON JOHN. O plague right well prevented! So will you say when you have seen the sequel. [Exeunt.] Scene III. A Street. Enter Dogberry and Verges, with the Watch. DOGBERRY. Are you good men and true? VERGES. Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. DOGBERRY. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the Prince’s watch. VERGES. Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry. DOGBERRY. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? FIRST WATCH. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. DOGBERRY. Come hither, neighbour Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is the gift of Fortune; but to write and read comes by Nature. SECOND WATCH. Both which, Master Constable,— DOGBERRY. You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore bear you the lanthorn. This is your charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the Prince’s name. SECOND WATCH. How, if a’ will not stand? DOGBERRY. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. VERGES. If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none of the Prince’s subjects. DOGBERRY. True, and they are to meddle with none but the Prince’s subjects. You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and to talk is most tolerable and not to be endured. SECOND WATCH. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. DOGBERRY. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman, for I cannot see how sleeping should offend; only have a care that your bills be not stolen. Well, you are to call at all the alehouses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. SECOND WATCH. How if they will not? DOGBERRY. Why then, let them alone till they are sober: if they make you not then the better answer, you may say they are not the men you took them for. SECOND WATCH. Well, sir. DOGBERRY. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. SECOND WATCH. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? DOGBERRY. Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they that touch pitch will be defiled. The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company. VERGES. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. DOGBERRY. Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more a man who hath any honesty in him. VERGES. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse and bid her still it. SECOND WATCH. How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us? DOGBERRY. Why then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when he bleats. VERGES. ’Tis very true. DOGBERRY. This is the end of the charge. You constable, are to present the Prince’s own person: if you meet the Prince in the night, you may stay him. VERGES. Nay, by’r lady, that I think, a’ cannot. DOGBERRY. Five shillings to one on’t, with any man that knows the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without the Prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. VERGES. By’r lady, I think it be so. DOGBERRY. Ha, ah, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows’ counsels and your own, and good night. Come, neighbour. SECOND WATCH. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church bench till two, and then all to bed. DOGBERRY. One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato’s door; for the wedding being there tomorrow, there is a great coil tonight. Adieu; be vigitant, I beseech you. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.] Enter Borachio and Conrade. BORACHIO. What, Conrade! WATCH. [Aside] Peace! stir not. BORACHIO. Conrade, I say! CONRADE. Here, man. I am at thy elbow. BORACHIO. Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a scab follow. CONRADE. I will owe thee an answer for that; and now forward with thy tale. BORACHIO. Stand thee close then under this penthouse, for it drizzles rain, and I will, like a true drunkard, utter all to thee. WATCH. [Aside] Some treason, masters; yet stand close. BORACHIO. Therefore know, I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats. CONRADE. Is it possible that any villainy should be so dear? BORACHIO. Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any villainy should be so rich; for when rich villains have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what price they will. CONRADE. I wonder at it. BORACHIO. That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is nothing to a man. CONRADE. Yes, it is apparel. BORACHIO. I mean, the fashion. CONRADE. Yes, the fashion is the fashion. BORACHIO. Tush! I may as well say the fool’s the fool. But seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion is? WATCH. [Aside] I know that Deformed; a’ has been a vile thief this seven years; a’ goes up and down like a gentleman: I remember his name. BORACHIO. Didst thou not hear somebody? CONRADE. No: ’twas the vane on the house. BORACHIO. Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this fashion is? how giddily he turns about all the hot bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty? sometime fashioning them like Pharaoh’s soldiers in the reechy painting; sometime like god Bel’s priests in the old church window; sometime like the shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry, where his codpiece seems as massy as his club? CONRADE. All this I see, and I see that the fashion wears out more apparel than the man. But art not thou thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion? BORACHIO. Not so neither; but know, that I have tonight wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero’s gentlewoman, by the name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress’ chamber window, bids me a thousand times good night,—I tell this tale vilely:—I should first tell thee how the Prince, Claudio, and my master, planted and placed and possessed by my master Don John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter. CONRADE. And thought they Margaret was Hero? BORACHIO. Two of them did, the Prince and Claudio; but the devil my master, knew she was Margaret; and partly by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly by my villainy, which did confirm any slander that Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning at the temple, and there, before the whole congregation, shame her with what he saw o’er night, and send her home again without a husband. FIRST WATCH. We charge you in the Prince’s name, stand! SECOND WATCH. Call up the right Master Constable. We have here recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that ever was known in the commonwealth. FIRST WATCH. And one Deformed is one of them: I know him, a’ wears a lock. CONRADE. Masters, masters! SECOND WATCH. You’ll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you. CONRADE. Masters,— FIRST WATCH. Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us. BORACHIO. We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken up of these men’s bills. CONRADE. A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we’ll obey you. [Exeunt.] Scene IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Hero, Margaret and Ursula. HERO. Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire her to rise. URSULA. I will, lady. HERO. And bid her come hither. URSULA. Well. [Exit.] MARGARET. Troth, I think your other rebato were better. HERO. No, pray thee, good Meg, I’ll wear this. MARGARET. By my troth’s not so good; and I warrant your cousin will say so. HERO. My cousin’s a fool, and thou art another: I’ll wear none but this. MARGARET. I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair were a thought browner; and your gown’s a most rare fashion, i’ faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan’s gown that they praise so. HERO. O! that exceeds, they say. MARGARET. By my troth ’s but a night-gown in respect of yours: cloth o’ gold, and cuts, and laced with silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves, and skirts round, underborne with a bluish tinsel; but for a fine, quaint, graceful, and excellent fashion, yours is worth ten on’t. HERO. God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is exceeding heavy. MARGARET. ’Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man. HERO. Fie upon thee! art not ashamed? MARGARET. Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord honourable without marriage? I think you would have me say, saving your reverence, ‘a husband:’ an bad thinking do not wrest true speaking, I’ll offend nobody. Is there any harm in ‘the heavier for a husband’? None, I think, and it be the right husband and the right wife; otherwise ’tis light, and not heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes. Enter Beatrice. HERO. Good morrow, coz. BEATRICE. Good morrow, sweet Hero. HERO. Why, how now? do you speak in the sick tune? BEATRICE. I am out of all other tune, methinks. MARGARET. Clap’s into ‘Light o’ love’; that goes without a burden: do you sing it, and I’ll dance it. BEATRICE. Ye, light o’ love with your heels! then, if your husband have stables enough, you’ll see he shall lack no barnes. MARGARET. O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels. BEATRICE. ’Tis almost five o’clock, cousin; ’tis time you were ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill. Heigh-ho! MARGARET. For a hawk, a horse, or a husband? BEATRICE. For the letter that begins them all, H. MARGARET. Well, and you be not turned Turk, there’s no more sailing by the star. BEATRICE. What means the fool, trow? MARGARET. Nothing I; but God send everyone their heart’s desire! HERO. These gloves the Count sent me; they are an excellent perfume. BEATRICE. I am stuffed, cousin, I cannot smell. MARGARET. A maid, and stuffed! there’s goodly catching of cold. BEATRICE. O, God help me! God help me! how long have you professed apprehension? MARGARET. Ever since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely! BEATRICE. It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your cap. By my troth, I am sick. MARGARET. Get you some of this distilled Carduus benedictus, and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm. HERO. There thou prick’st her with a thistle. BEATRICE. Benedictus! why benedictus? you have some moral in this benedictus. MARGARET. Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I meant, plain holy thistle. You may think, perchance, that I think you are in love: nay, by’r Lady, I am not such a fool to think what I list; nor I list not to think what I can; nor, indeed, I cannot think, if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you are in love, or that you will be in love, or that you can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and now is he become a man: he swore he would never marry; and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats his meat without grudging: and how you may be converted, I know not; but methinks you look with your eyes as other women do. BEATRICE. What pace is this that thy tongue keeps? MARGARET. Not a false gallop. Re-enter Ursula. URSULA. Madam, withdraw: the Prince, the Count, Signior Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the town are come to fetch you to church. HERO. Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula. [Exeunt.] Scene V. Another Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato and Dogberry and Verges. LEONATO. What would you with me, honest neighbour? DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you, that decerns you nearly. LEONATO. Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me. DOGBERRY. Marry, this it is, sir. VERGES. Yes, in truth it is, sir. LEONATO. What is it, my good friends? DOGBERRY. Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. VERGES. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I. DOGBERRY. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges. LEONATO. Neighbours, you are tedious. DOGBERRY. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke’s officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. LEONATO. All thy tediousness on me! ah? DOGBERRY. Yea, and ’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. VERGES. And so am I. LEONATO. I would fain know what you have to say. VERGES. Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. DOGBERRY. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, ‘when the age is in, the wit is out.’ God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; and two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour. LEONATO. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. DOGBERRY. Gifts that God gives. LEONATO. I must leave you. DOGBERRY. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. LEONATO. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you. DOGBERRY. It shall be suffigance. LEONATO. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. LEONATO. I’ll wait upon them: I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.] DOGBERRY. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men. VERGES. And we must do it wisely. DOGBERRY. We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here’s that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only get the learned writer to set down our excommunication, and meet me at the gaol. [Exeunt.] ACT IV SCENE I. The Inside of a Church. Enter Don Pedro, Don John, Leonato, Friar Francis, Claudio, Benedick, Hero, Beatrice &c. LEONATO. Come, Friar Francis, be brief: only to the plain form of marriage, and you shall recount their particular duties afterwards. FRIAR. You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady? CLAUDIO. No. LEONATO. To be married to her, friar; you come to marry her. FRIAR. Lady, you come hither to be married to this Count? HERO. I do. FRIAR. If either of you know any inward impediment, why you should not be conjoined, I charge you, on your souls, to utter it. CLAUDIO. Know you any, Hero? HERO. None, my lord. FRIAR. Know you any, Count? LEONATO. I dare make his answer; none. CLAUDIO. O! what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do! BENEDICK. How now! Interjections? Why then, some be of laughing, as ah! ha! he! CLAUDIO. Stand thee by, Friar. Father, by your leave: Will you with free and unconstrained soul Give me this maid, your daughter? LEONATO. As freely, son, as God did give her me. CLAUDIO. And what have I to give you back whose worth May counterpoise this rich and precious gift? DON PEDRO. Nothing, unless you render her again. CLAUDIO. Sweet Prince, you learn me noble thankfulness. There, Leonato, take her back again: Give not this rotten orange to your friend; She’s but the sign and semblance of her honour. Behold! how like a maid she blushes here. O! what authority and show of truth Can cunning sin cover itself withal. Comes not that blood as modest evidence To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear, All you that see her, that she were a maid, By these exterior shows? But she is none: She knows the heat of a luxurious bed; Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty. LEONATO. What do you mean, my lord? CLAUDIO. Not to be married, Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton. LEONATO. Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof, Have vanquish’d the resistance of her youth, And made defeat of her virginity,— CLAUDIO. I know what you would say: if I have known her, You 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? CLAUDIO. Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it: You seem to me as Dian in her orb, As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown; But you are more intemperate in your blood Than Venus, or those pamper’d animals That rage in savage sensuality. HERO. Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide? LEONATO. Sweet Prince, why speak not you? DON PEDRO. What should I speak? I stand dishonour’d, that have gone about To link my dear friend to a common stale. LEONATO. Are these things spoken, or do I but dream? DON JOHN. Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true. BENEDICK. This looks not like a nuptial. HERO. True! O God! CLAUDIO. Leonato, stand I here? Is this the Prince? Is this the Prince’s brother? Is this face Hero’s? Are our eyes our own? LEONATO. All this is so; but what of this, my lord? CLAUDIO. Let me but move one question to your daughter, And by that fatherly and kindly power That you have in her, bid her answer truly. LEONATO. I charge thee do so, as thou art my child. HERO. O, God defend me! how am I beset! What kind of catechizing call you this? CLAUDIO. To make you answer truly to your name. HERO. Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name With any just reproach? CLAUDIO. Marry, that can Hero: Hero itself can blot out Hero’s virtue. 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. DON PEDRO. Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato, I am sorry you must hear: upon my honour, Myself, my brother, and this grieved Count, Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night, Talk with a ruffian at her chamber window; Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain, Confess’d the vile encounters they have had A thousand times in secret. DON JOHN. Fie, fie! they are not to be nam’d, my lord, Not to be spoke of; There is not chastity enough in language Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady, I am sorry for thy much misgovernment. CLAUDIO. O Hero! what a Hero hadst thou been, If half thy outward graces had been plac’d About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart! But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell, Thou pure impiety, and impious purity! For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love, And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang, To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm, And never shall it more be gracious. LEONATO. Hath no man’s dagger here a point for me? [Hero swoons.] BEATRICE. Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down? DON JOHN. Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light, Smother her spirits up. [Exeunt Don Pedro, Don John and Claudio.] BENEDICK. How doth the lady? BEATRICE. Dead, I think! Help, uncle! Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar! LEONATO. O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand: Death is the fairest cover for her shame That may be wish’d for. BEATRICE. How now, cousin Hero? FRIAR. Have comfort, lady. LEONATO. Dost thou look up? FRIAR. Yea; wherefore should she not? LEONATO. Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny The story that is printed in her blood? Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes; For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die, Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames, Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches, Strike at thy life. Griev’d I, I had but one? Chid I for that at frugal Nature’s frame? O! one too much by thee. Why had I one? Why ever wast thou lovely in 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 fallen Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea Hath drops too few to wash her clean again, And salt too little which may season give To her foul tainted flesh. BENEDICK. Sir, sir, be patient. For my part, I am so attir’d in wonder, I know not what to say. BEATRICE. O! on my soul, my cousin is belied! BENEDICK. Lady, were you her bedfellow last night? BEATRICE. No, truly, not; although, until last night, I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow. LEONATO. Confirm’d, confirm’d! O! that is stronger made, Which was before barr’d up with ribs of iron. Would the two princes lie? and Claudio lie, Who lov’d her so, that, speaking of her foulness, Wash’d it with tears? Hence from her! let her die. FRIAR. Hear me a little; For I have only been silent so long, And given way unto this course of fortune, By noting of the lady: I have mark’d A thousand blushing apparitions To start into her face; a thousand innocent shames In angel whiteness bear away those blushes; And in her eye there hath appear’d a fire, To burn the errors that these princes hold Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool; Trust not my reading nor my observations, Which with experimental seal doth warrant The tenure of my book; trust not my age, My reverence, calling, nor divinity, If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here Under some biting error. LEONATO. Friar, it cannot be. Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left Is that she will not add to her damnation A sin of perjury: she not denies it. Why seek’st thou then to cover with excuse That which appears in proper nakedness? FRIAR. Lady, what man is he you are accus’d of? HERO. They know that do accuse me, I know none; If I know more of any man alive Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant, Let all my sins lack mercy! O, my father! Prove you that any man with me convers’d At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight Maintain’d the change of words with any creature, Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death. FRIAR. There is some strange misprision in the princes. BENEDICK. Two of them have the very bent of honour; And if their wisdoms be misled in this, The practice of it lives in John the bastard, Whose spirits toil in frame of villainies. LEONATO. I know not. If they speak but truth of her, These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour, The proudest of them shall well hear of it. Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find, awak’d in such a kind, Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly. FRIAR. Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you in this case. Your daughter here the princes left for dead; Let her awhile be secretly kept in, And publish it that she is dead indeed: Maintain a mourning ostentation; And on your family’s old monument Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites That appertain unto a burial. LEONATO. What shall become of this? What will this do? FRIAR. Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf Change slander to remorse; that is some good. But not for that dream I on this strange course, But on this travail look for greater birth. She dying, as it must be so maintain’d, Upon the instant that she was accus’d, Shall be lamented, pitied and excus’d Of every hearer; for it so falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack’d and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio: When he shall hear she died upon his words, The idea of her life shall sweetly creep Into his study of imagination, And every lovely organ of her life Shall come apparell’d in more precious habit, More moving, delicate, and full of life Into the eye and prospect of his soul, Than when she liv’d indeed: then shall he mourn,— If ever love had interest in his liver,— And wish he had not so accused her, No, though he thought his accusation true. Let this be so, and doubt not but success Will fashion the event in better shape Than I can lay it down in likelihood. But if all aim but this be levell’d false, The supposition of the lady’s death Will quench the wonder of her infamy: And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,— As best befits her wounded reputation,— In some reclusive and religious life, Out of all eyes, tongues, minds, and injuries. BENEDICK. Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you: And though you know my inwardness and love Is very much unto the Prince and Claudio, Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this As secretly and justly as your soul Should with your body. LEONATO. Being that I flow in grief, The smallest twine may lead me. FRIAR. ’Tis well consented: presently away; For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure. Come, lady, die to live: this wedding day Perhaps is but prolong’d: have patience and endure. [Exeunt Friar, Hero and Leonato.] BENEDICK. Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while? BEATRICE. Yea, and I will weep a while longer. BENEDICK. I will not desire that. BEATRICE. You have no reason; I do it freely. BENEDICK. Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged. BEATRICE. Ah! how much might the man deserve of me that would right her. BENEDICK. Is there any way to show such friendship? BEATRICE. A very even way, but no such friend. BENEDICK. May a man do it? BEATRICE. It is a man’s office, but not yours. BENEDICK. I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not that strange? BEATRICE. As strange as the thing I know not. It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as you; but believe me not, and yet I lie not; I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin. BENEDICK. By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me. BEATRICE. Do not swear by it, and eat it. BENEDICK. I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make him eat it that says I love not you. BEATRICE. Will you not eat your word? BENEDICK. With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest I love thee. BEATRICE. Why then, God forgive me! BENEDICK. What offence, sweet Beatrice? BEATRICE. You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to protest I loved you. BENEDICK. And do it with all thy heart. BEATRICE. I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest. BENEDICK. Come, bid me do anything for thee. BEATRICE. Kill Claudio. BENEDICK. Ha! not for the wide world. BEATRICE. You kill me to deny it. Farewell. BENEDICK. Tarry, sweet Beatrice. BEATRICE. I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in you: nay, I pray you, let me go. BENEDICK. Beatrice,— BEATRICE. In faith, I will go. BENEDICK. We’ll be friends first. BEATRICE. You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy. BENEDICK. Is Claudio thine enemy? BEATRICE. Is he not approved in the height a villain, that hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O! that I were a man. What! bear her in hand until they come to take hands, and then, with public accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,—O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart in the market-place. BENEDICK. Hear me, Beatrice,— BEATRICE. Talk with a man out at a window! a proper saying! BENEDICK. Nay, but Beatrice,— BEATRICE. Sweet Hero! she is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone. BENEDICK. Beat— BEATRICE. Princes and Counties! Surely, a princely testimony, a goodly Count Comfect; a sweet gallant, surely! O! that I were a man for his sake, or that I had any friend would be a man for my sake! But manhood is melted into curtsies, valour into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules, that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving. BENEDICK. Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee. BEATRICE. Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it. BENEDICK. Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero? BEATRICE. Yea, as sure is I have a thought or a soul. BENEDICK. Enough! I am engaged, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin: I must say she is dead; and so, farewell. [Exeunt.] Scene II. A Prison. Enter Dogberry, Verges, and Sexton, in gowns; and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. DOGBERRY. Is our whole dissembly appeared? VERGES. O! a stool and a cushion for the sexton. SEXTON. Which be the malefactors? DOGBERRY. Marry, that am I and my partner. VERGES. Nay, that’s certain: we have the exhibition to examine. SEXTON. But which are the offenders that are to be examined? let them come before Master Constable. DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your name, friend? BORACHIO. Borachio. DOGBERRY. Pray write down Borachio. Yours, sirrah? CONRADE. I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade. DOGBERRY. Write down Master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do you serve God? BOTH. Yea, sir, we hope. DOGBERRY. Write down that they hope they serve God: and write God first; for God defend but God should go before such villains! Masters, it is proved already that you are little better than false knaves, and it will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer you for yourselves? CONRADE. Marry, sir, we say we are none. DOGBERRY. A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you; but I will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought you are false knaves. BORACHIO. Sir, I say to you we are none. DOGBERRY. Well, stand aside. Fore God, they are both in a tale. Have you writ down, that they are none? SEXTON. Master Constable, you go not the way to examine: you must call forth the watch that are their accusers. DOGBERRY. Yea, marry, that’s the eftest way. Let the watch come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the Prince’s name, accuse these men. FIRST WATCH. This man said, sir, that Don John, the Prince’s brother, was a villain. DOGBERRY. Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat perjury, to call a Prince’s brother villain. BORACHIO. Master Constable,— DOGBERRY. Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look, I promise thee. SEXTON. What heard you him say else? SECOND WATCH. Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully. DOGBERRY. Flat burglary as ever was committed. VERGES. Yea, by the mass, that it is. SEXTON. What else, fellow? FIRST WATCH. And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to disgrace Hero before the whole assembly, and not marry her. DOGBERRY. O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting redemption for this. SEXTON. What else? SECOND WATCH. This is all. SEXTON. And this is more, masters, than you can deny. Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away: Hero was in this manner accused, in this manner refused, and, upon the grief of this, suddenly died. Master Constable, let these men be bound, and brought to Leonato’s: I will go before and show him their examination. [Exit.] DOGBERRY. Come, let them be opinioned. VERGES. Let them be in the hands— CONRADE. Off, coxcomb! DOGBERRY. God’s my life! where’s the sexton? let him write down the Prince’s officer coxcomb. Come, bind them. Thou naughty varlet! CONRADE. Away! you are an ass; you are an ass. DOGBERRY. Dost thou not suspect my place? Dost thou not suspect my years? O that he were here to write me down an ass! but, masters, remember that I am an ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness. I am a wise fellow; and, which is more, an officer; and, which is more, a householder; and, which is more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any in Messina; and one that knows the law, go to; and a rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath had losses; and one that hath two gowns, and everything handsome about him. Bring him away. O that I had been writ down an ass! [Exeunt.] ACT V SCENE I. Before Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato and Antonio. ANTONIO. If you go on thus, you will kill yourself And ’tis not wisdom thus to second grief Against yourself. LEONATO. I pray thee, cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless As water in a sieve: give not me counsel; Nor let no comforter delight mine ear But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine: Bring me a father that so lov’d his child, Whose joy of her is overwhelm’d like mine, And bid him speak of patience; Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine, And let it answer every strain for strain, As thus for thus and such a grief for such, In every lineament, branch, shape, and form: If such a one will smile, and stroke his beard; Bid sorrow wag, cry ‘hem’ when he should groan, Patch grief with proverbs; make misfortune drunk With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me, And I of him will gather patience. But there is no such man; for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words. No, no; ’tis all men’s office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man’s virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement. ANTONIO. Therein do men from children nothing differ. LEONATO. I pray thee peace! I will be flesh and blood; For there was never yet philosopher That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods And made a push at chance and sufferance. ANTONIO. Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself; Make those that do offend you suffer too. LEONATO. There thou speak’st reason: nay, I will do so. My soul doth tell me Hero is belied; And that shall Claudio know; so shall the Prince, And all of them that thus dishonour her. ANTONIO. Here comes the Prince and Claudio hastily. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio. DON PEDRO. Good den, good den. CLAUDIO. Good day to both of you. LEONATO. Hear you, my lords,— DON PEDRO. We have some haste, Leonato. LEONATO. Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord: Are you so hasty now?—well, all is one. DON PEDRO. Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man. ANTONIO. If he could right himself with quarrelling, Some of us would lie low. CLAUDIO. Who wrongs him? LEONATO. Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou. Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword; I fear thee not. CLAUDIO. Marry, beshrew my hand, If it should give your age such cause of fear. In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword. LEONATO. Tush, tush, man! never fleer and jest at me: I speak not like a dotard nor a fool, As, under privilege of age, to brag What I have done being young, or what would do, Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head, Thou hast so wrong’d mine innocent child and me That I am forc’d to lay my reverence by, And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days, Do challenge thee to trial of a man. I say thou hast belied mine innocent child: Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart, And she lies buried with her ancestors; O! in a tomb where never scandal slept, Save this of hers, fram’d by thy villainy! CLAUDIO. My villainy? LEONATO. Thine, Claudio; thine, I say. DON PEDRO. You say not right, old man. LEONATO. My lord, my lord, I’ll prove it on his body, if he dare, Despite his nice fence and his active practice, His May of youth and bloom of lustihood. CLAUDIO. Away! I will not have to do with you. LEONATO. Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill’d my child; If thou kill’st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man. ANTONIO. He shall kill two of us, and men indeed: But that’s no matter; let him kill one first: Win me and wear me; let him answer me. Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me. Sir boy, I’ll whip you from your foining fence; Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will. LEONATO. Brother,— ANTONIO. Content yourself. God knows I lov’d my niece; And she is dead, slander’d to death by villains, That dare as well answer a man indeed As I dare take a serpent by the tongue. Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops! LEONATO. Brother Anthony,— ANTONIO. Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple, Scambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys, That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander, Go antickly, show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst; And this is all! LEONATO. But, brother Anthony,— ANTONIO. Come, ’tis no matter: Do not you meddle, let me deal in this. DON PEDRO. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience. My heart is sorry for your daughter’s death; But, on my honour, she was charg’d with nothing But what was true and very full of proof. LEONATO. My lord, my lord— DON PEDRO. I will not hear you. LEONATO. No? Come, brother, away. I will be heard.— ANTONIO. And shall, or some of us will smart for it. [Exeunt Leonato and Antonio.] Enter Benedick. DON PEDRO. See, see; here comes the man we went to seek. CLAUDIO. Now, signior, what news? BENEDICK. Good day, my lord. DON PEDRO. Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part almost a fray. CLAUDIO. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth. DON PEDRO. Leonato and his brother. What think’st thou? Had we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them. BENEDICK. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both. CLAUDIO. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away. Wilt thou use thy wit? BENEDICK. It is in my scabbard; shall I draw it? DON PEDRO. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? CLAUDIO. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us. DON PEDRO. As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou sick, or angry? CLAUDIO. What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care. BENEDICK. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject. CLAUDIO. Nay then, give him another staff: this last was broke cross. DON PEDRO. By this light, he changes more and more: I think he be angry indeed. CLAUDIO. If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle. BENEDICK. Shall I speak a word in your ear? CLAUDIO. God bless me from a challenge! BENEDICK. [Aside to Claudio.] You are a villain, I jest not: I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me hear from you. CLAUDIO. Well I will meet you, so I may have good cheer. DON PEDRO. What, a feast, a feast? CLAUDIO. I’ faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf’s-head and a capon, the which if I do not carve most curiously, say my knife’s naught. Shall I not find a woodcock too? BENEDICK. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily. DON PEDRO. I’ll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit. ‘True,’ says she, ‘a fine little one.’ ‘No,’ said I, ‘a great wit.’ ‘Right,’ said she, ‘a great gross one.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘a good wit.’ ‘Just,’ said she, ‘it hurts nobody.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘the gentleman is wise.’ ‘Certain,’ said she, ‘a wise gentleman.’ ‘Nay,’ said I, ‘he hath the tongues.’ ‘That I believe’ said she, ‘for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there’s a double tongue; there’s two tongues.’ Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. CLAUDIO. For the which she wept heartily and said she cared not. DON PEDRO. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly. The old man’s daughter told us all. CLAUDIO. All, all; and moreover, God saw him when he was hid in the garden. DON PEDRO. But when shall we set the savage bull’s horns on the sensible Benedick’s head? CLAUDIO. Yea, and text underneath, ‘Here dwells Benedick the married man!’ BENEDICK. Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour; you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which, God be thanked, hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company. Your brother the bastard is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord Lack-beard there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him. [Exit.] DON PEDRO. He is in earnest. CLAUDIO. In most profound earnest; and, I’ll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. DON PEDRO. And hath challenged thee? CLAUDIO. Most sincerely. DON PEDRO. What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit! CLAUDIO. He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a doctor to such a man. DON PEDRO. But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say my brother was fled? Enter Dogberry, Verges, and the Watch, with Conrade and Borachio. DOGBERRY. Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she shall ne’er weigh more reasons in her balance. Nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to. DON PEDRO. How now! two of my brother’s men bound! Borachio, one! CLAUDIO. Hearken after their offence, my lord. DON PEDRO. Officers, what offence have these men done? DOGBERRY. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things; and to conclude, they are lying knaves. DON PEDRO. First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I ask thee what’s their offence; sixth and lastly, why they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge? CLAUDIO. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there’s one meaning well suited. DON PEDRO. Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? This learned constable is too cunning to be understood. What’s your offence? BORACHIO. Sweet Prince, let me go no 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 disgraced her, when you should marry her. My villainy they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death than repeat over to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my master’s false accusation; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. DON PEDRO. Runs not this speech like iron through your blood? CLAUDIO. I have drunk poison whiles he utter’d it. DON PEDRO. But did my brother set thee on to this? BORACHIO. Yea; and paid me richly for the practice of it. DON PEDRO. He is compos’d and fram’d of treachery: And fled he is upon this villainy. CLAUDIO. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear In the rare semblance that I lov’d it first. DOGBERRY. Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter. And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I am an ass. VERGES. Here, here comes Master Signior Leonato, and the sexton too. Re-enter Leonato, Antonio and the Sexton. LEONATO. Which is the villain? Let me see his eyes, That, when I note another man like him, I may avoid him. Which of these is he? BORACHIO. If you would know your wronger, look on me. LEONATO. Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill’d Mine innocent child? BORACHIO. Yea, even I alone. LEONATO. No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself: Here stand a pair of honourable men; A third is fled, that had a hand in it. I thank you, princes, for my daughter’s death: Record it with your high and worthy deeds. ’Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it. CLAUDIO. I know not how to pray your patience; Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn’d I not But in mistaking. DON PEDRO. By my soul, nor I: And yet, to satisfy this good old man, I would bend under any heavy weight That he’ll enjoin me to. LEONATO. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live; That were impossible; but, I pray you both, Possess the people in Messina here How innocent she died; and if your love Can labour aught in sad invention, Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb, And sing it to her bones: sing it tonight. Tomorrow morning come you to my house, And since you could not be my son-in-law, Be yet my nephew. My brother hath a daughter, Almost the copy of my child that’s dead, And she alone is heir to both of us: Give her the right you should have given her cousin, And so dies my revenge. CLAUDIO. O noble sir, Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me! I do embrace your offer; and dispose For henceforth of poor Claudio. LEONATO. Tomorrow then I will expect your coming; Tonight I take my leave. This naughty man Shall face to face be brought to Margaret, Who, I believe, was pack’d in all this wrong, Hir’d to it by your brother. BORACHIO. No, by my soul she was not; Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me; But always hath been just and virtuous In anything that I do know by her. DOGBERRY. Moreover, sir,—which, indeed, is not under white and black,— this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say he wears a key in his ear and a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God’s name, the which he hath used so long and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing for God’s sake. Pray you, examine him upon that point. LEONATO. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains. DOGBERRY. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverent youth, and I praise God for you. LEONATO. There’s for thy pains. DOGBERRY. God save the foundation! LEONATO. Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee. DOGBERRY. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the example of others. God keep your worship! I wish your worship well; God restore you to health! I humbly give you leave to depart, and if a merry meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour. [Exeunt Dogberry and Verges.] LEONATO. Until tomorrow morning, lords, farewell. ANTONIO. Farewell, my lords: we look for you tomorrow. DON PEDRO. We will not fail. CLAUDIO. Tonight I’ll mourn with Hero. [Exeunt Don Pedro and Claudio.] LEONATO. [To the Watch.] Bring you these fellows on. We’ll talk with Margaret, How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow. [Exeunt.] SCENE II. Leonato’s Garden. Enter Benedick and Margaret, meeting. BENEDICK. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice. MARGARET. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty? BENEDICK. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservest it. MARGARET. To have no man come over me! why, shall I always keep below stairs? BENEDICK. Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound’s mouth; it catches. MARGARET. And yours as blunt as the fencer’s foils, which hit, but hurt not. BENEDICK. A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice. I give thee the bucklers. MARGARET. Give us the swords, we have bucklers of our own. BENEDICK. If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids. MARGARET. Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs. BENEDICK. And therefore will come. [Exit Margaret.] The god of love, That sits above, And knows me, and knows me, How pitiful I deserve,— I mean, in singing: but in loving, Leander the good swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I cannot show it in rime; I have tried: I can find out no rime to ‘lady’ but ‘baby’, an innocent rime; for ‘scorn,’ ‘horn’, a hard rime; for ‘school’, ‘fool’, a babbling rime; very ominous endings: no, I was not born under a riming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms. Enter Beatrice. Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE. Yea, signior; and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK. O, stay but till then! BEATRICE. ‘Then’ is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere I go, let me go with that I came for; which is, with knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio. BENEDICK. Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee. BEATRICE. Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed. BENEDICK. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge, and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me? BEATRICE. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me? BENEDICK. ‘Suffer love,’ a good epithet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will. BEATRICE. In spite of your heart, I think. Alas, poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates. BENEDICK. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. BEATRICE. It appears not in this confession: there’s not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself. BENEDICK. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours. If a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps. BEATRICE. And how long is that think you? BENEDICK. Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the wise,—if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,—to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praiseworthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin? BEATRICE. Very ill. BENEDICK. And how do you? BEATRICE. Very ill too. BENEDICK. Serve God, love me, and mend. There will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste. Enter Ursula. URSULA. Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder’s old coil at home: it is proved, my Lady Hero hath been falsely accused, the Prince and Claudio mightily abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is fled and gone. Will you come presently? BEATRICE. Will you go hear this news, signior? BENEDICK. I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with thee to thy uncle’s. [Exeunt.] SCENE III. The Inside of a Church. Enter Don Pedro, Claudio and Attendants, with music and tapers. CLAUDIO. Is this the monument of Leonato? A LORD. It is, my lord. CLAUDIO. [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, 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. CLAUDIO. Now, unto thy bones good night! Yearly will I do this rite. DON PEDRO. Good morrow, masters: put your torches out. The wolves have prey’d; and look, the gentle day, Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about Dapples the drowsy East with spots of grey. Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well. CLAUDIO. Good morrow, masters: each his several way. DON PEDRO. Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds; And then to Leonato’s we will go. CLAUDIO. And Hymen now with luckier issue speed’s, Than this for whom we rend’red up this woe! [Exeunt.] SCENE IV. A Room in Leonato’s House. Enter Leonato, Antonio, Benedick, Beatrice, Margaret, Ursula, Friar Francis and Hero. FRIAR. Did I not tell you she was innocent? LEONATO. So are the Prince and Claudio, who accus’d her Upon the error that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this, Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question. ANTONIO. Well, I am glad that all things sort so well. BENEDICK. And so am I, being else by faith enforc’d To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. LEONATO. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen all, Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves, And when I send for you, come hither mask’d: The Prince and Claudio promis’d by this hour To visit me. [Exeunt Ladies.] You know your office, brother; You must be father to your brother’s daughter, And give her to young Claudio. ANTONIO. Which I will do with confirm’d countenance. BENEDICK. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. FRIAR. To do what, signior? BENEDICK. To bind me, or undo me; one of them. Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. LEONATO. That eye my daughter lent her. ’Tis most true. BENEDICK. And I do with an eye of love requite her. LEONATO. The sight whereof I think, you had from me, From Claudio, and the Prince. But what’s your will? BENEDICK. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: But, for my will, my will is your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin’d In the state of honourable marriage: In which, good friar, I shall desire your help. LEONATO. My heart is with your liking. FRIAR. And my help. Here comes the Prince and Claudio. Enter Don Pedro and Claudio, with Attendants. DON PEDRO. Good morrow to this fair assembly. LEONATO. Good morrow, Prince; good morrow, Claudio: We here attend you. Are you yet determin’d Today to marry with my brother’s daughter? CLAUDIO. I’ll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope. LEONATO. Call her forth, brother: here’s the friar ready. [Exit Antonio.] DON PEDRO. Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what’s the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness? CLAUDIO. I think he thinks upon the savage bull. Tush! fear not, man, we’ll tip thy horns with gold, And all Europa shall rejoice at thee, As once Europa did at lusty Jove, When he would play the noble beast in love. BENEDICK. Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low: And some such strange bull leap’d your father’s cow, And got a calf in that same noble feat, Much like to you, for you have just his bleat. CLAUDIO. For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings. Re-enter Antonio, with the ladies masked. Which is the lady I must seize upon? ANTONIO. This same is she, and I do give you her. CLAUDIO. Why then, she’s mine. Sweet, let me see your face. LEONATO. No, that you shall not, till you take her hand Before this friar, and swear to marry her. CLAUDIO. Give me your hand: before this holy friar, I am your husband, if you like of me. HERO. And when I liv’d, I was your other wife: [Unmasking.] And when you lov’d, you were my other husband. CLAUDIO. Another Hero! HERO. Nothing certainer: One Hero died defil’d, but I do live, And surely as I live, I am a maid. DON PEDRO. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! LEONATO. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander liv’d. FRIAR. All this amazement can I qualify: When after that the holy rites are ended, I’ll tell you largely of fair Hero’s death: Meantime, let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently. BENEDICK. Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice? BEATRICE. [Unmasking.] I answer to that name. What is your will? BENEDICK. Do not you love me? BEATRICE. Why, no; no more than reason. BENEDICK. Why, then, your uncle and the Prince and Claudio Have been deceived; for they swore you did. BEATRICE. Do not you love me? BENEDICK. Troth, no; no more than reason. BEATRICE. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula, Are much deceiv’d; for they did swear you did. BENEDICK. They swore that you were almost sick for me. BEATRICE. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me. BENEDICK. ’Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me? BEATRICE. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. LEONATO. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman. CLAUDIO. And I’ll be sworn upon ’t that he loves her; For here’s a paper written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion’d to Beatrice. HERO. And here’s another, Writ in my cousin’s hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick. BENEDICK. A miracle! here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity. BEATRICE. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. BENEDICK. Peace! I will stop your mouth. [Kisses her.] DON PEDRO. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man? BENEDICK. I’ll tell thee what, Prince; a college of witcrackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram? No; if man will be beaten with brains, a’ shall wear nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it, for man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but, in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin. CLAUDIO. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee. BENEDICK. Come, come, we are friends. Let’s have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts and our wives’ heels. LEONATO. We’ll have dancing afterward. BENEDICK. First, of my word; therefore play, music! Prince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife: there is no staff more reverent than one tipped with horn. Enter Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, your brother John is ta’en in flight, And brought with armed men back to Messina. BENEDICK. Think not on him till tomorrow: I’ll devise thee brave punishments for him. Strike up, pipers! [Dance. Exeunt.] THE TRAGEDY OF OTHELLO, THE MOOR OF VENICE Contents ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street Scene II. Venice. Another street Scene III. Venice. A council chamber ACT II Scene I. A seaport in Cyprus. A Platform Scene II. A street Scene III. A Hall in the Castle ACT III Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. The Garden of the Castle Scene IV. Cyprus. Before the Castle ACT IV Scene I. Cyprus. Before the Castle Scene II. Cyprus. A Room in the Castle Scene III. Cyprus. Another Room in the Castle ACT V Scene I. Cyprus. A Street Scene II. Cyprus. A Bedchamber in the castle Dramatis Personæ DUKE OF VENICE BRABANTIO, a Senator of Venice and Desdemona’s father Other Senators GRATIANO, Brother to Brabantio LODOVICO, Kinsman to Brabantio OTHELLO, a noble Moor in the service of Venice CASSIO, his Lieutenant IAGO, his Ancient MONTANO, Othello’s predecessor in the government of Cyprus RODERIGO, a Venetian Gentleman CLOWN, Servant to Othello DESDEMONA, Daughter to Brabantio and Wife to Othello EMILIA, Wife to Iago BIANCA, Mistress to Cassio Officers, Gentlemen, Messenger, Musicians, Herald, Sailor, Attendants, &c. SCENE: The First Act in Venice; during the rest of the Play at a Seaport in 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 bombast 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 affin’d 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 lin’d 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! 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 locked? 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 charg’d 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 cover’d 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 art 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 from above._] IAGO. Farewell; for I must leave you: It seems not meet nor wholesome to my place To be produc’d, 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 stand 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 Brabantio with Servants and torches. BRABANTIO. It is too true an evil. Gone she is, And what’s to come of my despised time, Is naught 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 will deserve your pains. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Venice. 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 contriv’d murder; 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 honour, That with the little godliness I have, I did full hard forbear him. But I pray you, sir, Are you fast married? Be assur’d of this, That the magnifico is much belov’d 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 honour, 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 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, rais’d 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 carrack: If it prove lawful prize, he’s made forever. CASSIO. I do not understand. IAGO. He’s married. CASSIO. To who? Enter Othello. IAGO. Marry to—Come, captain, will you go? OTHELLO. Have with you. CASSIO. Here comes another troop to seek for you. Enter Brabantio, Roderigo and Officers with torches and weapons. IAGO. It is Brabantio. General, be advis’d, He comes to bad intent. 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 practis’d on her with foul charms, Abus’d her delicate youth with drugs or minerals That weakens 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 practiser 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? 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. Venice. 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! 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 unskilful 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. 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 rais’d 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! DUKE and SENATORS. 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 beguil’d 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 approv’d 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 bless’d with the soft phrase of peace; For since these arms of mine had seven years’ pith, Till now some nine moons wasted, they have us’d 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 conjur’d to this effect, He wrought upon her. DUKE. To vouch this is no proof; Without more wider 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 lov’d 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’ th’ imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence, And portance in my traveler’s 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’d 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 lov’d her, I should but teach him how to tell my story, And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake: She lov’d me for the dangers I had pass’d, And I lov’d her that she did pity them. This only is the witchcraft I have us’d. 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 favour. 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 bruis’d 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 This 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 T’ 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 honours 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 voice. 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 offic’d 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 it. FIRST SENATOR. You must away tonight. 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 deceiv’d her father, and may thee. [_Exeunt Duke, Senators, Officers, &c._] 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 sayst 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 favour 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 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, fram’d 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. A Platform. 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-shak’d surge, with high and monstrous main, 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 Veronessa; 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 serv’d him, and the man commands Like a full soldier. Let’s to the sea-side, 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 defence against the elements, For I have lost him on a dangerous sea. MONTANO. Is he well shipp’d? CASSIO. His bark is stoutly timber’d, and his pilot Of very expert and approv’d allowance; Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death, Stand in bold cure. [_Within._] A sail, a sail, a sail! Enter a Messenger. CASSIO. What noise? MESSENGER. 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. [_A shot._] 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 arriv’d. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I shall. [_Exit._] MONTANO. But, good lieutenant, is your general wiv’d? CASSIO. Most fortunately: he hath achiev’d 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. Enter second Gentleman. How now? Who has put in? SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis one Iago, ancient to the general. CASSIO. He has had most favourable 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, Iago, Roderigo, and Emilia. O, behold, The riches of the ship is come on shore! Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees. Hail 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? [_Within._] A sail, a sail! CASSIO. The great contention of the sea and skies Parted our fellowship. But, hark! a sail. [_Guns within._] 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. [_Kissing her._] IAGO. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips As of her tongue she oft bestows on me, You would 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 parlours, wild-cats 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 harbour? 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 labours, 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 prais’d! 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 counsellor? 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! [_Trumpets 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 labouring 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 [_They kiss._] That e’er our hearts shall make! IAGO. [_Aside._] O, you are well tun’d 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 desir’d 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 Othello, Desdemona and Attendants._] IAGO. Do thou meet me presently at the harbour. 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 favour, 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 compassing 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 is full of most blessed condition. IAGO. Blest fig’s end! the wine she drinks is made of grapes: if she had been blessed, she would never have loved the Moor. Blessed 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 embrac’d 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 favourably minister. RODERIGO. Well. IAGO. Sir, he is rash, and very sudden in choler, and haply with his truncheon 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 trash 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 night-cap 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 confus’d. Knavery’s plain face is never seen till us’d. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A street. Enter Othello’s Herald with a proclamation. 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 addition 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! [_Exit._] 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 honourable 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. [_To Desdemona._] 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’ th’ 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 is 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 alarm to love? CASSIO. She is indeed perfection. IAGO. Well, happiness to their sheets! Come, lieutenant, I have a stoup 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 offence As my young mistress’ dog. Now my sick fool Roderigo, Whom love hath turn’d almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight carous’d Potations pottle-deep; and he’s to watch: Three lads of Cyprus, noble swelling spirits, That hold their honours 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. Enter Cassio, Montano and Gentlemen; followed by Servant 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 cannikin clink, clink, And let me the cannikin clink, 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 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. ’Fore God, 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 offence 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. 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 Cæsar And give direction: and do but see his vice, ’Tis to his virtue a just equinox, The one as long as th’ 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? [_Cry within_: “Help! help!”] Enter Cassio, driving in Roderigo. CASSIO. Zounds, you rogue, you rascal! MONTANO. What’s the matter, lieutenant? CASSIO. A knave teach me my duty! I’ll beat the knave into a twiggen bottle. RODERIGO. Beat me? CASSIO. Dost thou prate, rogue? [_Striking 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 mazard. 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 which rings the bell?—Diablo, ho! The town will rise. God’s will, lieutenant, hold, You will be sham’d forever. Enter Othello and Attendants. OTHELLO. What is the matter here? MONTANO. Zounds, I bleed still, I am hurt to the death. 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 looks 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. Zounds, if I 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 approv’d in this offence, 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 affin’d, or leagu’d 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 offence 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 determin’d 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 clamour (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, receiv’d 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. Enter Desdemona, attended. Look, if my gentle love be not rais’d 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. [_Montano is led off._] 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 wak’d 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 offenceless 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 unbless’d, 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 a 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 fram’d 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 cudgelled; 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. Cyprus. 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, mine 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 favour 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 a-bed, 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. Cyprus. 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. Cyprus. 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 assur’d 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 circumstance, 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. EMILIA. Madam, here comes my lord. CASSIO. Madam, I’ll take my leave. DESDEMONA. Why, 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 Desdemon, 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 examples 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 a-wooing 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. [_Exit with 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 lik’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 giv’st 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 mak’st 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 of my jealousy Shapes faults that are not,—that your wisdom 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-ey’d 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’d 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 resolv’d: 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 abus’d. 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 undone, but keep 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 seal 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 for ever. IAGO. I see this hath a little dash’d your spirits. OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot. IAGO. Trust me, I fear it has. I hope you will consider what is spoke Comes from my love. But I do see you’re mov’d. 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’d not. Cassio’s my worthy friend. My lord, I see you’re mov’d. OTHELLO. No, not much mov’d. 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 honour 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 honour. 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’d 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 declin’d Into the vale of years,—yet that’s not much— She’s gone, I am abus’d, 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 vapour of a dungeon, Than keep a corner in the thing I love For others’ uses. Yet, ’tis the plague of great ones, Prerogativ’d 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. If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself! I’ll not believe’t. Enter Desdemona and Emilia. 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 conjur’d 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. 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’s that to you? EMILIA. If it 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. Enter Othello. Look, where he comes. Not poppy, nor mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep Which thou ow’dst 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 abus’d 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, for ever Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops 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 clamours 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 wak’d 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 amaz’d; 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 liv’st 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 offence. 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 begrim’d and black As mine own face. If there be cords or knives, Poison or fire, or suffocating streams, I’ll not endure ’t. 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, Iago, 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, 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 for ever. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Cyprus. 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 humours from him. EMILIA. Look, where he comes. Enter Othello. DESDEMONA. I will not leave him now till Cassio Be call’d to him. 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 hath 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 is 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 Conserv’d 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 of the way? DESDEMONA. Heaven bless us! OTHELLO. Say you? DESDEMONA. It is not lost, but what and if it were? OTHELLO. How? DESDEMONA. I say it is not lost. OTHELLO. Fetch’t, let me see ’t. 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 receiv’d 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, Shar’d 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. Enter Cassio and Iago. Look you, Cassio and my husband. 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 honour. I would not be delay’d. If my offence be of such mortal kind That nor my service past, nor present sorrows, Nor purpos’d 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 forc’d 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 favour as in humour 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, [_Giving 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, in good troth, Bianca. BIANCA. Why, whose is it? CASSIO. I know not neither. I found it in my chamber. I like the work well. Ere it be demanded, As like enough it will, I’d 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 circumstanc’d. [_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 unauthoriz’d 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 honour too. May she give that? IAGO. Her honour 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 assur’d, 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! that’s fulsome. Handkerchief—confessions—handkerchief! To confess, and be hanged for his labour. 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 shake 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 fallen 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 yok’d 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 promis’d. 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 withdraws._] 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 beguil’d by one.) He, when he hears of her, cannot refrain From the excess of laughter. Here he comes. Enter Cassio. As he shall smile Othello shall go mad, And his unbookish jealousy must construe Poor Cassio’s smiles, gestures, and light behaviour 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. [_Speaking lower._] Now, if this suit lay in Bianca’s power, How quickly should you speed! CASSIO. Alas, poor caitiff! OTHELLO. [_Aside._] 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. [_Aside._] 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 wins. 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 falls 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. Enter Bianca. CASSIO. ’Tis such another fitchew! Marry, a perfum’d one. 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 hobby-horse. 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. If you’ll come to supper tonight, you may. If you will not, come when you are next prepared for. [_Exit._] IAGO. After her, after her. CASSIO. Faith, I must; she’ll rail in 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. [_Coming forward._] How shall I murder 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 a-killing. 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? Enter Lodovico, Desdemona and Attendant. IAGO. Something from Venice, sure. ’Tis Lodovico Come from the duke. See, your wife is with him. LODOVICO. Save you, worthy general! OTHELLO. With all my heart, sir. LODOVICO. The duke and senators of Venice greet you. [_Gives him a packet._] OTHELLO. I kiss the instrument of their pleasures. [_Opens the packet 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 breach, 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 mov’d him; For, as I think, they do command him home, Deputing Cassio in his government. DESDEMONA. Trust me, I am glad on’t. OTHELLO. Indeed! DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. I am glad to see you mad. DESDEMONA. Why, sweet Othello? OTHELLO. Devil! [_Striking her._] DESDEMONA. I have not deserv’d this. LODOVICO. My lord, this would not be believ’d 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. I will not stay to offend you. [_Going._] 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? Is 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 chang’d. 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 deceiv’d in him. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Cyprus. 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 and 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 pleas’d 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 sav’d. 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.—You, mistress, Enter Emilia. That have the office opposite to Saint Peter, And keeps the gate of hell. 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 us’d so, very meet. How have I been behav’d, that he might stick The small’st opinion on my least misuse? Enter Iago and Emilia. 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 bewhor’d 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 devis’d 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’dst 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. Alas, 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 does 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 humour. The business of the state does him offence, 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 naught 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. Nay, 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, I 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 valour,—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 honourable fortune. If you will watch his going thence, which I 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. Cyprus. 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 honour is most welcome. OTHELLO. Will you walk, sir?— O, Desdemona,— DESDEMONA. My lord? OTHELLO. Get you to bed on th’ instant, I will be return’d forthwith. Dismiss your attendant there. Look ’t 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 favour 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 lov’d prov’d 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 night-gown? 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. [_Singing._] _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 by 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 mo women, you’ll couch with mo 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 labour, ’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 usage 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 to a little distance._] 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. [_Goes to his stand._] 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. But so, I hear him coming. Enter Cassio. RODERIGO. I know his gait; ’tis he. Villain, thou diest! [_Rushes out, and 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 rushes from his post, cuts Cassio behind in the leg, and exit._] CASSIO. I am maim’d forever. Help, ho! murder, murder! [_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 unbless’d 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? murder, murder! 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. Enter Iago with a light. LODOVICO. Hark! GRATIANO. Here’s one comes in his shirt, with light and weapons. IAGO. Who’s there? Whose noise is this that cries on murder? 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 murderous 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! murder! murder! 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 labour. 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 ’scap’d. 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 afore? [_Aside._] This is the night That either makes me or fordoes me quite. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Cyprus. 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 thy rose, I cannot give it vital growth again, It must needs wither. I’ll smell it on the tree. [_Kissing 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 Unreconcil’d as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight. DESDEMONA. Alack, 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 gav’st 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’rt on thy death-bed. 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 lov’d 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 perjur’d woman, thou dost stone my heart, And mak’st me call what I intend to do A murder, 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 us’d 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. [_Smothers 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 high.—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 murders 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 murder’s out of tune, And sweet revenge grows harsh. DESDEMONA. O, falsely, falsely murder’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! [_She dies._] OTHELLO. Why, how should she be murder’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’d 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 iterance, 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! Murder, murder! Enter Montano, Gratiano and Iago. MONTANO. What is the matter? How now, general? EMILIA. O, are you come, Iago? You have done well, That men must lay their murders 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 murder’d in her bed. ALL. O heavens forfend! EMILIA. And your reports have set the murder on. OTHELLO. Nay, stare not, masters, it is true indeed. GRATIANO. ’Tis a strange truth. MONTANO. O monstrous act! EMILIA. Villany, villany, villany! I think upon’t, I think I smell’t; O villany! I thought so then. I’ll kill myself for grief. O villany, villany! 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! [_Hanging over his wife._] EMILIA. Nay, lay thee down and roar; For thou hast kill’d the sweetest innocent That e’er did lift up eye. OTHELLO. [_Rising._] 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 Desdemona! 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 reprobance. 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. Come, hold your peace. EMILIA. ’Twill out, ’twill out. 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 his wife._] 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. Villanous 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 murderous 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! [_Iago stabs Emilia and then runs out._] GRATIANO. The woman falls. Sure, he hath kill’d his wife. EMILIA. Ay, ay. O, lay me by my mistress’ side. 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. [_Exit Montano and Gratiano._] OTHELLO. I am not valiant neither, But every puny whipster gets my sword. But why should honour 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 lov’d thee, cruel Moor, So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die. [_She 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. 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! Oh, oh! 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’d 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 honourable murderer, if you will. For naught did I in hate, but all in honour. LODOVICO. This wretch hath part confess’d his villany. 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 ensnar’d 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 Judean, threw a pearl away Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdu’d 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 traduc’d 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. [_Falling upon Desdemona._] 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._] PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE Contents ACT I Chorus. Before the palace of Antioch Scene I. Antioch. A room in the palace Scene II. Tyre. A room in the palace Scene III. Tyre. An ante-chamber in the Palace Scene IV. Tarsus. A room in the Governor’s house ACT II Chorus. Chorus Scene I. Pentapolis. An open place by the seaside Scene II. The same. A public way, or platform leading to the lists Scene III. The same. A hall of state: a banquet prepared Scene IV. Tyre. A room in the Governor’s house Scene V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace ACT III Chorus. Chorus Scene I. On shipboard Scene II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house Scene IV. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house ACT IV Chorus. Chorus Scene I. Tarsus. An open place near the seashore Scene II. Mytilene. A room in a brothel Scene III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house Scene IV. Before the monument of Marina at Tarsus Scene V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel Scene VI. The same. A room in the brothel ACT V Chorus. Chorus Scene I. On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene Scene II. Before the temple of Diana at Ephesus Scene III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus Dramatis Personæ ANTIOCHUS, king of Antioch. PERICLES, prince of Tyre. HELICANUS, ESCANES, two lords of Tyre. SIMONIDES, king of Pentapolis. CLEON, governor of Tarsus. LYSIMACHUS, governor of Mytilene. CERIMON, a lord of Ephesus. THALIARD, a lord of Antioch. PHILEMON, servant to Cerimon. LEONINE, servant to Dionyza. Marshal. A Pandar. BOULT, his servant. The Daughter of Antiochus. DIONYZA, wife to Cleon. THAISA, daughter to Simonides. MARINA, daughter to Pericles and Thaisa. LYCHORIDA, nurse to Marina. A Bawd. Lords, Knights, Gentlemen, Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers. DIANA. GOWER, as Chorus. SCENE: Dispersedly in various countries. ACT I Enter Gower. Before the palace of Antioch. To sing a song that old was sung, From ashes ancient Gower is come; Assuming man’s infirmities, To glad your ear, and please your eyes. It hath been sung at festivals, On ember-eves and holy-ales; And lords and ladies in their lives Have read it for restoratives: The purchase is to make men glorious, _Et bonum quo antiquius eo melius._ If you, born in these latter times, When wit’s more ripe, accept my rhymes, And that to hear an old man sing May to your wishes pleasure bring, I life would wish, and that I might Waste it for you, like taper-light. This Antioch, then, Antiochus the Great Built up, this city, for his chiefest seat; The fairest in all Syria. I tell you what mine authors say: This king unto him took a fere, Who died and left a female heir, So buxom, blithe, and full of face, As heaven had lent her all his grace; With whom the father liking took, And her to incest did provoke. Bad child; worse father! to entice his own To evil should be done by none: But custom what they did begin Was with long use account’d no sin. The beauty of this sinful dame Made many princes thither frame, To seek her as a bedfellow, In marriage pleasures playfellow: Which to prevent he made a law, To keep her still, and men in awe, That whoso ask’d her for his wife, His riddle told not, lost his life: So for her many a wight did die, As yon grim looks do testify. What now ensues, to the judgement your eye I give, my cause who best can justify. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Antioch. A room in the palace. Enter Antiochus, Prince Pericles and followers. ANTIOCHUS. Young prince of Tyre, you have at large received The danger of the task you undertake. PERICLES. I have, Antiochus, and, with a soul Emboldened with the glory of her praise, Think death no hazard in this enterprise. ANTIOCHUS. Music! Bring in our daughter, clothed like a bride, For the embracements even of Jove himself; At whose conception, till Lucina reigned, Nature this dowry gave, to glad her presence, The senate house of planets all did sit, To knit in her their best perfections. Music. Enter the Daughter of Antiochus. PERICLES. See where she comes, apparell’d like the spring, Graces her subjects, and her thoughts the king Of every virtue gives renown to men! Her face the book of praises, where is read Nothing but curious pleasures, as from thence Sorrow were ever razed, and testy wrath Could never be her mild companion. You gods that made me man, and sway in love, That have inflamed desire in my breast To taste the fruit of yon celestial tree, Or die in the adventure, be my helps, As I am son and servant to your will, To compass such a boundless happiness! ANTIOCHUS. Prince Pericles,— PERICLES. That would be son to great Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. Before thee stands this fair Hesperides, With golden fruit, but dangerous to be touch’d; For death-like dragons here affright thee hard: Her face, like heaven, enticeth thee to view Her countless glory, which desert must gain; And which, without desert, because thine eye Presumes to reach, all the whole heap must die. Yon sometimes famous princes, like thyself, Drawn by report, adventurous by desire, Tell thee, with speechless tongues and semblance pale, That without covering, save yon field of stars, Here they stand Martyrs, slain in Cupid’s wars; And with dead cheeks advise thee to desist For going on death’s net, whom none resist. PERICLES. Antiochus, I thank thee, who hath taught My frail mortality to know itself, And by those fearful objects to prepare This body, like to them, to what I must; For death remember’d should be like a mirror, Who tells us life’s but breath, to trust it error. I’ll make my will then, and, as sick men do Who know the world, see heaven, but, feeling woe, Gripe not at earthly joys as erst they did; So I bequeath a happy peace to you And all good men, as every prince should do; My riches to the earth from whence they came; [_To the daughter of Antiochus._] But my unspotted fire of love to you. Thus ready for the way of life or death, I wait the sharpest blow, Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. Scorning advice, read the conclusion, then: Which read and not expounded, ’tis decreed, As these before thee thou thyself shalt bleed. DAUGHTER. Of all ’ssayed yet, mayst thou prove prosperous! Of all ’ssayed yet, I wish thee happiness! PERICLES Like a bold champion, I assume the lists, Nor ask advice of any other thought But faithfulness and courage. [_He reads the riddle._] _I am no viper, yet I feed On mother’s flesh which did me breed. I sought a husband, in which labour I found that kindness in a father: He’s father, son, and husband mild; I mother, wife, and yet his child. How they may be, and yet in two, As you will live resolve it you._ Sharp physic is the last: but, O you powers That give heaven countless eyes to view men’s acts, Why cloud they not their sights perpetually, If this be true, which makes me pale to read it? Fair glass of light, I loved you, and could still, [_Takes hold of the hand of the Princess._] Were not this glorious casket stored with ill: But I must tell you, now my thoughts revolt; For he’s no man on whom perfections wait That, knowing sin within, will touch the gate, You are a fair viol, and your sense the strings; Who, finger’d to make man his lawful music, Would draw heaven down, and all the gods to hearken; But being play’d upon before your time, Hell only danceth at so harsh a chime. Good sooth, I care not for you. ANTIOCHUS. Prince Pericles, touch not, upon thy life, For that’s an article within our law, As dangerous as the rest. Your time’s expired: Either expound now, or receive your sentence. PERICLES. Great king, Few love to hear the sins they love to act; ’Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it. Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He’s more secure to keep it shut than shown: For vice repeated is like the wandering wind, Blows dust in others’ eyes, to spread itself; And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear. To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts Copp’d hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng’d By man’s oppression; and the poor worm doth die for’t. Kind are earth’s gods; in vice their law’s their will; And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill? It is enough you know; and it is fit, What being more known grows worse, to smother it. All love the womb that their first bred, Then give my tongue like leave to love my head. ANTIOCHUS. [_Aside_] Heaven, that I had thy head! He has found the meaning: But I will gloze with him.—Young prince of Tyre. Though by the tenour of our strict edict, Your exposition misinterpreting, We might proceed to cancel of your days; Yet hope, succeeding from so fair a tree As your fair self, doth tune us otherwise: Forty days longer we do respite you; If by which time our secret be undone, This mercy shows we’ll joy in such a son: And until then your entertain shall be As doth befit our honour and your worth. [_Exeunt all but Pericles._] PERICLES. How courtesy would seem to cover sin, When what is done is like an hypocrite, The which is good in nothing but in sight! If it be true that I interpret false, Then were it certain you were not so bad As with foul incest to abuse your soul; Where now you’re both a father and a son, By your untimely claspings with your child, Which pleasures fits a husband, not a father; And she an eater of her mother’s flesh, By the defiling of her parent’s bed; And both like serpents are, who though they feed On sweetest flowers, yet they poison breed. Antioch, farewell! for wisdom sees, those men Blush not in actions blacker than the night, Will ’schew no course to keep them from the light. One sin, I know, another doth provoke; Murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke: Poison and treason are the hands of sin, Ay, and the targets, to put off the shame: Then, lest my life be cropp’d to keep you clear, By flight I’ll shun the danger which I fear. [_Exit._] Re-enter Antiochus. ANTIOCHUS. He hath found the meaning, For which we mean to have his head. He must not live to trumpet forth my infamy, Nor tell the world Antiochus doth sin In such a loathed manner; And therefore instantly this prince must die; For by his fall my honour must keep high. Who attends us there? Enter Thaliard. THALIARD. Doth your highness call? ANTIOCHUS. Thaliard, you are of our chamber, And our mind partakes her private actions To your secrecy; and for your faithfulness We will advance you. Thaliard, Behold, here’s poison, and here’s gold; We hate the prince of Tyre, and thou must kill him: It fits thee not to ask the reason why, Because we bid it. Say, is it done? THALIARD. My lord, ’tis done. ANTIOCHUS. Enough. Enter a Messenger. Let your breath cool yourself, telling your haste. MESSENGER. My lord, Prince Pericles is fled. [_Exit._] ANTIOCHUS. As thou wilt live, fly after: and like an arrow shot From a well-experienced archer hits the mark His eye doth level at, so thou ne’er return Unless thou say ‘Prince Pericles is dead.’ THALIARD. My lord, if I can get him within my pistol’s length, I’ll make him sure enough: so, farewell to your highness. ANTIOCHUS. Thaliard! adieu! [_Exit Thaliard._] Till Pericles be dead, My heart can lend no succour to my head. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Tyre. A room in the palace. Enter Pericles with his Lords. PERICLES. [_To Lords without._] Let none disturb us.—Why should this change of thoughts, The sad companion, dull-eyed melancholy, Be my so used a guest as not an hour In the day’s glorious walk or peaceful night, The tomb where grief should sleep, can breed me quiet? Here pleasures court mine eyes, and mine eyes shun them, And danger, which I fear’d, is at Antioch, Whose arm seems far too short to hit me here: Yet neither pleasure’s art can joy my spirits, Nor yet the other’s distance comfort me. Then it is thus: the passions of the mind, That have their first conception by misdread, Have after-nourishment and life by care; And what was first but fear what might be done, Grows elder now and cares it be not done. And so with me: the great Antiochus, ’Gainst whom I am too little to contend, Since he’s so great can make his will his act, Will think me speaking, though I swear to silence; Nor boots it me to say I honour him. If he suspect I may dishonour him: And what may make him blush in being known, He’ll stop the course by which it might be known; With hostile forces he’ll o’erspread the land, And with the ostent of war will look so huge, Amazement shall drive courage from the state; Our men be vanquish’d ere they do resist, And subjects punish’d that ne’er thought offence: Which care of them, not pity of myself, Who am no more but as the tops of trees, Which fence the roots they grow by and defend them, Makes both my body pine and soul to languish, And punish that before that he would punish. Enter Helicanus with other Lords. FIRST LORD. Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast! SECOND LORD. And keep your mind, till you return to us, Peaceful and comfortable! HELICANUS. Peace, peace, and give experience tongue. They do abuse the king that flatter him: For flattery is the bellows blows up sin; The thing the which is flatter’d, but a spark, To which that spark gives heat and stronger glowing: Whereas reproof, obedient and in order, Fits kings, as they are men, for they may err. When Signior Sooth here does proclaim peace, He flatters you, makes war upon your life. Prince, pardon me, or strike me, if you please; I cannot be much lower than my knees. PERICLES. All leave us else, but let your cares o’erlook What shipping and what lading’s in our haven, And then return to us. [_Exeunt Lords._] Helicanus, thou Hast moved us: what seest thou in our looks? HELICANUS. An angry brow, dread lord. PERICLES. If there be such a dart in princes’ frowns, How durst thy tongue move anger to our face? HELICANUS. How dares the plants look up to heaven, from whence They have their nourishment? PERICLES. Thou know’st I have power To take thy life from thee. HELICANUS. [_Kneeling._] I have ground the axe myself; Do but you strike the blow. PERICLES. Rise, prithee, rise. Sit down: thou art no flatterer: I thank thee for it; and heaven forbid That kings should let their ears hear their faults hid! Fit counsellor and servant for a prince, Who by thy wisdom makest a prince thy servant, What wouldst thou have me do? HELICANUS. To bear with patience Such griefs as you yourself do lay upon yourself. PERICLES. Thou speak’st like a physician, Helicanus, That ministers a potion unto me That thou wouldst tremble to receive thyself. Attend me, then: I went to Antioch, Where, as thou know’st, against the face of death, I sought the purchase of a glorious beauty, From whence an issue I might propagate, Are arms to princes, and bring joys to subjects. Her face was to mine eye beyond all wonder; The rest—hark in thine ear—as black as incest, Which by my knowledge found, the sinful father Seem’d not to strike, but smooth: but thou know’st this, ’Tis time to fear when tyrants seems to kiss. Which fear so grew in me I hither fled, Under the covering of a careful night, Who seem’d my good protector; and, being here, Bethought me what was past, what might succeed. I knew him tyrannous; and tyrants’ fears Decrease not, but grow faster than the years: And should he doubt, as no doubt he doth, That I should open to the listening air How many worthy princes’ bloods were shed, To keep his bed of blackness unlaid ope, To lop that doubt, he’ll fill this land with arms, And make pretence of wrong that I have done him; When all, for mine, if I may call offence, Must feel war’s blow, who spares not innocence: Which love to all, of which thyself art one, Who now reprovest me for it,— HELICANUS. Alas, sir! PERICLES. Drew sleep out of mine eyes, blood from my cheeks, Musings into my mind, with thousand doubts How I might stop this tempest ere it came; And finding little comfort to relieve them, I thought it princely charity to grieve them. HELICANUS. Well, my lord, since you have given me leave to speak, Freely will I speak. Antiochus you fear, And justly too, I think, you fear the tyrant, Who either by public war or private treason Will take away your life. Therefore, my lord, go travel for a while, Till that his rage and anger be forgot, Or till the Destinies do cut his thread of life. Your rule direct to any; if to me, Day serves not light more faithful than I’ll be. PERICLES. I do not doubt thy faith; But should he wrong my liberties in my absence? HELCANUS. We’ll mingle our bloods together in the earth, From whence we had our being and our birth. PERICLES. Tyre, I now look from thee then, and to Tarsus Intend my travel, where I’ll hear from thee; And by whose letters I’ll dispose myself. The care I had and have of subjects’ good On thee I lay, whose wisdom’s strength can bear it. I’ll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath: Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both: But in our orbs we’ll live so round and safe, That time of both this truth shall ne’er convince, Thou show’dst a subject’s shine, I a true prince. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Tyre. An ante-chamber in the Palace. Enter Thaliard. THALIARD. So, this is Tyre, and this the court. Here must I kill King Pericles; and if I do it not, I am sure to be hanged at home: ’tis dangerous. Well, I perceive he was a wise fellow, and had good discretion, that, being bid to ask what he would of the king, desired he might know none of his secrets: now do I see he had some reason for’t; for if a king bid a man be a villain, he’s bound by the indenture of his oath to be one. Husht, here come the lords of Tyre. Enter Helicanus and Escanes with other Lords of Tyre. HELICANUS. You shall not need, my fellow peers of Tyre, Further to question me of your king’s departure: His seal’d commission, left in trust with me, Doth speak sufficiently he’s gone to travel. THALIARD. [_Aside._] How? the king gone? HELICANUS. If further yet you will be satisfied, Why, as it were unlicensed of your loves, He would depart, I’ll give some light unto you. Being at Antioch— THALIARD. [_Aside._] What from Antioch? HELICANUS. Royal Antiochus—on what cause I know not Took some displeasure at him; at least he judged so: And doubting lest that he had err’d or sinn’d, To show his sorrow, he’d correct himself; So puts himself unto the shipman’s toil, With whom each minute threatens life or death. THALIARD. [_Aside._] Well, I perceive I shall not be hang’d now, although I would; But since he’s gone, the king’s seas must please He ’scaped the land, to perish at the sea. I’ll present myself. Peace to the lords of Tyre! HELICANUS. Lord Thaliard from Antiochus is welcome. THALIARD. From him I come With message unto princely Pericles; But since my landing I have understood Your lord has betook himself to unknown travels, My message must return from whence it came. HELICANUS. We have no reason to desire it, Commended to our master, not to us: Yet, ere you shall depart, this we desire, As friends to Antioch, we may feast in Tyre. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Tarsus. A room in the Governor’s house. Enter Cleon, the governor of Tarsus, with Dionyza and others. CLEON. My Dionyza, shall we rest us here, And by relating tales of others’ griefs, See if ’twill teach us to forget our own? DIONYZA. That were to blow at fire in hope to quench it; For who digs hills because they do aspire Throws down one mountain to cast up a higher. O my distressed lord, even such our griefs are; Here they’re but felt, and seen with mischief’s eyes, But like to groves, being topp’d, they higher rise. CLEON. O Dionyza, Who wanteth food, and will not say he wants it, Or can conceal his hunger till he famish? Our tongues and sorrows do sound deep Our woes into the air; our eyes do weep, Till tongues fetch breath that may proclaim them louder; That, if heaven slumber while their creatures want, They may awake their helps to comfort them. I’ll then discourse our woes, felt several years, And wanting breath to speak, help me with tears. DIONYZA. I’ll do my best, sir. CLEON. This Tarsus, o’er which I have the government, A city on whom plenty held full hand, For riches strew’d herself even in the streets; Whose towers bore heads so high they kiss’d the clouds, And strangers ne’er beheld but wonder’d at; Whose men and dames so jetted and adorn’d, Like one another’s glass to trim them by: Their tables were stored full to glad the sight, And not so much to feed on as delight; All poverty was scorn’d, and pride so great, The name of help grew odious to repeat. DIONYZA. O, ’tis too true. CLEON. But see what heaven can do! By this our change, These mouths, who but of late, earth, sea, and air, Were all too little to content and please, Although they gave their creatures in abundance, As houses are defiled for want of use, They are now starved for want of exercise: Those palates who, not yet two summers younger, Must have inventions to delight the taste, Would now be glad of bread and beg for it: Those mothers who, to nousle up their babes, Thought nought too curious, are ready now To eat those little darlings whom they loved. So sharp are hunger’s teeth, that man and wife Draw lots who first shall die to lengthen life: Here stands a lord, and there a lady weeping; Here many sink, yet those which see them fall Have scarce strength left to give them burial. Is not this true? DIONYZA. Our cheeks and hollow eyes do witness it. CLEON. O, let those cities that of plenty’s cup And her prosperities so largely taste, With their superflous riots, hear these tears! The misery of Tarsus may be theirs. Enter a Lord. LORD. Where’s the lord governor? CLEON. Here. Speak out thy sorrows which thou bring’st in haste, For comfort is too far for us to expect. LORD. We have descried, upon our neighbouring shore, A portly sail of ships make hitherward. CLEON. I thought as much. One sorrow never comes but brings an heir, That may succeed as his inheritor; And so in ours: some neighbouring nation, Taking advantage of our misery, That stuff’d the hollow vessels with their power, To beat us down, the which are down already; And make a conquest of unhappy me, Whereas no glory’s got to overcome. LORD. That’s the least fear; for, by the semblance Of their white flags display’d, they bring us peace, And come to us as favourers, not as foes. CLEON. Thou speak’st like him’s untutor’d to repeat: Who makes the fairest show means most deceit. But bring they what they will and what they can, What need we fear? The ground’s the lowest, and we are half way there. Go tell their general we attend him here, To know for what he comes, and whence he comes, And what he craves. LORD. I go, my lord. [_Exit._] CLEON. Welcome is peace, if he on peace consist; If wars, we are unable to resist. Enter Pericles with Attendants. PERICLES. Lord governor, for so we hear you are, Let not our ships and number of our men Be like a beacon fired to amaze your eyes. We have heard your miseries as far as Tyre, And seen the desolation of your streets: Nor come we to add sorrow to your tears, But to relieve them of their heavy load; And these our ships, you happily may think Are like the Trojan horse was stuff’d within With bloody veins, expecting overthrow, Are stored with corn to make your needy bread, And give them life whom hunger starved half dead. ALL. The gods of Greece protect you! And we’ll pray for you. PERICLES. Arise, I pray you, rise: We do not look for reverence, but for love, And harbourage for ourself, our ships and men. CLEON. The which when any shall not gratify, Or pay you with unthankfulness in thought, Be it our wives, our children, or ourselves, The curse of heaven and men succeed their evils! Till when,—the which I hope shall ne’er be seen,— Your grace is welcome to our town and us. PERICLES. Which welcome we’ll accept; feast here awhile, Until our stars that frown lend us a smile. [_Exeunt._] ACT II Enter Gower. GOWER. Here have you seen a mighty king His child, iwis, to incest bring; A better prince and benign lord, That will prove awful both in deed and word. Be quiet then as men should be, Till he hath pass’d necessity. I’ll show you those in troubles reign, Losing a mite, a mountain gain. The good in conversation, To whom I give my benison, Is still at Tarsus, where each man Thinks all is writ he speken can; And to remember what he does, Build his statue to make him glorious: But tidings to the contrary Are brought your eyes; what need speak I? Dumb-show. Enter at one door Pericles talking with Cleon; all the train with them. Enter at another door a Gentleman with a letter to Pericles; Pericles shows the letter to Cleon; gives the Messenger a reward, and knights him. Exit Pericles at one door, and Cleon at another. Good Helicane, that stay’d at home. Not to eat honey like a drone From others’ labours; for though he strive To killen bad, keep good alive; And to fulfil his prince’ desire, Sends word of all that haps in Tyre: How Thaliard came full bent with sin And had intent to murder him; And that in Tarsus was not best Longer for him to make his rest. He, doing so, put forth to seas, Where when men been, there’s seldom ease; For now the wind begins to blow; Thunder above and deeps below Make such unquiet, that the ship Should house him safe is wreck’d and split; And he, good prince, having all lost, By waves from coast to coast is tost: All perishen of man, of pelf, Ne aught escapen but himself; Till Fortune, tired with doing bad, Threw him ashore, to give him glad: And here he comes. What shall be next, Pardon old Gower,—this longs the text. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Pentapolis. An open place by the seaside. Enter Pericles, wet. PERICLES. Yet cease your ire, you angry stars of heaven! Wind, rain, and thunder, remember earthly man Is but a substance that must yield to you; And I, as fits my nature, do obey you: Alas, the sea hath cast me on the rocks, Wash’d me from shore to shore, and left me breath Nothing to think on but ensuing death: Let it suffice the greatness of your powers To have bereft a prince of all his fortunes; And having thrown him from your watery grave, Here to have death in peace is all he’ll crave. Enter three Fishermen. FIRST FISHERMAN. What, ho, Pilch! SECOND FISHERMAN. Ha, come and bring away the nets! FIRST FISHERMAN. What, Patch-breech, I say! THIRD FISHERMAN. What say you, master? FIRST FISHERMAN. Look how thou stirrest now! Come away, or I’ll fetch thee with a wanion. THIRD FISHERMAN. Faith, master, I am thinking of the poor men that were cast away before us even now. FIRST FISHERMAN. Alas, poor souls, it grieved my heart to hear what pitiful cries they made to us to help them, when, well-a-day, we could scarce help ourselves. THIRD FISHERMAN. Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpus how he bounced and tumbled? They say they’re half fish, half flesh: a plague on them, they ne’er come but I look to be washed. Master, I marvel how the fishes live in the sea. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones: I can compare our rich misers to nothing so fitly as to a whale; a’ plays and tumbles, driving the poor fry before him, and at last devours them all at a mouthful. Such whales have I heard on o’ the land, who never leave gaping till they swallowed the whole parish, church, steeple, bells and all. PERICLES. [_Aside._] A pretty moral. THIRD FISHERMAN. But, master, if I had been the sexton, I would have been that day in the belfry. SECOND FISHERMAN. Why, man? THIRD FISHERMAN. Because he should have swallowed me too; and when I had been in his belly, I would have kept such a jangling of the bells, that he should never have left, till he cast bells, steeple, church and parish up again. But if the good King Simonides were of my mind,— PERICLES. [_Aside._] Simonides? THIRD FISHERMAN. We would purge the land of these drones, that rob the bee of her honey. PERICLES. [_Aside._] How from the finny subject of the sea These fishers tell the infirmities of men; And from their watery empire recollect All that may men approve or men detect! Peace be at your labour, honest fishermen. SECOND FISHERMAN. Honest! good fellow, what’s that? If it be a day fits you, search out of the calendar, and nobody look after it. PERICLES. May see the sea hath cast upon your coast. SECOND FISHERMAN. What a drunken knave was the sea to cast thee in our way! PERICLES. A man whom both the waters and the wind, In that vast tennis-court, have made the ball For them to play upon, entreats you pity him; He asks of you, that never used to beg. FIRST FISHERMAN. No, friend, cannot you beg? Here’s them in our country of Greece gets more with begging than we can do with working. SECOND FISHERMAN. Canst thou catch any fishes, then? PERICLES. I never practised it. SECOND FISHERMAN. Nay, then thou wilt starve, sure; for here’s nothing to be got now-a-days, unless thou canst fish for’t. PERICLES. What I have been I have forgot to know; But what I am, want teaches me to think on: A man throng’d up with cold: my veins are chill, And have no more of life than may suffice To give my tongue that heat to ask your help; Which if you shall refuse, when I am dead, For that I am a man, pray see me buried. FIRST FISHERMAN. Die quoth-a? Now gods forbid’t, and I have a gown here; come, put it on; keep thee warm. Now, afore me, a handsome fellow! Come, thou shalt go home, and we’ll have flesh for holidays, fish for fasting-days, and moreo’er puddings and flap-jacks, and thou shalt be welcome. PERICLES. I thank you, sir. SECOND FISHERMAN. Hark you, my friend; you said you could not beg? PERICLES. I did but crave. SECOND FISHERMAN. But crave! Then I’ll turn craver too, and so I shall ’scape whipping. PERICLES. Why, are your beggars whipped, then? SECOND FISHERMAN. O, not all, my friend, not all; for if all your beggars were whipped, I would wish no better office than to be beadle. But, master, I’ll go draw up the net. [_Exit with Third Fisherman._] PERICLES. [_Aside._] How well this honest mirth becomes their labour! FIRST FISHERMAN. Hark you, sir, do you know where ye are? PERICLES. Not well. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, I’ll tell you: this is called Pentapolis, and our King, the good Simonides. PERICLES. The good Simonides, do you call him? FIRST FISHERMAN. Ay, sir; and he deserves so to be called for his peaceable reign and good government. PERICLES. He is a happy king, since he gains from his subjects the name of good government. How far is his court distant from this shore? FIRST FISHERMAN. Marry sir, half a day’s journey: and I’ll tell you, he hath a fair daughter, and tomorrow is her birth-day; and there are princes and knights come from all parts of the world to joust and tourney for her love. PERICLES. Were my fortunes equal to my desires, I could wish to make one there. FIRST FISHERMAN. O, sir, things must be as they may; and what a man cannot get, he may lawfully deal for—his wife’s soul. Re-enter Second and Third Fishermen, drawing up a net. SECOND FISHERMAN. Help, master, help! here’s a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man’s right in the law; ’twill hardly come out. Ha! bots on’t, ’tis come at last, and ’tis turned to a rusty armour. PERICLES. An armour, friends! I pray you, let me see it. Thanks, Fortune, yet, that, after all my crosses, Thou givest me somewhat to repair myself, And though it was mine own, part of my heritage, Which my dead father did bequeath to me, With this strict charge, even as he left his life. ‘Keep it, my Pericles; it hath been a shield ’Twixt me and death;’—and pointed to this brace;— ‘For that it saved me, keep it; in like necessity— The which the gods protect thee from!—may defend thee.’ It kept where I kept, I so dearly loved it; Till the rough seas, that spares not any man, Took it in rage, though calm’d have given’t again: I thank thee for’t: my shipwreck now’s no ill, Since I have here my father gave in his will. FIRST FISHERMAN. What mean you sir? PERICLES. To beg of you, kind friends, this coat of worth, For it was sometime target to a king; I know it by this mark. He loved me dearly, And for his sake I wish the having of it; And that you’d guide me to your sovereign court, Where with it I may appear a gentleman; And if that ever my low fortune’s better, I’ll pay your bounties; till then rest your debtor. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, wilt thou tourney for the lady? PERICLES. I’ll show the virtue I have borne in arms. FIRST FISHERMAN. Why, d’ye take it, and the gods give thee good on’t! SECOND FISHERMAN. Ay, but hark you, my friend; ’twas we that made up this garment through the rough seams of the waters: there are certain condolements, certain vails. I hope, sir, if you thrive, you’ll remember from whence you had them. PERICLES. Believe’t I will. By your furtherance I am clothed in steel; And spite of all the rapture of the sea, This jewel holds his building on my arm: Unto thy value I will mount myself Upon a courser, whose delightful steps Shall make the gazer joy to see him tread. Only, my friend, I yet am unprovided Of a pair of bases. SECOND FISHERMAN. We’ll sure provide: thou shalt have my best gown to make thee a pair; and I’ll bring thee to the court myself. PERICLES. Then honour be but a goal to my will, This day I’ll rise, or else add ill to ill. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A public way, or platform leading to the lists. A pavilion by the side of it for the reception of the King, Princess, Lords, etc. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords and Attendants. SIMONIDES. Are the knights ready to begin the triumph? FIRST LORD. They are, my liege; And stay your coming to present themselves. SIMONIDES. Return them, we are ready; and our daughter, In honour of whose birth these triumphs are, Sits here, like beauty’s child, whom Nature gat For men to see, and seeing wonder at. [_Exit a Lord._] THAISA. It pleaseth you, my royal father, to express My commendations great, whose merit’s less. SIMONIDES. It’s fit it should be so; for princes are A model, which heaven makes like to itself: As jewels lose their glory if neglected, So princes their renowns if not respected. ’Tis now your honour, daughter, to entertain The labour of each knight in his device. THAISA. Which, to preserve mine honour, I’ll perform. The first Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. Who is the first that doth prefer himself? THAISA. A knight of Sparta, my renowned father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is a black Ethiope reaching at the sun: The word, _Lux tua vita mihi._ SIMONIDES. He loves you well that holds his life of you. The second Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. Who is the second that presents himself? THAISA. A prince of Macedon, my royal father; And the device he bears upon his shield Is an arm’d knight that’s conquer’d by a lady; The motto thus, in Spanish, _Piu por dulzura que por forza._ The third Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. And what’s the third? THAISA. The third of Antioch; And his device, a wreath of chivalry; The word, _Me pompae provexit apex._ The fourth Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. What is the fourth? THAISA. A burning torch that’s turned upside down; The word, _Quod me alit me extinguit._ SIMONIDES. Which shows that beauty hath his power and will, Which can as well inflame as it can kill. The fifth Knight passes by, and his Squire presents his shield to Thaisa. THAISA. The fifth, an hand environed with clouds, Holding out gold that’s by the touchstone tried; The motto thus, _Sic spectanda fides._ The sixth Knight, Pericles, passes in rusty armour with bases, and unaccompanied. He presents his device directly to Thaisa. SIMONIDES. And what’s the sixth and last, the which the knight himself With such a graceful courtesy deliver’d? THAISA. He seems to be a stranger; but his present is A wither’d branch, that’s only green at top; The motto, _In hac spe vivo._ SIMONIDES. A pretty moral; From the dejected state wherein he is, He hopes by you his fortunes yet may flourish. FIRST LORD. He had need mean better than his outward show Can any way speak in his just commend; For by his rusty outside he appears To have practised more the whipstock than the lance. SECOND LORD. He well may be a stranger, for he comes To an honour’d triumph strangely furnished. THIRD LORD. And on set purpose let his armour rust Until this day, to scour it in the dust. SIMONIDES. Opinion’s but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man. But stay, the knights are coming. We will withdraw into the gallery. [_Exeunt. Great shouts within, and all cry_ ‘The mean Knight!’] SCENE III. The same. A hall of state: a banquet prepared. Enter Simonides, Thaisa, Lords, Attendants and Knights, from tilting. SIMONIDES. Knights, To say you’re welcome were superfluous. To place upon the volume of your deeds, As in a title-page, your worth in arms, Were more than you expect, or more than’s fit, Since every worth in show commends itself. Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast: You are princes and my guests. THAISA. But you, my knight and guest; To whom this wreath of victory I give, And crown you king of this day’s happiness. PERICLES. ’Tis more by fortune, lady, than by merit. SIMONIDES. Call it by what you will, the day is yours; And here, I hope, is none that envies it. In framing an artist, art hath thus decreed, To make some good, but others to exceed; And you are her labour’d scholar. Come queen of the feast,— For, daughter, so you are,—here take your place: Marshal the rest, as they deserve their grace. KNIGHTS. We are honour’d much by good Simonides. SIMONIDES. Your presence glads our days; honour we love; For who hates honour hates the gods above. MARSHALL. Sir, yonder is your place. PERICLES. Some other is more fit. FIRST KNIGHT. Contend not, sir; for we are gentlemen Have neither in our hearts nor outward eyes Envied the great, nor shall the low despise. PERICLES. You are right courteous knights. SIMONIDES. Sit, sir, sit. By Jove, I wonder, that is king of thoughts, These cates resist me, he but thought upon. THAISA. By Juno, that is queen of marriage, All viands that I eat do seem unsavoury, Wishing him my meat. Sure, he’s a gallant gentleman. SIMONIDES. He’s but a country gentleman; Has done no more than other knights have done; Has broken a staff or so; so let it pass. THAISA. To me he seems like diamond to glass. PERICLES. Yon king’s to me like to my father’s picture, Which tells me in that glory once he was; Had princes sit, like stars, about his throne, And he the sun, for them to reverence; None that beheld him, but, like lesser lights, Did vail their crowns to his supremacy: Where now his son’s like a glow-worm in the night, The which hath fire in darkness, none in light: Whereby I see that time’s the king of men, He’s both their parent, and he is their grave, And gives them what he will, not what they crave. SIMONIDES. What, are you merry, knights? KNIGHTS. Who can be other in this royal presence? SIMONIDES. Here, with a cup that’s stored unto the brim,— As you do love, fill to your mistress’ lips,— We drink this health to you. KNIGHTS. We thank your grace. SIMONIDES. Yet pause awhile. Yon knight doth sit too melancholy, As if the entertainment in our court Had not a show might countervail his worth. Note it not you, Thaisa? THAISA. What is’t to me, my father? SIMONIDES. O attend, my daughter: Princes in this should live like gods above, Who freely give to everyone that comes to honour them: And princes not doing so are like to gnats, Which make a sound, but kill’d are wonder’d at. Therefore to make his entrance more sweet, Here, say we drink this standing-bowl of wine to him. THAISA. Alas, my father, it befits not me Unto a stranger knight to be so bold: He may my proffer take for an offence, Since men take women’s gifts for impudence. SIMONIDES. How? Do as I bid you, or you’ll move me else. THAISA. [_Aside._] Now, by the gods, he could not please me better. SIMONIDES. And furthermore tell him, we desire to know of him, Of whence he is, his name and parentage. THAISA. The king my father, sir, has drunk to you. PERICLES. I thank him. THAISA. Wishing it so much blood unto your life. PERICLES. I thank both him and you, and pledge him freely. THAISA. And further he desires to know of you, Of whence you are, your name and parentage. PERICLES. A gentleman of Tyre; my name, Pericles; My education been in arts and arms; Who, looking for adventures in the world, Was by the rough seas reft of ships and men, And after shipwreck driven upon this shore. THAISA. He thanks your grace; names himself Pericles, A gentleman of Tyre, Who only by misfortune of the seas Bereft of ships and men, cast on this shore. SIMONIDES. Now, by the gods, I pity his misfortune, And will awake him from his melancholy. Come, gentlemen, we sit too long on trifles, And waste the time, which looks for other revels. Even in your armours, as you are address’d, Will well become a soldier’s dance. I will not have excuse, with saying this, ‘Loud music is too harsh for ladies’ heads’ Since they love men in arms as well as beds. [_The Knights dance._] So, this was well ask’d, ’twas so well perform’d. Come, sir; here is a lady which wants breathing too: And I have heard you knights of Tyre Are excellent in making ladies trip; And that their measures are as excellent. PERICLES. In those that practise them they are, my lord. SIMONIDES. O, that’s as much as you would be denied Of your fair courtesy. [_The Knights and Ladies dance._] Unclasp, unclasp: Thanks gentlemen, to all; all have done well. [_To Pericles._] But you the best. Pages and lights to conduct These knights unto their several lodgings. [_To Pericles._] Yours, sir, we have given order to be next our own. PERICLES. I am at your grace’s pleasure. SIMONIDES. Princes, it is too late to talk of love; And that’s the mark I know you level at: Therefore each one betake him to his rest; Tomorrow all for speeding do their best. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Tyre. A room in the Governor’s house. Enter Helicanus and Escanes. HELICANUS. No, Escanes, know this of me, Antiochus from incest lived not free: For which the most high gods not minding longer To withhold the vengeance that they had in store Due to this heinous capital offence, Even in the height and pride of all his glory, When he was seated in a chariot Of an inestimable value, and his daughter with him, A fire from heaven came and shrivell’d up Their bodies, even to loathing, for they so stunk, That all those eyes adored them ere their fall Scorn now their hand should give them burial. ESCANES. ’Twas very strange HELICANUS. And yet but justice; for though this king were great; His greatness was no guard to bar heaven’s shaft, But sin had his reward. ESCANES. ’Tis very true. Enter two or three Lords. FIRST LORD. See, not a man in private conference Or council has respect with him but he. SECOND LORD. It shall no longer grieve without reproof. THIRD LORD. And cursed be he that will not second it. FIRST LORD. Follow me, then. Lord Helicane, a word. HELICANUS. With me? and welcome: happy day, my lords. FIRST LORD. Know that our griefs are risen to the top, And now at length they overflow their banks. HELICANUS. Your griefs! for what? Wrong not your prince you love. FIRST LORD. Wrong not yourself, then, noble Helicane; But if the prince do live, let us salute him. Or know what ground’s made happy by his breath. If in the world he live, we’ll seek him out; If in his grave he rest, we’ll find him there. We’ll be resolved he lives to govern us, Or dead, give’s cause to mourn his funeral, And leave us to our free election. SECOND LORD. Whose death’s indeed the strongest in our censure: And knowing this kingdom is without a head,— Like goodly buildings left without a roof Soon fall to ruin,—your noble self, That best know how to rule and how to reign, We thus submit unto,—our sovereign. ALL. Live, noble Helicane! HELICANUS. For honour’s cause, forbear your suffrages: If that you love Prince Pericles, forbear. Take I your wish, I leap into the seas, Where’s hourly trouble for a minute’s ease. A twelvemonth longer, let me entreat you To forbear the absence of your king; If in which time expired, he not return, I shall with aged patience bear your yoke. But if I cannot win you to this love, Go search like nobles, like noble subjects, And in your search spend your adventurous worth; Whom if you find, and win unto return, You shall like diamonds sit about his crown. FIRST LORD. To wisdom he’s a fool that will not yield; And since Lord Helicane enjoineth us, We with our travels will endeavour us. HELICANUS. Then you love us, we you, and we’ll clasp hands: When peers thus knit, a kingdom ever stands. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Pentapolis. A room in the palace. Enter Simonides reading a letter at one door; the Knights meet him. FIRST KNIGHT. Good morrow to the good Simonides. SIMONIDES. Knights, from my daughter this I let you know, That for this twelvemonth she’ll not undertake A married life. Her reason to herself is only known, Which yet from her by no means can I get. SECOND KNIGHT. May we not get access to her, my lord? SIMONIDES. Faith, by no means; she hath so strictly tied Her to her chamber, that ’tis impossible. One twelve moons more she’ll wear Diana’s livery; This by the eye of Cynthia hath she vow’d, And on her virgin honour will not break it. THIRD KNIGHT. Loath to bid farewell, we take our leaves. [_Exeunt Knights._] SIMONIDES. So, they are well dispatch’d; now to my daughter’s letter: She tells me here, she’ll wed the stranger knight, Or never more to view nor day nor light. ’Tis well, mistress; your choice agrees with mine; I like that well: nay, how absolute she’s in’t, Not minding whether I dislike or no! Well, I do commend her choice; And will no longer have it be delay’d. Soft! here he comes: I must dissemble it. Enter Pericles. PERICLES. All fortune to the good Simonides! SIMONIDES. To you as much. Sir, I am beholding to you For your sweet music this last night: I do Protest my ears were never better fed With such delightful pleasing harmony. PERICLES. It is your grace’s pleasure to commend; Not my desert. SIMONIDES. Sir, you are music’s master. PERICLES. The worst of all her scholars, my good lord. SIMONIDES. Let me ask you one thing: What do you think of my daughter, sir? PERICLES. A most virtuous princess. SIMONIDES. And she is fair too, is she not? PERICLES. As a fair day in summer, wondrous fair. SIMONIDES. Sir, my daughter thinks very well of you; Ay, so well, that you must be her master, And she will be your scholar: therefore look to it. PERICLES. I am unworthy for her schoolmaster. SIMONIDES. She thinks not so; peruse this writing else. PERICLES. [_Aside._] What’s here? A letter, that she loves the knight of Tyre! ’Tis the king’s subtlety to have my life. O, seek not to entrap me, gracious lord, A stranger and distressed gentleman, That never aim’d so high to love your daughter, But bent all offices to honour her. SIMONIDES. Thou hast bewitch’d my daughter, And thou art a villain. PERICLES. By the gods, I have not: Never did thought of mine levy offence; Nor never did my actions yet commence A deed might gain her love or your displeasure. SIMONIDES. Traitor, thou liest. PERICLES. Traitor? SIMONIDES. Ay, traitor. PERICLES. Even in his throat—unless it be the king— That calls me traitor, I return the lie. SIMONIDES. [_Aside._] Now, by the gods, I do applaud his courage. PERICLES. My actions are as noble as my thoughts, That never relish’d of a base descent. I came unto your court for honour’s cause, And not to be a rebel to her state; And he that otherwise accounts of me, This sword shall prove he’s honour’s enemy. SIMONIDES. No? Here comes my daughter, she can witness it. Enter Thaisa. PERICLES. Then, as you are as virtuous as fair, Resolve your angry father, if my tongue Did e’er solicit, or my hand subscribe To any syllable that made love to you. THAISA. Why, sir, say if you had, Who takes offence at that would make me glad? SIMONIDES. Yea, mistress, are you so peremptory? [_Aside._] I am glad on’t with all my heart.— I’ll tame you; I’ll bring you in subjection. Will you, not having my consent, Bestow your love and your affections Upon a stranger? [_Aside._] Who, for aught I know May be, nor can I think the contrary, As great in blood as I myself.— Therefore hear you, mistress; either frame Your will to mine, and you, sir, hear you, Either be ruled by me, or I will make you— Man and wife. Nay, come, your hands, And lips must seal it too: and being join’d, I’ll thus your hopes destroy; and for further grief, God give you joy! What, are you both pleased? THAISA. Yes, if you love me, sir. PERICLES. Even as my life my blood that fosters it. SIMONIDES. What, are you both agreed? BOTH. Yes, if’t please your majesty. SIMONIDES. It pleaseth me so well, that I will see you wed; And then with what haste you can, get you to bed. [_Exeunt._] ACT III Enter Gower. GOWER. Now sleep yslaked hath the rouse; No din but snores about the house, Made louder by the o’erfed breast Of this most pompous marriage feast. The cat, with eyne of burning coal, Now couches fore the mouse’s hole; And crickets sing at the oven’s mouth, Are the blither for their drouth. Hymen hath brought the bride to bed, Where, by the loss of maidenhead, A babe is moulded. Be attent, And time that is so briefly spent With your fine fancies quaintly eche: What’s dumb in show I’ll plain with speech. Dumb-show. Enter, Pericles and Simonides at one door with Attendants; a Messenger meets them, kneels, and gives Pericles a letter: Pericles shows it Simonides; the Lords kneel to him. Then enter Thaisa with child, with Lychorida, a nurse. The King shows her the letter; she rejoices: she and Pericles take leave of her father, and depart, with Lychorida and their Attendants. Then exeunt Simonides and the rest. By many a dern and painful perch Of Pericles the careful search, By the four opposing coigns Which the world together joins, Is made with all due diligence That horse and sail and high expense Can stead the quest. At last from Tyre, Fame answering the most strange enquire, To th’ court of King Simonides Are letters brought, the tenour these: Antiochus and his daughter dead; The men of Tyrus on the head Of Helicanus would set on The crown of Tyre, but he will none: The mutiny he there hastes t’oppress; Says to ’em, if King Pericles Come not home in twice six moons, He, obedient to their dooms, Will take the crown. The sum of this, Brought hither to Pentapolis Y-ravished the regions round, And everyone with claps can sound, ‘Our heir apparent is a king! Who dreamt, who thought of such a thing?’ Brief, he must hence depart to Tyre: His queen with child makes her desire— Which who shall cross?—along to go: Omit we all their dole and woe: Lychorida, her nurse, she takes, And so to sea. Their vessel shakes On Neptune’s billow; half the flood Hath their keel cut: but fortune’s mood Varies again; the grisled north Disgorges such a tempest forth, That, as a duck for life that dives, So up and down the poor ship drives: The lady shrieks, and well-a-near Does fall in travail with her fear: And what ensues in this fell storm Shall for itself itself perform. I nill relate, action may Conveniently the rest convey; Which might not what by me is told. In your imagination hold This stage the ship, upon whose deck The sea-tost Pericles appears to speak. [_Exit._] SCENE I. Enter Pericles, on shipboard. PERICLES. Thou god of this great vast, rebuke these surges, Which wash both heaven and hell; and thou that hast Upon the winds command, bind them in brass, Having call’d them from the deep! O, still Thy deafening, dreadful thunders; gently quench Thy nimble, sulphurous flashes! O, how, Lychorida, How does my queen? Thou stormest venomously; Wilt thou spit all thyself? The seaman’s whistle Is as a whisper in the ears of death, Unheard. Lychorida! - Lucina, O! Divinest patroness, and midwife gentle To those that cry by night, convey thy deity Aboard our dancing boat; make swift the pangs Of my queen’s travails! Now, Lychorida! Enter Lychorida with an infant. LYCHORIDA. Here is a thing too young for such a place, Who, if it had conceit, would die, as I Am like to do: take in your arms this piece Of your dead queen. PERICLES. How? how, Lychorida? LYCHORIDA. Patience, good sir; do not assist the storm. Here’s all that is left living of your queen, A little daughter: for the sake of it, Be manly, and take comfort. PERICLES. O you gods! Why do you make us love your goodly gifts, And snatch them straight away? We here below Recall not what we give, and therein may Vie honour with you. LYCHORIDA. Patience, good sir. Even for this charge. PERICLES. Now, mild may be thy life! For a more blustrous birth had never babe: Quiet and gentle thy conditions! for Thou art the rudeliest welcome to this world That ever was prince’s child. Happy what follows! Thou hast as chiding a nativity As fire, air, water, earth, and heaven can make, To herald thee from the womb. Even at the first thy loss is more than can Thy portage quit, with all thou canst find here, Now, the good gods throw their best eyes upon’t! Enter two Sailors FIRST SAILOR. What courage, sir? God save you! PERICLES. Courage enough: I do not fear the flaw; It hath done to me the worst. Yet, for the love Of this poor infant, this fresh new sea-farer, I would it would be quiet. FIRST SAILOR. Slack the bolins there! Thou wilt not, wilt thou? Blow, and split thyself. SECOND SAILOR. But sea-room, and the brine and cloudy billow kiss the moon, I care not. FIRST SAILOR. Sir, your queen must overboard: the sea works high, the wind is loud and will not lie till the ship be cleared of the dead. PERICLES. That’s your superstition. FIRST SAILOR. Pardon us, sir; with us at sea it has been still observed; and we are strong in custom. Therefore briefly yield her; for she must overboard straight. PERICLES. As you think meet. Most wretched queen! LYCHORIDA. Here she lies, sir. PERICLES. A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; No light, no fire: th’unfriendly elements Forgot thee utterly; nor have I time To give thee hallow’d to thy grave, but straight Must cast thee, scarcely coffin’d, in the ooze; Where, for a monument upon thy bones, And e’er-remaining lamps, the belching whale And humming water must o’erwhelm thy corpse, Lying with simple shells. O Lychorida. Bid Nestor bring me spices, ink and paper, My casket and my jewels; and bid Nicander Bring me the satin coffer: lay the babe Upon the pillow: hie thee, whiles I say A priestly farewell to her: suddenly, woman. [_Exit Lychorida._] SECOND SAILOR. Sir, we have a chest beneath the hatches, caulked and bitumed ready. PERICLES. I thank thee. Mariner, say what coast is this? SECOND SAILOR. We are near Tarsus. PERICLES. Thither, gentle mariner, Alter thy course for Tyre. When canst thou reach it? SECOND SAILOR. By break of day, if the wind cease. PERICLES. O, make for Tarsus! There will I visit Cleon, for the babe Cannot hold out to Tyrus. There I’ll leave it At careful nursing. Go thy ways, good mariner: I’ll bring the body presently. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house. Enter Cerimon, with a Servant, and some Persons who have been shipwrecked. CERIMON. Philemon, ho! Enter Philemon. PHILEMON. Doth my lord call? CERIMON. Get fire and meat for these poor men: ’T has been a turbulent and stormy night. SERVANT. I have been in many; but such a night as this, Till now, I ne’er endured. CERIMON. Your master will be dead ere you return; There’s nothing can be minister’d to nature That can recover him. [_To Philemon._] Give this to the ’pothecary, And tell me how it works. [_Exeunt all but Cerimon._] Enter two Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Good morrow. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Good morrow to your lordship. CERIMON. Gentlemen, why do you stir so early? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Sir, our lodgings, standing bleak upon the sea, Shook as the earth did quake; The very principals did seem to rend, And all to topple: pure surprise and fear Made me to quit the house. SECOND GENTLEMAN. That is the cause we trouble you so early; ’Tis not our husbandry. CERIMON. O, you say well. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But I much marvel that your lordship, having Rich tire about you, should at these early hours Shake off the golden slumber of repose. ’Tis most strange, Nature should be so conversant with pain. Being thereto not compell’d. CERIMON. I hold it ever, Virtue and cunning were endowments greater Than nobleness and riches: careless heirs May the two latter darken and expend; But immortality attends the former, Making a man a god. ’Tis known, I ever Have studied physic, through which secret art, By turning o’er authorities, I have, Together with my practice, made familiar To me and to my aid the blest infusions That dwell in vegetives, in metals, stones; And I can speak of the disturbances That nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me A more content in course of true delight Than to be thirsty after tottering honour, Or tie my pleasure up in silken bags, To please the fool and death. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Your honour has through Ephesus pour’d forth Your charity, and hundreds call themselves Your creatures, who by you have been restored: And not your knowledge, your personal pain, but even Your purse, still open, hath built Lord Cerimon Such strong renown as time shall never— Enter two or three Servants with a chest. FIRST SERVANT. So, lift there. CERIMON. What’s that? FIRST SERVANT. Sir, even now Did the sea toss upon our shore this chest: ’Tis of some wreck. CERIMON. Set’t down, let’s look upon’t. SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis like a coffin, sir. CERIMON. Whate’er it be, ’Tis wondrous heavy. Wrench it open straight: If the sea’s stomach be o’ercharged with gold, ’Tis a good constraint of fortune it belches upon us. SECOND GENTLEMAN. ’Tis so, my lord. CERIMON. How close ’tis caulk’d and bitumed! Did the sea cast it up? FIRST SERVANT. I never saw so huge a billow, sir, As toss’d it upon shore. CERIMON. Wrench it open; Soft! it smells most sweetly in my sense. SECOND GENTLEMAN. A delicate odour. CERIMON. As ever hit my nostril. So up with it. O you most potent gods! what’s here? a corpse! FIRST GENTLEMAN. Most strange! CERIMON. Shrouded in cloth of state; balm’d and entreasured With full bags of spices! A passport too! Apollo, perfect me in the characters! [_Reads from a scroll._] _Here I give to understand, If e’er this coffin drives a-land, I, King Pericles, have lost This queen, worth all our mundane cost. Who finds her, give her burying; She was the daughter of a king: Besides this treasure for a fee, The gods requite his charity._ If thou livest, Pericles, thou hast a heart That even cracks for woe! This chanced tonight. SECOND GENTLEMAN. Most likely, sir. CERIMON. Nay, certainly tonight; For look how fresh she looks! They were too rough That threw her in the sea. Make a fire within Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet. [_Exit a Servant._] Death may usurp on nature many hours, And yet the fire of life kindle again The o’erpress’d spirits. I heard of an Egyptian That had nine hours lain dead, Who was by good appliance recovered. Re-enter a Servant with napkins and fire. Well said, well said; the fire and cloths. The rough and woeful music that we have, Cause it to sound, beseech you The viol once more: how thou stirr’st, thou block! The music there!—I pray you, give her air. Gentlemen, this queen will live. Nature awakes; a warmth breathes out of her. She hath not been entranced above five hours. See how she ’gins to blow into life’s flower again! FIRST GENTLEMAN. The heavens, through you, increase our wonder And sets up your fame for ever. CERIMON. She is alive; behold, her eyelids, Cases to those heavenly jewels which Pericles hath lost, Begin to part their fringes of bright gold; The diamonds of a most praised water doth appear, To make the world twice rich. Live, and make us weep To hear your fate, fair creature, rare as you seem to be. [_She moves._] THAISA. O dear Diana, Where am I? Where’s my lord? What world is this? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Is not this strange? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Most rare. CERIMON. Hush, my gentle neighbours! Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her. Get linen: now this matter must be look’d to, For her relapse is mortal. Come, come; And Aesculapius guide us! [_Exeunt, carrying her away._] SCENE III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house. Enter Pericles, Cleon, Dionyza and Lychorida with Marina in her arms. PERICLES. Most honour’d Cleon, I must needs be gone; My twelve months are expired, and Tyrus stands In a litigious peace. You and your lady, Take from my heart all thankfulness! The gods Make up the rest upon you! CLEON. Your shafts of fortune, though they hurt you mortally, Yet glance full wanderingly on us. DIONYZA. O, your sweet queen! That the strict fates had pleased you had brought her hither, To have bless’d mine eyes with her! PERICLES. We cannot but obey The powers above us. Could I rage and roar As doth the sea she lies in, yet the end Must be as ’tis. My gentle babe Marina, Whom, for she was born at sea, I have named so, Here I charge your charity withal, Leaving her the infant of your care; Beseeching you to give her princely training, That she may be manner’d as she is born. CLEON. Fear not, my lord, but think Your grace, that fed my country with your corn, For which the people’s prayers still fall upon you, Must in your child be thought on. If neglection Should therein make me vile, the common body, By you relieved, would force me to my duty: But if to that my nature need a spur, The gods revenge it upon me and mine, To the end of generation! PERICLES. I believe you; Your honour and your goodness teach me to’t, Without your vows. Till she be married, madam, By bright Diana, whom we honour, all Unscissored shall this hair of mine remain, Though I show ill in’t. So I take my leave. Good madam, make me blessed in your care In bringing up my child. DIONYZA. I have one myself, Who shall not be more dear to my respect Than yours, my lord. PERICLES. Madam, my thanks and prayers. CLEON. We’ll bring your grace e’en to the edge o’the shore, Then give you up to the mask’d Neptune and The gentlest winds of heaven. PERICLES. I will embrace your offer. Come, dearest madam. O, no tears, Lychorida, no tears. Look to your little mistress, on whose grace You may depend hereafter. Come, my lord. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Ephesus. A room in Cerimon’s house. Enter Cerimon and Thaisa. CERIMON. Madam, this letter, and some certain jewels, Lay with you in your coffer, which are At your command. Know you the character? THAISA. It is my lord’s. That I was shipp’d at sea, I well remember, Even on my groaning time; but whether there Deliver’d, by the holy gods, I cannot rightly say. But since King Pericles, My wedded lord, I ne’er shall see again, A vestal livery will I take me to, And never more have joy. CERIMON. Madam, if this you purpose as ye speak, Diana’s temple is not distant far, Where you may abide till your date expire. Moreover, if you please, a niece of mine Shall there attend you. THAISA. My recompense is thanks, that’s all; Yet my good will is great, though the gift small. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV Enter Gower. GOWER. Imagine Pericles arrived at Tyre, Welcomed and settled to his own desire. His woeful queen we leave at Ephesus, Unto Diana there a votaress. Now to Marina bend your mind, Whom our fast-growing scene must find At Tarsus, and by Cleon train’d In music’s letters; who hath gain’d Of education all the grace, Which makes her both the heart and place Of general wonder. But, alack, That monster envy, oft the wrack Of earned praise, Marina’s life Seeks to take off by treason’s knife, And in this kind our Cleon hath One daughter, and a full grown wench Even ripe for marriage-rite; this maid Hight Philoten: and it is said For certain in our story, she Would ever with Marina be. Be’t when she weaved the sleided silk With fingers long, small, white as milk; Or when she would with sharp needle wound, The cambric, which she made more sound By hurting it; or when to th’ lute She sung, and made the night-bird mute That still records with moan; or when She would with rich and constant pen Vail to her mistress Dian; still This Philoten contends in skill With absolute Marina: so The dove of Paphos might with the crow Vie feathers white. Marina gets All praises, which are paid as debts, And not as given. This so darks In Philoten all graceful marks, That Cleon’s wife, with envy rare, A present murderer does prepare For good Marina, that her daughter Might stand peerless by this slaughter. The sooner her vile thoughts to stead, Lychorida, our nurse, is dead: And cursed Dionyza hath The pregnant instrument of wrath Prest for this blow. The unborn event I do commend to your content: Only I carry winged time Post on the lame feet of my rhyme; Which never could I so convey, Unless your thoughts went on my way. Dionyza does appear, With Leonine, a murderer. [_Exit._] Scene I. Tarsus. An open place near the seashore. Enter Dionyza with Leonine. DIONYZA. Thy oath remember; thou hast sworn to do’t: ’Tis but a blow, which never shall be known. Thou canst not do a thing in the world so soon, To yield thee so much profit. Let not conscience, Which is but cold, inflaming love i’ thy bosom, Inflame too nicely; nor let pity, which Even women have cast off, melt thee, but be A soldier to thy purpose. LEONINE. I will do’t; but yet she is a goodly creature. DIONYZA. The fitter, then, the gods should have her. Here she comes weeping for her only mistress’ death. Thou art resolved? LEONINE. I am resolved. Enter Marina with a basket of flowers. MARINA. No, I will rob Tellus of her weed To strew thy green with flowers: the yellows, blues, The purple violets, and marigolds, Shall as a carpet hang upon thy grave, While summer days do last. Ay me! poor maid, Born in a tempest, when my mother died, This world to me is like a lasting storm, Whirring me from my friends. DIONYZA. How now, Marina! why do you keep alone? How chance my daughter is not with you? Do not consume your blood with sorrowing; Have you a nurse of me? Lord, how your favour’s Changed with this unprofitable woe! Come, give me your flowers, ere the sea mar it. Walk with Leonine; the air is quick there, And it pierces and sharpens the stomach. Come, Leonine, take her by the arm, walk with her. MARINA. No, I pray you; I’ll not bereave you of your servant. DIONYZA. Come, come; I love the king your father, and yourself, With more than foreign heart. We every day Expect him here: when he shall come and find Our paragon to all reports thus blasted, He will repent the breadth of his great voyage; Blame both my lord and me, that we have taken No care to your best courses. Go, I pray you, Walk, and be cheerful once again; reserve That excellent complexion, which did steal The eyes of young and old. Care not for me; I can go home alone. MARINA. Well, I will go; But yet I have no desire to it. DIONYZA. Come, come, I know ’tis good for you. Walk half an hour, Leonine, at the least: Remember what I have said. LEONINE. I warrant you, madam. DIONYZA. I’ll leave you, my sweet lady, for a while: Pray, walk softly, do not heat your blood: What! I must have a care of you. MARINA. My thanks, sweet madam. [_Exit Dionyza._] Is this wind westerly that blows? LEONINE. South-west. MARINA. When I was born the wind was north. LEONINE. Was’t so? MARINA. My father, as nurse said, did never fear, But cried ‘Good seamen!’ to the sailors, Galling his kingly hands, haling ropes; And clasping to the mast, endured a sea That almost burst the deck. LEONINE. When was this? MARINA. When I was born: Never was waves nor wind more violent; And from the ladder tackle washes off A canvas-climber. ‘Ha!’ says one, ‘wolt out?’ And with a dropping industry they skip From stem to stern: the boatswain whistles, and The master calls and trebles their confusion. LEONINE. Come, say your prayers. MARINA. What mean you? LEONINE. If you require a little space for prayer, I grant it: pray; but be not tedious, For the gods are quick of ear, and I am sworn To do my work with haste. MARINA. Why will you kill me? LEONINE. To satisfy my lady. MARINA. Why would she have me kill’d now? As I can remember, by my troth, I never did her hurt in all my life: I never spake bad word, nor did ill turn To any living creature: believe me, la, I never kill’d a mouse, nor hurt a fly: I trod upon a worm against my will, But I wept for it. How have I offended, Wherein my death might yield her any profit, Or my life imply her any danger? LEONINE. My commission Is not to reason of the deed, but do it. MARINA. You will not do’t for all the world, I hope. You are well favour’d, and your looks foreshow You have a gentle heart. I saw you lately, When you caught hurt in parting two that fought: Good sooth, it show’d well in you: do so now: Your lady seeks my life; come you between, And save poor me, the weaker. LEONINE. I am sworn, And will dispatch. [_He seizes her._] Enter Pirates. FIRST PIRATE. Hold, villain! [_Leonine runs away._] SECOND PIRATE. A prize! a prize! THIRD PIRATE. Half part, mates, half part, Come, let’s have her aboard suddenly. [_Exeunt Pirates with Marina._] Re-enter Leonine. LEONINE. These roguing thieves serve the great pirate Valdes; And they have seized Marina. Let her go: There’s no hope she will return. I’ll swear she’s dead And thrown into the sea. But I’ll see further: Perhaps they will but please themselves upon her, Not carry her aboard. If she remain, Whom they have ravish’d must by me be slain. [_Exit._] Scene II. Mytilene. A room in a brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult. PANDAR. Boult! BOULT. Sir? PANDAR. Search the market narrowly; Mytilene is full of gallants. We lost too much money this mart by being too wenchless. BAWD. We were never so much out of creatures. We have but poor three, and they can do no more than they can do; and they with continual action are even as good as rotten. PANDAR. Therefore let’s have fresh ones, whate’er we pay for them. If there be not a conscience to be used in every trade, we shall never prosper. BAWD. Thou sayest true: ’tis not our bringing up of poor bastards,—as, I think, I have brought up some eleven— BOULT. Ay, to eleven; and brought them down again. But shall I search the market? BAWD. What else, man? The stuff we have, a strong wind will blow it to pieces, they are so pitifully sodden. PANDAR. Thou sayest true; they’re too unwholesome, o’ conscience. The poor Transylvanian is dead, that lay with the little baggage. BOULT. Ay, she quickly pooped him; she made him roast-meat for worms. But I’ll go search the market. [_Exit._] PANDAR. Three or four thousand chequins were as pretty a proportion to live quietly, and so give over. BAWD. Why to give over, I pray you? Is it a shame to get when we are old? PANDAR. O, our credit comes not in like the commodity, nor the commodity wages not with the danger: therefore, if in our youths we could pick up some pretty estate, ’twere not amiss to keep our door hatched. Besides, the sore terms we stand upon with the gods will be strong with us for giving over. BAWD. Come, others sorts offend as well as we. PANDAR. As well as we! ay, and better too; we offend worse. Neither is our profession any trade; it’s no calling. But here comes Boult. Re-enter Boult, with the Pirates and Marina. BOULT [_To Pirates._] Come your ways. My masters, you say she’s a virgin? FIRST PIRATE. O sir, we doubt it not. BOULT. Master, I have gone through for this piece, you see: if you like her, so; if not, I have lost my earnest. BAWD. Boult, has she any qualities? BOULT. She has a good face, speaks well and has excellent good clothes: there’s no farther necessity of qualities can make her be refused. BAWD. What is her price, Boult? BOULT. I cannot be baited one doit of a thousand pieces. PANDAR. Well, follow me, my masters, you shall have your money presently. Wife, take her in; instruct her what she has to do, that she may not be raw in her entertainment. [_Exeunt Pandar and Pirates._] BAWD. Boult, take you the marks of her, the colour of her hair, complexion, height, her age, with warrant of her virginity; and cry ‘He that will give most shall have her first.’ Such a maidenhead were no cheap thing, if men were as they have been. Get this done as I command you. BOULT. Performance shall follow. [_Exit._] MARINA. Alack that Leonine was so slack, so slow! He should have struck, not spoke; or that these pirates, Not enough barbarous, had not o’erboard thrown me For to seek my mother! BAWD. Why lament you, pretty one? MARINA. That I am pretty. BAWD. Come, the gods have done their part in you. MARINA. I accuse them not. BAWD. You are light into my hands, where you are like to live. MARINA. The more my fault To scape his hands where I was like to die. BAWD. Ay, and you shall live in pleasure. MARINA. No. BAWD. Yes, indeed shall you, and taste gentlemen of all fashions: you shall fare well; you shall have the difference of all complexions. What! do you stop your ears? MARINA. Are you a woman? BAWD. What would you have me be, an I be not a woman? MARINA. An honest woman, or not a woman. BAWD. Marry, whip the gosling: I think I shall have something to do with you. Come, you’re a young foolish sapling, and must be bowed as I would have you. MARINA. The gods defend me! BAWD. If it please the gods to defend you by men, then men must comfort you, men must feed you, men stir you up. Boult’s returned. Re-enter Boult. Now, sir, hast thou cried her through the market? BOULT. I have cried her almost to the number of her hairs; I have drawn her picture with my voice. BAWD. And I prithee tell me, how dost thou find the inclination of the people, especially of the younger sort? BOULT. Faith, they listened to me as they would have hearkened to their father’s testament. There was a Spaniard’s mouth so watered, that he went to bed to her very description. BAWD. We shall have him here tomorrow with his best ruff on. BOULT. Tonight, tonight. But, mistress, do you know the French knight that cowers i’ the hams? BAWD. Who, Monsieur Veroles? BOULT. Ay, he: he offered to cut a caper at the proclamation; but he made a groan at it, and swore he would see her tomorrow. BAWD. Well, well, as for him, he brought his disease hither: here he does but repair it. I know he will come in our shadow, to scatter his crowns in the sun. BOULT. Well, if we had of every nation a traveller, we should lodge them with this sign. [_To Marina._] Pray you, come hither awhile. You have fortunes coming upon you. Mark me: you must seem to do that fearfully which you commit willingly, despise profit where you have most gain. To weep that you live as ye do makes pity in your lovers: seldom but that pity begets you a good opinion, and that opinion a mere profit. MARINA. I understand you not. BOULT. O, take her home, mistress, take her home: these blushes of hers must be quenched with some present practice. BAWD. Thou sayest true, i’faith so they must; for your bride goes to that with shame which is her way to go with warrant. BOULT. Faith, some do and some do not. But, mistress, if I have bargained for the joint,— BAWD. Thou mayst cut a morsel off the spit. BOULT. I may so. BAWD. Who should deny it? Come young one, I like the manner of your garments well. BOULT. Ay, by my faith, they shall not be changed yet. BAWD. Boult, spend thou that in the town: report what a sojourner we have; you’ll lose nothing by custom. When nature framed this piece, she meant thee a good turn; therefore say what a paragon she is, and thou hast the harvest out of thine own report. BOULT. I warrant you, mistress, thunder shall not so awake the beds of eels as my giving out her beauty stirs up the lewdly inclined. I’ll bring home some tonight. BAWD. Come your ways; follow me. MARINA. If fires be hot, knives sharp, or waters deep, Untied I still my virgin knot will keep. Diana, aid my purpose! BAWD. What have we to do with Diana? Pray you, will you go with us? [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Tarsus. A room in Cleon’s house. Enter Cleon and Dionyza. DIONYZA. Why, are you foolish? Can it be undone? CLEON. O, Dionyza, such a piece of slaughter The sun and moon ne’er look’d upon! DIONYZA. I think you’ll turn a child again. CLEON. Were I chief lord of all this spacious world, I’d give it to undo the deed. A lady, Much less in blood than virtue, yet a princess To equal any single crown o’ the earth I’ the justice of compare! O villain Leonine! Whom thou hast poison’d too: If thou hadst drunk to him, ’t had been a kindness Becoming well thy face. What canst thou say When noble Pericles shall demand his child? DIONYZA. That she is dead. Nurses are not the fates, To foster it, nor ever to preserve. She died at night; I’ll say so. Who can cross it? Unless you play the pious innocent, And for an honest attribute cry out ‘She died by foul play.’ CLEON. O, go to. Well, well, Of all the faults beneath the heavens, the gods Do like this worst. DIONYZA. Be one of those that thinks The petty wrens of Tarsus will fly hence, And open this to Pericles. I do shame To think of what a noble strain you are, And of how coward a spirit. CLEON. To such proceeding Whoever but his approbation added, Though not his prime consent, he did not flow From honourable courses. DIONYZA. Be it so, then: Yet none does know, but you, how she came dead, Nor none can know, Leonine being gone. She did distain my child, and stood between Her and her fortunes: none would look on her, But cast their gazes on Marina’s face; Whilst ours was blurted at and held a malkin Not worth the time of day. It pierced me through; And though you call my course unnatural, You not your child well loving, yet I find It greets me as an enterprise of kindness Perform’d to your sole daughter. CLEON. Heavens forgive it! DIONYZA. And as for Pericles, what should he say? We wept after her hearse, and yet we mourn. Her monument is almost finish’d, and her epitaphs In glittering golden characters express A general praise to her, and care in us At whose expense ’tis done. CLEON. Thou art like the harpy, Which, to betray, dost, with thine angel’s face, Seize with thine eagle’s talons. DIONYZA. You are like one that superstitiously Doth swear to the gods that winter kills the flies: But yet I know you’ll do as I advise. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Enter Gower, before the monument of Marina at Tarsus. GOWER. Thus time we waste, and long leagues make short; Sail seas in cockles, have and wish but for’t; Making, to take your imagination, From bourn to bourn, region to region. By you being pardon’d, we commit no crime To use one language in each several clime Where our scenes seem to live. I do beseech you To learn of me, who stand i’the gaps to teach you, The stages of our story. Pericles Is now again thwarting the wayward seas Attended on by many a lord and knight, To see his daughter, all his life’s delight. Old Helicanus goes along. Behind Is left to govern, if you bear in mind, Old Escanes, whom Helicanus late Advanced in time to great and high estate. Well-sailing ships and bounteous winds have brought This king to Tarsus,—think his pilot thought; So with his steerage shall your thoughts go on,— To fetch his daughter home, who first is gone. Like motes and shadows see them move awhile; Your ears unto your eyes I’ll reconcile. Dumb-show. Enter Pericles at one door with all his train; Cleon and Dionyza at the other. Cleon shows Pericles the tomb; whereat Pericles makes lamentation, puts on sackcloth and in a mighty passion departs. Then exeunt Cleon and Dionyza. See how belief may suffer by foul show; This borrow’d passion stands for true old woe; And Pericles, in sorrow all devour’d, With sighs shot through; and biggest tears o’ershower’d, Leaves Tarsus and again embarks. He swears Never to wash his face, nor cut his hairs: He puts on sackcloth, and to sea he bears A tempest, which his mortal vessel tears, And yet he rides it out. Now please you wit The epitaph is for Marina writ By wicked Dionyza. [_Reads the inscription on Marina’s monument._] _The fairest, sweet’st, and best lies here, Who wither’d in her spring of year. She was of Tyrus the King’s daughter, On whom foul death hath made this slaughter; Marina was she call’d; and at her birth, Thetis, being proud, swallow’d some part o’ the earth: Therefore the earth, fearing to be o’erflow’d, Hath Thetis’ birth-child on the heavens bestow’d: Wherefore she does, and swears she’ll never stint, Make raging battery upon shores of flint._ No visor does become black villany So well as soft and tender flattery. Let Pericles believe his daughter’s dead, And bear his courses to be ordered By Lady Fortune; while our scene must play His daughter’s woe and heavy well-a-day In her unholy service. Patience, then, And think you now are all in Mytilene. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Mytilene. A street before the brothel. Enter, from the brothel, two Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Did you ever hear the like? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, nor never shall do in such a place as this, she being once gone. FIRST GENTLEMAN. But to have divinity preached there! did you ever dream of such a thing? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No, no. Come, I am for no more bawdy houses: shall’s go hear the vestals sing? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I’ll do anything now that is virtuous; but I am out of the road of rutting for ever. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. A room in the brothel. Enter Pandar, Bawd and Boult. PANDAR. Well, I had rather than twice the worth of her she had ne’er come here. BAWD. Fie, fie upon her! She’s able to freeze the god Priapus, and undo a whole generation. We must either get her ravished, or be rid of her. When she should do for clients her fitment, and do me the kindness of our profession, she has me her quirks, her reasons, her master reasons, her prayers, her knees; that she would make a puritan of the devil, if he should cheapen a kiss of her. BOULT. Faith, I must ravish her, or she’ll disfurnish us of all our cavaliers, and make our swearers priests. PANDAR. Now, the pox upon her green sickness for me! BAWD. Faith, there’s no way to be rid on’t but by the way to the pox. Here comes the Lord Lysimachus disguised. BOULT. We should have both lord and lown, if the peevish baggage would but give way to customers. Enter Lysimachus. LYSIMACHUS. How now! How a dozen of virginities? BAWD. Now, the gods to bless your honour! BOULT. I am glad to see your honour in good health. LYSIMACHUS. You may so; ’tis the better for you that your resorters stand upon sound legs. How now? Wholesome iniquity have you that a man may deal withal, and defy the surgeon? BAWD. We have here one, sir, if she would—but there never came her like in Mytilene. LYSIMACHUS. If she’d do the deed of darkness, thou wouldst say. BAWD. Your honour knows what ’tis to say well enough. LYSIMACHUS. Well, call forth, call forth. BOULT. For flesh and blood, sir, white and red, you shall see a rose; and she were a rose indeed, if she had but— LYSIMACHUS. What, prithee? BOULT. O, sir, I can be modest. LYSIMACHUS. That dignifies the renown of a bawd no less than it gives a good report to a number to be chaste. [_Exit Boult._] BAWD. Here comes that which grows to the stalk; never plucked yet, I can assure you. Re-enter Boult with Marina. Is she not a fair creature? LYSIMACHUS. Faith, she would serve after a long voyage at sea. Well, there’s for you: leave us. BAWD. I beseech your honour, give me leave: a word, and I’ll have done presently. LYSIMACHUS. I beseech you, do. BAWD. [_To Marina._] First, I would have you note, this is an honourable man. MARINA. I desire to find him so, that I may worthily note him. BAWD. Next, he’s the governor of this country, and a man whom I am bound to. MARINA. If he govern the country, you are bound to him indeed; but how honourable he is in that, I know not. BAWD. Pray you, without any more virginal fencing, will you use him kindly? He will line your apron with gold. MARINA. What he will do graciously, I will thankfully receive. LYSIMACHUS. Ha’ you done? BAWD. My lord, she’s not paced yet: you must take some pains to work her to your manage. Come, we will leave his honour and her together. Go thy ways. [_Exeunt Bawd, Pandar and Boult._] LYSIMACHUS. Now, pretty one, how long have you been at this trade? MARINA. What trade, sir? LYSIMACHUS. Why, I cannot name’t but I shall offend. MARINA. I cannot be offended with my trade. Please you to name it. LYSIMACHUS. How long have you been of this profession? MARINA. E’er since I can remember. LYSIMACHUS. Did you go to’t so young? Were you a gamester at five or at seven? MARINA. Earlier, too, sir, if now I be one. LYSIMACHUS. Why, the house you dwell in proclaims you to be a creature of sale. MARINA. Do you know this house to be a place of such resort, and will come into’t? I hear say you are of honourable parts, and are the governor of this place. LYSIMACHUS. Why, hath your principal made known unto you who I am? MARINA. Who is my principal? LYSIMACHUS. Why, your herb-woman; she that sets seeds and roots of shame and iniquity. O, you have heard something of my power, and so stand aloof for more serious wooing. But I protest to thee, pretty one, my authority shall not see thee, or else look friendly upon thee. Come, bring me to some private place: come, come. MARINA. If you were born to honour, show it now; If put upon you, make the judgement good That thought you worthy of it. LYSIMACHUS. How’s this? how’s this? Some more; be sage. MARINA. For me, That am a maid, though most ungentle Fortune Have placed me in this sty, where, since I came, Diseases have been sold dearer than physic, O, that the gods Would set me free from this unhallow’d place, Though they did change me to the meanest bird That flies i’ the purer air! LYSIMACHUS. I did not think Thou couldst have spoke so well; ne’er dream’d thou couldst. Had I brought hither a corrupted mind, Thy speech had alter’d it. Hold, here’s gold for thee: Persever in that clear way thou goest, And the gods strengthen thee! MARINA. The good gods preserve you! LYSIMACHUS. For me, be you thoughten That I came with no ill intent; for to me The very doors and windows savour vilely. Fare thee well. Thou art a piece of virtue, and I doubt not but thy training hath been noble. Hold, here’s more gold for thee. A curse upon him, die he like a thief, That robs thee of thy goodness! If thou dost Hear from me, it shall be for thy good. Re-enter Boult. BOULT. I beseech your honour, one piece for me. LYSIMACHUS. Avaunt, thou damned door-keeper! Your house but for this virgin that doth prop it, Would sink and overwhelm you. Away! [_Exit._] BOULT. How’s this? We must take another course with you. If your peevish chastity, which is not worth a breakfast in the cheapest country under the cope, shall undo a whole household, let me be gelded like a spaniel. Come your ways. MARINA. Whither would you have me? BOULT. I must have your maidenhead taken off, or the common hangman shall execute it. Come your ways. We’ll have no more gentlemen driven away. Come your ways, I say. Re-enter Bawd. BAWD. How now! what’s the matter? BOULT. Worse and worse, mistress; she has here spoken holy words to the Lord Lysimachus. BAWD. O, abominable! BOULT. She makes our profession as it were to stink afore the face of the gods. BAWD. Marry, hang her up for ever! BOULT. The nobleman would have dealt with her like a nobleman, and she sent him away as cold as a snowball; saying his prayers too. BAWD. Boult, take her away; use her at thy pleasure: crack the glass of her virginity, and make the rest malleable. BOULT. An if she were a thornier piece of ground than she is, she shall be ploughed. MARINA. Hark, hark, you gods! BAWD. She conjures: away with her! Would she had never come within my doors! Marry, hang you! She’s born to undo us. Will you not go the way of womankind? Marry, come up, my dish of chastity with rosemary and bays! [_Exit._] BOULT. Come, mistress; come your way with me. MARINA. Whither wilt thou have me? BOULT. To take from you the jewel you hold so dear. MARINA. Prithee, tell me one thing first. BOULT. Come now, your one thing? MARINA. What canst thou wish thine enemy to be? BOULT. Why, I could wish him to be my master, or rather, my mistress. MARINA. Neither of these are so bad as thou art, Since they do better thee in their command. Thou hold’st a place, for which the pained’st fiend Of hell would not in reputation change: Thou art the damned doorkeeper to every Coistrel that comes inquiring for his Tib. To the choleric fisting of every rogue Thy ear is liable, thy food is such As hath been belch’d on by infected lungs. BOULT. What would you have me do? Go to the wars, would you? where a man may serve seven years for the loss of a leg, and have not money enough in the end to buy him a wooden one? MARINA. Do anything but this thou doest. Empty Old receptacles, or common shores, of filth; Serve by indenture to the common hangman: Any of these ways are yet better than this; For what thou professest, a baboon, could he speak, Would own a name too dear. O, that the gods Would safely deliver me from this place! Here, here’s gold for thee. If that thy master would gain by me, Proclaim that I can sing, weave, sew, and dance, With other virtues, which I’ll keep from boast; And I will undertake all these to teach. I doubt not but this populous city will Yield many scholars. BOULT. But can you teach all this you speak of? MARINA. Prove that I cannot, take me home again, And prostitute me to the basest groom That doth frequent your house. BOULT. Well, I will see what I can do for thee: if I can place thee, I will. MARINA. But amongst honest women. BOULT. Faith, my acquaintance lies little amongst them. But since my master and mistress have bought you, there’s no going but by their consent: therefore I will make them acquainted with your purpose, and I doubt not but I shall find them tractable enough. Come, I’ll do for thee what I can; come your ways. [_Exeunt._] ACT V Enter Gower. GOWER. Marina thus the brothel ’scapes, and chances Into an honest house, our story says. She sings like one immortal, and she dances As goddess-like to her admired lays; Deep clerks she dumbs; and with her nee’le composes Nature’s own shape, of bud, bird, branch, or berry, That even her art sisters the natural roses; Her inkle, silk, twin with the rubied cherry: That pupils lacks she none of noble race, Who pour their bounty on her; and her gain She gives the cursed bawd. Here we her place; And to her father turn our thoughts again, Where we left him, on the sea. We there him lost; Whence, driven before the winds, he is arrived Here where his daughter dwells; and on this coast Suppose him now at anchor. The city strived God Neptune’s annual feast to keep: from whence Lysimachus our Tyrian ship espies, His banners sable, trimm’d with rich expense; And to him in his barge with fervour hies. In your supposing once more put your sight Of heavy Pericles; think this his bark: Where what is done in action, more, if might, Shall be discover’d; please you, sit and hark. [_Exit._] SCENE I. On board Pericles’ ship, off Mytilene. A close pavilion on deck, with a curtain before it; Pericles within it, reclined on a couch. A barge lying beside the Tyrian vessel. Enter two Sailors, one belonging to the Tyrian vessel, the other to the barge; to them Helicanus. TYRIAN SAILOR. [_To the Sailor of Mytilene._] Where is lord Helicanus? He can resolve you. O, here he is. Sir, there’s a barge put off from Mytilene, And in it is Lysimachus the governor, Who craves to come aboard. What is your will? HELICANUS. That he have his. Call up some gentlemen. TYRIAN SAILOR. Ho, gentlemen! my lord calls. Enter two or three Gentlemen. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Doth your lordship call? HELICANUS. Gentlemen, there is some of worth would come aboard; I pray ye, greet them fairly. [_The Gentlemen and the two Sailors descend and go on board the barge._] Enter, from thence, Lysimachus and Lords; with the Gentlemen and the two Sailors. TYRIAN SAILOR. Sir, This is the man that can, in aught you would, Resolve you. LYSIMACHUS. Hail, reverend sir! the gods preserve you! HELICANUS. And you, sir, to outlive the age I am, And die as I would do. LYSIMACHUS. You wish me well. Being on shore, honouring of Neptune’s triumphs, Seeing this goodly vessel ride before us, I made to it, to know of whence you are. HELICANUS. First, what is your place? LYSIMACHUS. I am the governor of this place you lie before. HELICANUS. Sir, our vessel is of Tyre, in it the king; A man who for this three months hath not spoken To anyone, nor taken sustenance But to prorogue his grief. LYSIMACHUS. Upon what ground is his distemperature? HELICANUS. ’Twould be too tedious to repeat; But the main grief springs from the loss Of a beloved daughter and a wife. LYSIMACHUS. May we not see him? HELICANUS. You may; But bootless is your sight: he will not speak To any. LYSIMACHUS. Yet let me obtain my wish. HELICANUS. Behold him. [_Pericles discovered._] This was a goodly person. Till the disaster that, one mortal night, Drove him to this. LYSIMACHUS. Sir king, all hail! The gods preserve you! Hail, royal sir! HELICANUS. It is in vain; he will not speak to you. FIRST LORD. Sir, we have a maid in Mytilene, I durst wager, Would win some words of him. LYSIMACHUS. ’Tis well bethought. She questionless with her sweet harmony And other chosen attractions, would allure, And make a battery through his deafen’d parts, Which now are midway stopp’d: She is all happy as the fairest of all, And, with her fellow maids, is now upon The leafy shelter that abuts against The island’s side. [_Whispers a Lord who goes off in the barge of Lysimachus._] HELICANUS. Sure, all’s effectless; yet nothing we’ll omit That bears recovery’s name. But, since your kindness We have stretch’d thus far, let us beseech you That for our gold we may provision have, Wherein we are not destitute for want, But weary for the staleness. LYSIMACHUS. O, sir, a courtesy Which if we should deny, the most just gods For every graff would send a caterpillar, And so inflict our province. Yet once more Let me entreat to know at large the cause Of your king’s sorrow. HELICANUS. Sit, sir, I will recount it to you: But, see, I am prevented. Re-enter from the barge, Lord with Marina and a young Lady. LYSIMACHUS. O, here is the lady that I sent for. Welcome, fair one! Is’t not a goodly presence? HELICANUS. She’s a gallant lady. LYSIMACHUS. She’s such a one, that, were I well assured Came of a gentle kind and noble stock, I’d wish no better choice, and think me rarely wed. Fair one, all goodness that consists in bounty Expect even here, where is a kingly patient: If that thy prosperous and artificial feat Can draw him but to answer thee in aught, Thy sacred physic shall receive such pay As thy desires can wish. MARINA. Sir, I will use My utmost skill in his recovery, provided That none but I and my companion maid Be suffer’d to come near him. LYSIMACHUS. Come, let us leave her, And the gods make her prosperous! [_Marina sings._] LYSIMACHUS. Mark’d he your music? MARINA. No, nor look’d on us. LYSIMACHUS. See, she will speak to him. MARINA. Hail, sir! My lord, lend ear. PERICLES. Hum, ha! MARINA. I am a maid, My lord, that ne’er before invited eyes, But have been gazed on like a comet: she speaks, My lord, that, may be, hath endured a grief Might equal yours, if both were justly weigh’d. Though wayward Fortune did malign my state, My derivation was from ancestors Who stood equivalent with mighty kings: But time hath rooted out my parentage, And to the world and awkward casualties Bound me in servitude. [_Aside._] I will desist; But there is something glows upon my cheek, And whispers in mine ear ‘Go not till he speak.’ PERICLES. My fortunes—parentage—good parentage— To equal mine!—was it not thus? what say you? MARINA. I said, my lord, if you did know my parentage, You would not do me violence. PERICLES. I do think so. Pray you, turn your eyes upon me. You are like something that—what country-woman? Here of these shores? MARINA. No, nor of any shores: Yet I was mortally brought forth, and am No other than I appear. PERICLES. I am great with woe, and shall deliver weeping. My dearest wife was like this maid, and such a one My daughter might have been: my queen’s square brows; Her stature to an inch; as wand-like straight; As silver-voiced; her eyes as jewel-like And cased as richly; in pace another Juno; Who starves the ears she feeds, and makes them hungry, The more she gives them speech. Where do you live? MARINA. Where I am but a stranger: from the deck You may discern the place. PERICLES. Where were you bred? And how achieved you these endowments, which You make more rich to owe? MARINA. If I should tell my history, it would seem Like lies disdain’d in the reporting. PERICLES. Prithee, speak: Falseness cannot come from thee; for thou look’st Modest as Justice, and thou seem’st a palace For the crown’d Truth to dwell in: I will believe thee, And make my senses credit thy relation To points that seem impossible; for thou look’st Like one I loved indeed. What were thy friends? Didst thou not say, when I did push thee back— Which was when I perceived thee—that thou cam’st From good descending? MARINA. So indeed I did. PERICLES. Report thy parentage. I think thou said’st Thou hadst been toss’d from wrong to injury, And that thou thought’st thy griefs might equal mine, If both were open’d. MARINA. Some such thing, I said, and said no more but what my thoughts Did warrant me was likely. PERICLES. Tell thy story; If thine consider’d prove the thousand part Of my endurance, thou art a man, and I Have suffer’d like a girl: yet thou dost look Like Patience gazing on kings’ graves, and smiling Extremity out of act. What were thy friends? How lost thou them? Thy name, my most kind virgin? Recount, I do beseech thee: come, sit by me. MARINA. My name is Marina. PERICLES. O, I am mock’d, And thou by some incensed god sent hither To make the world to laugh at me. MARINA. Patience, good sir, Or here I’ll cease. PERICLES. Nay, I’ll be patient. Thou little know’st how thou dost startle me, To call thyself Marina. MARINA. The name Was given me by one that had some power, My father, and a king. PERICLES. How! a king’s daughter? And call’d Marina? MARINA. You said you would believe me; But, not to be a troubler of your peace, I will end here. PERICLES. But are you flesh and blood? Have you a working pulse? and are no fairy? Motion! Well; speak on. Where were you born? And wherefore call’d Marina? MARINA. Call’d Marina For I was born at sea. PERICLES. At sea! What mother? MARINA. My mother was the daughter of a king; Who died the minute I was born, As my good nurse Lychorida hath oft Deliver’d weeping. PERICLES. O, stop there a little! [_Aside._] This is the rarest dream that e’er dull sleep Did mock sad fools withal: this cannot be: My daughter, buried. Well, where were you bred? I’ll hear you more, to the bottom of your story, And never interrupt you. MARINA. You scorn: believe me, ’twere best I did give o’er. PERICLES. I will believe you by the syllable Of what you shall deliver. Yet, give me leave: How came you in these parts? Where were you bred? MARINA. The king my father did in Tarsus leave me; Till cruel Cleon, with his wicked wife, Did seek to murder me: and having woo’d A villain to attempt it, who having drawn to do’t, A crew of pirates came and rescued me; Brought me to Mytilene. But, good sir. Whither will you have me? Why do you weep? It may be, You think me an impostor: no, good faith; I am the daughter to King Pericles, If good King Pericles be. PERICLES. Ho, Helicanus! Enter Helicanus and Lysimachus. HELICANUS. Calls my lord? PERICLES. Thou art a grave and noble counsellor, Most wise in general: tell me, if thou canst, What this maid is, or what is like to be, That thus hath made me weep. HELICANUS. I know not, But here is the regent, sir, of Mytilene Speaks nobly of her. LYSIMACHUS. She would never tell Her parentage; being demanded that, She would sit still and weep. PERICLES. O Helicanus, strike me, honour’d sir; Give me a gash, put me to present pain; Lest this great sea of joys rushing upon me O’erbear the shores of my mortality, And drown me with their sweetness. [_To Marina_] O, come hither, Thou that beget’st him that did thee beget; Thou that wast born at sea, buried at Tarsus, And found at sea again! O Helicanus, Down on thy knees, thank the holy gods as loud As thunder threatens us: this is Marina. What was thy mother’s name? tell me but that, For truth can never be confirm’d enough, Though doubts did ever sleep. MARINA. First, sir, I pray, what is your title? PERICLES. I am Pericles of Tyre: but tell me now My drown’d queen’s name, as in the rest you said Thou hast been godlike perfect, The heir of kingdoms and another life To Pericles thy father. MARINA. Is it no more to be your daughter than To say my mother’s name was Thaisa? Thaisa was my mother, who did end The minute I began. PERICLES. Now, blessing on thee! rise; thou art my child. Give me fresh garments. Mine own, Helicanus; She is not dead at Tarsus, as she should have been, By savage Cleon: she shall tell thee all; When thou shalt kneel, and justify in knowledge She is thy very princess. Who is this? HELICANUS. Sir, ’tis the governor of Mytilene, Who, hearing of your melancholy state, Did come to see you. PERICLES. I embrace you. Give me my robes. I am wild in my beholding. O heavens bless my girl! But, hark, what music? Tell Helicanus, my Marina, tell him O’er, point by point, for yet he seems to doubt, How sure you are my daughter. But, what music? HELICANUS. My lord, I hear none. PERICLES. None! The music of the spheres! List, my Marina. LYSIMACHUS. It is not good to cross him; give him way. PERICLES. Rarest sounds! Do ye not hear? LYSIMACHUS. Music, my lord? I hear. [_Music._] PERICLES. Most heavenly music! It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber Hangs upon mine eyes: let me rest. [_Sleeps._] LYSIMACHUS. A pillow for his head: So, leave him all. Well, my companion friends, If this but answer to my just belief, I’ll well remember you. [_Exeunt all but Pericles._] Diana appears to Pericles as in a vision. DIANA. My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither, And do upon mine altar sacrifice. There, when my maiden priests are met together, Before the people all, Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife: To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call And give them repetition to the life. Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe: Do it, and happy; by my silver bow! Awake and tell thy dream. [_Disappears._] PERICLES. Celestial Dian, goddess argentine, I will obey thee. Helicanus! Re-enter Helicanus, Lysimachus and Marina. HELICANUS. Sir? PERICLES. My purpose was for Tarsus, there to strike The inhospitable Cleon; but I am For other service first: toward Ephesus Turn our blown sails; eftsoons I’ll tell thee why. [_To Lysimachus._] Shall we refresh us, sir, upon your shore, And give you gold for such provision As our intents will need? LYSIMACHUS. Sir, with all my heart, And when you come ashore I have another suit. PERICLES. You shall prevail, were it to woo my daughter; For it seems you have been noble towards her. LYSIMACHUS. Sir, lend me your arm. PERICLES. Come, my Marina. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Enter Gower before the temple of Diana at Ephesus. GOWER. Now our sands are almost run; More a little, and then dumb. This, my last boon, give me, For such kindness must relieve me, That you aptly will suppose What pageantry, what feats, what shows, What minstrelsy, and pretty din, The regent made in Mytilene To greet the king. So he thrived, That he is promised to be wived To fair Marina; but in no wise Till he had done his sacrifice, As Dian bade: whereto being bound, The interim, pray you, all confound. In feather’d briefness sails are fill’d, And wishes fall out as they’re will’d. At Ephesus, the temple see, Our king and all his company. That he can hither come so soon, Is by your fancy’s thankful doom. [_Exit._] SCENE III. The temple of Diana at Ephesus; Thaisa standing near the altar, as high priestess; a number of Virgins on each side; Cerimon and other inhabitants of Ephesus attending. Enter Pericles with his train; Lysimachus, Helicanus, Marina and a Lady. PERICLES. Hail, Dian! to perform thy just command, I here confess myself the King of Tyre; Who, frighted from my country, did wed At Pentapolis the fair Thaisa. At sea in childbed died she, but brought forth A maid child call’d Marina; whom, O goddess, Wears yet thy silver livery. She at Tarsus Was nursed with Cleon; who at fourteen years He sought to murder: but her better stars Brought her to Mytilene; ’gainst whose shore Riding, her fortunes brought the maid aboard us, Where by her own most clear remembrance, she Made known herself my daughter. THAISA. Voice and favour! You are, you are—O royal Pericles! [_Faints._] PERICLES. What means the nun? She dies! help, gentlemen! CERIMON. Noble sir, If you have told Diana’s altar true, This is your wife. PERICLES. Reverend appearer, no; I threw her overboard with these very arms. CERIMON. Upon this coast, I warrant you. PERICLES. ’Tis most certain. CERIMON. Look to the lady; O, she’s but o’er-joy’d. Early in blustering morn this lady was Thrown upon this shore. I oped the coffin, Found there rich jewels; recover’d her, and placed her Here in Diana’s temple. PERICLES. May we see them? CERIMON. Great sir, they shall be brought you to my house, Whither I invite you. Look, Thaisa is Recovered. THAISA. O, let me look! If he be none of mine, my sanctity Will to my sense bend no licentious ear, But curb it, spite of seeing. O, my lord, Are you not Pericles? Like him you spake, Like him you are: did you not name a tempest, A birth, and death? PERICLES. The voice of dead Thaisa! THAISA. That Thaisa am I, supposed dead And drown’d. PERICLES. Immortal Dian! THAISA. Now I know you better, When we with tears parted Pentapolis, The king my father gave you such a ring. [_Shows a ring._] PERICLES. This, this: no more, you gods! your present kindness Makes my past miseries sports: you shall do well, That on the touching of her lips I may Melt and no more be seen. O, come, be buried A second time within these arms. MARINA. My heart Leaps to be gone into my mother’s bosom. [_Kneels to Thaisa._] PERICLES. Look, who kneels here! Flesh of thy flesh, Thaisa; Thy burden at the sea, and call’d Marina For she was yielded there. THAISA. Blest, and mine own! HELICANUS. Hail, madam, and my queen! THAISA. I know you not. PERICLES. You have heard me say, when I did fly from Tyre, I left behind an ancient substitute: Can you remember what I call’d the man? I have named him oft. THAISA. ’Twas Helicanus then. PERICLES. Still confirmation: Embrace him, dear Thaisa; this is he. Now do I long to hear how you were found: How possibly preserved; and who to thank, Besides the gods, for this great miracle. THAISA. Lord Cerimon, my lord; this man, Through whom the gods have shown their power; that can From first to last resolve you. PERICLES. Reverend sir, The gods can have no mortal officer More like a god than you. Will you deliver How this dead queen relives? CERIMON. I will, my lord. Beseech you, first go with me to my house, Where shall be shown you all was found with her; How she came placed here in the temple; No needful thing omitted. PERICLES. Pure Dian, bless thee for thy vision! I Will offer night-oblations to thee. Thaisa, This prince, the fair betrothed of your daughter, Shall marry her at Pentapolis. And now this ornament Makes me look dismal will I clip to form; And what this fourteen years no razor touch’d To grace thy marriage-day, I’ll beautify. THAISA. Lord Cerimon hath letters of good credit, sir, My father’s dead. PERICLES. Heavens make a star of him! Yet there, my queen, We’ll celebrate their nuptials, and ourselves Will in that kingdom spend our following days: Our son and daughter shall in Tyrus reign. Lord Cerimon, we do our longing stay To hear the rest untold. Sir, lead’s the way. [_Exeunt._] Enter Gower. GOWER. In Antiochus and his daughter you have heard Of monstrous lust the due and just reward: In Pericles, his queen and daughter seen, Although assail’d with Fortune fierce and keen, Virtue preserved from fell destruction’s blast, Led on by heaven, and crown’d with joy at last. In Helicanus may you well descry A figure of truth, of faith, of loyalty: In reverend Cerimon there well appears The worth that learned charity aye wears: For wicked Cleon and his wife, when fame Had spread their cursed deed, the honour’d name Of Pericles, to rage the city turn, That him and his they in his palace burn. The gods for murder seemed so content To punish, although not done, but meant. So on your patience evermore attending, New joy wait on you! Here our play has ending. [_Exit._] THE LIFE AND DEATH OF KING RICHARD THE SECOND Contents ACT I Scene I. London. A Room in the palace. Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke of Lancaster’s palace. Scene III. Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending. Scene IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle. ACT II Scene I. London. An Apartment in Ely House. Scene II. The Same. A Room in the Castle. Scene III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire. Scene IV. A camp in Wales. ACT III Scene I. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp. Scene II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view. Scene III. Wales. Before Flint Castle. Scene IV. Langley. The Duke of York’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. Westminster Hall. ACT V Scene I. London. A street leading to the Tower. Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace. Scene III. Windsor. A room in the Castle. Scene IV. Another room in the Castle. Scene V. Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle. Scene VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. Dramatis Personæ 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 LORD BERKELEY BUSHY - Servant to King Richard BAGOT - Servant to King Richard GREEN - Servant to King Richard EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND HARRY PERCY, surnamed Hotspur, his son LORD ROSS LORD WILLOUGHBY LORD FITZWATER BISHOP OF CARLISLE ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER LORD MARSHAL SIR PIERCE OF EXTON SIR STEPHEN SCROOP Captain of a band of Welshmen QUEEN TO KING RICHARD DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER DUCHESS OF YORK Lady attending on the Queen Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Gardeners, Keeper, Messenger, Groom, and other Attendants SCENE: Dispersedly in England and Wales. ACT I SCENE I. London. A Room in the palace. Enter King 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 Aimed 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-stomached 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 cooled for this. Yet can I not of such tame patience boast As to be hushed and naught at all 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 returned 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 Wherever 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 received eight thousand nobles In name of lendings for your highness’ soldiers, The which he hath detained 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 surveyed 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, Sluiced 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 sayst 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 ears. 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 Disbursed I duly to his highness’ soldiers; The other part reserved 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 received the sacrament I did confess it and exactly begged Your Grace’s pardon, and I hope I had it. This is my fault. As for the rest appealed, 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 chambered in his bosom. In haste whereof most heartily I pray Your highness to assign our trial day. KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be ruled 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 disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander’s venomed spear, The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood Which breathed 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-barred-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 outdared 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 cannot 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 II. The same. A room in 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 cracked, and all the precious liquor spilt, Is hacked 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 metal, that self mould, that fashioned 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 slaughtered, 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 caused 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 unfurnished 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 everywhere. Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die! The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Open Space, near Coventry. Lists set out, and a Throne. Heralds, &c., attending. Enter the Lord Marshal and the Duke of Aumerle. MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford armed? AUMERLE. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in. MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, sprightfully and bold, Stays but the summons of the appelant’s trumpet. AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepared and stay For nothing but his Majesty’s approach. Enter King Richard, who takes his seat on his Throne; Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Green and others, who take their places. A trumpet is sounded, and answered by another trumpet within. Then enter Mowbray in armour, defendant, preceded by 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. [_He takes his seat._] Trumpet sounds. Enter Bolingbroke, appellant, in armour, preceded by 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’s 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. [_Descends from his throne_.] 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 today thou shed, Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead. BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear For me, if I be gored 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! [_He takes his seat._] MOWBRAY. [_Rising_.] 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 uncontrolled 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. [_The King and the Lords return to their seats._] MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, Receive thy lance; and God defend the right. BOLINGBROKE. [_Rising_.] 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._] [_To the Combatants_.] Draw near, And list what with our council we have done. For that our kingdom’s earth should not be soiled With that dear blood which it hath fostered; And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbours’ swords; 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 roused up with boist’rous untuned 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 enriched 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 unlooked 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 cased up Or, being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue, Doubly portcullised 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 country’s light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night. [_Retiring._] KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee. Lay on our royal sword your banished 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 wandered in the air, Banished this frail sepulchre of our flesh, As now our flesh is banished 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 banished 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, all 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 banished years Plucked 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 canst 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 banished 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 urged 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 destroyed. Alas, I looked 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 Richard and 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 return’st 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 borne. Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour, And not the King exiled 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 strewed, 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 it bites but lanceth not the sore. GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I’ll bring thee on thy way. Had I thy youth 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 banished, yet a true-born Englishman. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the King’s Castle Enter King Richard, Green and Bagot at one door; 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 highway, and there I left him. KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed? AUMERLE. Faith, none for me, except the northeast wind, Which then blew bitterly against our faces, Awaked 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 seemed buried in my sorrow’s grave. Marry, would the word “farewell” have lengthened 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, Observed 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 yield 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 enforced 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 posthaste To entreat your Majesty to visit him. KING RICHARD. Where lies he? BUSHY. At Ely House. KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in his 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. An Apartment in Ely House. Gaunt on a couch; the Duke of York and Others standing by him. 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 listened more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose. More are men’s ends marked 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 stopped with other flattering sounds, As praises, of whose state 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 buzzed 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 inspired, 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 sceptered 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, Feared 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 leased 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 Richard and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, Green, Bagot, Ross and Willoughby. YORK. The King is come. Deal mildly with his youth, For young hot colts, being raged, 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 watched; Watching breeds leanness, leanness is all 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, Committ’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, encaged 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 possessed, Which art possessed 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 tapped out, and drunkenly caroused. 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 off 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 possessed. 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 raged more fierce, In peace was never gentle lamb more mild, Than was that young and princely gentleman. His face thou hast, for even so looked he, Accomplished with the number of thy hours; But when he frowned, 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’s 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, pleased Not to be pardoned, am content withal. Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands The royalties and rights of banished 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 tomorrow then ensue today; 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 offered 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. Tomorrow 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 loved us well. Come on, our queen. Tomorrow must we part; Be merry, for our time of stay is short. [_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 all, That will the King severely prosecute ’Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs. ROSS. The commons hath he pilled with grievous taxes, And quite lost their hearts. The nobles hath he fined For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts. WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devised, As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what. But what, i’ God’s name, doth become of this? NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warred he hath not, But basely yielded upon compromise That which his ancestors achieved 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 banished 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 wrack that we must suffer; And unavoided is the danger now For suffering so the causes of our wrack. 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, received 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 Coint, All these well furnished by the Duke of Brittany 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 blemished 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 II. The Same. A Room in the Castle. Enter Queen, Bushy and Bagot. BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad. You promised, 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 something 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 gazed upon, Show nothing but confusion; eyed awry, Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty, Looking awry upon your lord’s departure, Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail, Which, looked on as it is, is naught 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 thought, in 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 derived 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 shipped for Ireland. QUEEN. Why hop’st thou so? ’Tis better hope he is, For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope. Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipped? GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retired his power, And driven into despair an enemy’s hope Who strongly hath set footing in this land. The banished Bolingbroke repeals himself, And with uplifted arms is safe arrived At Ravenspurgh. QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid! GREEN. Ah, madam, ’tis too true; and that is worse, The Lord Northumberland, his son young Harry Percy, The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby, With all their powerful friends, are fled to him. BUSHY. Why have you not proclaimed Northumberland And all the rest revolted faction traitors? GREEN. We have, whereupon the Earl of Worcester Hath broken his staff, resigned 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-delivered mother, Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow joined. 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 flattered 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: Today, 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 provoked him to it, The King had cut off my head with my brother’s. What, are there no posts dispatched 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. Th’ one is my sovereign, whom both my oath And duty bids defend; th’ other again Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wronged, 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 Castle. 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 condemned. 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 Bristol 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 like 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 III. The Wolds in Gloucestershire. Enter Bolingbroke and Northumberland with 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 Cotshall will be found In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company, Which, I protest, hath very much beguiled The tediousness and process of my travel. But theirs is sweetened with the hope to have The present benefit which I possess; And hope to joy is little less in joy Than hope enjoyed. 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 learned 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 dispersed The household of the King. NORTHUMBERLAND. What was his reason? He was not so resolved 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, Manned 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 banished traitor. All my treasury Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enriched, 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 rase 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 banished and forbidden legs Dared once to touch a dust of England’s ground? But then more why: why have they dared to march So many miles upon her peaceful bosom, Frighting her pale-faced 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 thee 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 banished man, and here art come, Before the expiration of thy time, In braving arms against thy sovereign. BOLINGBROKE. As I was banished, I was banished 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 condemned A wandering vagabond, my rights and royalties Plucked 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 distrained and sold, And these, and all, are all amiss employed. What would you have me do? I am a subject, And 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 laboured 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 Bristol 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 IV. A camp in Wales. Enter Earl of Salisbury and a Welsh Captain. CAPTAIN. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stayed 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 withered, And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven; The pale-faced moon looks bloody on the earth, And lean-looked 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 assured 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. Thy 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. Bristol. Bolingbroke’s camp. Enter Bolingbroke, York, Northumberland, Harry Percy, Willoughby, Ross; Officers behind, with 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 stained 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 stooped my neck under your injuries And sighed my English breath in foreign clouds, Eating the bitter bread of banishment, Whilst you have fed upon my signories, Disparked my parks and felled my forest woods, From my own windows torn my household coat, Rased 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 dispatched. [_Exeunt Northumberland and Others, with Bushy and Green._] 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 dispatched With letters of your love to her at large. BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away, To fight with Glendower and his complices. A while to work, and after holiday. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The coast of Wales. A castle in view. Flourish: drums and trumpets. Enter King Richard, the Bishop of Carlisle, Aumerle and soldiers. KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle call 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 embraced 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 plucked from off their backs, Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves? So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke, Who all this while hath revelled 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 pressed 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! Today, today, 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, dispersed, 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 Sir Stephen Scroop. SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege Than can my care-tuned tongue deliver him. KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart prepared. 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, loss, decay. The worst is death, and death will have his day. SCROOP. Glad am I that your highness is so armed 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 dissolved 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. Whitebeards have armed 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 ill. 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, damned without redemption! Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man! Snakes, in my heart-blood warmed, 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! 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, graved in the hollow ground. AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead? SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristol 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 all are Bolingbroke’s, And nothing can we call 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 deposed, some slain in war, Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed, Some poisoned by their wives, some sleeping killed, All murdered. 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 feared, and kill with looks, Infusing him with self and vain conceit, As if this flesh which walls about our life Were brass impregnable; and, humoured 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. Enquire 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 overblown; 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 joined 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 III. Wales. Before Flint Castle. Enter, with drum and colours, Bolingbroke and Forces; Northumberland and Others. BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn The Welshmen are dispersed, 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 o’er our heads. BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle, and oppose not myself Against their will. But who comes here? Enter Harry Percy. Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield? PERCY. The castle royally is manned, 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 ruined 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 repealed And lands restored again be freely granted. If not, I’ll use the advantage of my power And lay the summer’s dust with showers of blood Rained 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. Let’s march without the noise of threat’ning drum, That from this castle’s tottered battlements Our fair appointments may be well perused. 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. A parley sounded, and answered by a trumpet within. 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 amazed, 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 dismissed 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 rushed 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 and 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 accomplished without contradiction. With all the gracious utterance thou hast, Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends. [_Northumberland returns to Bolingbroke._] [_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 deposed? The King shall be contented. Must he lose The name of King? I’ 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 figured 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 highway, 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 digged 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 Phaëthon, 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 King Richard and his attendants. BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart, And show fair duty to his Majesty. [_Kneeling_.] 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 unpleased eye see your courtesy. Up, cousin, up. Your heart is up, I know, 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 IV. Langley. 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. 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 everyone doth so Against a change; woe is forerun with woe. [_Queen and Ladies retire._] Enter a Gardener and two Servants. GARDENER. Go, bind thou up young 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 like 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 employed, 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 choked up, Her fruit trees all unpruned, her hedges ruined, Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs Swarming with caterpillars? GARDENER. Hold thy peace. He that hath suffered this disordered spring Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf. The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter, That seemed in eating him to hold him up, Are plucked 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 seized the wasteful King. O, what pity is it That he had not so trimmed and dressed 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 lived 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. Depressed he is already, and deposed ’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 pressed 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 thee To make a second fall of cursed man? Why dost thou say King Richard is deposed? 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 I To breathe this news; yet what I say is true. King Richard, he is in the mighty hold Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weighed. 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 everyone 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 I. Westminster Hall. The Lords spiritual on the right side of the throne; the Lords temporal on the left; the Commons below. Enter Bolingbroke, Aumerle, Surrey, Northumberland, Harry Percy, Fitzwater, another Lord, the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster and attendants. BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot. Enter Officers with Bagot. Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind, What thou dost know of noble Gloucester’s death, Who wrought it with the King, and who performed 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 delivered. 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 soiled 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, though 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 moved 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 damned to hell for this. HARRY 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. And if I do not, may my hands rot off 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 full as many lies As may be holloaed in thy treacherous ear From sun to sun. There is my honour’s pawn. Engage it to the trial if thou dar’st. 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 lie 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 banished 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 repealed to try his honour. BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage Till Norfolk be repealed. Repealed he shall be, And, though mine enemy, restored again To all his lands and signories. When he is returned, Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial. CARLISLE. That honourable day shall ne’er be seen. Many a time hath banished Norfolk fought For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field, Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens; And, toiled with works of war, retired 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 thee From plume-plucked 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, of that name the fourth! 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 judged 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 judged by subject and inferior breath, And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God, That in a Christian climate souls refined Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed! I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks, Stirred 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 called 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 looked for at your helping hands. Enter York with King Richard and Officers bearing the Crown, &c. KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king Before I have shook off the regal thoughts Wherewith I reigned? I hardly yet have learned 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 full 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 grieved, And thou with all pleased that hast all achieved. Long mayst thou live in Richard’s seat to sit, And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit! God save King Henry, unkinged Richard says, And send him many years of sunshine days! What more remains? NORTHUMBERLAND. [_Offering a paper_.] 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 deposed. KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out My weaved-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, Marked with a blot, damned 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 delivered 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 title, No, not that name was given me at the font, But ’tis usurped. 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 faced so many follies, That was at last outfaced 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, cracked in an hundred shivers. Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport, How soon my sorrow hath destroyed my face. BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroyed 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 tortured 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 and Guard._] BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves. [_Exeunt all but the Bishop of Carlisle, the Abbot of Westminster 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 I. London. A street leading to the Tower. Enter the Queen and ladies. 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 doomed 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-favoured grief be lodged 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 awaked, the truth of what we are Shows us but this. I am sworn brother, sweet, To grim Necessity, and he and I 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 Transformed and weakened! Hath Bolingbroke Deposed 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’erpowered; 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 tak’st, 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 changed. 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 knowst the way To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again, Being ne’er so little urged, 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 divorced! 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. [_They kiss._] QUEEN. Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part To take on me to keep and kill thy heart. [_They kiss again._] 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 II. The same. A room in the Duke of York’s palace. Enter York and his 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 seemed 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 passed along. DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! Where rode he the whilst? YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men After a well-graced 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, steeled 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. Enter Aumerle. 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 Rutland now. I am in Parliament pledge for his truth And lasting fealty to the new-made king. 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 cropped before you come to prime. What news from Oxford? Do these jousts 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 hangs 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 entered 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. [_Snatches it 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, what is it, my lord? YORK. Give me my boots, I say. Saddle my horse. Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth, I will appeach the villain. [_Exit Servant._] 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. Re-enter Servant with boots. DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle! Poor boy, thou art amazed. [_To Servant_.] Hence, villain! Never more come in my sight. [_Exit Servant._] 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 groaned 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 pardoned thee. Away, be gone! [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Windsor. A room in the Castle. Enter Bolingbroke as King, Harry Percy and other Lords. KING HENRY. 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, While 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. KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. 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. AUMERLE. Where is the King? KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone. [_Exeunt Harry Percy and Lords._] What is the matter with our cousin now? AUMERLE. [_Kneels_.] For ever may my knees grow to the earth, My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth, Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak. KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. Have thy desire. [_Aumerle locks the door._] YORK. [_Within_.] My liege, beware! Look to thyself! Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there. KING HENRY. [_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. [_King Henry unlocks the door; and afterwards, relocks it._] Enter York. KING HENRY. 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 passed. 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. KING HENRY. 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 defiled 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 shamed 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_.] What ho, my liege! For God’s sake, let me in! KING HENRY. What shrill-voiced 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 begged before. KING HENRY. Our scene is altered from a serious thing, And now changed to “The Beggar and the King.” My dangerous cousin, let your mother in. I know she’s come to pray for your foul sin. Enter Duchess. YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray, More sins for this forgiveness prosper may. This festered joint cut off, the rest rest sound; This let alone will all the rest confound. 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. [_Kneels_.] Hear me, gentle liege. KING HENRY. 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 outpray his; then let them have That mercy which true prayer ought to have. KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. Nay, 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 longed 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. KING HENRY. Good aunt, stand up. DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand. Pardon is all the suit I have in hand. KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. With all my heart I pardon him. DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art. KING HENRY. 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 prayed, and prove you true. DUCHESS. Come, my old son. I pray God make thee new. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another room in the Castle. Enter 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 urged it twice together, did he not? SERVANT. He did. EXTON. And speaking it, he wishtly looked 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 V. Pomfret. The dungeon of the Castle. Enter Richard. 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 intermixed 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 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 endured 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 kinged again, and by and by Think that I am unkinged by Bolingbroke, And straight am nothing. But whate’er I be, Nor I nor any man that but man is With nothing shall be pleased till he be eased With being nothing. Music do I hear? [_Music_.] 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 disordered 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 o’ 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! 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 erned 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 dressed. RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend, How went he under him? GROOM. So proudly as if he disdained the ground. 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 awed by man, Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse, And yet I bear a burden like an ass, Spurred, galled and tired by jauncing Bolingbroke. Enter Keeper with a dish. KEEPER. [_To the Groom_.] Fellow, give place. Here is no longer stay. 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? 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. RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee! Patience is stale, and I am weary of it. [_Strikes the Keeper._] KEEPER. Help, help, help! Enter Exton and Servants, armed. 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 stained 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 spilled. 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 VI. Windsor. An Apartment in the Castle. Flourish. Enter King Henry and York with Lords and Attendants. KING HENRY. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear Is that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester 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. KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot. Right noble is thy merit, well I wot. Enter Harry 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. KING HENRY. 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, bearing 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. KING HENRY. 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. KING HENRY. 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._] KING RICHARD THE THIRD Contents ACT I Scene I. London. A street Scene II. London. Another street Scene III. London. A Room in the Palace Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower ACT II Scene I. London. A Room in the palace Scene II. Another Room in the palace Scene III. London. A street Scene IV. London. A Room in the Palace ACT III Scene I. London. A street Scene II. Before Lord Hastings’ house Scene III. Pomfret. Before the Castle Scene IV. London. A Room in the Tower Scene V. London. The Tower Walls Scene VI. London. A street Scene VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle ACT IV Scene I. London. Before the Tower Scene II. London. A Room of State in the Palace Scene III. London. Another Room in the Palace Scene IV. London. Before the Palace Scene V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house ACT V Scene I. Salisbury. An open place Scene II. Plain near Tamworth Scene III. Bosworth Field Scene IV. Another part of the Field Scene V. Another part of the Field Dramatis Personæ RICHARD, DUKE OF GLOUCESTER, afterwards KING RICHARD III. LADY ANNE, widow to Edward, Prince of Wales, son to King Henry VI.; afterwards married to the Duke of Gloucester KING EDWARD THE FOURTH, brother to Richard QUEEN ELIZABETH, Queen to King Edward IV. Sons to the king: EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, afterwards KING EDWARD V. RICHARD, DUKE OF YORK GEORGE, DUKE OF CLARENCE, brother to Edward and Richard BOY, son to Clarence GIRL, daughter to Clarence DUCHESS OF YORK, mother to King Edward IV., Clarence, and Gloucester QUEEN MARGARET, widow to King Henry VI. DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD HASTINGS, the Lord Chamberlain LORD STANLEY, the Earl of Derby EARL RIVERS, brother to Queen Elizabeth LORD GREY, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage MARQUESS OF DORSET, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE LORD LOVELL DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII. EARL OF OXFORD SIR JAMES BLUNT SIR WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY John Morton, BISHOP OF ELY SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower SIR JAMES TYRREL Another Priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c. SCENE: England ACT I SCENE I. London. A street Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone. RICHARD. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that loured 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 changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed 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 shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, 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 mewed 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 the Tower. RICHARD. Upon what cause? CLARENCE. Because my name is George. RICHARD. 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-christened 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 moved his Highness to commit me now. RICHARD. Why, this it is when men are ruled 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 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 to her for his delivery? RICHARD. 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 dubbed 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. RICHARD. Even so; an please your worship, Brakenbury, You may partake of anything 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. RICHARD. 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? RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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._] RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. As much unto my good Lord Chamberlain. Well are you welcome to the open air. How hath your lordship brooked 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. RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt; and so shall Clarence too, For they that were your enemies are his, And have prevailed as much on him as you. HASTINGS. More pity that the eagles should be mewed, Whiles kites and buzzards prey at liberty. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Now, by Saint John, that news is bad indeed. O, he hath kept an evil diet long, And overmuch consumed his royal person. ’Tis very grievous to be thought upon. Where is he, in his bed? HASTINGS. He is. RICHARD. Go you before, and I will follow you. [_Exit Hastings._] He cannot live, I hope, and must not die Till George be packed with post-horse up to heaven. I’ll in to urge his hatred more to Clarence With lies well steeled 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 killed 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 II. London. Another street Enter the corse of King Henry the Sixth, with Halberds to guard it, Lady Anne, being the mourner, Tressel and Berkeley and other Gentlemen. 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, Stabbed by the selfsame 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 venomed 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. [_They take up the bier._] Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester. RICHARD. Stay, you that bear the corse, and set it down. ANNE. What black magician conjures up this fiend To stop devoted charitable deeds? RICHARD. Villains, set down the corse or, by Saint Paul, I’ll make a corse of him that disobeys! GENTLEMAN. My lord, stand back, and let the coffin pass. RICHARD. Unmannered 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. [_They set down the bier._] 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 begone. RICHARD. 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, Filled 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 congealed 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 heaven with lightning strike the murderer dead, Or earth gape open wide and eat him quick, As thou dost swallow up this good King’s blood, Which his hell-governed arm hath butchered. RICHARD. Lady, you know no rules of charity, Which renders good for bad, blessings for curses. ANNE. Villain, thou know’st nor law of God nor man. No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. RICHARD. But I know none, and therefore am no beast. ANNE. O wonderful, when devils tell the truth! RICHARD. 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, diffused infection of a man, Of these known evils but to give me leave, By circumstance, to accuse thy cursed self. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Say that I slew them not? ANNE. Then say they were not slain. But dead they are, and, devilish slave, by thee. RICHARD. I did not kill your husband. ANNE. Why then he is alive. RICHARD. Nay, he is dead, and slain by Edward’s hand. 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. RICHARD. 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? RICHARD. I grant ye. ANNE. Dost grant me, hedgehog? Then, God grant me too Thou mayst be damned for that wicked deed. O, he was gentle, mild, and virtuous. RICHARD. The better for the King of Heaven that hath him. ANNE. He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it. ANNE. Some dungeon. RICHARD. Your bed-chamber. ANNE. Ill rest betide the chamber where thou liest! RICHARD. So will it, madam, till I lie with you. ANNE. I hope so. RICHARD. 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 accursed effect. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. These eyes could not endure that beauty’s wrack; 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. RICHARD. Curse not thyself, fair creature; thou art both. ANNE. I would I were, to be revenged on thee. RICHARD. It is a quarrel most unnatural, To be revenged on him that loveth thee. ANNE. It is a quarrel just and reasonable, To be revenged on him that killed my husband. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. He lives that loves thee better than he could. ANNE. Name him. RICHARD. Plantagenet. ANNE. Why, that was he. RICHARD. The selfsame name, but one of better nature. ANNE. Where is he? RICHARD. Here. [_She spits at him._] Why dost thou spit at me? ANNE. Would it were mortal poison, for thy sake. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Thine eyes, sweet lady, have infected mine. ANNE. Would they were basilisks to strike thee dead! RICHARD. 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, Shamed 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-faced 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 bedashed 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 proposed 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 kneels and 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 stabbed 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. RICHARD. Then bid me kill myself, and I will do it. ANNE. I have already. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. ’Tis figured in my tongue. ANNE. I fear me both are false. RICHARD. Then never was man true. ANNE. Well, well, put up your sword. RICHARD. Say then my peace is made. ANNE. That shalt thou know hereafter. RICHARD. But shall I live in hope? ANNE. All men, I hope, live so. RICHARD. Vouchsafe to wear this ring. ANNE. To take is not to give. [_He places the ring on her hand._] RICHARD. 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? RICHARD. That it may please you leave these sad designs To him that hath most cause to be a mourner, And presently repair to Crosby Place; Where, after I have solemnly interred At Chertsey monastery 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. RICHARD. 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 Lady Anne, Tressel and Berkeley._] RICHARD. Sirs, take up the corse. GENTLEMAN. Towards Chertsey, noble lord? RICHARD. No, to White Friars; there attend my coming. [_Exeunt Halberds and Gentlemen with corse._] Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won? I’ll have her, but I will not keep her long. What, I that killed 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 her 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, Stabbed in my angry mood at Tewksbury? A sweeter and a lovelier gentleman, Framed 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 cropped 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 halt 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 marvellous 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 III. London. A Room in the Palace Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Marquess of Dorset, Lord Rivers and Lord Grey. RIVERS. Have patience, madam. There’s no doubt his Majesty Will soon recover his accustomed 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 blessed 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. RIVERS. Is it concluded he shall be Protector? QUEEN ELIZABETH. It is determined, not concluded yet; But so it must be, if the King miscarry. Enter Buckingham and Stanley, Earl of Derby. GREY. Here come the Lords of Buckingham and Derby. BUCKINGHAM. Good time of day unto your royal Grace. STANLEY. 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, assured I hate not you for her proud arrogance. STANLEY. I do beseech you, either not believe The envious slanders of her false accusers, Or if she be accused on true report, Bear with her weakness, which I think proceeds From wayward sickness, and no grounded malice. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Saw you the King today, my Lord of Derby? STANLEY. 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 Richard, Duke of Gloucester and Hastings. RICHARD. 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 abused With silken, sly, insinuating Jacks? GREY. To who in all this presence speaks your Grace? RICHARD. To thee, that hast nor honesty nor grace. When have I injured 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 scarce 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 provoked 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 Of your ill will, and thereby to remove it. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Meantime, God grants that we have need of you. Our brother is imprisoned by your means, Myself disgraced, 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 raised me to this careful height From that contented hap which I enjoyed, 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. RICHARD. You may deny that you were not the mean Of my Lord Hastings’ late imprisonment. RIVERS. She may, my lord; for— RICHARD. 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? RICHARD. 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 endured. I had rather be a country servant-maid Than a great queen with this condition, To be so baited, scorned, and stormed at. Enter old Queen Margaret behind. Small joy have I in being England’s queen. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] And lessened be that small, God, I beseech Him! Thy honour, state, and seat, is due to me. RICHARD. 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’ Tower. ’Tis time to speak. My pains are quite forgot. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Out, devil! I do remember them too well: Thou killed’st my husband Henry in the Tower, And Edward, my poor son, at Tewksbury. RICHARD. 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 spilt mine own. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Ay, and much better blood than his or thine. RICHARD. 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. [_Aside._] A murd’rous villain, and so still thou art. RICHARD. Poor Clarence did forsake his father Warwick, Ay, and forswore himself—which Jesu pardon!— QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside._] Which God revenge! RICHARD. 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. [_Aside._] 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 followed then our lord, our sovereign king. So should we you, if you should be our king. RICHARD. If I should be! I had rather be a pedler. 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. [_Aside._] As little joy enjoys the Queen thereof, For I am she, and altogether joyless. I can no longer hold me patient. [_Coming forward._] Hear me, you wrangling pirates, that fall out In sharing that which you have pilled 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 deposed, you quake like rebels. Ah, gentle villain, do not turn away. RICHARD. Foul wrinkled witch, what mak’st thou in my sight? QUEEN MARGARET. But repetition of what thou hast marred. That will I make before I let thee go. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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 Steeped in the faultless blood of pretty Rutland— His curses then, from bitterness of soul Denounced against thee, are all fall’n upon thee, And God, not we, hath plagued 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 mayst thou live to wail thy children’s death, And see another, as I see thee now, Decked in thy rights, as thou art stalled in mine; Long die thy happy days before thy death, And, after many lengthened 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 stabbed with bloody daggers. God, I pray Him, That none of you may live his natural age, But by some unlooked accident cut off. RICHARD. Have done thy charm, thou hateful withered 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 begnaw 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-marked, abortive, rooting hog, Thou that wast sealed 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— RICHARD. Margaret. QUEEN MARGARET. Richard! RICHARD. Ha? QUEEN MARGARET. I call thee not. RICHARD. I cry thee mercy then, for I did think That thou hadst called me all these bitter names. QUEEN MARGARET. Why, so I did, but looked for no reply. O, let me make the period to my curse! RICHARD. ’Tis done by me, and ends in “Margaret”. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thus have you breathed 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-backed 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 moved mine. RIVERS. Were you well served, 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 Marquess, 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. RICHARD. Good counsel, marry. Learn it, learn it, Marquess. DORSET. It touches you, my lord, as much as me. RICHARD. 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 butchered. 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. RICHARD. 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 on end to hear her curses. RIVERS. And so doth mine. I muse why she’s at liberty. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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 franked 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. RICHARD. So do I ever—(_Speaks to himself_) being well advised; For had I cursed now, I had cursed myself. Enter Catesby. CATESBY. Madam, his Majesty doth call 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 Richard._] RICHARD. 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, whom 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 revenged 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 villany 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. RICHARD. 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. SECOND MURDERER. Tut, tut, my lord, we will not stand to prate. Talkers are no good doers. Be assured We go to use our hands, and not our tongues. RICHARD. Your eyes drop millstones when fools’ eyes fall tears. I like you, lads. About your business straight. Go, go, dispatch. BOTH MURDERERS. We will, my noble lord. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. London. A Room in the Tower Enter Clarence and Keeper. KEEPER. Why looks your Grace so heavily today? CLARENCE. O, I have passed 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 embarked to cross to Burgundy; And in my company my brother Gloucester, Who from my cabin tempted me to walk Upon the hatches. Thence we looked toward England, And cited up a thousand heavy times, During the wars of York and Lancaster, That had befall’n us. As we paced 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 wracks; A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon; Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl, Inestimable stones, unvalued jewels, All scattered 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 wooed the slimy bottom of the deep, And mocked the dead bones that lay scattered 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 Stopped in my soul, and would not let it forth To find the empty, vast, and wand’ring air, But smothered it within my panting bulk, Who almost burst to belch it in the sea. KEEPER. Awaked you not in this sore agony? CLARENCE. No, no, my dream was lengthened after life. O, then began the tempest to my soul. I passed, 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 vanished. Then came wand’ring by A shadow like an angel, with bright hair Dabbled in blood; and he shrieked out aloud “Clarence is come—false, fleeting, perjured Clarence, That stabbed me in the field by Tewksbury! Seize on him, Furies! Take him unto torment!” With that, methoughts, a legion of foul fiends Environed me, and howled in mine ears Such hideous cries that with the very noise I trembling waked, 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 avenged 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 reposes himself on a chair._] 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 titles 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? SECOND MURDERER. I would speak with Clarence, and I came hither on my legs. BRAKENBURY. What, so brief? FIRST MURDERER. ’Tis better, sir, than to be tedious. Let him see our commission, and talk no more. [_Brakenbury reads the commission._] 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 of the meaning. There lies the Duke asleep, and there the keys. I’ll to the King and signify to him That thus I have resigned to you my charge. FIRST MURDERER. You may, sir; ’tis a point of wisdom. Fare you well. [_Exeunt Brakenbury and the 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 Judgement Day. FIRST MURDERER. Why, then he’ll say we stabbed him sleeping. SECOND MURDERER. The urging of that word “judgement” 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 damned 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 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. So, 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 shamefaced 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 turned 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 thee sigh. FIRST MURDERER. I am strong-framed; 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 throw 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 reconciled 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 pronounced 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 table 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 Unrippedst the bowels of thy sovereign’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 powerful 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 hired 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 deceived. 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 Blessed his three sons with his victorious arm, And charged 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 lessoned 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 hugged 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? Ay, you would beg, Were you in my distress. 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; A begging prince what beggar pities not? SECOND MURDERER. Look behind you, my lord. FIRST MURDERER. Take that, and that! [_Stabs him._] 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 dispatched. How fain, like Pilate, would I wash my hands Of this most grievous murder. 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 saved 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 I. London. A Room in the palace 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. Rivers and Hastings, take each other’s hand; Dissemble not your hatred. Swear your love. RIVERS. By heaven, my soul is purged 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 Marquess. 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. 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. [_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 Ratcliffe and the Duke. Enter Ratcliffe and Richard. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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 By 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 lodged between us; Of you and you, Lord Rivers and of Dorset, That all without desert have frowned 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 tonight. 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. RICHARD. Why, madam, have I offered 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 reversed. RICHARD. But he, poor man, by your first order died, And that a winged Mercury did bear; Some tardy cripple bore the countermand, That came too lag to see him buried. God grant that some, less noble and less loyal, Nearer in bloody thoughts, and not in blood, Deserve not worse than wretched Clarence did, And yet go current from suspicion! Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. STANLEY. A boon, my sovereign, for my service done! KING EDWARD. I prithee, peace. My soul is full of sorrow. STANLEY. I will not rise unless your Highness hear me. KING EDWARD. Then say at once what is it thou requests. STANLEY. The forfeit, sovereign, of my servant’s life Who slew today 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, Kneeled at my feet, and bid me be advised? 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 plucked, and not a man of you Had so much grace to put it in my mind. But when your carters or your waiting vassals Have done a drunken slaughter, and defaced The precious image of our dear Redeemer, You straight are on your knees for pardon, pardon, And I, unjustly too, must grant it you. 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._] RICHARD. This is the fruit of rashness. Marked you not How that the guilty kindred of the Queen Looked 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 II. Another Room in the palace Enter the old Duchess of York with the two Children of Clarence. BOY. Good grandam, tell us, is our father dead? DUCHESS. No, boy. GIRL. Why do you weep so oft, and beat your breast, And cry “O Clarence, my unhappy son”? BOY. 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. BOY. 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. GIRL. And so will I. DUCHESS. Peace, children, peace. The King doth love you well. Incapable and shallow innocents, You cannot guess who caused your father’s death. BOY. Grandam, we can, for my good uncle Gloucester Told me, the King, provoked to it by the Queen, Devised impeachments to imprison him; And when my uncle told me so, he wept, And pitied me, and kindly kissed my cheek; Bade me rely on him as on my father, And he would love me dearly as his child. DUCHESS. Ah, that deceit should steal such gentle shape, And with a virtuous visard hide deep vice! He is my son, ay, and therein my shame; Yet from my dugs he drew not this deceit. BOY. Think you my uncle did dissemble, grandam? DUCHESS. Ay, boy. BOY. 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 lived by looking on his images; But now two mirrors of his princely semblance Are cracked 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 snatched my husband from mine arms And plucked 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. BOY. Ah, aunt, you wept not for our father’s death. How can we aid you with our kindred tears? GIRL. Our fatherless distress was left unmoaned. 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 governed 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 parcelled, 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 distressed, Pour all your tears. I am your sorrow’s nurse, And I will pamper it with lamentation. DORSET. Comfort, dear mother. God is much displeased 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 crowned; in him your comfort lives. Drown desperate sorrow in dead Edward’s grave, And plant your joys in living Edward’s throne. Enter Richard, Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings and Ratcliffe. RICHARD. 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. [_Kneels._] DUCHESS. God bless thee, and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty. RICHARD. 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-swoll’n hates, But lately splintered, knit, and joined together, Must gently be preserved, cherished, and kept. Me seemeth good that with some little train, Forthwith from Ludlow the young Prince be fet Hither to London, to be crowned our King. RIVERS. Why with some little train, my Lord of Buckingham? BUCKINGHAM. Marry, my lord, lest by a multitude The new-healed wound of malice should break out, Which would be so much the more dangerous By how much the estate is green and yet ungoverned. 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. RICHARD. 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 all. Yet since it is but green, it should be put To no apparent likelihood of breach, Which haply by much company might be urged. Therefore I say with noble Buckingham That it is meet so few should fetch the Prince. HASTINGS. And so say I. RICHARD. 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 Richard._] BUCKINGHAM. My lord, whoever journeys to the Prince, For God’s sake, let not us two stay at home. For by the way I’ll sort occasion, As index to the story we late talked of, To part the Queen’s proud kindred from the Prince. RICHARD. 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 III. 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 governed 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 crowned 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 enriched 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 ruled, 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 full of fear. You cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full 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 IV. London. A Room in 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 tonight. Tomorrow 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 talked 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 flowers 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 remembered, I could have given my uncle’s Grace a flout To touch his growth nearer than he touched 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. DUCHESS. 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 disclosed. Why or for what the nobles were committed Is all unknown to me, my gracious lord. QUEEN ELIZABETH. Ah me! I see the ruin of my house. The tiger now hath seized the gentle hind; Insulting tyranny begins to jut 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 tossed 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 earth 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 I. London. A street The trumpets sound. Enter young Prince Edward, Richard, Buckingham, Cardinal Bourchier, Catesby and others. BUCKINGHAM. Welcome, sweet Prince, to London, to your chamber. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Sweet prince, the untainted virtue of your years Hath not yet dived 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 sugared words But looked 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. RICHARD. My lord, the Mayor of London comes to greet you. Enter Lord Mayor with Attendants. 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 deserved the place And those who have the wit to claim the place. This prince hath neither claimed it nor deserved 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? RICHARD. 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 registered, Methinks the truth should live from age to age, As ’twere retailed to all posterity, Even to the general all-ending day. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] So wise so young, they say, do never live long. PRINCE. What say you, uncle? RICHARD. 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 lived a king. RICHARD. [_Aside_.] Short summers lightly have a forward spring. Enter young Duke of York, Hastings 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 call 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. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. He hath, my lord. YORK. And therefore is he idle? RICHARD. O, my fair cousin, I must not say so. YORK. Then he is more beholding to you than I. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. A greater gift than that I’ll give my cousin. YORK. A greater gift? O, that’s the sword to it. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. It is too heavy for your Grace to wear. YORK. I weigh it lightly, were it heavier. RICHARD. What, would you have my weapon, little lord? YORK. I would, that I might thank you as you call me. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. My lord, wil’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. RICHARD. Why, what should you fear? YORK. Marry, my uncle Clarence’ angry ghost. My grandam told me he was murdered there. PRINCE. I fear no uncles dead. RICHARD. Nor none that live, I hope. PRINCE. An if they live, I hope I need not fear. But come, my lord. With a heavy heart, Thinking on them, go I unto the Tower. [_A Sennet. Exeunt Prince Edward, York, Hastings, Dorset and all but Richard, 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? RICHARD. No doubt, no doubt. O, ’tis a parlous 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 urged 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 tomorrow 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 tomorrow hold divided councils, Wherein thyself shalt highly be employed. RICHARD. Commend me to Lord William. Tell him, Catesby, His ancient knot of dangerous adversaries Tomorrow 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. RICHARD. Shall we hear from you, Catesby, ere we sleep? CATESBY. You shall, my lord. RICHARD. At Crosby Place, 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? RICHARD. Chop off his head, man; somewhat we will do. And look when I am king, claim thou of me The earldom of Hereford, and all the movables Whereof the King my brother was possessed. BUCKINGHAM. I’ll claim that promise at your Grace’s hand. RICHARD. 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 II. Before Lord Hastings’ 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 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 determined 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 mockery 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 misplaced. 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 unprepared 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 know’st, 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 deserved it. Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. 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 you do 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 supposed 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? Today the lords you talked of are beheaded. STANLEY. They, for their truth, might better wear their heads Than some that have accused them wear their hats. But come, my lord, let’s away. Enter a Pursuivant. HASTINGS. Go on before; I’ll talk with this good fellow. [_Exeunt Stanley and Catesby._] How now, sirrah? 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 enemies 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, fellow. 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. Enter Buckingham. PRIEST. I’ll wait upon your lordship. [_Exit Priest._] 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 III. Pomfret. Before the Castle Enter Sir Richard Ratcliffe, with Halberds, carrying the nobles Rivers, Grey and Vaughan to death at Pomfret. RIVERS. Sir Richard Ratcliffe, let me tell thee this: Today 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 bloodsuckers. VAUGHAN You live that shall cry woe for this hereafter. RATCLIFFE 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 hacked 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 exclaimed on Hastings, you, and I, For standing by when Richard stabbed her son. RIVERS. Then cursed she Richard, then cursed she Buckingham, Then cursed 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. RATCLIFFE. 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 IV. London. A Room in the Tower Enter Buckingham, Stanley Earl of Derby, Hastings, the Bishop of Ely, Norfolk, Ratcliffe, Lovell with others, 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 that royal time? STANLEY. It is, and wants but nomination. ELY. Tomorrow, then, I judge a happy day. BUCKINGHAM. Who knows the Lord Protector’s mind herein? Who is most inward with the noble Duke? 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 delivered 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 Richard. ELY. In happy time, here comes the Duke himself. RICHARD. My noble lords and cousins all, 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 pronounced your part— I mean your voice for crowning of the King. RICHARD. 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. ELY. Marry, and will, my lord, with all my heart. [_Exit._] RICHARD. Cousin of Buckingham, a word with you. [_They move 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 Richard and Buckingham._] STANLEY. We have not yet set down this day of triumph. Tomorrow, in my judgement, is too sudden, For I myself am not so well provided As else I would be, were the day prolonged. Enter Bishop of Ely. 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. STANLEY. What of his heart perceive you in his face By any livelihood he showed today? HASTINGS. Marry, that with no man here he is offended, For were he, he had shown it in his looks. Enter Richard and Buckingham. RICHARD. I pray you all, tell me what they deserve That do conspire my death with devilish plots Of damned witchcraft, and that have prevailed 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. RICHARD. Then be your eyes the witness of their evil. Look how I am bewitched! Behold, mine arm Is like a blasted sapling withered 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— RICHARD. 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. Lovell and Ratcliffe, look that it be done. The rest that love me, rise and follow me. [_Exeunt all but Lovell and Ratcliffe with the Lord Hastings._] 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 his helm, And I did scorn it and disdain to fly. Three times today my foot-cloth horse did stumble, And started when he looked 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 Today at Pomfret bloodily were butchered, And I myself secure in grace and favour. O Margaret, Margaret, now thy heavy curse Is lighted on poor Hastings’ wretched head. RATCLIFFE. 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. LOVELL. 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 looked upon. Come, lead me to the block. Bear him my head. They smile at me who shortly shall be dead. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. London. The Tower Walls Enter Richard and Buckingham in rotten armour, marvellous ill-favoured. RICHARD. 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 anytime to grace my stratagems. But what, is Catesby gone? RICHARD. He is; and, see, he brings the Mayor along. Enter the Lord Mayor and Catesby. BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor— RICHARD. Look to the drawbridge there! BUCKINGHAM. Hark, a drum. RICHARD. Catesby, o’erlook the walls. BUCKINGHAM. Lord Mayor, the reason we have sent— RICHARD. Look back! Defend thee, here are enemies. BUCKINGHAM. God and our innocence defend and guard us! Enter Lovell and Ratcliffe with Hastings’ head. RICHARD. Be patient, they are friends, Ratcliffe and Lovell. LOVELL. Here is the head of that ignoble traitor, The dangerous and unsuspected Hastings. RICHARD. So dear I loved the man that I must weep. I took him for the plainest harmless creature That breathed upon the earth a Christian; Made him my book, wherein my soul recorded The history of all her secret thoughts. So smooth he daubed his vice with show of virtue That, his apparent open guilt omitted— I mean his conversation with Shore’s wife— He lived from all attainder of suspects. BUCKINGHAM. Well, well, he was the covert’st sheltered traitor That ever lived.— 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? RICHARD. 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, Enforced us to this execution? MAYOR. Now, fair befall you! He deserved his death, And your good Graces both have well proceeded, To warn false traitors from the like attempts. BUCKINGHAM. I never looked for better at his hands After he once fell in with Mistress Shore. Yet had we not determined 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, we 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 word 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 case. RICHARD. And to that end we wished your lordship here, T’ avoid the censures of the carping world. BUCKINGHAM. But 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._] RICHARD. Go, after, after, cousin Buckingham. The Mayor towards Guildhall hies him in all 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 stretched 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. RICHARD. 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._] RICHARD. Go, Lovell, with all speed to Doctor Shaa. [_To Ratcliffe_.] Go thou to Friar Penker; bid them both Meet me within this hour at Baynard’s Castle. [_Exeunt Ratcliffe and Lovell._] 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 VI. London. A street Enter a Scrivener. SCRIVENER. Here is the indictment of the good Lord Hastings, Which in a set hand fairly is engrossed, That it may be today 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 lived, Untainted, unexamined, free, at liberty. Here’s a good world the while! Who is so gross That cannot see this palpable device? Yet who so bold but says he sees it not? Bad is the world, and all will come to naught When such ill dealing must be seen in thought. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. London. Court of Baynard’s Castle Enter Richard and Buckingham at several doors. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. Touched 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 Untouched 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!” RICHARD. And did they so? BUCKINGHAM. No, so God help me, they spake not a word, But, like dumb statues or breathing stones, Stared each on other, and looked deadly pale. Which when I saw, I reprehended them, And asked the Mayor what meant this wilful silence. His answer was, the people were not used To be spoke to but by the Recorder. Then he was urged to tell my tale again: “Thus saith the Duke, thus hath the Duke inferred” But nothing spoke in warrant from himself. When he had done, some followers of mine own, At lower end of the hall, hurled 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. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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 Richard._] Enter the Lord Mayor 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 tomorrow or next day. He is within, with two right reverend fathers, Divinely bent to meditation; And in no worldly suits would he be moved 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 courtesans, 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. Enter Catesby. Now, Catesby, what says his Grace? CATESBY. He wonders to what end you have assembled Such troops of citizens to come to him, His Grace not being warned 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 Richard aloft, between two Bishops. Catesby reenters. 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. RICHARD. My lord, there needs no such apology. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me, Who, earnest in the service of my God, Deferred 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 ungoverned isle. RICHARD. 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. RICHARD. 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 sceptered 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 blemished 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 defaced with scars of infamy, Her royal stock graft with ignoble plants, And almost shouldered 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. RICHARD. 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 seasoned with your faithful love to me, Then, on the other side, I checked 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 smothered. But, God be thanked, 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, mellowed 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 betrothed To Bona, sister to the King of France. These both put off, a poor petitioner, A care-crazed 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, Seduced the pitch and height of his degree To base declension and loathed 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 proffered 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 proffered love. CATESBY. O, make them joyful; grant their lawful suit. RICHARD. Alas, why would you heap those cares 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 equally 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. [_Exeunt Buckingham, the Mayor and citizens._] CATESBY. Call him again, sweet Prince; accept their suit. If you deny them, all the land will rue it. RICHARD. 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. 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-faced 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. RICHARD. 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. Tomorrow may it please you to be crowned? RICHARD. Even when you please, for you will have it so. BUCKINGHAM. Tomorrow, then, we will attend your Grace; And so most joyfully we take our leave. RICHARD. [_To the Bishops_.] Come, let us to our holy work again. Farewell, my cousin, farewell, gentle friends. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. London. Before the Tower Enter Queen Elizabeth, the Duchess of York and Marquess of Dorset, at one door; Anne Duchess of Gloucester with 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 wandering to the Tower, On pure heart’s love, to greet the tender Prince. 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 charged 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 dog 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 hatched 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 followed Henry’s corse, When scarce the blood was well washed from his hands Which issued from my other angel husband, And that dear saint which then I weeping followed; O, when, I say, I looked on Richard’s face, This was my wish: “Be thou,” quoth I, “accursed For making me, so young, so old a widow; And when thou wedd’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 proved 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 awaked. 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 wracked 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 immured within your walls— Rough cradle for such little pretty one, Rude ragged nurse, old sullen playfellow For tender princes, use my babies well. So foolish sorrows bids your stones farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. London. A Room of State in the Palace The trumpets sound a sennet. Enter Richard in pomp, Buckingham, Catesby, Ratcliffe, Lovell, 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 trumpets._] 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 performed. What sayst 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_.] The King is angry. See, he gnaws his lip. KING RICHARD. [_Aside_.] I will converse with iron-witted fools 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._] [_Aside_.] The deep-revolving witty Buckingham No more shall be the neighbour to my counsels. Hath he so long held out with me, untired, 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 Marquess Dorset, as I hear, is fled To Richmond, in the parts where he abides. 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. Enter 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. Tyrell, 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._] Enter Buckingham. BUCKINGHAM. My lord, I have considered 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 pawned: 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 showed me the castle And called it Rougemount, 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 promised me. KING RICHARD. Well, but what’s 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 today. BUCKINGHAM. Why then, resolve me whether you will or no. KING RICHARD. Thou troublest me; I am not in the vein. [_Exit followed by all save 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 III. London. Another Room in 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 fleshed 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 kissed each other. A book of prayers on their pillow lay, Which once,” quoth Forrest, “almost changed my mind. But, O, the devil—” There the villain stopped; 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 matched in marriage; The sons of Edward sleep in Abraham’s bosom, And Anne my wife hath bid the world good night. Now, for I know the Breton 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 Ratcliffe. RATCLIFFE. My lord! KING RICHARD. Good or bad news, that thou com’st in so bluntly? RATCLIFFE. Bad news, my lord. Morton is fled to Richmond, And Buckingham, backed 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 learned that fearful commenting Is leaden servitor to dull delay; Delay leads impotent and snail-paced 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 IV. 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 lurked 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 Duchess of York and Queen Elizabeth. 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 fixed in doom perpetual, Hover about me with your airy wings And hear your mother’s lamentation. QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] Hover about her; say that right for right Hath dimmed your infant morn to aged night. DUCHESS. So many miseries have crazed my voice That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute. Edward Plantagenet, why art thou dead? QUEEN MARGARET. [_Aside_.] 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. [_Aside_.] 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 usurped, Brief abstract and record of tedious days, Rest thy unrest on England’s lawful earth, [_Sitting_.] 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. [_Sitting_.] Ah, who hath any cause to mourn but we? QUEEN MARGARET. [_Coming forward._] If ancient sorrow be most reverend, Give mine the benefit of seigniory, 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 killed him; I had a husband, till a Richard killed him. Thou hadst an Edward, till a Richard killed him; Thou hadst a Richard, till a Richard killed 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 killed 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 excellent grand tyrant of the earth, That reigns in galled eyes of weeping souls; That foul defacer of God’s handiwork 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 killed my Edward; The other Edward dead, to quit my Edward; Young York, he is but boot, because both they Matched not the high perfection of my loss. Thy Clarence he is dead that stabbed my Edward; And the beholders of this frantic play, Th’ adulterate Hastings, Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, Untimely smothered in their dusky graves. Richard yet lives, hell’s black intelligencer, Only reserved 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 conveyed from hence. Cancel his bond of life, dear God, I pray, That I may live to 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-backed toad! QUEEN MARGARET. I called thee then, vain flourish of my fortune; I called thee then, poor shadow, painted queen, The presentation of but what I was, The flattering index of a direful pageant; One heaved a-high to be hurled down below, A mother only mocked 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 are 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 all 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 sued to, one that humbly sues; For Queen, a very caitiff crowned with care; For she that scorned at me, now scorned of me; For she being feared of all, now fearing one; For she commanding all, obeyed of none. Thus hath the course of justice wheeled 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 burdened 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 skilled in curses, stay awhile, And teach me how to curse mine enemies. QUEEN MARGARET. Forbear to sleep the night, 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. Bettering 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 full of words? QUEEN ELIZABETH. Windy attorneys to their clients’ woes, Airy succeeders of intestate joys, Poor breathing orators of miseries, Let them have scope, though what they do impart Help nothing else, yet do they ease 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 smothered. [_A trumpet sounds._] The trumpet sounds. Be copious in exclaims. Enter King Richard and his Train, including Catesby, marching. 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. Hid’st thou that forehead with a golden crown Where should be branded, if that right were right, The slaughter of the Prince that owed 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 stayed 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 confirmed, proud, subtle, sly, and bloody, More mild, but yet more harmful, kind in hatred. What comfortable hour canst thou name That ever graced me with thy company? KING RICHARD. Faith, none but Humphrey Hower, that called 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 more 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 called 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 unscarred 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 births 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 destined to a fairer death, If grace had blessed 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 cozened Of comfort, kingdom, kindred, freedom, life. Whose hand soever lanced their tender hearts, Thy head, all 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 still use of grief makes wild grief tame, My tongue should to thy ears not name my boys Till that my nails were anchored 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 harmed! QUEEN ELIZABETH. What good is covered with the face of heaven, To be discovered, that can do me good? KING RICHARD. Th’ 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 sorrows 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, steeped in Rutland’s blood— A handkerchief, which, say to her, did drain The purple sap from her sweet brothers’ 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 killed 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 doting title of a mother; They are as children but one step below, Even of your mettle, of your very blood; Of all one pain, save for a night of groans Endured 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 call 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 Repaired 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, transformed 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 Princess With the sweet silent hours of marriage joys, And when this arm of mine hath chastised The petty rebel, dull-brained 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 vail 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 heart-strings break. KING RICHARD. Now, by my George, my Garter, and my crown— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Profaned, dishonoured, and the third usurped. KING RICHARD. I swear— QUEEN ELIZABETH. By nothing, for this is no oath. Thy George, profaned, hath lost his lordly honour; Thy Garter, blemished, pawned his knightly virtue; Thy crown, usurped, disgraced his kingly glory. If something thou wouldst swear to be believed, Swear then by something that thou hast not wronged. 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 that dishonoured. KING RICHARD. Then, by myself— QUEEN ELIZABETH. Thyself is self-misused. 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 feared to break an oath by Him, Th’ imperial metal circling now thy head Had graced 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 a 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 wronged by thee. The children live whose fathers thou hast slaughtered, Ungoverned youth, to wail it in their age; The parents live whose children thou hast butchered, Old barren plants, to wail it with their age. Swear not by time to come, for that thou hast Misused ere used, by times ill-used 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 found 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 Ratcliffe. How now, what news? RATCLIFFE. Most mighty sovereign, on the western coast Rideth a puissant navy; to our shores Throng many doubtful hollow-hearted friends, Unarmed, and unresolved 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. Ratcliffe, 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. Ratcliffe, come hither. Post to Salisbury. When thou com’st thither— [_To Catesby._] Dull, unmindful 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._] RATCLIFFE. What, may it please you, shall I do at Salisbury? KING RICHARD. Why, what wouldst thou do there before I go? RATCLIFFE. Your Highness told me I should post before. KING RICHARD. My mind is changed. Enter Stanley Earl of Derby. 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 mayst 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-livered runagate, what doth he there? STANLEY. I know not, mighty sovereign, but by guess. KING RICHARD. Well, as you guess? STANLEY. Stirred up by Dorset, Buckingham, and Morton, He makes for England, here to claim the crown. KING RICHARD. Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed? Is the King dead? The empire unpossessed? 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 more 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 dispersed and scattered, And he himself wandered 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 proclaimed Reward to him that brings the traitor in? THIRD MESSENGER. Such proclamation hath been made, my lord. Enter another Messenger. FOURTH MESSENGER. Sir Thomas Lovell and Lord Marquess Dorset, ’Tis said, my liege, in Yorkshire are in arms. But this good comfort bring I to your Highness: The Breton navy is dispersed 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 answered him they came from Buckingham Upon his party. He, mistrusting them, Hoised sail, and made his course again for Brittany. 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. 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. Someone take order Buckingham be brought To Salisbury; the rest march on with me. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Lord Stanley’s house Enter Stanley Earl of Derby 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 franked 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’rfordwest 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 I. Salisbury. An open place Enter Sheriff and Halberds, 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. BUCKINGHAM. Why, then All-Souls’ day is my body’s doomsday. This is the day which, in King Edward’s time, I wished might fall on me when I was found False to his children and his wife’s allies. This is the day wherein I wished to fall By the false faith of him whom most I trusted. This, this All-Souls’ day to my fearful soul Is the determined respite of my wrongs. That high All-Seer which I dallied with Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head And given in earnest what I begged 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. [_Exit with Officers._] SCENE II. Plain near Tamworth Enter Richmond, Oxford, Blunt, Herbert, and others, with drum and colours. RICHMOND. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land Have we marched on without impediment; And here receive we from our father Stanley Lines of fair comfort and encouragement. The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoiled your summer fields and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough In your embowelled 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 that 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 III. Bosworth Field Enter King Richard in arms, with Norfolk, Ratcliffe and the Earl of Surrey with 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 tonight. But where tomorrow? 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, tomorrow is a busy day. [_The tent is now ready. Exeunt._] Enter Richmond, Sir William Brandon, Oxford, Herbert, Blunt, and others who pitch Richmond’s tent. RICHMOND. The weary sun hath made a golden set, And by the bright track of his fiery car Gives token of a goodly day tomorrow. 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 goodnight 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 quartered, do you know? BLUNT. Unless I have mista’en his colours much, Which well I am assured 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 tonight. RICHMOND. Good night, good Captain Blunt. [_Exit Blunt._] Come, gentlemen, Let us consult upon tomorrow’s business; Into my tent. The dew is raw and cold. [_Richmond, Brandon Herbert, and Oxford withdraw into the tent. The others exeunt._] Enter to his tent, King Richard, Ratcliffe, Norfolk and Catesby with Soldiers. 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 tonight. 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 tomorrow, 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 tomorrow. Look that my staves be sound, and not too heavy. Ratcliffe! RATCLIFFE. My lord? KING RICHARD. Saw’st thou the melancholy Lord Northumberland? RATCLIFFE. Thomas the Earl of Surrey and himself, Much about cockshut 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? RATCLIFFE. It is, my lord. KING RICHARD. Bid my guard watch; leave me. Ratcliffe, about the mid of night come to my tent And help to arm me. Leave me, I say. [_Exit Ratcliffe. Richard withdraws into his tent; attendant soldiers guard it_.] Enter Stanley Earl of Derby to Richmond in his tent. STANLEY. 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? STANLEY. 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-sundered 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 tomorrow When I should mount with wings of victory. Once more, good night, kind lords and gentlemen. [_All but Richmond leave his tent._] [_Kneels_.] 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 Th’ 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 Harry the Sixth. GHOST OF EDWARD. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy on thy soul tomorrow. Think how thou stabbed’st me in my prime of youth At Tewksbury; despair therefore, and die! [_To Richmond._] Be cheerful, Richmond, for the wronged souls Of butchered princes fight in thy behalf. King Henry’s issue, Richmond, comforts thee. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Henry the Sixth. GHOST OF HENRY. [_To King 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! [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Clarence. GHOST OF CLARENCE. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, I, that was washed to death with fulsome wine, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betrayed to death. Tomorrow 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. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghosts of Rivers, Grey and Vaughan. GHOST OF RIVERS. [_To King Richard._] Let me sit heavy in thy soul tomorrow, Rivers that died at Pomfret. Despair and die! GHOST OF GREY. [_To King Richard._] Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair! GHOST OF VAUGHAN. [_To King Richard._] Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear Let fall thy lance. Despair and die! ALL THREE. [_To Richmond._] Awake, and think our wrongs in Richard’s bosom Will conquer him. Awake, and win the day. [_Exeunt._] Enter the Ghost of Hastings. GHOST OF HASTINGS. [_To King 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. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghosts of the two young Princes. GHOSTS OF PRINCES. [_To King 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. [_Exeunt._] Enter the Ghost of Lady Anne, his wife. GHOST OF ANNE. [_To King Richard._] Richard, thy wife, that wretched Anne thy wife, That never slept a quiet hour with thee, Now fills thy sleep with perturbations. Tomorrow 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. [_Exit._] Enter the Ghost of Buckingham. GHOST OF BUCKINGHAM. [_To King Richard._] The first was I that helped 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 dismayed. God and good angels fight on Richmond’s side; And Richard fall in height of all his pride. [_Exit._] [_King Richard starts up 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 highest degree; Murder, stern murder, in the direst degree; All several sins, all used 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 murdered Came to my tent, and everyone did threat Tomorrow’s vengeance on the head of Richard. Enter Ratcliffe. RATCLIFFE. My lord! KING RICHARD. Zounds! Who’s there? RATCLIFFE. Ratcliffe, 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 Ratcliffe, I have dreamed a fearful dream! What think’st thou, will our friends prove all true? RATCLIFFE. No doubt, my lord. KING RICHARD. O Ratcliffe, I fear, I fear! RATCLIFFE. Nay, good my lord, be not afraid of shadows. KING RICHARD. By the apostle Paul, shadows tonight Have struck 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 eavesdropper, To see if any mean to shrink from me. [_Exeunt Richard and Ratcliffe._] Enter the Lords to Richmond 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 entered in a drowsy head Have I since your departure had, my lords. Methought their souls whose bodies Richard murdered Came to my tent and cried on victory. I promise you, my heart 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-reared 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 raised in blood, and one in blood established; 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 fat 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._] Enter King Richard, Ratcliffe and Soldiers. KING RICHARD. What said Northumberland as touching Richmond? RATCLIFFE. That he was never trained up in arms. KING RICHARD. He said the truth. And what said Surrey then? RATCLIFFE. He smiled, and said, “The better for our purpose.” KING RICHARD. He was in the right, and so indeed it is. [_The clock striketh._] Tell the clock there. Give me a calendar. Who saw the sun today? RATCLIFFE. Not I, my lord. KING RICHARD. Then he disdains to shine, for by the book He should have braved the east an hour ago. A black day will it be to somebody. Ratcliffe! RATCLIFFE. My lord? KING RICHARD. The sun will not be seen today! The sky doth frown and lour upon our army. I would these dewy tears were from the ground. Not shine today? 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. [_He sheweth him a paper._] This found I on my tent this morning. KING RICHARD. [_Reads_.] “Jockey of Norfolk, be not too 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, Devised 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 inferred? Remember whom you are to cope withal, A sort of vagabonds, rascals, and runaways, A scum of Bretons and base lackey peasants, Whom their o’er-cloyed country vomits forth To desperate adventures and assured destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring to you unrest; You having lands, and blessed with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other. And who doth lead them but a paltry fellow, Long kept in Brittany at our mother’s cost? A milksop, 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 overweening rags of France, These famished beggars, weary of their lives, Who, but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means, poor rats, had hanged themselves. If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Bretons, whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten, bobbed, and thumped, 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 past 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 IV. Another part of the Field Alarum. Excursions. Enter Norfolk and Soldiers; 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! [_Exeunt Norfolk and Soldiers._] Alarum. 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 today instead of him. A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the Field Alarum. Enter King Richard and Richmond. They fight. Richard is slain. Then retreat being sounded. Richmond exits, and Richard’s body is carried off. Flourish. Enter Richmond, Stanley Earl of Derby, bearing the crown, with other Lords and Soldiers. RICHMOND. God and your arms be praised, victorious friends! The day is ours, the bloody dog is dead. STANLEY. Courageous Richmond, well hast thou acquit thee! Lo, here, this long-usurped royalty From the dead temples of this bloody wretch Have I plucked 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? STANLEY. 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? STANLEY. 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 frowned upon their enmity. What traitor hears me and says not Amen? England hath long been mad, and scarred herself: The brother blindly shed the brother’s blood; The father rashly slaughtered his own son; The son, compelled, 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 smoothed-faced 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 stopped, peace lives again. That she may long live here, God say Amen. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIET Contents THE PROLOGUE. ACT I Scene I. A public place. Scene II. A Street. Scene III. Room in Capulet’s House. Scene IV. A Street. Scene V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. ACT II CHORUS. Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. Scene II. Capulet’s Garden. Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene IV. A Street. Scene V. Capulet’s Garden. Scene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. ACT III Scene I. A public Place. Scene II. A Room in Capulet’s House. Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. Scene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. ACT IV Scene I. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House. Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber. Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed. ACT V Scene I. Mantua. A Street. Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. Dramatis Personæ ESCALUS, Prince of Verona. MERCUTIO, kinsman to the Prince, and friend to Romeo. PARIS, a young Nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. Page to Paris. MONTAGUE, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Capulets. LADY MONTAGUE, wife to Montague. ROMEO, son to Montague. BENVOLIO, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo. ABRAM, servant to Montague. BALTHASAR, servant to Romeo. CAPULET, head of a Veronese family at feud with the Montagues. LADY CAPULET, wife to Capulet. JULIET, daughter to Capulet. TYBALT, nephew to Lady Capulet. CAPULET’S COUSIN, an old man. NURSE to Juliet. PETER, servant to Juliet’s Nurse. SAMPSON, servant to Capulet. GREGORY, servant to Capulet. Servants. FRIAR LAWRENCE, a Franciscan. FRIAR JOHN, of the same Order. An Apothecary. CHORUS. Three Musicians. An Officer. Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen and Attendants. SCENE. During the greater part of the Play in Verona; once, in the Fifth Act, at Mantua. THE PROLOGUE Enter Chorus. CHORUS. 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, nought 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. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory armed with swords and bucklers. SAMPSON. Gregory, on my word, we’ll not carry coals. GREGORY. No, for then we should be colliers. SAMPSON. I mean, if we be in choler, we’ll draw. GREGORY. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out o’ the collar. SAMPSON. I strike quickly, being moved. GREGORY. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. SAMPSON. A dog of the house of Montague moves me. GREGORY. To move is to stir; and to be valiant is to stand: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn’st away. SAMPSON. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague’s. GREGORY. That shows thee a weak slave, for the weakest goes to the wall. SAMPSON. 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. GREGORY. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men. SAMPSON. ’Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men I will be civil with the maids, I will cut off their heads. GREGORY. The heads of the maids? SAMPSON. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt. GREGORY. They must take it in sense that feel it. SAMPSON. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand: and ’tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. GREGORY. ’Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes of the house of Montagues. Enter Abram and Balthasar. SAMPSON. My naked weapon is out: quarrel, I will back thee. GREGORY. How? Turn thy back and run? SAMPSON. Fear me not. GREGORY. No, marry; I fear thee! SAMPSON. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin. GREGORY. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list. SAMPSON. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them, which is disgrace to them if they bear it. ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? SAMPSON. I do bite my thumb, sir. ABRAM. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? SAMPSON. Is the law of our side if I say ay? GREGORY. No. SAMPSON. No sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. GREGORY. Do you quarrel, sir? ABRAM. Quarrel, sir? No, sir. SAMPSON. But if you do, sir, I am for you. I serve as good a man as you. ABRAM. No better. SAMPSON. Well, sir. Enter Benvolio. GREGORY. Say better; here comes one of my master’s kinsmen. SAMPSON. Yes, better, sir. ABRAM. You lie. SAMPSON. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy washing blow. [_They fight._] BENVOLIO. Part, fools! put up your swords, you know not what you do. [_Beats down their swords._] Enter Tybalt. TYBALT. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds? Turn thee Benvolio, look upon thy death. BENVOLIO. I do but keep the peace, put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. TYBALT. 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 three or four Citizens with clubs. FIRST CITIZEN. Clubs, bills and partisans! Strike! Beat them down! Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues! Enter Capulet in his gown, and Lady Capulet. CAPULET. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho! LADY CAPULET. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword? CAPULET. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come, And flourishes his blade in spite of me. Enter Montague and his Lady Montague. MONTAGUE. Thou villain Capulet! Hold me not, let me go. LADY MONTAGUE. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter Prince Escalus, with Attendants. 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 mistemper’d 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, Canker’d with peace, to part your canker’d 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 Free-town, our common judgement-place. Once more, on pain of death, all men depart. [_Exeunt Prince and Attendants; Capulet, Lady Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens and Servants._] MONTAGUE. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach? Speak, nephew, were you by when it began? BENVOLIO. 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. LADY MONTAGUE. O where is Romeo, saw you him today? Right glad I am he was not at this fray. BENVOLIO. 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 this city 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. MONTAGUE. 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 begin 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 out And makes himself an artificial night. Black and portentous must this humour prove, Unless good counsel may the cause remove. BENVOLIO. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? MONTAGUE. I neither know it nor can learn of him. BENVOLIO. Have you importun’d him by any means? MONTAGUE. Both by myself and many other friends; 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. BENVOLIO. See, where he comes. So please you step aside; I’ll know his grievance or be much denied. MONTAGUE. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let’s away, [_Exeunt Montague and Lady Montague._] BENVOLIO. Good morrow, cousin. ROMEO. Is the day so young? BENVOLIO. But new struck nine. ROMEO. Ay me, sad hours seem long. Was that my father that went hence so fast? BENVOLIO. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours? ROMEO. Not having that which, having, makes them short. BENVOLIO. In love? ROMEO. Out. BENVOLIO. Of love? ROMEO. Out of her favour where I am in love. BENVOLIO. Alas that love so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof. ROMEO. 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? BENVOLIO. No coz, I rather weep. ROMEO. Good heart, at what? BENVOLIO. At thy good heart’s oppression. ROMEO. 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 made 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. [_Going._] BENVOLIO. Soft! I will go along: And if you leave me so, you do me wrong. ROMEO. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here. This is not Romeo, he’s some other where. BENVOLIO. Tell me in sadness who is that you love? ROMEO. What, shall I groan and tell thee? BENVOLIO. Groan! Why, no; but sadly tell me who. ROMEO. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will, A word ill urg’d to one that is so ill. In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman. BENVOLIO. I aim’d so near when I suppos’d you lov’d. ROMEO. A right good markman, and she’s fair I love. BENVOLIO. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. ROMEO. 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 uncharm’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. BENVOLIO. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste? ROMEO. 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. BENVOLIO. Be rul’d by me, forget to think of her. ROMEO. O teach me how I should forget to think. BENVOLIO. By giving liberty unto thine eyes; Examine other beauties. ROMEO. ’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. BENVOLIO. I’ll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Street. Enter Capulet, Paris and Servant. CAPULET. 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. PARIS. 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? CAPULET. 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. PARIS. Younger than she are happy mothers made. CAPULET. 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; And 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 reckoning none. Come, go with me. Go, sirrah, trudge about Through fair Verona; find those persons out Whose names are written there, [_gives a paper_] and to them say, My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [_Exeunt Capulet and Paris._] SERVANT. 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. BENVOLIO. Tut, man, one fire burns out another’s burning, One pain is lessen’d 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. ROMEO. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that. BENVOLIO. For what, I pray thee? ROMEO. For your broken shin. BENVOLIO. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? ROMEO. 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. SERVANT. God gi’ go-den. I pray, sir, can you read? ROMEO. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery. SERVANT. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can you read anything you see? ROMEO. Ay, If I know the letters and the language. SERVANT. Ye say honestly, rest you merry! ROMEO. Stay, fellow; I can read. [_He reads the letter._] _Signior Martino and his wife and daughters; County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters; The lady widow of Utruvio; 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. _ A fair assembly. [_Gives back the paper_] Whither should they come? SERVANT. Up. ROMEO. Whither to supper? SERVANT. To our house. ROMEO. Whose house? SERVANT. My master’s. ROMEO. Indeed I should have ask’d you that before. SERVANT. 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._] BENVOLIO. 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. ROMEO. When the devout religion of mine eye Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fire; 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. BENVOLIO. 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 shows best. ROMEO. I’ll go along, no such sight to be shown, But to rejoice in splendour of my own. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. LADY CAPULET. 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. JULIET. How now, who calls? NURSE. Your mother. JULIET. Madam, I am here. What is your will? LADY CAPULET. This is the matter. Nurse, give leave awhile, We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again, I have remember’d 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. LADY CAPULET. 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 Lammas-tide? LADY CAPULET. 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 alone; 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 holidame, The pretty wretch left crying, and said ‘Ay’. To see now how a jest shall come about. I warrant, and I should live a thousand years, I never should forget it. ‘Wilt thou not, Jule?’ quoth he; And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said ‘Ay.’ LADY CAPULET. 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 had upon it brow A bump as big as a young cockerel’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’. JULIET. 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: And I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish. LADY CAPULET. Marry, that marry is the very theme I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your disposition to be married? JULIET. 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. LADY CAPULET. 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. LADY CAPULET. Verona’s summer hath not such a flower. NURSE. Nay, he’s a flower, in faith a very flower. LADY CAPULET. 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. LADY CAPULET. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris’ love? JULIET. 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 a Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the guests are come, supper served up, you called, my young lady asked for, the Nurse cursed in the pantry, and everything in extremity. I must hence to wait, I beseech you follow straight. LADY CAPULET. We follow thee. [_Exit Servant._] 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 Maskers; Torch-bearers and others. ROMEO. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse? Or shall we on without apology? BENVOLIO. 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 crow-keeper; 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. ROMEO. Give me a torch, I am not for this ambling; Being but heavy I will bear the light. MERCUTIO. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance. ROMEO. 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. MERCUTIO. You are a lover, borrow Cupid’s wings, And soar with them above a common bound. ROMEO. 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 burden do I sink. MERCUTIO. And, to sink in it, should you burden love; Too great oppression for a tender thing. ROMEO. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn. MERCUTIO. 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: [_Putting on a mask._] A visor for a visor. What care I What curious eye doth quote deformities? Here are the beetle-brows shall blush for me. BENVOLIO. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in But every man betake him to his legs. ROMEO. 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. MERCUTIO. Tut, dun’s the mouse, the constable’s own word: If thou art dun, we’ll draw thee from the mire Or save your reverence love, wherein thou stickest Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho. ROMEO. Nay, that’s not so. MERCUTIO. I mean sir, in delay We waste our lights in vain, light lights by day. Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits Five times in that ere once in our five wits. ROMEO. And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go. MERCUTIO. Why, may one ask? ROMEO. I dreamt a dream tonight. MERCUTIO. And so did I. ROMEO. Well what was yours? MERCUTIO. That dreamers often lie. ROMEO. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true. MERCUTIO. 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 fore-finger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomies Over men’s noses as they lie asleep: Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners’ legs; The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; Her traces, of the smallest spider’s web; The collars, of the moonshine’s watery beams; Her whip of cricket’s bone; the lash, of film; Her waggoner, 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 curtsies 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: Sometime she driveth o’er a soldier’s neck, And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats, Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades, Of healths five fathom 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 elf-locks 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,— ROMEO. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace, Thou talk’st of nothing. MERCUTIO. 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 woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And, being anger’d, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south. BENVOLIO. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves: Supper is done, and we shall come too late. ROMEO. 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 suit. On, lusty gentlemen! BENVOLIO. Strike, drum. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Hall in Capulet’s House. Musicians waiting. Enter Servants. FIRST SERVANT. Where’s Potpan, that he helps not to take away? He shift a trencher! He scrape a trencher! SECOND SERVANT. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men’s hands, and they unwash’d too, ’tis a foul thing. FIRST SERVANT. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cupboard, 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. Antony and Potpan! SECOND SERVANT. Ay, boy, ready. FIRST SERVANT. You are looked for and called for, asked for and sought for, in the great chamber. SECOND SERVANT. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys. Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all. [_Exeunt._] Enter Capulet, &c. with the Guests and Gentlewomen to the Maskers. CAPULET. Welcome, gentlemen, ladies that have their toes Unplagu’d with corns will have a bout with you. Ah 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? CAPULET’S COUSIN. By’r Lady, thirty years. CAPULET. 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. CAPULET’S COUSIN. ’Tis more, ’tis more, his son is elder, sir; His son is thirty. CAPULET. Will you tell me that? His son was but a ward two years ago. ROMEO. What lady is that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder knight? SERVANT. I know not, sir. ROMEO. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night As 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. TYBALT. 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. CAPULET. Why how now, kinsman! Wherefore storm you so? TYBALT. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe; A villain that is hither come in spite, To scorn at our solemnity this night. CAPULET. Young Romeo, is it? TYBALT. ’Tis he, that villain Romeo. CAPULET. 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 the 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. TYBALT. It fits when such a villain is a guest: I’ll not endure him. CAPULET. 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! TYBALT. Why, uncle, ’tis a shame. CAPULET. 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. TYBALT. 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 bitter gall. [_Exit._] ROMEO. [_To Juliet._] If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss. JULIET. 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. ROMEO. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too? JULIET. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer. ROMEO. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do: They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair. JULIET. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake. ROMEO. Then move not while my prayer’s effect I take. Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg’d. [_Kissing her._] JULIET. Then have my lips the sin that they have took. ROMEO. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg’d! Give me my sin again. JULIET. You kiss by the book. NURSE. Madam, your mother craves a word with you. ROMEO. 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. ROMEO. Is she a Capulet? O dear account! My life is my foe’s debt. BENVOLIO. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best. ROMEO. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest. CAPULET. 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! 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._] JULIET. Come hither, Nurse. What is yond gentleman? NURSE. The son and heir of old Tiberio. JULIET. What’s he that now is going out of door? NURSE. Marry, that I think be young Petruchio. JULIET. What’s he that follows here, that would not dance? NURSE. I know not. JULIET. 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. JULIET. 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? JULIET. A rhyme I learn’d 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._] ACT II Enter Chorus. CHORUS. 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, Tempering extremities with extreme sweet. [_Exit._] SCENE I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out. [_He climbs the wall and leaps down within it._] Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. BENVOLIO. Romeo! My cousin Romeo! Romeo! MERCUTIO. He is wise, And on my life hath stol’n him home to bed. BENVOLIO. He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall: Call, good Mercutio. MERCUTIO. 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 ‘Ah me!’ Pronounce but Love and dove; Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word, One nickname for her purblind son and heir, Young Abraham Cupid, he that shot so trim When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid. He heareth not, he stirreth not, he 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. BENVOLIO. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him. MERCUTIO. 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, and, in his mistress’ name, I conjure only but to raise up him. BENVOLIO. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees To be consorted with the humorous night. Blind is his love, and best befits the dark. MERCUTIO. 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-arse and thou a poperin pear! Romeo, good night. I’ll to my truckle-bed. This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep. Come, shall we go? BENVOLIO. Go then; for ’tis in vain To seek him here that means not to be found. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Capulet’s Garden. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. He jests at scars that never felt a wound. Juliet appears 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. JULIET. Ay me. ROMEO. 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 wondering eyes Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him When he bestrides the lazy-puffing clouds And sails upon the bosom of the air. JULIET. 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. ROMEO. [_Aside._] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this? JULIET. ’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 thy name, which is no part of thee, Take all myself. ROMEO. I take thee at thy word. Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptis’d; Henceforth I never will be Romeo. JULIET. What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night So stumblest on my counsel? ROMEO. 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. JULIET. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words Of thy tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound. Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague? ROMEO. Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike. JULIET. 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. ROMEO. 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 stop to me. JULIET. If they do see thee, they will murder thee. ROMEO. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye Than twenty of their swords. Look thou but sweet, And I am proof against their enmity. JULIET. I would not for the world they saw thee here. ROMEO. I have night’s cloak to hide me from their eyes, 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. JULIET. By whose direction found’st thou out this place? ROMEO. 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 should adventure for such merchandise. JULIET. 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 tonight. 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. ROMEO. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I vow, That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,— JULIET. O swear not by the moon, th’inconstant moon, That monthly changes in her circled orb, Lest that thy love prove likewise variable. ROMEO. What shall I swear by? JULIET. 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. ROMEO. If my heart’s dear love,— JULIET. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee, I have no joy of this contract tonight; 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 flower when next we meet. Good night, good night. As sweet repose and rest Come to thy heart as that within my breast. ROMEO. O wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied? JULIET. What satisfaction canst thou have tonight? ROMEO. Th’exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine. JULIET. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it; And yet I would it were to give again. ROMEO. Would’st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love? JULIET. 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._] ROMEO. 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. JULIET. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed. If that thy bent of love be honourable, Thy purpose marriage, send me word tomorrow, 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. JULIET. I come, anon.— But if thou meanest not well, I do beseech thee,— NURSE. [_Within._] Madam. JULIET. By and by I come— To cease thy strife and leave me to my grief. Tomorrow will I send. ROMEO. So thrive my soul,— JULIET. A thousand times good night. [_Exit._] ROMEO. 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. [_Retiring slowly._] Re-enter Juliet, above. JULIET. 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. It is my soul that calls upon my name. How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night, Like softest music to attending ears. JULIET. Romeo. ROMEO. My nyas? JULIET. What o’clock tomorrow Shall I send to thee? ROMEO. By the hour of nine. JULIET. I will not fail. ’Tis twenty years till then. I have forgot why I did call thee back. ROMEO. Let me stand here till thou remember it. JULIET. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there, Remembering how I love thy company. ROMEO. And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget, Forgetting any other home but this. JULIET. ’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. ROMEO. I would I were thy bird. JULIET. 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._] ROMEO. 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 Sire’s cell, His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket. FRIAR LAWRENCE. The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night, Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light; And fleckled darkness like a drunkard reels From forth day’s pathway, made by Titan’s fiery wheels Now, ere the sun advance his burning eye, The day to cheer, and night’s dank dew to dry, I must upfill 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 grave, 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. Enter Romeo. Within the infant rind of this weak 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. ROMEO. Good morrow, father. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Benedicite! What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper’d 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 distemperature; Or if not so, then here I hit it right, Our Romeo hath not been in bed tonight. ROMEO. That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine. FRIAR LAWRENCE. God pardon sin. Wast thou with Rosaline? ROMEO. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No. I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s my good son. But where hast thou been then? ROMEO. 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 LAWRENCE. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift; Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift. ROMEO. 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 today. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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 yet ring 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 ere 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. ROMEO. Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline. FRIAR LAWRENCE. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine. ROMEO. And bad’st me bury love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Not in a grave To lay one in, another out to have. ROMEO. I pray thee chide me not, her I love now Doth grace for grace and love for love allow. The other did not so. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. ROMEO. O let us hence; I stand on sudden haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio. MERCUTIO. Where the devil should this Romeo be? Came he not home tonight? BENVOLIO. Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man. MERCUTIO. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline, torments him so that he will sure run mad. BENVOLIO. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet, hath sent a letter to his father’s house. MERCUTIO. A challenge, on my life. BENVOLIO. Romeo will answer it. MERCUTIO. Any man that can write may answer a letter. BENVOLIO. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared. MERCUTIO. Alas poor Romeo, he is already dead, stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; run 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? BENVOLIO. Why, what is Tybalt? MERCUTIO. More than Prince of cats. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song, keeps time, distance, and proportion. He rests 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 reverso, the hay. BENVOLIO. The what? MERCUTIO. The pox of such antic lisping, affecting phantasies; 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, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardon-me’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. BENVOLIO. Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo! MERCUTIO. 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; Thisbe a grey eye or so, but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bonjour! There’s a French salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night. ROMEO. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you? MERCUTIO. The slip sir, the slip; can you not conceive? ROMEO. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy. MERCUTIO. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams. ROMEO. Meaning, to curtsy. MERCUTIO. Thou hast most kindly hit it. ROMEO. A most courteous exposition. MERCUTIO. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy. ROMEO. Pink for flower. MERCUTIO. Right. ROMEO. Why, then is my pump well flowered. MERCUTIO. Sure wit, 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. ROMEO. O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness! MERCUTIO. Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint. ROMEO. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match. MERCUTIO. Nay, if thy 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? ROMEO. Thou wast never with me for anything, when thou wast not there for the goose. MERCUTIO. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest. ROMEO. Nay, good goose, bite not. MERCUTIO. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting, it is a most sharp sauce. ROMEO. And is it not then well served in to a sweet goose? MERCUTIO. O here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad. ROMEO. I stretch it out for that word broad, which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose. MERCUTIO. 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. BENVOLIO. Stop there, stop there. MERCUTIO. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair. BENVOLIO. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large. MERCUTIO. O, thou art deceived; 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. Enter Nurse and Peter. ROMEO. Here’s goodly gear! A sail, a sail! MERCUTIO. Two, two; a shirt and a smock. NURSE. Peter! PETER. Anon. NURSE. My fan, Peter. MERCUTIO. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face. NURSE. God ye good morrow, gentlemen. MERCUTIO. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman. NURSE. Is it good-den? MERCUTIO. ’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? ROMEO. 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? ROMEO. 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. MERCUTIO. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i’faith; wisely, wisely. NURSE. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you. BENVOLIO. She will endite him to some supper. MERCUTIO. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho! ROMEO. What hast thou found? MERCUTIO. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is something stale and hoar ere it be spent. [_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. ROMEO. I will follow you. MERCUTIO. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell, lady, lady, lady. [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] NURSE. I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery? ROMEO. 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. And a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, and 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 bade me say, I will keep to myself. But first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her in 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 offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing. ROMEO. 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. ROMEO. 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. ROMEO. Bid her devise Some means to come to shrift this afternoon, And there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains. NURSE. No truly, sir; not a penny. ROMEO. Go to; I say you shall. NURSE. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there. ROMEO. 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. ROMEO. 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? ROMEO. 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 lief 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? ROMEO. 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. ROMEO. Commend me to thy lady. NURSE. Ay, a thousand times. Peter! [_Exit Romeo._] PETER. Anon. NURSE. Before and apace. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Capulet’s Garden. Enter Juliet. JULIET. The clock struck nine when I did send the Nurse, In half an hour she promised 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 glides than the sun’s beams, Driving back shadows over lowering 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’d 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._] JULIET. Now, good sweet Nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad? Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily; If good, thou sham’st 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 jaunt have I had! JULIET. 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 a while? Do you not see that I am out of breath? JULIET. 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 talked 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 dined at home? JULIET. 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,—O my back, my back! Beshrew your heart for sending me about To catch my death with jauncing up and down. JULIET. 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? JULIET. 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. JULIET. Here’s such a coil. Come, what says Romeo? NURSE. Have you got leave to go to shrift today? JULIET. I have. NURSE. Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ 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 burden soon at night. Go. I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell. JULIET. Hie to high fortune! Honest Nurse, farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo. FRIAR LAWRENCE. So smile the heavens upon this holy act That after-hours with sorrow chide us not. ROMEO. 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 LAWRENCE. 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 gossamers That idles in the wanton summer air And yet not fall; so light is vanity. JULIET. Good even to my ghostly confessor. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both. JULIET. As much to him, else is his thanks too much. ROMEO. 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. JULIET. 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, I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, Page and Servants. BENVOLIO. 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. MERCUTIO. 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. BENVOLIO. Am I like such a fellow? MERCUTIO. 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. BENVOLIO. And what to? MERCUTIO. 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 quarrelled 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! BENVOLIO. And 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. MERCUTIO. The fee simple! O simple! Enter Tybalt and others. BENVOLIO. By my head, here comes the Capulets. MERCUTIO. By my heel, I care not. TYBALT. Follow me close, for I will speak to them. Gentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you. MERCUTIO. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow. TYBALT. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, and you will give me occasion. MERCUTIO. Could you not take some occasion without giving? TYBALT. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo. MERCUTIO. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? And thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here’s my fiddlestick, here’s that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort! BENVOLIO. 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. MERCUTIO. Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I. Enter Romeo. TYBALT. Well, peace be with you, sir, here comes my man. MERCUTIO. But I’ll be hanged, 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. TYBALT. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford No better term than this: Thou art a villain. ROMEO. 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 know’st me not. TYBALT. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries That thou hast done me, therefore turn and draw. ROMEO. 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. MERCUTIO. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission! [_Draws._] Alla stoccata carries it away. Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk? TYBALT. What wouldst thou have with me? MERCUTIO. 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 pilcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out. TYBALT. [_Drawing._] I am for you. ROMEO. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up. MERCUTIO. Come, sir, your passado. [_They fight._] ROMEO. 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! [_Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans._] MERCUTIO. I am hurt. A plague o’ both your houses. I am sped. Is he gone, and hath nothing? BENVOLIO. What, art thou hurt? MERCUTIO. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, ’tis enough. Where is my page? Go villain, fetch a surgeon. [_Exit Page._] ROMEO. Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. MERCUTIO. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but ’tis enough, ’twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, 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. ROMEO. I thought all for the best. MERCUTIO. 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! [_Exeunt Mercutio and Benvolio._] ROMEO. This gentleman, the Prince’s near ally, My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt In my behalf; my reputation stain’d With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour Hath been my cousin. O sweet Juliet, Thy beauty hath made me effeminate And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel. Re-enter Benvolio. BENVOLIO. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead, That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds, Which too untimely here did scorn the earth. ROMEO. This day’s black fate on mo days doth depend; This but begins the woe others must end. Re-enter Tybalt. BENVOLIO. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again. ROMEO. Again 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 gav’st 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. TYBALT. Thou wretched boy, that didst consort him here, Shalt with him hence. ROMEO. This shall determine that. [_They fight; Tybalt falls._] BENVOLIO. 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! ROMEO. O, I am fortune’s fool! BENVOLIO. Why dost thou stay? [_Exit Romeo._] Enter Citizens. FIRST CITIZEN. Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio? Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he? BENVOLIO. There lies that Tybalt. FIRST CITIZEN. Up, sir, go with me. I charge thee in the Prince’s name obey. Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives and others. PRINCE. Where are the vile beginners of this fray? BENVOLIO. 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. LADY CAPULET. 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? BENVOLIO. Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay; 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. LADY CAPULET. 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? MONTAGUE. 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. A Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Juliet. JULIET. Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, Towards Phoebus’ lodging. Such a waggoner As Phaeton would whip you to the west And bring in cloudy night immediately. Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night, That runaway’s 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, grow 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 I 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, And she brings news, and every tongue that speaks But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence. Enter Nurse, with cords. Now, Nurse, what news? What hast thou there? The cords that Romeo bid thee fetch? NURSE. Ay, ay, the cords. [_Throws them down._] JULIET. Ay me, what news? Why dost thou wring thy hands? NURSE. Ah, well-a-day, 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. JULIET. Can heaven be so envious? NURSE. Romeo can, Though heaven cannot. O Romeo, Romeo. Who ever would have thought it? Romeo! JULIET. 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 Ay, 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 Ay. If he be slain, say Ay; 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. JULIET. 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. JULIET. What storm is this that blows so contrary? Is Romeo slaughter’d and is Tybalt dead? My dearest 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. JULIET. O God! Did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood? NURSE. It did, it did; alas the day, it did. JULIET. O serpent heart, hid with a flowering 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. JULIET. 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? JULIET. 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 murder’d 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 follow’d 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 rear-ward 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. JULIET. 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 Lawrence’ cell. JULIET. O find him, give this ring to my true knight, And bid him come to take his last farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Friar Lawrence’s cell. Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man. Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts And thou art wedded to calamity. Enter Romeo. ROMEO. Father, what news? What is the Prince’s doom? What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand, That I yet know not? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Too familiar Is my dear son with such sour company. I bring thee tidings of the Prince’s doom. ROMEO. What less than doomsday is the Prince’s doom? FRIAR LAWRENCE. A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips, Not body’s death, but body’s banishment. ROMEO. Ha, banishment? Be merciful, say death; For exile hath more terror in his look, Much more than death. Do not say banishment. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hence from Verona art thou banished. Be patient, for the world is broad and wide. ROMEO. 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 banished Is death misterm’d. Calling death banished, Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe, And smilest upon the stroke that murders me. FRIAR LAWRENCE. O deadly sin, O rude unthankfulness! Thy fault our law calls death, but the kind Prince, Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law, And turn’d that black word death to banishment. This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not. ROMEO. ’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 say’st 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 LAWRENCE. Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little, ROMEO. O, thou wilt speak again of banishment. FRIAR LAWRENCE. I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word, Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy, To comfort thee, though thou art banished. ROMEO. 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 LAWRENCE. O, then I see that mad men have no ears. ROMEO. How should they, when that wise men have no eyes? FRIAR LAWRENCE. Let me dispute with thee of thy estate. ROMEO. 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. [_Knocking within._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself. ROMEO. Not I, unless the breath of heartsick groans Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes. [_Knocking._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise, Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile.—Stand up. [_Knocking._] Run to my study.—By-and-by.—God’s will, What simpleness is this.—I come, I come. [_Knocking._] 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 LAWRENCE. Welcome then. Enter Nurse. NURSE. O holy Friar, O, tell me, holy Friar, Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo? FRIAR LAWRENCE. There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk. NURSE. O, he is even in my mistress’ case. Just in her case! O woeful sympathy! Piteous predicament. Even so lies she, Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering. Stand up, stand up; stand, and you be a man. For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand. Why should you fall into so deep an O? ROMEO. Nurse. NURSE. Ah sir, ah sir, death’s the end of all. ROMEO. Spakest thou of Juliet? How is it with her? Doth not she think me an old murderer, 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. ROMEO. As if that name, Shot from the deadly level of a gun, Did murder 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. [_Drawing his sword._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, And 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 rail’st 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 sham’st 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 set afire by thine own ignorance, And thou dismember’d 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 slew’st Tybalt; there art thou happy. The law that threaten’d 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 misshaped and sullen wench, Thou putt’st up 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. ROMEO. Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide. NURSE. Here sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir. Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late. [_Exit._] ROMEO. How well my comfort is reviv’d by this. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. ROMEO. But that a joy past joy calls out on me, It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in Capulet’s House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and Paris. CAPULET. Things have fallen 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 tonight. I promise you, but for your company, I would have been abed an hour ago. PARIS. These times of woe afford no tune to woo. Madam, good night. Commend me to your daughter. LADY CAPULET. I will, and know her mind early tomorrow; Tonight she’s mew’d up to her heaviness. CAPULET. 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? PARIS. Monday, my lord. CAPULET. Monday! Ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon, A 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? PARIS. My lord, I would that Thursday were tomorrow. CAPULET. 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. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden. Enter Romeo and Juliet. JULIET. 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. ROMEO. 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. JULIET. 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 thy way to Mantua. Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone. ROMEO. 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. JULIET. 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 change 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. ROMEO. More light and light, more dark and dark our woes. Enter Nurse. NURSE. Madam. JULIET. Nurse? NURSE. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber. The day is broke, be wary, look about. [_Exit._] JULIET. Then, window, let day in, and let life out. ROMEO. Farewell, farewell, one kiss, and I’ll descend. [_Descends._] JULIET. Art thou gone so? Love, lord, ay husband, 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. ROMEO. Farewell! I will omit no opportunity That may convey my greetings, love, to thee. JULIET. O thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? ROMEO. I doubt it not, and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our time to come. JULIET. O God! I have an ill-divining soul! Methinks I see thee, now thou art so low, As one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale. ROMEO. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you. Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu. [_Exit below._] JULIET. 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 CAPULET. [_Within._] Ho, daughter, are you up? JULIET. Who is’t that calls? Is it my lady mother? Is she not down so late, or up so early? What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither? Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. Why, how now, Juliet? JULIET. Madam, I am not well. LADY CAPULET. Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death? What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears? And 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. JULIET. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss. LADY CAPULET. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend Which you weep for. JULIET. Feeling so the loss, I cannot choose but ever weep the friend. LADY CAPULET. Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him. JULIET. What villain, madam? LADY CAPULET. That same villain Romeo. JULIET. 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 CAPULET. That is because the traitor murderer lives. JULIET. Ay madam, from the reach of these my hands. Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death. LADY CAPULET. 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. JULIET. 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 Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him. LADY CAPULET. Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man. But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl. JULIET. And joy comes well in such a needy time. What are they, I beseech your ladyship? LADY CAPULET. 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. JULIET. Madam, in happy time, what day is that? LADY CAPULET. 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. JULIET. 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 CAPULET. Here comes your father, tell him so yourself, And see how he will take it at your hands. Enter Capulet and Nurse. CAPULET. 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 showering? In one little body Thou counterfeits 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 deliver’d to her our decree? LADY CAPULET. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks. I would the fool were married to her grave. CAPULET. 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? JULIET. 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. CAPULET. How now, how now, chopp’d logic? 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! Out, you baggage! You tallow-face! LADY CAPULET. Fie, fie! What, are you mad? JULIET. Good father, I beseech you on my knees, Hear me with patience but to speak a word. CAPULET. 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. CAPULET. And why, my lady wisdom? Hold your tongue, Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go. NURSE. I speak no treason. CAPULET. O God ye good-en! NURSE. May not one speak? CAPULET. Peace, you mumbling fool! Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl, For here we need it not. LADY CAPULET. You are too hot. CAPULET. God’s bread, it makes me mad! Day, night, hour, ride, time, work, play, Alone, in company, still my care hath been To have her match’d, and having now provided A gentleman of noble parentage, Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly allied, 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, and 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. And you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend; And 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._] JULIET. 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 CAPULET. Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word. Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. [_Exit._] JULIET. 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 banished; 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. JULIET. Speakest thou from thy heart? NURSE. And from my soul too, Or else beshrew them both. JULIET. Amen. NURSE. What? JULIET. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much. Go in, and tell my lady I am gone, Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell, To make confession and to be absolv’d. NURSE. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. [_Exit._] JULIET. 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 Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris. FRIAR LAWRENCE. On Thursday, sir? The time is very short. PARIS. My father Capulet will have it so; And I am nothing slow to slack his haste. FRIAR LAWRENCE. You say you do not know the lady’s mind. Uneven is the course; I like it not. PARIS. 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 LAWRENCE. [_Aside._] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.— Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell. Enter Juliet. PARIS. Happily met, my lady and my wife! JULIET. That may be, sir, when I may be a wife. PARIS. That may be, must be, love, on Thursday next. JULIET. What must be shall be. FRIAR LAWRENCE. That’s a certain text. PARIS. Come you to make confession to this father? JULIET. To answer that, I should confess to you. PARIS. Do not deny to him that you love me. JULIET. I will confess to you that I love him. PARIS. So will ye, I am sure, that you love me. JULIET. If I do so, it will be of more price, Being spoke behind your back than to your face. PARIS. Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears. JULIET. The tears have got small victory by that; For it was bad enough before their spite. PARIS. Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report. JULIET. That is no slander, sir, which is a truth, And what I spake, I spake it to my face. PARIS. Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it. JULIET. 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 LAWRENCE. My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.— My lord, we must entreat the time alone. PARIS. God shield I should disturb devotion!— Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse ye, Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss. [_Exit._] JULIET. O shut the door, and when thou hast done so, Come weep with me, past hope, past cure, past help! FRIAR LAWRENCE. O 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. JULIET. 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 LAWRENCE. 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. JULIET. 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 hide me nightly in a charnel-house, O’er-cover’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 LAWRENCE. Hold then. Go home, be merry, give consent To marry Paris. Wednesday is tomorrow; Tomorrow night look that thou lie alone, Let not thy 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 borrow’d 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, uncover’d, on the bier, Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie. In the meantime, 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. JULIET. Give me, give me! O tell not me of fear! FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. JULIET. Love give me strength, and strength shall help afford. Farewell, dear father. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Hall in Capulet’s House. Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse and Servants. CAPULET. So many guests invite as here are writ. [_Exit first Servant._] Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks. SECOND SERVANT. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their fingers. CAPULET. How canst thou try them so? SECOND SERVANT. Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers; therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me. CAPULET. Go, begone. [_Exit second Servant._] We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time. What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence? NURSE. Ay, forsooth. CAPULET. Well, he 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. CAPULET. How now, my headstrong. Where have you been gadding? JULIET. Where I have learnt me to repent the sin Of disobedient opposition To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here, To beg your pardon. Pardon, I beseech you. Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you. CAPULET. Send for the County, go tell him of this. I’ll have this knot knit up tomorrow morning. JULIET. I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell, And gave him what becomed love I might, Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty. CAPULET. 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. JULIET. Nurse, will you go with me into my closet, To help me sort such needful ornaments As you think fit to furnish me tomorrow? LADY CAPULET. No, not till Thursday. There is time enough. CAPULET. Go, Nurse, go with her. We’ll to church tomorrow. [_Exeunt Juliet and Nurse._] LADY CAPULET. We shall be short in our provision, ’Tis now near night. CAPULET. 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 tonight, 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 tomorrow. My heart is wondrous light Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Juliet’s Chamber. Enter Juliet and Nurse. JULIET. Ay, those attires are best. But, gentle Nurse, I pray thee leave me to myself tonight; For I have need of many orisons To move the heavens to smile upon my state, Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin. Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. What, are you busy, ho? Need you my help? JULIET. No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries As are behoveful for our state tomorrow. 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. LADY CAPULET. Good night. Get thee to bed and rest, for thou hast need. [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] JULIET. 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 tomorrow morning? No, No! This shall forbid it. Lie thou there. [_Laying down her dagger._] What if it be a poison, which the Friar Subtly hath minister’d 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. 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 festering 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 desperate 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, Romeo, Romeo, here’s drink! I drink to thee. [_Throws herself on the bed._] SCENE IV. Hall in Capulet’s House. Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse. LADY CAPULET. Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, Nurse. NURSE. They call for dates and quinces in the pastry. Enter Capulet. CAPULET. 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 tomorrow For this night’s watching. CAPULET. No, not a whit. What! I have watch’d ere now All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick. LADY CAPULET. Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time; But I will watch you from such watching now. [_Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse._] CAPULET. A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood! Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets. Now, fellow, what’s there? FIRST SERVANT. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what. CAPULET. Make haste, make haste. [_Exit First Servant._] —Sirrah, fetch drier logs. Call Peter, he will show thee where they are. SECOND SERVANT. I have a head, sir, that will find out logs And never trouble Peter for the matter. [_Exit._] CAPULET. Mass and well said; a merry whoreson, ha. Thou shalt be loggerhead.—Good faith, ’tis day. The County will be here with music straight, For so he said he would. I hear him near. [_Play music._] Nurse! Wife! What, ho! What, Nurse, I say! Re-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; Juliet on the bed. 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? 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, well-a-day that ever I was born. Some aqua vitae, ho! My lord! My lady! Enter Lady Capulet. LADY CAPULET. What noise is here? NURSE. O lamentable day! LADY CAPULET. What is the matter? NURSE. Look, look! O heavy day! LADY CAPULET. O me, O me! My child, my only life. Revive, look up, or I will die with thee. Help, help! Call help. Enter Capulet. CAPULET. For shame, bring Juliet forth, her lord is come. NURSE. She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day! LADY CAPULET. Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead! CAPULET. 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! LADY CAPULET. O woful time! CAPULET. Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail, Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak. Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris with Musicians. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Come, is the bride ready to go to church? CAPULET. Ready to go, but never to return. O son, the night before thy wedding day Hath death lain with thy bride. 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. PARIS. Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this? LADY CAPULET. 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 woeful, woeful, woeful day. Most lamentable day, most woeful 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 woeful day, O woeful day. PARIS. 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! CAPULET. Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d. Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now To murder, murder our solemnity? O child! O child! My soul, and not my child, Dead art thou. Alack, my child is dead, And with my child my joys are buried. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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, And in her best array bear her to church; For though fond nature bids us all lament, Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment. CAPULET. 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 LAWRENCE. Sir, go you in, and, madam, go with him, And go, Sir Paris, everyone prepare To follow this fair corse unto her grave. The heavens do lower upon you for some ill; Move them no more by crossing their high will. [_Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris and Friar._] FIRST MUSICIAN. 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. FIRST MUSICIAN. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended. [_Exit Nurse._] Enter Peter. PETER. Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’, O, and you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’ FIRST MUSICIAN. Why ‘Heart’s ease’? PETER. O musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full’. O play me some merry dump to comfort me. FIRST MUSICIAN. Not a dump we, ’tis no time to play now. PETER. You will not then? FIRST MUSICIAN. No. PETER. I will then give it you soundly. FIRST MUSICIAN. What will you give us? PETER. No money, on my faith, but the gleek! I will give you the minstrel. FIRST MUSICIAN. Then will I give you the serving-creature. PETER. 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? FIRST MUSICIAN. And you re us and fa us, you note us. SECOND MUSICIAN. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit. PETER. 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 griefs 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? FIRST MUSICIAN. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound. PETER. Prates. What say you, Hugh Rebeck? SECOND MUSICIAN. I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver. PETER. Prates too! What say you, James Soundpost? THIRD MUSICIAN. Faith, I know not what to say. PETER. 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._] FIRST MUSICIAN. What a pestilent knave is this same! SECOND MUSICIAN. 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. ROMEO. If I may trust the flattering eye 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 Balthasar. 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. BALTHASAR. 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. ROMEO. Is it even so? Then I defy you, stars! Thou know’st my lodging. Get me ink and paper, And hire post-horses. I will hence tonight. BALTHASAR. I do beseech you sir, have patience. Your looks are pale and wild, and do import Some misadventure. ROMEO. Tush, thou art deceiv’d. Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do. Hast thou no letters to me from the Friar? BALTHASAR. No, my good lord. ROMEO. No matter. Get thee gone, And hire those horses. I’ll be with thee straight. [_Exit Balthasar._] Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee tonight. 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 he dwells,—which late I noted In tatter’d 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 scatter’d, to make up a show. Noting this penury, to myself I said, And 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. APOTHECARY. Who calls so loud? ROMEO. 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 may 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. APOTHECARY. Such mortal drugs I have, but Mantua’s law Is death to any he that utters them. ROMEO. Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness, And fear’st 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. APOTHECARY. My poverty, but not my will consents. ROMEO. I pay thy poverty, and not thy will. APOTHECARY. Put this in any liquid thing you will And drink it off; and, if you had the strength Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight. ROMEO. There is thy gold, worse poison to men’s souls, Doing more murder 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. Friar Lawrence’s Cell. Enter Friar John. FRIAR JOHN. Holy Franciscan Friar! Brother, ho! Enter Friar Lawrence. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. FRIAR 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. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who bare my letter then to Romeo? FRIAR JOHN. I could not send it,—here it is again,— Nor get a messenger to bring it thee, So fearful were they of infection. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. FRIAR JOHN. Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee. [_Exit._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets. Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch. PARIS. 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 thy 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._] PARIS. 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. [_The Page whistles._] The boy gives warning something doth approach. What cursed foot wanders this way tonight, 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, mattock, &c. ROMEO. 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 hear’st 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 further 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. BALTHASAR. I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you. ROMEO. So shalt thou show me friendship. Take thou that. Live, and be prosperous, and farewell, good fellow. BALTHASAR. For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout. His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt. [_Retires_] ROMEO. Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death, Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth, Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open, [_Breaking open the door of the monument._] And in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food. PARIS. This is that banish’d haughty Montague That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief, It is supposed, the fair creature died,— And here is come to do some villainous shame To the dead bodies. I will apprehend him. [_Advances._] Stop thy unhallow’d 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. ROMEO. I must indeed; and therefore came I hither. Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man. Fly hence and leave me. Think upon these gone; Let them affright thee. I beseech thee, youth, Put 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. PARIS. I do defy thy conjuration, And apprehend thee for a felon here. ROMEO. Wilt thou provoke me? Then have at thee, boy! [_They fight._] PAGE. O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch. [_Exit._] PARIS. O, I am slain! [_Falls._] If thou be merciful, Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet. [_Dies._] ROMEO. 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 lantern, 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. [_Laying Paris in the monument._] 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 sea-sick weary bark. Here’s to my love! [_Drinks._] O true apothecary! Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die. [_Dies._] Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a lantern, crow, and spade. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Saint Francis be my speed. How oft tonight Have my old feet stumbled at graves? Who’s there? Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead? BALTHASAR. Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. BALTHASAR. It doth so, holy sir, and there’s my master, One that you love. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Who is it? BALTHASAR. Romeo. FRIAR LAWRENCE. How long hath he been there? BALTHASAR. Full half an hour. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Go with me to the vault. BALTHASAR. 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 LAWRENCE. Stay then, I’ll go alone. Fear comes upon me. O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing. BALTHASAR. As I did sleep under this yew tree here, I dreamt my master and another fought, And that my master slew him. FRIAR LAWRENCE. Romeo! [_Advances._] 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 monument._] 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 wakes and stirs._] JULIET. O comfortable Friar, where is my lord? I do remember well where I should be, And there I am. Where is my Romeo? [_Noise within._] FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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. JULIET. Go, get thee hence, for I will not away. [_Exit Friar Lawrence._] What’s here? A cup clos’d in my true love’s hand? Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end. O churl. Drink 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! FIRST WATCH. [_Within._] Lead, boy. Which way? JULIET. Yea, noise? Then I’ll be brief. O happy dagger. [_Snatching Romeo’s dagger._] This is thy sheath. [_stabs herself_] There rest, and let me die. [_Falls on Romeo’s body and dies._] Enter Watch with the Page of Paris. PAGE. This is the place. There, where the torch doth burn. FIRST 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. Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar. SECOND WATCH. Here’s Romeo’s man. We found him in the churchyard. FIRST WATCH. Hold him in safety till the Prince come hither. Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence. THIRD 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. FIRST 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’s rest? Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet and others. CAPULET. What should it be that they so shriek abroad? LADY CAPULET. O 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? FIRST 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. FIRST WATCH. Here is a Friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man, With instruments upon them fit to open These dead men’s tombs. CAPULET. O heaven! 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 mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom. LADY CAPULET. 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. MONTAGUE. Alas, my liege, my wife is dead tonight. Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath. What further woe conspires against mine age? PRINCE. Look, and thou shalt see. MONTAGUE. 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 LAWRENCE. I am the greatest, able to do least, Yet most suspected, as the time and place Doth make against me, of this direful murder. And here I stand, both to impeach and purge Myself condemned and myself excus’d. PRINCE. Then say at once what thou dost know in this. FRIAR LAWRENCE. 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 means 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 borrow’d 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 ought 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 to this? BALTHASAR. 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 threaten’d 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? PAGE. 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, Montague, See what a scourge is laid upon your hate, That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love! And I, for winking at your discords too, Have lost a brace of kinsmen. All are punish’d. CAPULET. O brother Montague, give me thy hand. This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more Can I demand. MONTAGUE. 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. CAPULET. 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._] THE TAMING OF THE SHREW Contents INDUCTION Scene I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Scene II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. ACT I Scene I. Padua. A public place. Scene II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. ACT II Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. ACT III Scene I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Scene II. The same. Before Baptista’s house. ACT IV Scene I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house. Scene II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Scene III. A room in Petruchio’s house. Scene IV. Before Baptista’s house. Scene V. A public road. ACT V Scene I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. Scene II. A room in Lucentio’s house. Dramatis Personæ Persons in the Induction A LORD CHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinker HOSTESS PAGE PLAYERS HUNTSMEN SERVANTS BAPTISTA MINOLA, a rich gentleman of Padua VINCENTIO, an old gentleman of Pisa LUCENTIO, son to Vincentio; in love with Bianca PETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona; suitor to Katherina Suitors to Bianca GREMIO HORTENSIO Servants to Lucentio TRANIO BIONDELLO Servants to Petruchio GRUMIO CURTIS PEDANT, set up to personate Vincentio Daughters to Baptista KATHERINA, the shrew BIANCA WIDOW Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and Petruchio SCENE: Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes in Petruchio’s house in the country. INDUCTION SCENE I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Enter Hostess and Sly SLY. I’ll 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. [_Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep._] Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. LORD. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds; Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d, And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord; He cried upon it at the merest loss, And twice today 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; Tomorrow I intend to hunt again. FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord. LORD. [_Sees Sly_.] What’s here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? SECOND HUNTSMAN. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale, This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. LORD. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey’d to bed, Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself? FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. SECOND HUNTSMAN. It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d. LORD. Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest. Carry him gently to my fairest chamber, And hang it round with all my wanton pictures; Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters, And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet. Procure me music ready when he wakes, To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound; And if he chance to speak, be ready straight, And with a low submissive reverence Say ‘What is it your honour will command?’ Let one attend him with a silver basin Full of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers; Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper, And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands?’ Someone 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 borne out. A trumpet sounds._] Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds. [_Exit_ Servant.] Belike some noble gentleman that means, Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter Servant. How now! who is it? SERVANT. An it please your honour, players That offer service to your lordship. LORD. Bid them come near. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. PLAYERS. We thank your honour. LORD. Do you intend to stay with me tonight? 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 tonight; But I am doubtful of your modesties, Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,— For yet his honour never heard a play,— You break into some merry passion And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs, If you should smile, he grows impatient. PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves, Were he the veriest antick in the world. LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery, And give them friendly welcome everyone: Let them want nothing that my house affords. [_Exit one with the Players._] Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page, And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady; That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber, And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. Tell him from me—as he will win my love,— He bear himself with honourable action, Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladies Unto their lords, by them accomplished; Such duty to the drunkard let him do, With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy, And say ‘What is’t your honour will command, Wherein your lady and your humble wife May show her duty and make known her love?’ And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses, And with declining head into his bosom, Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’d To see her noble lord restor’d to health, Who for this seven years hath esteemed him No better than a poor and loathsome beggar. And if the boy have not a woman’s gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift, Which, in a napkin being close convey’d, Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst; Anon I’ll give thee more instructions. [_Exit Servant._] I know the boy will well usurp the grace, Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman; I long to hear him call the drunkard husband; And how my men will stay themselves from laughter When they do homage to this simple peasant. I’ll in to counsel them; haply my presence May well abate the over-merry spleen, Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A bedchamber in the Lord’s house. Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some with apparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressed like a servant. SLY. For God’s sake! a pot of small ale. FIRST SERVANT. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack? SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves? THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear today? SLY. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. I ne’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves, give me conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings than legs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem, Should be infused with so foul a spirit! SLY. What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sly’s son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education a 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 lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not bestraught. Here’s— THIRD SERVANT. O! this it is that makes your lady mourn. SECOND SERVANT. O! this is it that makes your servants droop. LORD. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house, As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck: Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays, [_Music._] And twenty caged nightingales do sing: Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a couch Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground: Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp’d, Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift As breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe. SECOND SERVANT. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move and wanton with her breath Even as the waving sedges play with wind. LORD. We’ll show thee Io as she was a maid And how she was beguiled and surpris’d, As lively painted as the deed was done. THIRD SERVANT. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. LORD. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord: Thou hast a lady far more beautiful Than any woman in this waning age. FIRST SERVANT. And, till the tears that she hath shed for thee Like envious floods o’er-run her lovely face, She was the fairest creature in the world; And yet she is inferior to none. SLY. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? Or do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak; I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things: Upon my life, I am a lord indeed; And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight; And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands? [_Servants present a ewer, basin and napkin._] O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d! O, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream, Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept. SLY. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time? FIRST SERVANT. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words; For though you lay here in this goodly chamber, Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door, And rail upon the hostess of the house, And say you would present her at the leet, Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. SLY. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. THIRD SERVANT. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid, Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up, As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece, And Peter 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. Alice madam, or Joan madam? LORD. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’d And slept above some fifteen year or more. PAGE. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me, Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. SLY. ’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. PAGE. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you To pardon me yet for a night or two; Or, if not so, until the sun be set: For your physicians have expressly charg’d, In peril to incur your former malady, That I should yet absent me from your bed: I hope this reason stands for my excuse. SLY. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I would be loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in despite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a 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 commonty a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick? PAGE. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. SLY. What! household stuff? PAGE. It is a kind of history. SLY. Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and let the world slip: we shall ne’er be younger. ACT I SCENE I. Padua. A public place. Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, since for the great desire I had To see fair Padua, nursery of arts, I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy, The pleasant garden of great Italy, And by my father’s love and leave am arm’d With his good will and thy good company, My trusty servant well approv’d in all, Here let us breathe, and haply institute A course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens, Gave me my being and my father first, A merchant of great traffic through the world, Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence, It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d, To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds: And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study, Virtue and that part of philosophy Will I apply that treats of happiness By virtue specially to be achiev’d. Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left And am to Padua come as he that leaves A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep, And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. TRANIO. _Mi perdonato_, gentle master mine; I am in all affected as yourself; Glad that you thus continue your resolve To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admire This virtue and this moral discipline, Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray; Or so devote to Aristotle’s checks As Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d. Balk logic with acquaintance that you have, And practise rhetoric in your common talk; Music and poesy use to quicken you; The mathematics and the metaphysics, Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you: No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en; In brief, sir, study what you most affect. LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore, We could at once put us in readiness, And take a lodging fit to entertain Such friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile; what company is this? TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town. [_Lucentio and Tranio stand aside._] Enter Baptista, Katherina, Bianca, Gremio and Hortensio. 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; I wis it is not half way 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, and she knew why. BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe: My books and instruments shall be my company, On them to look, and practise by myself. LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak. HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good will effects Bianca’s grief. GREMIO. Why will you mew her up, Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell, And make her bear the penance of her tongue? BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d. Go in, Bianca. [_Exit Bianca._] And for I know she taketh most delight In music, instruments, and poetry, Schoolmasters will I keep within my house Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio, Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such, Prefer them hither; for to cunning men I will be very kind, and liberal To mine own children in good bringing up; And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay; For I have more to commune with Bianca. [_Exit._] KATHERINA. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, as though, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha! [_Exit._] GREMIO. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so good here’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairly out; our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love I bear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to her father. HORTENSIO. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access to our fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labour and effect one thing specially. GREMIO. What’s that, I pray? HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. GREMIO. A husband! a devil. HORTENSIO. I say, a husband. GREMIO. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married to hell? HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in the world, and a man could light on them, would take her with all faults, and money enough. GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with this condition: to be whipp’d at the high cross every morning. HORTENSIO. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rotten apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, it shall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helping Baptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest free for a husband, and then have to’t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse in Padua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wed her, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on. [_Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio._] TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible That love should of a sudden take such hold? LUCENTIO. O Tranio! till I found it to be true, I never thought it possible or likely; But see, while idly I stood looking on, I found the effect of love in idleness; And now in plainness do confess to thee, That art to me as secret and as dear As Anna to the Queen of Carthage was, Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio, If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst: Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. TRANIO. Master, it is no time to chide you now; Affection is not rated from the heart: If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so: _Redime te captum quam queas minimo._ LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents; The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. TRANIO. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. LUCENTIO. O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face, Such as the daughter of Agenor had, That made great Jove to humble him to her hand, When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. TRANIO. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sister Began to scold and raise up such a storm That mortal ears might hardly endure the din? LUCENTIO. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move, And with her breath she did perfume the air; Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. TRANIO. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance. I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid, Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands: Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd, That till the father rid his hands of her, Master, your love must live a maid at home; And therefore has he closely mew’d her up, Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he! But art thou not advis’d he took some care To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her? TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now ’tis plotted. LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio. TRANIO. Master, for my hand, Both our inventions meet and jump in one. LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first. TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster, And undertake the teaching of the maid: That’s your device. LUCENTIO. It is: may it be done? TRANIO. Not possible; for who shall bear your part And be in Padua here Vincentio’s son; Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends; Visit his countrymen, and banquet them? LUCENTIO. _Basta_, content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house, Nor can we be distinguish’d by our faces For man or master: then it follows thus: Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead, Keep house and port and servants, as I should; I will some other be; some Florentine, Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. ’Tis hatch’d, and shall be so: Tranio, at once Uncase thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak. When Biondello comes, he waits on thee; But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. [_They exchange habits_] TRANIO. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is, And I am tied to be obedient; For so your father charg’d me at our parting, ‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he, Although I think ’twas in another sense: I am content to be Lucentio, Because so well I love Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves; And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid Whose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. Enter Biondello. Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been? BIONDELLO. Where have I been? Nay, how now! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes? Or you stol’n his? or both? Pray, what’s the news? LUCENTIO. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest, And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life, Puts my apparel and my count’nance on, And I for my escape have put on his; For in a quarrel since I came ashore I kill’d a man, and fear I was descried. Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes, While I make way from hence to save my life. You understand me? BIONDELLO. I, sir! Ne’er a whit. LUCENTIO. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth: Tranio is changed to Lucentio. BIONDELLO. The better for him: would I were so too! TRANIO. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after, That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter. But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master’s, I advise You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies: When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio; But in all places else your master, Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, let’s go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute, To make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why, Sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty. [_Exeunt._] [_The Presenters above speak._] FIRST SERVANT. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. SLY. Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes there any more of it? PAGE. My lord, ’tis but begun. SLY. ’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would ’twere done! [_They sit and mark._] SCENE II. Padua. Before Hortensio’s house. Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Verona, for a while I take my leave, To see my friends in Padua; but of all My best beloved and approved friend, Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say. GRUMIO. Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebused your worship? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. GRUMIO. Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that I should knock you here, sir? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate; And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate. GRUMIO. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first, And then I know after who comes by the worst. PETRUCHIO. Will it not be? Faith, sirrah, and you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it; I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. [_He wrings Grumio by the ears._] GRUMIO. Help, masters, help! my master is mad. PETRUCHIO. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain! Enter Hortensio. HORTENSIO. How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona? PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray? _Con tutto il cuore ben trovato_, may I say. HORTENSIO. _Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio._ Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel. GRUMIO. Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If this be not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see, two-and-thirty, a pip out? Whom would to God I had well knock’d at first, then had not Grumio come by the worst. PETRUCHIO. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio, I bade the rascal knock upon your gate, And could not get him for my heart to do it. GRUMIO. Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these words plain: ‘Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, and knock me soundly’? And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate’? PETRUCHIO. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge; Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you, Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale Blows you to Padua here from old Verona? PETRUCHIO. Such wind as scatters young men through the world To seek their fortunes farther than at home, Where small experience grows. But in a few, Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me: Antonio, my father, is deceas’d, And I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may; Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home, And so am come abroad to see the world. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife? Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel; And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich, And very rich: but th’art too much my friend, And I’ll not wish thee to her. PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as we Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know One rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife, As wealth is burden of my wooing dance, Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love, As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewd As Socrates’ Xanthippe or a worse, She moves me not, or not removes, at least, Affection’s edge in me, were she as rough As are the swelling Adriatic seas: I come to wive it wealthily in Padua; If wealthily, then happily in Padua. GRUMIO. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why, give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in, I will continue that I broach’d in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife With wealth enough, and young and beauteous; Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman: Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,— Is, that she is intolerable curst, And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure, That, were my state far worser than it is, I would not wed her for a mine of gold. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect: Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough; For I will board her, though she chide as loud As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola, An affable and courteous gentleman; Her name is Katherina Minola, Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue. PETRUCHIO. I know her father, though I know not her; And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her; And therefore let me be thus bold with you, To give you over at this first encounter, Unless you will accompany me thither. GRUMIO. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ my word, and she knew him as well as I do, she would think scolding would do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so; why, that’s nothing; and he begin once, he’ll rail in his rope-tricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, and she stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigure her with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat. You know him not, sir. HORTENSIO. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee, For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is: He hath the jewel of my life in hold, His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca, And her withholds from me and other more, Suitors to her and rivals in my love; Supposing it a thing impossible, For those defects I have before rehears’d, That ever Katherina will be woo’d: Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en, That none shall have access unto Bianca Till Katherine the curst have got a husband. GRUMIO. Katherine the curst! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. HORTENSIO. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace, And offer me disguis’d in sober robes, To old Baptista as a schoolmaster Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca; That so I may, by this device at least Have leave and leisure to make love to her, And unsuspected court her by herself. GRUMIO. Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how the young folks lay their heads together! Enter Gremio and Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm. Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha? HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio, stand by awhile. GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous! GREMIO. O! very well; I have perus’d the note. Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound: All books of love, see that at any hand, And see you read no other lectures to her. You understand me. Over and beside Signior Baptista’s liberality, I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too, And let me have them very well perfum’d; For she is sweeter than perfume itself To whom they go to. What will you read to her? LUCENTIO. Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you, As for my patron, stand you so assur’d, As firmly as yourself were still in place; Yea, and perhaps with more successful words Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir. GREMIO. O! this learning, what a thing it is. GRUMIO. O! this woodcock, what an ass it is. PETRUCHIO. Peace, sirrah! HORTENSIO. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio! GREMIO. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. I promis’d to enquire carefully About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca; And by good fortune I have lighted well On this young man; for learning and behaviour Fit for her turn, well read in poetry And other books, good ones, I warrant ye. HORTENSIO. ’Tis well; and I have met a gentleman Hath promis’d me to help me to another, A fine musician to instruct our mistress: So shall I no whit be behind in duty To fair Bianca, so belov’d of me. GREMIO. Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove. GRUMIO. [_Aside._] And that his bags shall prove. HORTENSIO. Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love: Listen to me, and if you speak me fair, I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met, Upon agreement from us to his liking, Will undertake to woo curst Katherine; Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. GREMIO. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults? PETRUCHIO. I know she is an irksome brawling scold; If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. GREMIO. No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman? PETRUCHIO. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son. My father dead, my fortune lives for me; And I do hope good days and long to see. GREMIO. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange! But if you have a stomach, to’t a God’s name; You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat? PETRUCHIO. Will I live? GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang her. PETRUCHIO. Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds, Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field, And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heard Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue, That gives not half so great a blow to hear As will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire? Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs. GRUMIO. [_Aside_] For he fears none. GREMIO. Hortensio, hark: This gentleman is happily arriv’d, My mind presumes, for his own good and yours. HORTENSIO. I promis’d we would be contributors, And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. GREMIO. And so we will, provided that he win her. GRUMIO. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. TRANIO. Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold, Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way To the house of Signior Baptista Minola? BIONDELLO. He that has the two fair daughters; is’t he you mean? TRANIO. Even he, Biondello! GREMIO. Hark you, sir, you mean not her to— TRANIO. Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do? PETRUCHIO. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. TRANIO. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away. LUCENTIO. [_Aside_] Well begun, Tranio. HORTENSIO. Sir, a word ere you go. Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no? TRANIO. And if I be, sir, is it any offence? GREMIO. No; if without more words you will get you hence. TRANIO. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free For me as for you? GREMIO. But so is not she. TRANIO. For what reason, I beseech you? GREMIO. For this reason, if you’ll know, That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. HORTENSIO. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. TRANIO. Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen, Do me this right; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman, To whom my father is not all unknown; And were his daughter fairer than she is, She may more suitors have, and me for one. Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers; Then well one more may fair Bianca have; And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one, Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. GREMIO. What, this gentleman will out-talk us all. LUCENTIO. Sir, give him head; I know he’ll prove a jade. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? HORTENSIO. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you, Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter? TRANIO. No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two, The one as famous for a scolding tongue As is the other for beauteous modesty. PETRUCHIO. Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by. GREMIO. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules, And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. PETRUCHIO. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth: The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for, Her father keeps from all access of suitors, And will not promise her to any man Until the elder sister first be wed; The younger then is free, and not before. TRANIO. If it be so, sir, that you are the man Must stead us all, and me amongst the rest; And if you break the ice, and do this feat, Achieve the elder, set the younger free For our access, whose hap shall be to have her Will not so graceless be to be ingrate. HORTENSIO. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive; And since you do profess to be a suitor, You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman, To whom we all rest generally beholding. TRANIO. Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof, Please ye we may contrive this afternoon, And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health; And do as adversaries do in law, Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. GRUMIO, BIONDELLO. O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone. HORTENSIO. The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:— Petruchio, I shall be your _ben venuto_. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Enter Katherina and Bianca. BIANCA. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself, To make a bondmaid and a slave of me; That I disdain; but for these other gawds, Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself, Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat; Or what you will command me will I do, So well I know my duty to my elders. KATHERINA. Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tell Whom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not. BIANCA. Believe me, sister, of all the men alive I never yet beheld that special face Which I could fancy more than any other. KATHERINA. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio? BIANCA. If you affect him, sister, here I swear I’ll plead for you myself but you shall have him. KATHERINA. O! then, belike, you fancy riches more: You will have Gremio to keep you fair. BIANCA. Is it for him you do envy me so? Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceive You have but jested with me all this while: I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. KATHERINA. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. [_Strikes her._] Enter Baptista. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence? Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her. For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit, Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee? When did she cross thee with a bitter word? KATHERINA. Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d. [_Flies after Bianca._] BAPTISTA. What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. [_Exit Bianca._] KATHERINA. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep Till I can find occasion of revenge. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I? But who comes here? Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man; Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, with Biondello bearing a lute and books. GREMIO. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. BAPTISTA. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen! PETRUCHIO. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter Call’d Katherina, fair and virtuous? BAPTISTA. I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina. GREMIO. You are too blunt: go to it orderly. PETRUCHIO. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir, That, hearing of her beauty and her wit, Her affability and bashful modesty, Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour, Am bold to show myself a forward guest Within your house, to make mine eye the witness Of that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertainment, I do present you with a man of mine, [_Presenting Hortensio._] Cunning in music and the mathematics, To instruct her fully in those sciences, Whereof I know she is not ignorant. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong: His name is Licio, born in Mantua. BAPTISTA. Y’are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake; But for my daughter Katherine, this I know, She is not for your turn, the more my grief. PETRUCHIO. I see you do not mean to part with her; Or else you like not of my company. BAPTISTA. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name? PETRUCHIO. Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son; A man well known throughout all Italy. BAPTISTA. I know him well: you are welcome for his sake. GREMIO. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray, Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Backare! you are marvellous forward. PETRUCHIO. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing. GREMIO. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindly beholding to you than any, freely give unto you this young scholar, [_Presenting Lucentio._] that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other in music and mathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service. BAPTISTA. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio. [_To Tranio._] But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. May I be so bold to know the cause of your coming? TRANIO. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own, That, being a stranger in this city here, Do make myself a suitor to your daughter, Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me, In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request, That, upon knowledge of my parentage, I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo, And free access and favour as the rest: And, toward the education of your daughters, I here bestow a simple instrument, And this small packet of Greek and Latin books: If you accept them, then their worth is great. BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray? TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. BAPTISTA. A mighty man of Pisa: by report I know him well: you are very welcome, sir. [_To Hortensio_.] Take you the lute, [_To Lucentio_.] and you the set of books; You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemen To my daughters, and tell them both These are their tutors: bid them use them well. [_Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello._] We will go walk a little in the orchard, And then to dinner. You are passing welcome, And so I pray you all to think yourselves. PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste, And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me, Left solely heir to all his lands and goods, Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d: Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love, What dowry shall I have with her to wife? BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands, And in possession twenty thousand crowns. PETRUCHIO. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her of Her widowhood, be it that she survive me, In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialities be therefore drawn between us, That covenants may be kept on either hand. BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d, That is, her love; for that is all in all. PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father, I am as peremptory as she proud-minded; And where two raging fires meet together, They do consume the thing that feeds their fury: Though little fire grows great with little wind, Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all; So I to her, and so she yields to me; For I am rough and woo not like a babe. BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed! But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds, That shake not though they blow perpetually. Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale? HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? HORTENSIO. I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier: Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets, And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering; When, with a most impatient devilish spirit, ‘Frets, call you these?’ quoth she ‘I’ll fume with them’; And with that word she struck me on the head, And through the instrument my pate made way; And there I stood amazed for a while, As on a pillory, looking through the lute; While she did call me rascal fiddler, And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms, As had she studied to misuse me so. PETRUCHIO. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench! I love her ten times more than e’er I did: O! how I long to have some chat with her! BAPTISTA. [_To Hortensio_.] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited; Proceed in practice with my younger daughter; She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us, Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? PETRUCHIO. I pray you do. [_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio._] I will attend her here, And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale: Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash’d with dew: Say she be mute, and will not speak a word; Then I’ll commend her volubility, And say she uttereth piercing eloquence: If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks, As though she bid me stay by her a week: If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the day When I shall ask the banns, and when be married. But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. Enter Katherina. Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear. KATHERINA. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing: They call me Katherine that do talk of me. PETRUCHIO. You lie, in faith, for you are call’d plain Kate, And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst; But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom, Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,— Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,— Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife. KATHERINA. Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hither Remove you hence. I knew you at the first, You were a moveable. PETRUCHIO. Why, what’s a moveable? KATHERINA. A joint-stool. PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you. KATHERINA. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. PETRUCHIO. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee; For, knowing thee to be but young and light,— KATHERINA. Too light for such a swain as you to catch; And yet as heavy as my weight should be. PETRUCHIO. Should be! should buz! KATHERINA. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee? KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry. KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out. KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. PETRUCHIO. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. KATHERINA. In his tongue. PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue? KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell. PETRUCHIO. What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman. KATHERINA. That I’ll try. [_Striking him._] PETRUCHIO. I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again. KATHERINA. So may you lose your arms: If you strike me, you are no gentleman; And if no gentleman, why then no arms. PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books. KATHERINA. What is your crest? a coxcomb? PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. KATHERINA. No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven. PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour. KATHERINA. It is my fashion when I see a crab. PETRUCHIO. Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour. KATHERINA. There is, there is. PETRUCHIO. Then show it me. KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would. PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face? KATHERINA. Well aim’d of such a young one. PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you. KATHERINA. Yet you are wither’d. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis with cares. KATHERINA. I care not. PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so. KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go. PETRUCHIO. No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle. ’Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen, And now I find report a very liar; For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous, But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance, Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will, Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk; But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers; With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp? O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twig Is straight and slender, and as brown in hue As hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt. KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command. PETRUCHIO. Did ever Dian so become a grove As Kate this chamber with her princely gait? O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate, And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful! KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech? PETRUCHIO. It is extempore, from my mother-wit. KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son. PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise? KATHERINA. Yes; keep you warm. PETRUCHIO. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed; And therefore, setting all this chat aside, Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented That you shall be my wife your dowry ’greed on; And will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn; For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,— Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,— Thou must be married to no man but me; For I am he am born to tame you, Kate, And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate Conformable as other household Kates. Re-enter Baptista, Gremio and Tranio. Here comes your father. Never make denial; I must and will have Katherine to my wife. BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter? PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well? It were impossible I should speed amiss. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps? KATHERINA. Call you me daughter? Now I promise you You have show’d a tender fatherly regard To wish me wed to one half lunatic, A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack, That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. PETRUCHIO. Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the world That talk’d of her have talk’d amiss of her: If she be curst, it is for policy, For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove; She is not hot, but temperate as the morn; For patience she will prove a second Grissel, And Roman Lucrece for her chastity; And to conclude, we have ’greed so well together That upon Sunday is the wedding-day. KATHERINA. I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. GREMIO. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first. TRANIO. Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part! PETRUCHIO. Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself; If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you? ’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone, That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe How much she loves me: O! the kindest Kate She hung about my neck, and kiss on kiss She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath, That in a twink she won me to her love. O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see, How tame, when men and women are alone, A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice, To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests; I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine. BAPTISTA. I know not what to say; but give me your hands. God send you joy, Petruchio! ’Tis a match. GREMIO, TRANIO. Amen, say we; we will be witnesses. PETRUCHIO. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace; We will have rings and things, and fine array; And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday. [_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina, severally._] GREMIO. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly? BAPTISTA. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part, And venture madly on a desperate mart. TRANIO. ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you; ’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas. BAPTISTA. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. GREMIO. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter: Now is the day we long have looked for; I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. TRANIO. And I am one that love Bianca more Than words can witness or your thoughts can guess. GREMIO. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. TRANIO. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. GREMIO. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back; ’tis age that nourisheth. TRANIO. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth. BAPTISTA. Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife: ’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of both That can assure my daughter greatest dower Shall have my Bianca’s love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her? GREMIO. First, as you know, my house within the city Is richly furnished with plate and gold: Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands; My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry; In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns; In cypress chests my arras counterpoints, Costly apparel, tents, and canopies, Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl, Valance of Venice gold in needlework; Pewter and brass, and all things that belong To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail, Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls, And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess; And if I die tomorrow this is hers, If whilst I live she will be only mine. TRANIO. That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me: I am my father’s heir and only son; If I may have your daughter to my wife, I’ll leave her houses three or four as good Within rich Pisa’s walls as anyone Old Signior Gremio has in Padua; Besides two thousand ducats by the year Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! My land amounts not to so much in all: That she shall have, besides an argosy That now is lying in Marseilles’ road. What, have I chok’d you with an argosy? TRANIO. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no less Than three great argosies, besides two galliasses, And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her, And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next. GREMIO. Nay, I have offer’d all; I have no more; And she can have no more than all I have; If you like me, she shall have me and mine. TRANIO. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world, By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied. BAPTISTA. I must confess your offer is the best; And let your father make her the assurance, She is your own; else, you must pardon me; If you should die before him, where’s her dower? TRANIO. That’s but a cavil; he is old, I young. GREMIO. And may not young men die as well as old? BAPTISTA. Well, gentlemen, I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know, My daughter Katherine is to be married; Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca Be bride to you, if you make this assurance; If not, to Signior Gremio. And so I take my leave, and thank you both. GREMIO. Adieu, good neighbour. [_Exit Baptista._] Now, I fear thee not: Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool To give thee all, and in his waning age Set foot under thy table. Tut! a toy! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [_Exit._] TRANIO. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide! Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten. ’Tis in my head to do my master good: I see no reason but suppos’d Lucentio Must get a father, call’d suppos’d Vincentio; And that’s a wonder: fathers commonly Do get their children; but in this case of wooing A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Padua. A room in Baptista’s house. Enter Lucentio, Hortensio and Bianca. LUCENTIO. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir. Have you so soon forgot the entertainment Her sister Katherine welcome’d you withal? HORTENSIO. But, wrangling pedant, this is The patroness of heavenly harmony: Then give me leave to have prerogative; And when in music we have spent an hour, Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. LUCENTIO. Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain’d! Was it not to refresh the mind of man After his studies or his usual pain? Then give me leave to read philosophy, And while I pause serve in your harmony. HORTENSIO. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. BIANCA. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong, To strive for that which resteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools, I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times, But learn my lessons as I please myself. And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down; Take you your instrument, play you the whiles; His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d. HORTENSIO. You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune? [_Retires._] LUCENTIO. That will be never: tune your instrument. BIANCA. Where left we last? LUCENTIO. Here, madam:— _Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus; Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis._ BIANCA. Construe them. LUCENTIO. _Hic ibat_, as I told you before, _Simois_, I am Lucentio, _hic est_, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, _Sigeia tellus_, disguised thus to get your love, _Hic steterat_, and that Lucentio that comes a-wooing, _Priami_, is my man Tranio, _regia_, bearing my port, _celsa senis_, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. HORTENSIO. [_Returning._] Madam, my instrument’s in tune. BIANCA. Let’s hear.— [Hortensio _plays._] O fie! the treble jars. LUCENTIO. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. BIANCA. Now let me see if I can construe it: _Hic ibat Simois_, I know you not; _hic est Sigeia tellus_, I trust you not; _Hic steterat Priami_, take heed he hear us not; _regia_, presume not; _celsa senis_, despair not. HORTENSIO. Madam, ’tis now in tune. LUCENTIO. All but the base. HORTENSIO. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. [_Aside_] How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love: Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet. BIANCA. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. LUCENTIO. Mistrust it not; for sure, Æacides Was Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. BIANCA. I must believe my master; else, I promise you, I should be arguing still upon that doubt; But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you. Good master, take it not unkindly, pray, That I have been thus pleasant with you both. HORTENSIO. [_To Lucentio_] You may go walk and give me leave a while; My lessons make no music in three parts. LUCENTIO. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait, [_Aside_] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d, Our fine musician groweth amorous. HORTENSIO. Madam, before you touch the instrument, To learn the order of my fingering, I must begin with rudiments of art; To teach you gamut in a briefer sort, More pleasant, pithy, and effectual, Than hath been taught by any of my trade: And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. BIANCA. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. HORTENSIO. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. BIANCA. _Gamut_ I am, the ground of all accord, _A re_, to plead Hortensio’s passion; _B mi_, Bianca, take him for thy lord, _C fa ut_, that loves with all affection: _D sol re_, one clef, two notes have I _E la mi_, show pity or I die. Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not: Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice, To change true rules for odd inventions. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books, And help to dress your sister’s chamber up: You know tomorrow is the wedding-day. BIANCA. Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone. [_Exeunt Bianca and Servant._] LUCENTIO. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [_Exit._] HORTENSIO. But I have cause to pry into this pedant: Methinks he looks as though he were in love. Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble To cast thy wand’ring eyes on every stale, Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging, Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katherina, Bianca, Lucentio and Attendants. BAPTISTA. [_To Tranio_.] Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed day That Katherine and Petruchio should be married, And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said? What mockery will it be To want the bridegroom when the priest attends To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? KATHERINA. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc’d To give my hand, oppos’d against my heart, Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen; Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool, Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour; And to be noted for a merry man, He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage, Make friends, invite, and proclaim the banns; Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. Now must the world point at poor Katherine, And say ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife, If it would please him come and marry her.’ TRANIO. Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well, Whatever fortune stays him from his word: Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise; Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. KATHERINA. Would Katherine had never seen him though! [_Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others._] BAPTISTA. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep, For such an injury would vex a very saint; Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heard of! BAPTISTA. Is it new and old too? How may that be? BIONDELLO. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming? BAPTISTA. Is he come? BIONDELLO. Why, no, sir. BAPTISTA. What then? BIONDELLO. He is coming. BAPTISTA. When will he be here? BIONDELLO. When he stands where I am and sees you there. TRANIO. But say, what to thine old news? BIONDELLO. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an old jerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an old rusty sword ta’en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt, and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with an old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, sped with spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives, stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with a half-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which, being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been often burst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced, and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for her name fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced with pack-thread. BAPTISTA. Who comes with him? BIONDELLO. O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, and the humour of forty fancies prick’d in’t for a feather: a monster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian footboy or a gentleman’s lackey. TRANIO. ’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion; Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. BAPTISTA. I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes. BIONDELLO. Why, sir, he comes not. BAPTISTA. Didst thou not say he comes? BIONDELLO. Who? that Petruchio came? BAPTISTA. Ay, that Petruchio came. BIONDELLO. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back. BAPTISTA. Why, that’s all one. BIONDELLO. Nay, by Saint Jamy, I hold you a penny, A horse and a man Is more than one, And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home? BAPTISTA. You are welcome, sir. PETRUCHIO. And yet I come not well. BAPTISTA. And yet you halt not. TRANIO. Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were. PETRUCHIO. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate? Where is my lovely bride? How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown; And wherefore gaze this goodly company, As if they saw some wondrous monument, Some comet or unusual prodigy? BAPTISTA. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day: First were we sad, fearing you would not come; Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate, An eye-sore to our solemn festival. TRANIO. And tell us what occasion of import Hath all so long detain’d you from your wife, And sent you hither so unlike yourself? PETRUCHIO. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear; Sufficeth I am come to keep my word, Though in some part enforced to digress; Which at more leisure I will so excuse As you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate? I stay too long from her; The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church. TRANIO. See not your bride in these unreverent robes; Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine. PETRUCHIO. Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her. BAPTISTA. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. PETRUCHIO. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words; To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in me As I can change these poor accoutrements, ’Twere well for Kate and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with you When I should bid good morrow to my bride, And seal the title with a lovely kiss! [_Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio and Biondello._] TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible, To put on better ere he go to church. BAPTISTA. I’ll after him and see the event of this. [_Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants._] TRANIO. But, sir, to love concerneth us to add Her father’s liking; which to bring to pass, As I before imparted to your worship, I am to get a man,—whate’er he be It skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,— And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa, And make assurance here in Padua, Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope, And marry sweet Bianca with consent. LUCENTIO. Were it not that my fellow schoolmaster Doth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly, ’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage; Which once perform’d, let all the world say no, I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world. TRANIO. That by degrees we mean to look into, And watch our vantage in this business. We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio, The narrow-prying father, Minola, The quaint musician, amorous Licio; All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. Re-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church? GREMIO. As willingly as e’er I came from school. TRANIO. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home? GREMIO. A bridegroom, say you? ’Tis a groom indeed, A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. TRANIO. Curster than she? Why, ’tis impossible. GREMIO. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. TRANIO. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam. GREMIO. Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him. I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest Should ask if Katherine should be his wife, ’Ay, by gogs-wouns’ quoth he, and swore so loud That, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book; And as he stoop’d again to take it up, The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuff That down fell priest and book, and book and priest: ‘Now take them up,’ quoth he ‘if any list.’ TRANIO. What said the wench, when he rose again? GREMIO. Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp’d and swore As if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done, He calls for wine: ‘A health!’ quoth he, as if He had been abroad, carousing to his mates After a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel, And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face, Having no other reason But that his beard grew thin and hungerly And seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about the neck, And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smack That at the parting all the church did echo. And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame; And after me, I know, the rout is coming. Such a mad marriage never was before. Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [_Music plays._] Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio and Train. PETRUCHIO. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains: I know you think to dine with me today, And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheer But so it is, my haste doth call me hence, And therefore here I mean to take my leave. BAPTISTA. Is’t possible you will away tonight? PETRUCHIO. I must away today before night come. Make it no wonder: if you knew my business, You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all, That have beheld me give away myself To this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me. For I must hence; and farewell to you all. TRANIO. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. PETRUCHIO. It may not be. GREMIO. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. It cannot be. KATHERINA. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. I am content. KATHERINA. Are you content to stay? PETRUCHIO. I am content you shall entreat me stay; But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. KATHERINA. Now, if you love me, stay. PETRUCHIO. Grumio, my horse! GRUMIO. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses. KATHERINA. Nay, then, Do what thou canst, I will not go today; No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way; You may be jogging whiles your boots are green; For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself. ’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groom That take it on you at the first so roundly. PETRUCHIO. O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry. KATHERINA. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. GREMIO. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. KATHERINA. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner: I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist. PETRUCHIO. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. Obey the bride, you that attend on her; Go to the feast, revel and domineer, Carouse full measure to her maidenhead, Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves: But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret; I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house, My household stuff, my field, my barn, My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything; And here she stands, touch her whoever dare; I’ll bring mine action on the proudest he That stops my way in Padua. Grumio, Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves; Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate; I’ll buckler thee against a million. [_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Grumio._] BAPTISTA. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. GREMIO. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. TRANIO. Of all mad matches, never was the like. LUCENTIO. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister? BIANCA. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated. GREMIO. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. BAPTISTA. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wants For to supply the places at the table, You know there wants no junkets at the feast. Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place; And let Bianca take her sister’s room. TRANIO. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it? BAPTISTA. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A hall in Petruchio’s country house. Enter Grumio. GRUMIO. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray’d? Was ever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they are coming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for, considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis! Enter Curtis. CURTIS. Who is that calls so coldly? GRUMIO. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and my neck. A fire, good Curtis. CURTIS. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio? GRUMIO. O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on no water. CURTIS. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported? GRUMIO. She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowest winter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my old master, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. CURTIS. Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast. GRUMIO. Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,— thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office? CURTIS. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world? GRUMIO. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and therefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master and mistress are almost frozen to death. CURTIS. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. GRUMIO. Why, ‘Jack boy! ho, boy!’ and as much news as wilt thou. CURTIS. Come, you are so full of cony-catching. GRUMIO. Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen in their new fustian, their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpets laid, and everything in order? CURTIS. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news. GRUMIO. First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. CURTIS. How? GRUMIO. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. CURTIS. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio. GRUMIO. Lend thine ear. CURTIS. Here. GRUMIO. [_Striking him._] There. CURTIS. This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. GRUMIO. And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale; and this cuff was but to knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin: _Imprimis_, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,— CURTIS. Both of one horse? GRUMIO. What’s that to thee? CURTIS. Why, a horse. GRUMIO. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she was bemoiled; how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat me because her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt to pluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayed before; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle was burst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory, which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced to thy grave. CURTIS. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. GRUMIO. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall find when he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and the rest; let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brush’d and their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy with their left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master’s horse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready? CURTIS. They are. GRUMIO. Call them forth. CURTIS. Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance my mistress. GRUMIO. Why, she hath a face of her own. CURTIS. Who knows not that? GRUMIO. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her. CURTIS. I call them forth to credit her. GRUMIO. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter four or five Servants. NATHANIEL. Welcome home, Grumio! PHILIP. How now, Grumio! JOSEPH. What, Grumio! NICHOLAS. Fellow Grumio! NATHANIEL. How now, old lad! GRUMIO. Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you; and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is all ready, and all things neat? NATHANIEL. All things is ready. How near is our master? GRUMIO. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,— Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master. Enter Petruchio and Katherina. PETRUCHIO. Where be these knaves? What! no man at door To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?— ALL SERVANTS. Here, here, sir; here, sir. PETRUCHIO. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! What, no attendance? no regard? no duty? Where is the foolish knave I sent before? GRUMIO. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. PETRUCHIO. You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park, And bring along these rascal knaves with thee? GRUMIO. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made, And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel; There was no link to colour Peter’s hat, And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing; There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory; The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly; Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. PETRUCHIO. Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in. [_Exeunt some of the Servants._] Where is the life that late I led? Where are those—? Sit down, Kate, and welcome. Food, food, food, food! Re-enter Servants with supper. Why, when, I say?—Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.— Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when? It was the friar of orders grey, As he forth walked on his way: Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry: [_Strikes him._] Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho! Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither: [_Exit Servant._] One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water? Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.— [_Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him._] You whoreson villain! will you let it fall? KATHERINA. Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling. PETRUCHIO. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I?— What’s this? Mutton? FIRST SERVANT. Ay. PETRUCHIO. Who brought it? PETER.