I.

I. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser, And serve it thus to me that love it not? [_Throws the meat, etc., at them._] There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight. KATHERINA. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet; The meat was well, if you were so contented. PETRUCHIO. I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away, And I expressly am forbid to touch it; For it engenders choler, planteth anger; And better ’twere that both of us did fast, Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric, Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient; tomorrow ’t shall be mended. And for this night we’ll fast for company: Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. [_Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Curtis._] NATHANIEL. Peter, didst ever see the like? PETER. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. GRUMIO. Where is he? CURTIS. In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her; And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul, Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak, And sits as one new risen from a dream. Away, away! for he is coming hither. [_Exeunt._] Re-enter Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Thus have I politicly begun my reign, And ’tis my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp and passing empty. And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d, For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard, To make her come, and know her keeper’s call, That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites That bate and beat, and will not be obedient. She eat no meat today, nor none shall eat; Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not; As with the meat, some undeserved fault I’ll find about the making of the bed; And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster, This way the coverlet, another way the sheets; Ay, and amid this hurly I intend That all is done in reverend care of her; And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night: And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl, And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness; And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Tranio and Hortensio. TRANIO. Is ’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress Bianca Doth fancy any other but Lucentio? I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. HORTENSIO. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said, Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. [_They stand aside._] Enter Bianca and Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read? BIANCA. What, master, read you? First resolve me that. LUCENTIO. I read that I profess, _The Art to Love_. BIANCA. And may you prove, sir, master of your art! LUCENTIO. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart. [_They retire._] HORTENSIO. Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray, You that durst swear that your Mistress Bianca Lov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. TRANIO. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind! I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. HORTENSIO. Mistake no more; I am not Licio. Nor a musician as I seem to be; But one that scorn to live in this disguise For such a one as leaves a gentleman And makes a god of such a cullion: Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. TRANIO. Signior Hortensio, I have often heard Of your entire affection to Bianca; And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness, I will with you, if you be so contented, Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. HORTENSIO. See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio, Here is my hand, and here I firmly vow Never to woo her more, but do forswear her, As one unworthy all the former favours That I have fondly flatter’d her withal. TRANIO. And here I take the like unfeigned oath, Never to marry with her though she would entreat; Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him! HORTENSIO. Would all the world but he had quite forsworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath, I will be married to a wealthy widow Ere three days pass, which hath as long lov’d me As I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love; and so I take my leave, In resolution as I swore before. [_Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance._] TRANIO. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace As ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case! Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love, And have forsworn you with Hortensio. BIANCA. Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me? TRANIO. Mistress, we have. LUCENTIO. Then we are rid of Licio. TRANIO. I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now, That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day. BIANCA. God give him joy! TRANIO. Ay, and he’ll tame her. BIANCA. He says so, Tranio. TRANIO. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. BIANCA. The taming-school! What, is there such a place? TRANIO. Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master, That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long, To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello, running. BIONDELLO. O master, master! I have watch’d so long That I am dog-weary; but at last I spied An ancient angel coming down the hill Will serve the turn. TRANIO. What is he, Biondello? BIONDELLO. Master, a mercatante or a pedant, I know not what; but formal in apparel, In gait and countenance surely like a father. LUCENTIO. And what of him, Tranio? TRANIO. If he be credulous and trust my tale, I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio, And give assurance to Baptista Minola, As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone. [_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._] Enter a Pedant. PEDANT. God save you, sir! TRANIO. And you, sir! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest? PEDANT. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two; But then up farther, and as far as Rome; And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. TRANIO. What countryman, I pray? PEDANT. Of Mantua. TRANIO. Of Mantua, sir? Marry, God forbid, And come to Padua, careless of your life! PEDANT. My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard. TRANIO. ’Tis death for anyone in Mantua To come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the Duke,— For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him,— Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. ’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly come You might have heard it else proclaim’d about. PEDANT. Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so; For I have bills for money by exchange From Florence, and must here deliver them. TRANIO. Well, sir, to do you courtesy, This will I do, and this I will advise you: First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa? PEDANT. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been, Pisa renowned for grave citizens. TRANIO. Among them know you one Vincentio? PEDANT. I know him not, but I have heard of him, A merchant of incomparable wealth. TRANIO. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say, In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. BIONDELLO. [_Aside._] As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. TRANIO. To save your life in this extremity, This favour will I do you for his sake; And think it not the worst of all your fortunes That you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake, And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d; Look that you take upon you as you should! You understand me, sir; so shall you stay Till you have done your business in the city. If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. PEDANT. O, sir, I do; and will repute you ever The patron of my life and liberty. TRANIO. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand: My father is here look’d for every day To pass assurance of a dower in marriage ’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here: In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you. Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A room in Petruchio’s house. Enter Katherina and Grumio. GRUMIO. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. KATHERINA. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that come unto my father’s door Upon entreaty have a present alms; If not, elsewhere they meet with charity; But I, who never knew how to entreat, Nor never needed that I should entreat, Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep; With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. And that which spites me more than all these wants, He does it under name of perfect love; As who should say, if I should sleep or eat ’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast; I care not what, so it be wholesome food. GRUMIO. What say you to a neat’s foot? KATHERINA. ’Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it. GRUMIO. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d? KATHERINA. I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me. GRUMIO. I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? KATHERINA. A dish that I do love to feed upon. GRUMIO. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. KATHERINA. Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest. GRUMIO. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard, Or else you get no beef of Grumio. KATHERINA. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. GRUMIO. Why then the mustard without the beef. KATHERINA. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave, [_Beats him._] That feed’st me with the very name of meat. Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you That triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio. PETRUCHIO. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort? HORTENSIO. Mistress, what cheer? KATHERINA. Faith, as cold as can be. PETRUCHIO. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am, To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee: [_Sets the dish on a table._] I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov’st it not, And all my pains is sorted to no proof. Here, take away this dish. KATHERINA. I pray you, let it stand. PETRUCHIO. The poorest service is repaid with thanks; And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. KATHERINA. I thank you, sir. HORTENSIO. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company. PETRUCHIO. [_Aside._] Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me. Much good do it unto thy gentle heart! Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love, Will we return unto thy father’s house And revel it as bravely as the best, With silken coats and caps, and golden rings, With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things; With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery, With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure, To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Enter Tailor. Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments; Lay forth the gown.— Enter Haberdasher. What news with you, sir? HABERDASHER. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. PETRUCHIO. Why, this was moulded on a porringer; A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy: Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap: Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. KATHERINA. I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time, And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. PETRUCHIO. When you are gentle, you shall have one too, And not till then. HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] That will not be in haste. KATHERINA. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak; And speak I will. I am no child, no babe. Your betters have endur’d me say my mind, And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, Or else my heart, concealing it, will break; And rather than it shall, I will be free Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words. PETRUCHIO. Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap, A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie; I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not. KATHERINA. Love me or love me not, I like the cap; And it I will have, or I will have none. [_Exit Haberdasher._] PETRUCHIO. Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here? What’s this? A sleeve? ’Tis like a demi-cannon. What, up and down, carv’d like an apple tart? Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash, Like to a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? HORTENSIO. [_Aside_] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown. TAILOR. You bid me make it orderly and well, According to the fashion and the time. PETRUCHIO. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d, I did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home, For you shall hop without my custom, sir. I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. KATHERINA. I never saw a better fashion’d gown, More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable; Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. PETRUCHIO. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. TAILOR. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. PETRUCHIO. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread, Thou thimble, Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail! Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread! Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant, Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yard As thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown. TAILOR. Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is made Just as my master had direction. Grumio gave order how it should be done. GRUMIO. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff. TAILOR. But how did you desire it should be made? GRUMIO. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. TAILOR. But did you not request to have it cut? GRUMIO. Thou hast faced many things. TAILOR. I have. GRUMIO. Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: I will neither be fac’d nor brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest. TAILOR. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify. PETRUCHIO. Read it. GRUMIO. The note lies in ’s throat, if he say I said so. TAILOR. ’Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown.’ GRUMIO. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it and beat me to death with a bottom of brown thread; I said, a gown. PETRUCHIO. Proceed. TAILOR. ‘With a small compassed cape.’ GRUMIO. I confess the cape. TAILOR. ‘With a trunk sleeve.’ GRUMIO. I confess two sleeves. TAILOR. ‘The sleeves curiously cut.’ PETRUCHIO. Ay, there’s the villainy. GRUMIO. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded the sleeves should be cut out, and sew’d up again; and that I’ll prove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. TAILOR. This is true that I say; and I had thee in place where thou shouldst know it. GRUMIO. I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thy mete-yard, and spare not me. HORTENSIO. God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds. PETRUCHIO. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. GRUMIO. You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress. PETRUCHIO. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. GRUMIO. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’ gown for thy master’s use! PETRUCHIO. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that? GRUMIO. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! O fie, fie, fie! PETRUCHIO. [_Aside_] Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. [_To Tailor._] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. HORTENSIO. [_Aside to Tailor._] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow; Take no unkindness of his hasty words. Away, I say! commend me to thy master. [_Exit Tailor._] PETRUCHIO. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’s Even in these honest mean habiliments. Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor For ’tis the mind that makes the body rich; And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the lark Because his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eel Because his painted skin contents the eye? O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worse For this poor furniture and mean array. If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me; And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith, To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. Go call my men, and let us straight to him; And bring our horses unto Long-lane end; There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock, And well we may come there by dinner-time. KATHERINA. I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two, And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there. PETRUCHIO. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. Look what I speak, or do, or think to do, You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone: I will not go today; and ere I do, It shall be what o’clock I say it is. HORTENSIO. Why, so this gallant will command the sun. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Padua. Before Baptista’s house. Enter Tranio and the Pedant dressed like Vincentio TRANIO. Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call? PEDANT. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived, Signior Baptista may remember me, Near twenty years ago in Genoa, Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. TRANIO. ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case, With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. PEDANT. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy; ’Twere good he were school’d. Enter Biondello. TRANIO. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello, Now do your duty throughly, I advise you. Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio. BIONDELLO. Tut! fear not me. TRANIO. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista? BIONDELLO. I told him that your father was at Venice, And that you look’d for him this day in Padua. TRANIO. Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir. Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [_To the Pedant_] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of; I pray you stand good father to me now; Give me Bianca for my patrimony. PEDANT. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio Made me acquainted with a weighty cause Of love between your daughter and himself: And,—for the good report I hear of you, And for the love he beareth to your daughter, And she to him,—to stay him not too long, I am content, in a good father’s care, To have him match’d; and, if you please to like No worse than I, upon some agreement Me shall you find ready and willing With one consent to have her so bestow’d; For curious I cannot be with you, Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. BAPTISTA. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say. Your plainness and your shortness please me well. Right true it is your son Lucentio here Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him, Or both dissemble deeply their affections; And therefore, if you say no more than this, That like a father you will deal with him, And pass my daughter a sufficient dower, The match is made, and all is done: Your son shall have my daughter with consent. TRANIO. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best We be affied, and such assurance ta’en As shall with either part’s agreement stand? BAPTISTA. Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants; Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still, And happily we might be interrupted. TRANIO. Then at my lodging, and it like you: There doth my father lie; and there this night We’ll pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here; My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, that at so slender warning You are like to have a thin and slender pittance. BAPTISTA. It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home, And bid Bianca make her ready straight; And, if you will, tell what hath happened: Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua, And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. LUCENTIO. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart! TRANIO. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer; Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. BAPTISTA. I follow you. [_Exeunt Tranio, Pedant and Baptista._] BIONDELLO. Cambio! LUCENTIO. What say’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you? LUCENTIO. Biondello, what of that? BIONDELLO. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expound the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. LUCENTIO. I pray thee moralize them. BIONDELLO. Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the deceiving father of a deceitful son. LUCENTIO. And what of him? BIONDELLO. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. LUCENTIO. And then? BIONDELLO. The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at your command at all hours. LUCENTIO. And what of all this? BIONDELLO. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, _cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum_; to the church! take the priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [_Going._] LUCENTIO. Hear’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoon as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and so may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me to go to Saint Luke’s to bid the priest be ready to come against you come with your appendix. [_Exit._] LUCENTIO. I may, and will, if she be so contented. She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her; It shall go hard if Cambio go without her: [_Exit._] SCENE V. A public road. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Servants. PETRUCHIO. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon! KATHERINA. The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. KATHERINA. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. PETRUCHIO. Now by my mother’s son, and that’s myself, It shall be moon, or star, or what I list, Or ere I journey to your father’s house. Go on and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d! HORTENSIO. Say as he says, or we shall never go. KATHERINA. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far, And be it moon, or sun, or what you please; And if you please to call it a rush-candle, Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon. KATHERINA. I know it is the moon. PETRUCHIO. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun. KATHERINA. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun; But sun it is not when you say it is not, And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it nam’d, even that it is, And so it shall be so for Katherine. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won. PETRUCHIO. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run, And not unluckily against the bias. But, soft! Company is coming here. Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. [_To Vincentio_] Good morrow, gentle mistress; where away? Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too, Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? Such war of white and red within her cheeks! What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty As those two eyes become that heavenly face? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake. HORTENSIO. A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. KATHERINA. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet, Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child; Happier the man whom favourable stars Allot thee for his lovely bedfellow. PETRUCHIO. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad: This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d, And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is. KATHERINA. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes, That have been so bedazzled with the sun That everything I look on seemeth green: Now I perceive thou art a reverend father; Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. PETRUCHIO. Do, good old grandsire, and withal make known Which way thou travellest: if along with us, We shall be joyful of thy company. VINCENTIO. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress, That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me, My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa; And bound I am to Padua, there to visit A son of mine, which long I have not seen. PETRUCHIO. What is his name? VINCENTIO. Lucentio, gentle sir. PETRUCHIO. Happily met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age, I may entitle thee my loving father: The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman, Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not, Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem, Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth; Beside, so qualified as may beseem The spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio; And wander we to see thy honest son, Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. VINCENTIO. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure, Like pleasant travellers, to break a jest Upon the company you overtake? HORTENSIO. I do assure thee, father, so it is. PETRUCHIO. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof; For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. [_Exeunt all but Hortensio._] HORTENSIO. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow! and if she be froward, Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Padua. Before Lucentio’s house. Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio and Bianca; Gremio walking on other side. BIONDELLO. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready. LUCENTIO. I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need thee at home, therefore leave us. BIONDELLO. Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and then come back to my master’s as soon as I can. [_Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca and Biondello._] GREMIO. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio and Attendants. PETRUCHIO. Sir, here’s the door; this is Lucentio’s house: My father’s bears more toward the market-place; Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. VINCENTIO. You shall not choose but drink before you go. I think I shall command your welcome here, And by all likelihood some cheer is toward. [_Knocks._] GREMIO. They’re busy within; you were best knock louder. Enter Pedant above, at a window. PEDANT. What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate? VINCENTIO. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? PEDANT. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. VINCENTIO. What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to make merry withal? PEDANT. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none so long as I live. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tell Signior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him. PEDANT. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here looking out at the window. VINCENTIO. Art thou his father? PEDANT. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her. PETRUCHIO. [_To Vincentio_] Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flat knavery to take upon you another man’s name. PEDANT. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a means to cozen somebody in this city under my countenance. Re-enter Biondello. BIONDELLO. I have seen them in the church together: God send ’em good shipping! But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Now we are undone and brought to nothing. VINCENTIO. [_Seeing Biondello._] Come hither, crack-hemp. BIONDELLO. I hope I may choose, sir. VINCENTIO. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me? BIONDELLO. Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I never saw you before in all my life. VINCENTIO. What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thy master’s father, Vincentio? BIONDELLO. What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; see where he looks out of the window. VINCENTIO. Is’t so, indeed? [_He beats Biondello._] BIONDELLO. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me. [_Exit._] PEDANT. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! [_Exit from the window._] PETRUCHIO. Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of this controversy. [_They retire._] Re-enter Pedant, below; Baptista, Tranio and Servants. TRANIO. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant? VINCENTIO. What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak, and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play the good husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at the university. TRANIO. How now! what’s the matter? BAPTISTA. What, is the man lunatic? TRANIO. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, but your words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if I wear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able to maintain it. VINCENTIO. Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo. BAPTISTA. You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do you think is his name? VINCENTIO. His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought him up ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. PEDANT. Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mine only son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. VINCENTIO. Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold on him, I charge you, in the Duke’s name. O, my son, my son! Tell me, thou villain, where is my son, Lucentio? TRANIO. Call forth an officer. Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge you see that he be forthcoming. VINCENTIO. Carry me to the gaol! GREMIO. Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison. BAPTISTA. Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison. GREMIO. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched in this business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. PEDANT. Swear if thou darest. GREMIO. Nay, I dare not swear it. TRANIO. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio. GREMIO. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. BAPTISTA. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! VINCENTIO. Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d: O monstrous villain! Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. BIONDELLO. O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswear him, or else we are all undone. LUCENTIO. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, sweet father. VINCENTIO. Lives my sweetest son? [_Biondello, Tranio and Pedant run out._] BIANCA. [_Kneeling._] Pardon, dear father. BAPTISTA. How hast thou offended? Where is Lucentio? LUCENTIO. Here’s Lucentio, Right son to the right Vincentio; That have by marriage made thy daughter mine, While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne. GREMIO. Here ’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all! VINCENTIO. Where is that damned villain, Tranio, That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so? BAPTISTA. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio? BIANCA. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s love Made me exchange my state with Tranio, While he did bear my countenance in the town; And happily I have arriv’d at the last Unto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to; Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. VINCENTIO. I’ll slit the villain’s nose that would have sent me to the gaol. BAPTISTA. [_To Lucentio._] But do you hear, sir? Have you married my daughter without asking my good will? VINCENTIO. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but I will in, to be revenged for this villainy. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. And I to sound the depth of this knavery. [_Exit._] LUCENTIO. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown. [_Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca._] GREMIO. My cake is dough, but I’ll in among the rest; Out of hope of all but my share of the feast. [_Exit._] Petruchio and Katherina advance. KATHERINA. Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado. PETRUCHIO. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. KATHERINA. What! in the midst of the street? PETRUCHIO. What! art thou ashamed of me? KATHERINA. No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. PETRUCHIO. Why, then, let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away. KATHERINA. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. PETRUCHIO. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate: Better once than never, for never too late. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A room in Lucentio’s house. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, the Pedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Widow. Tranio, Biondello and Grumio and Others, attending. LUCENTIO. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree: And time it is when raging war is done, To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome, While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina, And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow, Feast with the best, and welcome to my house: My banquet is to close our stomachs up, After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down; For now we sit to chat as well as eat. [_They sit at table._] PETRUCHIO. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! BAPTISTA. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. HORTENSIO. For both our sakes I would that word were true. PETRUCHIO. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. WIDOW. Then never trust me if I be afeard. PETRUCHIO. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense: I mean Hortensio is afeard of you. WIDOW. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. PETRUCHIO. Roundly replied. KATHERINA. Mistress, how mean you that? WIDOW. Thus I conceive by him. PETRUCHIO. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that? HORTENSIO. My widow says thus she conceives her tale. PETRUCHIO. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. KATHERINA. ’He that is giddy thinks the world turns round’: I pray you tell me what you meant by that. WIDOW. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew, Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe; And now you know my meaning. KATHERINA. A very mean meaning. WIDOW. Right, I mean you. KATHERINA. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. PETRUCHIO. To her, Kate! HORTENSIO. To her, widow! PETRUCHIO. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down. HORTENSIO. That’s my office. PETRUCHIO. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad. [_Drinks to Hortensio._] BAPTISTA. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks? GREMIO. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. BIANCA. Head and butt! An hasty-witted body Would say your head and butt were head and horn. VINCENTIO. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you? BIANCA. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again. PETRUCHIO. Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun, Have at you for a bitter jest or two. BIANCA. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush, And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all. [_Exeunt Bianca, Katherina and Widow._] PETRUCHIO. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio; This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not: Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. TRANIO. O, sir! Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound, Which runs himself, and catches for his master. PETRUCHIO. A good swift simile, but something currish. TRANIO. ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself: ’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay. BAPTISTA. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now. LUCENTIO. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. HORTENSIO. Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here? PETRUCHIO. A has a little gall’d me, I confess; And as the jest did glance away from me, ’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright. BAPTISTA. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio, I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. PETRUCHIO. Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance, Let’s each one send unto his wife, And he whose wife is most obedient, To come at first when he doth send for her, Shall win the wager which we will propose. HORTENSIO. Content. What’s the wager? LUCENTIO. Twenty crowns. PETRUCHIO. Twenty crowns! I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound, But twenty times so much upon my wife. LUCENTIO. A hundred then. HORTENSIO. Content. PETRUCHIO. A match! ’tis done. HORTENSIO. Who shall begin? LUCENTIO. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. BIONDELLO. I go. [_Exit._] BAPTISTA. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes. LUCENTIO. I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself. Re-enter Biondello. How now! what news? BIONDELLO. Sir, my mistress sends you word That she is busy and she cannot come. PETRUCHIO. How! She’s busy, and she cannot come! Is that an answer? GREMIO. Ay, and a kind one too: Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. PETRUCHIO. I hope better. HORTENSIO. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wife To come to me forthwith. [_Exit Biondello._] PETRUCHIO. O, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come. HORTENSIO. I am afraid, sir, Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. Now, where’s my wife? BIONDELLO. She says you have some goodly jest in hand: She will not come; she bids you come to her. PETRUCHIO. Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile, Intolerable, not to be endur’d! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress, Say I command her come to me. [_Exit Grumio._] HORTENSIO. I know her answer. PETRUCHIO. What? HORTENSIO. She will not. PETRUCHIO. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Re-enter Katherina. BAPTISTA. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina! KATHERINA. What is your will sir, that you send for me? PETRUCHIO. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife? KATHERINA. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. PETRUCHIO. Go fetch them hither; if they deny to come, Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [_Exit Katherina._] LUCENTIO. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. HORTENSIO. And so it is. I wonder what it bodes. PETRUCHIO. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life, An awful rule, and right supremacy; And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy. BAPTISTA. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will add Unto their losses twenty thousand crowns; Another dowry to another daughter, For she is chang’d, as she had never been. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I will win my wager better yet, And show more sign of her obedience, Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes, and brings your froward wives As prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Re-enter Katherina with Bianca and Widow. Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not: Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot. [_Katherina pulls off her cap and throws it down._] WIDOW. Lord, let me never have a cause to sigh Till I be brought to such a silly pass! BIANCA. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this? LUCENTIO. I would your duty were as foolish too; The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca, Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time! BIANCA. The more fool you for laying on my duty. PETRUCHIO. Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong women What duty they do owe their lords and husbands. WIDOW. Come, come, you’re mocking; we will have no telling. PETRUCHIO. Come on, I say; and first begin with her. WIDOW. She shall not. PETRUCHIO. I say she shall: and first begin with her. KATHERINA. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow, And dart not scornful glances from those eyes To wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor: It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads, Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds, And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty; And while it is so, none so dry or thirsty Will deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper, Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee, And for thy maintenance commits his body To painful labour both by sea and land, To watch the night in storms, the day in cold, Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe; And craves no other tribute at thy hands But love, fair looks, and true obedience; Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince, Even such a woman oweth to her husband; And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour, And not obedient to his honest will, What is she but a foul contending rebel And graceless traitor to her loving lord?— I am asham’d that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace, Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway, When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth, Unapt to toil and trouble in the world, But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours, My heart as great, my reason haply more, To bandy word for word and frown for frown; But now I see our lances are but straws, Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare, That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot, And place your hands below your husband’s foot: In token of which duty, if he please, My hand is ready; may it do him ease. PETRUCHIO. Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. LUCENTIO. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t. VINCENTIO. ’Tis a good hearing when children are toward. LUCENTIO. But a harsh hearing when women are froward. PETRUCHIO. Come, Kate, we’ll to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. ’Twas I won the wager, [_To Lucentio._] though you hit the white; And being a winner, God give you good night! [_Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina._] HORTENSIO. Now go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew. LUCENTIO. ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so. [_Exeunt._] THE TEMPEST Contents ACT I Scene I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Scene II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero. ACT II Scene I. Another part of the island. Scene II. Another part of the island. ACT III Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell. Scene II. Another part of the island. Scene III. Another part of the island. ACT IV Scene I. Before Prospero’s cell. ACT V Scene I. Before the cell of Prospero. Epilogue. Dramatis Personæ ALONSO, King of Naples SEBASTIAN, his brother PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan FERDINAND, Son to the King of Naples GONZALO, an honest old counsellor ADRIAN, Lord FRANCISCO, Lord CALIBAN, a savage and deformed slave TRINCULO, a jester STEPHANO, a drunken butler MASTER OF A SHIP BOATSWAIN MARINERS MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero ARIEL, an airy Spirit IRIS, presented by Spirits CERES, presented by Spirits JUNO, presented by Spirits NYMPHS, presented by Spirits REAPERS, presented by Spirits Other Spirits attending on Prospero SCENE: The sea, with a Ship; afterwards an Island. ACT I SCENE I. On a ship at sea; a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard. Enter a Shipmaster and a Boatswain severally. MASTER. Boatswain! BOATSWAIN. Here, master: what cheer? MASTER. Good! Speak to the mariners: fall to ’t yarely, or we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. [_Exit._] Enter Mariners. BOATSWAIN. Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to th’ master’s whistle. Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo and others. ALONSO. Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men. BOATSWAIN. I pray now, keep below. ANTONIO. Where is the master, boson? BOATSWAIN. Do you not hear him? You mar our labour: keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. GONZALO. Nay, good, be patient. BOATSWAIN. When the sea is. Hence! What cares these roarers for the name of king? To cabin! silence! Trouble us not. GONZALO. Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. BOATSWAIN. None that I more love than myself. You are a counsellor: if you can command these elements to silence, and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope more. Use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap.—Cheerly, good hearts!—Out of our way, I say. [_Exit._] GONZALO. I have great comfort from this fellow. Methinks he hath no drowning mark upon him. His complexion is perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging! Make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth little advantage! If he be not born to be hang’d, our case is miserable. [_Exeunt._] Re-enter Boatswain. BOATSWAIN. Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try wi’ th’ maincourse. [_A cry within._] A plague upon this howling! They are louder than the weather or our office. Enter Sebastian, Antonio and Gonzalo. Yet again! What do you here? Shall we give o’er, and drown? Have you a mind to sink? SEBASTIAN. A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog! BOATSWAIN. Work you, then. ANTONIO. Hang, cur, hang, you whoreson, insolent noisemaker! We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. GONZALO. I’ll warrant him for drowning, though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched wench. BOATSWAIN. Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses: off to sea again: lay her off. Enter Mariners, wet. MARINERS. All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! [_Exeunt._] BOATSWAIN. What, must our mouths be cold? GONZALO. The King and Prince at prayers! Let’s assist them, For our case is as theirs. SEBASTIAN. I am out of patience. ANTONIO. We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards. This wide-chapp’d rascal—would thou might’st lie drowning The washing of ten tides! GONZALO. He’ll be hang’d yet, Though every drop of water swear against it, And gape at wid’st to glut him. _A confused noise within: _“Mercy on us!”— “We split, we split!”—“Farewell, my wife and children!”— “Farewell, brother!”—“We split, we split, we split!” ANTONIO. Let’s all sink wi’ th’ King. [_Exit._] SEBASTIAN. Let’s take leave of him. [_Exit._] GONZALO. Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground. Long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The Island. Before the cell of Prospero. Enter Prospero and Miranda. MIRANDA. If by your art, my dearest father, you have Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch, But that the sea, mounting to th’ welkin’s cheek, Dashes the fire out. O! I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel, Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish’d. Had I been any god of power, I would Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere It should the good ship so have swallow’d and The fraughting souls within her. PROSPERO. Be collected: No more amazement: tell your piteous heart There’s no harm done. MIRANDA. O, woe the day! PROSPERO. No harm. I have done nothing but in care of thee, Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing Of whence I am, nor that I am more better Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, And thy no greater father. MIRANDA. More to know Did never meddle with my thoughts. PROSPERO. ’Tis time I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand, And pluck my magic garment from me.—So: [_Lays down his mantle._] Lie there my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. The direful spectacle of the wrack, which touch’d The very virtue of compassion in thee, I have with such provision in mine art So safely ordered that there is no soul— No, not so much perdition as an hair Betid to any creature in the vessel Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down; For thou must now know farther. MIRANDA. You have often Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp’d, And left me to a bootless inquisition, Concluding “Stay; not yet.” PROSPERO. The hour’s now come, The very minute bids thee ope thine ear; Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember A time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not Out three years old. MIRANDA. Certainly, sir, I can. PROSPERO. By what? By any other house, or person? Of anything the image, tell me, that Hath kept with thy remembrance. MIRANDA. ’Tis far off, And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants. Had I not Four or five women once that tended me? PROSPERO. Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou rememb’rest aught ere thou cam’st here, How thou cam’st here, thou mayst. MIRANDA. But that I do not. PROSPERO. Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since, Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and A prince of power. MIRANDA. Sir, are not you my father? PROSPERO. Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and She said thou wast my daughter. And thy father Was Duke of Milan, and his only heir And princess, no worse issued. MIRANDA. O, the heavens! What foul play had we that we came from thence? Or blessed was’t we did? PROSPERO. Both, both, my girl. By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heav’d thence; But blessedly holp hither. MIRANDA. O, my heart bleeds To think o’ th’ teen that I have turn’d you to, Which is from my remembrance. Please you, farther. PROSPERO. My brother and thy uncle, call’d Antonio— I pray thee, mark me, that a brother should Be so perfidious!—he whom next thyself Of all the world I lov’d, and to him put The manage of my state; as at that time Through all the signories it was the first, And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed In dignity, and for the liberal arts, Without a parallel: those being all my study, The government I cast upon my brother, And to my state grew stranger, being transported And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle— Dost thou attend me? MIRANDA. Sir, most heedfully. PROSPERO. Being once perfected how to grant suits, How to deny them, who t’ advance, and who To trash for over-topping, new created The creatures that were mine, I say, or chang’d ’em, Or else new form’d ’em: having both the key Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ th’ state To what tune pleas’d his ear: that now he was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And suck’d my verdure out on ’t. Thou attend’st not. MIRANDA. O, good sir! I do. PROSPERO. I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind With that which, but by being so retir’d, O’er-priz’d all popular rate, in my false brother Awak’d an evil nature; and my trust, Like a good parent, did beget of him A falsehood in its contrary as great As my trust was; which had indeed no limit, A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded, Not only with what my revenue yielded, But what my power might else exact, like one Who having into truth, by telling of it, Made such a sinner of his memory, To credit his own lie, he did believe He was indeed the Duke; out o’ the substitution, And executing th’ outward face of royalty, With all prerogative. Hence his ambition growing— Dost thou hear? MIRANDA. Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. PROSPERO. To have no screen between this part he play’d And him he play’d it for, he needs will be Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties He thinks me now incapable; confederates, So dry he was for sway, wi’ th’ King of Naples To give him annual tribute, do him homage, Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend The dukedom, yet unbow’d—alas, poor Milan!— To most ignoble stooping. MIRANDA. O the heavens! PROSPERO. Mark his condition, and the event; then tell me If this might be a brother. MIRANDA. I should sin To think but nobly of my grandmother: Good wombs have borne bad sons. PROSPERO. Now the condition. This King of Naples, being an enemy To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit; Which was, that he, in lieu o’ th’ premises Of homage and I know not how much tribute, Should presently extirpate me and mine Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan, With all the honours on my brother: whereon, A treacherous army levied, one midnight Fated to th’ purpose, did Antonio open The gates of Milan; and, i’ th’ dead of darkness, The ministers for th’ purpose hurried thence Me and thy crying self. MIRANDA. Alack, for pity! I, not rememb’ring how I cried out then, Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint That wrings mine eyes to ’t. PROSPERO. Hear a little further, And then I’ll bring thee to the present business Which now’s upon us; without the which this story Were most impertinent. MIRANDA. Wherefore did they not That hour destroy us? PROSPERO. Well demanded, wench: My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, So dear the love my people bore me, nor set A mark so bloody on the business; but With colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark, Bore us some leagues to sea, where they prepared A rotten carcass of a butt, not rigg’d, Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats Instinctively have quit it. There they hoist us, To cry to th’ sea, that roar’d to us; to sigh To th’ winds, whose pity, sighing back again, Did us but loving wrong. MIRANDA. Alack, what trouble Was I then to you! PROSPERO. O, a cherubin Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile, Infused with a fortitude from heaven, When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, Under my burden groan’d: which rais’d in me An undergoing stomach, to bear up Against what should ensue. MIRANDA. How came we ashore? PROSPERO. By Providence divine. Some food we had and some fresh water that A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo, Out of his charity, who being then appointed Master of this design, did give us, with Rich garments, linens, stuffs, and necessaries, Which since have steaded much: so, of his gentleness, Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom. MIRANDA. Would I might But ever see that man! PROSPERO. Now I arise. Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. Here in this island we arriv’d; and here Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit Than other princes can, that have more time For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. MIRANDA. Heavens thank you for ’t! And now, I pray you, sir, For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason For raising this sea-storm? PROSPERO. Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune, Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies Brought to this shore; and by my prescience I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions; Thou art inclin’d to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, And give it way. I know thou canst not choose. [_Miranda sleeps._] Come away, servant, come! I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel. Come! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task Ariel and all his quality. PROSPERO. Hast thou, spirit, Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee? ARIEL. To every article. I boarded the King’s ship; now on the beak, Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flam’d amazement; sometime I’d divide, And burn in many places; on the topmast, The yards, and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, Then meet and join. Jove’s lightning, the precursors O’ th’ dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune Seem to besiege and make his bold waves tremble, Yea, his dread trident shake. PROSPERO. My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil Would not infect his reason? ARIEL. Not a soul But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners Plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, Then all afire with me: the King’s son, Ferdinand, With hair up-staring—then like reeds, not hair— Was the first man that leapt; cried “Hell is empty, And all the devils are here.” PROSPERO. Why, that’s my spirit! But was not this nigh shore? ARIEL. Close by, my master. PROSPERO. But are they, Ariel, safe? ARIEL. Not a hair perish’d; On their sustaining garments not a blemish, But fresher than before: and, as thou bad’st me, In troops I have dispers’d them ’bout the isle. The King’s son have I landed by himself, Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting, His arms in this sad knot. PROSPERO. Of the King’s ship The mariners, say how thou hast dispos’d, And all the rest o’ th’ fleet? ARIEL. Safely in harbour Is the King’s ship; in the deep nook, where once Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew From the still-vex’d Bermoothes; there she’s hid: The mariners all under hatches stowed; Who, with a charm join’d to their suff’red labour, I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ th’ fleet, Which I dispers’d, they all have met again, And are upon the Mediterranean flote Bound sadly home for Naples, Supposing that they saw the King’s ship wrack’d, And his great person perish. PROSPERO. Ariel, thy charge Exactly is perform’d; but there’s more work. What is the time o’ th’ day? ARIEL. Past the mid season. PROSPERO. At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now Must by us both be spent most preciously. ARIEL. Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains, Let me remember thee what thou hast promis’d, Which is not yet perform’d me. PROSPERO. How now! moody? What is’t thou canst demand? ARIEL. My liberty. PROSPERO. Before the time be out? No more! ARIEL. I prithee, Remember I have done thee worthy service; Told thee no lies, made no mistakings, serv’d Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise To bate me a full year. PROSPERO. Dost thou forget From what a torment I did free thee? ARIEL. No. PROSPERO. Thou dost, and think’st it much to tread the ooze Of the salt deep, To run upon the sharp wind of the north, To do me business in the veins o’ th’ earth When it is bak’d with frost. ARIEL. I do not, sir. PROSPERO. Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy Was grown into a hoop? Hast thou forgot her? ARIEL. No, sir. PROSPERO. Thou hast. Where was she born? Speak; tell me. ARIEL. Sir, in Argier. PROSPERO. O, was she so? I must Once in a month recount what thou hast been, Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax, For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible To enter human hearing, from Argier, Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did They would not take her life. Is not this true? ARIEL. Ay, sir. PROSPERO. This blue-ey’d hag was hither brought with child, And here was left by th’ sailors. Thou, my slave, As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant; And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands, Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee, By help of her more potent ministers, And in her most unmitigable rage, Into a cloven pine; within which rift Imprison’d, thou didst painfully remain A dozen years; within which space she died, And left thee there, where thou didst vent thy groans As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island— Save for the son that she did litter here, A freckl’d whelp, hag-born—not honour’d with A human shape. ARIEL. Yes, Caliban her son. PROSPERO. Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st What torment I did find thee in; thy groans Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax Could not again undo; it was mine art, When I arriv’d and heard thee, that made gape The pine, and let thee out. ARIEL. I thank thee, master. PROSPERO. If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak And peg thee in his knotty entrails till Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. ARIEL. Pardon, master: I will be correspondent to command, And do my spriting gently. PROSPERO. Do so; and after two days I will discharge thee. ARIEL. That’s my noble master! What shall I do? Say what? What shall I do? PROSPERO. Go make thyself like a nymph o’ th’ sea. Be subject To no sight but thine and mine; invisible To every eyeball else. Go, take this shape, And hither come in ’t. Go, hence with diligence! [_Exit Ariel._] Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well; Awake! MIRANDA. [_Waking._] The strangeness of your story put Heaviness in me. PROSPERO. Shake it off. Come on; We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never Yields us kind answer. MIRANDA. ’Tis a villain, sir, I do not love to look on. PROSPERO. But as ’tis, We cannot miss him: he does make our fire, Fetch in our wood; and serves in offices That profit us. What ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! Speak. CALIBAN. [_Within._] There’s wood enough within. PROSPERO. Come forth, I say; there’s other business for thee. Come, thou tortoise! when? Re-enter Ariel like a water-nymph. Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel, Hark in thine ear. ARIEL. My lord, it shall be done. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! Enter Caliban. CALIBAN. As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen Drop on you both! A south-west blow on ye, And blister you all o’er! PROSPERO. For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinch’d As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made them. CALIBAN. I must eat my dinner. This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother, Which thou tak’st from me. When thou cam’st first, Thou strok’st me and made much of me; wouldst give me Water with berries in ’t; and teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night: and then I lov’d thee, And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle, The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place, and fertile. Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! For I am all the subjects that you have, Which first was mine own King; and here you sty me In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me The rest o’ th’ island. PROSPERO. Thou most lying slave, Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have us’d thee, Filth as thou art, with human care, and lodg’d thee In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate The honour of my child. CALIBAN. Oh ho! Oh ho! Would ’t had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else This isle with Calibans. PROSPERO. Abhorred slave, Which any print of goodness wilt not take, Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee, Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes With words that made them known. But thy vile race, Though thou didst learn, had that in ’t which good natures Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou Deservedly confin’d into this rock, Who hadst deserv’d more than a prison. CALIBAN. You taught me language, and my profit on ’t Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you, For learning me your language! PROSPERO. Hag-seed, hence! Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou ’rt best, To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice? If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps, Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, That beasts shall tremble at thy din. CALIBAN. No, pray thee. [_Aside._] I must obey. His art is of such power, It would control my dam’s god, Setebos, And make a vassal of him. PROSPERO. So, slave, hence! [_Exit Caliban._] Re-enter Ariel, playing and singing; Ferdinand following. ARIEL’S SONG. _Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: Curtsied when you have, and kiss’d The wild waves whist. Foot it featly here and there, And sweet sprites bear The burden. Hark, hark!_ Burden dispersedly. _Bow-wow. The watch dogs bark._ [Burden dispersedly.] _Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry cock-a-diddle-dow._ FERDINAND. Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth? It sounds no more; and sure it waits upon Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank, Weeping again the King my father’s wrack, This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it, Or it hath drawn me rather,—but ’tis gone. No, it begins again. ARIEL. [_Sings._] _Full fathom five thy father lies. Of his bones are coral made. Those are pearls that were his eyes. Nothing of him that doth fade But doth suffer a sea-change Into something rich and strange. Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:_ Burden: _Ding-dong. Hark! now I hear them: ding-dong, bell._ FERDINAND. The ditty does remember my drown’d father. This is no mortal business, nor no sound That the earth owes:—I hear it now above me. PROSPERO. The fringed curtains of thine eye advance, And say what thou seest yond. MIRANDA. What is’t? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit. PROSPERO. No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest Was in the wrack; and, but he’s something stain’d With grief,—that’s beauty’s canker,—thou mightst call him A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows And strays about to find ’em. MIRANDA. I might call him A thing divine; for nothing natural I ever saw so noble. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It goes on, I see, As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee Within two days for this. FERDINAND. Most sure, the goddess On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer May know if you remain upon this island; And that you will some good instruction give How I may bear me here: my prime request, Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no? MIRANDA. No wonder, sir; But certainly a maid. FERDINAND. My language! Heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech, Were I but where ’tis spoken. PROSPERO. How! the best? What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? FERDINAND. A single thing, as I am now, that wonders To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me; And that he does I weep: myself am Naples, Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld The King my father wrack’d. MIRANDA. Alack, for mercy! FERDINAND. Yes, faith, and all his lords, the Duke of Milan, And his brave son being twain. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] The Duke of Milan And his more braver daughter could control thee, If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel, I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Ferdinand._] A word, good sir. I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. MIRANDA. Why speaks my father so ungently? This Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first That e’er I sigh’d for. Pity move my father To be inclin’d my way! FERDINAND. O! if a virgin, And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you The Queen of Naples. PROSPERO. Soft, sir; one word more. [_Aside._] They are both in either’s powers. But this swift business I must uneasy make, lest too light winning Make the prize light. [_To Ferdinand._] One word more. I charge thee That thou attend me. Thou dost here usurp The name thou ow’st not; and hast put thyself Upon this island as a spy, to win it From me, the lord on ’t. FERDINAND. No, as I am a man. MIRANDA. There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with ’t. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me.— [_To Miranda._] Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. [_To Ferdinand._] Come; I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together: Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be The fresh-brook mussels, wither’d roots, and husks Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow. FERDINAND. No; I will resist such entertainment till Mine enemy has more power. [_He draws, and is charmed from moving._] MIRANDA. O dear father! Make not too rash a trial of him, for He’s gentle, and not fearful. PROSPERO. What! I say, My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor; Who mak’st a show, but dar’st not strike, thy conscience Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward, For I can here disarm thee with this stick And make thy weapon drop. MIRANDA. Beseech you, father! PROSPERO. Hence! Hang not on my garments. MIRANDA. Sir, have pity; I’ll be his surety. PROSPERO. Silence! One word more Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor? hush! Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he, Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To th’ most of men this is a Caliban, And they to him are angels. MIRANDA. My affections Are then most humble; I have no ambition To see a goodlier man. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on; obey: Thy nerves are in their infancy again, And have no vigour in them. FERDINAND. So they are: My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel, The wrack of all my friends, nor this man’s threats, To whom I am subdued, are but light to me, Might I but through my prison once a day Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth Let liberty make use of; space enough Have I in such a prison. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] It works. [_To Ferdinand._] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Ferdinand._] Follow me. [_To Ariel._] Hark what thou else shalt do me. MIRANDA. Be of comfort; My father’s of a better nature, sir, Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted Which now came from him. PROSPERO. Thou shalt be as free As mountain winds; but then exactly do All points of my command. ARIEL. To th’ syllable. PROSPERO. [_To Ferdinand._] Come, follow. Speak not for him. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco and others. GONZALO. Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause, So have we all, of joy; for our escape Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife, The masters of some merchant and the merchant, Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle, I mean our preservation, few in millions Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh Our sorrow with our comfort. ALONSO. Prithee, peace. SEBASTIAN. He receives comfort like cold porridge. ANTONIO. The visitor will not give him o’er so. SEBASTIAN. Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike. GONZALO. Sir,— SEBASTIAN. One: tell. GONZALO. When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d, Comes to the entertainer— SEBASTIAN. A dollar. GONZALO. Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken truer than you purposed. SEBASTIAN. You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should. GONZALO. Therefore, my lord,— ANTONIO. Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! ALONSO. I prithee, spare. GONZALO. Well, I have done: but yet— SEBASTIAN. He will be talking. ANTONIO. Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first begins to crow? SEBASTIAN. The old cock. ANTONIO. The cockerel. SEBASTIAN. Done. The wager? ANTONIO. A laughter. SEBASTIAN. A match! ADRIAN. Though this island seem to be desert,— ANTONIO. Ha, ha, ha! SEBASTIAN. So. You’re paid. ADRIAN. Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,— SEBASTIAN. Yet— ADRIAN. Yet— ANTONIO. He could not miss ’t. ADRIAN. It must needs be of subtle, tender, and delicate temperance. ANTONIO. Temperance was a delicate wench. SEBASTIAN. Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered. ADRIAN. The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. SEBASTIAN. As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. ANTONIO. Or, as ’twere perfum’d by a fen. GONZALO. Here is everything advantageous to life. ANTONIO. True; save means to live. SEBASTIAN. Of that there’s none, or little. GONZALO. How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! ANTONIO. The ground indeed is tawny. SEBASTIAN. With an eye of green in’t. ANTONIO. He misses not much. SEBASTIAN. No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. GONZALO. But the rarity of it is,—which is indeed almost beyond credit,— SEBASTIAN. As many vouch’d rarities are. GONZALO. That our garments, being, as they were, drenched in the sea, hold notwithstanding their freshness and glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water. ANTONIO. If but one of his pockets could speak, would it not say he lies? SEBASTIAN. Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. GONZALO. Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the King’s fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. SEBASTIAN. ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in our return. ADRIAN. Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon to their Queen. GONZALO. Not since widow Dido’s time. ANTONIO. Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow in? Widow Dido! SEBASTIAN. What if he had said, widower Aeneas too? Good Lord, how you take it! ADRIAN. Widow Dido said you? You make me study of that; she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. GONZALO. This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. ADRIAN. Carthage? GONZALO. I assure you, Carthage. ANTONIO. His word is more than the miraculous harp. SEBASTIAN. He hath rais’d the wall, and houses too. ANTONIO. What impossible matter will he make easy next? SEBASTIAN. I think he will carry this island home in his pocket, and give it his son for an apple. ANTONIO. And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring forth more islands. ALONSO. Ay. ANTONIO. Why, in good time. GONZALO. [_To Alonso._] Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your daughter, who is now Queen. ANTONIO. And the rarest that e’er came there. SEBASTIAN. Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. ANTONIO. O! widow Dido; ay, widow Dido. GONZALO. Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I wore it? I mean, in a sort. ANTONIO. That sort was well fish’d for. GONZALO. When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage? ALONSO. You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense. Would I had never Married my daughter there! for, coming thence, My son is lost; and, in my rate, she too, Who is so far from Italy removed, I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish Hath made his meal on thee? FRANCISCO. Sir, he may live: I saw him beat the surges under him, And ride upon their backs. He trod the water, Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted The surge most swoln that met him. His bold head ’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oared Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke To th’ shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bowed, As stooping to relieve him. I not doubt He came alive to land. ALONSO. No, no, he’s gone. SEBASTIAN. Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss, That would not bless our Europe with your daughter, But rather lose her to an African; Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye, Who hath cause to wet the grief on ’t. ALONSO. Prithee, peace. SEBASTIAN. You were kneel’d to, and importun’d otherwise By all of us; and the fair soul herself Weigh’d between loathness and obedience at Which end o’ th’ beam should bow. We have lost your son, I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have More widows in them of this business’ making, Than we bring men to comfort them. The fault’s your own. ALONSO. So is the dear’st o’ th’ loss. GONZALO. My lord Sebastian, The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness And time to speak it in. You rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster. SEBASTIAN. Very well. ANTONIO. And most chirurgeonly. GONZALO. It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy. SEBASTIAN. Foul weather? ANTONIO. Very foul. GONZALO. Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,— ANTONIO. He’d sow ’t with nettle-seed. SEBASTIAN. Or docks, or mallows. GONZALO. And were the King on’t, what would I do? SEBASTIAN. ’Scape being drunk for want of wine. GONZALO. I’ th’ commonwealth I would by contraries Execute all things; for no kind of traffic Would I admit; no name of magistrate; Letters should not be known; riches, poverty, And use of service, none; contract, succession, Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none; No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil; No occupation; all men idle, all; And women too, but innocent and pure; No sovereignty,— SEBASTIAN. Yet he would be King on’t. ANTONIO. The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the beginning. GONZALO. All things in common nature should produce Without sweat or endeavour; treason, felony, Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, Would I not have; but nature should bring forth, Of it own kind, all foison, all abundance, To feed my innocent people. SEBASTIAN. No marrying ’mong his subjects? ANTONIO. None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. GONZALO. I would with such perfection govern, sir, T’ excel the Golden Age. SEBASTIAN. Save his Majesty! ANTONIO. Long live Gonzalo! GONZALO. And,—do you mark me, sir? ALONSO. Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me. GONZALO. I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. ANTONIO. ’Twas you we laughed at. GONZALO. Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to you. So you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. ANTONIO. What a blow was there given! SEBASTIAN. An it had not fallen flat-long. GONZALO. You are gentlemen of brave mettle. You would lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it five weeks without changing. Enter Ariel, invisible, playing solemn music. SEBASTIAN. We would so, and then go a-bat-fowling. ANTONIO. Nay, good my lord, be not angry. GONZALO. No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very heavy? ANTONIO. Go sleep, and hear us. [_All sleep but Alonso, Sebastian and Antonio._] ALONSO. What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find They are inclin’d to do so. SEBASTIAN. Please you, sir, Do not omit the heavy offer of it: It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth, It is a comforter. ANTONIO. We two, my lord, Will guard your person while you take your rest, And watch your safety. ALONSO. Thank you. Wondrous heavy! [_Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel._] SEBASTIAN. What a strange drowsiness possesses them! ANTONIO. It is the quality o’ th’ climate. SEBASTIAN. Why Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not Myself dispos’d to sleep. ANTONIO. Nor I. My spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent; They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, Worthy Sebastian? O, what might?—No more. And yet methinks I see it in thy face, What thou shouldst be. Th’ occasion speaks thee; and My strong imagination sees a crown Dropping upon thy head. SEBASTIAN. What, art thou waking? ANTONIO. Do you not hear me speak? SEBASTIAN. I do; and surely It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleep With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, And yet so fast asleep. ANTONIO. Noble Sebastian, Thou let’st thy fortune sleep—die rather; wink’st Whiles thou art waking. SEBASTIAN. Thou dost snore distinctly: There’s meaning in thy snores. ANTONIO. I am more serious than my custom; you Must be so too, if heed me; which to do Trebles thee o’er. SEBASTIAN. Well, I am standing water. ANTONIO. I’ll teach you how to flow. SEBASTIAN. Do so: to ebb, Hereditary sloth instructs me. ANTONIO. O, If you but knew how you the purpose cherish Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it, You more invest it! Ebbing men indeed, Most often, do so near the bottom run By their own fear or sloth. SEBASTIAN. Prithee, say on: The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim A matter from thee, and a birth, indeed Which throes thee much to yield. ANTONIO. Thus, sir: Although this lord of weak remembrance, this Who shall be of as little memory When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,— For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only Professes to persuade,—the King his son’s alive, ’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d As he that sleeps here swims. SEBASTIAN. I have no hope That he’s undrown’d. ANTONIO. O, out of that “no hope” What great hope have you! No hope that way is Another way so high a hope, that even Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond, But doubts discovery there. Will you grant with me That Ferdinand is drown’d? SEBASTIAN. He’s gone. ANTONIO. Then tell me, Who’s the next heir of Naples? SEBASTIAN. Claribel. ANTONIO. She that is Queen of Tunis; she that dwells Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples Can have no note, unless the sun were post— The Man i’ th’ Moon’s too slow—till newborn chins Be rough and razorable; she that from whom We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again, And by that destiny, to perform an act Whereof what’s past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge. SEBASTIAN. What stuff is this! How say you? ’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s Queen of Tunis; So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions There is some space. ANTONIO. A space whose ev’ry cubit Seems to cry out “How shall that Claribel Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, And let Sebastian wake.” Say this were death That now hath seiz’d them; why, they were no worse Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate As amply and unnecessarily As this Gonzalo. I myself could make A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore The mind that I do! What a sleep were this For your advancement! Do you understand me? SEBASTIAN. Methinks I do. ANTONIO. And how does your content Tender your own good fortune? SEBASTIAN. I remember You did supplant your brother Prospero. ANTONIO. True. And look how well my garments sit upon me; Much feater than before; my brother’s servants Were then my fellows; now they are my men. SEBASTIAN. But, for your conscience. ANTONIO. Ay, sir; where lies that? If ’twere a kibe, ’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they And melt ere they molest! Here lies your brother, No better than the earth he lies upon, If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead; Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it, Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, To the perpetual wink for aye might put This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest, They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk. They’ll tell the clock to any business that We say befits the hour. SEBASTIAN. Thy case, dear friend, Shall be my precedent: as thou got’st Milan, I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest, And I the King shall love thee. ANTONIO. Draw together, And when I rear my hand, do you the like, To fall it on Gonzalo. SEBASTIAN. O, but one word. [_They converse apart._] Music. Re-enter Ariel, invisible. ARIEL. My master through his art foresees the danger That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth— For else his project dies—to keep them living. [_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear._] _While you here do snoring lie, Open-ey’d conspiracy His time doth take. If of life you keep a care, Shake off slumber, and beware. Awake! awake!_ ANTONIO. Then let us both be sudden. GONZALO. Now, good angels Preserve the King! [_They wake._] ALONSO. Why, how now! Ho, awake! Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? GONZALO. What’s the matter? SEBASTIAN. Whiles we stood here securing your repose, Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing Like bulls, or rather lions; did ’t not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly. ALONSO. I heard nothing. ANTONIO. O! ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, To make an earthquake. Sure, it was the roar Of a whole herd of lions. ALONSO. Heard you this, Gonzalo? GONZALO. Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming, And that a strange one too, which did awake me. I shak’d you, sir, and cried; as mine eyes open’d, I saw their weapons drawn:—there was a noise, That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard, Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons. ALONSO. Lead off this ground, and let’s make further search For my poor son. GONZALO. Heavens keep him from these beasts! For he is, sure, i’ th’ island. ALONSO. Lead away. [_Exit with the others._] ARIEL. Prospero my lord shall know what I have done: So, King, go safely on to seek thy son. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Another part of the island. Enter Caliban with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. CALIBAN. All the infections that the sun sucks up From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me, And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch, Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark Out of my way, unless he bid ’em; but For every trifle are they set upon me, Sometime like apes that mow and chatter at me, And after bite me; then like hedgehogs which Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues Do hiss me into madness. Enter Trinculo. Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat; Perchance he will not mind me. TRINCULO. Here’s neither bush nor shrub to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’ th’ wind. Yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head: yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange beast there makes a man. When they will not give a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead Indian. Legg’d like a man, and his fins like arms! Warm, o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion, hold it no longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately suffered by thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come again! My best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the storm be past. Enter Stephano singing; a bottle in his hand. STEPHANO. _I shall no more to sea, to sea, Here shall I die ashore—_ This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral. Well, here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._] _The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I, The gunner, and his mate, Lov’d Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery, But none of us car’d for Kate: For she had a tongue with a tang, Would cry to a sailor “Go hang!” She lov’d not the savour of tar nor of pitch, Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch. Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang._ This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._] CALIBAN. Do not torment me: O! STEPHANO. What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind? Ha? I have not scap’d drowning, to be afeard now of your four legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be said so again, while Stephano breathes at’ nostrils. CALIBAN. The spirit torments me: O! STEPHANO. This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be but for that. If I can recover him and keep him tame, and get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that ever trod on neat’s-leather. CALIBAN. Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood home faster. STEPHANO. He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for him. He shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. CALIBAN. Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. STEPHANO. Come on your ways. Open your mouth; here is that which will give language to you, cat. Open your mouth. This will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly. [_gives Caliban a drink_] You cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again. TRINCULO. I should know that voice: it should be—but he is drowned; and these are devils. O, defend me! STEPHANO. Four legs and two voices; a most delicate monster! His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend; his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help his ague. Come. Amen! I will pour some in thy other mouth. TRINCULO. Stephano! STEPHANO. Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy! mercy! This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have no long spoon. TRINCULO. Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me, and speak to me; for I am Trinculo—be not afeared—thy good friend Trinculo. STEPHANO. If thou beest Trinculo, come forth. I’ll pull thee by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How cam’st thou to be the siege of this moon-calf? Can he vent Trinculos? TRINCULO. I took him to be kill’d with a thunderstroke. But art thou not drown’d, Stephano? I hope now thou are not drown’d. Is the storm overblown? I hid me under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans scap’d! STEPHANO. Prithee, do not turn me about. My stomach is not constant. CALIBAN. [_Aside._] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor. I will kneel to him. STEPHANO. How didst thou scape? How cam’st thou hither? Swear by this bottle how thou cam’st hither—I escaped upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, by this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine own hands, since I was cast ashore. CALIBAN. I’ll swear upon that bottle to be thy true subject, for the liquor is not earthly. STEPHANO. Here. Swear then how thou escapedst. TRINCULO. Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim like a duck, I’ll be sworn. STEPHANO. Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim like a duck, thou art made like a goose. TRINCULO. O Stephano, hast any more of this? STEPHANO. The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by th’ seaside, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! How does thine ague? CALIBAN. Hast thou not dropped from heaven? STEPHANO. Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the Man in the Moon, when time was. CALIBAN. I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee. My mistress showed me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush. STEPHANO. Come, swear to that. Kiss the book. I will furnish it anon with new contents. Swear. TRINCULO. By this good light, this is a very shallow monster. I afeard of him? A very weak monster. The Man i’ the Moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well drawn, monster, in good sooth! CALIBAN. I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ the island; and I will kiss thy foot. I prithee, be my god. TRINCULO. By this light, a most perfidious and drunken monster. When ’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle. CALIBAN. I’ll kiss thy foot. I’ll swear myself thy subject. STEPHANO. Come on, then; down, and swear. TRINCULO. I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in my heart to beat him,— STEPHANO. Come, kiss. TRINCULO. But that the poor monster’s in drink. An abominable monster! CALIBAN. I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries; I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee, Thou wondrous man. TRINCULO. A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder of a poor drunkard! CALIBAN. I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow; And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts; Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? STEPHANO. I prithee now, lead the way without any more talking. Trinculo, the King and all our company else being drowned, we will inherit here. Here, bear my bottle. Fellow Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again. CALIBAN. [_Sings drunkenly._] _Farewell, master; farewell, farewell!_ TRINCULO. A howling monster, a drunken monster. CALIBAN. _No more dams I’ll make for fish; Nor fetch in firing At requiring, Nor scrape trenchering, nor wash dish; ’Ban ’Ban, Cacaliban, Has a new master—Get a new man._ Freedom, high-day! high-day, freedom! freedom, high-day, freedom! STEPHANO. O brave monster! lead the way. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell. Enter Ferdinand bearing a log. FERDINAND. There be some sports are painful, and their labour Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone; and most poor matters Point to rich ends. This my mean task Would be as heavy to me as odious, but The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead, And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed, And he’s compos’d of harshness. I must remove Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress Weeps when she sees me work, and says such baseness Had never like executor. I forget: But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours, Most busy, least when I do it. Enter Miranda and Prospero behind. MIRANDA. Alas now, pray you, Work not so hard: I would the lightning had Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down and rest you. When this burns, ’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself: He’s safe for these three hours. FERDINAND. O most dear mistress, The sun will set, before I shall discharge What I must strive to do. MIRANDA. If you’ll sit down, I’ll bear your logs the while. Pray give me that; I’ll carry it to the pile. FERDINAND. No, precious creature; I had rather crack my sinews, break my back, Than you should such dishonour undergo, While I sit lazy by. MIRANDA. It would become me As well as it does you: and I should do it With much more ease; for my good will is to it, And yours it is against. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Poor worm! thou art infected. This visitation shows it. MIRANDA. You look wearily. FERDINAND. No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me When you are by at night. I do beseech you— Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers— What is your name? MIRANDA. Miranda—O my father! I have broke your hest to say so. FERDINAND. Admir’d Miranda! Indeed, the top of admiration; worth What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady I have ey’d with best regard, and many a time Th’ harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues Have I lik’d several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she ow’d, And put it to the foil: but you, O you, So perfect and so peerless, are created Of every creature’s best. MIRANDA. I do not know One of my sex; no woman’s face remember, Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen More that I may call men than you, good friend, And my dear father: how features are abroad, I am skilless of; but, by my modesty, The jewel in my dower, I would not wish Any companion in the world but you; Nor can imagination form a shape, Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts I therein do forget. FERDINAND. I am, in my condition, A prince, Miranda; I do think, a King; I would not so!—and would no more endure This wooden slavery than to suffer The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak: The very instant that I saw you, did My heart fly to your service; there resides, To make me slave to it; and for your sake Am I this patient log-man. MIRANDA. Do you love me? FERDINAND. O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound, And crown what I profess with kind event, If I speak true; if hollowly, invert What best is boded me to mischief! I, Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world, Do love, prize, honour you. MIRANDA. I am a fool To weep at what I am glad of. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Fair encounter Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace On that which breeds between ’em! FERDINAND. Wherefore weep you? MIRANDA. At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer What I desire to give; and much less take What I shall die to want. But this is trifling; And all the more it seeks to hide itself, The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife if you will marry me; If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, Whether you will or no. FERDINAND. My mistress, dearest; And I thus humble ever. MIRANDA. My husband, then? FERDINAND. Ay, with a heart as willing As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand. MIRANDA. And mine, with my heart in ’t: and now farewell Till half an hour hence. FERDINAND. A thousand thousand! [_Exeunt Ferdinand and Miranda severally._] PROSPERO. So glad of this as they, I cannot be, Who are surpris’d withal; but my rejoicing At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book; For yet, ere supper time, must I perform Much business appertaining. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Another part of the island. Enter Caliban with a bottle, Stephano and Trinculo. STEPHANO. Tell not me:—when the butt is out we will drink water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me. TRINCULO. Servant-monster! The folly of this island! They say there’s but five upon this isle; we are three of them; if th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters. STEPHANO. Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes are almost set in thy head. TRINCULO. Where should they be set else? He were a brave monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. STEPHANO. My man-monster hath drown’d his tongue in sack: for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues, off and on, by this light. Thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my standard. TRINCULO. Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard. STEPHANO. We’ll not run, Monsieur monster. TRINCULO. Nor go neither. But you’ll lie like dogs, and yet say nothing neither. STEPHANO. Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good moon-calf. CALIBAN. How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant. TRINCULO. Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case to justle a constable. Why, thou deboshed fish thou, was there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as I today? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a fish and half a monster? CALIBAN. Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? TRINCULO. “Lord” quoth he! That a monster should be such a natural! CALIBAN. Lo, lo again! bite him to death, I prithee. STEPHANO. Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you prove a mutineer, the next tree! The poor monster’s my subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. CALIBAN. I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleas’d to hearken once again to the suit I made to thee? STEPHANO. Marry. will I. Kneel and repeat it. I will stand, and so shall Trinculo. Enter Ariel, invisible. CALIBAN. As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. ARIEL. Thou liest. CALIBAN. Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou; I would my valiant master would destroy thee; I do not lie. STEPHANO. Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in his tale, by this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. TRINCULO. Why, I said nothing. STEPHANO. Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. CALIBAN. I say, by sorcery he got this isle; From me he got it. If thy greatness will, Revenge it on him,—for I know thou dar’st; But this thing dare not,— STEPHANO. That’s most certain. CALIBAN. Thou shalt be lord of it and I’ll serve thee. STEPHANO. How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou bring me to the party? CALIBAN. Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep, Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. ARIEL. Thou liest. Thou canst not. CALIBAN. What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch! I do beseech thy greatness, give him blows, And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him Where the quick freshes are. STEPHANO. Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the monster one word further, and by this hand, I’ll turn my mercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee. TRINCULO. Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go farther off. STEPHANO. Didst thou not say he lied? ARIEL. Thou liest. STEPHANO. Do I so? Take thou that. [_Strikes Trinculo._] As you like this, give me the lie another time. TRINCULO. I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits and hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil take your fingers! CALIBAN. Ha, ha, ha! STEPHANO. Now, forward with your tale.—Prithee stand further off. CALIBAN. Beat him enough: after a little time, I’ll beat him too. STEPHANO. Stand farther.—Come, proceed. CALIBAN. Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him, Having first seiz’d his books; or with a log Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake, Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember First to possess his books; for without them He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not One spirit to command: they all do hate him As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,—for so he calls them,— Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal. And that most deeply to consider is The beauty of his daughter; he himself Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman But only Sycorax my dam and she; But she as far surpasseth Sycorax As great’st does least. STEPHANO. Is it so brave a lass? CALIBAN. Ay, lord, she will become thy bed, I warrant, And bring thee forth brave brood. STEPHANO. Monster, I will kill this man. His daughter and I will be king and queen,—save our graces!—and Trinculo and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot, Trinculo? TRINCULO. Excellent. STEPHANO. Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but while thou liv’st, keep a good tongue in thy head. CALIBAN. Within this half hour will he be asleep. Wilt thou destroy him then? STEPHANO. Ay, on mine honour. ARIEL. This will I tell my master. CALIBAN. Thou mak’st me merry. I am full of pleasure. Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch You taught me but while-ere? STEPHANO. At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any reason. Come on, Trinculo, let us sing. [_Sings._] _Flout ’em and cout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em: Thought is free._ CALIBAN. That’s not the tune. [_Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe._] STEPHANO. What is this same? TRINCULO. This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture of Nobody. STEPHANO. If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness: if thou beest a devil, take ’t as thou list. TRINCULO. O, forgive me my sins! STEPHANO. He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy upon us! CALIBAN. Art thou afeard? STEPHANO. No, monster, not I. CALIBAN. Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices, That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep, Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open and show riches Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d, I cried to dream again. STEPHANO. This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I shall have my music for nothing. CALIBAN. When Prospero is destroyed. STEPHANO. That shall be by and by: I remember the story. TRINCULO. The sound is going away. Let’s follow it, and after do our work. STEPHANO. Lead, monster: we’ll follow. I would I could see this taborer! he lays it on. Wilt come? TRINCULO. I’ll follow, Stephano. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Another part of the island. Enter Alonso, Sebastian, Antonio, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, &c. GONZALO. By ’r lakin, I can go no further, sir; My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed, Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience, I needs must rest me. ALONSO. Old lord, I cannot blame thee, Who am myself attach’d with weariness To th’ dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forgo the purpose That you resolv’d to effect. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] The next advantage Will we take throughly. ANTONIO. [_Aside to Sebastian._] Let it be tonight; For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance As when they are fresh. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside to Antonio._] I say, tonight: no more. Solemn and strange music: and Prospero above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes, bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of salutation; and inviting the King &c., to eat, they depart. ALONSO. What harmony is this? My good friends, hark! GONZALO. Marvellous sweet music! ALONSO. Give us kind keepers, heavens! What were these? SEBASTIAN. A living drollery. Now I will believe That there are unicorns; that in Arabia There is one tree, the phoenix’ throne; one phoenix At this hour reigning there. ANTONIO. I’ll believe both; And what does else want credit, come to me, And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie, Though fools at home condemn them. GONZALO. If in Naples I should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders,— For, certes, these are people of the island,— Who, though, they are of monstrous shape, yet, note, Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find Many, nay, almost any. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Honest lord, Thou hast said well; for some of you there present Are worse than devils. ALONSO. I cannot too much muse Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing— Although they want the use of tongue—a kind Of excellent dumb discourse. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Praise in departing. FRANCISCO. They vanish’d strangely. SEBASTIAN. No matter, since They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.— Will’t please you taste of what is here? ALONSO. Not I. GONZALO. Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys, Who would believe that there were mountaineers Dewlapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em Wallets of flesh? Or that there were such men Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find Each putter-out of five for one will bring us Good warrant of. ALONSO. I will stand to, and feed, Although my last, no matter, since I feel The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke, Stand to, and do as we. Thunder and lightning. Enter Ariel like a Harpy; claps his wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet vanishes. ARIEL. You are three men of sin, whom Destiny, That hath to instrument this lower world And what is in’t,—the never-surfeited sea Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island Where man doth not inhabit; you ’mongst men Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad; And even with such-like valour men hang and drown Their proper selves. [_Seeing Alonso, Sebastian &c., draw their swords._] You fools! I and my fellows Are ministers of Fate: the elements Of whom your swords are temper’d may as well Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish One dowle that’s in my plume. My fellow-ministers Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt, Your swords are now too massy for your strengths, And will not be uplifted. But, remember— For that’s my business to you,—that you three From Milan did supplant good Prospero; Expos’d unto the sea, which hath requit it, Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have Incens’d the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures, Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, They have bereft; and do pronounce, by me Ling’ring perdition,—worse than any death Can be at once,—shall step by step attend You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from— Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls Upon your heads,—is nothing but heart-sorrow, And a clear life ensuing. [_He vanishes in thunder: then, to soft music, enter the Shapes again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carry out the table._] PROSPERO. [_Aside._] Bravely the figure of this Harpy hast thou Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring. Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life And observation strange, my meaner ministers Their several kinds have done. My high charms work, And these mine enemies are all knit up In their distractions; they now are in my power; And in these fits I leave them, while I visit Young Ferdinand,—whom they suppose is drown’d,— And his and mine lov’d darling. [_Exit above._] GONZALO. I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand you In this strange stare? ALONSO. O, it is monstrous! monstrous! Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it; The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder, That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounc’d The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded, And with him there lie mudded. [_Exit._] SEBASTIAN. But one fiend at a time, I’ll fight their legions o’er. ANTONIO. I’ll be thy second. [_Exeunt Sebastian and Antonio._] GONZALO. All three of them are desperate: their great guilt, Like poison given to work a great time after, Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly And hinder them from what this ecstasy May now provoke them to. ADRIAN. Follow, I pray you. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Before Prospero’s cell. Enter Prospero, Ferdinand and Miranda. PROSPERO. If I have too austerely punish’d you, Your compensation makes amends: for I Have given you here a third of mine own life, Or that for which I live; who once again I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven, I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand, Do not smile at me that I boast her off, For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, And make it halt behind her. FERDINAND. I do believe it Against an oracle. PROSPERO. Then, as my gift and thine own acquisition Worthily purchas’d, take my daughter: but If thou dost break her virgin knot before All sanctimonious ceremonies may With full and holy rite be minister’d, No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall To make this contract grow; but barren hate, Sour-ey’d disdain, and discord shall bestrew The union of your bed with weeds so loathly That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed, As Hymen’s lamps shall light you. FERDINAND. As I hope For quiet days, fair issue, and long life, With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion Our worser genius can, shall never melt Mine honour into lust, to take away The edge of that day’s celebration, When I shall think, or Phoebus’ steeds are founder’d, Or Night kept chain’d below. PROSPERO. Fairly spoke: Sit, then, and talk with her, she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. What would my potent master? here I am. PROSPERO. Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service Did worthily perform; and I must use you In such another trick. Go bring the rabble, O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place. Incite them to quick motion; for I must Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise, And they expect it from me. ARIEL. Presently? PROSPERO. Ay, with a twink. ARIEL. Before you can say “Come” and “Go,” And breathe twice, and cry “so, so,” Each one, tripping on his toe, Will be here with mop and mow. Do you love me, master? no? PROSPERO. Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach Till thou dost hear me call. ARIEL. Well, I conceive. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Look thou be true; do not give dalliance Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw To th’ fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious, Or else good night your vow! FERDINAND. I warrant you, sir; The white cold virgin snow upon my heart Abates the ardour of my liver. PROSPERO. Well. Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary, Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly. No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [_Soft music._] A Masque. Enter Iris. IRIS. Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and peas; Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep, And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep; Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims, Which spongy April at thy hest betrims, To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom groves, Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves, Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard; And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard, Where thou thyself dost air: the Queen o’ th’ sky, Whose wat’ry arch and messenger am I, Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace, Here on this grass-plot, in this very place, To come and sport; her peacocks fly amain: Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. Enter Ceres. CERES. Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter; Who with thy saffron wings upon my flowers Diffusest honey drops, refreshing showers; And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down, Rich scarf to my proud earth; why hath thy queen Summon’d me hither to this short-grass’d green? IRIS. A contract of true love to celebrate, And some donation freely to estate On the blest lovers. CERES. Tell me, heavenly bow, If Venus or her son, as thou dost know, Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot The means that dusky Dis my daughter got, Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company I have forsworn. IRIS. Of her society Be not afraid. I met her deity Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid Till Hymen’s torch be lighted; but in vain. Mars’s hot minion is return’d again; Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows, Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, And be a boy right out. CERES. Highest queen of State, Great Juno comes; I know her by her gait. Enter Juno. JUNO. How does my bounteous sister? Go with me To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be, And honour’d in their issue. [_They sing._] JUNO. _Honour, riches, marriage-blessing, Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you! Juno sings her blessings on you._ CERES. _Earth’s increase, foison plenty, Barns and garners never empty; Vines with clust’ring bunches growing; Plants with goodly burden bowing; Spring come to you at the farthest In the very end of harvest! Scarcity and want shall shun you; Ceres’ blessing so is on you._ FERDINAND. This is a most majestic vision, and Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold To think these spirits? PROSPERO. Spirits, which by mine art I have from their confines call’d to enact My present fancies. FERDINAND. Let me live here ever. So rare a wonder’d father and a wise, Makes this place Paradise. [_Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment._] PROSPERO. Sweet now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously, There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute, Or else our spell is marr’d. IRIS. You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks, With your sedg’d crowns and ever-harmless looks, Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land Answer your summons; Juno does command. Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate A contract of true love. Be not too late. Enter certain Nymphs. You sun-burn’d sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing. Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof Prospero starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow, and confused noise, they heavily vanish. PROSPERO. [_Aside._] I had forgot that foul conspiracy Of the beast Caliban and his confederates Against my life: the minute of their plot Is almost come. [_To the Spirits._] Well done! avoid; no more! FERDINAND. This is strange: your father’s in some passion That works him strongly. MIRANDA. Never till this day Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d. PROSPERO. You do look, my son, in a mov’d sort, As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir: Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve, And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d: Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled. Be not disturb’d with my infirmity. If you be pleas’d, retire into my cell And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk, To still my beating mind. FERDINAND, MIRANDA. We wish your peace. [_Exeunt._] PROSPERO. Come, with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel. Come! Enter Ariel. ARIEL. Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure? PROSPERO. Spirit, We must prepare to meet with Caliban. ARIEL. Ay, my commander. When I presented Ceres, I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d Lest I might anger thee. PROSPERO. Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets? ARIEL. I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; So full of valour that they smote the air For breathing in their faces; beat the ground For kissing of their feet; yet always bending Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears, Advanc’d their eyelids, lifted up their noses As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears, That calf-like they my lowing follow’d through Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them I’ th’ filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell, There dancing up to th’ chins, that the foul lake O’erstunk their feet. PROSPERO. This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still: The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither For stale to catch these thieves. ARIEL. I go, I go. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. A devil, a born devil, on whose nature Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains, Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; And as with age his body uglier grows, So his mind cankers. I will plague them all, Even to roaring. Re-enter Ariel, loaden with glistering apparel, &c. Come, hang them on this line. Prospero and Ariel remain invisible. Enter Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo all wet. CALIBAN. Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. STEPHANO. Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us. TRINCULO. Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my nose is in great indignation. STEPHANO. So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should take a displeasure against you, look you,— TRINCULO. Thou wert but a lost monster. CALIBAN. Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. All’s hush’d as midnight yet. TRINCULO. Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool! STEPHANO. There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that, monster, but an infinite loss. TRINCULO. That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is your harmless fairy, monster. STEPHANO. I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for my labour. CALIBAN. Prithee, my King, be quiet. Seest thou here, This is the mouth o’ th’ cell: no noise, and enter. Do that good mischief which may make this island Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban, For aye thy foot-licker. STEPHANO. Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody thoughts. TRINCULO. O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! Look what a wardrobe here is for thee! CALIBAN. Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash. TRINCULO. O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano! STEPHANO. Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll have that gown. TRINCULO. Thy Grace shall have it. CALIBAN. The dropsy drown this fool! What do you mean To dote thus on such luggage? Let’t alone, And do the murder first. If he awake, From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches, Make us strange stuff. STEPHANO. Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin. TRINCULO. Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your Grace. STEPHANO. I thank thee for that jest. Here’s a garment for ’t: wit shall not go unrewarded while I am King of this country. “Steal by line and level,” is an excellent pass of pate. There’s another garment for ’t. TRINCULO. Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers, and away with the rest. CALIBAN. I will have none on’t. We shall lose our time, And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes With foreheads villainous low. STEPHANO. Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out of my kingdom. Go to, carry this. TRINCULO. And this. STEPHANO. Ay, and this. A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of dogs and hounds, and hunt them about; Prospero and Ariel setting them on. PROSPERO. Hey, Mountain, hey! ARIEL. Silver! there it goes, Silver! PROSPERO. Fury, Fury! There, Tyrant, there! hark, hark! [_Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo are driven out._] Go, charge my goblins that they grind their joints With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews With aged cramps, and more pinch-spotted make them Than pard, or cat o’ mountain. ARIEL. Hark, they roar. PROSPERO. Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour Lies at my mercy all mine enemies. Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou Shalt have the air at freedom. For a little Follow, and do me service. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Before the cell of Prospero. Enter Prospero in his magic robes, and Ariel. PROSPERO. Now does my project gather to a head: My charms crack not; my spirits obey, and time Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day? ARIEL. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord, You said our work should cease. PROSPERO. I did say so, When first I rais’d the tempest. Say, my spirit, How fares the King and ’s followers? ARIEL. Confin’d together In the same fashion as you gave in charge, Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir, In the line grove which weather-fends your cell; They cannot budge till your release. The King, His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted, And the remainder mourning over them, Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly Him you term’d, sir, “the good old lord, Gonzalo”. His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops From eaves of reeds; your charm so strongly works ’em, That if you now beheld them, your affections Would become tender. PROSPERO. Dost thou think so, spirit? ARIEL. Mine would, sir, were I human. PROSPERO. And mine shall. Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling Of their afflictions, and shall not myself, One of their kind, that relish all as sharply Passion as they, be kindlier mov’d than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to th’ quick, Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury Do I take part: the rarer action is In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent, The sole drift of my purpose doth extend Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel. My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore, And they shall be themselves. ARIEL. I’ll fetch them, sir. [_Exit._] PROSPERO. Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves; And ye that on the sands with printless foot Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back; you demi-puppets that By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make, Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid, Weak masters though ye be, I have bedimm’d The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds, And ’twixt the green sea and the azur’d vault Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak With his own bolt; the strong-bas’d promontory Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up The pine and cedar: graves at my command Have wak’d their sleepers, op’d, and let ’em forth By my so potent art. But this rough magic I here abjure; and, when I have requir’d Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,— To work mine end upon their senses that This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff, Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, And deeper than did ever plummet sound I’ll drown my book. [_Solemn music._] Re-enter Ariel: after him, Alonso with a frantic gesture, attended by Gonzalo, Sebastian and Antonio in like manner, attended by Adrian and Francisco: they all enter the circle which Prospero had made, and there stand charmed; which Prospero observing, speaks. A solemn air, and the best comforter To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains, Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, For you are spell-stopp’d. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man, Mine eyes, e’en sociable to the show of thine, Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace; And as the morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness, so their rising senses Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo! My true preserver, and a loyal sir To him thou follow’st, I will pay thy graces Home, both in word and deed. Most cruelly Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter: Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch’d for ’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, Expell’d remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian,— Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong, Would here have kill’d your King; I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding Begins to swell, and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy. Not one of them That yet looks on me, or would know me. Ariel, Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell. [_Exit Ariel._] I will discase me, and myself present As I was sometime Milan. Quickly, spirit; Thou shalt ere long be free. Ariel re-enters, singing, and helps to attire Prospero. ARIEL _Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live now Under the blossom that hangs on the bough._ PROSPERO. Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; But yet thou shalt have freedom; so, so, so. To the King’s ship, invisible as thou art: There shalt thou find the mariners asleep Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain Being awake, enforce them to this place, And presently, I prithee. ARIEL. I drink the air before me, and return Or ere your pulse twice beat. [_Exit._] GONZALO. All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement Inhabits here. Some heavenly power guide us Out of this fearful country! PROSPERO. Behold, sir King, The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero. For more assurance that a living prince Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body; And to thee and thy company I bid A hearty welcome. ALONSO. Whe’er thou be’st he or no, Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me, As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee, Th’ affliction of my mind amends, with which, I fear, a madness held me: this must crave, An if this be at all, a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat Thou pardon me my wrongs. But how should Prospero Be living and be here? PROSPERO. First, noble friend, Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot Be measur’d or confin’d. GONZALO. Whether this be Or be not, I’ll not swear. PROSPERO. You do yet taste Some subtleties o’ the isle, that will not let you Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all. [_Aside to Sebastian and Antonio._] But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded, I here could pluck his highness’ frown upon you, And justify you traitors: at this time I will tell no tales. SEBASTIAN. [_Aside._] The devil speaks in him. PROSPERO. No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive Thy rankest fault, all of them; and require My dukedom of thee, which perforce I know Thou must restore. ALONSO. If thou beest Prospero, Give us particulars of thy preservation; How thou hast met us here, whom three hours since Were wrack’d upon this shore; where I have lost,— How sharp the point of this remembrance is!— My dear son Ferdinand. PROSPERO. I am woe for ’t, sir. ALONSO. Irreparable is the loss, and patience Says it is past her cure. PROSPERO. I rather think You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace, For the like loss I have her sovereign aid, And rest myself content. ALONSO. You the like loss! PROSPERO. As great to me, as late; and, supportable To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker Than you may call to comfort you, for I Have lost my daughter. ALONSO. A daughter? O heavens, that they were living both in Naples, The King and Queen there! That they were, I wish Myself were mudded in that oozy bed Where my son lies. When did you lose your daughter? PROSPERO. In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords At this encounter do so much admire That they devour their reason, and scarce think Their eyes do offices of truth, their words Are natural breath; but, howsoe’er you have Been justled from your senses, know for certain That I am Prospero, and that very duke Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely Upon this shore, where you were wrack’d, was landed To be the lord on’t. No more yet of this; For ’tis a chronicle of day by day, Not a relation for a breakfast nor Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir. This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants, And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again, I will requite you with as good a thing; At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye As much as me my dukedom. Here Prospero discovers Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. MIRANDA. Sweet lord, you play me false. FERDINAND. No, my dearest love, I would not for the world. MIRANDA. Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle, And I would call it fair play. ALONSO. If this prove A vision of the island, one dear son Shall I twice lose. SEBASTIAN. A most high miracle! FERDINAND. Though the seas threaten, they are merciful. I have curs’d them without cause. [_Kneels to Alonso._] ALONSO. Now all the blessings Of a glad father compass thee about! Arise, and say how thou cam’st here. MIRANDA. O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world That has such people in ’t! PROSPERO. ’Tis new to thee. ALONSO. What is this maid, with whom thou wast at play? Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours: Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us, And brought us thus together? FERDINAND. Sir, she is mortal; But by immortal Providence she’s mine. I chose her when I could not ask my father For his advice, nor thought I had one. She Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan, Of whom so often I have heard renown, But never saw before; of whom I have Receiv’d a second life; and second father This lady makes him to me. ALONSO. I am hers: But, O, how oddly will it sound that I Must ask my child forgiveness! PROSPERO. There, sir, stop: Let us not burden our remembrances with A heaviness that’s gone. GONZALO. I have inly wept, Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods, And on this couple drop a blessed crown; For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way Which brought us hither. ALONSO. I say, Amen, Gonzalo! GONZALO. Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue Should become Kings of Naples? O, rejoice Beyond a common joy, and set it down With gold on lasting pillars: in one voyage Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis, And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife Where he himself was lost; Prospero his dukedom In a poor isle; and all of us ourselves, When no man was his own. ALONSO. [_To Ferdinand and Miranda._] Give me your hands: Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart That doth not wish you joy! GONZALO. Be it so. Amen! Re-enter Ariel with the Master and Boatswain amazedly following. O look, sir, look, sir! Here are more of us. I prophesied, if a gallows were on land, This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy, That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? BOATSWAIN. The best news is that we have safely found Our King and company. The next, our ship,— Which but three glasses since, we gave out split, Is tight and yare, and bravely rigg’d as when We first put out to sea. ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Sir, all this service Have I done since I went. PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] My tricksy spirit! ALONSO. These are not natural events; they strengthen From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither? BOATSWAIN. If I did think, sir, I were well awake, I’d strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, And,—how, we know not,—all clapp’d under hatches, Where, but even now, with strange and several noises Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains, And mo diversity of sounds, all horrible, We were awak’d; straightway, at liberty: Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master Cap’ring to eye her. On a trice, so please you, Even in a dream, were we divided from them, And were brought moping hither. ARIEL. [_Aside to Prospero._] Was’t well done? PROSPERO. [_Aside to Ariel._] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free. ALONSO. This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod; And there is in this business more than nature Was ever conduct of: some oracle Must rectify our knowledge. PROSPERO. Sir, my liege, Do not infest your mind with beating on The strangeness of this business. At pick’d leisure, Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you, Which to you shall seem probable, of every These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful And think of each thing well. [_Aside to Ariel._] Come hither, spirit; Set Caliban and his companions free; Untie the spell. [_Exit Ariel._] How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your company Some few odd lads that you remember not. Re-enter Ariel driving in Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo in their stolen apparel. STEPHANO. Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man take care for himself, for all is but fortune.—Coragio! bully-monster, coragio! TRINCULO. If these be true spies which I wear in my head, here’s a goodly sight. CALIBAN. O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed. How fine my master is! I am afraid He will chastise me. SEBASTIAN. Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy them? ANTONIO. Very like; one of them Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. PROSPERO. Mark but the badges of these men, my lords, Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave, His mother was a witch; and one so strong That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, And deal in her command without her power. These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil, For he’s a bastard one, had plotted with them To take my life. Two of these fellows you Must know and own; this thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine. CALIBAN. I shall be pinch’d to death. ALONSO. Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? SEBASTIAN. He is drunk now: where had he wine? ALONSO. And Trinculo is reeling-ripe: where should they Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? How cam’st thou in this pickle? TRINCULO. I have been in such a pickle since I saw you last that, I fear me, will never out of my bones. I shall not fear fly-blowing. SEBASTIAN. Why, how now, Stephano! STEPHANO. O! touch me not. I am not Stephano, but a cramp. PROSPERO. You’d be King o’ the isle, sirrah? STEPHANO. I should have been a sore one, then. ALONSO. This is as strange a thing as e’er I look’d on. [_Pointing to Caliban._] PROSPERO. He is as disproportioned in his manners As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell; Take with you your companions. As you look To have my pardon, trim it handsomely. CALIBAN. Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter, And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass Was I, to take this drunkard for a god, And worship this dull fool! PROSPERO. Go to; away! ALONSO. Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it. SEBASTIAN. Or stole it, rather. [_Exeunt Caliban, Stephano and Trinculo._] PROSPERO. Sir, I invite your Highness and your train To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it Go quick away: the story of my life And the particular accidents gone by Since I came to this isle: and in the morn I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples, Where I have hope to see the nuptial Of these our dear-belov’d solemnized; And thence retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave. ALONSO. I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely. PROSPERO. I’ll deliver all; And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales, And sail so expeditious that shall catch Your royal fleet far off. [_Aside to Ariel._] My Ariel, chick, That is thy charge: then to the elements Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near. [_Exeunt._] EPILOGUE PROSPERO. Now my charms are all o’erthrown, And what strength I have’s mine own, Which is most faint. Now ’tis true, I must be here confin’d by you, Or sent to Naples. Let me not, Since I have my dukedom got, And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell In this bare island by your spell, But release me from my bands With the help of your good hands. Gentle breath of yours my sails Must fill, or else my project fails, Which was to please. Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant; And my ending is despair, Unless I be reliev’d by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be, Let your indulgence set me free. [_Exit._] THE LIFE OF TIMON OF ATHENS Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house Scene II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house ACT II Scene I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house Scene II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house ACT III Scene I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house Scene II. A public place Scene III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house Scene IV. A hall in Timon’s house Scene V. The same. The senate house Scene VI. A room of state in Timon’s house ACT IV Scene I. Without the walls of Athens Scene II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house Scene III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore ACT V Scene I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave Scene III. The same Scene III. Before the walls of Athens Scene IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen Scene V. Before the walls of Athens Dramatis Personæ TIMON, a noble Athenian FLAVIUS, steward to Timon FLAMINIUS, servant to Timon LUCILIUS, servant to Timon SERVILIUS, servant to Timon APEMANTUS, a churlish philosopher ALCIBIADES, an Athenian captain PHRYNIA, mistress to Alcibiades TIMANDRA, mistress to Alcibiades LUCIUS, friend of Timon LUCULLUS, friend of Timon SEMPRONIUS, friend of Timon VENTIDIUS, friend of Timon CAPHIS, servant of Timon’s creditors SERVANT of Isidore Two SERVANTS of Varro TITUS, servant of Timon’s creditors HORTENSIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors LUCIUS, servant of Timon’s creditors PHILOTUS, servant of Timon’s creditors LORDS and SENATORS of Athens Three STRANGERS, one called HOSTILIUS An OLD ATHENIAN POET PAINTER JEWELLER MERCHANT A FOOL A PAGE CUPID and Amazons in the Masque BANDITTI Officers, Soldiers, Servants, Thieves, Messengers and Attendants SCENE. Athens, and the neighbouring woods ACT I SCENE I. Athens. A hall in Timon’s house Enter Poet, Painter, Jeweller and Merchant at several doors. POET. Good day, sir. PAINTER. I am glad you’re well. POET. I have not seen you long. How goes the world? PAINTER. It wears, sir, as it grows. POET. Ay, that’s well known. But what particular rarity? What strange, Which manifold record not matches? See, Magic of bounty, all these spirits thy power Hath conjured to attend! I know the merchant. PAINTER. I know them both. Th’ other’s a jeweller. MERCHANT. O, ’tis a worthy lord! JEWELLER. Nay, that’s most fixed. MERCHANT. A most incomparable man, breathed, as it were, To an untirable and continuate goodness. He passes. JEWELLER. I have a jewel here— MERCHANT. O, pray let’s see’t. For the Lord Timon, sir? JEWELLER. If he will touch the estimate. But for that— POET. When we for recompense have praised the vile, It stains the glory in that happy verse Which aptly sings the good. MERCHANT. [_Looking at the jewel_.] ’Tis a good form. JEWELLER. And rich. Here is a water, look ye. PAINTER. You are rapt, sir, in some work, some dedication To the great lord. POET. A thing slipped idly from me. Our poesy is as a gum which oozes From whence ’tis nourished. The fire i’ th’ flint Shows not till it be struck; our gentle flame Provokes itself and, like the current, flies Each bound it chases. What have you there? PAINTER. A picture, sir. When comes your book forth? POET. Upon the heels of my presentment, sir. Let’s see your piece. PAINTER. ’Tis a good piece. POET. So ’tis. This comes off well and excellent. PAINTER. Indifferent. POET. Admirable! How this grace Speaks his own standing! What a mental power This eye shoots forth! How big imagination Moves in this lip! To th’ dumbness of the gesture One might interpret. PAINTER. It is a pretty mocking of the life. Here is a touch. Is’t good? POET. I’ll say of it, It tutors nature. Artificial strife Lives in these touches livelier than life. Enter certain Senators, who pass over the stage. PAINTER. How this lord is followed! POET. The senators of Athens, happy men! PAINTER. Look, more! POET. You see this confluence, this great flood of visitors. I have in this rough work shaped out a man Whom this beneath world doth embrace and hug With amplest entertainment. My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax. No levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind. PAINTER. How shall I understand you? POET. I will unbolt to you. You see how all conditions, how all minds, As well of glib and slipp’ry creatures as Of grave and austere quality, tender down Their services to Lord Timon. His large fortune, Upon his good and gracious nature hanging, Subdues and properties to his love and tendance All sorts of hearts; yea, from the glass-faced flatterer To Apemantus, that few things loves better Than to abhor himself; even he drops down The knee before him and returns in peace Most rich in Timon’s nod. PAINTER. I saw them speak together. POET. Sir, I have upon a high and pleasant hill Feigned Fortune to be throned. The base o’ th’ mount Is ranked with all deserts, all kind of natures That labour on the bosom of this sphere To propagate their states. Amongst them all Whose eyes are on this sovereign lady fixed, One do I personate of Lord Timon’s frame, Whom Fortune with her ivory hand wafts to her, Whose present grace to present slaves and servants Translates his rivals. PAINTER. ’Tis conceived to scope. This throne, this Fortune, and this hill, methinks, With one man beckoned from the rest below, Bowing his head against the steepy mount To climb his happiness, would be well expressed In our condition. POET. Nay, sir, but hear me on. All those which were his fellows but of late, Some better than his value, on the moment Follow his strides, his lobbies fill with tendance, Rain sacrificial whisperings in his ear, Make sacred even his stirrup, and through him Drink the free air. PAINTER. Ay, marry, what of these? POET. When Fortune in her shift and change of mood Spurns down her late beloved, all his dependants, Which laboured after him to the mountain’s top Even on their knees and hands, let him slip down, Not one accompanying his declining foot. PAINTER. ’Tis common. A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune’s More pregnantly than words. Yet you do well To show Lord Timon that mean eyes have seen The foot above the head. Trumpets sound. Enter Lord Timon, addressing himself courteously to every suitor. He is accompanied by a Messenger; Lucilius and other servants follow. TIMON. Imprisoned is he, say you? MESSENGER. Ay, my good lord. Five talents is his debt, His means most short, his creditors most strait. Your honourable letter he desires To those have shut him up, which, failing, Periods his comfort. TIMON. Noble Ventidius. Well, I am not of that feather to shake off My friend when he must need me. I do know him A gentleman that well deserves a help, Which he shall have. I’ll pay the debt and free him. MESSENGER. Your lordship ever binds him. TIMON. Commend me to him, I will send his ransom; And, being enfranchised, bid him come to me. ’Tis not enough to help the feeble up, But to support him after. Fare you well. MESSENGER. All happiness to your honour. [_Exit._] Enter an Old Athenian. OLD ATHENIAN. Lord Timon, hear me speak. TIMON. Freely, good father. OLD ATHENIAN. Thou hast a servant named Lucilius. TIMON. I have so. What of him? OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble Timon, call the man before thee. TIMON. Attends he here or no? Lucilius! LUCILIUS. Here, at your lordship’s service. OLD ATHENIAN. This fellow here, Lord Timon, this thy creature, By night frequents my house. I am a man That from my first have been inclined to thrift, And my estate deserves an heir more raised Than one which holds a trencher. TIMON. Well, what further? OLD ATHENIAN. One only daughter have I, no kin else, On whom I may confer what I have got. The maid is fair, o’ th’ youngest for a bride, And I have bred her at my dearest cost In qualities of the best. This man of thine Attempts her love. I prithee, noble lord, Join with me to forbid him her resort; Myself have spoke in vain. TIMON. The man is honest. OLD ATHENIAN. Therefore he will be, Timon. His honesty rewards him in itself; It must not bear my daughter. TIMON. Does she love him? OLD ATHENIAN. She is young and apt. Our own precedent passions do instruct us What levity’s in youth. TIMON. [_To Lucilius_.] Love you the maid? LUCILIUS. Ay, my good lord, and she accepts of it. OLD ATHENIAN. If in her marriage my consent be missing, I call the gods to witness, I will choose Mine heir from forth the beggars of the world And dispossess her all. TIMON. How shall she be endowed, If she be mated with an equal husband? OLD ATHENIAN. Three talents on the present; in future, all. TIMON. This gentleman of mine hath served me long. To build his fortune I will strain a little, For ’tis a bond in men. Give him thy daughter. What you bestow, in him I’ll counterpoise, And make him weigh with her. OLD ATHENIAN. Most noble lord, Pawn me to this your honour, she is his. TIMON. My hand to thee; mine honour on my promise. LUCILIUS. Humbly I thank your lordship. Never may That state or fortune fall into my keeping Which is not owed to you. [_Exeunt Lucilius and Old Athenian._] POET. [_Presenting his poem_.] Vouchsafe my labour, and long live your lordship. TIMON. I thank you, you shall hear from me anon. Go not away.—What have you there, my friend? PAINTER. A piece of painting, which I do beseech Your lordship to accept. TIMON. Painting is welcome. The painting is almost the natural man, For since dishonour traffics with man’s nature, He is but outside; these pencilled figures are Even such as they give out. I like your work, And you shall find I like it. Wait attendance Till you hear further from me. PAINTER. The gods preserve you. TIMON. Well fare you, gentleman. Give me your hand. We must needs dine together. Sir, your jewel Hath suffered under praise. JEWELLER. What, my lord, dispraise? TIMON. A mere satiety of commendations. If I should pay you for ’t as ’tis extolled, It would unclew me quite. JEWELLER. My lord, ’tis rated As those which sell would give. But you well know Things of like value, differing in the owners, Are prized by their masters. Believe’t, dear lord, You mend the jewel by the wearing it. TIMON. Well mocked. MERCHANT. No, my good lord, he speaks the common tongue, Which all men speak with him. Enter Apemantus. TIMON. Look who comes here. Will you be chid? JEWELLER. We’ll bear, with your lordship. MERCHANT. He’ll spare none. TIMON. Good morrow to thee, gentle Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Till I be gentle, stay thou for thy good morrow— When thou art Timon’s dog, and these knaves honest. TIMON. Why dost thou call them knaves? Thou know’st them not. APEMANTUS. Are they not Athenians? TIMON. Yes. APEMANTUS. Then I repent not. JEWELLER. You know me, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Thou know’st I do, I called thee by thy name. TIMON. Thou art proud, Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Of nothing so much as that I am not like Timon. TIMON. Whither art going? APEMANTUS. To knock out an honest Athenian’s brains. TIMON. That’s a deed thou’lt die for. APEMANTUS. Right, if doing nothing be death by th’ law. TIMON. How lik’st thou this picture, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. The best, for the innocence. TIMON. Wrought he not well that painted it? APEMANTUS. He wrought better that made the painter, and yet he’s but a filthy piece of work. PAINTER. You’re a dog. APEMANTUS. Thy mother’s of my generation. What’s she, if I be a dog? TIMON. Wilt dine with me, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. No, I eat not lords. TIMON. An thou shouldst, thou’dst anger ladies. APEMANTUS. O, they eat lords. So they come by great bellies. TIMON. That’s a lascivious apprehension. APEMANTUS. So thou apprehend’st it, take it for thy labour. TIMON. How dost thou like this jewel, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Not so well as plain-dealing, which will not cost a man a doit. TIMON. What dost thou think ’tis worth? APEMANTUS. Not worth my thinking. How now, poet? POET. How now, philosopher? APEMANTUS. Thou liest. POET. Art not one? APEMANTUS. Yes. POET. Then I lie not. APEMANTUS. Art not a poet? POET. Yes. APEMANTUS. Then thou liest. Look in thy last work, where thou hast feigned him a worthy fellow. POET. That’s not feigned, he is so. APEMANTUS. Yes, he is worthy of thee, and to pay thee for thy labour. He that loves to be flattered is worthy o’ th’ flatterer. Heavens, that I were a lord! TIMON. What wouldst do then, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. E’en as Apemantus does now, hate a lord with my heart. TIMON. What, thyself? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Wherefore? APEMANTUS. That I had no angry wit to be a lord. Art not thou a merchant? MERCHANT. Ay, Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Traffic confound thee, if the gods will not. MERCHANT. If traffic do it, the gods do it. APEMANTUS. Traffic’s thy god, and thy god confound thee! Trumpet sounds. Enter a Messenger. TIMON. What trumpet’s that? MESSENGER. ’Tis Alcibiades, and some twenty horse, All of companionship. TIMON. Pray entertain them, give them guide to us. [_Exeunt some Attendants._] You must needs dine with me. Go not you hence Till I have thanked you; when dinner’s done, Show me this piece. I am joyful of your sights. Enter Alcibiades with his company. Most welcome, sir. [_They bow to each other._] APEMANTUS. [_Aside_.] So, so, there! Aches contract and starve your supple joints! That there should be small love amongst these sweet knaves, And all this courtesy! The strain of man’s bred out Into baboon and monkey. ALCIBIADES. Sir, you have saved my longing, and I feed Most hungerly on your sight. TIMON. Right welcome, sir! Ere we depart we’ll share a bounteous time In different pleasures. Pray you, let us in. [_Exeunt all but Apemantus._] Enter two Lords. FIRST LORD. What time o’ day is’t, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Time to be honest. FIRST LORD. That time serves still. APEMANTUS. The more accursed thou, that still omitt’st it. SECOND LORD. Thou art going to Lord Timon’s feast? APEMANTUS. Ay, to see meat fill knaves and wine heat fools. SECOND LORD. Fare thee well, fare thee well. APEMANTUS. Thou art a fool to bid me farewell twice. SECOND LORD. Why, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Shouldst have kept one to thyself, for I mean to give thee none. FIRST LORD. Hang thyself! APEMANTUS. No, I will do nothing at thy bidding. Make thy requests to thy friend. SECOND LORD. Away, unpeaceable dog, or I’ll spurn thee hence. APEMANTUS. I will fly, like a dog, the heels o’ th’ ass. [_Exit._] FIRST LORD. He’s opposite to humanity. Come, shall we in And taste Lord Timon’s bounty? He outgoes The very heart of kindness. SECOND LORD. He pours it out; Plutus, the god of gold, Is but his steward. No meed but he repays Sevenfold above itself, no gift to him But breeds the giver a return exceeding All use of quittance. FIRST LORD. The noblest mind he carries That ever governed man. SECOND LORD. Long may he live in fortunes. Shall we in? FIRST LORD. I’ll keep you company. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The Same. A room of state in Timon’s house Hautboys playing loud music. A great banquet served in, Flavius and others attending; and then enter Lord Timon, the Senators, the Athenian Lords, Alcibiades, and Ventidius, which Timon redeemded from prison. Then comes, dropping after all, Apemantus, discontentedly, like himself. VENTIDIUS. Most honoured Timon, It hath pleased the gods to remember my father’s age And call him to long peace. He is gone happy and has left me rich. Then, as in grateful virtue I am bound To your free heart, I do return those talents, Doubled with thanks and service, from whose help I derived liberty. TIMON. O, by no means, Honest Ventidius. You mistake my love. I gave it freely ever, and there’s none Can truly say he gives if he receives. If our betters play at that game, we must not dare To imitate them; faults that are rich are fair. VENTIDIUS. A noble spirit! TIMON. Nay, my lords, ceremony was but devised at first To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere ’tis shown; But where there is true friendship there needs none. Pray, sit, more welcome are ye to my fortunes Than my fortunes to me. [_They sit._] FIRST LORD. My lord, we always have confessed it. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho, confessed it? Hanged it, have you not? TIMON. O Apemantus, you are welcome. APEMANTUS. No, You shall not make me welcome. I come to have thee thrust me out of doors. TIMON. Fie, thou’rt a churl, ye’ve got a humour there Does not become a man; ’tis much to blame. They say, my lords, _ira furor brevis est_, But yond man is ever angry. Go, let him have a table by himself, For he does neither affect company, Nor is he fit for it indeed. APEMANTUS. Let me stay at thine apperil, Timon. I come to observe; I give thee warning on’t. TIMON. I take no heed of thee. Thou’rt an Athenian, therefore, welcome. I myself would have no power; prithee; let my meat make thee silent. APEMANTUS. I scorn thy meat, ’twould choke me, for I should ne’er flatter thee. O you gods, what a number of men eats Timon, and he sees ’em not! It grieves me to see so many dip their meat in one man’s blood; and all the madness is, he cheers them up too. I wonder men dare trust themselves with men. Methinks they should invite them without knives. Good for their meat, and safer for their lives. There’s much example for ’t. The fellow that sits next him, now parts bread with him, pledges the breath of him in a divided draft, is the readiest man to kill him. ’T has been proved. If I were a huge man, I should fear to drink at meals, Lest they should spy my wind-pipe’s dangerous notes. Great men should drink with harness on their throats. TIMON. My lord, in heart, and let the health go round. SECOND LORD. Let it flow this way, my good lord. APEMANTUS. Flow this way? A brave fellow! He keeps his tides well. Those healths will make thee and thy state look ill, Timon. Here’s that which is too weak to be a sinner, Honest water, which ne’er left man i’ the mire. This and my food are equals, there’s no odds. Feasts are too proud to give thanks to the gods. _Apemantus’ grace_ Immortal gods, I crave no pelf, I pray for no man but myself. Grant I may never prove so fond To trust man on his oath or bond, Or a harlot for her weeping, Or a dog that seems a-sleeping, Or a keeper with my freedom, Or my friends if I should need ’em. Amen. So fall to’t. Rich men sin, and I eat root. [_He eats and drinks._] Much good dich thy good heart, Apemantus! TIMON. Captain Alcibiades, your heart’s in the field now. ALCIBIADES. My heart is ever at your service, my lord. TIMON. You had rather be at a breakfast of enemies than a dinner of friends. ALCIBIADES. So they were bleeding new, my lord, there’s no meat like ’em. I could wish my best friend at such a feast. APEMANTUS. Would all those flatterers were thine enemies then, that then thou mightst kill ’em, and bid me to ’em. FIRST LORD. Might we but have that happiness, my lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby we might express some part of our zeals, we should think ourselves for ever perfect. TIMON. O, no doubt, my good friends, but the gods themselves have provided that I shall have much help from you. How had you been my friends else? Why have you that charitable title from thousands, did not you chiefly belong to my heart? I have told more of you to myself than you can with modesty speak in your own behalf. And thus far I confirm you. O you gods, think I, what need we have any friends if we should ne’er have need of ’em? They were the most needless creatures living, should we ne’er have use for ’em, and would most resemble sweet instruments hung up in cases, that keep their sounds to themselves. Why, I have often wished myself poorer that I might come nearer to you. We are born to do benefits, and what better or properer can we call our own than the riches of our friends? O, what a precious comfort ’tis to have so many, like brothers, commanding one another’s fortunes. O joy’s e’en made away ere’t can be born! Mine eyes cannot hold out water, methinks. To forget their faults, I drink to you. APEMANTUS. Thou weep’st to make them drink, Timon. SECOND LORD. Joy had the like conception in our eyes And, at that instant like a babe sprung up. APEMANTUS. Ho, ho! I laugh to think that babe a bastard. THIRD LORD. I promise you, my lord, you moved me much. APEMANTUS. Much! [_A tucket sounds._] TIMON. What means that trump? Enter a Servant. How now? SERVANT. Please you, my lord, there are certain ladies most desirous of admittance. TIMON. Ladies? What are their wills? SERVANT. There comes with them a forerunner, my lord, which bears that office, to signify their pleasures. TIMON. I pray, let them be admitted. [_Exit Servant._] Enter Cupid. CUPID. Hail to thee, worthy Timon, and to all That of his bounties taste! The five best senses Acknowledge thee their patron and come freely To gratulate thy plenteous bosom. There Taste, touch, all, pleased from thy table rise; They only now come but to feast thine eyes. TIMON. They’re welcome all, let ’em have kind admittance. Music, make their welcome! FIRST LORD. You see, my lord, how ample you’re beloved. Music. Enter a masque of Ladies as Amazons, with lutes in their hands, dancing and playing. APEMANTUS. Hoy-day! What a sweep of vanity comes this way. They dance? They are madwomen. Like madness is the glory of this life, As this pomp shows to a little oil and root. We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves, And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy. Who lives that’s not depraved or depraves? Who dies that bears not one spurn to their graves Of their friend’s gift? I should fear those that dance before me now Would one day stamp upon me. ’T has been done. Men shut their doors against a setting sun. [_The Lords rise from table, with much adoring of Timon, and to show their loves each singles out an Amazon, and all dance, men with women, a lofty strain or two to the hautboys, and cease._] TIMON. You have done our pleasures much grace, fair ladies, Set a fair fashion on our entertainment, Which was not half so beautiful and kind. You have added worth unto ’t and lustre, And entertained me with mine own device. I am to thank you for ’t. FIRST LADY. My lord, you take us even at the best. APEMANTUS. Faith, for the worst is filthy and would not hold taking, I doubt me. TIMON. Ladies, there is an idle banquet attends you, Please you to dispose yourselves. ALL LADIES. Most thankfully, my lord. [_Exeunt Cupid and Ladies._] TIMON. Flavius! FLAVIUS. My lord? TIMON. The little casket bring me hither. FLAVIUS. Yes, my lord. [_Aside_.] More jewels yet? There is no crossing him in ’s humour; Else I should tell him well, i’ faith, I should, When all’s spent, he’d be crossed then, an he could. ’Tis pity bounty had not eyes behind, That man might ne’er be wretched for his mind. [_Exit._] FIRST LORD. Where be our men? SERVANT. Here, my lord, in readiness. SECOND LORD. Our horses! Enter Flavius with the casket. TIMON. O, my friends, I have one word To say to you. Look you, my good lord, I must entreat you, honour me so much As to advance this jewel. Accept it and wear it, Kind my lord. FIRST LORD. I am so far already in your gifts— ALL. So are we all. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. My lord, there are certain nobles of the Senate Newly alighted and come to visit you. TIMON. They are fairly welcome. [_Exit Servant._] FLAVIUS. I beseech your honour, Vouchsafe me a word. It does concern you near. TIMON. Near? Why then, another time I’ll hear thee. I prithee let’s be provided to show them entertainment. FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] I scarce know how. Enter another Servant. SECOND SERVANT. May it please your honour, Lord Lucius, Out of his free love, hath presented to you Four milk-white horses, trapped in silver. TIMON. I shall accept them fairly; let the presents Be worthily entertained. [_Exit Servant._] Enter a third Servant. How now? What news? THIRD SERVANT. Please you, my lord, that honourable gentleman, Lord Lucullus, entreats your company tomorrow to hunt with him and has sent your honour two brace of greyhounds. TIMON. I’ll hunt with him; and let them be received, Not without fair reward. [_Exit Servant._] FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] What will this come to? He commands us to provide, and give great gifts, And all out of an empty coffer; Nor will he know his purse or yield me this: To show him what a beggar his heart is, Being of no power to make his wishes good. His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word. He is so kind that he now Pays interest for ’t; his land’s put to their books. Well, would I were gently put out of office Before I were forced out. Happier is he that has no friend to feed Than such that do e’en enemies exceed. I bleed inwardly for my lord. [_Exit._] TIMON. You do yourselves much wrong, You bate too much of your own merits. Here, my lord, a trifle of our love. SECOND LORD. With more than common thanks I will receive it. THIRD LORD. O, he’s the very soul of bounty! TIMON. And now I remember, my lord, you gave good words the other day of a bay courser I rode on. ’Tis yours because you liked it. THIRD LORD. O, I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, in that. TIMON. You may take my word, my lord. I know no man Can justly praise but what he does affect. I weigh my friend’s affection with mine own. I’ll tell you true, I’ll call to you. ALL LORDS. O, none so welcome! TIMON. I take all and your several visitations So kind to heart, ’tis not enough to give; Methinks I could deal kingdoms to my friends, And ne’er be weary. Alcibiades, Thou art a soldier, therefore seldom rich. It comes in charity to thee, for all thy living Is ’mongst the dead, and all the lands thou hast Lie in a pitched field. ALCIBIADES. Ay, defiled land, my lord. FIRST LORD. We are so virtuously bound— TIMON. And so am I to you. SECOND LORD. So infinitely endeared— TIMON. All to you. Lights, more lights! FIRST LORD. The best of happiness, honour, and fortunes keep with you, Lord Timon. TIMON. Ready for his friends. [_Exeunt all but Apemantus and Timon._] APEMANTUS. What a coil’s here! Serving of becks and jutting out of bums! I doubt whether their legs be worth the sums That are given for ’em. Friendship’s full of dregs. Methinks false hearts should never have sound legs. Thus honest fools lay out their wealth on curtsies. TIMON. Now, Apemantus, if thou wert not sullen, I would be good to thee. APEMANTUS. No, I’ll nothing, for if I should be bribed too, there would be none left to rail upon thee, and then thou wouldst sin the faster. Thou giv’st so long, Timon, I fear me thou wilt give away thyself in paper shortly. What needs these feasts, pomps, and vainglories? TIMON. Nay, an you begin to rail on society once, I am sworn not to give regard to you. Farewell, and come with better music. [_Exit._] APEMANTUS. So. Thou wilt not hear me now, thou shalt not then. I’ll lock thy heaven from thee. O, that men’s ears should be To counsel deaf, but not to flattery! [_Exit._] ACT II SCENE I. Athens. A room in a senator’s house Enter a Senator with papers. SENATOR. And late five thousand. To Varro and to Isidore He owes nine thousand, besides my former sum, Which makes it five-and-twenty. Still in motion Of raging waste! It cannot hold; it will not. If I want gold, steal but a beggar’s dog And give it Timon, why, the dog coins gold. If I would sell my horse, and buy twenty more Better than he, why, give my horse to Timon— Ask nothing, give it him—it foals me straight, And able horses. No porter at his gate, But rather one that smiles and still invites All that pass by. It cannot hold; no reason Can sound his state in safety. Caphis, ho! Caphis, I say! Enter Caphis. CAPHIS. Here, sir, what is your pleasure? SENATOR. Get on your cloak and haste you to Lord Timon. Importune him for my moneys; be not ceased With slight denial, nor then silenced when “Commend me to your master”, and the cap Plays in the right hand, thus; but tell him, My uses cry to me, I must serve my turn Out of mine own, his days and times are past, And my reliances on his fracted dates Have smit my credit. I love and honour him, But must not break my back to heal his finger. Immediate are my needs, and my relief Must not be tossed and turned to me in words, But find supply immediate. Get you gone. Put on a most importunate aspect, A visage of demand, for I do fear When every feather sticks in his own wing, Lord Timon will be left a naked gull, Which flashes now a phoenix. Get you gone. CAPHIS. I go, sir. SENATOR. Take the bonds along with you, And have the dates in. Come. CAPHIS. I will, sir. SENATOR. Go. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A hall in Timon’s house Enter Flavius with many bills in his hand. FLAVIUS. No care, no stop, so senseless of expense, That he will neither know how to maintain it Nor cease his flow of riot. Takes no account How things go from him, nor resumes no care Of what is to continue. Never mind Was to be so unwise, to be so kind. What shall be done? He will not hear till feel. I must be round with him, now he comes from hunting. Fie, fie, fie, fie! Enter Caphis and the Servants of Isidore and Varro. CAPHIS. Good even, Varro. What, you come for money? VARRO’S SERVANT. Is’t not your business too? CAPHIS. It is. And yours too, Isidore? ISIDORE’S SERVANT. It is so. CAPHIS. Would we were all discharged! VARRO’S SERVANT. I fear it. CAPHIS. Here comes the lord. Enter Timon and his train with Alcibiades TIMON. So soon as dinner’s done, we’ll forth again, My Alcibiades. With me? What is your will? CAPHIS. My lord, here is a note of certain dues. TIMON. Dues? Whence are you? CAPHIS. Of Athens here, my lord. TIMON. Go to my steward. CAPHIS. Please it your lordship, he hath put me off To the succession of new days this month. My master is awaked by great occasion To call upon his own and humbly prays you That with your other noble parts you’ll suit In giving him his right. TIMON. Mine honest friend, I prithee but repair to me next morning. CAPHIS. Nay, good my lord— TIMON. Contain thyself, good friend. VARRO’S SERVANT. One Varro’s servant, my good lord— ISIDORE’S SERVANT. From Isidore. He humbly prays your speedy payment. CAPHIS. If you did know, my lord, my master’s wants— VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Twas due on forfeiture, my lord, six weeks and past. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. Your steward puts me off, my lord, and I Am sent expressly to your lordship. TIMON. Give me breath. I do beseech you, good my lords, keep on, I’ll wait upon you instantly. [_Exeunt Alcibiades and Timon’s train._] [_To Flavius_.] Come hither. Pray you, How goes the world, that I am thus encountered With clamorous demands of debt, broken bonds, And the detention of long-since-due debts Against my honour? FLAVIUS. Please you, gentlemen, The time is unagreeable to this business. Your importunacy cease till after dinner, That I may make his lordship understand Wherefore you are not paid. TIMON. Do so, my friends. See them well entertained. [_Exit._] FLAVIUS. Pray, draw near. [_Exit._] Enter Apemantus and Fool. CAPHIS. Stay, stay, here comes the fool with Apemantus. Let’s ha’ some sport with ’em. VARRO’S SERVANT. Hang him, he’ll abuse us. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. A plague upon him, dog! VARRO’S SERVANT. How dost, fool? APEMANTUS. Dost dialogue with thy shadow? VARRO’S SERVANT. I speak not to thee. APEMANTUS. No, ’tis to thyself. [_To the Fool_.] Come away. ISIDORE’S SERVANT. [_To Varro’s servant_.] There’s the fool hangs on your back already. APEMANTUS. No, thou stand’st single; thou’rt not on him yet. CAPHIS. Where’s the fool now? APEMANTUS. He last asked the question. Poor rogues and usurers’ men, bawds between gold and want. ALL SERVANTS. What are we, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Asses. ALL SERVANTS. Why? APEMANTUS. That you ask me what you are, and do not know yourselves. Speak to ’em, fool. FOOL. How do you, gentlemen? ALL SERVANTS. Gramercies, good fool. How does your mistress? FOOL. She’s e’en setting on water to scald such chickens as you are. Would we could see you at Corinth! APEMANTUS. Good, gramercy. Enter Page. FOOL. Look you, here comes my mistress’ page. PAGE. [_To the Fool_.] Why, how now, captain? What do you in this wise company? How dost thou, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Would I had a rod in my mouth, that I might answer thee profitably. PAGE. Prithee, Apemantus, read me the superscription of these letters. I know not which is which. APEMANTUS. Canst not read? PAGE. No. APEMANTUS. There will little learning die, then, that day thou art hanged. This is to Lord Timon, this to Alcibiades. Go, thou wast born a bastard, and thou’lt die a bawd. PAGE. Thou wast whelped a dog, and thou shalt famish a dog’s death. Answer not; I am gone. [_Exit Page._] APEMANTUS. E’en so thou outrunn’st grace. Fool, I will go with you to Lord Timon’s. FOOL. Will you leave me there? APEMANTUS. If Timon stay at home.—You three serve three usurers? ALL SERVANTS. Ay, would they served us! APEMANTUS. So would I—as good a trick as ever hangman served thief. FOOL. Are you three usurers’ men? ALL SERVANTS. Ay, fool. FOOL. I think no usurer but has a fool to his servant. My mistress is one, and I am her fool. When men come to borrow of your masters, they approach sadly and go away merry, but they enter my mistress’s house merrily and go away sadly. The reason of this? VARRO’S SERVANT. I could render one. APEMANTUS. Do it then, that we may account thee a whoremaster and a knave, which notwithstanding, thou shalt be no less esteemed. VARRO’S SERVANT. What is a whoremaster, fool? FOOL. A fool in good clothes, and something like thee. ’Tis a spirit; sometime ’t appears like a lord, sometime like a lawyer, sometime like a philosopher, with two stones more than’s artificial one. He is very often like a knight; and generally, in all shapes that man goes up and down in from fourscore to thirteen, this spirit walks in. VARRO’S SERVANT. Thou art not altogether a fool. FOOL. Nor thou altogether a wise man. As much foolery as I have, so much wit thou lack’st. APEMANTUS. That answer might have become Apemantus. VARRO’S SERVANT. Aside, aside, here comes Lord Timon. Enter Timon and Flavius. APEMANTUS. Come with me, fool, come. FOOL. I do not always follow lover, elder brother, and woman; sometime the philosopher. [_Exeunt Apemantus and Fool._] FLAVIUS. Pray you walk near. I’ll speak with you anon. [_Exeunt Servants._] TIMON. You make me marvel wherefore ere this time Had you not fully laid my state before me, That I might so have rated my expense As I had leave of means. FLAVIUS. You would not hear me, At many leisures I proposed. TIMON. Go to. Perchance some single vantages you took When my indisposition put you back, And that unaptness made your minister Thus to excuse yourself. FLAVIUS. O my good lord, At many times I brought in my accounts, Laid them before you; you would throw them off And say you found them in mine honesty. When for some trifling present you have bid me Return so much, I have shook my head and wept, Yea, ’gainst th’ authority of manners, prayed you To hold your hand more close. I did endure Not seldom nor no slight checks, when I have Prompted you in the ebb of your estate And your great flow of debts. My loved lord, Though you hear now, too late, yet now’s a time. The greatest of your having lacks a half To pay your present debts. TIMON. Let all my land be sold. FLAVIUS. ’Tis all engaged, some forfeited and gone, And what remains will hardly stop the mouth Of present dues; the future comes apace. What shall defend the interim? And at length How goes our reckoning? TIMON. To Lacedaemon did my land extend. FLAVIUS. O my good lord, the world is but a word; Were it all yours to give it in a breath, How quickly were it gone! TIMON. You tell me true. FLAVIUS. If you suspect my husbandry or falsehood, Call me before th’ exactest auditors And set me on the proof. So the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppressed With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow. TIMON. Prithee, no more. FLAVIUS. Heavens, have I said, the bounty of this lord! How many prodigal bits have slaves and peasants This night englutted? Who is not Timon’s? What heart, head, sword, force, means, but is Lord Timon’s? Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon! Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made. Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couched. TIMON. Come, sermon me no further. No villainous bounty yet hath passed my heart; Unwisely, not ignobly, have I given. Why dost thou weep? Canst thou the conscience lack To think I shall lack friends? Secure thy heart. If I would broach the vessels of my love And try the argument of hearts by borrowing, Men and men’s fortunes could I frankly use As I can bid thee speak. FLAVIUS. Assurance bless your thoughts! TIMON. And in some sort these wants of mine are crowned, That I account them blessings. For by these Shall I try friends. You shall perceive how you Mistake my fortunes. I am wealthy in my friends. Within there! Flaminius! Servilius! Enter Flaminius, Servilius and a third Servant. SERVANTS. My lord, my lord. TIMON. I will dispatch you severally. [_To Servilius_.] You to Lord Lucius; [_To Flaminius_.] to Lord Lucullus you, I hunted with his honour today; [_To the third Servant_.] you to Sempronius. Commend me to their loves; and I am proud, say, that my occasions have found time to use ’em toward a supply of money. Let the request be fifty talents. FLAMINIUS. As you have said, my lord. [_Exeunt Servants._] FLAVIUS. [_Aside_.] Lord Lucius and Lucullus? Humh! TIMON. Go you, sir, to the senators, Of whom, even to the state’s best health, I have Deserved this hearing, Bid ’em send o’ th’ instant A thousand talents to me. FLAVIUS. I have been bold— For that I knew it the most general way— To them to use your signet and your name, But they do shake their heads, and I am here No richer in return. TIMON. Is’t true? Can’t be? FLAVIUS. They answer in a joint and corporate voice That now they are at fall, want treasure, cannot Do what they would, are sorry. You are honourable, But yet they could have wished—they know not— Something hath been amiss—a noble nature May catch a wrench—would all were well—’tis pity. And so, intending other serious matters, After distasteful looks and these hard fractions, With certain half-caps and cold-moving nods They froze me into silence. TIMON. You gods, reward them! Prithee, man, look cheerly. These old fellows Have their ingratitude in them hereditary. Their blood is caked, ’tis cold, it seldom flows; ’Tis lack of kindly warmth they are not kind; And nature, as it grows again toward earth, Is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy. Go to Ventidius. Prithee, be not sad, Thou art true and honest, ingenuously I speak, No blame belongs to thee. Ventidius lately Buried his father, by whose death he’s stepped Into a great estate. When he was poor, Imprisoned and in scarcity of friends, I cleared him with five talents. Greet him from me, Bid him suppose some good necessity Touches his friend, which craves to be remembered With those five talents. That had, give’t these fellows To whom ’tis instant due. Ne’er speak, or think That Timon’s fortunes ’mong his friends can sink. [_Exit._] FLAVIUS. I would I could not think it. That thought is bounty’s foe; Being free itself, it thinks all others so. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. Athens. A room in Lucullus’ house Flaminius waiting to speak with Lucullus from his master. Enter a Servant to him. SERVANT. I have told my lord of you; he is coming down to you. FLAMINIUS. I thank you, sir. Enter Lucullus. SERVANT. Here’s my lord. LUCULLUS. [_Aside_.] One of Lord Timon’s men? A gift, I warrant. Why, this hits right. I dreamt of a silver basin and ewer tonight.—Flaminius, honest Flaminius, you are very respectively welcome, sir. Fill me some wine. [_Exit Servant._] And how does that honourable, complete, free-hearted gentleman of Athens, thy very bountiful good lord and master? FLAMINIUS. His health is well, sir. LUCULLUS. I am right glad that his health is well, sir. And what hast thou there under thy cloak, pretty Flaminius? FLAMINIUS. Faith, nothing but an empty box, sir, which in my lord’s behalf I come to entreat your honour to supply; who, having great and instant occasion to use fifty talents, hath sent to your lordship to furnish him, nothing doubting your present assistance therein. LUCULLUS. La, la, la, la! Nothing doubting, says he? Alas, good lord! A noble gentleman ’tis, if he would not keep so good a house. Many a time and often I ha’ dined with him, and told him on’t, and come again to supper to him of purpose to have him spend less, and yet he would embrace no counsel, take no warning by my coming. Every man has his fault, and honesty is his. I ha’ told him on’t, but I could ne’er get him from ’t. Enter Servant with wine. SERVANT. Please your lordship, here is the wine. LUCULLUS. Flaminius, I have noted thee always wise. Here’s to thee. FLAMINIUS. Your lordship speaks your pleasure. LUCULLUS. I have observed thee always for a towardly prompt spirit, give thee thy due, and one that knows what belongs to reason, and canst use the time well, if the time use thee well. Good parts in thee. [_To Servant_.] Get you gone, sirrah.— [_Exit Servant._] Draw nearer, honest Flaminius. Thy lord’s a bountiful gentleman, but thou art wise and thou know’st well enough, although thou com’st to me, that this is no time to lend money, especially upon bare friendship without security. Here’s three solidares for thee. Good boy, wink at me, and say thou saw’st me not. Fare thee well. FLAMINIUS. Is’t possible the world should so much differ, And we alive that lived? Fly, damned baseness, To him that worships thee. [_Throws the money back._] LUCULLUS. Ha! Now I see thou art a fool and fit for thy master. [_Exit._] FLAMINIUS. May these add to the number that may scald thee! Let molten coin be thy damnation, Thou disease of a friend, and not himself! Has friendship such a faint and milky heart It turns in less than two nights? O you gods, I feel my master’s passion. This slave Unto his honour has my lord’s meat in him. Why should it thrive and turn to nutriment When he is turned to poison? O, may diseases only work upon’t, And when he’s sick to death, let not that part of nature Which my lord paid for be of any power To expel sickness, but prolong his hour. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A public place Enter Lucius with three Strangers. LUCIUS. Who, the Lord Timon? He is my very good friend and an honourable gentleman. FIRST STRANGER. We know him for no less, though we are but strangers to him. But I can tell you one thing, my lord, and which I hear from common rumours: now Lord Timon’s happy hours are done and past, and his estate shrinks from him. LUCIUS. Fie, no, do not believe it; he cannot want for money. SECOND STRANGER. But believe you this, my lord, that, not long ago one of his men was with the Lord Lucullus to borrow so many talents, nay, urged extremely for’t, and showed what necessity belonged to’t, and yet was denied. LUCIUS. How? SECOND STRANGER. I tell you, denied, my lord. LUCIUS. What a strange case was that! Now, before the gods, I am ashamed on’t. Denied that honourable man? There was very little honour showed in’t. For my own part, I must needs confess, I have received some small kindnesses from him, as money, plate, jewels, and such like trifles, nothing comparing to his; yet had he mistook him, and sent to me, I should ne’er have denied his occasion so many talents. Enter Servilius. SERVILIUS. See, by good hap, yonder’s my lord; I have sweat to see his honour. [_To Lucius_.] My honoured lord! LUCIUS. Servilius? You are kindly met, sir. Fare thee well. Commend me to thy honourable virtuous lord, my very exquisite friend. SERVILIUS. May it please your honour, my lord hath sent— LUCIUS. Ha! What has he sent? I am so much endeared to that lord; he’s ever sending. How shall I thank him, thinkest thou? And what has he sent now? SERVILIUS. Has only sent his present occasion now, my lord, requesting your lordship to supply his instant use with so many talents. LUCIUS. I know his lordship is but merry with me; He cannot want fifty-five hundred talents. SERVILIUS. But in the meantime he wants less, my lord. If his occasion were not virtuous, I should not urge it half so faithfully. LUCIUS. Dost thou speak seriously, Servilius? SERVILIUS. Upon my soul, ’tis true, sir. LUCIUS. What a wicked beast was I to disfurnish myself against such a good time, when I might ha’ shown myself honourable! How unluckily it happened that I should purchase the day before for a little part, and undo a great deal of honour! Servilius, now before the gods, I am not able to do—the more beast, I say—I was sending to use Lord Timon myself, these gentlemen can witness; but I would not for the wealth of Athens I had done it now. Commend me bountifully to his good lordship, and I hope his honour will conceive the fairest of me, because I have no power to be kind. And tell him this from me: I count it one of my greatest afflictions, say, that I cannot pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Good Servilius, will you befriend me so far as to use mine own words to him? SERVILIUS. Yes, sir, I shall. LUCIUS. I’ll look you out a good turn, Servilius. [_Exit Servilius._] True, as you said, Timon is shrunk indeed, And he that’s once denied will hardly speed. [_Exit._] FIRST STRANGER. Do you observe this, Hostilius? SECOND STRANGER. Ay, too well. FIRST STRANGER. Why, this is the world’s soul, and just of the same piece Is every flatterer’s spirit. Who can call him his friend That dips in the same dish? For, in my knowing, Timon has been this lord’s father And kept his credit with his purse, Supported his estate, nay, Timon’s money Has paid his men their wages. He ne’er drinks But Timon’s silver treads upon his lip, And yet—O, see the monstrousness of man When he looks out in an ungrateful shape— He does deny him, in respect of his, What charitable men afford to beggars. THIRD STRANGER. Religion groans at it. FIRST STRANGER. For mine own part, I never tasted Timon in my life, Nor came any of his bounties over me To mark me for his friend. Yet I protest, For his right noble mind, illustrious virtue, And honourable carriage, Had his necessity made use of me, I would have put my wealth into donation, And the best half should have returned to him, So much I love his heart. But I perceive Men must learn now with pity to dispense, For policy sits above conscience. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A room in Sempronius’ house Enter a Third Servant of Timon’s with Sempronius, another of Timon’s friends. SEMPRONIUS. Must he needs trouble me in’t? Hum! ’Bove all others? He might have tried Lord Lucius or Lucullus; And now Ventidius is wealthy too, Whom he redeemed from prison. All these Owe their estates unto him. SERVANT. My lord, They have all been touched and found base metal, For they have all denied him. SEMPRONIUS. How? Have they denied him? Has Ventidius and Lucullus denied him And does he send to me? Three? Humh! It shows but little love or judgment in him. Must I be his last refuge? His friends, like physicians, Thrive, give him over. Must I take th’ cure upon me? Has much disgraced me in’t. I’m angry at him, That might have known my place. I see no sense for’t But his occasions might have wooed me first; For, in my conscience, I was the first man That e’er received gift from him. And does he think so backwardly of me now That I’ll requite it last? No. So it may prove an argument of laughter To th’ rest, and I ’mongst lords be thought a fool. I’d rather than the worth of thrice the sum Had sent to me first, but for my mind’s sake; I’d such a courage to do him good. But now return, And with their faint reply this answer join: Who bates mine honour shall not know my coin. [_Exit._] SERVANT. Excellent! Your lordship’s a goodly villain. The devil knew not what he did when he made man politic; he crossed himself by’t, and I cannot think but, in the end the villainies of man will set him clear. How fairly this lord strives to appear foul! Takes virtuous copies to be wicked, like those that under hot ardent zeal would set whole realms on fire. Of such a nature is his politic love. This was my lord’s best hope, now all are fled Save only the gods. Now his friends are dead, Doors that were ne’er acquainted with their wards Many a bounteous year must be employed Now to guard sure their master. And this is all a liberal course allows, Who cannot keep his wealth must keep his house. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. A hall in Timon’s house Enter two of Varro’s Servants meeting Titus and Hortensius and then Lucius, all Servants of Timon’s creditors, to wait for his coming out. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Well met, good morrow, Titus and Hortensius. TITUS. The like to you, kind Varro. HORTENSIUS. Lucius! What, do we meet together? LUCIUS. Ay, and I think One business does command us all; For mine is money. TITUS. So is theirs and ours. Enter Philotus. LUCIUS. And, sir, Philotus too! PHILOTUS. Good day at once. LUCIUS. Welcome, good brother. What do you think the hour? PHILOTUS. Labouring for nine. LUCIUS. So much? PHILOTUS. Is not my lord seen yet? LUCIUS. Not yet. PHILOTUS. I wonder on’t, he was wont to shine at seven. LUCIUS. Ay, but the days are waxed shorter with him. You must consider that a prodigal course Is like the sun’s, but not like his recoverable. I fear ’tis deepest winter in Lord Timon’s purse: That is, one may reach deep enough, and yet Find little. PHILOTUS. I am of your fear for that. TITUS. I’ll show you how t’ observe a strange event. Your lord sends now for money? HORTENSIUS. Most true, he does. TITUS. And he wears jewels now of Timon’s gift, For which I wait for money. HORTENSIUS. It is against my heart. LUCIUS. Mark how strange it shows, Timon in this should pay more than he owes, And e’en as if your lord should wear rich jewels And send for money for ’em. HORTENSIUS. I’m weary of this charge, the gods can witness. I know my lord hath spent of Timon’s wealth, And now ingratitude makes it worse than stealth. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. Yes, mine’s three thousand crowns. What’s yours? LUCIUS. Five thousand mine. FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. ’Tis much deep, and it should seem by th’ sum Your master’s confidence was above mine, Else surely his had equalled. Enter Flaminius. TITUS. One of Lord Timon’s men. LUCIUS. Flaminius? Sir, a word. Pray, is my lord ready to come forth? FLAMINIUS. No, indeed he is not. TITUS. We attend his lordship; pray, signify so much. FLAMINIUS. I need not tell him that, he knows you are too diligent. [_Exit Flaminius._] Enter Flavius in a cloak, muffled. LUCIUS. Ha, is not that his steward muffled so? He goes away in a cloud. Call him, call him. TITUS. Do you hear, sir? SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. By your leave, sir. FLAVIUS. What do you ask of me, my friend? TITUS. We wait for certain money here, sir. FLAVIUS. Ay, If money were as certain as your waiting, ’Twere sure enough. Why then preferred you not your sums and bills When your false masters eat of my lord’s meat? Then they could smile and fawn upon his debts, And take down th’ interest into their gluttonous maws. You do yourselves but wrong to stir me up, Let me pass quietly. Believe’t, my lord and I have made an end, I have no more to reckon, he to spend. LUCIUS. Ay, but this answer will not serve. FLAVIUS. If ’twill not serve, ’tis not so base as you, For you serve knaves. [_Exit._] FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. How? What does his cashiered worship mutter? SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. No matter what, he’s poor, and that’s revenge enough. Who can speak broader than he that has no house to put his head in? Such may rail against great buildings. Enter Servilius. TITUS. O, here’s Servilius; now we shall know some answer. SERVILIUS. If I might beseech you, gentlemen, to repair some other hour, I should derive much from’t. For take’t of my soul, my lord leans wondrously to discontent. His comfortable temper has forsook him, he’s much out of health and keeps his chamber. LUCIUS. Many do keep their chambers are not sick. And if it be so far beyond his health, Methinks he should the sooner pay his debts And make a clear way to the gods. SERVILIUS. Good gods! TITUS. We cannot take this for answer, sir. FLAMINIUS. [_Within_.] Servilius, help! My lord, my lord! Enter Timon in a rage. TIMON. What, are my doors opposed against my passage? Have I been ever free, and must my house Be my retentive enemy, my jail? The place which I have feasted, does it now, Like all mankind, show me an iron heart? LUCIUS. Put in now, Titus. TITUS. My lord, here is my bill. LUCIUS. Here’s mine. HORTENSIUS. And mine, my lord. BOTH VARRO’S SERVANTS. And ours, my lord. PHILOTUS. All our bills. TIMON. Knock me down with ’em! Cleave me to the girdle. LUCIUS. Alas, my lord— TIMON. Cut my heart in sums! TITUS. Mine, fifty talents. TIMON. Tell out my blood. LUCIUS. Five thousand crowns, my lord. TIMON. Five thousand drops pays that. What yours, and yours? FIRST VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord— SECOND VARRO’S SERVANT. My lord— TIMON. Tear me, take me, and the gods fall upon you! [_Exit._] HORTENSIUS. Faith, I perceive our masters may throw their caps at their money. These debts may well be called desperate ones, for a madman owes ’em. [_Exeunt._] Enter Timon and Flavius. TIMON. They have e’en put my breath from me, the slaves. Creditors? Devils! FLAVIUS. My dear lord— TIMON. What if it should be so? FLAVIUS. My lord— TIMON. I’ll have it so.—My steward! FLAVIUS. Here, my lord. TIMON. So fitly? Go, bid all my friends again, Lucius, Lucullus, and Sempronius, all. I’ll once more feast the rascals. FLAVIUS. O my lord, You only speak from your distracted soul; There is not so much left to furnish out A moderate table. TIMON. Be it not in thy care. Go, I charge thee, invite them all. Let in the tide Of knaves once more. My cook and I’ll provide. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. The same. The senate house Enter three Senators at one door, Alcibiades meeting them, with Attendants. FIRST SENATOR. My lord, you have my voice to ’t. The fault’s Bloody. ’Tis necessary he should die. Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy. SECOND SENATOR. Most true, the law shall bruise ’em. ALCIBIADES. Honour, health, and compassion to the senate! FIRST SENATOR. Now, captain? ALCIBIADES. I am a humble suitor to your virtues, For pity is the virtue of the law, And none but tyrants use it cruelly. It pleases time and fortune to lie heavy Upon a friend of mine, who in hot blood Hath stepped into the law, which is past depth To those that without heed do plunge into’t. He is a man, setting his fate aside, Of comely virtues, Nor did he soil the fact with cowardice— An honour in him which buys out his fault— But with a noble fury and fair spirit, Seeing his reputation touched to death, He did oppose his foe; And with such sober and unnoted passion He did behave his anger, ere ’twas spent, As if he had but proved an argument. FIRST SENATOR. You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair. Your words have took such pains as if they laboured To bring manslaughter into form and set quarrelling Upon the head of valour, which indeed Is valour misbegot and came into the world When sects and factions were newly born. He’s truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne’er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger. If wrongs be evils and enforce us kill, What folly ’tis to hazard life for ill! ALCIBIADES. My lord— FIRST SENATOR. You cannot make gross sins look clear. To revenge is no valour, but to bear. ALCIBIADES. My lords, then, under favour, pardon me If I speak like a captain. Why do fond men expose themselves to battle And not endure all threats? Sleep upon’t, And let the foes quietly cut their throats Without repugnancy? If there be Such valour in the bearing, what make we Abroad? Why, then, women are more valiant That stay at home, if bearing carry it, And the ass more captain than the lion, the felon Loaden with irons wiser than the judge, If wisdom be in suffering. O my lords, As you are great, be pitifully good. Who cannot condemn rashness in cold blood? To kill, I grant, is sin’s extremest gust, But in defence, by mercy, ’tis most just. To be in anger is impiety, But who is man that is not angry? Weigh but the crime with this. SECOND SENATOR. You breathe in vain. ALCIBIADES. In vain? His service done At Lacedaemon and Byzantium Were a sufficient briber for his life. FIRST SENATOR. What’s that? ALCIBIADES. Why, I say, my lords, has done fair service And slain in fight many of your enemies. How full of valour did he bear himself In the last conflict, and made plenteous wounds! SECOND SENATOR. He has made too much plenty with ’em. He’s a sworn rioter. He has a sin That often drowns him and takes his valour prisoner. If there were no foes, that were enough To overcome him. In that beastly fury, He has been known to commit outrages And cherish factions. ’Tis inferred to us His days are foul and his drink dangerous. FIRST SENATOR. He dies. ALCIBIADES. Hard fate! He might have died in war. My lords, if not for any parts in him, Though his right arm might purchase his own time And be in debt to none, yet, more to move you, Take my deserts to his and join ’em both. And, for I know your reverend ages love Security, I’ll pawn my victories, all My honour, to you upon his good returns. If by this crime he owes the law his life, Why, let the war receive’t in valiant gore, For law is strict, and war is nothing more. FIRST SENATOR. We are for law. He dies. Urge it no more, On height of our displeasure. Friend or brother, He forfeits his own blood that spills another. ALCIBIADES. Must it be so? It must not be. My lords, I do beseech you, know me. SECOND SENATOR. How? ALCIBIADES. Call me to your remembrances. THIRD SENATOR. What? ALCIBIADES. I cannot think but your age has forgot me, It could not else be I should prove so base To sue and be denied such common grace. My wounds ache at you. FIRST SENATOR. Do you dare our anger? ’Tis in few words, but spacious in effect: We banish thee for ever. ALCIBIADES. Banish me? Banish your dotage, banish usury, That makes the Senate ugly. FIRST SENATOR. If, after two days’ shine, Athens contain thee, Attend our weightier judgment. And, not to swell our spirit, He shall be executed presently. [_Exeunt Senators._] ALCIBIADES. Now the gods keep you old enough, that you may live Only in bone, that none may look on you! I’m worse than mad. I have kept back their foes While they have told their money and let out Their coin upon large interest, I myself Rich only in large hurts. All those for this? Is this the balsam that the usuring senate Pours into captains’ wounds? Banishment. It comes not ill. I hate not to be banished. It is a cause worthy my spleen and fury, That I may strike at Athens. I’ll cheer up My discontented troops and lay for hearts. ’Tis honour with most lands to be at odds. Soldiers should brook as little wrongs as gods. [_Exit._] SCENE VI. A room of state in Timon’s house Music. Enter divers Friends at several doors. FIRST FRIEND. The good time of day to you, sir. SECOND FRIEND. I also wish it to you. I think this honourable lord did but try us this other day. FIRST FRIEND. Upon that were my thoughts tiring when we encountered. I hope it is not so low with him as he made it seem in the trial of his several friends. SECOND FRIEND. It should not be, by the persuasion of his new feasting. FIRST FRIEND. I should think so. He hath sent me an earnest inviting, which many my near occasions did urge me to put off; but he hath conjured me beyond them, and I must needs appear. SECOND FRIEND. In like manner was I in debt to my importunate business, but he would not hear my excuse. I am sorry, when he sent to borrow of me, that my provision was out. FIRST FRIEND. I am sick of that grief too, as I understand how all things go. SECOND FRIEND. Every man here’s so. What would he have borrowed you? FIRST FRIEND. A thousand pieces. SECOND FRIEND. A thousand pieces! FIRST FRIEND. What of you? SECOND FRIEND. He sent to me, sir—here he comes. Enter Timon and Attendants. TIMON. With all my heart, gentlemen both! And how fare you? FIRST FRIEND. Ever at the best, hearing well of your lordship. SECOND FRIEND. The swallow follows not summer more willing than we your lordship. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Nor more willingly leaves winter, such summer birds are men. Gentlemen, our dinner will not recompense this long stay. Feast your ears with the music awhile, if they will fare so harshly o’ th’ trumpet’s sound; we shall to’t presently. FIRST FRIEND. I hope it remains not unkindly with your lordship that I returned you an empty messenger. TIMON. O, sir, let it not trouble you. SECOND FRIEND. My noble lord— TIMON. Ah, my good friend, what cheer? SECOND FRIEND. My most honourable lord, I am e’en sick of shame that when your lordship this other day sent to me I was so unfortunate a beggar. TIMON. Think not on’t, sir. SECOND FRIEND. If you had sent but two hours before— TIMON. Let it not cumber your better remembrance. [_The banquet brought in._] Come, bring in all together. SECOND FRIEND. All covered dishes! FIRST FRIEND. Royal cheer, I warrant you. THIRD FRIEND. Doubt not that, if money and the season can yield it. FIRST FRIEND. How do you? What’s the news? THIRD FRIEND. Alcibiades is banished. Hear you of it? FIRST AND SECOND FRIENDS. Alcibiades banished? THIRD FRIEND. ’Tis so, be sure of it. FIRST FRIEND. How, how? SECOND FRIEND. I pray you, upon what? TIMON. My worthy friends, will you draw near? THIRD FRIEND. I’ll tell you more anon. Here’s a noble feast toward. SECOND FRIEND. This is the old man still. THIRD FRIEND. Will’t hold, will’t hold? SECOND FRIEND. It does, but time will—and so— THIRD FRIEND. I do conceive. TIMON. Each man to his stool with that spur as he would to the lip of his mistress. Your diet shall be in all places alike. Make not a city feast of it, to let the meat cool ere we can agree upon the first place. Sit, sit. The gods require our thanks: You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts make yourselves praised, but reserve still to give, lest your deities be despised. Lend to each man enough, that one need not lend to another; for, were your godheads to borrow of men, men would forsake the gods. Make the meat be beloved more than the man that gives it. Let no assembly of twenty be without a score of villains. If there sit twelve women at the table, let a dozen of them be as they are. The rest of your foes, O gods, the senators of Athens, together with the common lag of people, what is amiss in them, you gods, make suitable for destruction. For these my present friends, as they are to me nothing, so in nothing bless them, and to nothing are they welcome. Uncover, dogs, and lap. [_The dishes are uncovered and prove to be full of lukewarm water._] SOME SPEAK. What does his lordship mean? SOME OTHER. I know not. TIMON. May you a better feast never behold, You knot of mouth-friends! Smoke and lukewarm water Is your perfection. This is Timon’s last, Who, stuck and spangled with your flatteries, Washes it off and sprinkles in your faces Your reeking villainy. [_Throws water in their faces._] Live loathed, and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher-friends, time’s flies, Cap-and-knee slaves, vapours, and minute-jacks! Of man and beast the infinite malady Crust you quite o’er! [_They stand_.] What, dost thou go? Soft! Take thy physic first; thou too, and thou! Stay, I will lend thee money, borrow none. [_He attacks them and forces them out._] What, all in motion? Henceforth be no feast Whereat a villain’s not a welcome guest. Burn, house! Sink Athens! Henceforth hated be Of Timon man and all humanity! [_Exit._] Enter Timon’s Friends, the Senators with other Lords. FIRST FRIEND. How now, my lords? SECOND FRIEND. Know you the quality of Lord Timon’s fury? THIRD FRIEND. Push! Did you see my cap? FOURTH FRIEND. I have lost my gown. FIRST FRIEND. He’s but a mad lord, and nought but humours sways him. He gave me a jewel th’ other day, and now he has beat it out of my hat. Did you see my jewel? THIRD FRIEND. Did you see my cap? SECOND FRIEND. Here ’tis. FOURTH FRIEND. Here lies my gown. FIRST FRIEND. Let’s make no stay. SECOND FRIEND. Lord Timon’s mad. THIRD FRIEND. I feel’t upon my bones. FOURTH FRIEND. One day he gives us diamonds, next day stones. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Without the walls of Athens Enter Timon. TIMON. Let me look back upon thee. O thou wall That girdles in those wolves, dive in the earth And fence not Athens! Matrons, turn incontinent! Obedience fail in children! Slaves and fools, Pluck the grave wrinkled senate from the bench And minister in their steads! To general filths Convert, o’ th’ instant, green virginity, Do’t in your parents’ eyes! Bankrupts, hold fast; Rather than render back, out with your knives And cut your trusters’ throats! Bound servants, steal! Large-handed robbers your grave masters are, And pill by law. Maid, to thy master’s bed, Thy mistress is o’ th’ brothel. Son of sixteen, Pluck the lined crutch from thy old limping sire, With it beat out his brains! Piety and fear, Religion to the gods, peace, justice, truth, Domestic awe, night-rest and neighbourhood, Instruction, manners, mysteries and trades, Degrees, observances, customs and laws, Decline to your confounding contraries, And let confusion live! Plagues incident to men, Your potent and infectious fevers heap On Athens, ripe for stroke! Thou cold sciatica, Cripple our senators, that their limbs may halt As lamely as their manners! Lust and liberty, Creep in the minds and marrows of our youth, That ’gainst the stream of virtue they may strive And drown themselves in riot! Itches, blains, Sow all th’ Athenian bosoms, and their crop Be general leprosy! Breath infect breath, That their society, as their friendship, may Be merely poison! Nothing I’ll bear from thee But nakedness, thou detestable town! Take thou that too, with multiplying bans! Timon will to the woods, where he shall find Th’ unkindest beast more kinder than mankind. The gods confound—hear me, you good gods all!— Th’ Athenians both within and out that wall, And grant, as Timon grows, his hate may grow To the whole race of mankind, high and low! Amen. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Athens. A room in Timon’s house Enter Flavius with two or three Servants. FIRST SERVANT. Hear you, Master Steward, where’s our master? Are we undone, cast off, nothing remaining? FLAVIUS. Alack, my fellows, what should I say to you? Let me be recorded by the righteous gods, I am as poor as you. FIRST SERVANT. Such a house broke? So noble a master fall’n? All gone, and not One friend to take his fortune by the arm And go along with him? SECOND SERVANT. As we do turn our backs From our companion, thrown into his grave, So his familiars to his buried fortunes Slink all away, leave their false vows with him, Like empty purses picked; and his poor self, A dedicated beggar to the air, With his disease of all-shunned poverty, Walks, like contempt, alone.—More of our fellows. Enter other Servants. FLAVIUS. All broken implements of a ruined house. THIRD SERVANT. Yet do our hearts wear Timon’s livery. That see I by our faces. We are fellows still, Serving alike in sorrow. Leaked is our bark, And we, poor mates, stand on the dying deck, Hearing the surges threat. We must all part Into this sea of air. FLAVIUS. Good fellows all, The latest of my wealth I’ll share amongst you. Wherever we shall meet, for Timon’s sake Let’s yet be fellows. Let’s shake our heads and say, As ’twere a knell unto our master’s fortune, “We have seen better days.” Let each take some. [_Offering them money._] Nay, put out all your hands. Not one word more. Thus part we rich in sorrow, parting poor. [_They embrace and part several ways._] O, the fierce wretchedness that glory brings us! Who would not wish to be from wealth exempt, Since riches point to misery and contempt? Who would be so mocked with glory, or to live But in a dream of friendship, To have his pomp and all what state compounds But only painted, like his varnished friends? Poor honest lord, brought low by his own heart, Undone by goodness! Strange, unusual blood When man’s worst sin is he does too much good! Who then dares to be half so kind again? For bounty, that makes gods, does still mar men. My dearest lord, blessed to be most accursed, Rich only to be wretched, thy great fortunes Are made thy chief afflictions. Alas, kind lord, He’s flung in rage from this ingrateful seat Of monstrous friends; Nor has he with him to supply his life, Or that which can command it. I’ll follow and inquire him out. I’ll ever serve his mind with my best will. Whilst I have gold, I’ll be his steward still. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Woods and caves near the sea-shore Enter Timon in the woods. TIMON. O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth Rotten humidity, below thy sister’s orb Infect the air! Twinned brothers of one womb, Whose procreation, residence and birth Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes, The greater scorns the lesser. Not nature, To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune But by contempt of nature. Raise me this beggar, and deny’t that lord; The senator shall bear contempt hereditary, The beggar native honour. It is the pasture lards the rother’s sides, The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares In purity of manhood stand upright And say, “This man’s a flatterer”? If one be, So are they all, for every grece of fortune Is smoothed by that below. The learned pate Ducks to the golden fool. All’s obliquy. There’s nothing level in our cursed natures But direct villainy. Therefore be abhorred All feasts, societies, and throngs of men! His semblable, yea, himself, Timon disdains. Destruction fang mankind! Earth, yield me roots! [_Digs in the earth._] Who seeks for better of thee, sauce his palate With thy most operant poison! What is here? Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold? No, gods, I am no idle votarist. Roots, you clear heavens! Thus much of this will make Black white, foul fair, wrong right, Base noble, old young, coward valiant. Ha, you gods, why this? What this, you gods? Why, this Will lug your priests and servants from your sides, Pluck stout men’s pillows from below their heads. This yellow slave Will knit and break religions, bless th’ accursed, Make the hoar leprosy adored, place thieves And give them title, knee, and approbation With senators on the bench. This is it That makes the wappened widow wed again; She whom the spittle-house and ulcerous sores Would cast the gorge at, this embalms and spices To th’ April day again. Come, damned earth, Thou common whore of mankind, that puts odds Among the rout of nations, I will make thee Do thy right nature. [_March afar off._] Ha? A drum? Thou’rt quick, But yet I’ll bury thee. Thou’lt go, strong thief, When gouty keepers of thee cannot stand. Nay, stay thou out for earnest. [_Keeping some gold._] Enter Alcibiades with drum and fife, in warlike manner, and Phrynia and Timandra. ALCIBIADES. What art thou there? Speak. TIMON. A beast, as thou art. The canker gnaw thy heart For showing me again the eyes of man! ALCIBIADES. What is thy name? Is man so hateful to thee That art thyself a man? TIMON. I am Misanthropos and hate mankind. For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something. ALCIBIADES. I know thee well, But in thy fortunes am unlearned and strange. TIMON. I know thee too, and more than that I know thee I not desire to know. Follow thy drum, With man’s blood paint the ground gules, gules. Religious canons, civil laws are cruel, Then what should war be? This fell whore of thine Hath in her more destruction than thy sword, For all her cherubin look. PHRYNIA. Thy lips rot off! TIMON. I will not kiss thee, then the rot returns To thine own lips again. ALCIBIADES. How came the noble Timon to this change? TIMON. As the moon does, by wanting light to give. But then renew I could not like the moon; There were no suns to borrow of. ALCIBIADES. Noble Timon, What friendship may I do thee? TIMON. None, but to maintain my opinion. ALCIBIADES. What is it, Timon? TIMON. Promise me friendship, but perform none. If thou wilt not promise, the gods plague thee, for thou art a man. If thou dost perform, confound thee, for thou art a man. ALCIBIADES. I have heard in some sort of thy miseries. TIMON. Thou saw’st them when I had prosperity. ALCIBIADES. I see them now; then was a blessed time. TIMON. As thine is now, held with a brace of harlots. TIMANDRA. Is this th’ Athenian minion whom the world Voiced so regardfully? TIMON. Art thou Timandra? TIMANDRA. Yes. TIMON. Be a whore still, they love thee not that use thee; Give them diseases, leaving with thee their lust. Make use of thy salt hours. Season the slaves For tubs and baths, bring down rose-cheeked youth To the tub-fast and the diet. TIMANDRA. Hang thee, monster! ALCIBIADES. Pardon him, sweet Timandra, for his wits Are drowned and lost in his calamities. I have but little gold of late, brave Timon, The want whereof doth daily make revolt In my penurious band. I have heard and grieved How cursed Athens, mindless of thy worth, Forgetting thy great deeds when neighbour states, But for thy sword and fortune, trod upon them— TIMON. I prithee, beat thy drum and get thee gone. ALCIBIADES. I am thy friend and pity thee, dear Timon. TIMON. How dost thou pity him whom thou dost trouble? I had rather be alone. ALCIBIADES. Why, fare thee well. Here is some gold for thee. TIMON. Keep it, I cannot eat it. ALCIBIADES. When I have laid proud Athens on a heap— TIMON. Warr’st thou ’gainst Athens? ALCIBIADES. Ay, Timon, and have cause. TIMON. The gods confound them all in thy conquest, And thee after, when thou hast conquered! ALCIBIADES. Why me, Timon? TIMON. That by killing of villains Thou wast born to conquer my country. Put up thy gold. Go on, here’s gold, go on. Be as a planetary plague when Jove Will o’er some high-viced city hang his poison In the sick air. Let not thy sword skip one. Pity not honoured age for his white beard; He is an usurer. Strike me the counterfeit matron; It is her habit only that is honest, Herself’s a bawd. Let not the virgin’s cheek Make soft thy trenchant sword, for those milk paps That through the window-bars bore at men’s eyes, Are not within the leaf of pity writ, But set them down horrible traitors. Spare not the babe, Whose dimpled smiles from fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a bastard whom the oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced thy throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against objects; Put armour on thine ears and on thine eyes, Whose proof nor yells of mothers, maids, nor babes, Nor sight of priests in holy vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot. There’s gold to pay thy soldiers. Make large confusion and, thy fury spent, Confounded be thyself! Speak not, be gone. ALCIBIADES. Hast thou gold yet? I’ll take the gold thou giv’st me, Not all thy counsel. TIMON. Dost thou or dost thou not, heaven’s curse upon thee! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Give us some gold, good Timon. Hast thou more? TIMON. Enough to make a whore forswear her trade, And to make whores a bawd. Hold up, you sluts, Your aprons mountant. You are not oathable, Although I know you’ll swear—terribly swear Into strong shudders and to heavenly agues Th’ immortal gods that hear you. Spare your oaths, I’ll trust to your conditions. Be whores still, And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in whore, allure him, burn him up; Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turncoats. Yet may your pains six months, Be quite contrary. And thatch your poor thin roofs With burdens of the dead—some that were hanged, No matter; wear them, betray with them. Whore still, Paint till a horse may mire upon your face. A pox of wrinkles! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. Well, more gold. What then? Believe’t that we’ll do anything for gold. TIMON. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man; strike their sharp shins, And mar men’s spurring. Crack the lawyer’s voice, That he may never more false title plead Nor sound his quillets shrilly. Hoar the flamen, That scolds against the quality of flesh And not believes himself. Down with the nose, Down with it flat, take the bridge quite away Of him that, his particular to foresee, Smells from the general weal. Make curled-pate ruffians bald, And let the unscarred braggarts of the war Derive some pain from you. Plague all, That your activity may defeat and quell The source of all erection. There’s more gold. Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all! PHRYNIA AND TIMANDRA. More counsel with more money, bounteous Timon. TIMON. More whore, more mischief first! I have given you earnest. ALCIBIADES. Strike up the drum towards Athens. Farewell, Timon. If I thrive well, I’ll visit thee again. TIMON. If I hope well, I’ll never see thee more. ALCIBIADES. I never did thee harm. TIMON. Yes, thou spok’st well of me. ALCIBIADES. Call’st thou that harm? TIMON. Men daily find it. Get thee away, and take Thy beagles with thee. ALCIBIADES. We but offend him. Strike. [_Drum beats. Exeunt all but Timon._] TIMON. That nature, being sick of man’s unkindness, Should yet be hungry! [_He digs_.] Common mother, thou, Whose womb unmeasurable and infinite breast Teems and feeds all; whose selfsame mettle Whereof thy proud child, arrogant man, is puffed, Engenders the black toad and adder blue, The gilded newt and eyeless venomed worm, With all the abhorred births below crisp heaven Whereon Hyperion’s quickening fire doth shine: Yield him who all thy human sons doth hate, From forth thy plenteous bosom, one poor root! Ensear thy fertile and conceptious womb, Let it no more bring out ingrateful man. Go great with tigers, dragons, wolves, and bears; Teem with new monsters, whom thy upward face Hath to the marbled mansion all above Never presented. O, a root, dear thanks! Dry up thy marrows, vines and plough-torn leas, Whereof ingrateful man, with liquorish draughts And morsels unctuous greases his pure mind, That from it all consideration slips— Enter Apemantus. More man? Plague, plague! APEMANTUS. I was directed hither. Men report Thou dost affect my manners and dost use them. TIMON. ’Tis, then, because thou dost not keep a dog Whom I would imitate. Consumption catch thee! APEMANTUS. This is in thee a nature but infected, A poor unmanly melancholy sprung From change of fortune. Why this spade, this place? This slave-like habit and these looks of care? Thy flatterers yet wear silk, drink wine, lie soft, Hug their diseased perfumes, and have forgot That ever Timon was. Shame not these woods By putting on the cunning of a carper. Be thou a flatterer now, and seek to thrive By that which has undone thee. Hinge thy knee And let his very breath whom thou’lt observe Blow off thy cap; praise his most vicious strain, And call it excellent. Thou wast told thus; Thou gav’st thine ears, like tapsters that bade welcome, To knaves and all approachers. ’Tis most just That thou turn rascal; had’st thou wealth again, Rascals should have’t. Do not assume my likeness. TIMON. Were I like thee, I’d throw away myself. APEMANTUS. Thou hast cast away thyself, being like thyself A madman so long, now a fool. What, think’st That the bleak air, thy boisterous chamberlain, Will put thy shirt on warm? Will these mossed trees, That have outlived the eagle, page thy heels And skip when thou point’st out? Will the cold brook, Candied with ice, caudle thy morning taste To cure thy o’ernight’s surfeit? Call the creatures Whose naked natures live in all the spite Of wreakful heaven, whose bare unhoused trunks, To the conflicting elements exposed, Answer mere nature, bid them flatter thee. O, thou shalt find— TIMON. A fool of thee. Depart. APEMANTUS. I love thee better now than e’er I did. TIMON. I hate thee worse. APEMANTUS. Why? TIMON. Thou flatter’st misery. APEMANTUS. I flatter not, but say thou art a caitiff. TIMON. Why dost thou seek me out? APEMANTUS. To vex thee. TIMON. Always a villain’s office or a fool’s. Dost please thyself in’t? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. What, a knave too? APEMANTUS. If thou didst put this sour cold habit on To castigate thy pride, ’twere well; but thou Dost it enforcedly. Thou’dst courtier be again Wert thou not beggar. Willing misery Outlives incertain pomp, is crowned before; The one is filling still, never complete, The other, at high wish. Best state, contentless, Hath a distracted and most wretched being, Worse than the worst, content. Thou shouldst desire to die, being miserable. TIMON. Not by his breath that is more miserable. Thou art a slave whom Fortune’s tender arm With favour never clasped, but bred a dog. Hadst thou, like us from our first swath, proceeded The sweet degrees that this brief world affords To such as may the passive drugs of it Freely command, thou wouldst have plunged thyself In general riot, melted down thy youth In different beds of lust and never learned The icy precepts of respect, but followed The sugared game before thee. But myself— Who had the world as my confectionary, The mouths, the tongues, the eyes and hearts of men At duty, more than I could frame employment, That numberless upon me stuck as leaves Do on the oak, have with one winter’s brush Fell from their boughs and left me open, bare For every storm that blows—I to bear this, That never knew but better, is some burden. Thy nature did commence in sufferance, time Hath made thee hard in’t. Why shouldst thou hate men? They never flattered thee. What hast thou given? If thou wilt curse, thy father, that poor rag, Must be thy subject, who in spite put stuff To some she-beggar and compounded thee Poor rogue hereditary. Hence, be gone! If thou hadst not been born the worst of men, Thou hadst been a knave and flatterer. APEMANTUS. Art thou proud yet? TIMON. Ay, that I am not thee. APEMANTUS. I, that I was no prodigal. TIMON. I, that I am one now. Were all the wealth I have shut up in thee, I’d give thee leave to hang it. Get thee gone. That the whole life of Athens were in this! Thus would I eat it. [_Eats a root._] APEMANTUS. Here, I will mend thy feast. TIMON. First mend my company, take away thyself. APEMANTUS. So I shall mend mine own, by th’ lack of thine. TIMON. ’Tis not well mended so, it is but botched. If not, I would it were. APEMANTUS. What wouldst thou have to Athens? TIMON. Thee thither in a whirlwind. If thou wilt, Tell them there I have gold. Look, so I have. APEMANTUS. Here is no use for gold. TIMON. The best and truest, For here it sleeps and does no hired harm. APEMANTUS. Where liest a-nights, Timon? TIMON. Under that’s above me. Where feed’st thou a-days, Apemantus? APEMANTUS. Where my stomach finds meat, or rather where I eat it. TIMON. Would poison were obedient and knew my mind! APEMANTUS. Where wouldst thou send it? TIMON. To sauce thy dishes. APEMANTUS. The middle of humanity thou never knewest, but the extremity of both ends. When thou wast in thy gilt and thy perfume, they mocked thee for too much curiosity; in thy rags thou know’st none, but art despised for the contrary. There’s a medlar for thee. Eat it. TIMON. On what I hate I feed not. APEMANTUS. Dost hate a medlar? TIMON. Ay, though it look like thee. APEMANTUS. An thou’dst hated medlars sooner, thou shouldst have loved thyself better now. What man didst thou ever know unthrift that was beloved after his means? TIMON. Who, without those means thou talk’st of, didst thou ever know beloved? APEMANTUS. Myself. TIMON. I understand thee. Thou hadst some means to keep a dog. APEMANTUS. What things in the world canst thou nearest compare to thy flatterers? TIMON. Women nearest; but men—men are the things themselves. What wouldst thou do with the world, Apemantus, if it lay in thy power? APEMANTUS. Give it the beasts, to be rid of the men. TIMON. Wouldst thou have thyself fall in the confusion of men and remain a beast with the beasts? APEMANTUS. Ay, Timon. TIMON. A beastly ambition, which the gods grant thee t’ attain to. If thou wert the lion, the fox would beguile thee; if thou wert the lamb, the fox would eat thee; if thou wert the fox, the lion would suspect thee when peradventure thou wert accused by the ass; if thou wert the ass, thy dulness would torment thee, and still thou lived’st but as a breakfast to the wolf; if thou wert the wolf, thy greediness would afflict thee, and oft thou shouldst hazard thy life for thy dinner. Wert thou the unicorn, pride and wrath would confound thee and make thine own self the conquest of thy fury; wert thou a bear, thou wouldst be killed by the horse; wert thou a horse, thou wouldst be seized by the leopard; wert thou a leopard, thou wert germane to the lion, and the spots of thy kindred were jurors on thy life. All thy safety were remotion, and thy defence absence. What beast couldst thou be that were not subject to a beast? And what beast art thou already that seest not thy loss in transformation! APEMANTUS. If thou couldst please me with speaking to me, thou mightst have hit upon it here. The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts. TIMON. How has the ass broke the wall, that thou art out of the city? APEMANTUS. Yonder comes a poet and a painter. The plague of company light upon thee! I will fear to catch it, and give way. When I know not what else to do, I’ll see thee again. TIMON. When there is nothing living but thee, thou shalt be welcome. I had rather be a beggar’s dog than Apemantus. APEMANTUS. Thou art the cap of all the fools alive. TIMON. Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon! APEMANTUS. A plague on thee! Thou art too bad to curse. TIMON. All villains that do stand by thee are pure. APEMANTUS. There is no leprosy but what thou speak’st. TIMON. If I name thee, I’ll beat thee, but I should infect my hands. APEMANTUS. I would my tongue could rot them off! TIMON. Away, thou issue of a mangy dog! Choler does kill me that thou art alive. I swoon to see thee. APEMANTUS. Would thou wouldst burst! TIMON. Away, thou tedious rogue! I am sorry I shall lose a stone by thee. [_Throws a stone at him._] APEMANTUS. Beast! TIMON. Slave! APEMANTUS. Toad! TIMON. Rogue, rogue, rogue! I am sick of this false world, and will love nought But even the mere necessities upon’t. Then, Timon, presently prepare thy grave. Lie where the light foam of the sea may beat Thy gravestone daily. Make thine epitaph, That death in me at others’ lives may laugh. [_To the gold._] O thou sweet king-killer and dear divorce ’Twixt natural son and sire; thou bright defiler Of Hymen’s purest bed, thou valiant Mars; Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer, Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow That lies on Dian’s lap; thou visible god, That solder’st close impossibilities And mak’st them kiss, that speak’st with every tongue To every purpose! O thou touch of hearts, Think thy slave man rebels, and by thy virtue Set them into confounding odds, that beasts May have the world in empire! APEMANTUS. Would ’twere so! But not till I am dead. I’ll say thou’st gold; Thou wilt be thronged to shortly. TIMON. Thronged to? APEMANTUS. Ay. TIMON. Thy back, I prithee. APEMANTUS. Live and love thy misery. TIMON. Long live so, and so die! I am quit. APEMANTUS. More things like men. Eat, Timon, and abhor them. [_Exit Apemantus._] Enter Banditti. FIRST BANDIT. Where should he have this gold? It is some poor fragment, some slender ort of his remainder. The mere want of gold and the falling-from of his friends drove him into this melancholy. SECOND BANDIT. It is noised he hath a mass of treasure. THIRD BANDIT. Let us make the assay upon him. If he care not for’t, he will supply us easily; if he covetously reserve it, how shall’s get it? SECOND BANDIT. True, for he bears it not about him. ’Tis hid. FIRST BANDIT. Is not this he? BANDITTI. Where? SECOND BANDIT. ’Tis his description. THIRD BANDIT. He; I know him. BANDITTI. Save thee, Timon! TIMON. Now, thieves? BANDITTI. Soldiers, not thieves. TIMON. Both too, and women’s sons. BANDITTI. We are not thieves, but men that much do want. TIMON. Your greatest want is, you want much of meat. Why should you want? Behold, the earth hath roots, Within this mile break forth a hundred springs, The oaks bear mast, the briars scarlet hips, The bounteous housewife Nature on each bush Lays her full mess before you. Want? Why want? FIRST BANDIT. We cannot live on grass, on berries, water, As beasts and birds and fishes. TIMON. Nor on the beasts themselves, the birds, and fishes; You must eat men. Yet thanks I must you con That you are thieves professed, that you work not In holier shapes, for there is boundless theft In limited professions. Rascal thieves, Here’s gold. Go, suck the subtle blood o’ th’ grape Till the high fever seethe your blood to froth, And so scape hanging. Trust not the physician; His antidotes are poison, and he slays More than you rob. Take wealth and lives together, Do villainy, do, since you protest to do’t, Like workmen. I’ll example you with thievery. The sun’s a thief and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon’s an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea’s a thief, whose liquid surge resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth’s a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stol’n From general excrement. Each thing’s a thief. The laws, your curb and whip, in their rough power Has unchecked theft. Love not yourselves; away! Rob one another. There’s more gold. Cut throats, All that you meet are thieves. To Athens go, Break open shops, nothing can you steal But thieves do lose it. Steal no less for this I give you, And gold confound you howsoe’er! Amen. THIRD BANDIT. Has almost charmed me from my profession by persuading me to it. FIRST BANDIT. ’Tis in the malice of mankind that he thus advises us, not to have us thrive in our mystery. SECOND BANDIT. I’ll believe him as an enemy and give over my trade. FIRST BANDIT. Let us first see peace in Athens. There is no time so miserable but a man may be true. [_Exeunt Banditti._] Enter Flavius. FLAVIUS. O you gods! Is yond despised and ruinous man my lord? Full of decay and failing? O monument And wonder of good deeds evilly bestowed! What an alteration of honour has desperate want made! What viler thing upon the earth than friends Who can bring noblest minds to basest ends! How rarely does it meet with this time’s guise, When man was wished to love his enemies! Grant I may ever love, and rather woo Those that would mischief me than those that do! He has caught me in his eye. I will present My honest grief unto him and as my lord Still serve him with my life.—My dearest master! TIMON. Away! What art thou? FLAVIUS. Have you forgot me, sir? TIMON. Why dost ask that? I have forgot all men. Then, if thou grant’st thou’rt a man, I have forgot thee. FLAVIUS. An honest poor servant of yours. TIMON. Then I know thee not. I never had honest man about me. I; all I kept were knaves to serve in meat to villains. FLAVIUS. The gods are witness, Ne’er did poor steward wear a truer grief For his undone lord than mine eyes for you. TIMON. What, dost thou weep? Come nearer then. I love thee Because thou art a woman and disclaim’st Flinty mankind, whose eyes do never give But thorough lust and laughter. Pity’s sleeping. Strange times that weep with laughing, not with weeping! FLAVIUS. I beg of you to know me, good my lord, T’ accept my grief, and whilst this poor wealth lasts To entertain me as your steward still. TIMON. Had I a steward So true, so just, and now so comfortable? It almost turns my dangerous nature mild. Let me behold thy face. Surely this man Was born of woman. Forgive my general and exceptless rashness, You perpetual sober gods! I do proclaim One honest man, mistake me not, but one; No more, I pray, and he’s a steward. How fain would I have hated all mankind, And thou redeem’st thyself. But all, save thee, I fell with curses. Methinks thou art more honest now than wise, For by oppressing and betraying me Thou mightst have sooner got another service; For many so arrive at second masters Upon their first lord’s neck. But tell me true— For I must ever doubt, though ne’er so sure— Is not thy kindness subtle, covetous, A usuring kindness and as rich men deal gifts, Expecting in return twenty for one? FLAVIUS. No, my most worthy master, in whose breast Doubt and suspect, alas, are placed too late. You should have feared false times when you did feast, Suspect still comes where an estate is least. That which I show, heaven knows, is merely love, Duty and zeal to your unmatched mind, Care of your food and living. And believe it, My most honoured lord, For any benefit that points to me, Either in hope or present, I’d exchange For this one wish, that you had power and wealth To requite me by making rich yourself. TIMON. Look thee, ’tis so! Thou singly honest man, Here, take. The gods out of my misery Have sent thee treasure. Go, live rich and happy, But thus conditioned: thou shalt build from men; Hate all, curse all, show charity to none, But let the famished flesh slide from the bone Ere thou relieve the beggar; give to dogs What thou deniest to men; let prisons swallow ’em, Debts wither ’em to nothing; be men like blasted woods, And may diseases lick up their false bloods! And so farewell and thrive. FLAVIUS. O, let me stay And comfort you, my master. TIMON. If thou hat’st curses, Stay not. Fly whilst thou’rt blest and free. Ne’er see thou man, and let me ne’er see thee. [_Exeunt severally._] ACT V SCENE I. The woods. Before Timon’s cave Enter Poet and Painter. PAINTER. As I took note of the place, it cannot be far where he abides. POET. What’s to be thought of him? Does the rumour hold for true that he is so full of gold? PAINTER. Certain. Alcibiades reports it; Phrynia and Timandra had gold of him. He likewise enriched poor straggling soldiers with great quantity. ’Tis said he gave unto his steward a mighty sum. POET. Then this breaking of his has been but a try for his friends? PAINTER. Nothing else. You shall see him a palm in Athens again, and flourish with the highest. Therefore ’tis not amiss we tender our loves to him in this supposed distress of his. It will show honestly in us and is very likely to load our purposes with what they travail for, if it be a just and true report that goes of his having. POET. What have you now to present unto him? PAINTER. Nothing at this time but my visitation; only I will promise him an excellent piece. POET. I must serve him so too, tell him of an intent that’s coming toward him. PAINTER. Good as the best. Promising is the very air o’ th’ time; it opens the eyes of expectation. Performance is ever the duller for his act and, but in the plainer and simpler kind of people, the deed of saying is quite out of use. To promise is most courtly and fashionable; performance is a kind of will or testament which argues a great sickness in his judgment that makes it. Enter Timon from his cave. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Excellent workman! Thou canst not paint a man so bad as is thyself. POET. I am thinking what I shall say I have provided for him. It must be a personating of himself, a satire against the softness of prosperity, with a discovery of the infinite flatteries that follow youth and opulency. TIMON. [_Aside_.] Must thou needs stand for a villain in thine own work? Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men? Do so, I have gold for thee. POET. Nay, let’s seek him. Then do we sin against our own estate When we may profit meet and come too late. PAINTER. True. When the day serves, before black-cornered night, Find what thou want’st by free and offered light. Come. TIMON. [_Aside_.] I’ll meet you at the turn. What a god’s gold, That he is worshipped in a baser temple Than where swine feed! ’Tis thou that rigg’st the bark and plough’st the foam, Settlest admired reverence in a slave. To thee be worship, and thy saints for aye Be crowned with plagues, that thee alone obey! Fit I meet them. [_He comes forward._] POET. Hail, worthy Timon! PAINTER. Our late noble master! TIMON. Have I once lived to see two honest men? POET. Sir, Having often of your open bounty tasted, Hearing you were retired, your friends fall’n off, Whose thankless natures—O abhorred spirits! Not all the whips of heaven are large enough— What, to you, Whose star-like nobleness gave life and influence To their whole being? I am rapt and cannot cover The monstrous bulk of this ingratitude With any size of words. TIMON. Let it go naked. Men may see’t the better. You that are honest, by being what you are, Make them best seen and known. PAINTER. He and myself Have travailed in the great shower of your gifts, And sweetly felt it. TIMON. Ay, you are honest men. PAINTER. We are hither come to offer you our service. TIMON. Most honest men! Why, how shall I requite you? Can you eat roots and drink cold water? No? BOTH. What we can do we’ll do, to do you service. TIMON. Ye’re honest men. Ye’ve heard that I have gold, I am sure you have. Speak truth, you’re honest men. PAINTER. So it is said, my noble lord; but therefore Came not my friend nor I. TIMON. Good honest men! [_To Painter_.] Thou draw’st a counterfeit Best in all Athens. Thou’rt indeed the best, Thou counterfeit’st most lively. PAINTER. So so, my lord. TIMON. E’en so, sir, as I say. [_To the Poet_.] And for thy fiction, Why, thy verse swells with stuff so fine and smooth That thou art even natural in thine art. But for all this, my honest-natured friends, I must needs say you have a little fault. Marry, ’tis not monstrous in you, neither wish I You take much pains to mend. BOTH. Beseech your honour To make it known to us. TIMON. You’ll take it ill. BOTH. Most thankfully, my lord. TIMON. Will you indeed? BOTH. Doubt it not, worthy lord. TIMON. There’s never a one of you but trusts a knave That mightily deceives you. BOTH. Do we, my lord? TIMON. Ay, and you hear him cog, see him dissemble, Know his gross patchery, love him, feed him, Keep in your bosom, yet remain assured That he’s a made-up villain. PAINTER. I know not such, my lord. POET. Nor I. TIMON. Look you, I love you well. I’ll give you gold. Rid me these villains from your companies, Hang them or stab them, drown them in a draught, Confound them by some course, and come to me, I’ll give you gold enough. BOTH. Name them, my lord, let’s know them. TIMON. You that way, and you this, but two in company. Each man apart, all single and alone, Yet an arch-villain keeps him company. [_To one_.] If where thou art, two villians shall not be, Come not near him. [_To the other_.] If thou wouldst not reside But where one villain is, then him abandon. Hence, pack! There’s gold. You came for gold, ye slaves. [_To one_.] You have work for me, there’s payment, hence! [_To the other_.] You are an alchemist; make gold of that. Out, rascal dogs! [_Timon drives them out and then retires to his cave_] SCENE II. The same Enter Flavius and two Senators. FLAVIUS. It is vain that you would speak with Timon. For he is set so only to himself That nothing but himself which looks like man Is friendly with him. FIRST SENATOR. Bring us to his cave. It is our part and promise to th’ Athenians To speak with Timon. SECOND SENATOR. At all times alike Men are not still the same: ’twas time and griefs That framed him thus. Time, with his fairer hand, Offering the fortunes of his former days, The former man may make him. Bring us to him And chance it as it may. FLAVIUS. Here is his cave. Peace and content be here! Lord Timon! Timon, Look out and speak to friends. The Athenians By two of their most reverend senate greet thee. Speak to them, noble Timon. Enter Timon out of his cave. TIMON. Thou sun that comforts, burn! Speak and be hanged! For each true word, a blister, and each false Be as a cantherizing to the root o’ th’ tongue, Consuming it with speaking. FIRST SENATOR. Worthy Timon— TIMON. Of none but such as you, and you of Timon. FIRST SENATOR. The senators of Athens greet thee, Timon. TIMON. [_Aside_.] I thank them and would send them back the plague, Could I but catch it for them. FIRST SENATOR. O, forget What we are sorry for ourselves in thee. The senators with one consent of love Entreat thee back to Athens, who have thought On special dignities, which vacant lie For thy best use and wearing. SECOND SENATOR. They confess Toward thee forgetfulness too general gross, Which now the public body, which doth seldom Play the recanter, feeling in itself A lack of Timon’s aid, hath sense withal Of its own fall, restraining aid to Timon, And send forth us to make their sorrowed render, Together with a recompense more fruitful Than their offence can weigh down by the dram, Ay, even such heaps and sums of love and wealth, As shall to thee blot out what wrongs were theirs, And write in thee the figures of their love, Ever to read them thine. TIMON. You witch me in it, Surprise me to the very brink of tears. Lend me a fool’s heart and a woman’s eyes And I’ll beweep these comforts, worthy senators. FIRST SENATOR. Therefore so please thee to return with us, And of our Athens, thine and ours, to take The captainship, thou shalt be met with thanks, Allowed with absolute power, and thy good name Live with authority. So soon we shall drive back Of Alcibiades th’ approaches wild, Who like a boar too savage doth root up His country’s peace. SECOND SENATOR. And shakes his threatening sword Against the walls of Athens. FIRST SENATOR. Therefore, Timon— TIMON. Well, sir, I will. Therefore I will, sir, thus: If Alcibiades kill my countrymen, Let Alcibiades know this of Timon, That Timon cares not. But if he sack fair Athens And take our goodly aged men by th’ beards, Giving our holy virgins to the stain Of contumelious, beastly, mad-brained war, Then let him know, and tell him Timon speaks it, In pity of our aged and our youth, I cannot choose but tell him that I care not; And—let him take’t at worst—for their knives care not While you have throats to answer. For myself, There’s not a whittle in th’ unruly camp But I do prize it at my love before The reverend’st throat in Athens. So I leave you To the protection of the prosperous gods, As thieves to keepers. FLAVIUS. Stay not, all’s in vain. TIMON. Why, I was writing of my epitaph; It will be seen tomorrow. My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend And nothing brings me all things. Go, live still, Be Alcibiades your plague, you his, And last so long enough. FIRST SENATOR. We speak in vain. TIMON. But yet I love my country and am not One that rejoices in the common wrack, As common bruit doth put it. FIRST SENATOR. That’s well spoke. TIMON. Commend me to my loving countrymen. FIRST SENATOR. These words become your lips as they pass through them. SECOND SENATOR. And enter in our ears like great triumphers In their applauding gates. TIMON. Commend me to them, And tell them that to ease them of their griefs, Their fears of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature’s fragile vessel doth sustain In life’s uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them; I’ll teach them to prevent wild Alcibiades’ wrath. FIRST SENATOR. [_Aside_.] I like this well, he will return again. TIMON. I have a tree which grows here in my close That mine own use invites me to cut down, And shortly must I fell it. Tell my friends, Tell Athens, in the sequence of degree From high to low throughout, that whoso please To stop affliction, let him take his haste, Come hither ere my tree hath felt the axe And hang himself. I pray you do my greeting. FLAVIUS. Trouble him no further; thus you still shall find him. TIMON. Come not to me again, but say to Athens Timon hath made his everlasting mansion Upon the beached verge of the salt flood, Who once a day with his embossed froth The turbulent surge shall cover; thither come, And let my gravestone be your oracle. Lips, let sour words go by, and language end: What is amiss, plague and infection mend; Graves only be men’s works and death their gain, Sun, hide thy beams, Timon hath done his reign. [_Exit Timon into his cave._] FIRST SENATOR. His discontents are unremovably Coupled to nature. SECOND SENATOR. Our hope in him is dead. Let us return And strain what other means is left unto us In our dear peril. FIRST SENATOR. It requires swift foot. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Before the walls of Athens Enter two other Senators, with a Messenger. FIRST SENATOR. Thou hast painfully discovered. Are his files As full as thy report? MESSENGER. I have spoke the least. Besides, his expedition promises Present approach. SECOND SENATOR. We stand much hazard if they bring not Timon. MESSENGER. I met a courier, one mine ancient friend, Whom, though in general part we were opposed, Yet our old love made a particular force And made us speak like friends. This man was riding From Alcibiades to Timon’s cave With letters of entreaty, which imported His fellowship i’ th’ cause against your city, In part for his sake moved. Enter the other Senators from Timon. THIRD SENATOR. Here come our brothers. FIRST SENATOR. No talk of Timon, nothing of him expect. The enemy’s drum is heard, and fearful scouring Doth choke the air with dust. In, and prepare. Ours is the fall, I fear, our foe’s the snare. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The woods. Timon’s cave, and a rude tomb seen Enter a Soldier in the woods, seeking Timon. SOLDIER. By all description this should be the place. Who’s here? Speak, ho! No answer? What is this? _Timon is dead, who hath outstretched his span. Some beast read this; there does not live a man._ Dead, sure, and this his grave. What’s on this tomb I cannot read. The character I’ll take with wax. Our captain hath in every figure skill, An aged interpreter, though young in days. Before proud Athens he’s set down by this, Whose fall the mark of his ambition is. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Before the walls of Athens Trumpets sound. Enter Alcibiades with his powers before Athens. ALCIBIADES. Sound to this coward and lascivious town Our terrible approach. [_A parley sounds._] The Senators appear upon the walls. Till now you have gone on and filled the time With all licentious measure, making your wills The scope of justice. Till now myself and such As slept within the shadow of your power Have wandered with our traversed arms, and breathed Our sufferance vainly. Now the time is flush, When crouching marrow, in the bearer strong Cries of itself, “No more!” Now breathless wrong Shall sit and pant in your great chairs of ease, And pursy insolence shall break his wind With fear and horrid flight. FIRST SENATOR. Noble and young, When thy first griefs were but a mere conceit, Ere thou hadst power or we had cause of fear, We sent to thee to give thy rages balm, To wipe out our ingratitude with loves Above their quantity. SECOND SENATOR. So did we woo Transformed Timon to our city’s love By humble message and by promised means. We were not all unkind, nor all deserve The common stroke of war. FIRST SENATOR. These walls of ours Were not erected by their hands from whom You have received your griefs; nor are they such That these great towers, trophies, and schools should fall For private faults in them. SECOND SENATOR. Nor are they living Who were the motives that you first went out. Shame, that they wanted cunning, in excess Hath broke their hearts. March, noble lord, Into our city with thy banners spread. By decimation and a tithed death, If thy revenges hunger for that food Which nature loathes, take thou the destined tenth, And by the hazard of the spotted die Let die the spotted. FIRST SENATOR. All have not offended. For those that were, it is not square to take, On those that are, revenge. Crimes, like lands, Are not inherited. Then, dear countryman, Bring in thy ranks but leave without thy rage; Spare thy Athenian cradle and those kin Which in the bluster of thy wrath must fall With those that have offended. Like a shepherd Approach the fold and cull th’ infected forth, But kill not all together. SECOND SENATOR. What thou wilt, Thou rather shalt enforce it with thy smile Than hew to ’t with thy sword. FIRST SENATOR. Set but thy foot Against our rampired gates and they shall ope, So thou wilt send thy gentle heart before To say thou’lt enter friendly. SECOND SENATOR. Throw thy glove, Or any token of thine honour else, That thou wilt use the wars as thy redress And not as our confusion, all thy powers Shall make their harbour in our town till we Have sealed thy full desire. ALCIBIADES. Then there’s my glove; Descend and open your uncharged ports. Those enemies of Timon’s and mine own Whom you yourselves shall set out for reproof Fall, and no more. And, to atone your fears With my more noble meaning, not a man Shall pass his quarter or offend the stream Of regular justice in your city’s bounds, But shall be remedied to your public laws At heaviest answer. BOTH. ’Tis most nobly spoken. ALCIBIADES. Descend, and keep your words. [_The Senators descend._] Enter a Soldier. SOLDIER. My noble general, Timon is dead, Entombed upon the very hem o’ th’ sea, And on his gravestone this insculpture, which With wax I brought away, whose soft impression Interprets for my poor ignorance. ALCIBIADES. [_Reads the Epitaph._] _Here lies a wretched corse, of wretched soul bereft. Seek not my name. A plague consume you, wicked caitiffs left! Here lie I, Timon, who alive all living men did hate. Pass by and curse thy fill, but pass and stay not here thy gait._ These well express in thee thy latter spirits. Though thou abhorred’st in us our human griefs, Scorned’st our brains’ flow and those our droplets which From niggard nature fall, yet rich conceit Taught thee to make vast Neptune weep for aye On thy low grave, on faults forgiven. Dead Is noble Timon, of whose memory Hereafter more. Bring me into your city, And I will use the olive with my sword, Make war breed peace, make peace stint war, make each Prescribe to other, as each other’s leech. Let our drums strike. [_Exeunt._] THE TRAGEDY OF TITUS ANDRONICUS Contents ACT I Scene I. Rome. Before the Capitol ACT II Scene I. Rome. Before the palace Scene II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry of hounds heard Scene III. A lonely part of the Forest Scene IV. Another part of the Forest ACT III Scene I. Rome. A street Scene II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out ACT IV Scene I. Rome. Before Titus’s House Scene II. Rome. A Room in the Palace Scene III. Rome. A public Place Scene IV. Rome. Before the Palace ACT V Scene I. Plains near Rome Scene II. Rome. Before Titus’s House Scene III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c. Dramatis Personæ SATURNINUS, elder son to the late Emperor of Rome, afterwards Emperor BASSIANUS, brother to Saturninus TITUS ANDRONICUS, a noble Roman, General against the Goths MARCUS ANDRONICUS, Tribune of the People, and brother to Titus LAVINIA, daughter to Titus Andronicus LUCIUS, son to Titus Andronicus QUINTUS, son to Titus Andronicus MARTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus MUTIUS, son to Titus Andronicus YOUNG LUCIUS, a boy, son to Lucius PUBLIUS, son to Marcus the Tribune SEMPRONIUS, kinsman to Titus CAIUS, kinsman to Titus VALENTINE, kinsman to Titus AEMILIUS, a noble Roman TAMORA, Queen of the Goths AARON, a Moor, beloved by Tamora ALARBUS, son to Tamora DEMETRIUS, son to Tamora CHIRON, son to Tamora A CAPTAIN MESSENGER A NURSE, and a black child CLOWN Goths and Romans Tribunes, Senators, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants SCENE: Rome, and the Country near it ACT I SCENE I. Rome. Before the Capitol Enter the Tribunes and Senators aloft. And then enter Saturninus and his followers at one door, and Bassianus and his followers at the other, with drums and trumpets. SATURNINUS. Noble patricians, patrons of my right, Defend the justice of my cause with arms; And, countrymen, my loving followers, Plead my successive title with your swords. I am his firstborn son that was the last That wore the imperial diadem of Rome; Then let my father’s honours live in me, Nor wrong mine age with this indignity. BASSIANUS. Romans, friends, followers, favourers of my right, If ever Bassianus, Caesar’s son, Were gracious in the eyes of royal Rome, Keep then this passage to the Capitol, And suffer not dishonour to approach The imperial seat, to virtue consecrate, To justice, continence, and nobility; But let desert in pure election shine, And, Romans, fight for freedom in your choice. Enter Marcus Andronicus aloft, holding the crown. MARCUS. Princes, that strive by factions and by friends Ambitiously for rule and empery, Know that the people of Rome, for whom we stand A special party, have by common voice, In election for the Roman empery, Chosen Andronicus, surnamed Pius For many good and great deserts to Rome. A nobler man, a braver warrior, Lives not this day within the city walls. He by the senate is accited home From weary wars against the barbarous Goths, That with his sons, a terror to our foes, Hath yoked a nation strong, trained up in arms. Ten years are spent since first he undertook This cause of Rome, and chastised with arms Our enemies’ pride. Five times he hath returned Bleeding to Rome, bearing his valiant sons In coffins from the field. And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils, Returns the good Andronicus to Rome, Renowned Titus, flourishing in arms. Let us entreat, by honour of his name Whom worthily you would have now succeed, And in the Capitol and senate’s right, Whom you pretend to honour and adore, That you withdraw you and abate your strength, Dismiss your followers, and, as suitors should, Plead your deserts in peace and humbleness. SATURNINUS. How fair the tribune speaks to calm my thoughts! BASSIANUS. Marcus Andronicus, so I do affy In thy uprightness and integrity, And so I love and honour thee and thine, Thy noble brother Titus and his sons, And her to whom my thoughts are humbled all, Gracious Lavinia, Rome’s rich ornament, That I will here dismiss my loving friends, And to my fortunes and the people’s favour Commit my cause in balance to be weighed. [_Exeunt the followers of Bassianus._] SATURNINUS. Friends, that have been thus forward in my right, I thank you all and here dismiss you all, And to the love and favour of my country Commit myself, my person, and the cause. [_Exeunt the followers of Saturninus._] Rome, be as just and gracious unto me As I am confident and kind to thee. Open the gates and let me in. BASSIANUS. Tribunes, and me, a poor competitor. [_Flourish. They go up into the Senate House._] Enter a Captain. CAPTAIN. Romans, make way! The good Andronicus, Patron of virtue, Rome’s best champion, Successful in the battles that he fights, With honour and with fortune is returned From where he circumscribed with his sword And brought to yoke the enemies of Rome. Sound drums and trumpets, and then enter two of Titus’ sons, and then two men bearing a coffin covered with black; then two other sons; then Titus Andronicus; and then Tamora, the Queen of Goths and her sons Alarbus, Chiron and Demetrius with Aaron the Moor, and others as many as can be, then set down the coffin, and Titus speaks. TITUS. Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! Lo, as the bark that hath discharged her fraught Returns with precious lading to the bay From whence at first she weighed her anchorage, Cometh Andronicus, bound with laurel boughs, To resalute his country with his tears, Tears of true joy for his return to Rome. Thou great defender of this Capitol, Stand gracious to the rites that we intend. Romans, of five-and-twenty valiant sons, Half of the number that King Priam had, Behold the poor remains, alive and dead. These that survive let Rome reward with love; These that I bring unto their latest home, With burial amongst their ancestors. Here Goths have given me leave to sheathe my sword. Titus, unkind, and careless of thine own, Why suffer’st thou thy sons, unburied yet, To hover on the dreadful shore of Styx? Make way to lay them by their brethren. [_They open the tomb._] There greet in silence, as the dead are wont, And sleep in peace, slain in your country’s wars. O sacred receptacle of my joys, Sweet cell of virtue and nobility, How many sons hast thou of mine in store, That thou wilt never render to me more? LUCIUS. Give us the proudest prisoner of the Goths, That we may hew his limbs, and on a pile _Ad manes fratrum_ sacrifice his flesh Before this earthy prison of their bones, That so the shadows be not unappeased, Nor we disturbed with prodigies on earth. TITUS. I give him you, the noblest that survives, The eldest son of this distressed queen. TAMORA. Stay, Roman brethren! Gracious conqueror, Victorious Titus, rue the tears I shed, A mother’s tears in passion for her son. And if thy sons were ever dear to thee, O, think my son to be as dear to me. Sufficeth not that we are brought to Rome, To beautify thy triumphs and return Captive to thee and to thy Roman yoke; But must my sons be slaughtered in the streets For valiant doings in their country’s cause? O, if to fight for king and commonweal Were piety in thine, it is in these. Andronicus, stain not thy tomb with blood. Wilt thou draw near the nature of the gods? Draw near them then in being merciful. Sweet mercy is nobility’s true badge. Thrice-noble Titus, spare my first-born son. TITUS. Patient yourself, madam, and pardon me. These are their brethren whom your Goths beheld Alive and dead, and for their brethren slain Religiously they ask a sacrifice. To this your son is marked, and die he must, T’ appease their groaning shadows that are gone. LUCIUS. Away with him, and make a fire straight, And with our swords, upon a pile of wood, Let’s hew his limbs till they be clean consumed. [_Exeunt Titus’ sons with Alarbus._] TAMORA. O cruel, irreligious piety! CHIRON. Was never Scythia half so barbarous! DEMETRIUS. Oppose not Scythia to ambitious Rome. Alarbus goes to rest, and we survive To tremble under Titus’ threat’ning look. Then, madam, stand resolved, but hope withal The self-same gods that armed the Queen of Troy With opportunity of sharp revenge Upon the Thracian tyrant in his tent May favour Tamora, the queen of Goths, (When Goths were Goths and Tamora was queen) To quit the bloody wrongs upon her foes. Enter the sons of Andronicus again with bloody swords. LUCIUS. See, lord and father, how we have performed Our Roman rites. Alarbus’ limbs are lopped, And entrails feed the sacrificing fire, Whose smoke like incense doth perfume the sky. Remaineth naught but to inter our brethren, And with loud ’larums welcome them to Rome. TITUS. Let it be so; and let Andronicus Make this his latest farewell to their souls. [_Sound trumpets, and lay the coffin in the tomb._] In peace and honour rest you here, my sons; Rome’s readiest champions, repose you here in rest, Secure from worldly chances and mishaps. Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells, Here grow no damned drugs; here are no storms, No noise, but silence and eternal sleep. In peace and honour rest you here, my sons. Enter Lavinia. LAVINIA. In peace and honour live Lord Titus long; My noble lord and father, live in fame. Lo, at this tomb my tributary tears I render for my brethren’s obsequies; And at thy feet I kneel, with tears of joy Shed on this earth for thy return to Rome. O, bless me here with thy victorious hand, Whose fortunes Rome’s best citizens applaud. TITUS. Kind Rome, that hast thus lovingly reserved The cordial of mine age to glad my heart! Lavinia, live; outlive thy father’s days, And fame’s eternal date, for virtue’s praise. Enter Marcus Andronicus and Tribunes; re-enter Saturninus, Bassianus and others. MARCUS. Long live Lord Titus, my beloved brother, Gracious triumpher in the eyes of Rome. TITUS. Thanks, gentle tribune, noble brother Marcus. MARCUS. And welcome, nephews, from successful wars, You that survive, and you that sleep in fame. Fair lords, your fortunes are alike in all, That in your country’s service drew your swords; But safer triumph is this funeral pomp That hath aspired to Solon’s happiness And triumphs over chance in honour’s bed. Titus Andronicus, the people of Rome, Whose friend in justice thou hast ever been, Send thee by me, their tribune and their trust, This palliament of white and spotless hue, And name thee in election for the empire With these our late-deceased emperor’s sons. Be _candidatus_ then, and put it on, And help to set a head on headless Rome. TITUS. A better head her glorious body fits Than his that shakes for age and feebleness. What, should I don this robe and trouble you? Be chosen with proclamations today, Tomorrow yield up rule, resign my life, And set abroad new business for you all? Rome, I have been thy soldier forty years, And led my country’s strength successfully, And buried one and twenty valiant sons, Knighted in field, slain manfully in arms, In right and service of their noble country. Give me a staff of honour for mine age, But not a sceptre to control the world. Upright he held it, lords, that held it last. MARCUS. Titus, thou shalt obtain and ask the empery. SATURNINUS. Proud and ambitious tribune, canst thou tell? TITUS. Patience, Prince Saturninus. SATURNINUS. Romans, do me right. Patricians, draw your swords, and sheathe them not Till Saturninus be Rome’s emperor. Andronicus, would thou were shipped to hell Rather than rob me of the people’s hearts! LUCIUS. Proud Saturnine, interrupter of the good That noble-minded Titus means to thee! TITUS. Content thee, prince; I will restore to thee The people’s hearts, and wean them from themselves. BASSIANUS. Andronicus, I do not flatter thee, But honour thee, and will do till I die. My faction if thou strengthen with thy friends, I will most thankful be; and thanks to men Of noble minds is honourable meed. TITUS. People of Rome, and people’s tribunes here, I ask your voices and your suffrages. Will you bestow them friendly on Andronicus? TRIBUNES. To gratify the good Andronicus, And gratulate his safe return to Rome, The people will accept whom he admits. TITUS. Tribunes, I thank you; and this suit I make, That you create your emperor’s eldest son, Lord Saturnine; whose virtues will, I hope, Reflect on Rome as Titan’s rays on earth, And ripen justice in this commonweal. Then, if you will elect by my advice, Crown him, and say “Long live our emperor!” MARCUS. With voices and applause of every sort, Patricians and plebeians, we create Lord Saturninus Rome’s great emperor, And say “Long live our Emperor Saturnine!” [_A long flourish._] SATURNINUS. Titus Andronicus, for thy favours done To us in our election this day, I give thee thanks in part of thy deserts, And will with deeds requite thy gentleness. And for an onset, Titus, to advance Thy name and honourable family, Lavinia will I make my empress, Rome’s royal mistress, mistress of my heart, And in the sacred Pantheon her espouse. Tell me, Andronicus, doth this motion please thee? TITUS. It doth, my worthy lord, and in this match I hold me highly honoured of your grace; And here in sight of Rome, to Saturnine, King and commander of our commonweal, The wide world’s emperor, do I consecrate My sword, my chariot, and my prisoners; Presents well worthy Rome’s imperious lord. Receive them then, the tribute that I owe, Mine honour’s ensigns humbled at thy feet. SATURNINUS. Thanks, noble Titus, father of my life. How proud I am of thee and of thy gifts Rome shall record, and when I do forget The least of these unspeakable deserts, Romans, forget your fealty to me. TITUS. [_To Tamora_.] Now, madam, are you prisoner to an emperor; To him that for your honour and your state Will use you nobly and your followers. SATURNINUS. A goodly lady, trust me, of the hue That I would choose, were I to choose anew. Clear up, fair queen, that cloudy countenance. Though chance of war hath wrought this change of cheer, Thou com’st not to be made a scorn in Rome. Princely shall be thy usage every way. Rest on my word, and let not discontent Daunt all your hopes. Madam, he comforts you Can make you greater than the Queen of Goths. Lavinia, you are not displeased with this? LAVINIA. Not I, my lord, sith true nobility Warrants these words in princely courtesy. SATURNINUS. Thanks, sweet Lavinia. Romans, let us go. Ransomless here we set our prisoners free. Proclaim our honours, lords, with trump and drum. [_Flourish. Saturninus and his Guards exit, with Drums and Trumpets. Tribunes and Senators exit aloft._] BASSIANUS. Lord Titus, by your leave, this maid is mine. TITUS. How, sir? Are you in earnest then, my lord? BASSIANUS. Ay, noble Titus; and resolved withal To do myself this reason and this right. MARCUS. _Suum cuique_ is our Roman justice. This prince in justice seizeth but his own. LUCIUS. And that he will and shall, if Lucius live. TITUS. Traitors, avaunt! Where is the emperor’s guard? Enter Saturninus and his Guards. Treason, my lord, Lavinia is surprised. SATURNINUS. Surprised? By whom? BASSIANUS. By him that justly may Bear his betrothed from all the world away. [_Exeunt Bassianus and Marcus with Lavinia._] MUTIUS. Brothers, help to convey her hence away, And with my sword I’ll keep this door safe. [_Exeunt Lucius, Quintus and Martius._] TITUS. Follow, my lord, and I’ll soon bring her back. [_Exeunt Saturninus, Tamora, Demetrius, Chiron, Aaron, and Guards._] MUTIUS. My lord, you pass not here. TITUS. What, villain boy, Barr’st me my way in Rome? [_Stabbing Mutius._] MUTIUS. Help, Lucius, help! [_Dies._] Re-enter Lucius. LUCIUS. My lord, you are unjust, and more than so, In wrongful quarrel you have slain your son. TITUS. Nor thou nor he are any sons of mine; My sons would never so dishonour me. Traitor, restore Lavinia to the Emperor. LUCIUS. Dead, if you will; but not to be his wife, That is another’s lawful promised love. [_Exit._] Enter aloft the Emperor Saturninus with Tamora and her two sons and Aaron the Moor. SATURNINUS. No, Titus, no; the emperor needs her not, Nor her, nor thee, nor any of thy stock. I’ll trust by leisure him that mocks me once; Thee never, nor thy traitorous haughty sons, Confederates all thus to dishonour me. Was none in Rome to make a stale But Saturnine? Full well, Andronicus, Agree these deeds with that proud brag of thine That said’st I begged the empire at thy hands. TITUS. O monstrous! What reproachful words are these? SATURNINUS. But go thy ways; go, give that changing piece To him that flourished for her with his sword. A valiant son-in-law thou shalt enjoy; One fit to bandy with thy lawless sons, To ruffle in the commonwealth of Rome. TITUS. These words are razors to my wounded heart. SATURNINUS. And therefore, lovely Tamora, Queen of Goths, That like the stately Phœbe ’mongst her nymphs Dost overshine the gallant’st dames of Rome, If thou be pleased with this my sudden choice, Behold, I choose thee, Tamora, for my bride, And will create thee Empress of Rome. Speak, Queen of Goths, dost thou applaud my choice? And here I swear by all the Roman gods, Sith priest and holy water are so near, And tapers burn so bright, and everything In readiness for Hymenæus stand, I will not re-salute the streets of Rome, Or climb my palace, till from forth this place I lead espoused my bride along with me. TAMORA. And here in sight of heaven to Rome I swear, If Saturnine advance the Queen of Goths, She will a handmaid be to his desires, A loving nurse, a mother to his youth. SATURNINUS. Ascend, fair queen, Pantheon. Lords, accompany Your noble emperor and his lovely bride, Sent by the heavens for Prince Saturnine, Whose wisdom hath her fortune conquered. There shall we consummate our spousal rites. [_Exeunt all but Titus._] TITUS. I am not bid to wait upon this bride. Titus, when wert thou wont to walk alone, Dishonoured thus, and challenged of wrongs? Re-enter Marcus, Lucius, Quintus and Martius. MARCUS. O Titus, see, O, see what thou hast done! In a bad quarrel slain a virtuous son. TITUS. No, foolish tribune, no; no son of mine, Nor thou, nor these, confederates in the deed That hath dishonoured all our family. Unworthy brother and unworthy sons! LUCIUS. But let us give him burial, as becomes; Give Mutius burial with our brethren. TITUS. Traitors, away! He rests not in this tomb. This monument five hundred years hath stood, Which I have sumptuously re-edified. Here none but soldiers and Rome’s servitors Repose in fame; none basely slain in brawls. Bury him where you can, he comes not here. MARCUS. My lord, this is impiety in you. My nephew Mutius’ deeds do plead for him; He must be buried with his brethren. MARTIUS. And shall, or him we will accompany. TITUS. “And shall”? What villain was it spake that word? QUINTUS. He that would vouch it in any place but here. TITUS. What, would you bury him in my despite? MARCUS. No, noble Titus, but entreat of thee To pardon Mutius and to bury him. TITUS. Marcus, even thou hast struck upon my crest, And with these boys mine honour thou hast wounded. My foes I do repute you every one; So trouble me no more, but get you gone. QUINTUS. He is not with himself; let us withdraw. MARTIUS. Not I, till Mutius’ bones be buried. [_Marcus and the sons of Titus kneel._] MARCUS. Brother, for in that name doth nature plead,— QUINTUS. Father, and in that name doth nature speak,— TITUS. Speak thou no more, if all the rest will speed. MARCUS. Renowned Titus, more than half my soul,— LUCIUS. Dear father, soul and substance of us all,— MARCUS. Suffer thy brother Marcus to inter His noble nephew here in virtue’s nest, That died in honour and Lavinia’s cause. Thou art a Roman; be not barbarous. The Greeks upon advice did bury Ajax, That slew himself; and wise Laertes’ son Did graciously plead for his funerals. Let not young Mutius, then, that was thy joy, Be barred his entrance here. TITUS. Rise, Marcus, rise. The dismall’st day is this that e’er I saw, To be dishonoured by my sons in Rome! Well, bury him, and bury me the next. [_They put Mutius in the tomb._] LUCIUS. There lie thy bones, sweet Mutius, with thy friends, Till we with trophies do adorn thy tomb. ALL. [_Kneeling_.] No man shed tears for noble Mutius; He lives in fame that died in virtue’s cause. MARCUS. My lord, to step out of these dreary dumps, How comes it that the subtle Queen of Goths Is of a sudden thus advanced in Rome? TITUS. I know not, Marcus, but I know it is. Whether by device or no, the heavens can tell. Is she not then beholding to the man That brought her for this high good turn so far? Yes, and will nobly him remunerate. Flourish. Enter the Emperor Saturninus, Tamora and her two sons, with Aaron the Moor. Drums and Trumpets, at one door. Enter at the other door Bassianus and Lavinia with others. SATURNINUS. So, Bassianus, you have played your prize. God give you joy, sir, of your gallant bride. BASSIANUS. And you of yours, my lord. I say no more, Nor wish no less; and so I take my leave. SATURNINUS. Traitor, if Rome have law or we have power, Thou and thy faction shall repent this rape. BASSIANUS. Rape call you it, my lord, to seize my own, My true betrothed love, and now my wife? But let the laws of Rome determine all; Meanwhile am I possessed of that is mine. SATURNINUS. ’Tis good, sir. You are very short with us; But if we live, we’ll be as sharp with you. BASSIANUS. My lord, what I have done, as best I may, Answer I must, and shall do with my life. Only thus much I give your grace to know: By all the duties that I owe to Rome, This noble gentleman, Lord Titus here, Is in opinion and in honour wronged, That, in the rescue of Lavinia, With his own hand did slay his youngest son, In zeal to you, and highly moved to wrath To be controlled in that he frankly gave. Receive him then to favour, Saturnine, That hath expressed himself in all his deeds A father and a friend to thee and Rome. TITUS. Prince Bassianus, leave to plead my deeds. ’Tis thou, and those, that have dishonoured me. Rome and the righteous heavens be my judge How I have loved and honoured Saturnine. TAMORA. My worthy lord, if ever Tamora Were gracious in those princely eyes of thine, Then hear me speak indifferently for all; And at my suit, sweet, pardon what is past. SATURNINUS. What, madam, be dishonoured openly, And basely put it up without revenge? TAMORA. Not so, my lord; the gods of Rome forfend I should be author to dishonour you! But on mine honour dare I undertake For good Lord Titus’ innocence in all, Whose fury not dissembled speaks his griefs. Then at my suit look graciously on him; Lose not so noble a friend on vain suppose, Nor with sour looks afflict his gentle heart. [_Aside_.] My lord, be ruled by me, be won at last; Dissemble all your griefs and discontents. You are but newly planted in your throne; Lest, then, the people, and patricians too, Upon a just survey take Titus’ part, And so supplant you for ingratitude, Which Rome reputes to be a heinous sin, Yield at entreats, and then let me alone. I’ll find a day to massacre them all, And raze their faction and their family, The cruel father and his traitorous sons, To whom I sued for my dear son’s life; And make them know what ’tis to let a queen Kneel in the streets and beg for grace in vain. [_Aloud_.] Come, come, sweet emperor; come, Andronicus; Take up this good old man, and cheer the heart That dies in tempest of thy angry frown. SATURNINUS. Rise, Titus, rise; my empress hath prevailed. TITUS. I thank your majesty and her, my lord. These words, these looks, infuse new life in me. TAMORA. Titus, I am incorporate in Rome, A Roman now adopted happily, And must advise the emperor for his good. This day all quarrels die, Andronicus; And let it be mine honour, good my lord, That I have reconciled your friends and you. For you, Prince Bassianus, I have passed My word and promise to the emperor That you will be more mild and tractable. And fear not, lords, and you, Lavinia. By my advice, all humbled on your knees, You shall ask pardon of his majesty. LUCIUS. We do, and vow to heaven and to his highness That what we did was mildly as we might, Tend’ring our sister’s honour and our own. MARCUS. That on mine honour here do I protest. SATURNINUS. Away, and talk not; trouble us no more. TAMORA. Nay, nay, sweet emperor, we must all be friends. The tribune and his nephews kneel for grace; I will not be denied. Sweet heart, look back. SATURNINUS. Marcus, for thy sake, and thy brother’s here, And at my lovely Tamora’s entreats, I do remit these young men’s heinous faults. Stand up. Lavinia, though you left me like a churl, I found a friend, and sure as death I swore I would not part a bachelor from the priest. Come, if the emperor’s court can feast two brides, You are my guest, Lavinia, and your friends. This day shall be a love-day, Tamora. TITUS. Tomorrow, an it please your majesty To hunt the panther and the hart with me, With horn and hound we’ll give your grace _bonjour_. SATURNINUS. Be it so, Titus, and gramercy too. [_Sound trumpets. Exeunt all but Aaron._] ACT II SCENE I. Rome. Before the palace Aaron alone. AARON. Now climbeth Tamora Olympus’ top, Safe out of Fortune’s shot, and sits aloft, Secure of thunder’s crack or lightning’s flash, Advanced above pale envy’s threat’ning reach. As when the golden sun salutes the morn, And, having gilt the ocean with his beams, Gallops the zodiac in his glistening coach, And overlooks the highest-peering hills; So Tamora. Upon her wit doth earthly honour wait, And virtue stoops and trembles at her frown. Then, Aaron, arm thy heart and fit thy thoughts To mount aloft with thy imperial mistress, And mount her pitch, whom thou in triumph long Hast prisoner held, fett’red in amorous chains, And faster bound to Aaron’s charming eyes Than is Prometheus tied to Caucasus. Away with slavish weeds and servile thoughts! I will be bright, and shine in pearl and gold, To wait upon this new-made empress. To wait, said I? To wanton with this queen, This goddess, this Semiramis, this nymph, This siren, that will charm Rome’s Saturnine, And see his shipwrack and his commonweal’s. Holla! What storm is this? Enter Chiron and Demetrius braving. DEMETRIUS. Chiron, thy years wants wit, thy wit wants edge And manners, to intrude where I am graced, And may, for aught thou knowest, affected be. CHIRON. Demetrius, thou dost overween in all, And so in this, to bear me down with braves. ’Tis not the difference of a year or two Makes me less gracious or thee more fortunate. I am as able and as fit as thou To serve and to deserve my mistress’ grace; And that my sword upon thee shall approve, And plead my passions for Lavinia’s love. AARON. [_Aside_.] Clubs, clubs! These lovers will not keep the peace. DEMETRIUS. Why, boy, although our mother, unadvised, Gave you a dancing-rapier by your side, Are you so desperate grown to threat your friends? Go to; have your lath glued within your sheath Till you know better how to handle it. CHIRON. Meanwhile, sir, with the little skill I have, Full well shalt thou perceive how much I dare. DEMETRIUS. Ay, boy, grow ye so brave? [_They draw._] AARON. Why, how now, lords! So near the emperor’s palace dare ye draw, And maintain such a quarrel openly? Full well I wot the ground of all this grudge. I would not for a million of gold The cause were known to them it most concerns; Nor would your noble mother for much more Be so dishonoured in the court of Rome. For shame, put up. DEMETRIUS. Not I, till I have sheathed My rapier in his bosom, and withal Thrust those reproachful speeches down his throat That he hath breathed in my dishonour here. CHIRON. For that I am prepared and full resolved, Foul-spoken coward, that thund’rest with thy tongue, And with thy weapon nothing dar’st perform. AARON. Away, I say! Now, by the gods that warlike Goths adore, This pretty brabble will undo us all. Why, lords, and think you not how dangerous It is to jet upon a prince’s right? What, is Lavinia then become so loose, Or Bassianus so degenerate, That for her love such quarrels may be broached Without controlment, justice, or revenge? Young lords, beware! And should the empress know This discord’s ground, the music would not please. CHIRON. I care not, I, knew she and all the world. I love Lavinia more than all the world. DEMETRIUS. Youngling, learn thou to make some meaner choice. Lavina is thine elder brother’s hope. AARON. Why, are ye mad? Or know ye not in Rome How furious and impatient they be, And cannot brook competitors in love? I tell you, lords, you do but plot your deaths By this device. CHIRON. Aaron, a thousand deaths Would I propose to achieve her whom I love. AARON. To achieve her! How? DEMETRIUS. Why makes thou it so strange? She is a woman, therefore may be wooed; She is a woman, therefore may be won; She is Lavinia, therefore must be loved. What, man, more water glideth by the mill Than wots the miller of; and easy it is Of a cut loaf to steal a shive, we know. Though Bassianus be the emperor’s brother, Better than he have worn Vulcan’s badge. AARON. [_Aside_.] Ay, and as good as Saturninus may. DEMETRIUS. Then why should he despair that knows to court it With words, fair looks, and liberality? What, hast not thou full often struck a doe, And borne her cleanly by the keeper’s nose? AARON. Why, then, it seems some certain snatch or so Would serve your turns. CHIRON. Ay, so the turn were served. DEMETRIUS. Aaron, thou hast hit it. AARON. Would you had hit it too! Then should not we be tired with this ado. Why, hark ye, hark ye, and are you such fools To square for this? Would it offend you then That both should speed? CHIRON. Faith, not me. DEMETRIUS. Nor me, so I were one. AARON. For shame, be friends, and join for that you jar. ’Tis policy and stratagem must do That you affect; and so must you resolve That what you cannot as you would achieve, You must perforce accomplish as you may. Take this of me: Lucrece was not more chaste Than this Lavinia, Bassianus’ love. A speedier course than ling’ring languishment Must we pursue, and I have found the path. My lords, a solemn hunting is in hand; There will the lovely Roman ladies troop. The forest walks are wide and spacious, And many unfrequented plots there are Fitted by kind for rape and villainy. Single you thither, then, this dainty doe, And strike her home by force, if not by words. This way, or not at all, stand you in hope. Come, come, our empress, with her sacred wit To villainy and vengeance consecrate, Will we acquaint with all what we intend; And she shall file our engines with advice That will not suffer you to square yourselves, But to your wishes’ height advance you both. The emperor’s court is like the house of Fame, The palace full of tongues, of eyes and ears; The woods are ruthless, dreadful, deaf, and dull. There speak and strike, brave boys, and take your turns; There serve your lust, shadowed from heaven’s eye, And revel in Lavinia’s treasury. CHIRON. Thy counsel, lad, smells of no cowardice. DEMETRIUS. _Sit fas aut nefas_, till I find the stream To cool this heat, a charm to calm these fits, _Per Stygia, per manes vehor._ [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Forest near Rome; a Lodge seen at a distance. Horns and cry of hounds heard Enter Titus Andronicus and his three sons, and Marcus, making a noise with hounds and horns. TITUS. The hunt is up, the morn is bright and grey, The fields are fragrant, and the woods are green. Uncouple here, and let us make a bay, And wake the emperor and his lovely bride, And rouse the prince, and ring a hunter’s peal, That all the court may echo with the noise. Sons, let it be your charge, as it is ours, To attend the emperor’s person carefully. I have been troubled in my sleep this night, But dawning day new comfort hath inspired. Here a cry of hounds, and wind horns in a peal. Then enter Saturninus, Tamora, Bassianus, Lavinia, Chiron, Demetrius, and their Attendants. Many good morrows to your majesty; Madam, to you as many and as good. I promised your grace a hunter’s peal. SATURNINUS. And you have rung it lustily, my lords; Somewhat too early for new-married ladies. BASSIANUS. Lavinia, how say you? LAVINIA. I say no; I have been broad awake two hours and more. SATURNINUS. Come on then; horse and chariots let us have, And to our sport. [_To Tamora_.] Madam, now shall ye see Our Roman hunting. MARCUS. I have dogs, my lord, Will rouse the proudest panther in the chase, And climb the highest promontory top. TITUS. And I have horse will follow where the game Makes way, and run like swallows o’er the plain. DEMETRIUS. Chiron, we hunt not, we, with horse nor hound, But hope to pluck a dainty doe to ground. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A lonely part of the Forest Enter Aaron, alone, carrying a bag of gold. AARON. He that had wit would think that I had none, To bury so much gold under a tree, And never after to inherit it. Let him that thinks of me so abjectly Know that this gold must coin a stratagem, Which, cunningly effected, will beget A very excellent piece of villainy. And so repose, sweet gold, for their unrest That have their alms out of the empress’ chest. [_He hides the bag._] Enter Tamora alone to the Moor. TAMORA. My lovely Aaron, wherefore look’st thou sad When everything doth make a gleeful boast? The birds chant melody on every bush, The snakes lie rolled in the cheerful sun, The green leaves quiver with the cooling wind, And make a chequered shadow on the ground. Under their sweet shade, Aaron, let us sit, And whilst the babbling echo mocks the hounds, Replying shrilly to the well-tuned horns, As if a double hunt were heard at once, Let us sit down and mark their yelping noise; And after conflict such as was supposed The wand’ring prince and Dido once enjoyed, When with a happy storm they were surprised, And curtained with a counsel-keeping cave, We may, each wreathed in the other’s arms, Our pastimes done, possess a golden slumber, Whiles hounds and horns and sweet melodious birds Be unto us as is a nurse’s song Of lullaby to bring her babe asleep. AARON. Madam, though Venus govern your desires, Saturn is dominator over mine. What signifies my deadly-standing eye, My silence and my cloudy melancholy, My fleece of woolly hair that now uncurls Even as an adder when she doth unroll To do some fatal execution? No, madam, these are no venereal signs. Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, Blood and revenge are hammering in my head. Hark, Tamora, the empress of my soul, Which never hopes more heaven than rests in thee, This is the day of doom for Bassianus; His Philomel must lose her tongue today, Thy sons make pillage of her chastity, And wash their hands in Bassianus’ blood. Seest thou this letter? Take it up, I pray thee, And give the king this fatal-plotted scroll. Now question me no more; we are espied; Here comes a parcel of our hopeful booty, Which dreads not yet their lives’ destruction. Enter Bassianus and Lavinia. TAMORA. Ah, my sweet Moor, sweeter to me than life! AARON. No more, great empress. Bassianus comes. Be cross with him; and I’ll go fetch thy sons To back thy quarrels, whatsoe’er they be. [_Exit._] BASSIANUS. Who have we here? Rome’s royal empress, Unfurnished of her well-beseeming troop? Or is it Dian, habited like her, Who hath abandoned her holy groves To see the general hunting in this forest? TAMORA. Saucy controller of my private steps! Had I the power that some say Dian had, Thy temples should be planted presently With horns, as was Actaeon’s; and the hounds Should drive upon thy new-transformed limbs, Unmannerly intruder as thou art. LAVINIA. Under your patience, gentle empress, ’Tis thought you have a goodly gift in horning, And to be doubted that your Moor and you Are singled forth to try experiments. Jove shield your husband from his hounds today! ’Tis pity they should take him for a stag. BASSIANUS. Believe me, queen, your swarthy Cimmerian Doth make your honour of his body’s hue, Spotted, detested, and abominable. Why are you sequestered from all your train, Dismounted from your snow-white goodly steed, And wandered hither to an obscure plot, Accompanied but with a barbarous Moor, If foul desire had not conducted you? LAVINIA. And, being intercepted in your sport, Great reason that my noble lord be rated For sauciness. I pray you, let us hence, And let her joy her raven-coloured love; This valley fits the purpose passing well. BASSIANUS. The king my brother shall have notice of this. LAVINIA. Ay, for these slips have made him noted long. Good king, to be so mightily abused! TAMORA. Why, I have patience to endure all this. Enter Chiron and Demetrius. DEMETRIUS. How now, dear sovereign, and our gracious mother! Why doth your highness look so pale and wan? TAMORA. Have I not reason, think you, to look pale? These two have ticed me hither to this place, A barren detested vale you see it is; The trees, though summer, yet forlorn and lean, Overcome with moss and baleful mistletoe. Here never shines the sun, here nothing breeds, Unless the nightly owl or fatal raven. And when they showed me this abhorred pit, They told me, here, at dead time of the night, A thousand fiends, a thousand hissing snakes, Ten thousand swelling toads, as many urchins, Would make such fearful and confused cries As any mortal body hearing it Should straight fall mad, or else die suddenly. No sooner had they told this hellish tale But straight they told me they would bind me here Unto the body of a dismal yew, And leave me to this miserable death. And then they called me foul adulteress, Lascivious Goth, and all the bitterest terms That ever ear did hear to such effect. And had you not by wondrous fortune come, This vengeance on me had they executed. Revenge it, as you love your mother’s life, Or be ye not henceforth called my children. DEMETRIUS. This is a witness that I am thy son. [_Stabs Bassianus._] CHIRON. And this for me, struck home to show my strength. [_Also stabs Bassianus, who dies._] LAVINIA. Ay, come, Semiramis, nay, barbarous Tamora, For no name fits thy nature but thy own! TAMORA. Give me thy poniard; you shall know, my boys, Your mother’s hand shall right your mother’s wrong. DEMETRIUS. Stay, madam, here is more belongs to her. First thrash the corn, then after burn the straw. This minion stood upon her chastity, Upon her nuptial vow, her loyalty, And with that painted hope braves your mightiness; And shall she carry this unto her grave? CHIRON. And if she do, I would I were an eunuch. Drag hence her husband to some secret hole, And make his dead trunk pillow to our lust. TAMORA. But when ye have the honey ye desire, Let not this wasp outlive, us both to sting. CHIRON. I warrant you, madam, we will make that sure. Come, mistress, now perforce we will enjoy That nice-preserved honesty of yours. LAVINIA. O Tamora, thou bearest a woman’s face,— TAMORA. I will not hear her speak; away with her! LAVINIA. Sweet lords, entreat her hear me but a word. DEMETRIUS. Listen, fair madam: let it be your glory To see her tears; but be your heart to them As unrelenting flint to drops of rain. LAVINIA. When did the tiger’s young ones teach the dam? O, do not learn her wrath; she taught it thee; The milk thou suck’st from her did turn to marble; Even at thy teat thou hadst thy tyranny. Yet every mother breeds not sons alike. [_To Chiron_.] Do thou entreat her show a woman’s pity. CHIRON. What, wouldst thou have me prove myself a bastard? LAVINIA. ’Tis true the raven doth not hatch a lark. Yet have I heard—O, could I find it now!— The lion, moved with pity, did endure To have his princely paws pared all away. Some say that ravens foster forlorn children, The whilst their own birds famish in their nests. O, be to me, though thy hard heart say no, Nothing so kind, but something pitiful. TAMORA. I know not what it means; away with her! LAVINIA. O, let me teach thee! For my father’s sake, That gave thee life when well he might have slain thee, Be not obdurate, open thy deaf ears. TAMORA. Hadst thou in person ne’er offended me, Even for his sake am I pitiless. Remember, boys, I poured forth tears in vain To save your brother from the sacrifice, But fierce Andronicus would not relent. Therefore away with her, and use her as you will; The worse to her, the better loved of me. LAVINIA. O Tamora, be called a gentle queen, And with thine own hands kill me in this place! For ’tis not life that I have begged so long; Poor I was slain when Bassianus died. TAMORA. What begg’st thou, then? Fond woman, let me go. LAVINIA. ’Tis present death I beg; and one thing more That womanhood denies my tongue to tell. O, keep me from their worse than killing lust, And tumble me into some loathsome pit, Where never man’s eye may behold my body. Do this, and be a charitable murderer. TAMORA. So should I rob my sweet sons of their fee. No, let them satisfy their lust on thee. DEMETRIUS. Away, for thou hast stayed us here too long. LAVINIA. No grace, no womanhood? Ah, beastly creature, The blot and enemy to our general name! Confusion fall— CHIRON. Nay, then I’ll stop your mouth. Bring thou her husband. This is the hole where Aaron bid us hide him. [_They put Bassianus’s body in the pit and exit, carrying off Lavinia._] TAMORA. Farewell, my sons. See that you make her sure. Ne’er let my heart know merry cheer indeed Till all the Andronici be made away. Now will I hence to seek my lovely Moor, And let my spleenful sons this trull deflower. [_Exit._] Enter Aaron with two of Titus’ sons, Quintus and Martius. AARON. Come on, my lords, the better foot before. Straight will I bring you to the loathsome pit Where I espied the panther fast asleep. QUINTUS. My sight is very dull, whate’er it bodes. MARTIUS. And mine, I promise you. Were it not for shame, Well could I leave our sport to sleep awhile. [_He falls into the pit._] QUINTUS. What, art thou fallen? What subtle hole is this, Whose mouth is covered with rude-growing briers, Upon whose leaves are drops of new-shed blood As fresh as morning dew distilled on flowers? A very fatal place it seems to me. Speak, brother, hast thou hurt thee with the fall? MARTIUS. O brother, with the dismall’st object hurt That ever eye with sight made heart lament! AARON. [_Aside_.] Now will I fetch the king to find them here, That he thereby may have a likely guess How these were they that made away his brother. [_Exit._] MARTIUS. Why dost not comfort me, and help me out From this unhallowed and blood-stained hole? QUINTUS. I am surprised with an uncouth fear; A chilling sweat o’er-runs my trembling joints. My heart suspects more than mine eye can see. MARTIUS. To prove thou hast a true-divining heart, Aaron and thou look down into this den, And see a fearful sight of blood and death. QUINTUS. Aaron is gone, and my compassionate heart Will not permit mine eyes once to behold The thing whereat it trembles by surmise. O, tell me who it is; for ne’er till now Was I a child to fear I know not what. MARTIUS. Lord Bassianus lies berayed in blood, All on a heap, like to a slaughtered lamb, In this detested, dark, blood-drinking pit. QUINTUS. If it be dark, how dost thou know ’tis he? MARTIUS. Upon his bloody finger he doth wear A precious ring that lightens all the hole, Which, like a taper in some monument, Doth shine upon the dead man’s earthy cheeks, And shows the ragged entrails of the pit. So pale did shine the moon on Pyramus When he by night lay bathed in maiden blood. O brother, help me with thy fainting hand, If fear hath made thee faint, as me it hath, Out of this fell devouring receptacle, As hateful as Cocytus’ misty mouth. QUINTUS. Reach me thy hand, that I may help thee out, Or, wanting strength to do thee so much good, I may be plucked into the swallowing womb Of this deep pit, poor Bassianus’ grave. I have no strength to pluck thee to the brink. MARTIUS. Nor I no strength to climb without thy help. QUINTUS. Thy hand once more; I will not loose again, Till thou art here aloft, or I below. Thou canst not come to me. I come to thee. [_Falls in._] Enter the Emperor Saturninus and Aaron the Moor. SATURNINUS. Along with me! I’ll see what hole is here, And what he is that now is leapt into it. Say, who art thou that lately didst descend Into this gaping hollow of the earth? MARTIUS. The unhappy sons of old Andronicus, Brought hither in a most unlucky hour, To find thy brother Bassianus dead. SATURNINUS. My brother dead! I know thou dost but jest. He and his lady both are at the lodge Upon the north side of this pleasant chase; ’Tis not an hour since I left them there. MARTIUS. We know not where you left them all alive; But, out, alas, here have we found him dead. Enter Tamora, Titus Andronicus and Lucius. TAMORA. Where is my lord the king? SATURNINUS. Here, Tamora; though grieved with killing grief. TAMORA. Where is thy brother Bassianus? SATURNINUS. Now to the bottom dost thou search my wound. Poor Bassianus here lies murdered. TAMORA. Then all too late I bring this fatal writ, The complot of this timeless tragedy; And wonder greatly that man’s face can fold In pleasing smiles such murderous tyranny. [_She giveth Saturnine a letter._] SATURNINUS. [_Reads_.] _An if we miss to meet him handsomely, Sweet huntsman, Bassianus ’tis we mean, Do thou so much as dig the grave for him; Thou know’st our meaning. Look for thy reward Among the nettles at the elder-tree Which overshades the mouth of that same pit Where we decreed to bury Bassianus. Do this, and purchase us thy lasting friends._ O Tamora, was ever heard the like? This is the pit, and this the elder-tree. Look, sirs, if you can find the huntsman out That should have murdered Bassianus here. AARON. My gracious lord, here is the bag of gold. [_Showing it._] SATURNINUS. [_To Titus_.] Two of thy whelps, fell curs of bloody kind, Have here bereft my brother of his life. Sirs, drag them from the pit unto the prison. There let them bide until we have devised Some never-heard-of torturing pain for them. TAMORA. What, are they in this pit? O wondrous thing! How easily murder is discovered! TITUS. High emperor, upon my feeble knee I beg this boon, with tears not lightly shed, That this fell fault of my accursed sons, Accursed if the fault be proved in them— SATURNINUS. If it be proved! You see it is apparent. Who found this letter? Tamora, was it you? TAMORA. Andronicus himself did take it up. TITUS. I did, my lord, yet let me be their bail; For by my fathers’ reverend tomb I vow They shall be ready at your highness’ will To answer their suspicion with their lives. SATURNINUS. Thou shalt not bail them. See thou follow me. Some bring the murdered body, some the murderers. Let them not speak a word; the guilt is plain; For, by my soul, were there worse end than death, That end upon them should be executed. TAMORA. Andronicus, I will entreat the king. Fear not thy sons; they shall do well enough. TITUS. Come, Lucius, come; stay not to talk with them. [_Exeunt severally. Attendants bearing the body._] SCENE IV. Another part of the Forest Enter the empress’ sons, Demetrius and Chiron with Lavinia, her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravished. DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak, Who ’twas that cut thy tongue and ravished thee. CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so, An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe. DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl. CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands. DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash; And so let’s leave her to her silent walks. CHIRON. An ’twere my cause, I should go hang myself. DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord. [_Exeunt Chiron and Demetrius._] Enter Marcus, from hunting. MARCUS. Who is this? My niece, that flies away so fast? Cousin, a word; where is your husband? If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me! If I do wake, some planet strike me down, That I may slumber an eternal sleep! Speak, gentle niece, what stern ungentle hands Hath lopped and hewed and made thy body bare Of her two branches, those sweet ornaments Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in, And might not gain so great a happiness As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me? Alas, a crimson river of warm blood, Like to a bubbling fountain stirred with wind, Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips, Coming and going with thy honey breath. But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee, And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue. Ah, now thou turn’st away thy face for shame, And notwithstanding all this loss of blood, As from a conduit with three issuing spouts, Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan’s face Blushing to be encountered with a cloud. Shall I speak for thee, shall I say ’tis so? O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast, That I might rail at him to ease my mind. Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopped, Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is. Fair Philomela, why she but lost her tongue, And in a tedious sampler sewed her mind; But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee; A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met, And he hath cut those pretty fingers off That could have better sewed than Philomel. O, had the monster seen those lily hands Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute, And make the silken strings delight to kiss them, He would not then have touched them for his life. Or had he heard the heavenly harmony Which that sweet tongue hath made, He would have dropped his knife, and fell asleep, As Cerberus at the Thracian poet’s feet. Come, let us go, and make thy father blind, For such a sight will blind a father’s eye. One hour’s storm will drown the fragrant meads; What will whole months of tears thy father’s eyes? Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee. O, could our mourning ease thy misery! [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Rome. A street Enter the Judges and Senators, with Titus’ two sons Quintus and Martius bound, passing on the stage to the place of execution, and Titus going before, pleading. TITUS. Hear me, grave fathers; noble tribunes, stay! For pity of mine age, whose youth was spent In dangerous wars whilst you securely slept; For all my blood in Rome’s great quarrel shed, For all the frosty nights that I have watched, And for these bitter tears, which now you see Filling the aged wrinkles in my cheeks, Be pitiful to my condemned sons, Whose souls are not corrupted as ’tis thought. For two and twenty sons I never wept, Because they died in honour’s lofty bed. [_Andronicus lieth down, and the Judges pass by him._] [_Exeunt with the prisoners as Titus continues speaking._] For these, tribunes, in the dust I write My heart’s deep languor and my soul’s sad tears. Let my tears staunch the earth’s dry appetite; My sons’ sweet blood will make it shame and blush. O earth, I will befriend thee more with rain That shall distil from these two ancient urns, Than youthful April shall with all his showers. In summer’s drought I’ll drop upon thee still; In winter with warm tears I’ll melt the snow, And keep eternal spring-time on thy face, So thou refuse to drink my dear sons’ blood. Enter Lucius with his weapon drawn. O reverend tribunes! O gentle aged men! Unbind my sons, reverse the doom of death; And let me say, that never wept before, My tears are now prevailing orators. LUCIUS. O noble father, you lament in vain. The tribunes hear you not, no man is by; And you recount your sorrows to a stone. TITUS. Ah, Lucius, for thy brothers let me plead. Grave tribunes, once more I entreat of you— LUCIUS. My gracious lord, no tribune hears you speak. TITUS. Why, ’tis no matter, man. If they did hear, They would not mark me; if they did mark, They would not pity me, yet plead I must, And bootless unto them. Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones, Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale. When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears, and seem to weep with me; And were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribunes like to these. A stone is soft as wax, tribunes more hard than stones; A stone is silent, and offendeth not, And tribunes with their tongues doom men to death. But wherefore stand’st thou with thy weapon drawn? LUCIUS. To rescue my two brothers from their death; For which attempt the judges have pronounced My everlasting doom of banishment. TITUS. O happy man, they have befriended thee. Why, foolish Lucius, dost thou not perceive That Rome is but a wilderness of tigers? Tigers must prey, and Rome affords no prey But me and mine. How happy art thou then, From these devourers to be banished! But who comes with our brother Marcus here? Enter Marcus with Lavinia. MARCUS. Titus, prepare thy aged eyes to weep; Or if not so, thy noble heart to break. I bring consuming sorrow to thine age. TITUS. Will it consume me? Let me see it then. MARCUS. This was thy daughter. TITUS. Why, Marcus, so she is. LUCIUS. Ay me, this object kills me! TITUS. Faint-hearted boy, arise, and look upon her. Speak, Lavinia, what accursed hand Hath made thee handless in thy father’s sight? What fool hath added water to the sea, Or brought a faggot to bright-burning Troy? My grief was at the height before thou cam’st, And now like Nilus it disdaineth bounds. Give me a sword, I’ll chop off my hands too; For they have fought for Rome, and all in vain; And they have nursed this woe in feeding life; In bootless prayer have they been held up, And they have served me to effectless use. Now all the service I require of them Is that the one will help to cut the other. ’Tis well, Lavinia, that thou hast no hands, For hands to do Rome service is but vain. LUCIUS. Speak, gentle sister, who hath martyred thee? MARCUS. O, that delightful engine of her thoughts, That blabbed them with such pleasing eloquence, Is torn from forth that pretty hollow cage, Where, like a sweet melodious bird, it sung Sweet varied notes, enchanting every ear. LUCIUS. O, say thou for her, who hath done this deed? MARCUS. O, thus I found her straying in the park, Seeking to hide herself, as doth the deer That hath received some unrecuring wound. TITUS. It was my dear, and he that wounded her Hath hurt me more than had he killed me dead. For now I stand as one upon a rock, Environed with a wilderness of sea, Who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, Expecting ever when some envious surge Will in his brinish bowels swallow him. This way to death my wretched sons are gone; Here stands my other son, a banished man, And here my brother, weeping at my woes. But that which gives my soul the greatest spurn Is dear Lavinia, dearer than my soul. Had I but seen thy picture in this plight It would have madded me. What shall I do Now I behold thy lively body so? Thou hast no hands to wipe away thy tears, Nor tongue to tell me who hath martyred thee. Thy husband he is dead, and for his death Thy brothers are condemned, and dead by this. Look, Marcus! Ah, son Lucius, look on her! When I did name her brothers, then fresh tears Stood on her cheeks, as doth the honey-dew Upon a gathered lily almost withered. MARCUS. Perchance she weeps because they killed her husband; Perchance because she knows them innocent. TITUS. If they did kill thy husband, then be joyful, Because the law hath ta’en revenge on them. No, no, they would not do so foul a deed; Witness the sorrow that their sister makes. Gentle Lavinia, let me kiss thy lips, Or make some sign how I may do thee ease. Shall thy good uncle, and thy brother Lucius, And thou, and I, sit round about some fountain, Looking all downwards to behold our cheeks How they are stained, like meadows yet not dry, With miry slime left on them by a flood? And in the fountain shall we gaze so long Till the fresh taste be taken from that clearness, And made a brine-pit with our bitter tears? Or shall we cut away our hands like thine? Or shall we bite our tongues, and in dumb shows Pass the remainder of our hateful days? What shall we do? Let us that have our tongues Plot some device of further misery, To make us wondered at in time to come. LUCIUS. Sweet father, cease your tears; for at your grief See how my wretched sister sobs and weeps. MARCUS. Patience, dear niece. Good Titus, dry thine eyes. TITUS. Ah, Marcus, Marcus! Brother, well I wot Thy napkin cannot drink a tear of mine, For thou, poor man, hast drowned it with thine own. LUCIUS. Ah, my Lavinia, I will wipe thy cheeks. TITUS. Mark, Marcus, mark! I understand her signs. Had she a tongue to speak, now would she say That to her brother which I said to thee. His napkin, with his true tears all bewet, Can do no service on her sorrowful cheeks. O, what a sympathy of woe is this, As far from help as limbo is from bliss. Enter Aaron the Moor, alone. AARON. Titus Andronicus, my lord the emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the king; he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault. TITUS. O gracious emperor! O gentle Aaron! Did ever raven sing so like a lark That gives sweet tidings of the sun’s uprise? With all my heart I’ll send the emperor my hand. Good Aaron, wilt thou help to chop it off? LUCIUS. Stay, father, for that noble hand of thine, That hath thrown down so many enemies, Shall not be sent. My hand will serve the turn. My youth can better spare my blood than you; And therefore mine shall save my brothers’ lives. MARCUS. Which of your hands hath not defended Rome, And reared aloft the bloody battle-axe, Writing destruction on the enemy’s castle? O, none of both but are of high desert. My hand hath been but idle; let it serve To ransom my two nephews from their death; Then have I kept it to a worthy end. AARON. Nay, come, agree whose hand shall go along, For fear they die before their pardon come. MARCUS. My hand shall go. LUCIUS. By heaven, it shall not go! TITUS. Sirs, strive no more. Such withered herbs as these Are meet for plucking up, and therefore mine. LUCIUS. Sweet father, if I shall be thought thy son, Let me redeem my brothers both from death. MARCUS. And for our father’s sake and mother’s care, Now let me show a brother’s love to thee. TITUS. Agree between you; I will spare my hand. LUCIUS. Then I’ll go fetch an axe. MARCUS. But I will use the axe. [_Exeunt Lucius and Marcus._] TITUS. Come hither, Aaron; I’ll deceive them both. Lend me thy hand, and I will give thee mine. AARON. [_Aside_.] If that be called deceit, I will be honest, And never whilst I live deceive men so. But I’ll deceive you in another sort, And that you’ll say ere half an hour pass. [_He cuts off Titus’s hand._] Enter Lucius and Marcus again. TITUS. Now stay your strife. What shall be is dispatched. Good Aaron, give his majesty my hand. Tell him it was a hand that warded him From thousand dangers, bid him bury it; More hath it merited, that let it have. As for my sons, say I account of them As jewels purchased at an easy price; And yet dear too, because I bought mine own. AARON. I go, Andronicus; and for thy hand Look by and by to have thy sons with thee. [_Aside_.] Their heads, I mean. O, how this villainy Doth fat me with the very thoughts of it! Let fools do good, and fair men call for grace, Aaron will have his soul black like his face. [_Exit._] TITUS. O, here I lift this one hand up to heaven, And bow this feeble ruin to the earth. If any power pities wretched tears, To that I call! [_To Lavinia_.] What, wouldst thou kneel with me? Do, then, dear heart; for heaven shall hear our prayers, Or with our sighs we’ll breathe the welkin dim, And stain the sun with fog, as sometime clouds When they do hug him in their melting bosoms. MARCUS. O brother, speak with possibility, And do not break into these deep extremes. TITUS. Is not my sorrow deep, having no bottom? Then be my passions bottomless with them. MARCUS. But yet let reason govern thy lament. TITUS. If there were reason for these miseries, Then into limits could I bind my woes. When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o’erflow? If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad, Threatening the welkin with his big-swol’n face? And wilt thou have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth flow! She is the weeping welkin, I the earth. Then must my sea be moved with her sighs; Then must my earth with her continual tears Become a deluge, overflowed and drowned; For why my bowels cannot hide her woes, But like a drunkard must I vomit them. Then give me leave, for losers will have leave To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues. Enter a Messenger with two heads and a hand. MESSENGER. Worthy Andronicus, ill art thou repaid For that good hand thou sent’st the emperor. Here are the heads of thy two noble sons, And here’s thy hand, in scorn to thee sent back. Thy grief their sports, thy resolution mocked; That woe is me to think upon thy woes, More than remembrance of my father’s death. [_Exit._] MARCUS. Now let hot Etna cool in Sicily, And be my heart an ever-burning hell! These miseries are more than may be borne. To weep with them that weep doth ease some deal, But sorrow flouted at is double death. LUCIUS. Ah, that this sight should make so deep a wound, And yet detested life not shrink thereat! That ever death should let life bear his name, Where life hath no more interest but to breathe! [_Lavinia kisses Titus._] MARCUS. Alas, poor heart, that kiss is comfortless As frozen water to a starved snake. TITUS. When will this fearful slumber have an end? MARCUS. Now farewell, flattery; die, Andronicus; Thou dost not slumber. See thy two sons’ heads, Thy warlike hand, thy mangled daughter here; Thy other banished son with this dear sight Struck pale and bloodless; and thy brother, I, Even like a stony image, cold and numb. Ah, now no more will I control thy griefs. Rent off thy silver hair, thy other hand Gnawing with thy teeth; and be this dismal sight The closing up of our most wretched eyes. Now is a time to storm; why art thou still? TITUS. Ha, ha, ha! MARCUS. Why dost thou laugh? It fits not with this hour. TITUS. Why, I have not another tear to shed. Besides, this sorrow is an enemy, And would usurp upon my watery eyes, And make them blind with tributary tears. Then which way shall I find Revenge’s cave? For these two heads do seem to speak to me, And threat me I shall never come to bliss Till all these mischiefs be returned again Even in their throats that have committed them. Come, let me see what task I have to do. You heavy people, circle me about, That I may turn me to each one of you, And swear unto my soul to right your wrongs. The vow is made. Come, brother, take a head; And in this hand the other will I bear. And, Lavinia, thou shalt be employed in these arms. Bear thou my hand, sweet wench, between thy teeth. As for thee, boy, go, get thee from my sight; Thou art an exile, and thou must not stay. Hie to the Goths, and raise an army there. And if you love me, as I think you do, Let’s kiss and part, for we have much to do. [_Exeunt Titus, Marcus and Lavinia._] LUCIUS. Farewell, Andronicus, my noble father, The woefull’st man that ever lived in Rome. Farewell, proud Rome, till Lucius come again; He loves his pledges dearer than his life. Farewell, Lavinia, my noble sister; O, would thou wert as thou tofore hast been! But now nor Lucius nor Lavinia lives But in oblivion and hateful griefs. If Lucius live, he will requite your wrongs, And make proud Saturnine and his empress Beg at the gates, like Tarquin and his queen. Now will I to the Goths, and raise a power To be revenged on Rome and Saturnine. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Rome. A Room in Titus’s House. A banquet set out Enter Titus Andronicus, Marcus, Lavinia and the boy Young Lucius. TITUS. So so; now sit; and look you eat no more Than will preserve just so much strength in us As will revenge these bitter woes of ours. Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot. Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands, And cannot passionate our tenfold grief With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine Is left to tyrannize upon my breast; Who when my heart, all mad with misery, Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh, Then thus I thump it down. Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs, When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating, Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still. Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans; Or get some little knife between thy teeth, And just against thy heart make thou a hole, That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall May run into that sink, and, soaking in, Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears. MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay Such violent hands upon her tender life. TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already? Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I. What violent hands can she lay on her life? Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands, To bid Æneas tell the tale twice o’er How Troy was burnt and he made miserable? O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands, Lest we remember still that we have none. Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk, As if we should forget we had no hands, If Marcus did not name the word of hands! Come, let’s fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this. Here is no drink! Hark, Marcus, what she says; I can interpret all her martyred signs. She says she drinks no other drink but tears, Brewed with her sorrow, meshed upon her cheeks. Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought; In thy dumb action will I be as perfect As begging hermits in their holy prayers. Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven, Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign, But I of these will wrest an alphabet, And by still practice learn to know thy meaning. YOUNG LUCIUS. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments. Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale. MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion moved, Doth weep to see his grandsire’s heaviness. TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears, And tears will quickly melt thy life away. [_Marcus strikes the dish with a knife._] What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife? MARCUS. At that that I have killed, my lord, a fly. TITUS. Out on thee, murderer! Thou kill’st my heart; Mine eyes are cloyed with view of tyranny; A deed of death done on the innocent Becomes not Titus’ brother. Get thee gone; I see thou art not for my company. MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but killed a fly. TITUS. “But”? How if that fly had a father and mother? How would he hang his slender gilded wings And buzz lamenting doings in the air! Poor harmless fly, That with his pretty buzzing melody, Came here to make us merry, and thou hast killed him. MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; ’twas a black ill-favoured fly, Like to the empress’ Moor; therefore I killed him. TITUS. O, O, O! Then pardon me for reprehending thee, For thou hast done a charitable deed. Give me thy knife, I will insult on him, Flattering myself as if it were the Moor Come hither purposely to poison me. There’s for thyself, and that’s for Tamora. Ah, sirrah! Yet, I think, we are not brought so low But that between us we can kill a fly That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor. MARCUS. Alas, poor man, grief has so wrought on him, He takes false shadows for true substances. TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me. I’ll to thy closet, and go read with thee Sad stories chanced in the times of old. Come, boy, and go with me. Thy sight is young, And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Rome. Before Titus’s House Enter Young Lucius and Lavinia running after him, and the boy flies from her with his books under his arm. Enter Titus and Marcus. YOUNG LUCIUS. Help, grandsire, help! My aunt Lavinia Follows me everywhere, I know not why. Good uncle Marcus, see how swift she comes! Alas, sweet aunt, I know not what you mean. MARCUS. Stand by me, Lucius. Do not fear thine aunt. TITUS. She loves thee, boy, too well to do thee harm. YOUNG LUCIUS Ay, when my father was in Rome she did. MARCUS. What means my niece Lavinia by these signs? TITUS. Fear her not, Lucius. Somewhat doth she mean. See, Lucius, see how much she makes of thee. Somewhither would she have thee go with her. Ah, boy, Cornelia never with more care Read to her sons than she hath read to thee Sweet poetry and Tully’s _Orator_. MARCUS. Canst thou not guess wherefore she plies thee thus? YOUNG LUCIUS. My lord, I know not, I, nor can I guess, Unless some fit or frenzy do possess her; For I have heard my grandsire say full oft, Extremity of griefs would make men mad; And I have read that Hecuba of Troy Ran mad for sorrow. That made me to fear, Although, my lord, I know my noble aunt Loves me as dear as e’er my mother did, And would not, but in fury, fright my youth; Which made me down to throw my books, and fly, Causeless, perhaps. But pardon me, sweet aunt. And, madam, if my uncle Marcus go, I will most willingly attend your ladyship. MARCUS. Lucius, I will. [_Lavinia turns over with her stumps the books which Lucius has let fall._] TITUS. How now, Lavinia? Marcus, what means this? Some book there is that she desires to see. Which is it, girl, of these? Open them, boy. But thou art deeper read and better skilled. Come and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow, till the heavens Reveal the damned contriver of this deed. Why lifts she up her arms in sequence thus? MARCUS. I think she means that there were more than one Confederate in the fact. Ay, more there was, Or else to heaven she heaves them for revenge. TITUS. Lucius, what book is that she tosseth so? YOUNG LUCIUS. Grandsire, ’tis Ovid’s _Metamorphosis_. My mother gave it me. MARCUS. For love of her that’s gone, Perhaps, she culled it from among the rest. TITUS. Soft! So busily she turns the leaves! Help her! What would she find? Lavinia, shall I read? This is the tragic tale of Philomel, And treats of Tereus’ treason and his rape; And rape, I fear, was root of thy annoy. MARCUS. See, brother, see! Note how she quotes the leaves. TITUS. Lavinia, wert thou thus surprised, sweet girl, Ravished and wronged, as Philomela was, Forced in the ruthless, vast, and gloomy woods? See, see! Ay, such a place there is where we did hunt,— O, had we never, never hunted there!— Patterned by that the poet here describes, By nature made for murders and for rapes. MARCUS. O, why should nature build so foul a den, Unless the gods delight in tragedies? TITUS. Give signs, sweet girl, for here are none but friends, What Roman lord it was durst do the deed. Or slunk not Saturnine, as Tarquin erst, That left the camp to sin in Lucrece’ bed? MARCUS. Sit down, sweet niece. Brother, sit down by me. Apollo, Pallas, Jove, or Mercury, Inspire me, that I may this treason find! My lord, look here. Look here, Lavinia. This sandy plot is plain; guide, if thou canst, This after me. I have writ my name [_He writes his name with his staff and guides it with feet and mouth._] Without the help of any hand at all. Cursed be that heart that forced us to this shift! Write thou, good niece, and here display at last What God will have discovered for revenge. Heaven guide thy pen to print thy sorrows plain, That we may know the traitors and the truth! [_She takes the staff in her mouth, and guides it with her stumps and writes._] O, do ye read, my lord, what she hath writ? TITUS. “_Stuprum_. Chiron. Demetrius.” MARCUS. What, what! The lustful sons of Tamora Performers of this heinous bloody deed? TITUS. _Magni Dominator poli, Tam lentus audis scelera, tam lentus vides?_ MARCUS. O, calm thee, gentle lord, although I know There is enough written upon this earth To stir a mutiny in the mildest thoughts And arm the minds of infants to exclaims. My lord, kneel down with me; Lavinia, kneel; And kneel, sweet boy, the Roman Hector’s hope; And swear with me, as, with the woeful fere And father of that chaste dishonoured dame, Lord Junius Brutus sware for Lucrece’ rape, That we will prosecute, by good advice Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths, And see their blood, or die with this reproach. TITUS. ’Tis sure enough, an you knew how. But if you hunt these bear-whelps, then beware; The dam will wake, and if she wind you once. She’s with the lion deeply still in league, And lulls him whilst she playeth on her back, And when he sleeps will she do what she list. You are a young huntsman, Marcus; let alone; And come, I will go get a leaf of brass, And with a gad of steel will write these words, And lay it by. The angry northern wind Will blow these sands like Sibyl’s leaves abroad, And where’s our lesson, then? Boy, what say you? YOUNG LUCIUS. I say, my lord, that if I were a man, Their mother’s bedchamber should not be safe For these base bondmen to the yoke of Rome. MARCUS. Ay, that’s my boy! Thy father hath full oft For his ungrateful country done the like. YOUNG LUCIUS. And, uncle, so will I, an if I live. TITUS. Come, go with me into mine armoury. Lucius, I’ll fit thee; and withal, my boy, Shall carry from me to the empress’ sons Presents that I intend to send them both. Come, come; thou’lt do my message, wilt thou not? YOUNG LUCIUS. Ay, with my dagger in their bosoms, grandsire. TITUS. No, boy, not so. I’ll teach thee another course. Lavinia, come. Marcus, look to my house. Lucius and I’ll go brave it at the court; Ay, marry, will we, sir; and we’ll be waited on. [_Exeunt Titus, Lavinia and Young Lucius._] MARCUS. O heavens, can you hear a good man groan And not relent, or not compassion him? Marcus, attend him in his ecstasy, That hath more scars of sorrow in his heart Than foemen’s marks upon his battered shield, But yet so just that he will not revenge. Revenge ye heavens for old Andronicus! [_Exit._] SCENE II. Rome. A Room in the Palace Enter Aaron, Chiron and Demetrius at one door, and at the other door Young Lucius and another, with a bundle of weapons and verses writ upon them. CHIRON. Demetrius, here’s the son of Lucius; He hath some message to deliver us. AARON. Ay, some mad message from his mad grandfather. YOUNG LUCIUS. My lords, with all the humbleness I may, I greet your honours from Andronicus; [_Aside_.] And pray the Roman gods confound you both. DEMETRIUS. Gramercy, lovely Lucius. What’s the news? YOUNG LUCIUS. [_Aside_.] That you are both deciphered, that’s the news, For villains marked with rape. [_Aloud_.] May it please you, My grandsire, well advised, hath sent by me The goodliest weapons of his armoury To gratify your honourable youth, The hope of Rome; for so he bid me say; And so I do, and with his gifts present Your lordships, that, whenever you have need, You may be armed and appointed well. And so I leave you both, [_Aside_.] like bloody villains. [_Exeunt Young Lucius and Attendant._] DEMETRIUS. What’s here? A scroll; and written round about? Let’s see: [_Reads_.] _Integer vitae, scelerisque purus, Non eget Mauri iaculis, nec arcu._ CHIRON. O, ’tis a verse in Horace; I know it well. I read it in the grammar long ago. AARON. Ay, just; a verse in Horace; right, you have it. [_Aside_.] Now, what a thing it is to be an ass! Here’s no sound jest! The old man hath found their guilt, And sends them weapons wrapped about with lines, That wound, beyond their feeling, to the quick. But were our witty empress well afoot, She would applaud Andronicus’ conceit. But let her rest in her unrest awhile.— And now, young lords, was’t not a happy star Led us to Rome, strangers, and more than so, Captives, to be advanced to this height? It did me good before the palace gate To brave the tribune in his brother’s hearing. DEMETRIUS. But me more good to see so great a lord Basely insinuate and send us gifts. AARON. Had he not reason, Lord Demetrius? Did you not use his daughter very friendly? DEMETRIUS. I would we had a thousand Roman dames At such a bay, by turn to serve our lust. CHIRON. A charitable wish, and full of love. AARON. Here lacks but your mother for to say amen. CHIRON. And that would she for twenty thousand more. DEMETRIUS. Come, let us go and pray to all the gods For our beloved mother in her pains. AARON. [_Aside_.] Pray to the devils; the gods have given us over. [_Trumpets sound._] DEMETRIUS. Why do the emperor’s trumpets flourish thus? CHIRON. Belike for joy the emperor hath a son. DEMETRIUS. Soft, who comes here? Enter Nurse with a blackamoor Child in her arms. NURSE. Good morrow, lords. O, tell me, did you see Aaron the Moor? AARON. Well, more or less, or ne’er a whit at all, Here Aaron is; and what with Aaron now? NURSE. O gentle Aaron, we are all undone! Now help, or woe betide thee evermore! AARON. Why, what a caterwauling dost thou keep! What dost thou wrap and fumble in thy arms? NURSE. O, that which I would hide from heaven’s eye, Our empress’ shame and stately Rome’s disgrace. She is delivered, lords, she is delivered. AARON. To whom? NURSE. I mean, she’s brought a-bed. AARON. Well, God give her good rest! What hath he sent her? NURSE. A devil. AARON. Why, then she is the devil’s dam. A joyful issue. NURSE. A joyless, dismal, black, and sorrowful issue. Here is the babe, as loathsome as a toad Amongst the fair-faced breeders of our clime. The empress sends it thee, thy stamp, thy seal, And bids thee christen it with thy dagger’s point. AARON. Zounds, ye whore, is black so base a hue? Sweet blowse, you are a beauteous blossom sure. DEMETRIUS. Villain, what hast thou done? AARON. That which thou canst not undo. CHIRON. Thou hast undone our mother. AARON. Villain, I have done thy mother. DEMETRIUS. And therein, hellish dog, thou hast undone her. Woe to her chance, and damned her loathed choice! Accursed the offspring of so foul a fiend! CHIRON. It shall not live. AARON. It shall not die. NURSE. Aaron, it must; the mother wills it so. AARON. What, must it, nurse? Then let no man but I Do execution on my flesh and blood. DEMETRIUS. I’ll broach the tadpole on my rapier’s point. Nurse, give it me; my sword shall soon dispatch it. AARON. Sooner this sword shall plough thy bowels up. [_Taking the baby._] Stay, murderous villains, will you kill your brother? Now, by the burning tapers of the sky That shone so brightly when this boy was got, He dies upon my scimitar’s sharp point That touches this my first-born son and heir. I tell you, younglings, not Enceladus, With all his threatening band of Typhon’s brood, Nor great Alcides, nor the god of war, Shall seize this prey out of his father’s hands. What, what, ye sanguine, shallow-hearted boys! Ye white-limed walls, ye alehouse-painted signs! Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue; For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan’s black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood. Tell the empress from me, I am of age To keep mine own, excuse it how she can. DEMETRIUS. Wilt thou betray thy noble mistress thus? AARON. My mistress is my mistress; this my self; The vigour and the picture of my youth. This before all the world do I prefer; This maugre all the world will I keep safe, Or some of you shall smoke for it in Rome. DEMETRIUS. By this our mother is for ever shamed. CHIRON. Rome will despise her for this foul escape. NURSE. The emperor in his rage will doom her death. CHIRON. I blush to think upon this ignomy. AARON. Why, there’s the privilege your beauty bears. Fie, treacherous hue, that will betray with blushing The close enacts and counsels of thy heart! Here’s a young lad framed of another leer. Look how the black slave smiles upon the father, As who should say “Old lad, I am thine own.” He is your brother, lords, sensibly fed Of that self blood that first gave life to you; And from your womb where you imprisoned were He is enfranchised and come to light. Nay, he is your brother by the surer side, Although my seal be stamped in his face. NURSE. Aaron, what shall I say unto the empress? DEMETRIUS. Advise thee, Aaron, what is to be done, And we will all subscribe to thy advice. Save thou the child, so we may all be safe. AARON. Then sit we down, and let us all consult. My son and I will have the wind of you. Keep there. Now talk at pleasure of your safety. [_They sit._] DEMETRIUS. How many women saw this child of his? AARON. Why, so, brave lords! When we join in league, I am a lamb; but if you brave the Moor, The chafed boar, the mountain lioness, The ocean swells not so as Aaron storms. But say again, how many saw the child? NURSE. Cornelia the midwife and myself, And no one else but the delivered empress. AARON. The empress, the midwife, and yourself. Two may keep counsel when the third’s away. Go to the empress; tell her this I said. [_He kills her._] “Wheak, wheak!” So cries a pig prepared to the spit. DEMETRIUS. What mean’st thou, Aaron? Wherefore didst thou this? AARON. O Lord, sir, ’tis a deed of policy. Shall she live to betray this guilt of ours, A long-tongued babbling gossip? No, lords, no. And now be it known to you my full intent. Not far, one Muliteus lives, my countryman; His wife but yesternight was brought to bed. His child is like to her, fair as you are. Go pack with him, and give the mother gold, And tell them both the circumstance of all, And how by this their child shall be advanced, And be received for the emperor’s heir, And substituted in the place of mine, To calm this tempest whirling in the court; And let the emperor dandle him for his own. Hark ye, lords; ye see I have given her physic, [_Indicating the Nurse._] And you must needs bestow her funeral; The fields are near, and you are gallant grooms. This done, see that you take no longer days, But send the midwife presently to me. The midwife and the nurse well made away, Then let the ladies tattle what they please. CHIRON. Aaron, I see thou wilt not trust the air With secrets. DEMETRIUS. For this care of Tamora, Herself and hers are highly bound to thee. [_Exeunt Demetrius and Chiron, carrying the Nurse’s body._] AARON. Now to the Goths, as swift as swallow flies, There to dispose this treasure in mine arms, And secretly to greet the empress’ friends. Come on, you thick-lipped slave, I’ll bear you hence; For it is you that puts us to our shifts. I’ll make you feed on berries and on roots, And feed on curds and whey, and suck the goat, And cabin in a cave, and bring you up To be a warrior and command a camp. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Rome. A public Place Enter Titus, old Marcus, his son Publius, Young Lucius, and other gentlemen with bows, and Titus bears the arrows with letters on the ends of them. TITUS. Come, Marcus, come. Kinsmen, this is the way. Sir boy, let me see your archery. Look ye draw home enough, and ’tis there straight. _Terras Astraea reliquit._ Be you remembered, Marcus, she’s gone, she’s fled. Sirs, take you to your tools. You, cousins, shall Go sound the ocean and cast your nets; Happily you may catch her in the sea; Yet there’s as little justice as at land. No; Publius and Sempronius, you must do it; ’Tis you must dig with mattock and with spade, And pierce the inmost centre of the earth. Then, when you come to Pluto’s region, I pray you, deliver him this petition; Tell him it is for justice and for aid, And that it comes from old Andronicus, Shaken with sorrows in ungrateful Rome. Ah, Rome! Well, well, I made thee miserable What time I threw the people’s suffrages On him that thus doth tyrannize o’er me. Go, get you gone; and pray be careful all, And leave you not a man-of-war unsearched. This wicked emperor may have shipped her hence; And, kinsmen, then we may go pipe for justice. MARCUS. O Publius, is not this a heavy case, To see thy noble uncle thus distract? PUBLIUS. Therefore, my lords, it highly us concerns By day and night to attend him carefully, And feed his humour kindly as we may, Till time beget some careful remedy. MARCUS. Kinsmen, his sorrows are past remedy, But . . . . Join with the Goths, and with revengeful war Take wreak on Rome for this ingratitude, And vengeance on the traitor Saturnine. TITUS. Publius, how now? How now, my masters? What, have you met with her? PUBLIUS. No, my good lord; but Pluto sends you word, If you will have Revenge from hell, you shall. Marry, for Justice, she is so employed, He thinks, with Jove in heaven, or somewhere else, So that perforce you must needs stay a time. TITUS. He doth me wrong to feed me with delays. I’ll dive into the burning lake below, And pull her out of Acheron by the heels. Marcus, we are but shrubs, no cedars we, No big-boned men framed of the Cyclops’ size; But metal, Marcus, steel to the very back, Yet wrung with wrongs more than our backs can bear; And sith there’s no justice in earth nor hell, We will solicit heaven and move the gods To send down Justice for to wreak our wrongs. Come, to this gear. You are a good archer, Marcus. [_He gives them the arrows._] “_Ad Jovem,_” that’s for you; here, “_Ad Apollinem_”; “_Ad Martem,_” that’s for myself; Here, boy, “to Pallas”; here, “to Mercury”; “To Saturn,” Caius, not to Saturnine; You were as good to shoot against the wind. To it, boy.—Marcus, loose when I bid.— Of my word, I have written to effect; There’s not a god left unsolicited. MARCUS. Kinsmen, shoot all your shafts into the court. We will afflict the emperor in his pride. TITUS. Now, masters, draw. [_They shoot_.] O, well said, Lucius! Good boy, in Virgo’s lap! Give it Pallas. MARCUS. My lord, I aim a mile beyond the moon. Your letter is with Jupiter by this. TITUS. Ha! ha! Publius, Publius, what hast thou done? See, see, thou hast shot off one of Taurus’ horns. MARCUS. This was the sport, my lord; when Publius shot, The Bull, being galled, gave Aries such a knock That down fell both the Ram’s horns in the court; And who should find them but the empress’ villain? She laughed, and told the Moor he should not choose But give them to his master for a present. TITUS. Why, there it goes. God give his lordship joy! Enter the Clown with a basket and two pigeons in it. News, news from heaven! Marcus, the post is come. Sirrah, what tidings? Have you any letters? Shall I have justice? What says Jupiter? CLOWN. Ho, the gibbet-maker? He says that he hath taken them down again, for the man must not be hanged till the next week. TITUS. But what says Jupiter, I ask thee? CLOWN. Alas, sir, I know not Jubiter; I never drank with him in all my life. TITUS. Why, villain, art not thou the carrier? CLOWN. Ay, of my pigeons, sir; nothing else. TITUS. Why, didst thou not come from heaven? CLOWN. From heaven? Alas, sir, I never came there. God forbid I should be so bold to press to heaven in my young days. Why, I am going with my pigeons to the tribunal plebs, to take up a matter of brawl betwixt my uncle and one of the emperal’s men. MARCUS. Why, sir, that is as fit as can be to serve for your oration; and let him deliver the pigeons to the emperor from you. TITUS. Tell me, can you deliver an oration to the emperor with a grace? CLOWN. Nay, truly, sir, I could never say grace in all my life. TITUS. Sirrah, come hither. Make no more ado, But give your pigeons to the emperor. By me thou shalt have justice at his hands. Hold, hold; meanwhile here’s money for thy charges. Give me pen and ink. Sirrah, can you with a grace deliver up a supplication? CLOWN. Ay, sir. TITUS. Then here is a supplication for you. And when you come to him, at the first approach you must kneel; then kiss his foot; then deliver up your pigeons; and then look for your reward. I’ll be at hand, sir; see you do it bravely. CLOWN. I warrant you, sir; let me alone. TITUS. Sirrah, hast thou a knife? Come let me see it. Here, Marcus, fold it in the oration; For thou hast made it like a humble suppliant. And when thou hast given it to the emperor, Knock at my door, and tell me what he says. CLOWN. God be with you, sir; I will. [_Exit._] TITUS. Come, Marcus, let us go. Publius, follow me. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Rome. Before the Palace Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora and her two sons Chiron and Demetrius, with Attendants. The Emperor brings the arrows in his hand that Titus shot at him. SATURNINUS. Why, lords, what wrongs are these! Was ever seen An emperor in Rome thus overborne, Troubled, confronted thus; and, for the extent Of legal justice, used in such contempt? My lords, you know, as know the mightful gods, However these disturbers of our peace Buzz in the people’s ears, there naught hath passed But even with law against the wilful sons Of old Andronicus. And what an if His sorrows have so overwhelmed his wits? Shall we be thus afflicted in his wreaks, His fits, his frenzy, and his bitterness? And now he writes to heaven for his redress! See, here’s “to Jove,” and this “to Mercury,” This “to Apollo,” this to the god of war. Sweet scrolls to fly about the streets of Rome! What’s this but libelling against the senate, And blazoning our injustice everywhere? A goodly humour, is it not, my lords? As who would say, in Rome no justice were. But if I live, his feigned ecstasies Shall be no shelter to these outrages; But he and his shall know that justice lives In Saturninus’ health; whom, if she sleep, He’ll so awake as he in fury shall Cut off the proud’st conspirator that lives. TAMORA. My gracious lord, my lovely Saturnine, Lord of my life, commander of my thoughts, Calm thee, and bear the faults of Titus’ age, Th’ effects of sorrow for his valiant sons, Whose loss hath pierced him deep and scarred his heart; And rather comfort his distressed plight Than prosecute the meanest or the best For these contempts. [_Aside_.] Why, thus it shall become High-witted Tamora to gloze with all. But, Titus, I have touched thee to the quick; Thy life-blood out, if Aaron now be wise, Then is all safe, the anchor in the port. Enter Clown. How now, good fellow, wouldst thou speak with us? CLOWN. Yes, forsooth, an your mistresship be emperial. TAMORA. Empress I am, but yonder sits the emperor. CLOWN. ’Tis he. God and Saint Stephen give you good e’en. I have brought you a letter and a couple of pigeons here. [_Saturninus reads the letter._] SATURNINUS. Go take him away, and hang him presently. CLOWN. How much money must I have? TAMORA. Come, sirrah, you must be hanged. CLOWN. Hanged! by’r Lady, then I have brought up a neck to a fair end. [_Exit guarded._] SATURNINUS. Despiteful and intolerable wrongs! Shall I endure this monstrous villainy? I know from whence this same device proceeds. May this be borne as if his traitorous sons, That died by law for murder of our brother, Have by my means been butchered wrongfully? Go, drag the villain hither by the hair; Nor age nor honour shall shape privilege. For this proud mock I’ll be thy slaughterman, Sly frantic wretch, that holp’st to make me great, In hope thyself should govern Rome and me. Enter Aemilius. What news with thee, Aemilius? AEMILIUS. Arm, my lord! Rome never had more cause. The Goths have gathered head, and with a power Of high-resolved men, bent to the spoil, They hither march amain, under conduct Of Lucius, son to old Andronicus; Who threats, in course of this revenge, to do As much as ever Coriolanus did. SATURNINUS. Is warlike Lucius general of the Goths? These tidings nip me, and I hang the head As flowers with frost, or grass beat down with storms. Ay, now begins our sorrows to approach. ’Tis he the common people love so much; Myself hath often overheard them say, When I have walked like a private man, That Lucius’ banishment was wrongfully, And they have wished that Lucius were their emperor. TAMORA. Why should you fear? Is not your city strong? SATURNINUS. Ay, but the citizens favour Lucius, And will revolt from me to succour him. TAMORA. King, be thy thoughts imperious like thy name. Is the sun dimmed, that gnats do fly in it? The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody; Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome. Then cheer thy spirit; for know, thou emperor, I will enchant the old Andronicus With words more sweet, and yet more dangerous, Than baits to fish or honey-stalks to sheep, Whenas the one is wounded with the bait, The other rotted with delicious feed. SATURNINUS. But he will not entreat his son for us. TAMORA. If Tamora entreat him, then he will, For I can smooth and fill his aged ears With golden promises, that, were his heart Almost impregnable, his old ears deaf, Yet should both ear and heart obey my tongue. [_to Aemilius_] Go thou before, be our ambassador. Say that the emperor requests a parley Of warlike Lucius, and appoint the meeting Even at his father’s house, the old Andronicus. SATURNINUS. Aemilius, do this message honourably, And if he stand on hostage for his safety, Bid him demand what pledge will please him best. AEMILIUS. Your bidding shall I do effectually. [_Exit._] TAMORA. Now will I to that old Andronicus, And temper him with all the art I have, To pluck proud Lucius from the warlike Goths. And now, sweet emperor, be blithe again, And bury all thy fear in my devices. SATURNINUS. Then go successantly, and plead to him. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Plains near Rome Enter Lucius with an army of Goths, with drums and soldiers. LUCIUS. Approved warriors and my faithful friends, I have received letters from great Rome Which signifies what hate they bear their emperor And how desirous of our sight they are. Therefore, great lords, be, as your titles witness, Imperious, and impatient of your wrongs; And wherein Rome hath done you any scath, Let him make treble satisfaction. FIRST GOTH. Brave slip, sprung from the great Andronicus, Whose name was once our terror, now our comfort, Whose high exploits and honourable deeds Ingrateful Rome requites with foul contempt, Be bold in us. We’ll follow where thou lead’st, Like stinging bees in hottest summer’s day Led by their master to the flowered fields, And be avenged on cursed Tamora. GOTHS. And as he saith, so say we all with him. LUCIUS. I humbly thank him, and I thank you all. But who comes here, led by a lusty Goth? Enter a Goth, leading of Aaron with his Child in his arms. SECOND GOTH. Renowned Lucius, from our troops I strayed To gaze upon a ruinous monastery; And as I earnestly did fix mine eye Upon the wasted building, suddenly I heard a child cry underneath a wall. I made unto the noise, when soon I heard The crying babe controlled with this discourse: “Peace, tawny slave, half me and half thy dame! Did not thy hue bewray whose brat thou art, Had nature lent thee but thy mother’s look, Villain, thou mightst have been an emperor. But where the bull and cow are both milk-white, They never do beget a coal-black calf. Peace, villain, peace!” even thus he rates the babe, “For I must bear thee to a trusty Goth, Who, when he knows thou art the empress’ babe, Will hold thee dearly for thy mother’s sake.” With this, my weapon drawn, I rushed upon him, Surprised him suddenly, and brought him hither To use as you think needful of the man. LUCIUS. O worthy Goth, this is the incarnate devil That robbed Andronicus of his good hand; This is the pearl that pleased your empress’ eye; And here’s the base fruit of her burning lust. Say, wall-eyed slave, whither wouldst thou convey This growing image of thy fiend-like face? Why dost not speak? What, deaf? Not a word? A halter, soldiers, hang him on this tree, And by his side his fruit of bastardy. AARON. Touch not the boy, he is of royal blood. LUCIUS. Too like the sire for ever being good. First hang the child, that he may see it sprawl, A sight to vex the father’s soul withal. Get me a ladder. [_A ladder is brought, which Aaron is made to ascend._] AARON. Lucius, save the child; And bear it from me to the empress. If thou do this, I’ll show thee wondrous things That highly may advantage thee to hear. If thou wilt not, befall what may befall, I’ll speak no more but “Vengeance rot you all!” LUCIUS. Say on, and if it please me which thou speak’st, Thy child shall live, and I will see it nourished. AARON. And if it please thee? Why, assure thee, Lucius, ’Twill vex thy soul to hear what I shall speak; For I must talk of murders, rapes, and massacres, Acts of black night, abominable deeds, Complots of mischief, treason, villainies, Ruthful to hear, yet piteously performed. And this shall all be buried in my death, Unless thou swear to me my child shall live. LUCIUS. Tell on thy mind; I say thy child shall live. AARON. Swear that he shall, and then I will begin. LUCIUS. Who should I swear by? Thou believ’st no god. That granted, how canst thou believe an oath? AARON. What if I do not? As indeed I do not; Yet, for I know thou art religious, And hast a thing within thee called conscience, With twenty popish tricks and ceremonies Which I have seen thee careful to observe, Therefore I urge thy oath; for that I know An idiot holds his bauble for a god, And keeps the oath which by that god he swears, To that I’ll urge him. Therefore thou shalt vow By that same god, what god soe’er it be That thou adorest and hast in reverence, To save my boy, to nourish and bring him up; Or else I will discover naught to thee. LUCIUS. Even by my god I swear to thee I will. AARON. First know thou, I begot him on the empress. LUCIUS. O most insatiate and luxurious woman! AARON. Tut, Lucius, this was but a deed of charity To that which thou shalt hear of me anon. ’Twas her two sons that murdered Bassianus; They cut thy sister’s tongue, and ravished her, And cut her hands, and trimmed her as thou sawest. LUCIUS. O detestable villain, call’st thou that trimming? AARON. Why, she was washed, and cut, and trimmed; and ’twas Trim sport for them which had the doing of it. LUCIUS. O barbarous beastly villains, like thyself! AARON. Indeed, I was their tutor to instruct them. That codding spirit had they from their mother, As sure a card as ever won the set; That bloody mind I think they learned of me, As true a dog as ever fought at head. Well, let my deeds be witness of my worth. I trained thy brethren to that guileful hole Where the dead corpse of Bassianus lay. I wrote the letter that thy father found, And hid the gold within that letter mentioned, Confederate with the queen and her two sons. And what not done, that thou hast cause to rue, Wherein I had no stroke of mischief in’t? I played the cheater for thy father’s hand, And, when I had it, drew myself apart, And almost broke my heart with extreme laughter. I pried me through the crevice of a wall When, for his hand, he had his two sons’ heads; Beheld his tears, and laughed so heartily That both mine eyes were rainy like to his. And when I told the empress of this sport, She sounded almost at my pleasing tale, And for my tidings gave me twenty kisses. GOTH. What, canst thou say all this and never blush? AARON. Ay, like a black dog, as the saying is. LUCIUS. Art thou not sorry for these heinous deeds? AARON. Ay, that I had not done a thousand more. Even now I curse the day, and yet, I think, Few come within the compass of my curse, Wherein I did not some notorious ill, As kill a man, or else devise his death; Ravish a maid, or plot the way to do it; Accuse some innocent, and forswear myself; Set deadly enmity between two friends; Make poor men’s cattle break their necks; Set fire on barns and haystalks in the night, And bid the owners quench them with their tears. Oft have I digged up dead men from their graves, And set them upright at their dear friends’ door, Even when their sorrows almost was forgot, And on their skins, as on the bark of trees, Have with my knife carved in Roman letters, “Let not your sorrow die, though I am dead.” But I have done a thousand dreadful things As willingly as one would kill a fly, And nothing grieves me heartily indeed But that I cannot do ten thousand more. LUCIUS. Bring down the devil, for he must not die So sweet a death as hanging presently. AARON. If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell But to torment you with my bitter tongue! LUCIUS. Sirs, stop his mouth, and let him speak no more. Enter Aemilius. GOTH. My lord, there is a messenger from Rome Desires to be admitted to your presence. LUCIUS. Let him come near. Welcome, Aemilius. What’s the news from Rome? AEMILIUS. Lord Lucius, and you princes of the Goths, The Roman emperor greets you all by me; And, for he understands you are in arms, He craves a parley at your father’s house, Willing you to demand your hostages, And they shall be immediately delivered. FIRST GOTH. What says our general? LUCIUS. Aemilius, let the emperor give his pledges Unto my father and my uncle Marcus, And we will come. March away. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Rome. Before Titus’s House Enter Tamora and her two sons, disguised. TAMORA. Thus, in this strange and sad habiliment, I will encounter with Andronicus, And say I am Revenge, sent from below To join with him and right his heinous wrongs. Knock at his study, where they say he keeps To ruminate strange plots of dire revenge; Tell him Revenge is come to join with him And work confusion on his enemies. [_They knock._] Titus above opens his study door. TITUS. Who doth molest my contemplation? Is it your trick to make me ope the door, That so my sad decrees may fly away And all my study be to no effect? You are deceived; for what I mean to do See here in bloody lines I have set down; And what is written shall be executed. TAMORA. Titus, I am come to talk with thee. TITUS. No, not a word; how can I grace my talk, Wanting a hand to give it action? Thou hast the odds of me; therefore no more. TAMORA. If thou didst know me, thou wouldst talk with me. TITUS. I am not mad; I know thee well enough. Witness this wretched stump, witness these crimson lines; Witness these trenches made by grief and care; Witness the tiring day and heavy night; Witness all sorrow that I know thee well For our proud empress, mighty Tamora. Is not thy coming for my other hand? TAMORA. Know thou, sad man, I am not Tamora; She is thy enemy, and I thy friend. I am Revenge, sent from th’ infernal kingdom To ease the gnawing vulture of thy mind By working wreakful vengeance on thy foes. Come down and welcome me to this world’s light; Confer with me of murder and of death. There’s not a hollow cave or lurking-place, No vast obscurity or misty vale, Where bloody murder or detested rape Can couch for fear but I will find them out, And in their ears tell them my dreadful name, Revenge, which makes the foul offender quake. TITUS. Art thou Revenge? And art thou sent to me To be a torment to mine enemies? TAMORA. I am; therefore come down and welcome me. TITUS. Do me some service ere I come to thee. Lo, by thy side where Rape and Murder stands; Now give some surance that thou art Revenge: Stab them, or tear them on thy chariot wheels, And then I’ll come and be thy waggoner, And whirl along with thee about the globe. Provide thee two proper palfreys, black as jet, To hale thy vengeful waggon swift away, And find out murderers in their guilty caves. And when thy car is loaden with their heads, I will dismount, and by the waggon-wheel Trot like a servile footman all day long, Even from Hyperion’s rising in the east Until his very downfall in the sea. And day by day I’ll do this heavy task, So thou destroy Rapine and Murder there. TAMORA. These are my ministers, and come with me. TITUS. Are they thy ministers? What are they called? TAMORA. Rapine and Murder; therefore called so ’Cause they take vengeance of such kind of men. TITUS. Good Lord, how like the empress’ sons they are, And you the empress! But we worldly men Have miserable, mad, mistaking eyes. O sweet Revenge, now do I come to thee; And, if one arm’s embracement will content thee, I will embrace thee in it by and by. [_He exits above._] TAMORA. This closing with him fits his lunacy. Whate’er I forge to feed his brain-sick humours, Do you uphold and maintain in your speeches, For now he firmly takes me for Revenge; And, being credulous in this mad thought, I’ll make him send for Lucius his son; And whilst I at a banquet hold him sure, I’ll find some cunning practice out of hand To scatter and disperse the giddy Goths, Or, at the least, make them his enemies. See, here he comes, and I must ply my theme. Enter Titus. TITUS. Long have I been forlorn, and all for thee. Welcome, dread Fury, to my woeful house. Rapine and Murder, you are welcome too. How like the empress and her sons you are! Well are you fitted, had you but a Moor. Could not all hell afford you such a devil? For well I wot the empress never wags But in her company there is a Moor; And, would you represent our queen aright, It were convenient you had such a devil. But welcome as you are. What shall we do? TAMORA. What wouldst thou have us do, Andronicus? DEMETRIUS. Show me a murderer, I’ll deal with him. CHIRON. Show me a villain that hath done a rape, And I am sent to be revenged on him. TAMORA. Show me a thousand that hath done thee wrong, And I will be revenged on them all. TITUS. Look round about the wicked streets of Rome, And when thou find’st a man that’s like thyself, Good Murder, stab him; he’s a murderer. Go thou with him; and when it is thy hap To find another that is like to thee, Good Rapine, stab him; he is a ravisher. Go thou with them; and in the emperor’s court There is a queen, attended by a Moor; Well shalt thou know her by thine own proportion, For up and down she doth resemble thee. I pray thee, do on them some violent death; They have been violent to me and mine. TAMORA. Well hast thou lessoned us; this shall we do. But would it please thee, good Andronicus, To send for Lucius, thy thrice-valiant son, Who leads towards Rome a band of warlike Goths, And bid him come and banquet at thy house? When he is here, even at thy solemn feast, I will bring in the empress and her sons, The emperor himself, and all thy foes, And at thy mercy shall they stoop and kneel, And on them shalt thou ease thy angry heart. What says Andronicus to this device? TITUS. Marcus, my brother, ’tis sad Titus calls. Enter Marcus. Go, gentle Marcus, to thy nephew Lucius; Thou shalt inquire him out among the Goths. Bid him repair to me and bring with him Some of the chiefest princes of the Goths; Bid him encamp his soldiers where they are. Tell him the emperor and the empress too Feast at my house, and he shall feast with them. This do thou for my love; and so let him, As he regards his aged father’s life. MARCUS. This will I do, and soon return again. [_Exit._] TAMORA. Now will I hence about thy business, And take my ministers along with me. TITUS. Nay, nay, let Rape and Murder stay with me, Or else I’ll call my brother back again And cleave to no revenge but Lucius. TAMORA. [_Aside to them_.] What say you, boys? Will you abide with him, Whiles I go tell my lord the emperor How I have governed our determined jest? Yield to his humour, smooth and speak him fair, And tarry with him till I come again. TITUS. [_Aside_.] I knew them all, though they suppose me mad, And will o’erreach them in their own devices, A pair of cursed hell-hounds and their dam. DEMETRIUS. Madam, depart at pleasure; leave us here. TAMORA. Farewell, Andronicus. Revenge now goes To lay a complot to betray thy foes. TITUS. I know thou dost; and, sweet Revenge, farewell. [_Exit Tamora._] CHIRON. Tell us, old man, how shall we be employed? TITUS. Tut, I have work enough for you to do. Publius, come hither, Caius, and Valentine. Enter Publius and others. PUBLIUS. What is your will? TITUS. Know you these two? PUBLIUS. The empress’ sons, I take them, Chiron, Demetrius. TITUS. Fie, Publius, fie, thou art too much deceived. The one is Murder, and Rape is the other’s name; And therefore bind them, gentle Publius. Caius and Valentine, lay hands on them. Oft have you heard me wish for such an hour, And now I find it. Therefore bind them sure, And stop their mouths if they begin to cry. [_Exit Titus._] CHIRON. Villains, forbear! We are the empress’ sons. PUBLIUS. And therefore do we what we are commanded. Stop close their mouths, let them not speak a word. Is he sure bound? Look that you bind them fast. Enter Titus Andronicus with a knife, and Lavinia with a basin. TITUS. Come, come, Lavinia; look, thy foes are bound. Sirs, stop their mouths, let them not speak to me, But let them hear what fearful words I utter. O villains, Chiron and Demetrius! Here stands the spring whom you have stained with mud, This goodly summer with your winter mixed. You killed her husband, and for that vile fault Two of her brothers were condemned to death, My hand cut off and made a merry jest, Both her sweet hands, her tongue, and that more dear Than hands or tongue, her spotless chastity, Inhuman traitors, you constrained and forced. What would you say if I should let you speak? Villains, for shame you could not beg for grace. Hark, wretches, how I mean to martyr you. This one hand yet is left to cut your throats, Whiles that Lavinia ’tween her stumps doth hold The basin that receives your guilty blood. You know your mother means to feast with me, And calls herself Revenge, and thinks me mad. Hark, villains! I will grind your bones to dust, And with your blood and it I’ll make a paste, And of the paste a coffin I will rear, And make two pasties of your shameful heads, And bid that strumpet, your unhallowed dam, Like to the earth swallow her own increase. This is the feast that I have bid her to, And this the banquet she shall surfeit on; For worse than Philomel you used my daughter, And worse than Procne I will be revenged. And now prepare your throats.—Lavinia, come Receive the blood. [_He cuts their throats._] And when that they are dead, Let me go grind their bones to powder small, And with this hateful liquor temper it, And in that paste let their vile heads be baked. Come, come, be everyone officious To make this banquet, which I wish may prove More stern and bloody than the Centaurs’ feast. So, now bring them in, for I’ll play the cook, And see them ready against their mother comes. [_Exeunt, carrying the dead bodies._] SCENE III. Rome. A Pavilion in Titus’s Gardens, with tables, &c. Enter Lucius, Marcus and the Goths, with Aaron, prisoner. LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since ’tis my father’s mind That I repair to Rome, I am content. FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will. LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor, This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil; Let him receive no sust’nance, fetter him, Till he be brought unto the empress’ face For testimony of her foul proceedings. And see the ambush of our friends be strong; I fear the emperor means no good to us. AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear, And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth The venomous malice of my swelling heart! LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave! Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in. [_Sound trumpets._] The trumpets show the emperor is at hand. [_Exeunt Goths with Aaron._] Enter Emperor Saturninus and Empress Tamora with Aemilius, Tribunes and others. SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one? LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun? MARCUS. Rome’s emperor, and nephew, break the parle; These quarrels must be quietly debated. The feast is ready which the careful Titus Hath ordained to an honourable end, For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome. Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places. SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will. Trumpets sounding, enter Titus like a cook, placing the dishes, with Young Lucius and others, and Lavinia with a veil over her face. TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread queen; Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius; And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor, ’Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it. SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attired, Andronicus? TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well To entertain your highness and your empress. TAMORA. We are beholden to you, good Andronicus. TITUS. An if your highness knew my heart, you were. My lord the emperor, resolve me this: Was it well done of rash Virginius To slay his daughter with his own right hand, Because she was enforced, stained, and deflowered? SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus. TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord? SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame, And by her presence still renew his sorrows. TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual; A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant For me, most wretched, to perform the like. Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; And with thy shame thy father’s sorrow die! [_He kills Lavinia._] SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind? TITUS. Killed her for whom my tears have made me blind. I am as woeful as Virginius was, And have a thousand times more cause than he To do this outrage, and it now is done. SATURNINUS. What, was she ravished? Tell who did the deed. TITUS. Will’t please you eat? Will’t please your highness feed? TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus? TITUS. Not I; ’twas Chiron and Demetrius. They ravished her, and cut away her tongue; And they, ’twas they, that did her all this wrong. SATURNINUS. Go fetch them hither to us presently. TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in that pie, Whereof their mother daintily hath fed, Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred. ’Tis true, ’tis true; witness my knife’s sharp point. [_He stabs the Empress._] SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed. [_He kills Titus._] LUCIUS. Can the son’s eye behold his father bleed? [_He kills Saturninus._] There’s meed for meed, death for a deadly deed. [_A great tumult. Lucius, Marcus, and others go aloft to the upper stage._] MARCUS. You sad-faced men, people and sons of Rome, By uproar severed, as a flight of fowl Scattered by winds and high tempestuous gusts, O, let me teach you how to knit again This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf, These broken limbs again into one body; Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself, And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to, Like a forlorn and desperate castaway, Do shameful execution on herself. But if my frosty signs and chaps of age, Grave witnesses of true experience, Cannot induce you to attend my words, Speak, Rome’s dear friend, [_to Lucius_] as erst our ancestor, When with his solemn tongue he did discourse To love-sick Dido’s sad attending ear The story of that baleful burning night When subtle Greeks surprised King Priam’s Troy. Tell us what Sinon hath bewitched our ears, Or who hath brought the fatal engine in That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound. My heart is not compact of flint nor steel, Nor can I utter all our bitter grief, But floods of tears will drown my oratory And break my utterance, even in the time When it should move you to attend me most, And force you to commiseration. Here’s Rome’s young captain, let him tell the tale, While I stand by and weep to hear him speak. LUCIUS. Then, noble auditory, be it known to you That Chiron and the damned Demetrius Were they that murdered our emperor’s brother; And they it were that ravished our sister. For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded, Our father’s tears despised, and basely cozened Of that true hand that fought Rome’s quarrel out And sent her enemies unto the grave. Lastly, myself unkindly banished, The gates shut on me, and turned weeping out, To beg relief among Rome’s enemies; Who drowned their enmity in my true tears, And oped their arms to embrace me as a friend. I am the turned-forth, be it known to you, That have preserved her welfare in my blood And from her bosom took the enemy’s point, Sheathing the steel in my advent’rous body. Alas, you know I am no vaunter, I; My scars can witness, dumb although they are, That my report is just and full of truth. But soft, methinks I do digress too much, Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me; For when no friends are by, men praise themselves. MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child. Of this was Tamora delivered, The issue of an irreligious Moor, Chief architect and plotter of these woes. The villain is alive in Titus’ house, And as he is to witness, this is true. Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge These wrongs unspeakable, past patience, Or more than any living man could bear. Now have you heard the truth. What say you, Romans? Have we done aught amiss? Show us wherein, And, from the place where you behold us pleading, The poor remainder of Andronici Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves, And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls, And make a mutual closure of our house. Speak, Romans, speak, and if you say we shall, Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall. AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome, And bring our emperor gently in thy hand, Lucius our emperor; for well I know The common voice do cry it shall be so. ROMANS. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s royal emperor! MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus’ sorrowful house, And hither hale that misbelieving Moor To be adjudged some direful slaught’ring death, As punishment for his most wicked life. [_Exeunt Attendants. Lucius and Marcus come down from the upper stage._] ROMANS. Lucius, all hail, Rome’s gracious governor! LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans. May I govern so To heal Rome’s harms and wipe away her woe! But, gentle people, give me aim awhile, For nature puts me to a heavy task. Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk. [_He kisses Titus._] O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stained face, The last true duties of thy noble son. MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips. O, were the sum of these that I should pay Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them. LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, and learn of us To melt in showers. Thy grandsire loved thee well. Many a time he danced thee on his knee, Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow; Many a story hath he told to thee, And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind And talk of them when he was dead and gone. MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips, When they were living, warmed themselves on thine! O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss. Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave. Do them that kindness, and take leave of them. YOUNG LUCIUS. O grandsire, grandsire, e’en with all my heart Would I were dead, so you did live again! O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping; My tears will choke me if I ope my mouth. Re-enter Attendants with Aaron. AEMILIUS. You sad Andronici, have done with woes. Give sentence on the execrable wretch That hath been breeder of these dire events. LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth and famish him; There let him stand and rave and cry for food. If anyone relieves or pities him, For the offence he dies. This is our doom. Some stay to see him fastened in the earth. AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb? I am no baby, I, that with base prayers I should repent the evils I have done. Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did Would I perform, if I might have my will. If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul. LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the emperor hence, And give him burial in his father’s grave. My father and Lavinia shall forthwith Be closed in our household’s monument. As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora, No funeral rite, nor man in mournful weed, No mournful bell shall ring her burial; But throw her forth to beasts and birds of prey. Her life was beastly and devoid of pity; And being dead, let birds on her take pity. [_Exeunt._] TROILUS AND CRESSIDA Contents ACT I Prologue. Scene I. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Scene II. Troy. A street. Scene III. The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon’s tent. ACT II Scene I. The Grecian camp. Scene II. Troy. Priam’s palace. Scene III. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. ACT III Scene I. Troy. Priam’s palace. Scene II. Troy. Pandarus’ orchard. Scene III. The Greek camp. ACT IV Scene I. Troy. A street. Scene II. Troy. The court of Pandarus’ house. Scene III. Troy. A street before Pandarus’ house. Scene IV. Troy. Pandarus’ house. Scene V. The Grecian camp. Lists set out. ACT V Scene I. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. Scene II. The Grecian camp. Before Calchas’ tent. Scene III. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Scene IV. The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp. Scene V. Another part of the plain. Scene VI. Another part of the plain. Scene VII. Another part of the plain. Scene VIII. Another part of the plain. Scene IX. Another part of the plain. Scene X. Another part of the plain. Dramatis Personæ PRIAM, King of Troy His sons: HECTOR TROILUS PARIS DEIPHOBUS HELENUS MARGARELON, a bastard son of Priam Trojan commanders: AENEAS ANTENOR CALCHAS, a Trojan priest, taking part with the Greeks PANDARUS, uncle to Cressida AGAMEMNON, the Greek general MENELAUS, his brother Greek commanders: ACHILLES AJAX ULYSSES NESTOR DIOMEDES PATROCLUS THERSITES, a deformed and scurrilous Greek ALEXANDER, servant to Cressida SERVANT to Troilus SERVANT to Paris SERVANT to Diomedes HELEN, wife to Menelaus ANDROMACHE, wife to Hector CASSANDRA, daughter to Priam, a prophetess CRESSIDA, daughter to Calchas Trojan and Greek Soldiers, and Attendants SCENE: Troy and the Greek camp before it PROLOGUE In Troy, there lies the scene. From isles of Greece The princes orgulous, their high blood chaf’d, Have to the port of Athens sent their ships Fraught with the ministers and instruments Of cruel war. Sixty and nine that wore Their crownets regal from the Athenian bay Put forth toward Phrygia; and their vow is made To ransack Troy, within whose strong immures The ravish’d Helen, Menelaus’ queen, With wanton Paris sleeps—and that’s the quarrel. To Tenedos they come, And the deep-drawing barks do there disgorge Their war-like fraughtage. Now on Dardan plains The fresh and yet unbruised Greeks do pitch Their brave pavilions: Priam’s six-gated city, Dardan, and Tymbria, Ilias, Chetas, Troien, And Antenorides, with massy staples And corresponsive and fulfilling bolts, Stir up the sons of Troy. Now expectation, tickling skittish spirits On one and other side, Trojan and Greek, Sets all on hazard. And hither am I come A prologue arm’d, but not in confidence Of author’s pen or actor’s voice, but suited In like conditions as our argument, To tell you, fair beholders, that our play Leaps o’er the vaunt and firstlings of those broils, Beginning in the middle; starting thence away, To what may be digested in a play. Like or find fault; do as your pleasures are; Now good or bad, ’tis but the chance of war. ACT I SCENE I. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Enter Troilus armed, and Pandarus. TROILUS. Call here my varlet; I’ll unarm again. Why should I war without the walls of Troy That find such cruel battle here within? Each Trojan that is master of his heart, Let him to field; Troilus, alas! hath none. PANDARUS. Will this gear ne’er be mended? TROILUS. The Greeks are strong, and skilful to their strength, Fierce to their skill, and to their fierceness valiant; But I am weaker than a woman’s tear, Tamer than sleep, fonder than ignorance, Less valiant than the virgin in the night, And skilless as unpractis’d infancy. PANDARUS. Well, I have told you enough of this; for my part, I’ll not meddle nor make no farther. He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding. TROILUS. Have I not tarried? PANDARUS. Ay, the grinding; but you must tarry the bolting. TROILUS. Have I not tarried? PANDARUS. Ay, the bolting; but you must tarry the leavening. TROILUS. Still have I tarried. PANDARUS. Ay, to the leavening; but here’s yet in the word ‘hereafter’ the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven, and the baking; nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance burn your lips. TROILUS. Patience herself, what goddess e’er she be, Doth lesser blench at suff’rance than I do. At Priam’s royal table do I sit; And when fair Cressid comes into my thoughts, So, traitor! ‘when she comes’! when she is thence? PANDARUS. Well, she look’d yesternight fairer than ever I saw her look, or any woman else. TROILUS. I was about to tell thee: when my heart, As wedged with a sigh, would rive in twain, Lest Hector or my father should perceive me, I have, as when the sun doth light a storm, Buried this sigh in wrinkle of a smile. But sorrow that is couch’d in seeming gladness Is like that mirth fate turns to sudden sadness. PANDARUS. An her hair were not somewhat darker than Helen’s, well, go to, there were no more comparison between the women. But, for my part, she is my kinswoman; I would not, as they term it, praise her, but I would somebody had heard her talk yesterday, as I did. I will not dispraise your sister Cassandra’s wit; but— TROILUS. O Pandarus! I tell thee, Pandarus, When I do tell thee there my hopes lie drown’d, Reply not in how many fathoms deep They lie indrench’d. I tell thee I am mad In Cressid’s love. Thou answer’st ‘She is fair’; Pour’st in the open ulcer of my heart Her eyes, her hair, her cheek, her gait, her voice, Handlest in thy discourse. O! that her hand, In whose comparison all whites are ink Writing their own reproach; to whose soft seizure The cygnet’s down is harsh, and spirit of sense Hard as the palm of ploughman! This thou tell’st me, As true thou tell’st me, when I say I love her; But, saying thus, instead of oil and balm, Thou lay’st in every gash that love hath given me The knife that made it. PANDARUS. I speak no more than truth. TROILUS. Thou dost not speak so much. PANDARUS. Faith, I’ll not meddle in’t. Let her be as she is: if she be fair, ’tis the better for her; and she be not, she has the mends in her own hands. TROILUS. Good Pandarus! How now, Pandarus! PANDARUS. I have had my labour for my travail, ill thought on of her and ill thought on of you; gone between and between, but small thanks for my labour. TROILUS. What! art thou angry, Pandarus? What! with me? PANDARUS. Because she’s kin to me, therefore she’s not so fair as Helen. And she were not kin to me, she would be as fair on Friday as Helen is on Sunday. But what care I? I care not and she were a blackamoor; ’tis all one to me. TROILUS. Say I she is not fair? PANDARUS. I do not care whether you do or no. She’s a fool to stay behind her father. Let her to the Greeks; and so I’ll tell her the next time I see her. For my part, I’ll meddle nor make no more i’ the matter. TROILUS. Pandarus— PANDARUS. Not I. TROILUS. Sweet Pandarus— PANDARUS. Pray you, speak no more to me: I will leave all as I found it, and there an end. [_Exit Pandarus. An alarum._] TROILUS. Peace, you ungracious clamours! Peace, rude sounds! Fools on both sides! Helen must needs be fair, When with your blood you daily paint her thus. I cannot fight upon this argument; It is too starv’d a subject for my sword. But Pandarus, O gods! how do you plague me! I cannot come to Cressid but by Pandar; And he’s as tetchy to be woo’d to woo As she is stubborn-chaste against all suit. Tell me, Apollo, for thy Daphne’s love, What Cressid is, what Pandar, and what we? Her bed is India; there she lies, a pearl; Between our Ilium and where she resides Let it be call’d the wild and wandering flood; Ourself the merchant, and this sailing Pandar Our doubtful hope, our convoy, and our bark. Alarum. Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. How now, Prince Troilus! Wherefore not afield? TROILUS. Because not there. This woman’s answer sorts, For womanish it is to be from thence. What news, Aeneas, from the field today? AENEAS. That Paris is returned home, and hurt. TROILUS. By whom, Aeneas? AENEAS. Troilus, by Menelaus. TROILUS. Let Paris bleed: ’tis but a scar to scorn; Paris is gor’d with Menelaus’ horn. [_Alarum._] AENEAS. Hark what good sport is out of town today! TROILUS. Better at home, if ‘would I might’ were ‘may.’ But to the sport abroad. Are you bound thither? AENEAS. In all swift haste. TROILUS. Come, go we then together. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Troy. A street. Enter Cressida and her man Alexander. CRESSIDA. Who were those went by? ALEXANDER. Queen Hecuba and Helen. CRESSIDA. And whither go they? ALEXANDER. Up to the eastern tower, Whose height commands as subject all the vale, To see the battle. Hector, whose patience Is as a virtue fix’d, today was mov’d. He chid Andromache, and struck his armourer; And, like as there were husbandry in war, Before the sun rose he was harness’d light, And to the field goes he; where every flower Did as a prophet weep what it foresaw In Hector’s wrath. CRESSIDA. What was his cause of anger? ALEXANDER. The noise goes, this: there is among the Greeks A lord of Trojan blood, nephew to Hector; They call him Ajax. CRESSIDA. Good; and what of him? ALEXANDER. They say he is a very man _per se_ And stands alone. CRESSIDA. So do all men, unless they are drunk, sick, or have no legs. ALEXANDER. This man, lady, hath robb’d many beasts of their particular additions: he is as valiant as the lion, churlish as the bear, slow as the elephant—a man into whom nature hath so crowded humours that his valour is crush’d into folly, his folly sauced with discretion. There is no man hath a virtue that he hath not a glimpse of, nor any man an attaint but he carries some stain of it; he is melancholy without cause and merry against the hair; he hath the joints of everything; but everything so out of joint that he is a gouty Briareus, many hands and no use, or purblind Argus, all eyes and no sight. CRESSIDA. But how should this man, that makes me smile, make Hector angry? ALEXANDER. They say he yesterday cop’d Hector in the battle and struck him down, the disdain and shame whereof hath ever since kept Hector fasting and waking. Enter Pandarus. CRESSIDA. Who comes here? ALEXANDER. Madam, your uncle Pandarus. CRESSIDA. Hector’s a gallant man. ALEXANDER. As may be in the world, lady. PANDARUS. What’s that? What’s that? CRESSIDA. Good morrow, uncle Pandarus. PANDARUS. Good morrow, cousin Cressid. What do you talk of?—Good morrow, Alexander.—How do you, cousin? When were you at Ilium? CRESSIDA. This morning, uncle. PANDARUS. What were you talking of when I came? Was Hector arm’d and gone ere you came to Ilium? Helen was not up, was she? CRESSIDA. Hector was gone; but Helen was not up. PANDARUS. E’en so. Hector was stirring early. CRESSIDA. That were we talking of, and of his anger. PANDARUS. Was he angry? CRESSIDA. So he says here. PANDARUS. True, he was so; I know the cause too; he’ll lay about him today, I can tell them that. And there’s Troilus will not come far behind him; let them take heed of Troilus, I can tell them that too. CRESSIDA. What, is he angry too? PANDARUS. Who, Troilus? Troilus is the better man of the two. CRESSIDA. O Jupiter! there’s no comparison. PANDARUS. What, not between Troilus and Hector? Do you know a man if you see him? CRESSIDA. Ay, if I ever saw him before and knew him. PANDARUS. Well, I say Troilus is Troilus. CRESSIDA. Then you say as I say, for I am sure he is not Hector. PANDARUS. No, nor Hector is not Troilus in some degrees. CRESSIDA. ’Tis just to each of them: he is himself. PANDARUS. Himself! Alas, poor Troilus! I would he were! CRESSIDA. So he is. PANDARUS. Condition I had gone barefoot to India. CRESSIDA. He is not Hector. PANDARUS. Himself! no, he’s not himself. Would a’ were himself! Well, the gods are above; time must friend or end. Well, Troilus, well! I would my heart were in her body! No, Hector is not a better man than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Excuse me. PANDARUS. He is elder. CRESSIDA. Pardon me, pardon me. PANDARUS. Th’other’s not come to’t; you shall tell me another tale when th’other’s come to’t. Hector shall not have his wit this year. CRESSIDA. He shall not need it if he have his own. ANDARUS. Nor his qualities. CRESSIDA. No matter. PANDARUS. Nor his beauty. CRESSIDA. ’Twould not become him: his own’s better. PANDARUS. You have no judgement, niece. Helen herself swore th’other day that Troilus, for a brown favour, for so ’tis, I must confess—not brown neither— CRESSIDA. No, but brown. PANDARUS. Faith, to say truth, brown and not brown. CRESSIDA. To say the truth, true and not true. PANDARUS. She prais’d his complexion above Paris. CRESSIDA. Why, Paris hath colour enough. PANDARUS. So he has. CRESSIDA. Then Troilus should have too much. If she prais’d him above, his complexion is higher than his; he having colour enough, and the other higher, is too flaming a praise for a good complexion. I had as lief Helen’s golden tongue had commended Troilus for a copper nose. PANDARUS. I swear to you I think Helen loves him better than Paris. CRESSIDA. Then she’s a merry Greek indeed. PANDARUS. Nay, I am sure she does. She came to him th’other day into the compass’d window—and you know he has not past three or four hairs on his chin— CRESSIDA. Indeed a tapster’s arithmetic may soon bring his particulars therein to a total. PANDARUS. Why, he is very young, and yet will he within three pound lift as much as his brother Hector. CRESSIDA. Is he so young a man and so old a lifter? PANDARUS. But to prove to you that Helen loves him: she came and puts me her white hand to his cloven chin— CRESSIDA. Juno have mercy! How came it cloven? PANDARUS. Why, you know, ’tis dimpled. I think his smiling becomes him better than any man in all Phrygia. CRESSIDA. O, he smiles valiantly! PANDARUS. Does he not? CRESSIDA. O yes, an ’twere a cloud in autumn! PANDARUS. Why, go to, then! But to prove to you that Helen loves Troilus— CRESSIDA. Troilus will stand to the proof, if you’ll prove it so. PANDARUS. Troilus! Why, he esteems her no more than I esteem an addle egg. CRESSIDA. If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i’ th’ shell. PANDARUS. I cannot choose but laugh to think how she tickled his chin. Indeed, she has a marvell’s white hand, I must needs confess. CRESSIDA. Without the rack. PANDARUS. And she takes upon her to spy a white hair on his chin. CRESSIDA. Alas, poor chin! Many a wart is richer. PANDARUS. But there was such laughing! Queen Hecuba laugh’d that her eyes ran o’er. CRESSIDA. With millstones. PANDARUS. And Cassandra laugh’d. CRESSIDA. But there was a more temperate fire under the pot of her eyes. Did her eyes run o’er too? PANDARUS. And Hector laugh’d. CRESSIDA. At what was all this laughing? PANDARUS. Marry, at the white hair that Helen spied on Troilus’ chin. CRESSIDA. And’t had been a green hair I should have laugh’d too. PANDARUS. They laugh’d not so much at the hair as at his pretty answer. CRESSIDA. What was his answer? PANDARUS. Quoth she ‘Here’s but two and fifty hairs on your chin, and one of them is white.’ CRESSIDA. This is her question. PANDARUS. That’s true; make no question of that. ‘Two and fifty hairs,’ quoth he ‘and one white. That white hair is my father, and all the rest are his sons.’ ‘Jupiter!’ quoth she ‘which of these hairs is Paris my husband?’ ‘The forked one,’ quoth he, ’pluck’t out and give it him.’ But there was such laughing! and Helen so blush’d, and Paris so chaf’d; and all the rest so laugh’d that it pass’d. CRESSIDA. So let it now; for it has been a great while going by. PANDARUS. Well, cousin, I told you a thing yesterday; think on’t. CRESSIDA. So I do. PANDARUS. I’ll be sworn ’tis true; he will weep you, and ’twere a man born in April. CRESSIDA. And I’ll spring up in his tears, an ’twere a nettle against May. [_Sound a retreat._] PANDARUS. Hark! they are coming from the field. Shall we stand up here and see them as they pass toward Ilium? Good niece, do, sweet niece Cressida. CRESSIDA. At your pleasure. PANDARUS. Here, here, here’s an excellent place; here we may see most bravely. I’ll tell you them all by their names as they pass by; but mark Troilus above the rest. [Aeneas _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Speak not so loud. PANDARUS. That’s Aeneas. Is not that a brave man? He’s one of the flowers of Troy, I can tell you. But mark Troilus; you shall see anon. [Antenor _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Who’s that? PANDARUS. That’s Antenor. He has a shrewd wit, I can tell you; and he’s a man good enough; he’s one o’ th’ soundest judgements in Troy, whosoever, and a proper man of person. When comes Troilus? I’ll show you Troilus anon. If he see me, you shall see him nod at me. CRESSIDA. Will he give you the nod? PANDARUS. You shall see. CRESSIDA. If he do, the rich shall have more. [Hector _passes_.] PANDARUS. That’s Hector, that, that, look you, that; there’s a fellow! Go thy way, Hector! There’s a brave man, niece. O brave Hector! Look how he looks. There’s a countenance! Is’t not a brave man? CRESSIDA. O, a brave man! PANDARUS. Is a’ not? It does a man’s heart good. Look you what hacks are on his helmet! Look you yonder, do you see? Look you there. There’s no jesting; there’s laying on; take’t off who will, as they say. There be hacks. CRESSIDA. Be those with swords? PANDARUS. Swords! anything, he cares not; and the devil come to him, it’s all one. By God’s lid, it does one’s heart good. Yonder comes Paris, yonder comes Paris. [Paris _passes_.] Look ye yonder, niece; is’t not a gallant man too, is’t not? Why, this is brave now. Who said he came hurt home today? He’s not hurt. Why, this will do Helen’s heart good now, ha! Would I could see Troilus now! You shall see Troilus anon. [Helenus _passes_.] CRESSIDA. Who’s that? PANDARUS. That’s Helenus. I marvel where Troilus is. That’s Helenus. I think he went not forth today. That’s Helenus. CRESSIDA. Can Helenus fight, uncle? PANDARUS. Helenus! no. Yes, he’ll fight indifferent well. I marvel where Troilus is. Hark! do you not hear the people cry ‘Troilus’?—Helenus is a priest. CRESSIDA. What sneaking fellow comes yonder? [Troilus _passes_.] PANDARUS. Where? yonder? That’s Deiphobus. ’Tis Troilus. There’s a man, niece. Hem! Brave Troilus, the prince of chivalry! CRESSIDA. Peace, for shame, peace! PANDARUS. Mark him; note him. O brave Troilus! Look well upon him, niece; look you how his sword is bloodied, and his helm more hack’d than Hector’s; and how he looks, and how he goes! O admirable youth! he never saw three and twenty. Go thy way, Troilus, go thy way. Had I a sister were a grace or a daughter a goddess, he should take his choice. O admirable man! Paris? Paris is dirt to him; and, I warrant, Helen, to change, would give an eye to boot. CRESSIDA. Here comes more. [_Common soldiers pass_.] PANDARUS. Asses, fools, dolts! chaff and bran, chaff and bran! porridge after meat! I could live and die in the eyes of Troilus. Ne’er look, ne’er look; the eagles are gone. Crows and daws, crows and daws! I had rather be such a man as Troilus than Agamemnon and all Greece. CRESSIDA. There is amongst the Greeks Achilles, a better man than Troilus. PANDARUS. Achilles? A drayman, a porter, a very camel! CRESSIDA. Well, well. PANDARUS. Well, well! Why, have you any discretion? Have you any eyes? Do you know what a man is? Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man? CRESSIDA. Ay, a minc’d man; and then to be bak’d with no date in the pie, for then the man’s date is out. PANDARUS. You are such a woman! A man knows not at what ward you lie. CRESSIDA. Upon my back, to defend my belly; upon my wit, to defend my wiles; upon my secrecy, to defend mine honesty; my mask, to defend my beauty; and you, to defend all these; and at all these wards I lie, at a thousand watches. PANDARUS. Say one of your watches. CRESSIDA. Nay, I’ll watch you for that; and that’s one of the chiefest of them too. If I cannot ward what I would not have hit, I can watch you for telling how I took the blow; unless it swell past hiding, and then it’s past watching. PANDARUS. You are such another! Enter Troilus' Boy. BOY. Sir, my lord would instantly speak with you. PANDARUS. Where? BOY. At your own house; there he unarms him. PANDARUS. Good boy, tell him I come. [_Exit_ Boy.] I doubt he be hurt. Fare ye well, good niece. CRESSIDA. Adieu, uncle. PANDARUS. I will be with you, niece, by and by. CRESSIDA. To bring, uncle. PANDARUS. Ay, a token from Troilus. [_Exit_ Pandarus.] CRESSIDA. By the same token, you are a bawd. Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love’s full sacrifice, He offers in another’s enterprise; But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar’s praise may be, Yet hold I off. Women are angels, wooing: Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing. That she belov’d knows naught that knows not this: Men prize the thing ungain’d more than it is. That she was never yet that ever knew Love got so sweet as when desire did sue; Therefore this maxim out of love I teach: ‘Achievement is command; ungain’d, beseech.’ Then though my heart’s content firm love doth bear, Nothing of that shall from mine eyes appear. [_Exit_.] SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before Agamemnon’s tent. Sennet. Enter Agamemnon, Nestor, Ulysses, Diomedes, Menelaus and others. AGAMEMNON. Princes, What grief hath set these jaundies o’er your cheeks? The ample proposition that hope makes In all designs begun on earth below Fails in the promis’d largeness; checks and disasters Grow in the veins of actions highest rear’d, As knots, by the conflux of meeting sap, Infects the sound pine, and diverts his grain Tortive and errant from his course of growth. Nor, princes, is it matter new to us That we come short of our suppose so far That after seven years’ siege yet Troy walls stand; Sith every action that hath gone before, Whereof we have record, trial did draw Bias and thwart, not answering the aim, And that unbodied figure of the thought That gave’t surmised shape. Why then, you princes, Do you with cheeks abash’d behold our works And call them shames, which are, indeed, naught else But the protractive trials of great Jove To find persistive constancy in men; The fineness of which metal is not found In fortune’s love? For then the bold and coward, The wise and fool, the artist and unread, The hard and soft, seem all affin’d and kin. But in the wind and tempest of her frown Distinction, with a broad and powerful fan, Puffing at all, winnows the light away; And what hath mass or matter by itself Lies rich in virtue and unmingled. NESTOR. With due observance of thy godlike seat, Great Agamemnon, Nestor shall apply Thy latest words. In the reproof of chance Lies the true proof of men. The sea being smooth, How many shallow bauble boats dare sail Upon her patient breast, making their way With those of nobler bulk! But let the ruffian Boreas once enrage The gentle Thetis, and anon behold The strong-ribb’d bark through liquid mountains cut, Bounding between the two moist elements Like Perseus’ horse. Where’s then the saucy boat, Whose weak untimber’d sides but even now Co-rivall’d greatness? Either to harbour fled Or made a toast for Neptune. Even so Doth valour’s show and valour’s worth divide In storms of fortune; for in her ray and brightness The herd hath more annoyance by the breeze Than by the tiger; but when the splitting wind Makes flexible the knees of knotted oaks, And flies fled under shade—why, then the thing of courage, As rous’d with rage, with rage doth sympathise, And with an accent tun’d in self-same key Retorts to chiding fortune. ULYSSES. Agamemnon, Thou great commander, nerve and bone of Greece, Heart of our numbers, soul and only spirit In whom the tempers and the minds of all Should be shut up—hear what Ulysses speaks. Besides th’applause and approbation The which, [_To Agamemnon_] most mighty, for thy place and sway, [_To Nestor_] And, thou most reverend, for thy stretch’d-out life, I give to both your speeches—which were such As Agamemnon and the hand of Greece Should hold up high in brass; and such again As venerable Nestor, hatch’d in silver, Should with a bond of air, strong as the axle-tree On which heaven rides, knit all the Greekish ears To his experienc’d tongue—yet let it please both, Thou great, and wise, to hear Ulysses speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak, Prince of Ithaca; and be’t of less expect That matter needless, of importless burden, Divide thy lips than we are confident, When rank Thersites opes his mastic jaws, We shall hear music, wit, and oracle. ULYSSES. Troy, yet upon his basis, had been down, And the great Hector’s sword had lack’d a master, But for these instances: The specialty of rule hath been neglected; And look how many Grecian tents do stand Hollow upon this plain, so many hollow factions. When that the general is not like the hive, To whom the foragers shall all repair, What honey is expected? Degree being vizarded, Th’unworthiest shows as fairly in the mask. The heavens themselves, the planets, and this centre, Observe degree, priority, and place, Insisture, course, proportion, season, form, Office, and custom, in all line of order; And therefore is the glorious planet Sol In noble eminence enthron’d and spher’d Amidst the other, whose med’cinable eye Corrects the influence of evil planets, And posts, like the commandment of a king, Sans check, to good and bad. But when the planets In evil mixture to disorder wander, What plagues and what portents, what mutiny, What raging of the sea, shaking of earth, Commotion in the winds! Frights, changes, horrors, Divert and crack, rend and deracinate, The unity and married calm of states Quite from their fixture! O, when degree is shak’d, Which is the ladder of all high designs, The enterprise is sick! How could communities, Degrees in schools, and brotherhoods in cities, Peaceful commerce from dividable shores, The primogenity and due of birth, Prerogative of age, crowns, sceptres, laurels, But by degree stand in authentic place? Take but degree away, untune that string, And hark what discord follows! Each thing melts In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores, And make a sop of all this solid globe; Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong— Between whose endless jar justice resides— Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite; And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Great Agamemnon, This chaos, when degree is suffocate, Follows the choking. And this neglection of degree it is That by a pace goes backward, with a purpose It hath to climb. The general’s disdain’d By him one step below, he by the next, That next by him beneath; so every step, Exampl’d by the first pace that is sick Of his superior, grows to an envious fever Of pale and bloodless emulation. And ’tis this fever that keeps Troy on foot, Not her own sinews. To end a tale of length, Troy in our weakness stands, not in her strength. NESTOR. Most wisely hath Ulysses here discover’d The fever whereof all our power is sick. AGAMEMNON. The nature of the sickness found, Ulysses, What is the remedy? ULYSSES. The great Achilles, whom opinion crowns The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his tent Lies mocking our designs; with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day Breaks scurril jests; And with ridiculous and awkward action— Which, slanderer, he imitation calls— He pageants us. Sometime, great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on; And like a strutting player whose conceit Lies in his hamstring, and doth think it rich To hear the wooden dialogue and sound ’Twixt his stretch’d footing and the scaffoldage— Such to-be-pitied and o’er-wrested seeming He acts thy greatness in; and when he speaks ’Tis like a chime a-mending; with terms unsquar’d, Which, from the tongue of roaring Typhon dropp’d, Would seem hyperboles. At this fusty stuff The large Achilles, on his press’d bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out a loud applause; Cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Agamemnon right! Now play me Nestor; hem, and stroke thy beard, As he being drest to some oration.’ That’s done—as near as the extremest ends Of parallels, as like as Vulcan and his wife; Yet god Achilles still cries ‘Excellent! ’Tis Nestor right. Now play him me, Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm.’ And then, forsooth, the faint defects of age Must be the scene of mirth: to cough and spit And, with a palsy fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet. And at this sport Sir Valour dies; cries ‘O, enough, Patroclus; Or give me ribs of steel! I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen.’ And in this fashion All our abilities, gifts, natures, shapes, Severals and generals of grace exact, Achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. NESTOR. And in the imitation of these twain— Who, as Ulysses says, opinion crowns With an imperial voice—many are infect. Ajax is grown self-will’d and bears his head In such a rein, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles; keeps his tent like him; Makes factious feasts; rails on our state of war Bold as an oracle, and sets Thersites, A slave whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match us in comparisons with dirt, To weaken and discredit our exposure, How rank soever rounded in with danger. ULYSSES. They tax our policy and call it cowardice, Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forestall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand. The still and mental parts That do contrive how many hands shall strike When fitness calls them on, and know, by measure Of their observant toil, the enemies’ weight— Why, this hath not a finger’s dignity: They call this bed-work, mapp’ry, closet-war; So that the ram that batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the fineness of their souls By reason guide his execution. NESTOR. Let this be granted, and Achilles’ horse Makes many Thetis’ sons. [_Tucket_.] AGAMEMNON. What trumpet? Look, Menelaus. MENELAUS. From Troy. Enter Aeneas. AGAMEMNON. What would you fore our tent? AENEAS. Is this great Agamemnon’s tent, I pray you? AGAMEMNON. Even this. AENEAS. May one that is a herald and a prince Do a fair message to his kingly eyes? AGAMEMNON. With surety stronger than Achilles’ arm Fore all the Greekish heads, which with one voice Call Agamemnon head and general. AENEAS. Fair leave and large security. How may A stranger to those most imperial looks Know them from eyes of other mortals? AGAMEMNON. How? AENEAS. Ay; I ask, that I might waken reverence, And bid the cheek be ready with a blush Modest as morning when she coldly eyes The youthful Phoebus. Which is that god in office, guiding men? Which is the high and mighty Agamemnon? AGAMEMNON. This Trojan scorns us, or the men of Troy Are ceremonious courtiers. AENEAS. Courtiers as free, as debonair, unarm’d, As bending angels; that’s their fame in peace. But when they would seem soldiers, they have galls, Good arms, strong joints, true swords; and, Jove’s accord, Nothing so full of heart. But peace, Aeneas, Peace, Trojan; lay thy finger on thy lips. The worthiness of praise distains his worth, If that the prais’d himself bring the praise forth; But what the repining enemy commends, That breath fame blows; that praise, sole pure, transcends. AGAMEMNON. Sir, you of Troy, call you yourself Aeneas? AENEAS. Ay, Greek, that is my name. AGAMEMNON. What’s your affairs, I pray you? AENEAS. Sir, pardon; ’tis for Agamemnon’s ears. AGAMEMNON He hears naught privately that comes from Troy. AENEAS. Nor I from Troy come not to whisper with him; I bring a trumpet to awake his ear, To set his sense on the attentive bent, And then to speak. AGAMEMNON. Speak frankly as the wind; It is not Agamemnon’s sleeping hour. That thou shalt know, Trojan, he is awake, He tells thee so himself. AENEAS. Trumpet, blow loud, Send thy brass voice through all these lazy tents; And every Greek of mettle, let him know What Troy means fairly shall be spoke aloud. [_Sound trumpet_.] We have, great Agamemnon, here in Troy A prince called Hector—Priam is his father— Who in this dull and long-continued truce Is resty grown; he bade me take a trumpet And to this purpose speak: Kings, princes, lords! If there be one among the fair’st of Greece That holds his honour higher than his ease, That feeds his praise more than he fears his peril, That knows his valour and knows not his fear, That loves his mistress more than in confession With truant vows to her own lips he loves, And dare avow her beauty and her worth In other arms than hers—to him this challenge. Hector, in view of Trojans and of Greeks, Shall make it good or do his best to do it: He hath a lady wiser, fairer, truer, Than ever Greek did couple in his arms; And will tomorrow with his trumpet call Mid-way between your tents and walls of Troy To rouse a Grecian that is true in love. If any come, Hector shall honour him; If none, he’ll say in Troy, when he retires, The Grecian dames are sunburnt and not worth The splinter of a lance. Even so much. AGAMEMNON. This shall be told our lovers, Lord Aeneas. If none of them have soul in such a kind, We left them all at home. But we are soldiers; And may that soldier a mere recreant prove That means not, hath not, or is not in love. If then one is, or hath, or means to be, That one meets Hector; if none else, I am he. NESTOR. Tell him of Nestor, one that was a man When Hector’s grandsire suck’d. He is old now; But if there be not in our Grecian host A noble man that hath one spark of fire To answer for his love, tell him from me I’ll hide my silver beard in a gold beaver, And in my vambrace put this wither’d brawns, And meeting him, will tell him that my lady Was fairer than his grandam, and as chaste As may be in the world. His youth in flood, I’ll prove this troth with my three drops of blood. AENEAS. Now heavens forfend such scarcity of youth! ULYSSES. Amen. AGAMEMNON. Fair Lord Aeneas, let me touch your hand; To our pavilion shall I lead you, sir. Achilles shall have word of this intent; So shall each lord of Greece, from tent to tent. Yourself shall feast with us before you go, And find the welcome of a noble foe. [_Exeunt all but Ulysses and Nestor_.] ULYSSES. Nestor! NESTOR. What says Ulysses? ULYSSES. I have a young conception in my brain; Be you my time to bring it to some shape. NESTOR. What is’t? ULYSSES. This ’tis: Blunt wedges rive hard knots. The seeded pride That hath to this maturity blown up In rank Achilles must or now be cropp’d Or, shedding, breed a nursery of like evil To overbulk us all. NESTOR. Well, and how? ULYSSES. This challenge that the gallant Hector sends, However it is spread in general name, Relates in purpose only to Achilles. NESTOR. True. The purpose is perspicuous even as substance Whose grossness little characters sum up; And, in the publication, make no strain But that Achilles, were his brain as barren As banks of Libya—though, Apollo knows, ’Tis dry enough—will with great speed of judgement, Ay, with celerity, find Hector’s purpose Pointing on him. ULYSSES. And wake him to the answer, think you? NESTOR. Why, ’tis most meet. Who may you else oppose That can from Hector bring those honours off, If not Achilles? Though ’t be a sportful combat, Yet in this trial much opinion dwells For here the Trojans taste our dear’st repute With their fin’st palate; and trust to me, Ulysses, Our imputation shall be oddly pois’d In this vile action; for the success, Although particular, shall give a scantling Of good or bad unto the general; And in such indexes, although small pricks To their subsequent volumes, there is seen The baby figure of the giant mass Of things to come at large. It is suppos’d He that meets Hector issues from our choice; And choice, being mutual act of all our souls, Makes merit her election, and doth boil, As ’twere from forth us all, a man distill’d Out of our virtues; who miscarrying, What heart receives from hence a conquering part, To steel a strong opinion to themselves? Which entertain’d, limbs are his instruments, In no less working than are swords and bows Directive by the limbs. ULYSSES. Give pardon to my speech. Therefore ’tis meet Achilles meet not Hector. Let us, like merchants, First show foul wares, and think perchance they’ll sell; If not, the lustre of the better shall exceed By showing the worse first. Do not consent That ever Hector and Achilles meet; For both our honour and our shame in this Are dogg’d with two strange followers. NESTOR. I see them not with my old eyes. What are they? ULYSSES. What glory our Achilles shares from Hector, Were he not proud, we all should share with him; But he already is too insolent; And it were better parch in Afric sun Than in the pride and salt scorn of his eyes, Should he scape Hector fair. If he were foil’d, Why, then we do our main opinion crush In taint of our best man. No, make a lott’ry; And, by device, let blockish Ajax draw The sort to fight with Hector. Among ourselves Give him allowance for the better man; For that will physic the great Myrmidon, Who broils in loud applause, and make him fall His crest, that prouder than blue Iris bends. If the dull brainless Ajax come safe off, We’ll dress him up in voices; if he fail, Yet go we under our opinion still That we have better men. But, hit or miss, Our project’s life this shape of sense assumes— Ajax employ’d plucks down Achilles’ plumes. NESTOR. Now, Ulysses, I begin to relish thy advice; And I will give a taste thereof forthwith To Agamemnon. Go we to him straight. Two curs shall tame each other: pride alone Must tarre the mastiffs on, as ’twere their bone. [_Exeunt_.] ACT II SCENE I. The Grecian camp. Enter Ajax and Thersites. AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. Agamemnon—how if he had boils, full, all over, generally? AJAX. Thersites! THERSITES. And those boils did run—say so. Did not the general run then? Were not that a botchy core? AJAX. Dog! THERSITES. Then there would come some matter from him; I see none now. AJAX. Thou bitch-wolf’s son, canst thou not hear? Feel, then. [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. The plague of Greece upon thee, thou mongrel beef-witted lord! AJAX. Speak, then, thou unsalted leaven, speak. I will beat thee into handsomeness. THERSITES. I shall sooner rail thee into wit and holiness; but I think thy horse will sooner con an oration than thou learn a prayer without book. Thou canst strike, canst thou? A red murrain o’ thy jade’s tricks! AJAX. Toadstool, learn me the proclamation. THERSITES. Dost thou think I have no sense, thou strikest me thus? AJAX. The proclamation! THERSITES. Thou art proclaim’d fool, I think. AJAX. Do not, porpentine, do not; my fingers itch. THERSITES. I would thou didst itch from head to foot and I had the scratching of thee; I would make thee the loathsomest scab in Greece. When thou art forth in the incursions, thou strikest as slow as another. AJAX. I say, the proclamation. THERSITES. Thou grumblest and railest every hour on Achilles; and thou art as full of envy at his greatness as Cerberus is at Proserpina’s beauty—ay, that thou bark’st at him. AJAX. Mistress Thersites! THERSITES. Thou shouldst strike him. AJAX. Cobloaf! THERSITES. He would pun thee into shivers with his fist, as a sailor breaks a biscuit. AJAX. You whoreson cur! [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. Do, do. AJAX. Thou stool for a witch! THERSITES. Ay, do, do; thou sodden-witted lord! Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows; an asinico may tutor thee. You scurvy valiant ass! Thou art here but to thrash Trojans, and thou art bought and sold among those of any wit like a barbarian slave. If thou use to beat me, I will begin at thy heel and tell what thou art by inches, thou thing of no bowels, thou! AJAX. You dog! THERSITES. You scurvy lord! AJAX. You cur! [_Strikes him_.] THERSITES. Mars his idiot! Do, rudeness; do, camel; do, do. Enter Achilles and Patroclus. ACHILLES. Why, how now, Ajax! Wherefore do ye thus? How now, Thersites! What’s the matter, man? THERSITES. You see him there, do you? ACHILLES. Ay; what’s the matter? THERSITES. Nay, look upon him. ACHILLES. So I do. What’s the matter? THERSITES. Nay, but regard him well. ACHILLES. Well! why, so I do. THERSITES. But yet you look not well upon him; for whosomever you take him to be, he is Ajax. ACHILLES. I know that, fool. THERSITES. Ay, but that fool knows not himself. AJAX. Therefore I beat thee. THERSITES. Lo, lo, lo, lo, what modicums of wit he utters! His evasions have ears thus long. I have bobb’d his brain more than he has beat my bones. I will buy nine sparrows for a penny, and his pia mater is not worth the ninth part of a sparrow. This lord, Achilles—Ajax, who wears his wit in his belly and his guts in his head—I’ll tell you what I say of him. ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. I say this Ajax— [_Ajax offers to strike him_.] ACHILLES. Nay, good Ajax. THERSITES. Has not so much wit— ACHILLES. Nay, I must hold you. THERSITES. As will stop the eye of Helen’s needle, for whom he comes to fight. ACHILLES. Peace, fool. THERSITES. I would have peace and quietness, but the fool will not— he there; that he; look you there. AJAX. O thou damned cur! I shall— ACHILLES. Will you set your wit to a fool’s? THERSITES. No, I warrant you, the fool’s will shame it. PATROCLUS. Good words, Thersites. ACHILLES. What’s the quarrel? AJAX. I bade the vile owl go learn me the tenour of the proclamation, and he rails upon me. THERSITES. I serve thee not. AJAX. Well, go to, go to. THERSITES. I serve here voluntary. ACHILLES. Your last service was suff’rance; ’twas not voluntary. No man is beaten voluntary. Ajax was here the voluntary, and you as under an impress. THERSITES. E’en so; a great deal of your wit too lies in your sinews, or else there be liars. Hector shall have a great catch and knock out either of your brains: a’ were as good crack a fusty nut with no kernel. ACHILLES. What, with me too, Thersites? THERSITES. There’s Ulysses and old Nestor—whose wit was mouldy ere your grandsires had nails on their toes—yoke you like draught oxen, and make you plough up the wars. ACHILLES. What, what? THERSITES. Yes, good sooth. To Achilles, to Ajax, to— AJAX. I shall cut out your tongue. THERSITES. ’Tis no matter; I shall speak as much as thou afterwards. PATROCLUS. No more words, Thersites; peace! THERSITES. I will hold my peace when Achilles’ brach bids me, shall I? ACHILLES. There’s for you, Patroclus. THERSITES. I will see you hang’d like clotpoles ere I come any more to your tents. I will keep where there is wit stirring, and leave the faction of fools. [_Exit_.] PATROCLUS. A good riddance. ACHILLES. Marry, this, sir, is proclaim’d through all our host, That Hector, by the fifth hour of the sun, Will with a trumpet ’twixt our tents and Troy, Tomorrow morning, call some knight to arms That hath a stomach; and such a one that dare Maintain I know not what; ’tis trash. Farewell. AJAX. Farewell. Who shall answer him? ACHILLES. I know not; ’tis put to lott’ry, otherwise, He knew his man. AJAX. O, meaning you? I will go learn more of it. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. Priam’s palace. Enter Priam, Hector, Troilus, Paris and Helenus. PRIAM. After so many hours, lives, speeches spent, Thus once again says Nestor from the Greeks: ‘Deliver Helen, and all damage else— As honour, loss of time, travail, expense, Wounds, friends, and what else dear that is consum’d In hot digestion of this cormorant war— Shall be struck off.’ Hector, what say you to’t? HECTOR. Though no man lesser fears the Greeks than I, As far as toucheth my particular, Yet, dread Priam, There is no lady of more softer bowels, More spongy to suck in the sense of fear, More ready to cry out ‘Who knows what follows?’ Than Hector is. The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure; but modest doubt is call’d The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th’ bottom of the worst. Let Helen go. Since the first sword was drawn about this question, Every tithe soul ’mongst many thousand dismes Hath been as dear as Helen—I mean, of ours. If we have lost so many tenths of ours To guard a thing not ours, nor worth to us, Had it our name, the value of one ten, What merit’s in that reason which denies The yielding of her up? TROILUS. Fie, fie, my brother! Weigh you the worth and honour of a king, So great as our dread father’s, in a scale Of common ounces? Will you with counters sum The past-proportion of his infinite, And buckle in a waist most fathomless With spans and inches so diminutive As fears and reasons? Fie, for godly shame! HELENUS. No marvel though you bite so sharp of reasons, You are so empty of them. Should not our father Bear the great sway of his affairs with reason, Because your speech hath none that tells him so? TROILUS. You are for dreams and slumbers, brother priest; You fur your gloves with reason. Here are your reasons: You know an enemy intends you harm; You know a sword employ’d is perilous, And reason flies the object of all harm. Who marvels, then, when Helenus beholds A Grecian and his sword, if he do set The very wings of reason to his heels And fly like chidden Mercury from Jove, Or like a star disorb’d? Nay, if we talk of reason, Let’s shut our gates and sleep. Manhood and honour Should have hare hearts, would they but fat their thoughts With this cramm’d reason. Reason and respect Make livers pale and lustihood deject. HECTOR. Brother, she is not worth what she doth cost the keeping. TROILUS. What’s aught but as ’tis valued? HECTOR. But value dwells not in particular will: It holds his estimate and dignity As well wherein ’tis precious of itself As in the prizer. ’Tis mad idolatry To make the service greater than the god, And the will dotes that is attributive To what infectiously itself affects, Without some image of th’affected merit. TROILUS. I take today a wife, and my election Is led on in the conduct of my will; My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots ’twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgement: how may I avoid, Although my will distaste what it elected, The wife I chose? There can be no evasion To blench from this and to stand firm by honour. We turn not back the silks upon the merchant When we have soil’d them; nor the remainder viands We do not throw in unrespective sieve, Because we now are full. It was thought meet Paris should do some vengeance on the Greeks; Your breath with full consent bellied his sails; The seas and winds, old wranglers, took a truce, And did him service. He touch’d the ports desir’d; And for an old aunt whom the Greeks held captive He brought a Grecian queen, whose youth and freshness Wrinkles Apollo’s, and makes stale the morning. Why keep we her? The Grecians keep our aunt. Is she worth keeping? Why, she is a pearl Whose price hath launch’d above a thousand ships, And turn’d crown’d kings to merchants. If you’ll avouch ’twas wisdom Paris went— As you must needs, for you all cried ‘Go, go’— If you’ll confess he brought home worthy prize— As you must needs, for you all clapp’d your hands, And cried ‘Inestimable!’—why do you now The issue of your proper wisdoms rate, And do a deed that never Fortune did— Beggar the estimation which you priz’d Richer than sea and land? O theft most base, That we have stol’n what we do fear to keep! But thieves unworthy of a thing so stol’n That in their country did them that disgrace We fear to warrant in our native place! CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans, cry. PRIAM. What noise, what shriek is this? TROILUS. ’Tis our mad sister; I do know her voice. CASSANDRA. [_Within_.] Cry, Trojans. HECTOR. It is Cassandra. Enter Cassandra, raving. CASSANDRA. Cry, Trojans, cry. Lend me ten thousand eyes, And I will fill them with prophetic tears. HECTOR. Peace, sister, peace. CASSANDRA. Virgins and boys, mid-age and wrinkled eld, Soft infancy, that nothing canst but cry, Add to my clamours. Let us pay betimes A moiety of that mass of moan to come. Cry, Trojans, cry. Practise your eyes with tears. Troy must not be, nor goodly Ilion stand; Our firebrand brother, Paris, burns us all. Cry, Trojans, cry, A Helen and a woe! Cry, cry. Troy burns, or else let Helen go. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. Now, youthful Troilus, do not these high strains Of divination in our sister work Some touches of remorse? Or is your blood So madly hot, that no discourse of reason, Nor fear of bad success in a bad cause, Can qualify the same? TROILUS. Why, brother Hector, We may not think the justness of each act Such and no other than event doth form it; Nor once deject the courage of our minds Because Cassandra’s mad. Her brain-sick raptures Cannot distaste the goodness of a quarrel Which hath our several honours all engag’d To make it gracious. For my private part, I am no more touch’d than all Priam’s sons; And Jove forbid there should be done amongst us Such things as might offend the weakest spleen To fight for and maintain. PARIS. Else might the world convince of levity As well my undertakings as your counsels; But I attest the gods, your full consent Gave wings to my propension, and cut off All fears attending on so dire a project. For what, alas, can these my single arms? What propugnation is in one man’s valour To stand the push and enmity of those This quarrel would excite? Yet I protest, Were I alone to pass the difficulties, And had as ample power as I have will, Paris should ne’er retract what he hath done, Nor faint in the pursuit. PRIAM. Paris, you speak Like one besotted on your sweet delights. You have the honey still, but these the gall; So to be valiant is no praise at all. PARIS. Sir, I propose not merely to myself The pleasures such a beauty brings with it; But I would have the soil of her fair rape Wip’d off in honourable keeping her. What treason were it to the ransack’d queen, Disgrace to your great worths, and shame to me, Now to deliver her possession up On terms of base compulsion! Can it be, That so degenerate a strain as this Should once set footing in your generous bosoms? There’s not the meanest spirit on our party Without a heart to dare or sword to draw When Helen is defended; nor none so noble Whose life were ill bestow’d or death unfam’d, Where Helen is the subject. Then, I say, Well may we fight for her whom we know well The world’s large spaces cannot parallel. HECTOR. Paris and Troilus, you have both said well; And on the cause and question now in hand Have gloz’d, but superficially; not much Unlike young men, whom Aristotle thought Unfit to hear moral philosophy. The reasons you allege do more conduce To the hot passion of distemp’red blood Than to make up a free determination ’Twixt right and wrong; for pleasure and revenge Have ears more deaf than adders to the voice Of any true decision. Nature craves All dues be rend’red to their owners. Now, What nearer debt in all humanity Than wife is to the husband? If this law Of nature be corrupted through affection; And that great minds, of partial indulgence To their benumbed wills, resist the same; There is a law in each well-order’d nation To curb those raging appetites that are Most disobedient and refractory. If Helen, then, be wife to Sparta’s king— As it is known she is—these moral laws Of nature and of nations speak aloud To have her back return’d. Thus to persist In doing wrong extenuates not wrong, But makes it much more heavy. Hector’s opinion Is this, in way of truth. Yet, ne’ertheless, My spritely brethren, I propend to you In resolution to keep Helen still; For ’tis a cause that hath no mean dependence Upon our joint and several dignities. TROILUS. Why, there you touch’d the life of our design. Were it not glory that we more affected Than the performance of our heaving spleens, I would not wish a drop of Trojan blood Spent more in her defence. But, worthy Hector, She is a theme of honour and renown, A spur to valiant and magnanimous deeds, Whose present courage may beat down our foes, And fame in time to come canonize us; For I presume brave Hector would not lose So rich advantage of a promis’d glory As smiles upon the forehead of this action For the wide world’s revenue. HECTOR. I am yours, You valiant offspring of great Priamus. I have a roisting challenge sent amongst The dull and factious nobles of the Greeks Will strike amazement to their drowsy spirits. I was advertis’d their great general slept, Whilst emulation in the army crept. This, I presume, will wake him. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE III. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. Enter Thersites, solus. THERSITES. How now, Thersites! What, lost in the labyrinth of thy fury? Shall the elephant Ajax carry it thus? He beats me, and I rail at him. O worthy satisfaction! Would it were otherwise: that I could beat him, whilst he rail’d at me! ‘Sfoot, I’ll learn to conjure and raise devils, but I’ll see some issue of my spiteful execrations. Then there’s Achilles, a rare engineer! If Troy be not taken till these two undermine it, the walls will stand till they fall of themselves. O thou great thunder-darter of Olympus, forget that thou art Jove, the king of gods, and, Mercury, lose all the serpentine craft of thy caduceus, if ye take not that little little less than little wit from them that they have! which short-arm’d ignorance itself knows is so abundant scarce, it will not in circumvention deliver a fly from a spider without drawing their massy irons and cutting the web. After this, the vengeance on the whole camp! or, rather, the Neapolitan bone-ache! for that, methinks, is the curse depending on those that war for a placket. I have said my prayers; and devil Envy say ‘Amen.’ What ho! my Lord Achilles! Enter Patroclus. PATROCLUS. Who’s there? Thersites! Good Thersites, come in and rail. THERSITES. If I could a’ rememb’red a gilt counterfeit, thou wouldst not have slipp’d out of my contemplation; but it is no matter; thyself upon thyself! The common curse of mankind, folly and ignorance, be thine in great revenue! Heaven bless thee from a tutor, and discipline come not near thee! Let thy blood be thy direction till thy death. Then if she that lays thee out says thou art a fair corse, I’ll be sworn and sworn upon’t she never shrouded any but lazars. Amen. Where’s Achilles? PATROCLUS. What, art thou devout? Wast thou in prayer? THERSITES. Ay, the heavens hear me! PATROCLUS. Amen. Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Who’s there? PATROCLUS. Thersites, my lord. ACHILLES. Where, where? O, where? Art thou come? Why, my cheese, my digestion, why hast thou not served thyself in to my table so many meals? Come, what’s Agamemnon? THERSITES. Thy commander, Achilles. Then tell me, Patroclus, what’s Achilles? PATROCLUS. Thy lord, Thersites. Then tell me, I pray thee, what’s Thersites? THERSITES. Thy knower, Patroclus. Then tell me, Patroclus, what art thou? PATROCLUS. Thou must tell that knowest. ACHILLES. O, tell, tell, THERSITES. I’ll decline the whole question. Agamemnon commands Achilles; Achilles is my lord; I am Patroclus’ knower; and Patroclus is a fool. PATROCLUS. You rascal! THERSITES. Peace, fool! I have not done. ACHILLES. He is a privileg’d man. Proceed, Thersites. THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool; Achilles is a fool; Thersites is a fool; and, as aforesaid, Patroclus is a fool. ACHILLES. Derive this; come. THERSITES. Agamemnon is a fool to offer to command Achilles; Achilles is a fool to be commanded of Agamemnon; Thersites is a fool to serve such a fool; and this Patroclus is a fool positive. PATROCLUS. Why am I a fool? THERSITES. Make that demand of the Creator. It suffices me thou art. Look you, who comes here? Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Diomedes, Ajax and Calchas. ACHILLES. Come, Patroclus, I’ll speak with nobody. Come in with me, Thersites. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. Here is such patchery, such juggling, and such knavery. All the argument is a whore and a cuckold—a good quarrel to draw emulous factions and bleed to death upon. Now the dry serpigo on the subject, and war and lechery confound all! [_Exit_.] AGAMEMNON. Where is Achilles? PATROCLUS. Within his tent; but ill-dispos’d, my lord. AGAMEMNON. Let it be known to him that we are here. He shent our messengers; and we lay by Our appertainings, visiting of him. Let him be told so; lest, perchance, he think We dare not move the question of our place Or know not what we are. PATROCLUS. I shall say so to him. [_Exit_.] ULYSSES. We saw him at the opening of his tent. He is not sick. AJAX. Yes, lion-sick, sick of proud heart. You may call it melancholy, if you will favour the man; but, by my head, ’tis pride. But why, why? Let him show us a cause. A word, my lord. [_Takes Agamemnon aside_.] NESTOR. What moves Ajax thus to bay at him? ULYSSES. Achilles hath inveigled his fool from him. NESTOR. Who, Thersites? ULYSSES. He. NESTOR. Then will Ajax lack matter, if he have lost his argument. ULYSSES. No; you see he is his argument that has his argument, Achilles. NESTOR. All the better; their fraction is more our wish than their faction. But it was a strong composure a fool could disunite! ULYSSES. The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie. Re-enter Patroclus. Here comes Patroclus. NESTOR. No Achilles with him. ULYSSES. The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure. PATROCLUS. Achilles bids me say he is much sorry If any thing more than your sport and pleasure Did move your greatness and this noble state To call upon him; he hopes it is no other But for your health and your digestion sake, An after-dinner’s breath. AGAMEMNON. Hear you, Patroclus. We are too well acquainted with these answers; But his evasion, wing’d thus swift with scorn, Cannot outfly our apprehensions. Much attribute he hath, and much the reason Why we ascribe it to him. Yet all his virtues, Not virtuously on his own part beheld, Do in our eyes begin to lose their gloss; Yea, like fair fruit in an unwholesome dish, Are like to rot untasted. Go and tell him We come to speak with him; and you shall not sin If you do say we think him over-proud And under-honest, in self-assumption greater Than in the note of judgement; and worthier than himself Here tend the savage strangeness he puts on, Disguise the holy strength of their command, And underwrite in an observing kind His humorous predominance; yea, watch His course and time, his ebbs and flows, as if The passage and whole stream of this commencement Rode on his tide. Go tell him this, and add That if he overhold his price so much We’ll none of him, but let him, like an engine Not portable, lie under this report: Bring action hither; this cannot go to war. A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant. Tell him so. PATROCLUS. I shall, and bring his answer presently. [_Exit_.] AGAMEMNON. In second voice we’ll not be satisfied; We come to speak with him. Ulysses, enter you. [_Exit_ Ulysses.] AJAX. What is he more than another? AGAMEMNON. No more than what he thinks he is. AJAX. Is he so much? Do you not think he thinks himself a better man than I am? AGAMEMNON. No question. AJAX. Will you subscribe his thought and say he is? AGAMEMNON. No, noble Ajax; you are as strong, as valiant, as wise, no less noble, much more gentle, and altogether more tractable. AJAX. Why should a man be proud? How doth pride grow? I know not what pride is. AGAMEMNON. Your mind is the clearer, Ajax, and your virtues the fairer. He that is proud eats up himself. Pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle; and whatever praises itself but in the deed devours the deed in the praise. Re-enter Ulysses. AJAX. I do hate a proud man as I do hate the engend’ring of toads. NESTOR. [_Aside._] And yet he loves himself: is’t not strange? ULYSSES. Achilles will not to the field tomorrow. AGAMEMNON. What’s his excuse? ULYSSES. He doth rely on none; But carries on the stream of his dispose, Without observance or respect of any, In will peculiar and in self-admission. AGAMEMNON. Why will he not, upon our fair request, Untent his person and share th’air with us? ULYSSES. Things small as nothing, for request’s sake only, He makes important; possess’d he is with greatness, And speaks not to himself but with a pride That quarrels at self-breath. Imagin’d worth Holds in his blood such swol’n and hot discourse That ’twixt his mental and his active parts Kingdom’d Achilles in commotion rages, And batters down himself. What should I say? He is so plaguy proud that the death tokens of it Cry ‘No recovery.’ AGAMEMNON. Let Ajax go to him. Dear lord, go you and greet him in his tent. ’Tis said he holds you well; and will be led At your request a little from himself. ULYSSES. O Agamemnon, let it not be so! We’ll consecrate the steps that Ajax makes When they go from Achilles. Shall the proud lord That bastes his arrogance with his own seam And never suffers matter of the world Enter his thoughts, save such as doth revolve And ruminate himself—shall he be worshipp’d Of that we hold an idol more than he? No, this thrice worthy and right valiant lord Shall not so stale his palm, nobly acquir’d, Nor, by my will, assubjugate his merit, As amply titled as Achilles is, By going to Achilles. That were to enlard his fat-already pride, And add more coals to Cancer when he burns With entertaining great Hyperion. This lord go to him! Jupiter forbid, And say in thunder ‘Achilles go to him.’ NESTOR. [_Aside_.] O, this is well! He rubs the vein of him. DIOMEDES. [_Aside_.] And how his silence drinks up this applause! AJAX. If I go to him, with my armed fist I’ll pash him o’er the face. AGAMEMNON. O, no, you shall not go. AJAX. An a’ be proud with me I’ll pheeze his pride. Let me go to him. ULYSSES. Not for the worth that hangs upon our quarrel. AJAX. A paltry, insolent fellow! NESTOR. [_Aside_.] How he describes himself! AJAX. Can he not be sociable? ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] The raven chides blackness. AJAX. I’ll let his humours blood. AGAMEMNON. [_Aside_.] He will be the physician that should be the patient. AJAX. And all men were o’ my mind— ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] Wit would be out of fashion. AJAX. A’ should not bear it so, a’ should eat’s words first. Shall pride carry it? NESTOR. [_Aside_.] And ’twould, you’d carry half. ULYSSES. [_Aside_.] A’ would have ten shares. AJAX. I will knead him, I’ll make him supple. NESTOR. [_Aside_.] He’s not yet through warm. Force him with praises; pour in, pour in; his ambition is dry. ULYSSES. [_To Agamemnon_.] My lord, you feed too much on this dislike. NESTOR. Our noble general, do not do so. DIOMEDES. You must prepare to fight without Achilles. ULYSSES. Why ’tis this naming of him does him harm. Here is a man—but ’tis before his face; I will be silent. NESTOR. Wherefore should you so? He is not emulous, as Achilles is. ULYSSES. Know the whole world, he is as valiant. AJAX. A whoreson dog, that shall palter with us thus! Would he were a Trojan! NESTOR. What a vice were it in Ajax now— ULYSSES. If he were proud. DIOMEDES. Or covetous of praise. ULYSSES. Ay, or surly borne. DIOMEDES. Or strange, or self-affected. ULYSSES. Thank the heavens, lord, thou art of sweet composure. Praise him that gat thee, she that gave thee suck; Fam’d be thy tutor, and thy parts of nature Thrice fam’d beyond, beyond all erudition; But he that disciplin’d thine arms to fight— Let Mars divide eternity in twain And give him half; and, for thy vigour, Bull-bearing Milo his addition yield To sinewy Ajax. I will not praise thy wisdom, Which, like a bourn, a pale, a shore, confines Thy spacious and dilated parts. Here’s Nestor, Instructed by the antiquary times— He must, he is, he cannot but be wise; But pardon, father Nestor, were your days As green as Ajax’ and your brain so temper’d, You should not have the eminence of him, But be as Ajax. AJAX. Shall I call you father? NESTOR. Ay, my good son. DIOMEDES. Be rul’d by him, Lord Ajax. ULYSSES. There is no tarrying here; the hart Achilles Keeps thicket. Please it our great general To call together all his state of war; Fresh kings are come to Troy. Tomorrow We must with all our main of power stand fast; And here’s a lord—come knights from east to west And cull their flower, Ajax shall cope the best. AGAMEMNON. Go we to council. Let Achilles sleep. Light boats sail swift, though greater hulks draw deep. [_Exeunt_.] ACT III SCENE I. Troy. Priam’s palace. Music sounds within. Enter Pandarus and a Servant. PANDARUS. Friend, you—pray you, a word. Do you not follow the young Lord Paris? SERVANT. Ay, sir, when he goes before me. PANDARUS. You depend upon him, I mean? SERVANT. Sir, I do depend upon the Lord. PANDARUS. You depend upon a notable gentleman; I must needs praise him. SERVANT. The Lord be praised! PANDARUS. You know me, do you not? SERVANT. Faith, sir, superficially. PANDARUS. Friend, know me better: I am the Lord Pandarus. SERVANT. I hope I shall know your honour better. PANDARUS. I do desire it. SERVANT. You are in the state of grace? PANDARUS. Grace? Not so, friend; honour and lordship are my titles. What music is this? SERVANT. I do but partly know, sir; it is music in parts. PANDARUS. Know you the musicians? SERVANT. Wholly, sir. PANDARUS. Who play they to? SERVANT. To the hearers, sir. PANDARUS. At whose pleasure, friend? SERVANT. At mine, sir, and theirs that love music. PANDARUS. Command, I mean, friend. SERVANT. Who shall I command, sir? PANDARUS. Friend, we understand not one another: I am too courtly, and thou art too cunning. At whose request do these men play? SERVANT. That’s to’t, indeed, sir. Marry, sir, at the request of Paris my lord, who is there in person; with him the mortal Venus, the heart-blood of beauty, love’s invisible soul— PANDARUS. Who, my cousin, Cressida? SERVANT. No, sir, Helen. Could not you find out that by her attributes? PANDARUS. It should seem, fellow, that thou hast not seen the Lady Cressida. I come to speak with Paris from the Prince Troilus; I will make a complimental assault upon him, for my business seethes. SERVANT. Sodden business! There’s a stew’d phrase indeed! Enter Paris and Helen, attended. PANDARUS. Fair be to you, my lord, and to all this fair company! Fair desires, in all fair measure, fairly guide them—especially to you, fair queen! Fair thoughts be your fair pillow. HELEN. Dear lord, you are full of fair words. PANDARUS. You speak your fair pleasure, sweet queen. Fair prince, here is good broken music. PARIS. You have broke it, cousin; and by my life, you shall make it whole again; you shall piece it out with a piece of your performance. HELEN. He is full of harmony. PANDARUS. Truly, lady, no. HELEN. O, sir— PANDARUS. Rude, in sooth; in good sooth, very rude. PARIS. Well said, my lord. Well, you say so in fits. PANDARUS. I have business to my lord, dear queen. My lord, will you vouchsafe me a word? HELEN. Nay, this shall not hedge us out. We’ll hear you sing, certainly— PANDARUS. Well sweet queen, you are pleasant with me. But, marry, thus, my lord: my dear lord and most esteemed friend, your brother Troilus— HELEN. My Lord Pandarus, honey-sweet lord— PANDARUS. Go to, sweet queen, go to—commends himself most affectionately to you— HELEN. You shall not bob us out of our melody. If you do, our melancholy upon your head! PANDARUS. Sweet queen, sweet queen; that’s a sweet queen, i’ faith. HELEN. And to make a sweet lady sad is a sour offence. PANDARUS. Nay, that shall not serve your turn; that shall it not, in truth, la. Nay, I care not for such words; no, no.—And, my lord, he desires you that, if the King call for him at supper, you will make his excuse. HELEN. My Lord Pandarus! PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen, my very very sweet queen? PARIS. What exploit’s in hand? Where sups he tonight? HELEN. Nay, but, my lord— PANDARUS. What says my sweet queen?—My cousin will fall out with you. HELEN. You must not know where he sups. PARIS. I’ll lay my life, with my disposer Cressida. PANDARUS. No, no, no such matter; you are wide. Come, your disposer is sick. PARIS. Well, I’ll make’s excuse. PANDARUS. Ay, good my lord. Why should you say Cressida? No, your poor disposer’s sick. PARIS. I spy. PANDARUS. You spy! What do you spy?—Come, give me an instrument. Now, sweet queen. HELEN. Why, this is kindly done. PANDARUS. My niece is horribly in love with a thing you have, sweet queen. HELEN. She shall have it, my lord, if it be not my Lord Paris. PANDARUS. He? No, she’ll none of him; they two are twain. HELEN. Falling in, after falling out, may make them three. PANDARUS. Come, come. I’ll hear no more of this; I’ll sing you a song now. HELEN. Ay, ay, prithee now. By my troth, sweet lord, thou hast a fine forehead. PANDARUS. Ay, you may, you may. HELEN. Let thy song be love. This love will undo us all. O Cupid, Cupid, Cupid! PANDARUS. Love! Ay, that it shall, i’ faith. PARIS. Ay, good now, love, love, nothing but love. PANDARUS. In good troth, it begins so. [_Sings_.] _Love, love, nothing but love, still love, still more! For, oh, love’s bow Shoots buck and doe; The shaft confounds Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore. These lovers cry, O ho, they die! Yet that which seems the wound to kill Doth turn O ho! to ha! ha! he! So dying love lives still. O ho! a while, but ha! ha! ha! O ho! groans out for ha! ha! ha!—hey ho!_ HELEN. In love, i’ faith, to the very tip of the nose. PARIS. He eats nothing but doves, love; and that breeds hot blood, and hot blood begets hot thoughts, and hot thoughts beget hot deeds, and hot deeds is love. PANDARUS. Is this the generation of love: hot blood, hot thoughts, and hot deeds? Why, they are vipers. Is love a generation of vipers? Sweet lord, who’s a-field today? PARIS. Hector, Deiphobus, Helenus, Antenor, and all the gallantry of Troy. I would fain have arm’d today, but my Nell would not have it so. How chance my brother Troilus went not? HELEN. He hangs the lip at something. You know all, Lord Pandarus. PANDARUS. Not I, honey-sweet queen. I long to hear how they spend today. You’ll remember your brother’s excuse? PARIS. To a hair. PANDARUS. Farewell, sweet queen. HELEN. Commend me to your niece. PANDARUS. I will, sweet queen. [_Exit. Sound a retreat_.] PARIS. They’re come from the field. Let us to Priam’s hall To greet the warriors. Sweet Helen, I must woo you To help unarm our Hector. His stubborn buckles, With these your white enchanting fingers touch’d, Shall more obey than to the edge of steel Or force of Greekish sinews; you shall do more Than all the island kings—disarm great Hector. HELEN. ’Twill make us proud to be his servant, Paris; Yea, what he shall receive of us in duty Gives us more palm in beauty than we have, Yea, overshines ourself. PARIS. Sweet, above thought I love thee. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. Pandarus’ orchard. Enter Pandarus and Troilus’ Boy, meeting. PANDARUS. How now! Where’s thy master? At my cousin Cressida’s? BOY. No, sir; he stays for you to conduct him thither. Enter Troilus. PANDARUS. O, here he comes. How now, how now? TROILUS. Sirrah, walk off. [_Exit_ Boy.] PANDARUS. Have you seen my cousin? TROILUS. No, Pandarus. I stalk about her door Like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks Staying for waftage. O, be thou my Charon, And give me swift transportance to these fields Where I may wallow in the lily beds Propos’d for the deserver! O gentle Pandar, from Cupid’s shoulder pluck his painted wings, and fly with me to Cressid! PANDARUS. Walk here i’ th’ orchard, I’ll bring her straight. [_Exit_.] TROILUS. I am giddy; expectation whirls me round. Th’imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat’ry palate tastes indeed Love’s thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Sounding destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun’d too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers. I fear it much; and I do fear besides That I shall lose distinction in my joys; As doth a battle, when they charge on heaps The enemy flying. Re-enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. She’s making her ready, she’ll come straight; you must be witty now. She does so blush, and fetches her wind so short, as if she were fray’d with a sprite. I’ll fetch her. It is the prettiest villain; she fetches her breath as short as a new-ta’en sparrow. [_Exit_.] TROILUS. Even such a passion doth embrace my bosom. My heart beats thicker than a feverous pulse, And all my powers do their bestowing lose, Like vassalage at unawares encount’ring The eye of majesty. Re-enter Pandarus with Cressida. PANDARUS. Come, come, what need you blush? Shame’s a baby. Here she is now; swear the oaths now to her that you have sworn to me.—What, are you gone again? You must be watch’d ere you be made tame, must you? Come your ways, come your ways; and you draw backward, we’ll put you i’ th’ fills. Why do you not speak to her? Come, draw this curtain and let’s see your picture. Alas the day, how loath you are to offend daylight! And ’twere dark, you’d close sooner. So, so; rub on, and kiss the mistress. How now, a kiss in fee-farm! Build there, carpenter; the air is sweet. Nay, you shall fight your hearts out ere I part you. The falcon as the tercel, for all the ducks i’ th’ river. Go to, go to. TROILUS. You have bereft me of all words, lady. PANDARUS. Words pay no debts, give her deeds; but she’ll bereave you o’ th’ deeds too, if she call your activity in question. What, billing again? Here’s ‘In witness whereof the parties interchangeably.’ Come in, come in; I’ll go get a fire. [_Exit_.] CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord? TROILUS. O Cressid, how often have I wish’d me thus! CRESSIDA. Wish’d, my lord! The gods grant—O my lord! TROILUS. What should they grant? What makes this pretty abruption? What too curious dreg espies my sweet lady in the fountain of our love? CRESSIDA. More dregs than water, if my fears have eyes. TROILUS. Fears make devils of cherubins; they never see truly. CRESSIDA. Blind fear, that seeing reason leads, finds safer footing than blind reason stumbling without fear. To fear the worst oft cures the worse. TROILUS. O, let my lady apprehend no fear! In all Cupid’s pageant there is presented no monster. CRESSIDA. Nor nothing monstrous neither? TROILUS. Nothing, but our undertakings when we vow to weep seas, live in fire, eat rocks, tame tigers; thinking it harder for our mistress to devise imposition enough than for us to undergo any difficulty imposed. This is the monstruosity in love, lady, that the will is infinite, and the execution confin’d; that the desire is boundless, and the act a slave to limit. CRESSIDA. They say all lovers swear more performance than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one. They that have the voice of lions and the act of hares, are they not monsters? TROILUS. Are there such? Such are not we. Praise us as we are tasted, allow us as we prove; our head shall go bare till merit crown it. No perfection in reversion shall have a praise in present. We will not name desert before his birth; and, being born, his addition shall be humble. Few words to fair faith: Troilus shall be such to Cressid as what envy can say worst shall be a mock for his truth; and what truth can speak truest not truer than Troilus. CRESSIDA. Will you walk in, my lord? Re-enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. What, blushing still? Have you not done talking yet? CRESSIDA. Well, uncle, what folly I commit, I dedicate to you. PANDARUS. I thank you for that; if my lord get a boy of you, you’ll give him me. Be true to my lord; if he flinch, chide me for it. TROILUS. You know now your hostages: your uncle’s word and my firm faith. PANDARUS. Nay, I’ll give my word for her too: our kindred, though they be long ere they are wooed, they are constant being won; they are burs, I can tell you; they’ll stick where they are thrown. CRESSIDA. Boldness comes to me now and brings me heart. Prince Troilus, I have lov’d you night and day For many weary months. TROILUS. Why was my Cressid then so hard to win? CRESSIDA. Hard to seem won; but I was won, my lord, With the first glance that ever—pardon me. If I confess much, you will play the tyrant. I love you now; but till now not so much But I might master it. In faith, I lie; My thoughts were like unbridled children, grown Too headstrong for their mother. See, we fools! Why have I blabb’d? Who shall be true to us, When we are so unsecret to ourselves? But, though I lov’d you well, I woo’d you not; And yet, good faith, I wish’d myself a man, Or that we women had men’s privilege Of speaking first. Sweet, bid me hold my tongue, For in this rapture I shall surely speak The thing I shall repent. See, see, your silence, Cunning in dumbness, from my weakness draws My very soul of counsel. Stop my mouth. TROILUS. And shall, albeit sweet music issues thence. PANDARUS. Pretty, i’ faith. CRESSIDA. My lord, I do beseech you, pardon me; ’Twas not my purpose thus to beg a kiss. I am asham’d. O heavens! what have I done? For this time will I take my leave, my lord. TROILUS. Your leave, sweet Cressid! PANDARUS. Leave! And you take leave till tomorrow morning— CRESSIDA. Pray you, content you. TROILUS. What offends you, lady? CRESSIDA. Sir, mine own company. TROILUS. You cannot shun yourself. CRESSIDA. Let me go and try. I have a kind of self resides with you; But an unkind self, that itself will leave To be another’s fool. I would be gone. Where is my wit? I know not what I speak. TROILUS. Well know they what they speak that speak so wisely. CRESSIDA. Perchance, my lord, I show more craft than love; And fell so roundly to a large confession To angle for your thoughts; but you are wise— Or else you love not; for to be wise and love Exceeds man’s might; that dwells with gods above. TROILUS. O that I thought it could be in a woman— As, if it can, I will presume in you— To feed for aye her lamp and flames of love; To keep her constancy in plight and youth, Outliving beauty’s outward, with a mind That doth renew swifter than blood decays! Or that persuasion could but thus convince me That my integrity and truth to you Might be affronted with the match and weight Of such a winnowed purity in love. How were I then uplifted! But, alas, I am as true as truth’s simplicity, And simpler than the infancy of truth. CRESSIDA. In that I’ll war with you. TROILUS. O virtuous fight, When right with right wars who shall be most right! True swains in love shall in the world to come Approve their truth by Troilus, when their rhymes, Full of protest, of oath, and big compare, Want similes, truth tir’d with iteration— As true as steel, as plantage to the moon, As sun to day, as turtle to her mate, As iron to adamant, as earth to th’ centre— Yet, after all comparisons of truth, As truth’s authentic author to be cited, ‘As true as Troilus’ shall crown up the verse And sanctify the numbers. CRESSIDA. Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, When time is old and hath forgot itself, When waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, And blind oblivion swallow’d cities up, And mighty states characterless are grated To dusty nothing—yet let memory From false to false, among false maids in love, Upbraid my falsehood when th’ have said ‘As false As air, as water, wind, or sandy earth, As fox to lamb, or wolf to heifer’s calf, Pard to the hind, or stepdame to her son’— Yea, let them say, to stick the heart of falsehood, ‘As false as Cressid.’ PANDARUS. Go to, a bargain made; seal it, seal it; I’ll be the witness. Here I hold your hand; here my cousin’s. If ever you prove false one to another, since I have taken such pains to bring you together, let all pitiful goers-between be call’d to the world’s end after my name—call them all Pandars; let all constant men be Troiluses, all false women Cressids, and all brokers between Pandars. Say ‘Amen.’ TROILUS. Amen. CRESSIDA. Amen. PANDARUS. Amen. Whereupon I will show you a chamber and a bed; which bed, because it shall not speak of your pretty encounters, press it to death. Away! [_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.] And Cupid grant all tongue-tied maidens here, Bed, chamber, pander, to provide this gear! [_Exit_.] SCENE III. The Greek camp. Flourish. Enter Agamemnon, Ulysses, Diomedes, Nestor, Ajax, Menelaus and Calchas. CALCHAS. Now, Princes, for the service I have done, Th’advantage of the time prompts me aloud To call for recompense. Appear it to your mind That, through the sight I bear in things to come, I have abandon’d Troy, left my possession, Incurr’d a traitor’s name, expos’d myself From certain and possess’d conveniences To doubtful fortunes, sequest’ring from me all That time, acquaintance, custom, and condition, Made tame and most familiar to my nature; And here, to do you service, am become As new into the world, strange, unacquainted— I do beseech you, as in way of taste, To give me now a little benefit Out of those many regist’red in promise, Which you say live to come in my behalf. AGAMEMNON. What wouldst thou of us, Trojan? Make demand. CALCHAS. You have a Trojan prisoner call’d Antenor, Yesterday took; Troy holds him very dear. Oft have you—often have you thanks therefore— Desir’d my Cressid in right great exchange, Whom Troy hath still denied; but this Antenor, I know, is such a wrest in their affairs That their negotiations all must slack Wanting his manage; and they will almost Give us a prince of blood, a son of Priam, In change of him. Let him be sent, great Princes, And he shall buy my daughter; and her presence Shall quite strike off all service I have done In most accepted pain. AGAMEMNON. Let Diomedes bear him, And bring us Cressid hither. Calchas shall have What he requests of us. Good Diomed, Furnish you fairly for this interchange; Withal, bring word if Hector will tomorrow Be answer’d in his challenge. Ajax is ready. DIOMEDES. This shall I undertake; and ’tis a burden Which I am proud to bear. [_Exeunt Diomedes and Calchas_.] [_Achilles and Patroclus stand in their tent_.] ULYSSES. Achilles stands i’ th’entrance of his tent. Please it our general pass strangely by him, As if he were forgot; and, Princes all, Lay negligent and loose regard upon him. I will come last. ’Tis like he’ll question me Why such unplausive eyes are bent, why turn’d on him. If so, I have derision med’cinable To use between your strangeness and his pride, Which his own will shall have desire to drink. It may do good. Pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride; for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man’s fees. AGAMEMNON. We’ll execute your purpose, and put on A form of strangeness as we pass along. So do each lord; and either greet him not, Or else disdainfully, which shall shake him more Than if not look’d on. I will lead the way. ACHILLES. What comes the general to speak with me? You know my mind. I’ll fight no more ’gainst Troy. AGAMEMNON. What says Achilles? Would he aught with us? NESTOR. Would you, my lord, aught with the general? ACHILLES. No. NESTOR. Nothing, my lord. AGAMEMNON. The better. [_Exeunt Agamemnon and Nestor_.] ACHILLES. Good day, good day. MENELAUS. How do you? How do you? [_Exit_.] ACHILLES. What, does the cuckold scorn me? AJAX. How now, Patroclus? ACHILLES. Good morrow, Ajax. AJAX. Ha? ACHILLES. Good morrow. AJAX. Ay, and good next day too. [_Exit_.] ACHILLES. What mean these fellows? Know they not Achilles? PATROCLUS. They pass by strangely. They were us’d to bend, To send their smiles before them to Achilles, To come as humbly as they us’d to creep To holy altars. ACHILLES. What, am I poor of late? ’Tis certain, greatness, once fall’n out with fortune, Must fall out with men too. What the declin’d is, He shall as soon read in the eyes of others As feel in his own fall; for men, like butterflies, Show not their mealy wings but to the summer; And not a man for being simply man Hath any honour, but honour for those honours That are without him, as place, riches, and favour, Prizes of accident, as oft as merit; Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, The love that lean’d on them as slippery too, Doth one pluck down another, and together Die in the fall. But ’tis not so with me: Fortune and I are friends; I do enjoy At ample point all that I did possess Save these men’s looks; who do, methinks, find out Something not worth in me such rich beholding As they have often given. Here is Ulysses. I’ll interrupt his reading. How now, Ulysses! ULYSSES. Now, great Thetis’ son! ACHILLES. What are you reading? ULYSSES. A strange fellow here Writes me that man—how dearly ever parted, How much in having, or without or in— Cannot make boast to have that which he hath, Nor feels not what he owes, but by reflection; As when his virtues shining upon others Heat them, and they retort that heat again To the first giver. ACHILLES. This is not strange, Ulysses. The beauty that is borne here in the face The bearer knows not, but commends itself To others’ eyes; nor doth the eye itself— That most pure spirit of sense—behold itself, Not going from itself; but eye to eye opposed Salutes each other with each other’s form; For speculation turns not to itself Till it hath travell’d, and is mirror’d there Where it may see itself. This is not strange at all. ULYSSES. I do not strain at the position— It is familiar—but at the author’s drift; Who, in his circumstance, expressly proves That no man is the lord of anything, Though in and of him there be much consisting, Till he communicate his parts to others; Nor doth he of himself know them for aught Till he behold them formed in the applause Where th’are extended; who, like an arch, reverb’rate The voice again; or, like a gate of steel Fronting the sun, receives and renders back His figure and his heat. I was much rapt in this; And apprehended here immediately Th’unknown Ajax. Heavens, what a man is there! A very horse that has he knows not what! Nature, what things there are Most abject in regard and dear in use! What things again most dear in the esteem And poor in worth! Now shall we see tomorrow— An act that very chance doth throw upon him— Ajax renown’d. O heavens, what some men do, While some men leave to do! How some men creep in skittish Fortune’s hall, Whiles others play the idiots in her eyes! How one man eats into another’s pride, While pride is fasting in his wantonness! To see these Grecian lords!—why, even already They clap the lubber Ajax on the shoulder, As if his foot were on brave Hector’s breast, And great Troy shrieking. ACHILLES. I do believe it; for they pass’d by me As misers do by beggars, neither gave to me Good word nor look. What, are my deeds forgot? ULYSSES. Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-siz’d monster of ingratitudes. Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour’d As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done. Perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honour bright. To have done is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mock’ry. Take the instant way; For honour travels in a strait so narrow— Where one but goes abreast. Keep then the path, For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue; if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an ent’red tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant horse fall’n in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O’er-run and trampled on. Then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o’ertop yours; For Time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by th’hand; And with his arms out-stretch’d, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer. The welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O, let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; For beauty, wit, High birth, vigour of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating Time. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin— That all with one consent praise new-born gauds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o’er-dusted. The present eye praises the present object. Then marvel not, thou great and complete man, That all the Greeks begin to worship Ajax, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what stirs not. The cry went once on thee, And still it might, and yet it may again, If thou wouldst not entomb thyself alive And case thy reputation in thy tent, Whose glorious deeds but in these fields of late Made emulous missions ’mongst the gods themselves, And drave great Mars to faction. ACHILLES. Of this my privacy I have strong reasons. ULYSSES. But ’gainst your privacy The reasons are more potent and heroical. ’Tis known, Achilles, that you are in love With one of Priam’s daughters. ACHILLES. Ha! known! ULYSSES. Is that a wonder? The providence that’s in a watchful state Knows almost every grain of Plutus’ gold; Finds bottom in th’uncomprehensive deeps; Keeps place with thought, and almost, like the gods, Do thoughts unveil in their dumb cradles. There is a mystery—with whom relation Durst never meddle—in the soul of state, Which hath an operation more divine Than breath or pen can give expressure to. All the commerce that you have had with Troy As perfectly is ours as yours, my lord; And better would it fit Achilles much To throw down Hector than Polyxena. But it must grieve young Pyrrhus now at home, When fame shall in our island sound her trump, And all the Greekish girls shall tripping sing ‘Great Hector’s sister did Achilles win; But our great Ajax bravely beat down him.’ Farewell, my lord. I as your lover speak. The fool slides o’er the ice that you should break. [_Exit_.] PATROCLUS. To this effect, Achilles, have I mov’d you. A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath’d than an effeminate man In time of action. I stand condemn’d for this; They think my little stomach to the war And your great love to me restrains you thus. Sweet, rouse yourself; and the weak wanton Cupid Shall from your neck unloose his amorous fold, And, like a dew-drop from the lion’s mane, Be shook to air. ACHILLES. Shall Ajax fight with Hector? PATROCLUS. Ay, and perhaps receive much honour by him. ACHILLES. I see my reputation is at stake; My fame is shrewdly gor’d. PATROCLUS. O, then, beware: Those wounds heal ill that men do give themselves; Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger; And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when they sit idly in the sun. ACHILLES. Go call Thersites hither, sweet Patroclus. I’ll send the fool to Ajax, and desire him T’invite the Trojan lords, after the combat, To see us here unarm’d. I have a woman’s longing, An appetite that I am sick withal, To see great Hector in his weeds of peace; To talk with him, and to behold his visage, Even to my full of view. Enter Thersites. A labour sav’d! THERSITES. A wonder! ACHILLES. What? THERSITES. Ajax goes up and down the field asking for himself. ACHILLES. How so? THERSITES. He must fight singly tomorrow with Hector, and is so prophetically proud of an heroical cudgelling that he raves in saying nothing. ACHILLES. How can that be? THERSITES. Why, a’ stalks up and down like a peacock—a stride and a stand; ruminates like an hostess that hath no arithmetic but her brain to set down her reckoning, bites his lip with a politic regard, as who should say ‘There were wit in this head, and ’twould out’; and so there is; but it lies as coldly in him as fire in a flint, which will not show without knocking. The man’s undone for ever; for if Hector break not his neck i’ th’ combat, he’ll break’t himself in vainglory. He knows not me. I said ‘Good morrow, Ajax’; and he replies ‘Thanks, Agamemnon.’ What think you of this man that takes me for the general? He’s grown a very land fish, languageless, a monster. A plague of opinion! A man may wear it on both sides, like leather jerkin. ACHILLES. Thou must be my ambassador to him, Thersites. THERSITES. Who, I? Why, he’ll answer nobody; he professes not answering. Speaking is for beggars: he wears his tongue in’s arms. I will put on his presence. Let Patroclus make his demands to me, you shall see the pageant of Ajax. ACHILLES. To him, Patroclus. Tell him I humbly desire the valiant Ajax to invite the most valorous Hector to come unarm’d to my tent; and to procure safe conduct for his person of the magnanimous and most illustrious six-or-seven-times-honour’d Captain General of the Grecian army, Agamemnon. Do this. PATROCLUS. Jove bless great Ajax! THERSITES. Hum! PATROCLUS. I come from the worthy Achilles— THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. Who most humbly desires you to invite Hector to his tent— THERSITES. Hum! PATROCLUS. And to procure safe conduct from Agamemnon. THERSITES. Agamemnon? PATROCLUS. Ay, my lord. THERSITES. Ha! PATROCLUS. What you say to’t? THERSITES. God buy you, with all my heart. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES. If tomorrow be a fair day, by eleven of the clock it will go one way or other. Howsoever, he shall pay for me ere he has me. PATROCLUS. Your answer, sir. THERSITES. Fare ye well, with all my heart. ACHILLES. Why, but he is not in this tune, is he? THERSITES. No, but out of tune thus. What music will be in him when Hector has knock’d out his brains, I know not; but, I am sure, none; unless the fiddler Apollo get his sinews to make catlings on. ACHILLES. Come, thou shalt bear a letter to him straight. THERSITES. Let me bear another to his horse; for that’s the more capable creature. ACHILLES. My mind is troubled, like a fountain stirr’d; And I myself see not the bottom of it. [_Exeunt Achilles and Patroclus_.] THERSITES. Would the fountain of your mind were clear again, that I might water an ass at it. I had rather be a tick in a sheep than such a valiant ignorance. [_Exit_.] ACT IV SCENE I. Troy. A street. Enter, at one side, Aeneas and servant with a torch; at another Paris, Deiphobus, Antenor, Diomedes the Grecian, and others, with torches. PARIS. See, ho! Who is that there? DEIPHOBUS. It is the Lord Aeneas. AENEAS. Is the Prince there in person? Had I so good occasion to lie long As you, Prince Paris, nothing but heavenly business Should rob my bed-mate of my company. DIOMEDES. That’s my mind too. Good morrow, Lord Aeneas. PARIS. A valiant Greek, Aeneas—take his hand: Witness the process of your speech, wherein You told how Diomed, a whole week by days, Did haunt you in the field. AENEAS. Health to you, valiant sir, During all question of the gentle truce; But when I meet you arm’d, as black defiance As heart can think or courage execute. DIOMEDES. The one and other Diomed embraces. Our bloods are now in calm; and so long health! But when contention and occasion meet, By Jove, I’ll play the hunter for thy life With all my force, pursuit, and policy. AENEAS. And thou shalt hunt a lion that will fly With his face backward. In humane gentleness, Welcome to Troy! Now, by Anchises’ life, Welcome indeed! By Venus’ hand I swear No man alive can love in such a sort The thing he means to kill, more excellently. DIOMEDES. We sympathise. Jove let Aeneas live, If to my sword his fate be not the glory, A thousand complete courses of the sun! But in mine emulous honour let him die With every joint a wound, and that tomorrow! AENEAS. We know each other well. DIOMEDES. We do; and long to know each other worse. PARIS. This is the most despiteful gentle greeting, The noblest hateful love, that e’er I heard of. What business, lord, so early? AENEAS. I was sent for to the King; but why, I know not. PARIS. His purpose meets you: ’twas to bring this Greek To Calchas’ house, and there to render him, For the enfreed Antenor, the fair Cressid. Let’s have your company; or, if you please, Haste there before us. I constantly believe— Or rather call my thought a certain knowledge— My brother Troilus lodges there tonight. Rouse him and give him note of our approach, With the whole quality wherefore; I fear We shall be much unwelcome. AENEAS. That I assure you: Troilus had rather Troy were borne to Greece Than Cressid borne from Troy. PARIS. There is no help; The bitter disposition of the time Will have it so. On, lord; we’ll follow you. AENEAS. Good morrow, all. [_Exit with servant_.] PARIS. And tell me, noble Diomed, faith, tell me true, Even in the soul of sound good-fellowship, Who in your thoughts deserves fair Helen best, Myself, or Menelaus? DIOMEDES. Both alike: He merits well to have her that doth seek her, Not making any scruple of her soilure, With such a hell of pain and world of charge; And you as well to keep her that defend her, Not palating the taste of her dishonour, With such a costly loss of wealth and friends. He like a puling cuckold would drink up The lees and dregs of a flat tamed piece; You, like a lecher, out of whorish loins Are pleas’d to breed out your inheritors. Both merits pois’d, each weighs nor less nor more, But he as he, the heavier for a whore. PARIS. You are too bitter to your country-woman. DIOMEDES. She’s bitter to her country. Hear me, Paris: For every false drop in her bawdy veins A Grecian’s life hath sunk; for every scruple Of her contaminated carrion weight A Trojan hath been slain. Since she could speak, She hath not given so many good words breath As for her Greeks and Trojans suff’red death. PARIS. Fair Diomed, you do as chapmen do, Dispraise the thing that you desire to buy; But we in silence hold this virtue well, We’ll not commend what we intend to sell. Here lies our way. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE II. Troy. The court of Pandarus’ house. Enter Troilus and Cressida. TROILUS. Dear, trouble not yourself; the morn is cold. CRESSIDA. Then, sweet my lord, I’ll call mine uncle down; He shall unbolt the gates. TROILUS. Trouble him not; To bed, to bed! Sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses As infants empty of all thought! CRESSIDA. Good morrow, then. TROILUS. I prithee now, to bed. CRESSIDA. Are you aweary of me? TROILUS. O Cressida! but that the busy day, Wak’d by the lark, hath rous’d the ribald crows, And dreaming night will hide our joys no longer, I would not from thee. CRESSIDA. Night hath been too brief. TROILUS. Beshrew the witch! with venomous wights she stays As tediously as hell, but flies the grasps of love With wings more momentary-swift than thought. You will catch cold, and curse me. CRESSIDA. Prithee tarry. You men will never tarry. O foolish Cressid! I might have still held off, And then you would have tarried. Hark! there’s one up. PANDARUS. [_Within._] What’s all the doors open here? TROILUS. It is your uncle. Enter Pandarus. CRESSIDA. A pestilence on him! Now will he be mocking. I shall have such a life! PANDARUS. How now, how now! How go maidenheads? Here, you maid! Where’s my cousin Cressid? CRESSIDA. Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle. You bring me to do, and then you flout me too. PANDARUS. To do what? to do what? Let her say what. What have I brought you to do? CRESSIDA. Come, come, beshrew your heart! You’ll ne’er be good, nor suffer others. PANDARUS. Ha, ha! Alas, poor wretch! Ah, poor capocchia! Hast not slept tonight? Would he not, a naughty man, let it sleep? A bugbear take him! CRESSIDA. Did not I tell you? Would he were knock’d i’ th’ head! [_One knocks_.] Who’s that at door? Good uncle, go and see. My lord, come you again into my chamber. You smile and mock me, as if I meant naughtily. TROILUS. Ha! ha! CRESSIDA. Come, you are deceiv’d, I think of no such thing. [_Knock_.] How earnestly they knock! Pray you come in: I would not for half Troy have you seen here. [_Exeunt Troilus and Cressida_.] PANDARUS. Who’s there? What’s the matter? Will you beat down the door? How now? What’s the matter? Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. Good morrow, lord, good morrow. PANDARUS. Who’s there? My lord Aeneas? By my troth, I knew you not. What news with you so early? AENEAS. Is not Prince Troilus here? PANDARUS. Here! What should he do here? AENEAS. Come, he is here, my lord; do not deny him. It doth import him much to speak with me. PANDARUS. Is he here, say you? It’s more than I know, I’ll be sworn. For my own part, I came in late. What should he do here? AENEAS. Who, nay then! Come, come, you’ll do him wrong ere you are ware; you’ll be so true to him to be false to him. Do not you know of him, but yet go fetch him hither; go. Re-enter Troilus. TROILUS. How now! What’s the matter? AENEAS. My lord, I scarce have leisure to salute you, My matter is so rash. There is at hand Paris your brother, and Deiphobus, The Grecian Diomed, and our Antenor Deliver’d to us; and for him forthwith, Ere the first sacrifice, within this hour, We must give up to Diomedes’ hand The Lady Cressida. TROILUS. Is it so concluded? AENEAS. By Priam and the general state of Troy. They are at hand, and ready to effect it. TROILUS. How my achievements mock me! I will go meet them; and, my Lord Aeneas, We met by chance; you did not find me here. AENEAS. Good, good, my lord, the secrets of neighbour Pandar Have not more gift in taciturnity. [_Exeunt Troilus and Aeneas_.] PANDARUS. Is’t possible? No sooner got but lost? The devil take Antenor! The young prince will go mad. A plague upon Antenor! I would they had broke’s neck. Re-enter Cressida. CRESSIDA. How now! What’s the matter? Who was here? PANDARUS. Ah, ah! CRESSIDA. Why sigh you so profoundly? Where’s my lord? Gone? Tell me, sweet uncle, what’s the matter? PANDARUS. Would I were as deep under the earth as I am above! CRESSIDA. O the gods! What’s the matter? PANDARUS. Pray thee get thee in. Would thou hadst ne’er been born! I knew thou wouldst be his death! O, poor gentleman! A plague upon Antenor! CRESSIDA. Good uncle, I beseech you, on my knees I beseech you, what’s the matter? PANDARUS. Thou must be gone, wench, thou must be gone; thou art chang’d for Antenor; thou must to thy father, and be gone from Troilus. ’Twill be his death; ’twill be his bane; he cannot bear it. CRESSIDA. O you immortal gods! I will not go. PANDARUS. Thou must. CRESSIDA. I will not, uncle. I have forgot my father; I know no touch of consanguinity, No kin, no love, no blood, no soul so near me As the sweet Troilus. O you gods divine, Make Cressid’s name the very crown of falsehood, If ever she leave Troilus! Time, force, and death, Do to this body what extremes you can, But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it. I’ll go in and weep— PANDARUS. Do, do. CRESSIDA. Tear my bright hair, and scratch my praised cheeks, Crack my clear voice with sobs and break my heart, With sounding ‘Troilus.’ I will not go from Troy. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE III. Troy. A street before Pandarus’ house. Enter Paris, Troilus, Aeneas, Deiphobus, Antenor and Diomedes. PARIS. It is great morning; and the hour prefix’d For her delivery to this valiant Greek Comes fast upon. Good my brother Troilus, Tell you the lady what she is to do And haste her to the purpose. TROILUS. Walk into her house. I’ll bring her to the Grecian presently; And to his hand when I deliver her, Think it an altar, and thy brother Troilus A priest, there off’ring to it his own heart. [_Exit_.] PARIS. I know what ’tis to love, And would, as I shall pity, I could help! Please you walk in, my lords? [_Exeunt_.] SCENE IV. Troy. Pandarus’ house. Enter Pandarus and Cressida. PANDARUS. Be moderate, be moderate. CRESSIDA. Why tell you me of moderation? The grief is fine, full, perfect, that I taste, And violenteth in a sense as strong As that which causeth it. How can I moderate it? If I could temporize with my affections Or brew it to a weak and colder palate, The like allayment could I give my grief. My love admits no qualifying dross; No more my grief, in such a precious loss. Enter Troilus. PANDARUS. Here, here, here he comes. Ah, sweet ducks! CRESSIDA. [_Embracing him_.] O Troilus! Troilus! PANDARUS. What a pair of spectacles is here! Let me embrace too. ‘O heart,’ as the goodly saying is,— O heart, heavy heart, Why sigh’st thou without breaking? where he answers again Because thou canst not ease thy smart By friendship nor by speaking. There was never a truer rhyme. Let us cast away nothing, for we may live to have need of such a verse. We see it, we see it. How now, lambs! TROILUS. Cressid, I love thee in so strain’d a purity That the bless’d gods, as angry with my fancy, More bright in zeal than the devotion which Cold lips blow to their deities, take thee from me. CRESSIDA. Have the gods envy? PANDARUS. Ay, ay, ay, ay; ’tis too plain a case. CRESSIDA. And is it true that I must go from Troy? TROILUS. A hateful truth. CRESSIDA. What! and from Troilus too? TROILUS. From Troy and Troilus. CRESSIDA. Is’t possible? TROILUS. And suddenly; where injury of chance Puts back leave-taking, justles roughly by All time of pause, rudely beguiles our lips Of all rejoindure, forcibly prevents Our lock’d embrasures, strangles our dear vows Even in the birth of our own labouring breath. We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one. Injurious time now with a robber’s haste Crams his rich thiev’ry up, he knows not how. As many farewells as be stars in heaven, With distinct breath and consign’d kisses to them, He fumbles up into a loose adieu, And scants us with a single famish’d kiss, Distasted with the salt of broken tears. AENEAS. [_Within_.] My lord, is the lady ready? TROILUS. Hark! you are call’d. Some say the Genius Cries so to him that instantly must die. Bid them have patience; she shall come anon. PANDARUS. Where are my tears? Rain, to lay this wind, or my heart will be blown up by my throat! [_Exit_.] CRESSIDA. I must then to the Grecians? TROILUS. No remedy. CRESSIDA. A woeful Cressid ’mongst the merry Greeks! When shall we see again? TROILUS. Hear me, my love. Be thou but true of heart. CRESSIDA. I true? How now! What wicked deem is this? TROILUS. Nay, we must use expostulation kindly, For it is parting from us. I speak not ‘Be thou true’ as fearing thee, For I will throw my glove to Death himself That there’s no maculation in thy heart; But ‘Be thou true’ say I to fashion in My sequent protestation: be thou true, And I will see thee. CRESSIDA. O! you shall be expos’d, my lord, to dangers As infinite as imminent! But I’ll be true. TROILUS. And I’ll grow friend with danger. Wear this sleeve. CRESSIDA. And you this glove. When shall I see you? TROILUS. I will corrupt the Grecian sentinels To give thee nightly visitation. But yet be true. CRESSIDA. O heavens! ‘Be true’ again! TROILUS. Hear why I speak it, love. The Grecian youths are full of quality; They’re loving, well compos’d, with gifts of nature, Flowing and swelling o’er with arts and exercise. How novelty may move, and parts with person, Alas, a kind of godly jealousy, Which, I beseech you, call a virtuous sin, Makes me afear’d. CRESSIDA. O heavens! you love me not! TROILUS. Die I a villain then! In this I do not call your faith in question So mainly as my merit. I cannot sing, Nor heel the high lavolt, nor sweeten talk, Nor play at subtle games; fair virtues all, To which the Grecians are most prompt and pregnant; But I can tell that in each grace of these There lurks a still and dumb-discoursive devil That tempts most cunningly. But be not tempted. CRESSIDA. Do you think I will? TROILUS. No. But something may be done that we will not; And sometimes we are devils to ourselves, When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency. AENEAS. [_Within_.] Nay, good my lord! TROILUS. Come, kiss; and let us part. PARIS. [_Within_.] Brother Troilus! TROILUS. Good brother, come you hither; And bring Aeneas and the Grecian with you. CRESSIDA. My lord, will you be true? TROILUS. Who, I? Alas, it is my vice, my fault! Whiles others fish with craft for great opinion, I with great truth catch mere simplicity; Whilst some with cunning gild their copper crowns, With truth and plainness I do wear mine bare. Fear not my truth: the moral of my wit Is plain and true; there’s all the reach of it. Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor, Deiphobus and Diomedes. Welcome, Sir Diomed! Here is the lady Which for Antenor we deliver you; At the port, lord, I’ll give her to thy hand, And by the way possess thee what she is. Entreat her fair; and, by my soul, fair Greek, If e’er thou stand at mercy of my sword, Name Cressid, and thy life shall be as safe As Priam is in Ilion. DIOMEDES. Fair Lady Cressid, So please you, save the thanks this prince expects. The lustre in your eye, heaven in your cheek, Pleads your fair usage; and to Diomed You shall be mistress, and command him wholly. TROILUS. Grecian, thou dost not use me courteously To shame the zeal of my petition to thee In praising her. I tell thee, lord of Greece, She is as far high-soaring o’er thy praises As thou unworthy to be call’d her servant. I charge thee use her well, even for my charge; For, by the dreadful Pluto, if thou dost not, Though the great bulk Achilles be thy guard, I’ll cut thy throat. DIOMEDES. O, be not mov’d, Prince Troilus. Let me be privileg’d by my place and message To be a speaker free: when I am hence I’ll answer to my lust. And know you, lord, I’ll nothing do on charge: to her own worth She shall be priz’d. But that you say ‘Be’t so,’ I speak it in my spirit and honour, ‘No.’ TROILUS. Come, to the port. I’ll tell thee, Diomed, This brave shall oft make thee to hide thy head. Lady, give me your hand; and, as we walk, To our own selves bend we our needful talk. [_Exeunt Troilus, Cressida and Diomedes_.] [_Sound trumpet_.] PARIS. Hark! Hector’s trumpet. AENEAS. How have we spent this morning! The Prince must think me tardy and remiss, That swore to ride before him to the field. PARIS. ’Tis Troilus’ fault. Come, come to field with him. DEIPHOBUS. Let us make ready straight. AENEAS. Yea, with a bridegroom’s fresh alacrity Let us address to tend on Hector’s heels. The glory of our Troy doth this day lie On his fair worth and single chivalry. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE V. The Grecian camp. Lists set out. Enter Ajax, armed; Agamemnon, Achilles, Patroclus, Menelaus, Ulysses, Nestor and others. AGAMEMNON. Here art thou in appointment fresh and fair, Anticipating time with starting courage. Give with thy trumpet a loud note to Troy, Thou dreadful Ajax, that the appalled air May pierce the head of the great combatant, And hale him hither. AJAX. Thou, trumpet, there’s my purse. Now crack thy lungs and split thy brazen pipe; Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek Out-swell the colic of puff’d Aquilon. Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood: Thou blowest for Hector. [_Trumpet sounds_.] ULYSSES. No trumpet answers. ACHILLES. ’Tis but early days. AGAMEMNON. Is not yond Diomed, with Calchas’ daughter? ULYSSES. ’Tis he, I ken the manner of his gait: He rises on the toe. That spirit of his In aspiration lifts him from the earth. Enter Diomedes and Cressida. AGAMEMNON. Is this the Lady Cressid? DIOMEDES. Even she. AGAMEMNON. Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady. NESTOR. Our general doth salute you with a kiss. ULYSSES. Yet is the kindness but particular; ’Twere better she were kiss’d in general. NESTOR. And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin. So much for Nestor. ACHILLES. I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady. Achilles bids you welcome. MENELAUS. I had good argument for kissing once. PATROCLUS. But that’s no argument for kissing now; For thus popp’d Paris in his hardiment, And parted thus you and your argument. ULYSSES. O deadly gall, and theme of all our scorns! For which we lose our heads to gild his horns. PATROCLUS. The first was Menelaus’ kiss; this, mine: Patroclus kisses you. MENELAUS. O, this is trim! PATROCLUS. Paris and I kiss evermore for him. MENELAUS. I’ll have my kiss, sir. Lady, by your leave. CRESSIDA. In kissing, do you render or receive? PATROCLUS. Both take and give. CRESSIDA. I’ll make my match to live, The kiss you take is better than you give; Therefore no kiss. MENELAUS. I’ll give you boot; I’ll give you three for one. CRESSIDA. You are an odd man; give even or give none. MENELAUS. An odd man, lady! Every man is odd. CRESSIDA. No, Paris is not; for you know ’tis true That you are odd, and he is even with you. MENELAUS. You fillip me o’ th’head. CRESSIDA. No, I’ll be sworn. ULYSSES. It were no match, your nail against his horn. May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you? CRESSIDA. You may. ULYSSES. I do desire it. CRESSIDA. Why, beg then. ULYSSES. Why then, for Venus’ sake give me a kiss When Helen is a maid again, and his. CRESSIDA. I am your debtor; claim it when ’tis due. ULYSSES. Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you. DIOMEDES. Lady, a word. I’ll bring you to your father. [_Exit with_ Cressida.] NESTOR. A woman of quick sense. ULYSSES. Fie, fie upon her! There’s language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks; her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body. O! these encounterers so glib of tongue That give a coasting welcome ere it comes, And wide unclasp the tables of their thoughts To every tickling reader! Set them down For sluttish spoils of opportunity, And daughters of the game. [_Trumpet within_.] ALL. The Trojans’ trumpet. AGAMEMNON. Yonder comes the troop. Enter Hector, armed; Aeneas, Troilus, Paris, Deiphobus and other Trojans, with attendants. AENEAS. Hail, all you state of Greece! What shall be done To him that victory commands? Or do you purpose A victor shall be known? Will you the knights Shall to the edge of all extremity Pursue each other, or shall be divided By any voice or order of the field? Hector bade ask. AGAMEMNON. Which way would Hector have it? AENEAS. He cares not; he’ll obey conditions. AGAMEMNON. ’Tis done like Hector. ACHILLES. But securely done, A little proudly, and great deal misprising The knight oppos’d. AENEAS. If not Achilles, sir, What is your name? ACHILLES. If not Achilles, nothing. AENEAS. Therefore Achilles. But whate’er, know this: In the extremity of great and little Valour and pride excel themselves in Hector; The one almost as infinite as all, The other blank as nothing. Weigh him well, And that which looks like pride is courtesy. This Ajax is half made of Hector’s blood; In love whereof half Hector stays at home; Half heart, half hand, half Hector comes to seek This blended knight, half Trojan and half Greek. ACHILLES. A maiden battle then? O! I perceive you. Re-enter Diomedes. AGAMEMNON. Here is Sir Diomed. Go, gentle knight, Stand by our Ajax. As you and Lord Aeneas Consent upon the order of their fight, So be it; either to the uttermost, Or else a breath. The combatants being kin Half stints their strife before their strokes begin. Ajax and Hector enter the lists. ULYSSES. They are oppos’d already. AGAMEMNON. What Trojan is that same that looks so heavy? ULYSSES. The youngest son of Priam, a true knight; Not yet mature, yet matchless; firm of word; Speaking in deeds and deedless in his tongue; Not soon provok’d, nor being provok’d soon calm’d; His heart and hand both open and both free; For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows, Yet gives he not till judgement guide his bounty, Nor dignifies an impure thought with breath; Manly as Hector, but more dangerous; For Hector in his blaze of wrath subscribes To tender objects, but he in heat of action Is more vindicative than jealous love. They call him Troilus, and on him erect A second hope as fairly built as Hector. Thus says Aeneas, one that knows the youth Even to his inches, and, with private soul, Did in great Ilion thus translate him to me. [_Alarum. Hector and Ajax fight._] AGAMEMNON. They are in action. NESTOR. Now, Ajax, hold thine own! TROILUS. Hector, thou sleep’st; awake thee! AGAMEMNON. His blows are well dispos’d. There, Ajax! [_Trumpets cease_.] DIOMEDES. You must no more. AENEAS. Princes, enough, so please you. AJAX. I am not warm yet; let us fight again. DIOMEDES. As Hector pleases. HECTOR. Why, then will I no more. Thou art, great lord, my father’s sister’s son, A cousin-german to great Priam’s seed; The obligation of our blood forbids A gory emulation ’twixt us twain: Were thy commixtion Greek and Trojan so That thou could’st say ‘This hand is Grecian all, And this is Trojan; the sinews of this leg All Greek, and this all Troy; my mother’s blood Runs on the dexter cheek, and this sinister Bounds in my father’s; by Jove multipotent, Thou shouldst not bear from me a Greekish member Wherein my sword had not impressure made Of our rank feud; but the just gods gainsay That any drop thou borrow’dst from thy mother, My sacred aunt, should by my mortal sword Be drained! Let me embrace thee, Ajax. By him that thunders, thou hast lusty arms; Hector would have them fall upon him thus. Cousin, all honour to thee! AJAX. I thank thee, Hector. Thou art too gentle and too free a man. I came to kill thee, cousin, and bear hence A great addition earned in thy death. HECTOR. Not Neoptolemus so mirable, On whose bright crest Fame with her loud’st Oyes Cries ‘This is he!’ could promise to himself A thought of added honour torn from Hector. AENEAS. There is expectance here from both the sides What further you will do. HECTOR. We’ll answer it: The issue is embracement. Ajax, farewell. AJAX. If I might in entreaties find success, As seld’ I have the chance, I would desire My famous cousin to our Grecian tents. DIOMEDES. ’Tis Agamemnon’s wish; and great Achilles Doth long to see unarm’d the valiant Hector. HECTOR. Aeneas, call my brother Troilus to me, And signify this loving interview To the expecters of our Trojan part; Desire them home. Give me thy hand, my cousin; I will go eat with thee, and see your knights. Agamemnon and the rest of the Greeks come forward. AJAX. Great Agamemnon comes to meet us here. HECTOR. The worthiest of them tell me name by name; But for Achilles, my own searching eyes Shall find him by his large and portly size. AGAMEMNON. Worthy all arms! as welcome as to one That would be rid of such an enemy. But that’s no welcome. Understand more clear, What’s past and what’s to come is strew’d with husks And formless ruin of oblivion; But in this extant moment, faith and troth, Strain’d purely from all hollow bias-drawing, Bids thee with most divine integrity, From heart of very heart, great Hector, welcome. HECTOR. I thank thee, most imperious Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. [_To Troilus._] My well-fam’d lord of Troy, no less to you. MENELAUS. Let me confirm my princely brother’s greeting. You brace of warlike brothers, welcome hither. HECTOR. Who must we answer? AENEAS. The noble Menelaus. HECTOR. O you, my lord? By Mars his gauntlet, thanks! Mock not that I affect the untraded oath; Your quondam wife swears still by Venus’ glove. She’s well, but bade me not commend her to you. MENELAUS. Name her not now, sir; she’s a deadly theme. HECTOR. O, pardon; I offend. NESTOR. I have, thou gallant Trojan, seen thee oft, Labouring for destiny, make cruel way Through ranks of Greekish youth; and I have seen thee, As hot as Perseus, spur thy Phrygian steed, Despising many forfeits and subduements, When thou hast hung thy advanced sword i’ th’air, Not letting it decline on the declined; That I have said to some my standers-by ‘Lo, Jupiter is yonder, dealing life!’ And I have seen thee pause and take thy breath, When that a ring of Greeks have shrap’d thee in, Like an Olympian wrestling. This have I seen; But this thy countenance, still lock’d in steel, I never saw till now. I knew thy grandsire, And once fought with him. He was a soldier good, But, by great Mars, the captain of us all, Never like thee. O, let an old man embrace thee; And, worthy warrior, welcome to our tents. AENEAS. ’Tis the old Nestor. HECTOR. Let me embrace thee, good old chronicle, That hast so long walk’d hand in hand with time. Most reverend Nestor, I am glad to clasp thee. NESTOR. I would my arms could match thee in contention As they contend with thee in courtesy. HECTOR. I would they could. NESTOR. Ha! By this white beard, I’d fight with thee tomorrow. Well, welcome, welcome! I have seen the time. ULYSSES. I wonder now how yonder city stands, When we have here her base and pillar by us. HECTOR. I know your favour, Lord Ulysses, well. Ah, sir, there’s many a Greek and Trojan dead, Since first I saw yourself and Diomed In Ilion on your Greekish embassy. ULYSSES. Sir, I foretold you then what would ensue. My prophecy is but half his journey yet; For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet. HECTOR. I must not believe you. There they stand yet; and modestly I think The fall of every Phrygian stone will cost A drop of Grecian blood. The end crowns all; And that old common arbitrator, Time, Will one day end it. ULYSSES. So to him we leave it. Most gentle and most valiant Hector, welcome. After the General, I beseech you next To feast with me and see me at my tent. ACHILLES. I shall forestall thee, Lord Ulysses, thou! Now, Hector, I have fed mine eyes on thee; I have with exact view perus’d thee, Hector, And quoted joint by joint. HECTOR. Is this Achilles? ACHILLES. I am Achilles. HECTOR. Stand fair, I pray thee; let me look on thee. ACHILLES. Behold thy fill. HECTOR. Nay, I have done already. ACHILLES. Thou art too brief. I will the second time, As I would buy thee, view thee limb by limb. HECTOR. O, like a book of sport thou’lt read me o’er; But there’s more in me than thou understand’st. Why dost thou so oppress me with thine eye? ACHILLES. Tell me, you heavens, in which part of his body Shall I destroy him? Whether there, or there, or there? That I may give the local wound a name, And make distinct the very breach whereout Hector’s great spirit flew. Answer me, heavens. HECTOR. It would discredit the blest gods, proud man, To answer such a question. Stand again. Think’st thou to catch my life so pleasantly As to prenominate in nice conjecture Where thou wilt hit me dead? ACHILLES. I tell thee yea. HECTOR. Wert thou an oracle to tell me so, I’d not believe thee. Henceforth guard thee well; For I’ll not kill thee there, nor there, nor there; But, by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, I’ll kill thee everywhere, yea, o’er and o’er. You wisest Grecians, pardon me this brag. His insolence draws folly from my lips; But I’ll endeavour deeds to match these words, Or may I never— AJAX. Do not chafe thee, cousin; And you, Achilles, let these threats alone Till accident or purpose bring you to’t. You may have every day enough of Hector, If you have stomach. The general state, I fear, Can scarce entreat you to be odd with him. HECTOR. I pray you let us see you in the field; We have had pelting wars since you refus’d The Grecians’ cause. ACHILLES. Dost thou entreat me, Hector? Tomorrow do I meet thee, fell as death; Tonight all friends. HECTOR. Thy hand upon that match. AGAMEMNON. First, all you peers of Greece, go to my tent; There in the full convive we; afterwards, As Hector’s leisure and your bounties shall Concur together, severally entreat him. Beat loud the tambourines, let the trumpets blow, That this great soldier may his welcome know. [_Exeunt all but Troilus and Ulysses_.] TROILUS. My Lord Ulysses, tell me, I beseech you, In what place of the field doth Calchas keep? ULYSSES. At Menelaus’ tent, most princely Troilus. There Diomed doth feast with him tonight, Who neither looks upon the heaven nor earth, But gives all gaze and bent of amorous view On the fair Cressid. TROILUS. Shall I, sweet lord, be bound to you so much, After we part from Agamemnon’s tent, To bring me thither? ULYSSES. You shall command me, sir. As gentle tell me of what honour was This Cressida in Troy? Had she no lover there That wails her absence? TROILUS. O, sir, to such as boasting show their scars A mock is due. Will you walk on, my lord? She was belov’d, she lov’d; she is, and doth; But still sweet love is food for fortune’s tooth. [_Exeunt_.] ACT V SCENE I. The Grecian camp. Before the tent of Achilles. Enter Achilles and Patroclus. ACHILLES. I’ll heat his blood with Greekish wine tonight, Which with my scimitar I’ll cool tomorrow. Patroclus, let us feast him to the height. PATROCLUS. Here comes Thersites. Enter Thersites. ACHILLES. How now, thou core of envy! Thou crusty batch of nature, what’s the news? THERSITES. Why, thou picture of what thou seemest, and idol of idiot worshippers, here’s a letter for thee. ACHILLES. From whence, fragment? THERSITES. Why, thou full dish of fool, from Troy. PATROCLUS. Who keeps the tent now? THERSITES. The surgeon’s box or the patient’s wound. PATROCLUS. Well said, adversity! And what needs these tricks? THERSITES. Prithee, be silent, boy; I profit not by thy talk; thou art said to be Achilles’ male varlet. PATROCLUS. Male varlet, you rogue! What’s that? THERSITES. Why, his masculine whore. Now, the rotten diseases of the south, the guts-griping ruptures, catarrhs, loads o’ gravel in the back, lethargies, cold palsies, raw eyes, dirt-rotten livers, wheezing lungs, bladders full of imposthume, sciaticas, lime-kilns i’ th’ palm, incurable bone-ache, and the rivelled fee-simple of the tetter, take and take again such preposterous discoveries! PATROCLUS. Why, thou damnable box of envy, thou, what meanest thou to curse thus? THERSITES. Do I curse thee? PATROCLUS. Why, no, you ruinous butt; you whoreson indistinguishable cur, no. THERSITES. No! Why art thou, then, exasperate, thou idle immaterial skein of sleave silk, thou green sarcenet flap for a sore eye, thou tassel of a prodigal’s purse, thou? Ah, how the poor world is pestered with such water-flies, diminutives of nature! PATROCLUS. Out, gall! THERSITES. Finch egg! ACHILLES. My sweet Patroclus, I am thwarted quite From my great purpose in tomorrow’s battle. Here is a letter from Queen Hecuba, A token from her daughter, my fair love, Both taxing me and gaging me to keep An oath that I have sworn. I will not break it. Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I’ll obey. Come, come, Thersites, help to trim my tent; This night in banqueting must all be spent. Away, Patroclus! [_Exit with_ Patroclus.] THERSITES. With too much blood and too little brain these two may run mad; but, if with too much brain and too little blood they do, I’ll be a curer of madmen. Here’s Agamemnon, an honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax; and the goodly transformation of Jupiter there, his brother, the bull, the primitive statue and oblique memorial of cuckolds, a thrifty shoeing-horn in a chain at his brother’s leg, to what form but that he is, should wit larded with malice, and malice forced with wit, turn him to? To an ass, were nothing: he is both ass and ox. To an ox, were nothing: he is both ox and ass. To be a dog, a mule, a cat, a fitchook, a toad, a lizard, an owl, a puttock, or a herring without a roe, I would not care; but to be Menelaus, I would conspire against destiny. Ask me not what I would be, if I were not Thersites; for I care not to be the louse of a lazar, so I were not Menelaus. Hey-day! sprites and fires! Enter Hector, Troilus, Ajax, Agamemnon, Ulysses, Nestor, Menelaus and Diomedes with lights. AGAMEMNON. We go wrong, we go wrong. AJAX. No, yonder ’tis; There, where we see the lights. HECTOR. I trouble you. AJAX. No, not a whit. ULYSSES. Here comes himself to guide you. Re-enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Welcome, brave Hector; welcome, Princes all. AGAMEMNON. So now, fair Prince of Troy, I bid good night; Ajax commands the guard to tend on you. HECTOR. Thanks, and good night to the Greeks’ general. MENELAUS. Good night, my lord. HECTOR. Good night, sweet Lord Menelaus. THERSITES. Sweet draught! ‘Sweet’ quoth a’! Sweet sink, sweet sewer! ACHILLES. Good night and welcome, both at once, to those That go or tarry. AGAMEMNON. Good night. [_Exeunt Agamemnon and Menelaus_.] ACHILLES. Old Nestor tarries; and you too, Diomed, Keep Hector company an hour or two. DIOMEDES. I cannot, lord; I have important business, The tide whereof is now. Good night, great Hector. HECTOR. Give me your hand. ULYSSES. [_Aside to Troilus._] Follow his torch; he goes to Calchas’ tent; I’ll keep you company. TROILUS. Sweet sir, you honour me. HECTOR. And so, good night. [_Exit Diomedes, Ulysses and Troilus following._] ACHILLES. Come, come, enter my tent. [_Exeunt all but_ Thersites.] THERSITES. That same Diomed’s a false-hearted rogue, a most unjust knave; I will no more trust him when he leers than I will a serpent when he hisses. He will spend his mouth and promise, like Brabbler the hound; but when he performs, astronomers foretell it: it is prodigious, there will come some change; the sun borrows of the moon when Diomed keeps his word. I will rather leave to see Hector than not to dog him. They say he keeps a Trojan drab, and uses the traitor Calchas’ tent. I’ll after. Nothing but lechery! All incontinent varlets! [_Exit_.] SCENE II. The Grecian camp. Before Calchas’ tent. Enter Diomedes. DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho! Speak. CALCHAS. [_Within_.] Who calls? DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where’s your daughter? CALCHAS. [_Within_.] She comes to you. Enter Troilus and Ulysses, at a distance; after them Thersites. ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us. Enter Cressida. TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him. DIOMEDES. How now, my charge! CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you. [_Whispers_.] TROILUS. Yea, so familiar? ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight. THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff; she’s noted. DIOMEDES. Will you remember? CRESSIDA. Remember! Yes. DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then; And let your mind be coupled with your words. TROILUS. What should she remember? ULYSSES. List! CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly. THERSITES. Roguery! DIOMEDES. Nay, then— CRESSIDA. I’ll tell you what— DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn. CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do? THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open. DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me? CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath; Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek. DIOMEDES. Good night. TROILUS. Hold, patience! ULYSSES. How now, Trojan! CRESSIDA. Diomed! DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I’ll be your fool no more. TROILUS. Thy better must. CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear. TROILUS. O plague and madness! ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray, Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous; The time right deadly; I beseech you, go. TROILUS. Behold, I pray you. ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off; You flow to great distraction; come, my lord. TROILUS. I pray thee stay. ULYSSES. You have not patience; come. TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell’s torments, I will not speak a word. DIOMEDES. And so, good night. CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger. TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth! ULYSSES. How now, my lord? TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient. CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek! DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter. CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again. ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go? You will break out. TROILUS. She strokes his cheek. ULYSSES. Come, come. TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word: There is between my will and all offences A guard of patience. Stay a little while. THERSITES. How the devil Luxury, with his fat rump and potato finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry! DIOMEDES. But will you, then? CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, la; never trust me else. DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it. CRESSIDA. I’ll fetch you one. [_Exit_.] ULYSSES. You have sworn patience. TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord; I will not be myself, nor have cognition Of what I feel. I am all patience. Re-enter Cressida. THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now! CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve. TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith? ULYSSES. My lord! TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will. CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well. He lov’d me—O false wench!—Give’t me again. DIOMEDES. Whose was’t? CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I have’t again. I will not meet with you tomorrow night. I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more. THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone. DIOMEDES. I shall have it. CRESSIDA. What, this? DIOMEDES. Ay, that. CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge! Thy master now lies thinking on his bed Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove, And gives memorial dainty kisses to it, As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me; He that takes that doth take my heart withal. DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it. TROILUS. I did swear patience. CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not; I’ll give you something else. DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it? CRESSIDA. It is no matter. DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was. CRESSIDA. ’Twas one’s that lov’d me better than you will. But, now you have it, take it. DIOMEDES. Whose was it? CRESSIDA. By all Diana’s waiting women yond, And by herself, I will not tell you whose. DIOMEDES. Tomorrow will I wear it on my helm, And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it. TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor’st it on thy horn, It should be challeng’d. CRESSIDA. Well, well, ’tis done, ’tis past; and yet it is not; I will not keep my word. DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell; Thou never shalt mock Diomed again. CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word But it straight starts you. DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling. THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you Pleases me best. DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour? CRESSIDA. Ay, come; O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu’d. DIOMEDES. Farewell till then. CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come. [_Exit_ Diomedes.] Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee; But with my heart the other eye doth see. Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find, The error of our eye directs our mind. What error leads must err; O, then conclude, Minds sway’d by eyes are full of turpitude. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more, Unless she said ‘My mind is now turn’d whore.’ ULYSSES. All’s done, my lord. TROILUS. It is. ULYSSES. Why stay we, then? TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul Of every syllable that here was spoke. But if I tell how these two did co-act, Shall I not lie in publishing a truth? Sith yet there is a credence in my heart, An esperance so obstinately strong, That doth invert th’attest of eyes and ears; As if those organs had deceptious functions Created only to calumniate. Was Cressid here? ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Trojan. TROILUS. She was not, sure. ULYSSES. Most sure she was. TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness. ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now. TROILUS. Let it not be believ’d for womanhood. Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme, For depravation, to square the general sex By Cressid’s rule. Rather think this not Cressid. ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers? TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she. THERSITES. Will he swagger himself out on’s own eyes? TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed’s Cressida. If beauty have a soul, this is not she; If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies, If sanctimony be the god’s delight, If there be rule in unity itself, This was not she. O madness of discourse, That cause sets up with and against itself! Bi-fold authority! where reason can revolt Without perdition, and loss assume all reason Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid. Within my soul there doth conduce a fight Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate Divides more wider than the sky and earth; And yet the spacious breadth of this division Admits no orifice for a point as subtle As Ariachne’s broken woof to enter. Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto’s gates: Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven. Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself: The bonds of heaven are slipp’d, dissolv’d, and loos’d; And with another knot, five-finger-tied, The fractions of her faith, orts of her love, The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics Of her o’er-eaten faith, are given to Diomed. ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half attach’d With that which here his passion doth express? TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well In characters as red as Mars his heart Inflam’d with Venus. Never did young man fancy With so eternal and so fix’d a soul. Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love, So much by weight hate I her Diomed. That sleeve is mine that he’ll bear on his helm; Were it a casque compos’d by Vulcan’s skill My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout Which shipmen do the hurricano call, Constring’d in mass by the almighty sun, Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune’s ear In his descent than shall my prompted sword Falling on Diomed. THERSITES. He’ll tickle it for his concupy. TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false! Let all untruths stand by thy stained name, And they’ll seem glorious. ULYSSES. O, contain yourself; Your passion draws ears hither. Enter Aeneas. AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord. Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy; Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home. TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu. Fairwell, revolted fair! and, Diomed, Stand fast, and wear a castle on thy head. ULYSSES. I’ll bring you to the gates. TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks. [_Exeunt Troilus, Aeneas and Ulysses_.] THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery, lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A burning devil take them! [_Exit_.] SCENE III. Troy. Before Priam’s palace. Enter Hector and Andromache. ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper’d To stop his ears against admonishment? Unarm, unarm, and do not fight today. HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in. By all the everlasting gods, I’ll go. ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day. HECTOR. No more, I say. Enter Cassandra. CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector? ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm’d, and bloody in intent. Consort with me in loud and dear petition, Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter. CASSANDRA. O, ’tis true! HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound. CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother! HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear. CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows; They are polluted off’rings, more abhorr’d Than spotted livers in the sacrifice. ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy To hurt by being just. It is as lawful, For we would give much, to use violent thefts And rob in the behalf of charity. CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold. Unarm, sweet Hector. HECTOR. Hold you still, I say. Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate. Life every man holds dear; but the dear man Holds honour far more precious dear than life. Enter Troilus. How now, young man! Mean’st thou to fight today? ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade. [_Exit_ Cassandra.] HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth; I am today i’ th’vein of chivalry. Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong, And tempt not yet the brushes of the war. Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy, I’ll stand today for thee and me and Troy. TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you, Which better fits a lion than a man. HECTOR. What vice is that? Good Troilus, chide me for it. TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls, Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword, You bid them rise and live. HECTOR. O, ’tis fair play! TROILUS. Fool’s play, by heaven, Hector. HECTOR. How now? how now? TROILUS. For th’ love of all the gods, Let’s leave the hermit Pity with our mother; And when we have our armours buckled on, The venom’d vengeance ride upon our swords, Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth! HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie! TROILUS. Hector, then ’tis wars. HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight today. TROILUS. Who should withhold me? Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars Beckoning with fiery truncheon my retire; Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees, Their eyes o’er-galled with recourse of tears; Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn, Oppos’d to hinder me, should stop my way, But by my ruin. Re-enter Cassandra with Priam. CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast; He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay, Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee, Fall all together. PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back. Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions; Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt To tell thee that this day is ominous. Therefore, come back. HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field; And I do stand engag’d to many Greeks, Even in the faith of valour, to appear This morning to them. PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go. HECTOR. I must not break my faith. You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir, Let me not shame respect; but give me leave To take that course by your consent and voice Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam. CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him! ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father. HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you. Upon the love you bear me, get you in. [_Exit_ Andromache.] TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl Makes all these bodements. CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector! Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale. Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents. Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out; How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth; Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement, Like witless antics, one another meet, And all cry, ‘Hector! Hector’s dead! O Hector!’ TROILUS. Away, away! CASSANDRA. Farewell! yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave. Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. You are amaz’d, my liege, at her exclaim. Go in, and cheer the town; we’ll forth, and fight, Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night. PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee! [_Exeunt severally Priam and Hector. Alarums._] TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe, I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve. Enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear? TROILUS. What now? PANDARUS. Here’s a letter come from yond poor girl. TROILUS. Let me read. PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick, so troubles me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing, what another, that I shall leave you one o’ these days; and I have a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that unless a man were curs’d I cannot tell what to think on’t. What says she there? TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart; Th’effect doth operate another way. [_Tearing the letter_.] Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together. My love with words and errors still she feeds, But edifies another with her deeds. [_Exeunt severally_.] SCENE IV. The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp. Alarums. Excursions. Enter Thersites. THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I’ll go look on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same scurvy doting foolish young knave’s sleeve of Troy there in his helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Trojan ass that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of a sleeve-less errand. O’ the other side, the policy of those crafty swearing rascals that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese, Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses, is not prov’d worth a blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax, against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur, Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm today; whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy grows into an ill opinion. Enter Diomedes, Troilus following. Soft! here comes sleeve, and t’other. TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx, I would swim after. DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire. I do not fly; but advantageous care Withdrew me from the odds of multitude. Have at thee! THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore, Trojan! now the sleeve, now the sleeve! [_Exeunt Troilus and Diomedes fighting_.] Enter Hector. HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector’s match? Art thou of blood and honour? THERSITES. No, no I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very filthy rogue. HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live. [_Exit_.] THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague break thy neck for frighting me! What’s become of the wenching rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I’ll seek them. [_Exit_.] SCENE V. Another part of the plain. Enter Diomedes and a Servant. DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus’ horse; Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid. Fellow, commend my service to her beauty; Tell her I have chastis’d the amorous Trojan, And am her knight by proof. SERVANT. I go, my lord. [_Exit_.] Enter Agamemnon. AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamas Hath beat down Menon; bastard Margarelon Hath Doreus prisoner, And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam, Upon the pashed corses of the kings Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain; Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt; Patroclus ta’en, or slain; and Palamedes Sore hurt and bruis’d. The dreadful Sagittary Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed, To reinforcement, or we perish all. Enter Nestor. NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus’ body to Achilles, And bid the snail-pac’d Ajax arm for shame. There is a thousand Hectors in the field; Now here he fights on Galathe his horse, And there lacks work; anon he’s there afoot, And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls Before the belching whale; then is he yonder, And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge, Fall down before him like the mower’s swath. Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes; Dexterity so obeying appetite That what he will he does, and does so much That proof is call’d impossibility. Enter Ulysses. ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance. Patroclus’ wounds have rous’d his drowsy blood, Together with his mangled Myrmidons, That noseless, handless, hack’d and chipp’d, come to him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend And foams at mouth, and he is arm’d and at it, Roaring for Troilus; who hath done today Mad and fantastic execution, Engaging and redeeming of himself With such a careless force and forceless care As if that lust, in very spite of cunning, Bade him win all. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus! [_Exit_.] DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there. NESTOR. So, so, we draw together. [_Exit_.] Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Where is this Hector? Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face; Know what it is to meet Achilles angry. Hector! where’s Hector? I will none but Hector. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VI. Another part of the plain. Enter Ajax. AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head. Enter Diomedes. DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where’s Troilus? AJAX. What wouldst thou? DIOMEDES. I would correct him. AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus! Enter Troilus. TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor, And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse. DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there? AJAX. I’ll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed. DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon. TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you both! [_Exeunt fighting_.] Enter Hector. HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother! Enter Achilles. ACHILLES. Now do I see thee. Ha! have at thee, Hector! HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt. ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Trojan. Be happy that my arms are out of use; My rest and negligence befriend thee now, But thou anon shalt hear of me again; Till when, go seek thy fortune. [_Exit_.] HECTOR. Fare thee well. I would have been much more a fresher man, Had I expected thee. Re-enter Troilus. How now, my brother! TROILUS. Ajax hath ta’en Aeneas. Shall it be? No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven, He shall not carry him; I’ll be ta’en too, Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say: I reck not though thou end my life today. [_Exit_.] Enter one in armour. HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark. No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well; I’ll frush it and unlock the rivets all But I’ll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide? Why then, fly on; I’ll hunt thee for thy hide. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE VII. Another part of the plain. Enter Achilles with Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons; Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel; Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath; And when I have the bloody Hector found, Empale him with your weapons round about; In fellest manner execute your arms. Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye. It is decreed Hector the great must die. [_Exeunt_.] Enter Menelaus and Paris, fighting; then Thersites. THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull! Now, dog! ’Loo, Paris, ’loo! now my double-hen’d Spartan! ’loo, Paris, ’loo! The bull has the game. ’Ware horns, ho! [_Exeunt Paris and Menelaus_.] Enter Margarelon. MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight. THERSITES. What art thou? MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam’s. THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel’s most ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts judgement. Farewell, bastard. [_Exit_.] MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward! [_Exit_.] SCENE VIII. Another part of the plain. Enter Hector. HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without, Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life. Now is my day’s work done; I’ll take my breath: Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death! [_Disarms_.] Enter Achilles and Myrmidons. ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set, How ugly night comes breathing at his heels; Even with the vail and dark’ning of the sun, To close the day up, Hector’s life is done. HECTOR. I am unarm’d; forego this vantage, Greek. ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek. [_Hector falls_.] So, Ilion, fall thou next! Now, Troy, sink down; Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone. On, Myrmidons, and cry you all amain ‘Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.’ [_A retreat sounded_.] Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part. MYRMIDON. The Trojan trumpets sound the like, my lord. ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o’erspreads the earth And, stickler-like, the armies separates. My half-supp’d sword, that frankly would have fed, Pleas’d with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed. [_Sheathes his sword_.] Come, tie his body to my horse’s tail; Along the field I will the Trojan trail. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE IX. Another part of the plain. Sound retreat. Shout. Enter Agamemnon, Ajax, Menelaus, Nestor, Diomedes and the rest, marching. AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this? NESTOR. Peace, drums! SOLDIERS. [_Within_.] Achilles! Achilles! Hector’s slain. Achilles! DIOMEDES. The bruit is, Hector’s slain, and by Achilles. AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be; Great Hector was as good a man as he. AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent To pray Achilles see us at our tent. If in his death the gods have us befriended; Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended. [_Exeunt_.] SCENE X. Another part of the plain. Enter Aeneas, Paris, Antenor and Deiphobus. AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field. Never go home; here starve we out the night. Enter Troilus. TROILUS. Hector is slain. ALL. Hector! The gods forbid! TROILUS. He’s dead, and at the murderer’s horse’s tail, In beastly sort, dragg’d through the shameful field. Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed. Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy. I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy, And linger not our sure destructions on. AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host. TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so. I do not speak of flight, of fear of death, But dare all imminence that gods and men Address their dangers in. Hector is gone. Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba? Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call’d Go in to Troy, and say there ‘Hector’s dead.’ There is a word will Priam turn to stone; Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives, Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word, Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away; Hector is dead; there is no more to say. Stay yet. You vile abominable tents, Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains, Let Titan rise as early as he dare, I’ll through and through you. And, thou great-siz’d coward, No space of earth shall sunder our two hates; I’ll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still, That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy’s thoughts. Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go; Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe. Enter Pandarus. PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you! TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame Pursue thy life, and live aye with thy name! [_Exeunt all but_ Pandarus.] PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! O world! world! Thus is the poor agent despis’d! O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be so lov’d, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What instance for it? Let me see— Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing Till he hath lost his honey and his sting; And being once subdu’d in armed trail, Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail. Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted cloths. As many as be here of Pandar’s hall, Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar’s fall; Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans, Though not for me, yet for your aching bones. Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade, Some two months hence my will shall here be made. It should be now, but that my fear is this, Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss. Till then I’ll sweat and seek about for eases, And at that time bequeath you my diseases. [_Exit_.] TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL Contents ACT I Scene I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Scene II. The sea-coast. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. A Room in Olivia’s House. ACT II Scene I. The sea-coast. Scene II. A street. Scene III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Scene V. Olivia’s garden. ACT III Scene I. Olivia’s garden. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. A street. Scene IV. Olivia’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. Olivia’s Garden. ACT V Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Dramatis Personæ ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke VIOLA, in love with the Duke. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, twin brother to Viola. A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. MARIA, Olivia’s Woman. SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. CLOWN, Servant to Olivia. PRIEST Lords, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending. DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall; O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical. CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. DUKE. Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her? Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance. DUKE. O, she that hath a heart of that fine frame To pay this debt of love but to a brother, How will she love, when the rich golden shaft Hath kill’d the flock of all affections else That live in her; when liver, brain, and heart, These sovereign thrones, are all supplied and fill’d Her sweet perfections with one self king! Away before me to sweet beds of flowers, Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The sea-coast. Enter Viola, a Captain and Sailors. VIOLA. What country, friends, is this? CAPTAIN. This is Illyria, lady. VIOLA. And what should I do in Illyria? My brother he is in Elysium. Perchance he is not drown’d. What think you, sailors? CAPTAIN. It is perchance that you yourself were sav’d. VIOLA. O my poor brother! and so perchance may he be. CAPTAIN. True, madam; and to comfort you with chance, Assure yourself, after our ship did split, When you, and those poor number sav’d with you, Hung on our driving boat, I saw your brother, Most provident in peril, bind himself, (Courage and hope both teaching him the practice) To a strong mast that liv’d upon the sea; Where, like Arion on the dolphin’s back, I saw him hold acquaintance with the waves So long as I could see. VIOLA. For saying so, there’s gold! Mine own escape unfoldeth to my hope, Whereto thy speech serves for authority, The like of him. Know’st thou this country? CAPTAIN. Ay, madam, well, for I was bred and born Not three hours’ travel from this very place. VIOLA. Who governs here? CAPTAIN. A noble duke, in nature as in name. VIOLA. What is his name? CAPTAIN. Orsino. VIOLA. Orsino! I have heard my father name him. He was a bachelor then. CAPTAIN. And so is now, or was so very late; For but a month ago I went from hence, And then ’twas fresh in murmur, (as, you know, What great ones do, the less will prattle of) That he did seek the love of fair Olivia. VIOLA. What’s she? CAPTAIN. A virtuous maid, the daughter of a count That died some twelvemonth since; then leaving her In the protection of his son, her brother, Who shortly also died; for whose dear love They say, she hath abjur’d the company And sight of men. VIOLA. O that I served that lady, And might not be delivered to the world, Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is. CAPTAIN. That were hard to compass, Because she will admit no kind of suit, No, not the Duke’s. VIOLA. There is a fair behaviour in thee, Captain; And though that nature with a beauteous wall Doth oft close in pollution, yet of thee I will believe thou hast a mind that suits With this thy fair and outward character. I pray thee, and I’ll pay thee bounteously, Conceal me what I am, and be my aid For such disguise as haply shall become The form of my intent. I’ll serve this duke; Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. It may be worth thy pains; for I can sing, And speak to him in many sorts of music, That will allow me very worth his service. What else may hap, to time I will commit; Only shape thou thy silence to my wit. CAPTAIN. Be you his eunuch and your mute I’ll be; When my tongue blabs, then let mine eyes not see. VIOLA. I thank thee. Lead me on. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. SIR TOBY. What a plague means my niece to take the death of her brother thus? I am sure care’s an enemy to life. MARIA. By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o’ nights; your cousin, my lady, takes great exceptions to your ill hours. SIR TOBY. Why, let her except, before excepted. MARIA. Ay, but you must confine yourself within the modest limits of order. SIR TOBY. Confine? I’ll confine myself no finer than I am. These clothes are good enough to drink in, and so be these boots too; and they be not, let them hang themselves in their own straps. MARIA. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought in one night here to be her wooer. SIR TOBY. Who? Sir Andrew Aguecheek? MARIA. Ay, he. SIR TOBY. He’s as tall a man as any’s in Illyria. MARIA. What’s that to th’ purpose? SIR TOBY. Why, he has three thousand ducats a year. MARIA. Ay, but he’ll have but a year in all these ducats. He’s a very fool, and a prodigal. SIR TOBY. Fie, that you’ll say so! he plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys, and speaks three or four languages word for word without book, and hath all the good gifts of nature. MARIA. He hath indeed, almost natural: for, besides that he’s a fool, he’s a great quarreller; and, but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, ’tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave. SIR TOBY. By this hand, they are scoundrels and substractors that say so of him. Who are they? MARIA. They that add, moreover, he’s drunk nightly in your company. SIR TOBY. With drinking healths to my niece; I’ll drink to her as long as there is a passage in my throat, and drink in Illyria. He’s a coward and a coystril that will not drink to my niece till his brains turn o’ the toe like a parish top. What, wench! _Castiliano vulgo:_ for here comes Sir Andrew Agueface. Enter Sir Andrew. AGUECHEEK. Sir Toby Belch! How now, Sir Toby Belch? SIR TOBY. Sweet Sir Andrew! SIR ANDREW. Bless you, fair shrew. MARIA. And you too, sir. SIR TOBY. Accost, Sir Andrew, accost. SIR ANDREW. What’s that? SIR TOBY. My niece’s chamber-maid. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Accost, I desire better acquaintance. MARIA. My name is Mary, sir. SIR ANDREW. Good Mistress Mary Accost,— SIR TOBY. You mistake, knight: accost is front her, board her, woo her, assail her. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, I would not undertake her in this company. Is that the meaning of accost? MARIA. Fare you well, gentlemen. SIR TOBY. And thou let part so, Sir Andrew, would thou mightst never draw sword again. SIR ANDREW. And you part so, mistress, I would I might never draw sword again. Fair lady, do you think you have fools in hand? MARIA. Sir, I have not you by the hand. SIR ANDREW. Marry, but you shall have, and here’s my hand. MARIA. Now, sir, thought is free. I pray you, bring your hand to th’ buttery bar and let it drink. SIR ANDREW. Wherefore, sweetheart? What’s your metaphor? MARIA. It’s dry, sir. SIR ANDREW. Why, I think so; I am not such an ass but I can keep my hand dry. But what’s your jest? MARIA. A dry jest, sir. SIR ANDREW. Are you full of them? MARIA. Ay, sir, I have them at my fingers’ ends: marry, now I let go your hand, I am barren. [_Exit Maria._] SIR TOBY. O knight, thou lack’st a cup of canary: When did I see thee so put down? SIR ANDREW. Never in your life, I think, unless you see canary put me down. Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit. SIR TOBY. No question. SIR ANDREW. And I thought that, I’d forswear it. I’ll ride home tomorrow, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. _Pourquoy_, my dear knight? SIR ANDREW. What is _pourquoy?_ Do, or not do? I would I had bestowed that time in the tongues that I have in fencing, dancing, and bear-baiting. O, had I but followed the arts! SIR TOBY. Then hadst thou had an excellent head of hair. SIR ANDREW. Why, would that have mended my hair? SIR TOBY. Past question; for thou seest it will not curl by nature. SIR ANDREW. But it becomes me well enough, does’t not? SIR TOBY. Excellent, it hangs like flax on a distaff; and I hope to see a huswife take thee between her legs, and spin it off. SIR ANDREW. Faith, I’ll home tomorrow, Sir Toby; your niece will not be seen, or if she be, it’s four to one she’ll none of me; the Count himself here hard by woos her. SIR TOBY. She’ll none o’ the Count; she’ll not match above her degree, neither in estate, years, nor wit; I have heard her swear’t. Tut, there’s life in’t, man. SIR ANDREW. I’ll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o’ the strangest mind i’ the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether. SIR TOBY. Art thou good at these kick-shawses, knight? SIR ANDREW. As any man in Illyria, whatsoever he be, under the degree of my betters; and yet I will not compare with an old man. SIR TOBY. What is thy excellence in a galliard, knight? SIR ANDREW. Faith, I can cut a caper. SIR TOBY. And I can cut the mutton to’t. SIR ANDREW. And I think I have the back-trick simply as strong as any man in Illyria. SIR TOBY. Wherefore are these things hid? Wherefore have these gifts a curtain before ’em? Are they like to take dust, like Mistress Mall’s picture? Why dost thou not go to church in a galliard, and come home in a coranto? My very walk should be a jig; I would not so much as make water but in a sink-a-pace. What dost thou mean? Is it a world to hide virtues in? I did think, by the excellent constitution of thy leg, it was formed under the star of a galliard. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ’tis strong, and it does indifferent well in a dam’d-colour’d stock. Shall we set about some revels? SIR TOBY. What shall we do else? Were we not born under Taurus? SIR ANDREW. Taurus? That’s sides and heart. SIR TOBY. No, sir, it is legs and thighs. Let me see thee caper. Ha, higher: ha, ha, excellent! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Valentine and Viola in man’s attire. VALENTINE. If the duke continue these favours towards you, Cesario, you are like to be much advanced; he hath known you but three days, and already you are no stranger. VIOLA. You either fear his humour or my negligence, that you call in question the continuance of his love. Is he inconstant, sir, in his favours? VALENTINE. No, believe me. Enter Duke, Curio and Attendants. VIOLA. I thank you. Here comes the Count. DUKE. Who saw Cesario, ho? VIOLA. On your attendance, my lord, here. DUKE. Stand you awhile aloof.—Cesario, Thou know’st no less but all; I have unclasp’d To thee the book even of my secret soul. Therefore, good youth, address thy gait unto her, Be not denied access, stand at her doors, And tell them, there thy fixed foot shall grow Till thou have audience. VIOLA. Sure, my noble lord, If she be so abandon’d to her sorrow As it is spoke, she never will admit me. DUKE. Be clamorous and leap all civil bounds, Rather than make unprofited return. VIOLA. Say I do speak with her, my lord, what then? DUKE. O then unfold the passion of my love, Surprise her with discourse of my dear faith; It shall become thee well to act my woes; She will attend it better in thy youth, Than in a nuncio’s of more grave aspect. VIOLA. I think not so, my lord. DUKE. Dear lad, believe it; For they shall yet belie thy happy years, That say thou art a man: Diana’s lip Is not more smooth and rubious; thy small pipe Is as the maiden’s organ, shrill and sound, And all is semblative a woman’s part. I know thy constellation is right apt For this affair. Some four or five attend him: All, if you will; for I myself am best When least in company. Prosper well in this, And thou shalt live as freely as thy lord, To call his fortunes thine. VIOLA. I’ll do my best To woo your lady. [_Aside._] Yet, a barful strife! Whoe’er I woo, myself would be his wife. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Maria and Clown. MARIA. Nay; either tell me where thou hast been, or I will not open my lips so wide as a bristle may enter, in way of thy excuse: my lady will hang thee for thy absence. CLOWN. Let her hang me: he that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours. MARIA. Make that good. CLOWN. He shall see none to fear. MARIA. A good lenten answer. I can tell thee where that saying was born, of I fear no colours. CLOWN. Where, good Mistress Mary? MARIA. In the wars, and that may you be bold to say in your foolery. CLOWN. Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. MARIA. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you? CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out. MARIA. You are resolute then? CLOWN. Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points. MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall. CLOWN. Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria. MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [_Exit._] Enter Olivia with Malvolio. CLOWN. Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. God bless thee, lady! OLIVIA. Take the fool away. CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. OLIVIA. Go to, y’are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest. CLOWN. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool, therefore, I say again, take her away. OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you. CLOWN. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, _cucullus non facit monachum:_ that’s as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool. OLIVIA. Can you do it? CLOWN. Dexteriously, good madonna. OLIVIA. Make your proof. CLOWN. I must catechize you for it, madonna. Good my mouse of virtue, answer me. OLIVIA. Well sir, for want of other idleness, I’ll ’bide your proof. CLOWN. Good madonna, why mourn’st thou? OLIVIA. Good fool, for my brother’s death. CLOWN. I think his soul is in hell, madonna. OLIVIA. I know his soul is in heaven, fool. CLOWN. The more fool you, madonna, to mourn for your brother’s soul being in heaven. Take away the fool, gentlemen. OLIVIA. What think you of this fool, Malvolio? doth he not mend? MALVOLIO. Yes; and shall do, till the pangs of death shake him. Infirmity, that decays the wise, doth ever make the better fool. CLOWN. God send you, sir, a speedy infirmity, for the better increasing your folly! Sir Toby will be sworn that I am no fox; but he will not pass his word for twopence that you are no fool. OLIVIA. How say you to that, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. I marvel your ladyship takes delight in such a barren rascal; I saw him put down the other day with an ordinary fool, that has no more brain than a stone. Look you now, he’s out of his guard already; unless you laugh and minister occasion to him, he is gagged. I protest I take these wise men, that crow so at these set kind of fools, no better than the fools’ zanies. OLIVIA. O, you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts that you deem cannon bullets. There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail; nor no railing in a known discreet man, though he do nothing but reprove. CLOWN. Now Mercury endue thee with leasing, for thou speak’st well of fools! Enter Maria. MARIA. Madam, there is at the gate a young gentleman much desires to speak with you. OLIVIA. From the Count Orsino, is it? MARIA. I know not, madam; ’tis a fair young man, and well attended. OLIVIA. Who of my people hold him in delay? MARIA. Sir Toby, madam, your kinsman. OLIVIA. Fetch him off, I pray you; he speaks nothing but madman. Fie on him! [_Exit Maria._] Go you, Malvolio. If it be a suit from the Count, I am sick, or not at home. What you will, to dismiss it. [_Exit Malvolio._] Now you see, sir, how your fooling grows old, and people dislike it. CLOWN. Thou hast spoke for us, madonna, as if thy eldest son should be a fool: whose skull Jove cram with brains, for here he comes, one of thy kin has a most weak _pia mater_. Enter Sir Toby. OLIVIA. By mine honour, half drunk. What is he at the gate, cousin? SIR TOBY. A gentleman. OLIVIA. A gentleman? What gentleman? SIR TOBY. ’Tis a gentleman here. A plague o’ these pickle-herrings! How now, sot? CLOWN. Good Sir Toby. OLIVIA. Cousin, cousin, how have you come so early by this lethargy? SIR TOBY. Lechery! I defy lechery. There’s one at the gate. OLIVIA. Ay, marry, what is he? SIR TOBY. Let him be the devil an he will, I care not: give me faith, say I. Well, it’s all one. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. What’s a drunken man like, fool? CLOWN. Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool, the second mads him, and a third drowns him. OLIVIA. Go thou and seek the coroner, and let him sit o’ my coz; for he’s in the third degree of drink; he’s drowned. Go, look after him. CLOWN. He is but mad yet, madonna; and the fool shall look to the madman. [_Exit Clown._] Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Madam, yond young fellow swears he will speak with you. I told him you were sick; he takes on him to understand so much, and therefore comes to speak with you. I told him you were asleep; he seems to have a foreknowledge of that too, and therefore comes to speak with you. What is to be said to him, lady? He’s fortified against any denial. OLIVIA. Tell him, he shall not speak with me. MALVOLIO. Has been told so; and he says he’ll stand at your door like a sheriff’s post, and be the supporter of a bench, but he’ll speak with you. OLIVIA. What kind o’ man is he? MALVOLIO. Why, of mankind. OLIVIA. What manner of man? MALVOLIO. Of very ill manner; he’ll speak with you, will you or no. OLIVIA. Of what personage and years is he? MALVOLIO. Not yet old enough for a man, nor young enough for a boy; as a squash is before ’tis a peascod, or a codling, when ’tis almost an apple. ’Tis with him in standing water, between boy and man. He is very well-favoured, and he speaks very shrewishly. One would think his mother’s milk were scarce out of him. OLIVIA. Let him approach. Call in my gentlewoman. MALVOLIO. Gentlewoman, my lady calls. [_Exit._] Enter Maria. OLIVIA. Give me my veil; come, throw it o’er my face. We’ll once more hear Orsino’s embassy. Enter Viola. VIOLA. The honourable lady of the house, which is she? OLIVIA. Speak to me; I shall answer for her. Your will? VIOLA. Most radiant, exquisite, and unmatchable beauty,—I pray you, tell me if this be the lady of the house, for I never saw her. I would be loath to cast away my speech; for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to con it. Good beauties, let me sustain no scorn; I am very comptible, even to the least sinister usage. OLIVIA. Whence came you, sir? VIOLA. I can say little more than I have studied, and that question’s out of my part. Good gentle one, give me modest assurance, if you be the lady of the house, that I may proceed in my speech. OLIVIA. Are you a comedian? VIOLA. No, my profound heart: and yet, by the very fangs of malice I swear, I am not that I play. Are you the lady of the house? OLIVIA. If I do not usurp myself, I am. VIOLA. Most certain, if you are she, you do usurp yourself; for what is yours to bestow is not yours to reserve. But this is from my commission. I will on with my speech in your praise, and then show you the heart of my message. OLIVIA. Come to what is important in’t: I forgive you the praise. VIOLA. Alas, I took great pains to study it, and ’tis poetical. OLIVIA. It is the more like to be feigned; I pray you keep it in. I heard you were saucy at my gates; and allowed your approach, rather to wonder at you than to hear you. If you be mad, be gone; if you have reason, be brief: ’tis not that time of moon with me to make one in so skipping a dialogue. MARIA. Will you hoist sail, sir? Here lies your way. VIOLA. No, good swabber, I am to hull here a little longer. Some mollification for your giant, sweet lady. Tell me your mind. I am a messenger. OLIVIA. Sure, you have some hideous matter to deliver, when the courtesy of it is so fearful. Speak your office. VIOLA. It alone concerns your ear. I bring no overture of war, no taxation of homage; I hold the olive in my hand: my words are as full of peace as matter. OLIVIA. Yet you began rudely. What are you? What would you? VIOLA. The rudeness that hath appeared in me have I learned from my entertainment. What I am and what I would are as secret as maidenhead: to your ears, divinity; to any other’s, profanation. OLIVIA. Give us the place alone: we will hear this divinity. [_Exit Maria._] Now, sir, what is your text? VIOLA. Most sweet lady— OLIVIA. A comfortable doctrine, and much may be said of it. Where lies your text? VIOLA. In Orsino’s bosom. OLIVIA. In his bosom? In what chapter of his bosom? VIOLA. To answer by the method, in the first of his heart. OLIVIA. O, I have read it; it is heresy. Have you no more to say? VIOLA. Good madam, let me see your face. OLIVIA. Have you any commission from your lord to negotiate with my face? You are now out of your text: but we will draw the curtain and show you the picture. [_Unveiling._] Look you, sir, such a one I was this present. Is’t not well done? VIOLA. Excellently done, if God did all. OLIVIA. ’Tis in grain, sir; ’twill endure wind and weather. VIOLA. ’Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on. Lady, you are the cruel’st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave, And leave the world no copy. OLIVIA. O, sir, I will not be so hard-hearted; I will give out divers schedules of my beauty. It shall be inventoried and every particle and utensil labelled to my will: as, item, two lips indifferent red; item, two grey eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth. Were you sent hither to praise me? VIOLA. I see you what you are, you are too proud; But, if you were the devil, you are fair. My lord and master loves you. O, such love Could be but recompens’d though you were crown’d The nonpareil of beauty! OLIVIA. How does he love me? VIOLA. With adorations, fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire. OLIVIA. Your lord does know my mind, I cannot love him: Yet I suppose him virtuous, know him noble, Of great estate, of fresh and stainless youth; In voices well divulg’d, free, learn’d, and valiant, And in dimension and the shape of nature, A gracious person. But yet I cannot love him. He might have took his answer long ago. VIOLA. If I did love you in my master’s flame, With such a suff’ring, such a deadly life, In your denial I would find no sense, I would not understand it. OLIVIA. Why, what would you? VIOLA. Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love, And sing them loud even in the dead of night; Hallow your name to the reverberate hills, And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out Olivia! O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me. OLIVIA. You might do much. What is your parentage? VIOLA. Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman. OLIVIA. Get you to your lord; I cannot love him: let him send no more, Unless, perchance, you come to me again, To tell me how he takes it. Fare you well: I thank you for your pains: spend this for me. VIOLA. I am no fee’d post, lady; keep your purse; My master, not myself, lacks recompense. Love make his heart of flint that you shall love, And let your fervour like my master’s be Plac’d in contempt. Farewell, fair cruelty. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. What is your parentage? ‘Above my fortunes, yet my state is well: I am a gentleman.’ I’ll be sworn thou art; Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon. Not too fast: soft, soft! Unless the master were the man. How now? Even so quickly may one catch the plague? Methinks I feel this youth’s perfections With an invisible and subtle stealth To creep in at mine eyes. Well, let it be. What ho, Malvolio! Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Here, madam, at your service. OLIVIA. Run after that same peevish messenger The County’s man: he left this ring behind him, Would I or not; tell him, I’ll none of it. Desire him not to flatter with his lord, Nor hold him up with hopes; I am not for him. If that the youth will come this way tomorrow, I’ll give him reasons for’t. Hie thee, Malvolio. MALVOLIO. Madam, I will. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. I do I know not what, and fear to find Mine eye too great a flatterer for my mind. Fate, show thy force, ourselves we do not owe. What is decreed must be; and be this so! [_Exit._] ACT II. SCENE I. The sea-coast. Enter Antonio and Sebastian. ANTONIO. Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you? SEBASTIAN. By your patience, no; my stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might perhaps distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love, to lay any of them on you. ANTONIO. Let me know of you whither you are bound. SEBASTIAN. No, sooth, sir; my determinate voyage is mere extravagancy. But I perceive in you so excellent a touch of modesty, that you will not extort from me what I am willing to keep in. Therefore it charges me in manners the rather to express myself. You must know of me then, Antonio, my name is Sebastian, which I called Roderigo; my father was that Sebastian of Messaline whom I know you have heard of. He left behind him myself and a sister, both born in an hour. If the heavens had been pleased, would we had so ended! But you, sir, altered that, for some hour before you took me from the breach of the sea was my sister drowned. ANTONIO. Alas the day! SEBASTIAN. A lady, sir, though it was said she much resembled me, was yet of many accounted beautiful. But though I could not with such estimable wonder overfar believe that, yet thus far I will boldly publish her, she bore a mind that envy could not but call fair. She is drowned already, sir, with salt water, though I seem to drown her remembrance again with more. ANTONIO. Pardon me, sir, your bad entertainment. SEBASTIAN. O good Antonio, forgive me your trouble. ANTONIO. If you will not murder me for my love, let me be your servant. SEBASTIAN. If you will not undo what you have done, that is, kill him whom you have recovered, desire it not. Fare ye well at once; my bosom is full of kindness, and I am yet so near the manners of my mother, that upon the least occasion more, mine eyes will tell tales of me. I am bound to the Count Orsino’s court: farewell. [_Exit._] ANTONIO. The gentleness of all the gods go with thee! I have many enemies in Orsino’s court, Else would I very shortly see thee there: But come what may, I do adore thee so, That danger shall seem sport, and I will go. [_Exit._] SCENE II. A street. Enter Viola; Malvolio at several doors. MALVOLIO. Were you not even now with the Countess Olivia? VIOLA. Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither. MALVOLIO. She returns this ring to you, sir; you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. And one thing more, that you be never so hardy to come again in his affairs, unless it be to report your lord’s taking of this. Receive it so. VIOLA. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it. MALVOLIO. Come sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is it should be so returned. If it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it. [_Exit._] VIOLA. I left no ring with her; what means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm’d her! She made good view of me, indeed, so much, That methought her eyes had lost her tongue, For she did speak in starts distractedly. She loves me, sure, the cunning of her passion Invites me in this churlish messenger. None of my lord’s ring? Why, he sent her none. I am the man; if it be so, as ’tis, Poor lady, she were better love a dream. Disguise, I see thou art a wickedness Wherein the pregnant enemy does much. How easy is it for the proper false In women’s waxen hearts to set their forms! Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we, For such as we are made of, such we be. How will this fadge? My master loves her dearly, And I, poor monster, fond as much on him, And she, mistaken, seems to dote on me. What will become of this? As I am man, My state is desperate for my master’s love; As I am woman (now alas the day!) What thriftless sighs shall poor Olivia breathe! O time, thou must untangle this, not I, It is too hard a knot for me t’untie! [_Exit._] SCENE III. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Approach, Sir Andrew; not to be abed after midnight, is to be up betimes; and _diluculo surgere_, thou know’st. SIR ANDREW. Nay, by my troth, I know not; but I know to be up late is to be up late. SIR TOBY. A false conclusion; I hate it as an unfilled can. To be up after midnight, and to go to bed then is early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes. Does not our lives consist of the four elements? SIR ANDREW. Faith, so they say, but I think it rather consists of eating and drinking. SIR TOBY. Th’art a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink. Marian, I say! a stoup of wine. Enter Clown. SIR ANDREW. Here comes the fool, i’ faith. CLOWN. How now, my hearts? Did you never see the picture of “we three”? SIR TOBY. Welcome, ass. Now let’s have a catch. SIR ANDREW. By my troth, the fool has an excellent breast. I had rather than forty shillings I had such a leg, and so sweet a breath to sing, as the fool has. In sooth, thou wast in very gracious fooling last night when thou spok’st of Pigrogromitus, of the Vapians passing the equinoctial of Queubus; ’twas very good, i’ faith. I sent thee sixpence for thy leman. Hadst it? CLOWN. I did impeticos thy gratillity; for Malvolio’s nose is no whipstock. My lady has a white hand, and the Myrmidons are no bottle-ale houses. SIR ANDREW. Excellent! Why, this is the best fooling, when all is done. Now, a song. SIR TOBY. Come on, there is sixpence for you. Let’s have a song. SIR ANDREW. There’s a testril of me too: if one knight give a— CLOWN. Would you have a love-song, or a song of good life? SIR TOBY. A love-song, a love-song. SIR ANDREW. Ay, ay. I care not for good life. CLOWN. [_sings._] _O mistress mine, where are you roaming? O stay and hear, your true love’s coming, That can sing both high and low. Trip no further, pretty sweeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man’s son doth know._ SIR ANDREW. Excellent good, i’ faith. SIR TOBY. Good, good. CLOWN. _What is love? ’Tis not hereafter, Present mirth hath present laughter. What’s to come is still unsure. In delay there lies no plenty, Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty. Youth’s a stuff will not endure._ SIR ANDREW. A mellifluous voice, as I am true knight. SIR TOBY. A contagious breath. SIR ANDREW. Very sweet and contagious, i’ faith. SIR TOBY. To hear by the nose, it is dulcet in contagion. But shall we make the welkin dance indeed? Shall we rouse the night-owl in a catch that will draw three souls out of one weaver? Shall we do that? SIR ANDREW. And you love me, let’s do’t: I am dog at a catch. CLOWN. By’r lady, sir, and some dogs will catch well. SIR ANDREW. Most certain. Let our catch be, “Thou knave.” CLOWN. “Hold thy peace, thou knave” knight? I shall be constrain’d in’t to call thee knave, knight. SIR ANDREW. ’Tis not the first time I have constrained one to call me knave. Begin, fool; it begins “Hold thy peace.” CLOWN. I shall never begin if I hold my peace. SIR ANDREW. Good, i’ faith! Come, begin. [_Catch sung._] Enter Maria. MARIA. What a caterwauling do you keep here! If my lady have not called up her steward Malvolio, and bid him turn you out of doors, never trust me. SIR TOBY. My lady’s a Cataian, we are politicians, Malvolio’s a Peg-a-Ramsey, and [_Sings._] _Three merry men be we._ Am not I consanguineous? Am I not of her blood? Tilly-vally! “Lady”! _There dwelt a man in Babylon, Lady, Lady._ CLOWN. Beshrew me, the knight’s in admirable fooling. SIR ANDREW. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I too; he does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _O’ the twelfth day of December—_ MARIA. For the love o’ God, peace! Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. My masters, are you mad? Or what are you? Have you no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an ale-house of my lady’s house, that ye squeak out your coziers’ catches without any mitigation or remorse of voice? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time, in you? SIR TOBY. We did keep time, sir, in our catches. Sneck up! MALVOLIO. Sir Toby, I must be round with you. My lady bade me tell you that, though she harbours you as her kinsman she’s nothing allied to your disorders. If you can separate yourself and your misdemeanours, you are welcome to the house; if not, and it would please you to take leave of her, she is very willing to bid you farewell. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Farewell, dear heart, since I must needs be gone._ MARIA. Nay, good Sir Toby. CLOWN. [_Sings._] _His eyes do show his days are almost done._ MALVOLIO. Is’t even so? SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _But I will never die._ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _Sir Toby, there you lie._ MALVOLIO. This is much credit to you. SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _What and if you do?_ SIR TOBY. [_Sings._] _Shall I bid him go, and spare not?_ CLOWN. [_Sings._] _O, no, no, no, no, you dare not._ SIR TOBY. Out o’ tune? sir, ye lie. Art any more than a steward? Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale? CLOWN. Yes, by Saint Anne, and ginger shall be hot i’ the mouth too. SIR TOBY. Th’art i’ the right. Go, sir, rub your chain with crumbs. A stoup of wine, Maria! MALVOLIO. Mistress Mary, if you prized my lady’s favour at anything more than contempt, you would not give means for this uncivil rule; she shall know of it, by this hand. [_Exit._] MARIA. Go shake your ears. SIR ANDREW. ’Twere as good a deed as to drink when a man’s a-hungry, to challenge him the field, and then to break promise with him and make a fool of him. SIR TOBY. Do’t, knight. I’ll write thee a challenge; or I’ll deliver thy indignation to him by word of mouth. MARIA. Sweet Sir Toby, be patient for tonight. Since the youth of the Count’s was today with my lady, she is much out of quiet. For Monsieur Malvolio, let me alone with him. If I do not gull him into a nayword, and make him a common recreation, do not think I have wit enough to lie straight in my bed. I know I can do it. SIR TOBY. Possess us, possess us, tell us something of him. MARIA. Marry, sir, sometimes he is a kind of Puritan. SIR ANDREW. O, if I thought that, I’d beat him like a dog. SIR TOBY. What, for being a Puritan? Thy exquisite reason, dear knight? SIR ANDREW. I have no exquisite reason for’t, but I have reason good enough. MARIA. The devil a Puritan that he is, or anything constantly but a time-pleaser, an affectioned ass that cons state without book and utters it by great swarths; the best persuaded of himself, so crammed (as he thinks) with excellencies, that it is his grounds of faith that all that look on him love him. And on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work. SIR TOBY. What wilt thou do? MARIA. I will drop in his way some obscure epistles of love, wherein by the colour of his beard, the shape of his leg, the manner of his gait, the expressure of his eye, forehead, and complexion, he shall find himself most feelingly personated. I can write very like my lady your niece; on a forgotten matter we can hardly make distinction of our hands. SIR TOBY. Excellent! I smell a device. SIR ANDREW. I have’t in my nose too. SIR TOBY. He shall think, by the letters that thou wilt drop, that they come from my niece, and that she is in love with him. MARIA. My purpose is indeed a horse of that colour. SIR ANDREW. And your horse now would make him an ass. MARIA. Ass, I doubt not. SIR ANDREW. O ’twill be admirable! MARIA. Sport royal, I warrant you. I know my physic will work with him. I will plant you two, and let the fool make a third, where he shall find the letter. Observe his construction of it. For this night, to bed, and dream on the event. Farewell. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Good night, Penthesilea. SIR ANDREW. Before me, she’s a good wench. SIR TOBY. She’s a beagle true bred, and one that adores me. What o’ that? SIR ANDREW. I was adored once too. SIR TOBY. Let’s to bed, knight. Thou hadst need send for more money. SIR ANDREW. If I cannot recover your niece, I am a foul way out. SIR TOBY. Send for money, knight; if thou hast her not i’ th’ end, call me cut. SIR ANDREW. If I do not, never trust me, take it how you will. SIR TOBY. Come, come, I’ll go burn some sack, ’tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight, come, knight. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A Room in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and others. DUKE. Give me some music. Now, good morrow, friends. Now, good Cesario, but that piece of song, That old and antique song we heard last night; Methought it did relieve my passion much, More than light airs and recollected terms Of these most brisk and giddy-paced times. Come, but one verse. CURIO. He is not here, so please your lordship, that should sing it. DUKE. Who was it? CURIO. Feste, the jester, my lord, a fool that the Lady Olivia’s father took much delight in. He is about the house. DUKE. Seek him out, and play the tune the while. [_Exit Curio. Music plays._] Come hither, boy. If ever thou shalt love, In the sweet pangs of it remember me: For such as I am, all true lovers are, Unstaid and skittish in all motions else, Save in the constant image of the creature That is belov’d. How dost thou like this tune? VIOLA. It gives a very echo to the seat Where love is throned. DUKE. Thou dost speak masterly. My life upon’t, young though thou art, thine eye Hath stayed upon some favour that it loves. Hath it not, boy? VIOLA. A little, by your favour. DUKE. What kind of woman is’t? VIOLA. Of your complexion. DUKE. She is not worth thee, then. What years, i’ faith? VIOLA. About your years, my lord. DUKE. Too old, by heaven! Let still the woman take An elder than herself; so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband’s heart. For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner lost and worn, Than women’s are. VIOLA. I think it well, my lord. DUKE. Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent: For women are as roses, whose fair flower Being once display’d, doth fall that very hour. VIOLA. And so they are: alas, that they are so; To die, even when they to perfection grow! Enter Curio and Clown. DUKE. O, fellow, come, the song we had last night. Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it: it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love Like the old age. CLOWN. Are you ready, sir? DUKE. Ay; prithee, sing. [_Music._] The Clown’s song. _ Come away, come away, death. And in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white, stuck all with yew, O, prepare it! My part of death no one so true Did share it._ _ Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strown: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown: A thousand thousand sighs to save, Lay me, O, where Sad true lover never find my grave, To weep there._ DUKE. There’s for thy pains. CLOWN. No pains, sir; I take pleasure in singing, sir. DUKE. I’ll pay thy pleasure, then. CLOWN. Truly sir, and pleasure will be paid one time or another. DUKE. Give me now leave to leave thee. CLOWN. Now the melancholy god protect thee, and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that’s it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell. [_Exit Clown._] DUKE. Let all the rest give place. [_Exeunt Curio and Attendants._] Once more, Cesario, Get thee to yond same sovereign cruelty. Tell her my love, more noble than the world, Prizes not quantity of dirty lands; The parts that fortune hath bestow’d upon her, Tell her I hold as giddily as fortune; But ’tis that miracle and queen of gems That nature pranks her in attracts my soul. VIOLA. But if she cannot love you, sir? DUKE. I cannot be so answer’d. VIOLA. Sooth, but you must. Say that some lady, as perhaps there is, Hath for your love as great a pang of heart As you have for Olivia: you cannot love her; You tell her so. Must she not then be answer’d? DUKE. There is no woman’s sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart: no woman’s heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite, No motion of the liver, but the palate, That suffer surfeit, cloyment, and revolt; But mine is all as hungry as the sea, And can digest as much. Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia. VIOLA. Ay, but I know— DUKE. What dost thou know? VIOLA. Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter loved a man, As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship. DUKE. And what’s her history? VIOLA. A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i’ th’ bud, Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love, indeed? We men may say more, swear more, but indeed, Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows, but little in our love. DUKE. But died thy sister of her love, my boy? VIOLA. I am all the daughters of my father’s house, And all the brothers too: and yet I know not. Sir, shall I to this lady? DUKE. Ay, that’s the theme. To her in haste. Give her this jewel; say My love can give no place, bide no denay. [_Exeunt._] SCENE V. Olivia’s garden. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Come thy ways, Signior Fabian. FABIAN. Nay, I’ll come. If I lose a scruple of this sport, let me be boiled to death with melancholy. SIR TOBY. Wouldst thou not be glad to have the niggardly rascally sheep-biter come by some notable shame? FABIAN. I would exult, man. You know he brought me out o’ favour with my lady about a bear-baiting here. SIR TOBY. To anger him we’ll have the bear again, and we will fool him black and blue, shall we not, Sir Andrew? SIR ANDREW. And we do not, it is pity of our lives. Enter Maria. SIR TOBY. Here comes the little villain. How now, my metal of India? MARIA. Get ye all three into the box-tree. Malvolio’s coming down this walk; he has been yonder i’ the sun practising behaviour to his own shadow this half hour: observe him, for the love of mockery; for I know this letter will make a contemplative idiot of him. Close, in the name of jesting! [_The men hide themselves._] Lie thou there; [_Throws down a letter_] for here comes the trout that must be caught with tickling. [_Exit Maria._] Enter Malvolio. MALVOLIO. ’Tis but fortune, all is fortune. Maria once told me she did affect me, and I have heard herself come thus near, that should she fancy, it should be one of my complexion. Besides, she uses me with a more exalted respect than anyone else that follows her. What should I think on’t? SIR TOBY. Here’s an overweening rogue! FABIAN. O, peace! Contemplation makes a rare turkey-cock of him; how he jets under his advanced plumes! SIR ANDREW. ’Slight, I could so beat the rogue! SIR TOBY. Peace, I say. MALVOLIO. To be Count Malvolio. SIR TOBY. Ah, rogue! SIR ANDREW. Pistol him, pistol him. SIR TOBY. Peace, peace. MALVOLIO. There is example for’t. The lady of the Strachy married the yeoman of the wardrobe. SIR ANDREW. Fie on him, Jezebel! FABIAN. O, peace! now he’s deeply in; look how imagination blows him. MALVOLIO. Having been three months married to her, sitting in my state— SIR TOBY. O for a stone-bow to hit him in the eye! MALVOLIO. Calling my officers about me, in my branched velvet gown; having come from a day-bed, where I have left Olivia sleeping. SIR TOBY. Fire and brimstone! FABIAN. O, peace, peace. MALVOLIO. And then to have the humour of state; and after a demure travel of regard, telling them I know my place as I would they should do theirs, to ask for my kinsman Toby. SIR TOBY. Bolts and shackles! FABIAN. O, peace, peace, peace! Now, now. MALVOLIO. Seven of my people, with an obedient start, make out for him. I frown the while, and perchance wind up my watch, or play with some rich jewel. Toby approaches; curtsies there to me— SIR TOBY. Shall this fellow live? FABIAN. Though our silence be drawn from us with cars, yet peace! MALVOLIO. I extend my hand to him thus, quenching my familiar smile with an austere regard of control— SIR TOBY. And does not Toby take you a blow o’ the lips then? MALVOLIO. Saying ‘Cousin Toby, my fortunes having cast me on your niece, give me this prerogative of speech—’ SIR TOBY. What, what? MALVOLIO. ‘You must amend your drunkenness.’ SIR TOBY. Out, scab! FABIAN. Nay, patience, or we break the sinews of our plot. MALVOLIO. ‘Besides, you waste the treasure of your time with a foolish knight—’ SIR ANDREW. That’s me, I warrant you. MALVOLIO. ‘One Sir Andrew.’ SIR ANDREW. I knew ’twas I, for many do call me fool. MALVOLIO. [_Taking up the letter._] What employment have we here? FABIAN. Now is the woodcock near the gin. SIR TOBY. O, peace! And the spirit of humours intimate reading aloud to him! MALVOLIO. By my life, this is my lady’s hand: these be her very C’s, her U’s, and her T’s, and thus makes she her great P’s. It is in contempt of question, her hand. SIR ANDREW. Her C’s, her U’s, and her T’s. Why that? MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _To the unknown beloved, this, and my good wishes._ Her very phrases! By your leave, wax. Soft! and the impressure her Lucrece, with which she uses to seal: ’tis my lady. To whom should this be? FABIAN. This wins him, liver and all. MALVOLIO. [_Reads._] _ Jove knows I love, But who? Lips, do not move, No man must know._ ‘No man must know.’ What follows? The numbers alter’d! ‘No man must know.’—If this should be thee, Malvolio? SIR TOBY. Marry, hang thee, brock! MALVOLIO. _ I may command where I adore, But silence, like a Lucrece knife, With bloodless stroke my heart doth gore; M.O.A.I. doth sway my life._ FABIAN. A fustian riddle! SIR TOBY. Excellent wench, say I. MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I. doth sway my life.’—Nay, but first let me see, let me see, let me see. FABIAN. What dish o’ poison has she dressed him! SIR TOBY. And with what wing the staniel checks at it! MALVOLIO. ‘I may command where I adore.’ Why, she may command me: I serve her, she is my lady. Why, this is evident to any formal capacity. There is no obstruction in this. And the end—what should that alphabetical position portend? If I could make that resemble something in me! Softly! ‘M.O.A.I.’— SIR TOBY. O, ay, make up that:—he is now at a cold scent. FABIAN. Sowter will cry upon’t for all this, though it be as rank as a fox. MALVOLIO. ‘M’—Malvolio; ‘M!’ Why, that begins my name! FABIAN. Did not I say he would work it out? The cur is excellent at faults. MALVOLIO. ‘M’—But then there is no consonancy in the sequel; that suffers under probation: ‘A’ should follow, but ‘O’ does. FABIAN. And ‘O’ shall end, I hope. SIR TOBY. Ay, or I’ll cudgel him, and make him cry ‘O!’ MALVOLIO. And then ‘I’ comes behind. FABIAN. Ay, and you had any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you. MALVOLIO. ‘M.O.A.I.’ This simulation is not as the former: and yet, to crush this a little, it would bow to me, for every one of these letters are in my name. Soft, here follows prose. [_Reads._] _If this fall into thy hand, revolve. In my stars I am above thee, but be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon ’em. Thy fates open their hands, let thy blood and spirit embrace them. And, to inure thyself to what thou art like to be, cast thy humble slough and appear fresh. Be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants. Let thy tongue tang arguments of state; put thyself into the trick of singularity. She thus advises thee that sighs for thee. Remember who commended thy yellow stockings, and wished to see thee ever cross-gartered. I say, remember. Go to, thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so. If not, let me see thee a steward still, the fellow of servants, and not worthy to touch Fortune’s fingers. Farewell. She that would alter services with thee, The Fortunate Unhappy._ Daylight and champian discovers not more! This is open. I will be proud, I will read politic authors, I will baffle Sir Toby, I will wash off gross acquaintance, I will be point-device, the very man. I do not now fool myself, to let imagination jade me; for every reason excites to this, that my lady loves me. She did commend my yellow stockings of late, she did praise my leg being cross-gartered, and in this she manifests herself to my love, and with a kind of injunction, drives me to these habits of her liking. I thank my stars, I am happy. I will be strange, stout, in yellow stockings, and cross-gartered, even with the swiftness of putting on. Jove and my stars be praised!—Here is yet a postscript. [_Reads._] _Thou canst not choose but know who I am. If thou entertain’st my love, let it appear in thy smiling; thy smiles become thee well. Therefore in my presence still smile, dear my sweet, I prithee._ Jove, I thank thee. I will smile, I will do everything that thou wilt have me. [_Exit._] FABIAN. I will not give my part of this sport for a pension of thousands to be paid from the Sophy. SIR TOBY. I could marry this wench for this device. SIR ANDREW. So could I too. SIR TOBY. And ask no other dowry with her but such another jest. Enter Maria. SIR ANDREW. Nor I neither. FABIAN. Here comes my noble gull-catcher. SIR TOBY. Wilt thou set thy foot o’ my neck? SIR ANDREW. Or o’ mine either? SIR TOBY. Shall I play my freedom at tray-trip, and become thy bond-slave? SIR ANDREW. I’ faith, or I either? SIR TOBY. Why, thou hast put him in such a dream, that when the image of it leaves him he must run mad. MARIA. Nay, but say true, does it work upon him? SIR TOBY. Like aqua-vitae with a midwife. MARIA. If you will then see the fruits of the sport, mark his first approach before my lady: he will come to her in yellow stockings, and ’tis a colour she abhors, and cross-gartered, a fashion she detests; and he will smile upon her, which will now be so unsuitable to her disposition, being addicted to a melancholy as she is, that it cannot but turn him into a notable contempt. If you will see it, follow me. SIR TOBY. To the gates of Tartar, thou most excellent devil of wit! SIR ANDREW. I’ll make one too. [_Exeunt._] ACT III. SCENE I. Olivia’s garden. Enter Viola and Clown with a tabor. VIOLA. Save thee, friend, and thy music. Dost thou live by thy tabor? CLOWN. No, sir, I live by the church. VIOLA. Art thou a churchman? CLOWN. No such matter, sir. I do live by the church, for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church. VIOLA. So thou mayst say the king lies by a beggar, if a beggar dwell near him; or the church stands by thy tabor, if thy tabor stand by the church. CLOWN. You have said, sir. To see this age! A sentence is but a chev’ril glove to a good wit. How quickly the wrong side may be turned outward! VIOLA. Nay, that’s certain; they that dally nicely with words may quickly make them wanton. CLOWN. I would, therefore, my sister had had no name, sir. VIOLA. Why, man? CLOWN. Why, sir, her name’s a word; and to dally with that word might make my sister wanton. But indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds disgraced them. VIOLA. Thy reason, man? CLOWN. Troth, sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loath to prove reason with them. VIOLA. I warrant thou art a merry fellow, and car’st for nothing. CLOWN. Not so, sir, I do care for something. But in my conscience, sir, I do not care for you. If that be to care for nothing, sir, I would it would make you invisible. VIOLA. Art not thou the Lady Olivia’s fool? CLOWN. No, indeed, sir; the Lady Olivia has no folly. She will keep no fool, sir, till she be married, and fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband’s the bigger. I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. VIOLA. I saw thee late at the Count Orsino’s. CLOWN. Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere. I would be sorry, sir, but the fool should be as oft with your master as with my mistress. I think I saw your wisdom there. VIOLA. Nay, and thou pass upon me, I’ll no more with thee. Hold, there’s expenses for thee. CLOWN. Now Jove, in his next commodity of hair, send thee a beard! VIOLA. By my troth, I’ll tell thee, I am almost sick for one, though I would not have it grow on my chin. Is thy lady within? CLOWN. Would not a pair of these have bred, sir? VIOLA. Yes, being kept together, and put to use. CLOWN. I would play Lord Pandarus of Phrygia, sir, to bring a Cressida to this Troilus. VIOLA. I understand you, sir; ’tis well begged. CLOWN. The matter, I hope, is not great, sir, begging but a beggar: Cressida was a beggar. My lady is within, sir. I will conster to them whence you come; who you are and what you would are out of my welkin. I might say “element”, but the word is overworn. [_Exit._] VIOLA. This fellow is wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well, craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practice As full of labour as a wise man’s art: For folly, that he wisely shows, is fit; But wise men, folly-fall’n, quite taint their wit. Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Save you, gentleman. VIOLA. And you, sir. SIR ANDREW. _Dieu vous garde, monsieur._ VIOLA. _Et vous aussi; votre serviteur._ SIR ANDREW. I hope, sir, you are, and I am yours. SIR TOBY. Will you encounter the house? My niece is desirous you should enter, if your trade be to her. VIOLA. I am bound to your niece, sir, I mean, she is the list of my voyage. SIR TOBY. Taste your legs, sir, put them to motion. VIOLA. My legs do better understand me, sir, than I understand what you mean by bidding me taste my legs. SIR TOBY. I mean, to go, sir, to enter. VIOLA. I will answer you with gait and entrance: but we are prevented. Enter Olivia and Maria. Most excellent accomplished lady, the heavens rain odours on you! SIR ANDREW. That youth’s a rare courtier. ‘Rain odours,’ well. VIOLA. My matter hath no voice, lady, but to your own most pregnant and vouchsafed ear. SIR ANDREW. ‘Odours,’ ‘pregnant,’ and ‘vouchsafed.’—I’ll get ’em all three ready. OLIVIA. Let the garden door be shut, and leave me to my hearing. [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Maria._] Give me your hand, sir. VIOLA. My duty, madam, and most humble service. OLIVIA. What is your name? VIOLA. Cesario is your servant’s name, fair princess. OLIVIA. My servant, sir! ’Twas never merry world, Since lowly feigning was call’d compliment: Y’are servant to the Count Orsino, youth. VIOLA. And he is yours, and his must needs be yours. Your servant’s servant is your servant, madam. OLIVIA. For him, I think not on him: for his thoughts, Would they were blanks rather than fill’d with me! VIOLA. Madam, I come to whet your gentle thoughts On his behalf. OLIVIA. O, by your leave, I pray you. I bade you never speak again of him. But would you undertake another suit, I had rather hear you to solicit that Than music from the spheres. VIOLA. Dear lady— OLIVIA. Give me leave, beseech you. I did send, After the last enchantment you did here, A ring in chase of you. So did I abuse Myself, my servant, and, I fear me, you. Under your hard construction must I sit; To force that on you in a shameful cunning, Which you knew none of yours. What might you think? Have you not set mine honour at the stake, And baited it with all th’ unmuzzled thoughts That tyrannous heart can think? To one of your receiving Enough is shown. A cypress, not a bosom, Hides my heart: so let me hear you speak. VIOLA. I pity you. OLIVIA. That’s a degree to love. VIOLA. No, not a grize; for ’tis a vulgar proof That very oft we pity enemies. OLIVIA. Why then methinks ’tis time to smile again. O world, how apt the poor are to be proud! If one should be a prey, how much the better To fall before the lion than the wolf! [_Clock strikes._] The clock upbraids me with the waste of time. Be not afraid, good youth, I will not have you. And yet, when wit and youth is come to harvest, Your wife is like to reap a proper man. There lies your way, due west. VIOLA. Then westward ho! Grace and good disposition attend your ladyship! You’ll nothing, madam, to my lord by me? OLIVIA. Stay: I prithee tell me what thou think’st of me. VIOLA. That you do think you are not what you are. OLIVIA. If I think so, I think the same of you. VIOLA. Then think you right; I am not what I am. OLIVIA. I would you were as I would have you be. VIOLA. Would it be better, madam, than I am? I wish it might, for now I am your fool. OLIVIA. O what a deal of scorn looks beautiful In the contempt and anger of his lip! A murd’rous guilt shows not itself more soon Than love that would seem hid. Love’s night is noon. Cesario, by the roses of the spring, By maidhood, honour, truth, and everything, I love thee so, that maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause; But rather reason thus with reason fetter: Love sought is good, but given unsought is better. VIOLA. By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has; nor never none Shall mistress be of it, save I alone. And so adieu, good madam; never more Will I my master’s tears to you deplore. OLIVIA. Yet come again: for thou perhaps mayst move That heart, which now abhors, to like his love. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian. SIR ANDREW. No, faith, I’ll not stay a jot longer. SIR TOBY. Thy reason, dear venom, give thy reason. FABIAN. You must needs yield your reason, Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. Marry, I saw your niece do more favours to the Count’s servingman than ever she bestowed upon me; I saw’t i’ th’ orchard. SIR TOBY. Did she see thee the while, old boy? Tell me that. SIR ANDREW. As plain as I see you now. FABIAN. This was a great argument of love in her toward you. SIR ANDREW. ’Slight! will you make an ass o’ me? FABIAN. I will prove it legitimate, sir, upon the oaths of judgment and reason. SIR TOBY. And they have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor. FABIAN. She did show favour to the youth in your sight only to exasperate you, to awake your dormouse valour, to put fire in your heart and brimstone in your liver. You should then have accosted her, and with some excellent jests, fire-new from the mint, you should have banged the youth into dumbness. This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked: the double gilt of this opportunity you let time wash off, and you are now sailed into the north of my lady’s opinion; where you will hang like an icicle on Dutchman’s beard, unless you do redeem it by some laudable attempt, either of valour or policy. SIR ANDREW. And’t be any way, it must be with valour, for policy I hate; I had as lief be a Brownist as a politician. SIR TOBY. Why, then, build me thy fortunes upon the basis of valour. Challenge me the Count’s youth to fight with him. Hurt him in eleven places; my niece shall take note of it, and assure thyself there is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man’s commendation with woman than report of valour. FABIAN. There is no way but this, Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. Will either of you bear me a challenge to him? SIR TOBY. Go, write it in a martial hand, be curst and brief; it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and full of invention. Taunt him with the licence of ink. If thou ‘thou’st’ him some thrice, it shall not be amiss, and as many lies as will lie in thy sheet of paper, although the sheet were big enough for the bed of Ware in England, set ’em down. Go about it. Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter. About it. SIR ANDREW. Where shall I find you? SIR TOBY. We’ll call thee at the cubiculo. Go. [_Exit Sir Andrew._] FABIAN. This is a dear manikin to you, Sir Toby. SIR TOBY. I have been dear to him, lad, some two thousand strong, or so. FABIAN. We shall have a rare letter from him; but you’ll not deliver it. SIR TOBY. Never trust me then. And by all means stir on the youth to an answer. I think oxen and wainropes cannot hale them together. For Andrew, if he were opened and you find so much blood in his liver as will clog the foot of a flea, I’ll eat the rest of th’ anatomy. FABIAN. And his opposite, the youth, bears in his visage no great presage of cruelty. Enter Maria. SIR TOBY. Look where the youngest wren of nine comes. MARIA. If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourselves into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian that means to be saved by believing rightly can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings. SIR TOBY. And cross-gartered? MARIA. Most villainously; like a pedant that keeps a school i’ th’ church. I have dogged him like his murderer. He does obey every point of the letter that I dropped to betray him. He does smile his face into more lines than is in the new map with the augmentation of the Indies. You have not seen such a thing as ’tis. I can hardly forbear hurling things at him. I know my lady will strike him. If she do, he’ll smile and take’t for a great favour. SIR TOBY. Come, bring us, bring us where he is. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A street. Enter Sebastian and Antonio. SEBASTIAN. I would not by my will have troubled you, But since you make your pleasure of your pains, I will no further chide you. ANTONIO. I could not stay behind you: my desire, More sharp than filed steel, did spur me forth; And not all love to see you, though so much, As might have drawn one to a longer voyage, But jealousy what might befall your travel, Being skilless in these parts; which to a stranger, Unguided and unfriended, often prove Rough and unhospitable. My willing love, The rather by these arguments of fear, Set forth in your pursuit. SEBASTIAN. My kind Antonio, I can no other answer make but thanks, And thanks, and ever thanks; and oft good turns Are shuffled off with such uncurrent pay. But were my worth, as is my conscience, firm, You should find better dealing. What’s to do? Shall we go see the relics of this town? ANTONIO. Tomorrow, sir; best first go see your lodging. SEBASTIAN. I am not weary, and ’tis long to night; I pray you, let us satisfy our eyes With the memorials and the things of fame That do renown this city. ANTONIO. Would you’d pardon me. I do not without danger walk these streets. Once in a sea-fight, ’gainst the Count his galleys, I did some service, of such note indeed, That were I ta’en here, it would scarce be answer’d. SEBASTIAN. Belike you slew great number of his people. ANTONIO. Th’ offence is not of such a bloody nature, Albeit the quality of the time and quarrel Might well have given us bloody argument. It might have since been answered in repaying What we took from them, which for traffic’s sake, Most of our city did. Only myself stood out, For which, if I be lapsed in this place, I shall pay dear. SEBASTIAN. Do not then walk too open. ANTONIO. It doth not fit me. Hold, sir, here’s my purse. In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge. I will bespeak our diet Whiles you beguile the time and feed your knowledge With viewing of the town. There shall you have me. SEBASTIAN. Why I your purse? ANTONIO. Haply your eye shall light upon some toy You have desire to purchase; and your store, I think, is not for idle markets, sir. SEBASTIAN. I’ll be your purse-bearer, and leave you for an hour. ANTONIO. To th’ Elephant. SEBASTIAN. I do remember. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Olivia’s garden. Enter Olivia and Maria. OLIVIA. I have sent after him. He says he’ll come; How shall I feast him? What bestow of him? For youth is bought more oft than begg’d or borrow’d. I speak too loud.— Where’s Malvolio?—He is sad and civil, And suits well for a servant with my fortunes; Where is Malvolio? MARIA. He’s coming, madam: But in very strange manner. He is sure possessed, madam. OLIVIA. Why, what’s the matter? Does he rave? MARIA. No, madam, he does nothing but smile: your ladyship were best to have some guard about you if he come, for sure the man is tainted in ’s wits. OLIVIA. Go call him hither. I’m as mad as he, If sad and merry madness equal be. Enter Malvolio. How now, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Sweet lady, ho, ho! OLIVIA. Smil’st thou? I sent for thee upon a sad occasion. MALVOLIO. Sad, lady? I could be sad: this does make some obstruction in the blood, this cross-gartering. But what of that? If it please the eye of one, it is with me as the very true sonnet is: ‘Please one and please all.’ OLIVIA. Why, how dost thou, man? What is the matter with thee? MALVOLIO. Not black in my mind, though yellow in my legs. It did come to his hands, and commands shall be executed. I think we do know the sweet Roman hand. OLIVIA. Wilt thou go to bed, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. To bed? Ay, sweetheart, and I’ll come to thee. OLIVIA. God comfort thee! Why dost thou smile so, and kiss thy hand so oft? MARIA. How do you, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. At your request? Yes, nightingales answer daws! MARIA. Why appear you with this ridiculous boldness before my lady? MALVOLIO. ‘Be not afraid of greatness.’ ’Twas well writ. OLIVIA. What mean’st thou by that, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. ‘Some are born great’— OLIVIA. Ha? MALVOLIO. ‘Some achieve greatness’— OLIVIA. What say’st thou? MALVOLIO. ‘And some have greatness thrust upon them.’ OLIVIA. Heaven restore thee! MALVOLIO. ‘Remember who commended thy yellow stockings’— OLIVIA. Thy yellow stockings? MALVOLIO. ‘And wished to see thee cross-gartered.’ OLIVIA. Cross-gartered? MALVOLIO. ‘Go to: thou art made, if thou desir’st to be so:’— OLIVIA. Am I made? MALVOLIO. ‘If not, let me see thee a servant still.’ OLIVIA. Why, this is very midsummer madness. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Madam, the young gentleman of the Count Orsino’s is returned; I could hardly entreat him back. He attends your ladyship’s pleasure. OLIVIA. I’ll come to him. [_Exit Servant._] Good Maria, let this fellow be looked to. Where’s my cousin Toby? Let some of my people have a special care of him; I would not have him miscarry for the half of my dowry. [_Exeunt Olivia and Maria._] MALVOLIO. O ho, do you come near me now? No worse man than Sir Toby to look to me. This concurs directly with the letter: she sends him on purpose, that I may appear stubborn to him; for she incites me to that in the letter. ‘Cast thy humble slough,’ says she; ‘be opposite with a kinsman, surly with servants, let thy tongue tang with arguments of state, put thyself into the trick of singularity,’ and consequently, sets down the manner how: as, a sad face, a reverend carriage, a slow tongue, in the habit of some sir of note, and so forth. I have limed her, but it is Jove’s doing, and Jove make me thankful! And when she went away now, ‘Let this fellow be looked to;’ ‘Fellow!’ not ‘Malvolio’, nor after my degree, but ‘fellow’. Why, everything adheres together, that no dram of a scruple, no scruple of a scruple, no obstacle, no incredulous or unsafe circumstance. What can be said? Nothing that can be can come between me and the full prospect of my hopes. Well, Jove, not I, is the doer of this, and he is to be thanked. Enter Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria. SIR TOBY. Which way is he, in the name of sanctity? If all the devils of hell be drawn in little, and Legion himself possessed him, yet I’ll speak to him. FABIAN. Here he is, here he is. How is’t with you, sir? How is’t with you, man? MALVOLIO. Go off, I discard you. Let me enjoy my private. Go off. MARIA. Lo, how hollow the fiend speaks within him! Did not I tell you? Sir Toby, my lady prays you to have a care of him. MALVOLIO. Ah, ha! does she so? SIR TOBY. Go to, go to; peace, peace, we must deal gently with him. Let me alone. How do you, Malvolio? How is’t with you? What, man! defy the devil! Consider, he’s an enemy to mankind. MALVOLIO. Do you know what you say? MARIA. La you, an you speak ill of the devil, how he takes it at heart! Pray God he be not bewitched. FABIAN. Carry his water to th’ wise woman. MARIA. Marry, and it shall be done tomorrow morning, if I live. My lady would not lose him for more than I’ll say. MALVOLIO. How now, mistress! MARIA. O Lord! SIR TOBY. Prithee hold thy peace, this is not the way. Do you not see you move him? Let me alone with him. FABIAN. No way but gentleness, gently, gently. The fiend is rough, and will not be roughly used. SIR TOBY. Why, how now, my bawcock? How dost thou, chuck? MALVOLIO. Sir! SIR TOBY. Ay, biddy, come with me. What, man, ’tis not for gravity to play at cherry-pit with Satan. Hang him, foul collier! MARIA. Get him to say his prayers, good Sir Toby, get him to pray. MALVOLIO. My prayers, minx? MARIA. No, I warrant you, he will not hear of godliness. MALVOLIO. Go, hang yourselves all! You are idle, shallow things. I am not of your element. You shall know more hereafter. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Is’t possible? FABIAN. If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction. SIR TOBY. His very genius hath taken the infection of the device, man. MARIA. Nay, pursue him now, lest the device take air and taint. FABIAN. Why, we shall make him mad indeed. MARIA. The house will be the quieter. SIR TOBY. Come, we’ll have him in a dark room and bound. My niece is already in the belief that he’s mad. We may carry it thus for our pleasure, and his penance, till our very pastime, tired out of breath, prompt us to have mercy on him, at which time we will bring the device to the bar, and crown thee for a finder of madmen. But see, but see! Enter Sir Andrew. FABIAN. More matter for a May morning. SIR ANDREW. Here’s the challenge, read it. I warrant there’s vinegar and pepper in’t. FABIAN. Is’t so saucy? SIR ANDREW. Ay, is’t, I warrant him. Do but read. SIR TOBY. Give me. [_Reads._] _Youth, whatsoever thou art, thou art but a scurvy fellow._ FABIAN. Good, and valiant. SIR TOBY. _Wonder not, nor admire not in thy mind, why I do call thee so, for I will show thee no reason for’t._ FABIAN. A good note, that keeps you from the blow of the law. SIR TOBY. _Thou comest to the Lady Olivia, and in my sight she uses thee kindly: but thou liest in thy throat; that is not the matter I challenge thee for._ FABIAN. Very brief, and to exceeding good sense—less. SIR TOBY. _I will waylay thee going home; where if it be thy chance to kill me—_ FABIAN. Good. SIR TOBY. _Thou kill’st me like a rogue and a villain._ FABIAN. Still you keep o’ th’ windy side of the law. Good. SIR TOBY. _Fare thee well, and God have mercy upon one of our souls! He may have mercy upon mine, but my hope is better, and so look to thyself. Thy friend, as thou usest him, and thy sworn enemy, Andrew Aguecheek._ If this letter move him not, his legs cannot. I’ll give’t him. MARIA. You may have very fit occasion for’t. He is now in some commerce with my lady, and will by and by depart. SIR TOBY. Go, Sir Andrew. Scout me for him at the corner of the orchard, like a bum-baily. So soon as ever thou seest him, draw, and as thou draw’st, swear horrible, for it comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him. Away. SIR ANDREW. Nay, let me alone for swearing. [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. Now will not I deliver his letter, for the behaviour of the young gentleman gives him out to be of good capacity and breeding; his employment between his lord and my niece confirms no less. Therefore this letter, being so excellently ignorant, will breed no terror in the youth. He will find it comes from a clodpole. But, sir, I will deliver his challenge by word of mouth, set upon Aguecheek notable report of valour, and drive the gentleman (as I know his youth will aptly receive it) into a most hideous opinion of his rage, skill, fury, and impetuosity. This will so fright them both that they will kill one another by the look, like cockatrices. Enter Olivia and Viola. FABIAN. Here he comes with your niece; give them way till he take leave, and presently after him. SIR TOBY. I will meditate the while upon some horrid message for a challenge. [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Fabian and Maria._] OLIVIA. I have said too much unto a heart of stone, And laid mine honour too unchary on’t: There’s something in me that reproves my fault: But such a headstrong potent fault it is, That it but mocks reproof. VIOLA. With the same ’haviour that your passion bears Goes on my master’s griefs. OLIVIA. Here, wear this jewel for me, ’tis my picture. Refuse it not, it hath no tongue to vex you. And I beseech you come again tomorrow. What shall you ask of me that I’ll deny, That honour sav’d, may upon asking give? VIOLA. Nothing but this, your true love for my master. OLIVIA. How with mine honour may I give him that Which I have given to you? VIOLA. I will acquit you. OLIVIA. Well, come again tomorrow. Fare thee well; A fiend like thee might bear my soul to hell. [_Exit._] Enter Sir Toby and Fabian. SIR TOBY. Gentleman, God save thee. VIOLA. And you, sir. SIR TOBY. That defence thou hast, betake thee to’t. Of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not, but thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard end. Dismount thy tuck, be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful, and deadly. VIOLA. You mistake, sir; I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me. My remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man. SIR TOBY. You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you. Therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard, for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill, and wrath, can furnish man withal. VIOLA. I pray you, sir, what is he? SIR TOBY. He is knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier, and on carpet consideration, but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three, and his incensement at this moment is so implacable that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob is his word; give’t or take’t. VIOLA. I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady. I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk. SIR TOBY. Sir, no. His indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury; therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless you undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him. Therefore on, or strip your sword stark naked, for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you. VIOLA. This is as uncivil as strange. I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offence to him is. It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose. SIR TOBY. I will do so. Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return. [_Exit Sir Toby._] VIOLA. Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter? FABIAN. I know the knight is incensed against you, even to a mortal arbitrement, but nothing of the circumstance more. VIOLA. I beseech you, what manner of man is he? FABIAN. Nothing of that wonderful promise, to read him by his form, as you are like to find him in the proof of his valour. He is indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody, and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him? I will make your peace with him if I can. VIOLA. I shall be much bound to you for’t. I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight: I care not who knows so much of my mettle. [_Exeunt._] Enter Sir Toby and Sir Andrew. SIR TOBY. Why, man, he’s a very devil. I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard, and all, and he gives me the stuck-in with such a mortal motion that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hits the ground they step on. They say he has been fencer to the Sophy. SIR ANDREW. Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him. SIR TOBY. Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder. SIR ANDREW. Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant, and so cunning in fence, I’d have seen him damned ere I’d have challenged him. Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet. SIR TOBY. I’ll make the motion. Stand here, make a good show on’t. This shall end without the perdition of souls. [_Aside._] Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you. Enter Fabian and Viola. [_To Fabian._] I have his horse to take up the quarrel. I have persuaded him the youth’s a devil. FABIAN. He is as horribly conceited of him, and pants and looks pale, as if a bear were at his heels. SIR TOBY. There’s no remedy, sir, he will fight with you for’s oath sake. Marry, he hath better bethought him of his quarrel, and he finds that now scarce to be worth talking of. Therefore, draw for the supportance of his vow; he protests he will not hurt you. VIOLA. [_Aside._] Pray God defend me! A little thing would make me tell them how much I lack of a man. FABIAN. Give ground if you see him furious. SIR TOBY. Come, Sir Andrew, there’s no remedy, the gentleman will for his honour’s sake have one bout with you. He cannot by the duello avoid it; but he has promised me, as he is a gentleman and a soldier, he will not hurt you. Come on: to’t. SIR ANDREW. [_Draws._] Pray God he keep his oath! Enter Antonio. VIOLA. [_Draws._] I do assure you ’tis against my will. ANTONIO. Put up your sword. If this young gentleman Have done offence, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I for him defy you. SIR TOBY. You, sir? Why, what are you? ANTONIO. [_Draws._] One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more Than you have heard him brag to you he will. SIR TOBY. [_Draws._] Nay, if you be an undertaker, I am for you. Enter Officers. FABIAN. O good Sir Toby, hold! Here come the officers. SIR TOBY. [_To Antonio._] I’ll be with you anon. VIOLA. [_To Sir Andrew._] Pray, sir, put your sword up, if you please. SIR ANDREW. Marry, will I, sir; and for that I promised you, I’ll be as good as my word. He will bear you easily, and reins well. FIRST OFFICER. This is the man; do thy office. SECOND OFFICER. Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit Of Count Orsino. ANTONIO. You do mistake me, sir. FIRST OFFICER. No, sir, no jot. I know your favour well, Though now you have no sea-cap on your head.— Take him away, he knows I know him well. ANTONIO. I must obey. This comes with seeking you; But there’s no remedy, I shall answer it. What will you do? Now my necessity Makes me to ask you for my purse. It grieves me Much more for what I cannot do for you, Than what befalls myself. You stand amaz’d, But be of comfort. SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, away. ANTONIO. I must entreat of you some of that money. VIOLA. What money, sir? For the fair kindness you have show’d me here, And part being prompted by your present trouble, Out of my lean and low ability I’ll lend you something. My having is not much; I’ll make division of my present with you. Hold, there’s half my coffer. ANTONIO. Will you deny me now? Is’t possible that my deserts to you Can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, Lest that it make me so unsound a man As to upbraid you with those kindnesses That I have done for you. VIOLA. I know of none, Nor know I you by voice or any feature. I hate ingratitude more in a man Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood. ANTONIO. O heavens themselves! SECOND OFFICER. Come, sir, I pray you go. ANTONIO. Let me speak a little. This youth that you see here I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, Reliev’d him with such sanctity of love; And to his image, which methought did promise Most venerable worth, did I devotion. FIRST OFFICER. What’s that to us? The time goes by. Away! ANTONIO. But O how vile an idol proves this god! Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame. In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; None can be call’d deform’d but the unkind. Virtue is beauty, but the beauteous evil Are empty trunks, o’erflourished by the devil. FIRST OFFICER. The man grows mad, away with him. Come, come, sir. ANTONIO. Lead me on. [_Exeunt Officers with Antonio._] VIOLA. Methinks his words do from such passion fly That he believes himself; so do not I. Prove true, imagination, O prove true, That I, dear brother, be now ta’en for you! SIR TOBY. Come hither, knight; come hither, Fabian. We’ll whisper o’er a couplet or two of most sage saws. VIOLA. He nam’d Sebastian. I my brother know Yet living in my glass; even such and so In favour was my brother, and he went Still in this fashion, colour, ornament, For him I imitate. O if it prove, Tempests are kind, and salt waves fresh in love! [_Exit._] SIR TOBY. A very dishonest paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity, and denying him; and for his cowardship, ask Fabian. FABIAN. A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it. SIR ANDREW. ’Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him. SIR TOBY. Do, cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword. SIR ANDREW. And I do not— [_Exit._] FABIAN. Come, let’s see the event. SIR TOBY. I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV. SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Sebastian and Clown. CLOWN. Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you? SEBASTIAN. Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow. Let me be clear of thee. CLOWN. Well held out, i’ faith! No, I do not know you, nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her; nor your name is not Master Cesario; nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so, is so. SEBASTIAN. I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else, Thou know’st not me. CLOWN. Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man, and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly! I am afraid this great lubber, the world, will prove a cockney. I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness, and tell me what I shall vent to my lady. Shall I vent to her that thou art coming? SEBASTIAN. I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me. There’s money for thee; if you tarry longer I shall give worse payment. CLOWN. By my troth, thou hast an open hand. These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report—after fourteen years’ purchase. Enter Sir Andrew, Sir Toby and Fabian. SIR ANDREW. Now sir, have I met you again? There’s for you. [_Striking Sebastian._] SEBASTIAN. Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there. Are all the people mad? [_Beating Sir Andrew._] SIR TOBY. Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house. CLOWN. This will I tell my lady straight. I would not be in some of your coats for twopence. [_Exit Clown._] SIR TOBY. Come on, sir, hold! SIR ANDREW. Nay, let him alone, I’ll go another way to work with him. I’ll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that. SEBASTIAN. Let go thy hand! SIR TOBY. Come, sir, I will not let you go. Come, my young soldier, put up your iron: you are well fleshed. Come on. SEBASTIAN. I will be free from thee. What wouldst thou now? If thou dar’st tempt me further, draw thy sword. [_Draws._] SIR TOBY. What, what? Nay, then, I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you. [_Draws._] Enter Olivia. OLIVIA. Hold, Toby! On thy life I charge thee hold! SIR TOBY. Madam. OLIVIA. Will it be ever thus? Ungracious wretch, Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, Where manners ne’er were preach’d! Out of my sight! Be not offended, dear Cesario. Rudesby, be gone! [_Exeunt Sir Toby, Sir Andrew and Fabian._] I prithee, gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace. Go with me to my house, And hear thou there how many fruitless pranks This ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby Mayst smile at this. Thou shalt not choose but go. Do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, He started one poor heart of mine, in thee. SEBASTIAN. What relish is in this? How runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream. Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep; If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep! OLIVIA. Nay, come, I prithee. Would thou’dst be ruled by me! SEBASTIAN. Madam, I will. OLIVIA. O, say so, and so be! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Enter Maria and Clown. MARIA. Nay, I prithee, put on this gown and this beard; make him believe thou art Sir Topas the curate. Do it quickly. I’ll call Sir Toby the whilst. [_Exit Maria._] CLOWN. Well, I’ll put it on, and I will dissemble myself in’t, and I would I were the first that ever dissembled in such a gown. I am not tall enough to become the function well, nor lean enough to be thought a good student, but to be said, an honest man and a good housekeeper goes as fairly as to say, a careful man and a great scholar. The competitors enter. Enter Sir Toby and Maria. SIR TOBY. Jove bless thee, Master Parson. CLOWN. _Bonos dies_, Sir Toby: for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc, ‘That that is, is’: so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is ‘that’ but ‘that’? and ‘is’ but ‘is’? SIR TOBY. To him, Sir Topas. CLOWN. What ho, I say! Peace in this prison! SIR TOBY. The knave counterfeits well. A good knave. Malvolio within. MALVOLIO. Who calls there? CLOWN. Sir Topas the curate, who comes to visit Malvolio the lunatic. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas, good Sir Topas, go to my lady. CLOWN. Out, hyperbolical fiend! how vexest thou this man? Talkest thou nothing but of ladies? SIR TOBY. Well said, Master Parson. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, never was man thus wronged. Good Sir Topas, do not think I am mad. They have laid me here in hideous darkness. CLOWN. Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms, for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy. Say’st thou that house is dark? MALVOLIO. As hell, Sir Topas. CLOWN. Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction? MALVOLIO. I am not mad, Sir Topas. I say to you this house is dark. CLOWN. Madman, thou errest. I say there is no darkness but ignorance, in which thou art more puzzled than the Egyptians in their fog. MALVOLIO. I say this house is as dark as ignorance, though ignorance were as dark as hell; and I say there was never man thus abused. I am no more mad than you are. Make the trial of it in any constant question. CLOWN. What is the opinion of Pythagoras concerning wildfowl? MALVOLIO. That the soul of our grandam might haply inhabit a bird. CLOWN. What think’st thou of his opinion? MALVOLIO. I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve his opinion. CLOWN. Fare thee well. Remain thou still in darkness. Thou shalt hold the opinion of Pythagoras ere I will allow of thy wits, and fear to kill a woodcock, lest thou dispossess the soul of thy grandam. Fare thee well. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas, Sir Topas! SIR TOBY. My most exquisite Sir Topas! CLOWN. Nay, I am for all waters. MARIA. Thou mightst have done this without thy beard and gown. He sees thee not. SIR TOBY. To him in thine own voice, and bring me word how thou find’st him. I would we were well rid of this knavery. If he may be conveniently delivered, I would he were, for I am now so far in offence with my niece that I cannot pursue with any safety this sport to the upshot. Come by and by to my chamber. [_Exeunt Sir Toby and Maria._] CLOWN. [_Singing._] _Hey, Robin, jolly Robin, Tell me how thy lady does._ MALVOLIO. Fool! CLOWN. _My lady is unkind, perdy._ MALVOLIO. Fool! CLOWN. _Alas, why is she so?_ MALVOLIO. Fool, I say! CLOWN. _She loves another_— Who calls, ha? MALVOLIO. Good fool, as ever thou wilt deserve well at my hand, help me to a candle, and pen, ink, and paper. As I am a gentleman, I will live to be thankful to thee for’t. CLOWN. Master Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Ay, good fool. CLOWN. Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits? MALVOLIO. Fool, there was never man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art. CLOWN. But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in your wits than a fool. MALVOLIO. They have here propertied me; keep me in darkness, send ministers to me, asses, and do all they can to face me out of my wits. CLOWN. Advise you what you say: the minister is here. [_As Sir Topas_] Malvolio, Malvolio, thy wits the heavens restore. Endeavour thyself to sleep, and leave thy vain bibble-babble. MALVOLIO. Sir Topas! CLOWN. [_As Sir Topas_] Maintain no words with him, good fellow. [_As himself_] Who, I, sir? not I, sir. God buy you, good Sir Topas. [_As Sir Topas_] Marry, amen. [_As himself_] I will sir, I will. MALVOLIO. Fool, fool, fool, I say! CLOWN. Alas, sir, be patient. What say you, sir? I am shent for speaking to you. MALVOLIO. Good fool, help me to some light and some paper. I tell thee I am as well in my wits as any man in Illyria. CLOWN. Well-a-day that you were, sir! MALVOLIO. By this hand, I am. Good fool, some ink, paper, and light, and convey what I will set down to my lady. It shall advantage thee more than ever the bearing of letter did. CLOWN. I will help you to’t. But tell me true, are you not mad indeed? or do you but counterfeit? MALVOLIO. Believe me, I am not. I tell thee true. CLOWN. Nay, I’ll ne’er believe a madman till I see his brains. I will fetch you light, and paper, and ink. MALVOLIO. Fool, I’ll requite it in the highest degree: I prithee be gone. CLOWN. [_Singing._] _I am gone, sir, and anon, sir, I’ll be with you again, In a trice, like to the old Vice, Your need to sustain; Who with dagger of lath, in his rage and his wrath, Cries ‘ah, ha!’ to the devil: Like a mad lad, ‘Pare thy nails, dad. Adieu, goodman devil.’_ [_Exit._] SCENE III. Olivia’s Garden. Enter Sebastian. SEBASTIAN. This is the air; that is the glorious sun, This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t, And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, Yet ’tis not madness. Where’s Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant, Yet there he was, and there I found this credit, That he did range the town to seek me out. His counsel now might do me golden service. For though my soul disputes well with my sense That this may be some error, but no madness, Yet doth this accident and flood of fortune So far exceed all instance, all discourse, That I am ready to distrust mine eyes And wrangle with my reason that persuades me To any other trust but that I am mad, Or else the lady’s mad; yet if ’twere so, She could not sway her house, command her followers, Take and give back affairs and their dispatch, With such a smooth, discreet, and stable bearing As I perceive she does. There’s something in’t That is deceivable. But here the lady comes. Enter Olivia and a Priest. OLIVIA. Blame not this haste of mine. If you mean well, Now go with me and with this holy man Into the chantry by: there, before him And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith, That my most jealous and too doubtful soul May live at peace. He shall conceal it Whiles you are willing it shall come to note, What time we will our celebration keep According to my birth. What do you say? SEBASTIAN. I’ll follow this good man, and go with you, And having sworn truth, ever will be true. OLIVIA. Then lead the way, good father, and heavens so shine, That they may fairly note this act of mine! [_Exeunt._] ACT V. SCENE I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Enter Clown and Fabian. FABIAN. Now, as thou lov’st me, let me see his letter. CLOWN. Good Master Fabian, grant me another request. FABIAN. Anything. CLOWN. Do not desire to see this letter. FABIAN. This is to give a dog, and in recompense desire my dog again. Enter Duke, Viola, Curio and Lords. DUKE. Belong you to the Lady Olivia, friends? CLOWN. Ay, sir, we are some of her trappings. DUKE. I know thee well. How dost thou, my good fellow? CLOWN. Truly, sir, the better for my foes, and the worse for my friends. DUKE. Just the contrary; the better for thy friends. CLOWN. No, sir, the worse. DUKE. How can that be? CLOWN. Marry, sir, they praise me, and make an ass of me. Now my foes tell me plainly I am an ass: so that by my foes, sir, I profit in the knowledge of myself, and by my friends I am abused. So that, conclusions to be as kisses, if your four negatives make your two affirmatives, why then, the worse for my friends, and the better for my foes. DUKE. Why, this is excellent. CLOWN. By my troth, sir, no; though it please you to be one of my friends. DUKE. Thou shalt not be the worse for me; there’s gold. CLOWN. But that it would be double-dealing, sir, I would you could make it another. DUKE. O, you give me ill counsel. CLOWN. Put your grace in your pocket, sir, for this once, and let your flesh and blood obey it. DUKE. Well, I will be so much a sinner to be a double-dealer: there’s another. CLOWN. _Primo, secundo, tertio_, is a good play, and the old saying is, the third pays for all; the triplex, sir, is a good tripping measure; or the bells of Saint Bennet, sir, may put you in mind—one, two, three. DUKE. You can fool no more money out of me at this throw. If you will let your lady know I am here to speak with her, and bring her along with you, it may awake my bounty further. CLOWN. Marry, sir, lullaby to your bounty till I come again. I go, sir, but I would not have you to think that my desire of having is the sin of covetousness: but as you say, sir, let your bounty take a nap, I will awake it anon. [_Exit Clown._] Enter Antonio and Officers. VIOLA. Here comes the man, sir, that did rescue me. DUKE. That face of his I do remember well. Yet when I saw it last it was besmear’d As black as Vulcan, in the smoke of war. A baubling vessel was he captain of, For shallow draught and bulk unprizable, With which such scathful grapple did he make With the most noble bottom of our fleet, That very envy and the tongue of loss Cried fame and honour on him. What’s the matter? FIRST OFFICER. Orsino, this is that Antonio That took the _Phoenix_ and her fraught from Candy, And this is he that did the _Tiger_ board When your young nephew Titus lost his leg. Here in the streets, desperate of shame and state, In private brabble did we apprehend him. VIOLA. He did me kindness, sir; drew on my side, But in conclusion, put strange speech upon me. I know not what ’twas, but distraction. DUKE. Notable pirate, thou salt-water thief, What foolish boldness brought thee to their mercies, Whom thou, in terms so bloody and so dear, Hast made thine enemies? ANTONIO. Orsino, noble sir, Be pleased that I shake off these names you give me: Antonio never yet was thief or pirate, Though, I confess, on base and ground enough, Orsino’s enemy. A witchcraft drew me hither: That most ingrateful boy there by your side From the rude sea’s enraged and foamy mouth Did I redeem; a wreck past hope he was. His life I gave him, and did thereto add My love, without retention or restraint, All his in dedication. For his sake Did I expose myself, pure for his love, Into the danger of this adverse town; Drew to defend him when he was beset; Where being apprehended, his false cunning (Not meaning to partake with me in danger) Taught him to face me out of his acquaintance, And grew a twenty years’ removed thing While one would wink; denied me mine own purse, Which I had recommended to his use Not half an hour before. VIOLA. How can this be? DUKE. When came he to this town? ANTONIO. Today, my lord; and for three months before, No int’rim, not a minute’s vacancy, Both day and night did we keep company. Enter Olivia and Attendants. DUKE. Here comes the Countess, now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months this youth hath tended upon me; But more of that anon. Take him aside. OLIVIA. What would my lord, but that he may not have, Wherein Olivia may seem serviceable? Cesario, you do not keep promise with me. VIOLA. Madam? DUKE. Gracious Olivia— OLIVIA. What do you say, Cesario? Good my lord— VIOLA. My lord would speak, my duty hushes me. OLIVIA. If it be aught to the old tune, my lord, It is as fat and fulsome to mine ear As howling after music. DUKE. Still so cruel? OLIVIA. Still so constant, lord. DUKE. What, to perverseness? You uncivil lady, To whose ingrate and unauspicious altars My soul the faithfull’st off’rings hath breathed out That e’er devotion tender’d! What shall I do? OLIVIA. Even what it please my lord that shall become him. DUKE. Why should I not, had I the heart to do it, Like to the Egyptian thief at point of death, Kill what I love?—a savage jealousy That sometime savours nobly. But hear me this: Since you to non-regardance cast my faith, And that I partly know the instrument That screws me from my true place in your favour, Live you the marble-breasted tyrant still. But this your minion, whom I know you love, And whom, by heaven I swear, I tender dearly, Him will I tear out of that cruel eye Where he sits crowned in his master’s spite.— Come, boy, with me; my thoughts are ripe in mischief: I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love, To spite a raven’s heart within a dove. VIOLA. And I, most jocund, apt, and willingly, To do you rest, a thousand deaths would die. OLIVIA. Where goes Cesario? VIOLA. After him I love More than I love these eyes, more than my life, More, by all mores, than e’er I shall love wife. If I do feign, you witnesses above Punish my life for tainting of my love. OLIVIA. Ah me, detested! how am I beguil’d! VIOLA. Who does beguile you? Who does do you wrong? OLIVIA. Hast thou forgot thyself? Is it so long? Call forth the holy father. [_Exit an Attendant._] DUKE. [_To Viola._] Come, away! OLIVIA. Whither, my lord? Cesario, husband, stay. DUKE. Husband? OLIVIA. Ay, husband. Can he that deny? DUKE. Her husband, sirrah? VIOLA. No, my lord, not I. OLIVIA. Alas, it is the baseness of thy fear That makes thee strangle thy propriety. Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know’st thou art, and then thou art As great as that thou fear’st. Enter Priest. O, welcome, father! Father, I charge thee, by thy reverence Here to unfold—though lately we intended To keep in darkness what occasion now Reveals before ’tis ripe—what thou dost know Hath newly passed between this youth and me. PRIEST. A contract of eternal bond of love, Confirmed by mutual joinder of your hands, Attested by the holy close of lips, Strengthen’d by interchangement of your rings, And all the ceremony of this compact Sealed in my function, by my testimony; Since when, my watch hath told me, toward my grave, I have travelled but two hours. DUKE. O thou dissembling cub! What wilt thou be When time hath sowed a grizzle on thy case? Or will not else thy craft so quickly grow That thine own trip shall be thine overthrow? Farewell, and take her; but direct thy feet Where thou and I henceforth may never meet. VIOLA. My lord, I do protest— OLIVIA. O, do not swear. Hold little faith, though thou has too much fear. Enter Sir Andrew. SIR ANDREW. For the love of God, a surgeon! Send one presently to Sir Toby. OLIVIA. What’s the matter? SIR ANDREW. ’Has broke my head across, and has given Sir Toby a bloody coxcomb too. For the love of God, your help! I had rather than forty pound I were at home. OLIVIA. Who has done this, Sir Andrew? SIR ANDREW. The Count’s gentleman, one Cesario. We took him for a coward, but he’s the very devil incardinate. DUKE. My gentleman, Cesario? SIR ANDREW. ’Od’s lifelings, here he is!—You broke my head for nothing; and that that I did, I was set on to do’t by Sir Toby. VIOLA. Why do you speak to me? I never hurt you: You drew your sword upon me without cause, But I bespake you fair and hurt you not. Enter Sir Toby, drunk, led by the Clown. SIR ANDREW. If a bloody coxcomb be a hurt, you have hurt me. I think you set nothing by a bloody coxcomb. Here comes Sir Toby halting, you shall hear more: but if he had not been in drink, he would have tickled you othergates than he did. DUKE. How now, gentleman? How is’t with you? SIR TOBY. That’s all one; ’has hurt me, and there’s th’ end on’t. Sot, didst see Dick Surgeon, sot? CLOWN. O, he’s drunk, Sir Toby, an hour agone; his eyes were set at eight i’ th’ morning. SIR TOBY. Then he’s a rogue, and a passy measures pavin. I hate a drunken rogue. OLIVIA. Away with him. Who hath made this havoc with them? SIR ANDREW. I’ll help you, Sir Toby, because we’ll be dressed together. SIR TOBY. Will you help? An ass-head, and a coxcomb, and a knave, a thin-faced knave, a gull? OLIVIA. Get him to bed, and let his hurt be looked to. [_Exeunt Clown, Fabian, Sir Toby and Sir Andrew._] Enter Sebastian. SEBASTIAN. I am sorry, madam, I have hurt your kinsman; But had it been the brother of my blood, I must have done no less with wit and safety. You throw a strange regard upon me, and by that I do perceive it hath offended you. Pardon me, sweet one, even for the vows We made each other but so late ago. DUKE. One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons! A natural perspective, that is, and is not! SEBASTIAN. Antonio, O my dear Antonio! How have the hours rack’d and tortur’d me Since I have lost thee. ANTONIO. Sebastian are you? SEBASTIAN. Fear’st thou that, Antonio? ANTONIO. How have you made division of yourself? An apple cleft in two is not more twin Than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian? OLIVIA. Most wonderful! SEBASTIAN. Do I stand there? I never had a brother: Nor can there be that deity in my nature Of here and everywhere. I had a sister, Whom the blind waves and surges have devoured. Of charity, what kin are you to me? What countryman? What name? What parentage? VIOLA. Of Messaline: Sebastian was my father; Such a Sebastian was my brother too: So went he suited to his watery tomb. If spirits can assume both form and suit, You come to fright us. SEBASTIAN. A spirit I am indeed, But am in that dimension grossly clad, Which from the womb I did participate. Were you a woman, as the rest goes even, I should my tears let fall upon your cheek, And say, ‘Thrice welcome, drowned Viola.’ VIOLA. My father had a mole upon his brow. SEBASTIAN. And so had mine. VIOLA. And died that day when Viola from her birth Had numbered thirteen years. SEBASTIAN. O, that record is lively in my soul! He finished indeed his mortal act That day that made my sister thirteen years. VIOLA. If nothing lets to make us happy both But this my masculine usurp’d attire, Do not embrace me till each circumstance Of place, time, fortune, do cohere and jump That I am Viola; which to confirm, I’ll bring you to a captain in this town, Where lie my maiden weeds; by whose gentle help I was preserv’d to serve this noble count. All the occurrence of my fortune since Hath been between this lady and this lord. SEBASTIAN. [_To Olivia._] So comes it, lady, you have been mistook. But nature to her bias drew in that. You would have been contracted to a maid; Nor are you therein, by my life, deceived: You are betroth’d both to a maid and man. DUKE. Be not amazed; right noble is his blood. If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck. [_To Viola._] Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times Thou never shouldst love woman like to me. VIOLA. And all those sayings will I over-swear, And all those swearings keep as true in soul As doth that orbed continent the fire That severs day from night. DUKE. Give me thy hand, And let me see thee in thy woman’s weeds. VIOLA. The captain that did bring me first on shore Hath my maid’s garments. He, upon some action, Is now in durance, at Malvolio’s suit, A gentleman and follower of my lady’s. OLIVIA. He shall enlarge him. Fetch Malvolio hither. And yet, alas, now I remember me, They say, poor gentleman, he’s much distract. Enter Clown, with a letter and Fabian. A most extracting frenzy of mine own From my remembrance clearly banished his. How does he, sirrah? CLOWN. Truly, madam, he holds Belzebub at the stave’s end as well as a man in his case may do. Has here writ a letter to you. I should have given it you today morning, but as a madman’s epistles are no gospels, so it skills not much when they are delivered. OLIVIA. Open ’t, and read it. CLOWN. Look then to be well edified, when the fool delivers the madman. _By the Lord, madam,—_ OLIVIA. How now, art thou mad? CLOWN. No, madam, I do but read madness: an your ladyship will have it as it ought to be, you must allow _vox_. OLIVIA. Prithee, read i’ thy right wits. CLOWN. So I do, madonna. But to read his right wits is to read thus; therefore perpend, my princess, and give ear. OLIVIA. [_To Fabian._] Read it you, sirrah. FABIAN. [_Reads._] _By the Lord, madam, you wrong me, and the world shall know it. Though you have put me into darkness and given your drunken cousin rule over me, yet have I the benefit of my senses as well as your ladyship. I have your own letter that induced me to the semblance I put on; with the which I doubt not but to do myself much right or you much shame. Think of me as you please. I leave my duty a little unthought of, and speak out of my injury. The madly-used Malvolio._ OLIVIA. Did he write this? CLOWN. Ay, madam. DUKE. This savours not much of distraction. OLIVIA. See him delivered, Fabian, bring him hither. [_Exit Fabian._] My lord, so please you, these things further thought on, To think me as well a sister, as a wife, One day shall crown th’ alliance on’t, so please you, Here at my house, and at my proper cost. DUKE. Madam, I am most apt t’ embrace your offer. [_To Viola._] Your master quits you; and for your service done him, So much against the mettle of your sex, So far beneath your soft and tender breeding, And since you call’d me master for so long, Here is my hand; you shall from this time be Your master’s mistress. OLIVIA. A sister? You are she. Enter Fabian and Malvolio. DUKE. Is this the madman? OLIVIA. Ay, my lord, this same. How now, Malvolio? MALVOLIO. Madam, you have done me wrong, Notorious wrong. OLIVIA. Have I, Malvolio? No. MALVOLIO. Lady, you have. Pray you peruse that letter. You must not now deny it is your hand, Write from it, if you can, in hand, or phrase, Or say ’tis not your seal, not your invention: You can say none of this. Well, grant it then, And tell me, in the modesty of honour, Why you have given me such clear lights of favour, Bade me come smiling and cross-garter’d to you, To put on yellow stockings, and to frown Upon Sir Toby, and the lighter people; And acting this in an obedient hope, Why have you suffer’d me to be imprison’d, Kept in a dark house, visited by the priest, And made the most notorious geck and gull That e’er invention played on? Tell me why? OLIVIA. Alas, Malvolio, this is not my writing, Though I confess, much like the character: But out of question, ’tis Maria’s hand. And now I do bethink me, it was she First told me thou wast mad; then cam’st in smiling, And in such forms which here were presuppos’d Upon thee in the letter. Prithee, be content. This practice hath most shrewdly pass’d upon thee. But when we know the grounds and authors of it, Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge Of thine own cause. FABIAN. Good madam, hear me speak, And let no quarrel, nor no brawl to come, Taint the condition of this present hour, Which I have wonder’d at. In hope it shall not, Most freely I confess, myself and Toby Set this device against Malvolio here, Upon some stubborn and uncourteous parts We had conceiv’d against him. Maria writ The letter, at Sir Toby’s great importance, In recompense whereof he hath married her. How with a sportful malice it was follow’d May rather pluck on laughter than revenge, If that the injuries be justly weigh’d That have on both sides passed. OLIVIA. Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee! CLOWN. Why, ‘some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrown upon them.’ I was one, sir, in this interlude, one Sir Topas, sir, but that’s all one. ‘By the Lord, fool, I am not mad.’ But do you remember? ‘Madam, why laugh you at such a barren rascal? And you smile not, he’s gagged’? And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges. MALVOLIO. I’ll be revenged on the whole pack of you. [_Exit._] OLIVIA. He hath been most notoriously abus’d. DUKE. Pursue him, and entreat him to a peace: He hath not told us of the captain yet. When that is known, and golden time convents, A solemn combination shall be made Of our dear souls.—Meantime, sweet sister, We will not part from hence.—Cesario, come: For so you shall be while you are a man; But when in other habits you are seen, Orsino’s mistress, and his fancy’s queen. [_Exeunt._] Clown sings. _ When that I was and a little tiny boy, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, A foolish thing was but a toy, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came to man’s estate, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, ’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came, alas, to wive, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, By swaggering could I never thrive, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ But when I came unto my beds, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, With toss-pots still had drunken heads, For the rain it raineth every day._ _ A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain, But that’s all one, our play is done, And we’ll strive to please you every day._ [_Exit._] THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA Contents ACT I Scene I. Verona. An open place Scene II. The same. The garden of Julia’s house Scene III. The same. A room in Antonio’s house ACT II Scene I. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene II. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Scene III. The same. A street Scene IV. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene V. The same. A street Scene VI. The same. The Duke’s palace Scene VII. Verona. A room in Julia’s house ACT III Scene I. Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s palace Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace ACT IV Scene I. A forest between Milan and Verona Scene II. Milan. The court of the Duke’s palace Scene III. The same Scene IV. The same ACT V Scene I. Milan. An abbey Scene II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Scene III. Frontiers of Mantua. The forest Scene IV. Another part of the forest Dramatis Personæ DUKE OF MILAN, father to Silvia VALENTINE, one of the two gentlemen PROTEUS, one of the two gentlemen ANTONIO, father to Proteus THURIO, a foolish rival to Valentine EGLAMOUR, agent for Silvia in her escape SPEED, a clownish servant to Valentine LANCE, the like to Proteus PANTINO, servant to Antonio HOST, where Julia lodges in Milan OUTLAWS, with Valentine JULIA, a lady of Verona, beloved of Proteus SILVIA, beloved of Valentine LUCETTA, waiting-woman to Julia Servants, Musicians SCENE: Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua ACT I SCENE I. Verona. An open place Enter Valentine and Proteus. VALENTINE. Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits. Were’t not affection chains thy tender days To the sweet glances of thy honoured love, I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness. But since thou lov’st, love still, and thrive therein, Even as I would when I to love begin. PROTEUS. Wilt thou be gone? Sweet Valentine, adieu. Think on thy Proteus when thou haply seest Some rare noteworthy object in thy travel. Wish me partaker in thy happiness When thou dost meet good hap; and in thy danger, If ever danger do environ thee, Commend thy grievance to my holy prayers, For I will be thy headsman, Valentine. VALENTINE. And on a love-book pray for my success? PROTEUS. Upon some book I love I’ll pray for thee. VALENTINE. That’s on some shallow story of deep love, How young Leander crossed the Hellespont. PROTEUS. That’s a deep story of a deeper love, For he was more than over shoes in love. VALENTINE. ’Tis true; for you are over boots in love, And yet you never swam the Hellespont. PROTEUS. Over the boots? Nay, give me not the boots. VALENTINE. No, I will not, for it boots thee not. PROTEUS. What? VALENTINE. To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment’s mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights. If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain; If lost, why then a grievous labour won; However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished. PROTEUS. So, by your circumstance, you call me fool. VALENTINE. So, by your circumstance, I fear you’ll prove. PROTEUS. ’Tis love you cavil at. I am not Love. VALENTINE. Love is your master, for he masters you; And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise. PROTEUS. Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canker dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all. VALENTINE. And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turned to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes. But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee That art a votary to fond desire? Once more adieu. My father at the road Expects my coming, there to see me shipped. PROTEUS. And thither will I bring thee, Valentine. VALENTINE. Sweet Proteus, no. Now let us take our leave. To Milan let me hear from thee by letters Of thy success in love, and what news else Betideth here in absence of thy friend; And I likewise will visit thee with mine. PROTEUS. All happiness bechance to thee in Milan. VALENTINE. As much to you at home, and so farewell. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. He after honour hunts, I after love. He leaves his friends to dignify them more; I leave myself, my friends, and all for love. Thou, Julia, thou hast metamorphosed me, Made me neglect my studies, lose my time, War with good counsel, set the world at nought; Made wit with musing weak, heart sick with thought. Enter Speed. SPEED. Sir Proteus, ’save you. Saw you my master? PROTEUS. But now he parted hence to embark for Milan. SPEED. Twenty to one, then, he is shipped already, And I have played the sheep in losing him. PROTEUS. Indeed a sheep doth very often stray, An if the shepherd be a while away. SPEED. You conclude that my master is a shepherd then, and I a sheep? PROTEUS. I do. SPEED. Why then, my horns are his horns, whether I wake or sleep. PROTEUS. A silly answer, and fitting well a sheep. SPEED. This proves me still a sheep. PROTEUS. True, and thy master a shepherd. SPEED. Nay, that I can deny by a circumstance. PROTEUS. It shall go hard but I’ll prove it by another. SPEED. The shepherd seeks the sheep, and not the sheep the shepherd; but I seek my master, and my master seeks not me. Therefore I am no sheep. PROTEUS. The sheep for fodder follow the shepherd; the shepherd for food follows not the sheep. Thou for wages followest thy master; thy master for wages follows not thee. Therefore thou art a sheep. SPEED. Such another proof will make me cry “baa”. PROTEUS. But dost thou hear? Gav’st thou my letter to Julia? SPEED. Ay, sir. I, a lost mutton, gave your letter to her, a laced mutton, and she, a laced mutton, gave me, a lost mutton, nothing for my labour. PROTEUS. Here’s too small a pasture for such store of muttons. SPEED. If the ground be overcharged, you were best stick her. PROTEUS. Nay, in that you are astray; ’twere best pound you. SPEED. Nay, sir, less than a pound shall serve me for carrying your letter. PROTEUS. You mistake; I mean the pound, a pinfold. SPEED. From a pound to a pin? Fold it over and over, ’Tis threefold too little for carrying a letter to your lover. PROTEUS. But what said she? SPEED. [_Nods his head_.] Ay. PROTEUS. Nod—“Ay”. Why, that’s “noddy”. SPEED. You mistook, sir. I say she did nod, and you ask me if she did nod; and I say “Ay”. PROTEUS. And that set together is “noddy”. SPEED. Now you have taken the pains to set it together, take it for your pains. PROTEUS. No, no, you shall have it for bearing the letter. SPEED. Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you. PROTEUS. Why, sir, how do you bear with me? SPEED. Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly, having nothing but the word “noddy” for my pains. PROTEUS. Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit. SPEED. And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse. PROTEUS. Come, come, open the matter; in brief, what said she? SPEED. Open your purse, that the money and the matter may be both at once delivered. PROTEUS. [_Giving him a coin_.] Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she? SPEED. Truly, sir, I think you’ll hardly win her. PROTEUS. Why? Couldst thou perceive so much from her? SPEED. Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no, not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter. And being so hard to me that brought your mind, I fear she’ll prove as hard to you in telling your mind. Give her no token but stones, for she’s as hard as steel. PROTEUS. What said she, nothing? SPEED. No, not so much as “Take this for thy pains.” To testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your letters yourself. And so, sir, I’ll commend you to my master. PROTEUS. Go, go, begone, to save your ship from wrack, Which cannot perish having thee aboard, Being destined to a drier death on shore. [_Exit Speed._] I must go send some better messenger. I fear my Julia would not deign my lines, Receiving them from such a worthless post. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. The garden of Julia’s house Enter Julia and Lucetta. JULIA. But say, Lucetta, now we are alone, Wouldst thou then counsel me to fall in love? LUCETTA. Ay, madam, so you stumble not unheedfully. JULIA. Of all the fair resort of gentlemen That every day with parle encounter me, In thy opinion which is worthiest love? LUCETTA. Please you, repeat their names, I’ll show my mind According to my shallow simple skill. JULIA. What think’st thou of the fair Sir Eglamour? LUCETTA. As of a knight well-spoken, neat, and fine; But, were I you, he never should be mine. JULIA. What think’st thou of the rich Mercatio? LUCETTA. Well of his wealth; but of himself, so-so. JULIA. What think’st thou of the gentle Proteus? LUCETTA. Lord, Lord, to see what folly reigns in us! JULIA. How now? What means this passion at his name? LUCETTA. Pardon, dear madam, ’tis a passing shame That I, unworthy body as I am, Should censure thus on lovely gentlemen. JULIA. Why not on Proteus, as of all the rest? LUCETTA. Then thus: of many good I think him best. JULIA. Your reason? LUCETTA. I have no other but a woman’s reason: I think him so because I think him so. JULIA. And wouldst thou have me cast my love on him? LUCETTA. Ay, if you thought your love not cast away. JULIA. Why, he of all the rest hath never moved me. LUCETTA. Yet he of all the rest I think best loves ye. JULIA. His little speaking shows his love but small. LUCETTA. Fire that’s closest kept burns most of all. JULIA. They do not love that do not show their love. LUCETTA. O, they love least that let men know their love. JULIA. I would I knew his mind. LUCETTA. Peruse this paper, madam. [_Gives her a letter._] JULIA. _To Julia_—Say, from whom? LUCETTA. That the contents will show. JULIA. Say, say, who gave it thee? LUCETTA. Sir Valentine’s page, and sent, I think, from Proteus. He would have given it you, but I, being in the way, Did in your name receive it. Pardon the fault, I pray. JULIA. Now, by my modesty, a goodly broker! Dare you presume to harbour wanton lines? To whisper and conspire against my youth? Now trust me, ’tis an office of great worth, And you an officer fit for the place. There, take the paper; see it be returned, Or else return no more into my sight. LUCETTA. To plead for love deserves more fee than hate. JULIA. Will ye be gone? LUCETTA. That you may ruminate. [_Exit._] JULIA. And yet I would I had o’erlooked the letter. It were a shame to call her back again And pray her to a fault for which I chid her. What fool is she, that knows I am a maid And would not force the letter to my view, Since maids in modesty say “No” to that Which they would have the profferer construe “Ay”. Fie, fie, how wayward is this foolish love That like a testy babe will scratch the nurse And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod! How churlishly I chid Lucetta hence, When willingly I would have had her here! How angerly I taught my brow to frown, When inward joy enforced my heart to smile! My penance is to call Lucetta back And ask remission for my folly past. What ho! Lucetta! Enter Lucetta. LUCETTA. What would your ladyship? JULIA. Is ’t near dinner time? LUCETTA. I would it were, That you might kill your stomach on your meat And not upon your maid. [_Drops and picks up the letter._] JULIA. What is’t that you took up so gingerly? LUCETTA. Nothing. JULIA. Why didst thou stoop, then? LUCETTA. To take a paper up that I let fall. JULIA. And is that paper nothing? LUCETTA. Nothing concerning me. JULIA. Then let it lie for those that it concerns. LUCETTA. Madam, it will not lie where it concerns, Unless it have a false interpreter. JULIA. Some love of yours hath writ to you in rhyme. LUCETTA. That I might sing it, madam, to a tune. Give me a note. Your ladyship can set— JULIA. As little by such toys as may be possible. Best sing it to the tune of “Light o’ Love”. LUCETTA. It is too heavy for so light a tune. JULIA. Heavy? Belike it hath some burden then? LUCETTA. Ay, and melodious were it, would you sing it. JULIA. And why not you? LUCETTA. I cannot reach so high. JULIA. Let’s see your song. [_Taking the letter_.] How now, minion! LUCETTA. Keep tune there still, so you will sing it out. And yet methinks I do not like this tune. JULIA. You do not? LUCETTA. No, madam, it is too sharp. JULIA. You, minion, are too saucy. LUCETTA. Nay, now you are too flat And mar the concord with too harsh a descant. There wanteth but a mean to fill your song. JULIA. The mean is drowned with your unruly bass. LUCETTA. Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus. JULIA. This babble shall not henceforth trouble me. Here is a coil with protestation! [_Tears the letter_.] Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie. You would be fingering them to anger me. LUCETTA. She makes it strange, but she would be best pleased To be so angered with another letter. [_Exit._] JULIA. Nay, would I were so angered with the same! O hateful hands, to tear such loving words! Injurious wasps, to feed on such sweet honey And kill the bees that yield it with your stings! I’ll kiss each several paper for amends. Look, here is writ _kind Julia_. Unkind Julia! As in revenge of thy ingratitude, I throw thy name against the bruising stones, Trampling contemptuously on thy disdain. And here is writ _love-wounded Proteus_. Poor wounded name, my bosom as a bed Shall lodge thee till thy wound be throughly healed; And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss. But twice or thrice was _Proteus_ written down. Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away Till I have found each letter in the letter Except mine own name. That some whirlwind bear Unto a ragged, fearful, hanging rock, And throw it thence into the raging sea. Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ: _Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus, To the sweet Julia._ That I’ll tear away; And yet I will not, sith so prettily He couples it to his complaining names. Thus will I fold them one upon another. Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will. Enter Lucetta. LUCETTA. Madam, dinner is ready, and your father stays. JULIA. Well, let us go. LUCETTA. What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here? JULIA. If you respect them, best to take them up. LUCETTA. Nay, I was taken up for laying them down. Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold. [_Picks up pieces of the letter._] JULIA. I see you have a month’s mind to them. LUCETTA. Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see; I see things too, although you judge I wink. JULIA. Come, come, will’t please you go? [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A room in Antonio’s house Enter Antonio and Pantino. ANTONIO. Tell me, Pantino, what sad talk was that Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister? PANTINO. ’Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son. ANTONIO. Why, what of him? PANTINO. He wondered that your lordship Would suffer him to spend his youth at home While other men, of slender reputation, Put forth their sons to seek preferment out: Some to the wars to try their fortune there; Some to discover islands far away; Some to the studious universities. For any or for all these exercises He said that Proteus your son was meet, And did request me to importune you To let him spend his time no more at home, Which would be great impeachment to his age In having known no travel in his youth. ANTONIO. Nor need’st thou much importune me to that Whereon this month I have been hammering. I have considered well his loss of time, And how he cannot be a perfect man, Not being tried and tutored in the world. Experience is by industry achieved And perfected by the swift course of time. Then tell me whither were I best to send him? PANTINO. I think your lordship is not ignorant How his companion, youthful Valentine, Attends the Emperor in his royal court. ANTONIO. I know it well. PANTINO. ’Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither. There shall he practise tilts and tournaments, Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen, And be in eye of every exercise Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth. ANTONIO. I like thy counsel; well hast thou advised, And that thou mayst perceive how well I like it, The execution of it shall make known. Even with the speediest expedition I will dispatch him to the Emperor’s court. PANTINO. Tomorrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso With other gentlemen of good esteem Are journeying to salute the Emperor And to commend their service to his will. ANTONIO. Good company. With them shall Proteus go. Enter Proteus reading a letter. And in good time! Now will we break with him. PROTEUS. Sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour’s pawn. O, that our fathers would applaud our loves To seal our happiness with their consents. O heavenly Julia! ANTONIO. How now? What letter are you reading there? PROTEUS. May’t please your lordship, ’tis a word or two Of commendations sent from Valentine, Delivered by a friend that came from him. ANTONIO. Lend me the letter. Let me see what news. PROTEUS. There is no news, my lord, but that he writes How happily he lives, how well beloved And daily graced by the Emperor, Wishing me with him, partner of his fortune. ANTONIO. And how stand you affected to his wish? PROTEUS. As one relying on your lordship’s will, And not depending on his friendly wish. ANTONIO. My will is something sorted with his wish. Muse not that I thus suddenly proceed, For what I will, I will, and there an end. I am resolved that thou shalt spend some time With Valentinus in the Emperor’s court. What maintenance he from his friends receives, Like exhibition thou shalt have from me. Tomorrow be in readiness to go. Excuse it not, for I am peremptory. PROTEUS. My lord, I cannot be so soon provided; Please you deliberate a day or two. ANTONIO. Look what thou want’st shall be sent after thee. No more of stay. Tomorrow thou must go. Come on, Pantino, you shall be employed To hasten on his expedition. [_Exeunt Antonio and Pantino._] PROTEUS. Thus have I shunned the fire for fear of burning And drenched me in the sea, where I am drowned. I feared to show my father Julia’s letter Lest he should take exceptions to my love, And with the vantage of mine own excuse Hath he excepted most against my love. O, how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the sun, And by an by a cloud takes all away. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Sir Proteus, your father calls for you. He is in haste. Therefore, I pray you, go. PROTEUS. Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto, And yet a thousand times it answers “No”. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Valentine and Speed. SPEED. Sir, your glove. VALENTINE. Not mine. My gloves are on. SPEED. Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one. VALENTINE. Ha? Let me see. Ay, give it me, it’s mine. Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine! Ah, Silvia, Silvia! SPEED. [_Calling_.] Madam Silvia! Madam Silvia! VALENTINE. How now, sirrah? SPEED. She is not within hearing, sir. VALENTINE. Why, sir, who bade you call her? SPEED. Your worship, sir, or else I mistook. VALENTINE. Well, you’ll still be too forward. SPEED. And yet I was last chidden for being too slow. VALENTINE. Go to, sir. Tell me, do you know Madam Silvia? SPEED. She that your worship loves? VALENTINE. Why, how know you that I am in love? SPEED. Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learned, like Sir Proteus, to wreathe your arms like a malcontent; to relish a love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had the pestilence; to sigh, like a schoolboy that had lost his ABC; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you walked, to walk like one of the lions; when you fasted, it was presently after dinner; when you looked sadly, it was for want of money. And now you are metamorphosed with a mistress, that, when I look on you, I can hardly think you my master. VALENTINE. Are all these things perceived in me? SPEED. They are all perceived without ye. VALENTINE. Without me? They cannot. SPEED. Without you? Nay, that’s certain, for without you were so simple, none else would. But you are so without these follies, that these follies are within you, and shine through you like the water in an urinal, that not an eye that sees you but is a physician to comment on your malady. VALENTINE. But tell me, dost thou know my lady Silvia? SPEED. She that you gaze on so as she sits at supper? VALENTINE. Hast thou observed that? Even she I mean. SPEED. Why, sir, I know her not. VALENTINE. Dost thou know her by my gazing on her, and yet know’st her not? SPEED. Is she not hard-favoured, sir? VALENTINE. Not so fair, boy, as well-favoured. SPEED. Sir, I know that well enough. VALENTINE. What dost thou know? SPEED. That she is not so fair as, of you, well-favoured. VALENTINE. I mean that her beauty is exquisite but her favour infinite. SPEED. That’s because the one is painted, and the other out of all count. VALENTINE. How painted? And how out of count? SPEED. Marry, sir, so painted to make her fair, that no man counts of her beauty. VALENTINE. How esteem’st thou me? I account of her beauty. SPEED. You never saw her since she was deformed. VALENTINE. How long hath she been deformed? SPEED. Ever since you loved her. VALENTINE. I have loved her ever since I saw her, and still I see her beautiful. SPEED. If you love her, you cannot see her. VALENTINE. Why? SPEED. Because Love is blind. O, that you had mine eyes, or your own eyes had the lights they were wont to have when you chid at Sir Proteus for going ungartered! VALENTINE. What should I see then? SPEED. Your own present folly and her passing deformity; for he, being in love, could not see to garter his hose; and you, being in love, cannot see to put on your hose. VALENTINE. Belike, boy, then you are in love, for last morning you could not see to wipe my shoes. SPEED. True, sir, I was in love with my bed. I thank you, you swinged me for my love, which makes me the bolder to chide you for yours. VALENTINE. In conclusion, I stand affected to her. SPEED. I would you were set, so your affection would cease. VALENTINE. Last night she enjoined me to write some lines to one she loves. SPEED. And have you? VALENTINE. I have. SPEED. Are they not lamely writ? VALENTINE. No, boy, but as well as I can do them. Peace, here she comes. Enter Silvia. SPEED. [_Aside_.] O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet! Now will he interpret to her. VALENTINE. Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows. SPEED. [_Aside_.] O, give ye good e’en! Here’s a million of manners. SILVIA. Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand. SPEED. [_Aside_.] He should give her interest, and she gives it him. VALENTINE. As you enjoined me, I have writ your letter Unto the secret nameless friend of yours, Which I was much unwilling to proceed in But for my duty to your ladyship. [_Gives her a letter._] SILVIA. I thank you, gentle servant, ’tis very clerkly done. VALENTINE. Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off, For, being ignorant to whom it goes, I writ at random, very doubtfully. SILVIA. Perchance you think too much of so much pains? VALENTINE. No, madam; so it stead you, I will write, Please you command, a thousand times as much. And yet— SILVIA. A pretty period. Well, I guess the sequel; And yet I will not name it. And yet I care not. And yet take this again. [_Offers him the letter._] And yet I thank you, Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more. SPEED. [_Aside_.] And yet you will; and yet another “yet”. VALENTINE. What means your ladyship? Do you not like it? SILVIA. Yes, yes, the lines are very quaintly writ, But, since unwillingly, take them again. Nay, take them. [_Offers the letter again._] VALENTINE. Madam, they are for you. SILVIA. Ay, ay, you writ them, sir, at my request, But I will none of them. They are for you. I would have had them writ more movingly. VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll write your ladyship another. SILVIA. And when it’s writ, for my sake read it over, And if it please you, so; if not, why, so. VALENTINE. If it please me, madam? What then? SILVIA. Why, if it please you, take it for your labour. And so good morrow, servant. [_Exit._] SPEED. [_Aside_.] O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man’s face, or a weathercock on a steeple! My master sues to her, and she hath taught her suitor, He being her pupil, to become her tutor. O excellent device! Was there ever heard a better? That my master, being scribe, to himself should write the letter? VALENTINE. How now, sir? What are you reasoning with yourself? SPEED. Nay, I was rhyming. ’Tis you that have the reason. VALENTINE. To do what? SPEED. To be a spokesman from Madam Silvia. VALENTINE. To whom? SPEED. To yourself. Why, she woos you by a figure. VALENTINE. What figure? SPEED. By a letter, I should say. VALENTINE. Why, she hath not writ to me. SPEED. What need she, when she hath made you write to yourself? Why, do you not perceive the jest? VALENTINE. No, believe me. SPEED. No believing you indeed, sir. But did you perceive her earnest? VALENTINE. She gave me none, except an angry word. SPEED. Why, she hath given you a letter. VALENTINE. That’s the letter I writ to her friend. SPEED. And that letter hath she delivered, and there an end. VALENTINE. I would it were no worse. SPEED. I’ll warrant you, ’tis as well. For often have you writ to her, and she, in modesty Or else for want of idle time, could not again reply, Or fearing else some messenger that might her mind discover, Herself hath taught her love himself to write unto her lover. All this I speak in print, for in print I found it. Why muse you, sir? ’Tis dinner time. VALENTINE. I have dined. SPEED. Ay, but hearken, sir, though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat. O, be not like your mistress! Be moved, be moved. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Enter Proteus and Julia. PROTEUS. Have patience, gentle Julia. JULIA. I must, where is no remedy. PROTEUS. When possibly I can, I will return. JULIA. If you turn not, you will return the sooner. Keep this remembrance for thy Julia’s sake. [_Gives him a ring._] PROTEUS. Why, then we’ll make exchange. Here, take you this. [_Gives her a ring._] JULIA. And seal the bargain with a holy kiss. PROTEUS. Here is my hand for my true constancy. And when that hour o’erslips me in the day Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake, The next ensuing hour some foul mischance Torment me for my love’s forgetfulness. My father stays my coming; answer not. The tide is now—nay, not thy tide of tears, That tide will stay me longer than I should. Julia, farewell. [_Exit Julia._] What, gone without a word? Ay, so true love should do. It cannot speak, For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Sir Proteus, you are stayed for. PROTEUS. Go, I come, I come. Alas, this parting strikes poor lovers dumb. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A street Enter Lance with his dog Crab. LANCE. Nay, ’twill be this hour ere I have done weeping; all the kind of the Lances have this very fault. I have received my proportion, like the prodigious son, and am going with Sir Proteus to the Imperial’s court. I think Crab my dog be the sourest-natured dog that lives: my mother weeping, my father wailing, my sister crying, our maid howling, our cat wringing her hands, and all our house in a great perplexity, yet did not this cruel-hearted cur shed one tear. He is a stone, a very pebblestone, and has no more pity in him than a dog. A Jew would have wept to have seen our parting. Why, my grandam, having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my parting. Nay, I’ll show you the manner of it. This shoe is my father. No, this left shoe is my father; no, no, this left shoe is my mother. Nay, that cannot be so neither. Yes, it is so, it is so; it hath the worser sole. This shoe with the hole in it is my mother, and this my father. A vengeance on ’t, there ’tis. Now, sir, this staff is my sister, for, look you, she is as white as a lily and as small as a wand. This hat is Nan, our maid. I am the dog. No, the dog is himself, and I am the dog. O, the dog is me, and I am myself. Ay, so, so. Now come I to my father: “Father, your blessing.” Now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping. Now should I kiss my father. Well, he weeps on. Now come I to my mother. O, that she could speak now like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her. Why there ’tis; here’s my mother’s breath up and down. Now come I to my sister. Mark the moan she makes. Now the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears. Enter Pantino. PANTINO. Lance, away, away! Aboard! Thy master is shipped, and thou art to post after with oars. What’s the matter? Why weep’st thou, man? Away, ass. You’ll lose the tide if you tarry any longer. LANCE. It is no matter if the tied were lost, for it is the unkindest tied that ever any man tied. PANTINO. What’s the unkindest tide? LANCE. Why, he that’s tied here, Crab, my dog. PANTINO. Tut, man, I mean thou’lt lose the flood, and, in losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy service—why dost thou stop my mouth? LANCE. For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue. PANTINO. Where should I lose my tongue? LANCE. In thy tale. PANTINO. In thy tail! LANCE. Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and the service, and the tied? Why, man, if the river were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs. PANTINO. Come, come away, man. I was sent to call thee. LANCE. Sir, call me what thou dar’st. PANTINO. Will thou go? LANCE. Well, I will go. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Milan. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Valentine, Silvia, Thurio and Speed. SILVIA. Servant! VALENTINE. Mistress? SPEED. Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you. VALENTINE. Ay, boy, it’s for love. SPEED. Not of you. VALENTINE. Of my mistress, then. SPEED. ’Twere good you knocked him. SILVIA. Servant, you are sad. VALENTINE. Indeed, madam, I seem so. THURIO. Seem you that you are not? VALENTINE. Haply I do. THURIO. So do counterfeits. VALENTINE. So do you. THURIO. What seem I that I am not? VALENTINE. Wise. THURIO. What instance of the contrary? VALENTINE. Your folly. THURIO. And how quote you my folly? VALENTINE. I quote it in your jerkin. THURIO. My jerkin is a doublet. VALENTINE. Well, then, I’ll double your folly. THURIO. How! SILVIA. What, angry, Sir Thurio? Do you change colour? VALENTINE. Give him leave, madam, he is a kind of chameleon. THURIO. That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live in your air. VALENTINE. You have said, sir. THURIO. Ay, sir, and done too, for this time. VALENTINE. I know it well, sir. You always end ere you begin. SILVIA. A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off. VALENTINE. ’Tis indeed, madam, we thank the giver. SILVIA. Who is that, servant? VALENTINE. Yourself, sweet lady, for you gave the fire. Sir Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship’s looks, and spends what he borrows kindly in your company. THURIO. Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt. VALENTINE. I know it well, sir. You have an exchequer of words and, I think, no other treasure to give your followers, for it appears by their bare liveries that they live by your bare words. SILVIA. No more, gentlemen, no more. Here comes my father. Enter Duke. DUKE. Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset. Sir Valentine, your father is in good health. What say you to a letter from your friends Of much good news? VALENTINE. My lord, I will be thankful To any happy messenger from thence. DUKE. Know ye Don Antonio, your countryman? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord, I know the gentleman To be of worth and worthy estimation, And not without desert so well reputed. DUKE. Hath he not a son? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord, a son that well deserves The honour and regard of such a father. DUKE. You know him well? VALENTINE. I knew him as myself, for from our infancy We have conversed and spent our hours together. And though myself have been an idle truant, Omitting the sweet benefit of time To clothe mine age with angel-like perfection, Yet hath Sir Proteus, for that’s his name, Made use and fair advantage of his days: His years but young, but his experience old; His head unmellowed, but his judgement ripe; And in a word, for far behind his worth Comes all the praises that I now bestow, He is complete in feature and in mind, With all good grace to grace a gentleman. DUKE. Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good, He is as worthy for an empress’ love As meet to be an emperor’s counsellor. Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me With commendation from great potentates, And here he means to spend his time awhile. I think ’tis no unwelcome news to you. VALENTINE. Should I have wished a thing, it had been he. DUKE. Welcome him then according to his worth. Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio. For Valentine, I need not cite him to it. I will send him hither to you presently. [_Exit._] VALENTINE. This is the gentleman I told your ladyship Had come along with me but that his mistresss Did hold his eyes locked in her crystal looks. SILVIA. Belike that now she hath enfranchised them Upon some other pawn for fealty. VALENTINE. Nay, sure, I think she holds them prisoners still. SILVIA. Nay, then, he should be blind, and being blind How could he see his way to seek out you? VALENTINE. Why, lady, Love hath twenty pair of eyes. THURIO. They say that Love hath not an eye at all. VALENTINE. To see such lovers, Thurio, as yourself. Upon a homely object, Love can wink. SILVIA. Have done, have done. Here comes the gentleman. Enter Proteus. VALENTINE. Welcome, dear Proteus! Mistress, I beseech you Confirm his welcome with some special favour. SILVIA. His worth is warrant for his welcome hither, If this be he you oft have wished to hear from. VALENTINE. Mistress, it is. Sweet lady, entertain him To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship. SILVIA. Too low a mistress for so high a servant. PROTEUS. Not so, sweet lady, but too mean a servant To have a look of such a worthy mistress. VALENTINE. Leave off discourse of disability. Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant. PROTEUS. My duty will I boast of, nothing else. SILVIA. And duty never yet did want his meed. Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress. PROTEUS. I’ll die on him that says so but yourself. SILVIA. That you are welcome? PROTEUS. That you are worthless. Enter Servant. SERVANT. Madam, my lord your father would speak with you. SILVIA. I wait upon his pleasure. [_Exit Servant._] Come, Sir Thurio, Go with me.—Once more, new servant, welcome. I’ll leave you to confer of home affairs; When you have done, we look to hear from you. PROTEUS. We’ll both attend upon your ladyship. [_Exeunt Silvia and Thurio._] VALENTINE. Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came? PROTEUS. Your friends are well and have them much commended. VALENTINE. And how do yours? PROTEUS. I left them all in health. VALENTINE. How does your lady? And how thrives your love? PROTEUS. My tales of love were wont to weary you; I know you joy not in a love-discourse. VALENTINE. Ay, Proteus, but that life is altered now. I have done penance for contemning Love, Whose high imperious thoughts have punished me With bitter fasts, with penitential groans, With nightly tears, and daily heart-sore sighs; For in revenge of my contempt of love, Love hath chased sleep from my enthralled eyes And made them watchers of mine own heart’s sorrow. O gentle Proteus, Love’s a mighty lord, And hath so humbled me as I confess There is no woe to his correction, Nor to his service no such joy on earth. Now, no discourse, except it be of love; Now can I break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep Upon the very naked name of love. PROTEUS. Enough; I read your fortune in your eye. Was this the idol that you worship so? VALENTINE. Even she; and is she not a heavenly saint? PROTEUS. No, but she is an earthly paragon. VALENTINE. Call her divine. PROTEUS. I will not flatter her. VALENTINE. O, flatter me, for love delights in praises. PROTEUS. When I was sick, you gave me bitter pills, And I must minister the like to you. VALENTINE. Then speak the truth by her; if not divine, Yet let her be a principality, Sovereign to all the creatures on the earth. PROTEUS. Except my mistress. VALENTINE. Sweet, except not any, Except thou wilt except against my love. PROTEUS. Have I not reason to prefer mine own? VALENTINE. And I will help thee to prefer her too: She shall be dignified with this high honour, To bear my lady’s train, lest the base earth Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss, And, of so great a favour growing proud, Disdain to root the summer-swelling flower And make rough winter everlastingly. PROTEUS. Why, Valentine, what braggartism is this? VALENTINE. Pardon me, Proteus, all I can is nothing To her, whose worth makes other worthies nothing; She is alone. PROTEUS. Then let her alone. VALENTINE. Not for the world! Why, man, she is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold. Forgive me that I do not dream on thee, Because thou seest me dote upon my love. My foolish rival, that her father likes Only for his possessions are so huge, Is gone with her along, and I must after, For love, thou know’st, is full of jealousy. PROTEUS. But she loves you? VALENTINE. Ay, and we are betrothed; nay more, our marriage hour, With all the cunning manner of our flight, Determined of: how I must climb her window, The ladder made of cords, and all the means Plotted and ’greed on for my happiness. Good Proteus, go with me to my chamber, In these affairs to aid me with thy counsel. PROTEUS. Go on before; I shall enquire you forth. I must unto the road to disembark Some necessaries that I needs must use, And then I’ll presently attend you. VALENTINE. Will you make haste? PROTEUS. I will. [_Exit Valentine._] Even as one heat another heat expels, Or as one nail by strength drives out another, So the remembrance of my former love Is by a newer object quite forgotten. Is it mine eye, or Valentine’s praise, Her true perfection, or my false transgression, That makes me reasonless to reason thus? She is fair; and so is Julia that I love— That I did love, for now my love is thawed, Which like a waxen image ’gainst a fire Bears no impression of the thing it was. Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold, And that I love him not as I was wont. O, but I love his lady too too much, And that’s the reason I love him so little. How shall I dote on her with more advice That thus without advice begin to love her? ’Tis but her picture I have yet beheld, And that hath dazzled my reason’s light; But when I look on her perfections, There is no reason but I shall be blind. If I can check my erring love, I will; If not, to compass her I’ll use my skill. [_Exit._] SCENE V. The same. A street Enter Speed and Lance with his dog Crab. SPEED. Lance, by mine honesty, welcome to Milan! LANCE. Forswear not thyself, sweet youth, for I am not welcome. I reckon this always, that a man is never undone till he be hanged, nor never welcome to a place till some certain shot be paid and the hostess say “Welcome”. SPEED. Come on, you madcap. I’ll to the alehouse with you presently, where, for one shot of five pence, thou shalt have five thousand welcomes. But, sirrah, how did thy master part with Madam Julia? LANCE. Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very fairly in jest. SPEED. But shall she marry him? LANCE. No. SPEED. How then? Shall he marry her? LANCE. No, neither. SPEED. What, are they broken? LANCE. No, they are both as whole as a fish. SPEED. Why then, how stands the matter with them? LANCE. Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it stands well with her. SPEED. What an ass art thou! I understand thee not. LANCE. What a block art thou that thou canst not! My staff understands me. SPEED. What thou sayst? LANCE. Ay, and what I do too. Look thee, I’ll but lean, and my staff understands me. SPEED. It stands under thee indeed. LANCE. Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one. SPEED. But tell me true, will’t be a match? LANCE. Ask my dog. If he say “Ay”, it will; if he say “No”, it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will. SPEED. The conclusion is, then, that it will. LANCE. Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable. SPEED. ’Tis well that I get it so. But, Lance, how sayst thou that my master is become a notable lover? LANCE. I never knew him otherwise. SPEED. Than how? LANCE. A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be. SPEED. Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistak’st me. LANCE. Why, fool, I meant not thee, I meant thy master. SPEED. I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover. LANCE. Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse; if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the name of a Christian. SPEED. Why? LANCE. Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go? SPEED. At thy service. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same. The Duke’s palace Enter Proteus alone. PROTEUS. To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn; To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn; To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn. And e’en that power which gave me first my oath Provokes me to this threefold perjury. Love bade me swear, and Love bids me forswear. O sweet-suggesting Love, if thou hast sinned, Teach me, thy tempted subject, to excuse it. At first I did adore a twinkling star, But now I worship a celestial sun. Unheedful vows may heedfully be broken, And he wants wit that wants resolved will To learn his wit t’ exchange the bad for better. Fie, fie, unreverend tongue, to call her bad Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferred With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths. I cannot leave to love, and yet I do; But there I leave to love where I should love. Julia I lose, and Valentine I lose; If I keep them, I needs must lose myself; If I lose them, thus find I by their loss, For Valentine, myself; for Julia, Silvia. I to myself am dearer than a friend, For love is still most precious in itself, And Silvia—witness heaven that made her fair— Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope. I will forget that Julia is alive, Remembering that my love to her is dead; And Valentine I’ll hold an enemy, Aiming at Silvia as a sweeter friend. I cannot now prove constant to myself Without some treachery used to Valentine. This night he meaneth with a corded ladder To climb celestial Silvia’s chamber window, Myself in counsel, his competitor. Now presently I’ll give her father notice Of their disguising and pretended flight, Who, all enraged, will banish Valentine, For Thurio he intends shall wed his daughter. But Valentine being gone, I’ll quickly cross By some sly trick blunt Thurio’s dull proceeding. Love, lend me wings to make my purpose swift, As thou hast lent me wit to plot this drift. [_Exit._] SCENE VII. Verona. A room in Julia’s house Enter Julia and Lucetta. JULIA. Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me, And ev’n in kind love I do conjure thee, Who art the table wherein all my thoughts Are visibly charactered and engraved, To lesson me and tell me some good mean How with my honour I may undertake A journey to my loving Proteus. LUCETTA. Alas, the way is wearisome and long. JULIA. A true-devoted pilgrim is not weary To measure kingdoms with his feeble steps; Much less shall she that hath Love’s wings to fly, And when the flight is made to one so dear, Of such divine perfection, as Sir Proteus. LUCETTA. Better forbear till Proteus make return. JULIA. O, know’st thou not his looks are my soul’s food? Pity the dearth that I have pined in By longing for that food so long a time. Didst thou but know the inly touch of love Thou wouldst as soon go kindle fire with snow As seek to quench the fire of love with words. LUCETTA. I do not seek to quench your love’s hot fire, But qualify the fire’s extreme rage, Lest it should burn above the bounds of reason. JULIA. The more thou damm’st it up, the more it burns. The current that with gentle murmur glides, Thou know’st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage; But when his fair course is not hindered, He makes sweet music with th’ enamelled stones, Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge He overtaketh in his pilgrimage; And so by many winding nooks he strays With willing sport to the wild ocean. Then let me go and hinder not my course. I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream And make a pastime of each weary step Till the last step have brought me to my love, And there I’ll rest as after much turmoil A blessed soul doth in Elysium. LUCETTA. But in what habit will you go along? JULIA. Not like a woman, for I would prevent The loose encounters of lascivious men. Gentle Lucetta, fit me with such weeds As may beseem some well-reputed page. LUCETTA. Why then, your ladyship must cut your hair. JULIA. No, girl, I’ll knit it up in silken strings With twenty odd-conceited true-love knots. To be fantastic may become a youth Of greater time than I shall show to be. LUCETTA. What fashion, madam, shall I make your breeches? JULIA. That fits as well as “Tell me, good my lord, What compass will you wear your farthingale?” Why e’en what fashion thou best likes, Lucetta. LUCETTA. You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam. JULIA. Out, out, Lucetta, that will be ill-favoured. LUCETTA. A round hose, madam, now’s not worth a pin Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on. JULIA. Lucetta, as thou lov’st me, let me have What thou think’st meet and is most mannerly. But tell me, wench, how will the world repute me For undertaking so unstaid a journey? I fear me it will make me scandalized. LUCETTA. If you think so, then stay at home and go not. JULIA. Nay, that I will not. LUCETTA. Then never dream on infamy, but go. If Proteus like your journey when you come, No matter who’s displeased when you are gone. I fear me he will scarce be pleased withal. JULIA. That is the least, Lucetta, of my fear. A thousand oaths, an ocean of his tears, And instances of infinite of love, Warrant me welcome to my Proteus. LUCETTA. All these are servants to deceitful men. JULIA. Base men that use them to so base effect! But truer stars did govern Proteus’ birth. His words are bonds, his oaths are oracles, His love sincere, his thoughts immaculate, His tears pure messengers sent from his heart, His heart as far from fraud as heaven from earth. LUCETTA. Pray heav’n he prove so when you come to him. JULIA. Now, as thou lov’st me, do him not that wrong To bear a hard opinion of his truth. Only deserve my love by loving him. And presently go with me to my chamber To take a note of what I stand in need of To furnish me upon my longing journey. All that is mine I leave at thy dispose, My goods, my lands, my reputation; Only, in lieu thereof, dispatch me hence. Come, answer not, but to it presently. I am impatient of my tarriance. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Milan. An anteroom in the Duke’s palace Enter Duke, Thurio and Proteus. DUKE. Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile; We have some secrets to confer about. [_Exit Thurio._] Now tell me, Proteus, what’s your will with me? PROTEUS. My gracious lord, that which I would discover The law of friendship bids me to conceal, But when I call to mind your gracious favours Done to me, undeserving as I am, My duty pricks me on to utter that Which else no worldly good should draw from me. Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine my friend This night intends to steal away your daughter; Myself am one made privy to the plot. I know you have determined to bestow her On Thurio, whom your gentle daughter hates, And should she thus be stol’n away from you, It would be much vexation to your age. Thus, for my duty’s sake, I rather chose To cross my friend in his intended drift Than, by concealing it, heap on your head A pack of sorrows which would press you down, Being unprevented, to your timeless grave. DUKE. Proteus, I thank thee for thine honest care, Which to requite command me while I live. This love of theirs myself have often seen, Haply when they have judged me fast asleep, And oftentimes have purposed to forbid Sir Valentine her company and my court. But fearing lest my jealous aim might err And so, unworthily, disgrace the man— A rashness that I ever yet have shunned— I gave him gentle looks, thereby to find That which thyself hast now disclosed to me. And that thou mayst perceive my fear of this, Knowing that tender youth is soon suggested, I nightly lodge her in an upper tower, The key whereof myself have ever kept; And thence she cannot be conveyed away. PROTEUS. Know, noble lord, they have devised a mean How he her chamber-window will ascend And with a corded ladder fetch her down; For which the youthful lover now is gone, And this way comes he with it presently, Where, if it please you, you may intercept him. But, good my lord, do it so cunningly That my discovery be not aimed at; For love of you, not hate unto my friend, Hath made me publisher of this pretence. DUKE. Upon mine honour, he shall never know That I had any light from thee of this. PROTEUS. Adieu, my lord, Sir Valentine is coming. [_Exit._] Enter Valentine. DUKE. Sir Valentine, whither away so fast? VALENTINE. Please it your Grace, there is a messenger That stays to bear my letters to my friends, And I am going to deliver them. DUKE. Be they of much import? VALENTINE. The tenor of them doth but signify My health and happy being at your court. DUKE. Nay then, no matter. Stay with me awhile; I am to break with thee of some affairs That touch me near, wherein thou must be secret. ’Tis not unknown to thee that I have sought To match my friend Sir Thurio to my daughter. VALENTINE. I know it well, my lord, and sure the match Were rich and honourable. Besides, the gentleman Is full of virtue, bounty, worth, and qualities Beseeming such a wife as your fair daughter. Cannot your grace win her to fancy him? DUKE. No, trust me, she is peevish, sullen, froward, Proud, disobedient, stubborn, lacking duty, Neither regarding that she is my child Nor fearing me as if I were her father; And, may I say to thee, this pride of hers, Upon advice, hath drawn my love from her, And where I thought the remnant of mine age Should have been cherished by her childlike duty, I now am full resolved to take a wife And turn her out to who will take her in. Then let her beauty be her wedding dower, For me and my possessions she esteems not. VALENTINE. What would your Grace have me to do in this? DUKE. There is a lady of Verona here Whom I affect; but she is nice, and coy, And nought esteems my aged eloquence. Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor— For long agone I have forgot to court; Besides, the fashion of the time is changed— How and which way I may bestow myself To be regarded in her sun-bright eye. VALENTINE. Win her with gifts if she respect not words; Dumb jewels often in their silent kind More than quick words do move a woman’s mind. DUKE. But she did scorn a present that I sent her. VALENTINE. A woman sometime scorns what best contents her. Send her another; never give her o’er, For scorn at first makes after-love the more. If she do frown, ’tis not in hate of you, But rather to beget more love in you. If she do chide, ’tis not to have you gone, Forwhy the fools are mad if left alone. Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For “Get you gone” she doth not mean “Away!” Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne’er so black, say they have angels’ faces. That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man If with his tongue he cannot win a woman. DUKE. But she I mean is promised by her friends Unto a youthful gentleman of worth, And kept severely from resort of men, That no man hath access by day to her. VALENTINE. Why then, I would resort to her by night. DUKE. Ay, but the doors be locked and keys kept safe, That no man hath recourse to her by night. VALENTINE. What lets but one may enter at her window? DUKE. Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground, And built so shelving that one cannot climb it Without apparent hazard of his life. VALENTINE. Why, then a ladder quaintly made of cords To cast up with a pair of anchoring hooks, Would serve to scale another Hero’s tower, So bold Leander would adventure it. DUKE. Now, as thou art a gentleman of blood, Advise me where I may have such a ladder. VALENTINE. When would you use it? Pray, sir, tell me that. DUKE. This very night; for Love is like a child That longs for everything that he can come by. VALENTINE. By seven o’clock I’ll get you such a ladder. DUKE. But, hark thee: I will go to her alone; How shall I best convey the ladder thither? VALENTINE. It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it Under a cloak that is of any length. DUKE. A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn? VALENTINE. Ay, my good lord. DUKE. Then let me see thy cloak; I’ll get me one of such another length. VALENTINE. Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord. DUKE. How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak? I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me. [_Takes Valentine’s cloak and finds a letter and a rope ladder concealed under it._] What letter is this same? What’s here?—_To Silvia?_ And here an engine fit for my proceeding. I’ll be so bold to break the seal for once. [_Reads_.] _My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly, And slaves they are to me that send them flying. O, could their master come and go as lightly, Himself would lodge where, senseless, they are lying. My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them, While I, their king, that thither them importune, Do curse the grace that with such grace hath blest them, Because myself do want my servants’ fortune. I curse myself, for they are sent by me, That they should harbour where their lord should be._ What’s here? [_Reads_.] _Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee._ ’Tis so; and here’s the ladder for the purpose. Why, Phaëthon—for thou art Merops’ son— Wilt thou aspire to guide the heavenly car, And with thy daring folly burn the world? Wilt thou reach stars because they shine on thee? Go, base intruder, overweening slave, Bestow thy fawning smiles on equal mates, And think my patience, more than thy desert, Is privilege for thy departure hence. Thank me for this more than for all the favours Which, all too much, I have bestowed on thee. But if thou linger in my territories Longer than swiftest expedition Will give thee time to leave our royal court, By heaven, my wrath shall far exceed the love I ever bore my daughter or thyself. Begone, I will not hear thy vain excuse, But, as thou lov’st thy life, make speed from hence. [_Exit._] VALENTINE. And why not death, rather than living torment? To die is to be banished from myself, And Silvia is myself; banished from her Is self from self—a deadly banishment. What light is light, if Silvia be not seen? What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by? Unless it be to think that she is by And feed upon the shadow of perfection. Except I be by Silvia in the night, There is no music in the nightingale. Unless I look on Silvia in the day, There is no day for me to look upon. She is my essence, and I leave to be If I be not by her fair influence Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive. I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom: Tarry I here, I but attend on death, But fly I hence, I fly away from life. Enter Proteus and Lance. PROTEUS. Run, boy, run, run, seek him out. LANCE. So-ho, so-ho! PROTEUS. What seest thou? LANCE. Him we go to find. There’s not a hair on ’s head but ’tis a Valentine. PROTEUS. Valentine? VALENTINE. No. PROTEUS. Who then? His spirit? VALENTINE. Neither. PROTEUS. What then? VALENTINE. Nothing. LANCE. Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike? PROTEUS. Who wouldst thou strike? LANCE. Nothing. PROTEUS. Villain, forbear. LANCE. Why, sir, I’ll strike nothing. I pray you— PROTEUS. Sirrah, I say, forbear.—Friend Valentine, a word. VALENTINE. My ears are stopped and cannot hear good news, So much of bad already hath possessed them. PROTEUS. Then in dumb silence will I bury mine, For they are harsh, untuneable, and bad. VALENTINE. Is Silvia dead? PROTEUS. No, Valentine. VALENTINE. No Valentine indeed for sacred Silvia. Hath she forsworn me? PROTEUS. No, Valentine. VALENTINE. No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me. What is your news? LANCE. Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished. PROTEUS. That thou art banished—O, that’s the news— From hence, from Silvia, and from me thy friend. VALENTINE. O, I have fed upon this woe already, And now excess of it will make me surfeit. Doth Silvia know that I am banished? PROTEUS. Ay, ay; and she hath offered to the doom— Which unreversed stands in effectual force— A sea of melting pearl, which some call tears; Those at her father’s churlish feet she tendered, With them, upon her knees, her humble self, Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them As if but now they waxed pale for woe. But neither bended knees, pure hands held up, Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire; But Valentine, if he be ta’en, must die. Besides, her intercession chafed him so, When she for thy repeal was suppliant, That to close prison he commanded her, With many bitter threats of biding there. VALENTINE. No more, unless the next word that thou speak’st Have some malignant power upon my life. If so, I pray thee breathe it in mine ear, As ending anthem of my endless dolour. PROTEUS. Cease to lament for that thou canst not help, And study help for that which thou lament’st. Time is the nurse and breeder of all good. Here if thou stay, thou canst not see thy love; Besides, thy staying will abridge thy life. Hope is a lover’s staff; walk hence with that And manage it against despairing thoughts. Thy letters may be here, though thou art hence, Which, being writ to me, shall be delivered Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love. The time now serves not to expostulate. Come, I’ll convey thee through the city-gate, And, ere I part with thee, confer at large Of all that may concern thy love affairs. As thou lov’st Silvia, though not for thyself, Regard thy danger, and along with me. VALENTINE. I pray thee, Lance, an if thou seest my boy, Bid him make haste and meet me at the North Gate. PROTEUS. Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine. VALENTINE. O, my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine! [_Exeunt Valentine and Proteus._] LANCE. I am but a fool, look you, and yet I have the wit to think my master is a kind of a knave; but that’s all one if he be but one knave. He lives not now that knows me to be in love, yet I am in love, but a team of horse shall not pluck that from me, nor who ’tis I love; and yet ’tis a woman, but what woman I will not tell myself; and yet ’tis a milkmaid; yet ’tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet ’tis a maid, for she is her master’s maid and serves for wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel, which is much in a bare Christian. [_Pulls out a paper_.] Here is the cate-log of her condition. _Imprimis, She can fetch and carry_. Why, a horse can do no more; nay, a horse cannot fetch but only carry; therefore is she better than a jade. _Item, She can milk_. Look you, a sweet virtue in a maid with clean hands. Enter Speed. SPEED. How now, Signior Lance? What news with your mastership? LANCE. With my master’s ship? Why, it is at sea. SPEED. Well, your old vice still: mistake the word. What news, then, in your paper? LANCE. The blackest news that ever thou heard’st. SPEED. Why, man? How black? LANCE. Why, as black as ink. SPEED. Let me read them. LANCE. Fie on thee, jolt-head, thou canst not read. SPEED. Thou liest. I can. LANCE. I will try thee. Tell me this, who begot thee? SPEED. Marry, the son of my grandfather. LANCE. O, illiterate loiterer! It was the son of thy grandmother. This proves that thou canst not read. SPEED. Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper. LANCE. [_Gives him the paper_.] There; and Saint Nicholas be thy speed. SPEED. _Imprimis, She can milk._ LANCE. Ay, that she can. SPEED. _Item, She brews good ale._ LANCE. And thereof comes the proverb, “Blessing of your heart, you brew good ale.” SPEED. _Item, She can sew._ LANCE. That’s as much as to say, “Can she so?” SPEED. _Item, She can knit._ LANCE. What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when she can knit him a stock? SPEED. _Item, She can wash and scour._ LANCE. A special virtue, for then she need not be washed and scoured. SPEED. _Item, She can spin._ LANCE. Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can spin for her living. SPEED. _Item, She hath many nameless virtues._ LANCE. That’s as much as to say, “bastard virtues”, that indeed know not their fathers, and therefore have no names. SPEED. Here follow her vices. LANCE. Close at the heels of her virtues. SPEED. _Item, She is not to be kissed fasting in respect of her breath._ LANCE. Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on. SPEED. _Item, She hath a sweet mouth._ LANCE. That makes amends for her sour breath. SPEED. _Item, She doth talk in her sleep._ LANCE. It’s no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk. SPEED. _Item, She is slow in words._ LANCE. O villain, that set this down among her vices! To be slow in words is a woman’s only virtue. I pray thee, out with’t, and place it for her chief virtue. SPEED. _Item, She is proud._ LANCE. Out with that too; it was Eve’s legacy and cannot be ta’en from her. SPEED. _Item, She hath no teeth._ LANCE. I care not for that neither, because I love crusts. SPEED. _Item, She is curst._ LANCE. Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite. SPEED. _Item, She will often praise her liquor._ LANCE. If her liquor be good, she shall; if she will not, I will, for good things should be praised. SPEED. _Item, She is too liberal._ LANCE. Of her tongue she cannot, for that’s writ down she is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that I’ll keep shut. Now, of another thing she may, and that cannot I help. Well, proceed. SPEED. _Item, She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs, and more wealth than faults._ LANCE. Stop there; I’ll have her. She was mine and not mine twice or thrice in that last article. Rehearse that once more. SPEED. _Item, She hath more hair than wit_— LANCE. More hair than wit. It may be; I’ll prove it: the cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit is more than the wit, for the greater hides the less. What’s next? SPEED. _And more faults than hairs._ LANCE. That’s monstrous! O, that that were out! SPEED. _And more wealth than faults._ LANCE. Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well, I’ll have her; an if it be a match, as nothing is impossible— SPEED. What then? LANCE. Why, then will I tell thee that thy master stays for thee at the North Gate. SPEED. For me? LANCE. For thee? Ay, who art thou? He hath stayed for a better man than thee. SPEED. And must I go to him? LANCE. Thou must run to him, for thou hast stayed so long that going will scarce serve the turn. SPEED. Why didst not tell me sooner? Pox of your love letters! [_Exit._] LANCE. Now will he be swinged for reading my letter; an unmannerly slave, that will thrust himself into secrets. I’ll after, to rejoice in the boy’s correction. [_Exit._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Duke and Thurio. DUKE. Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you Now Valentine is banished from her sight. THURIO. Since his exile she hath despised me most, Forsworn my company and railed at me, That I am desperate of obtaining her. DUKE. This weak impress of love is as a figure Trenched in ice, which with an hour’s heat Dissolves to water and doth lose his form. A little time will melt her frozen thoughts, And worthless Valentine shall be forgot. Enter Proteus. How now, Sir Proteus? Is your countryman, According to our proclamation, gone? PROTEUS. Gone, my good lord. DUKE. My daughter takes his going grievously. PROTEUS. A little time, my lord, will kill that grief. DUKE. So I believe, but Thurio thinks not so. Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee, For thou hast shown some sign of good desert, Makes me the better to confer with thee. PROTEUS. Longer than I prove loyal to your Grace Let me not live to look upon your Grace. DUKE. Thou know’st how willingly I would effect The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter? PROTEUS. I do, my lord. DUKE. And also, I think, thou art not ignorant How she opposes her against my will? PROTEUS. She did, my lord, when Valentine was here. DUKE. Ay, and perversely she persevers so. What might we do to make the girl forget The love of Valentine, and love Sir Thurio? PROTEUS. The best way is to slander Valentine With falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, Three things that women highly hold in hate. DUKE. Ay, but she’ll think that it is spoke in hate. PROTEUS. Ay, if his enemy deliver it; Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken By one whom she esteemeth as his friend. DUKE. Then you must undertake to slander him. PROTEUS. And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do. ’Tis an ill office for a gentleman, Especially against his very friend. DUKE. Where your good word cannot advantage him, Your slander never can endamage him; Therefore the office is indifferent, Being entreated to it by your friend. PROTEUS. You have prevailed, my lord. If I can do it By aught that I can speak in his dispraise, She shall not long continue love to him. But say this weed her love from Valentine, It follows not that she will love Sir Thurio. THURIO. Therefore, as you unwind her love from him, Lest it should ravel and be good to none, You must provide to bottom it on me, Which must be done by praising me as much As you in worth dispraise Sir Valentine. DUKE. And, Proteus, we dare trust you in this kind Because we know, on Valentine’s report, You are already Love’s firm votary And cannot soon revolt and change your mind. Upon this warrant shall you have access Where you with Silvia may confer at large— For she is lumpish, heavy, melancholy, And, for your friend’s sake, will be glad of you— Where you may temper her by your persuasion To hate young Valentine and love my friend. PROTEUS. As much as I can do I will effect. But you, Sir Thurio, are not sharp enough. You must lay lime to tangle her desires By wailful sonnets, whose composed rhymes Should be full-fraught with serviceable vows. DUKE. Ay, much is the force of heaven-bred poesy. PROTEUS. Say that upon the altar of her beauty You sacrifice your tears, your sighs, your heart. Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity. For Orpheus’ lute was strung with poets’ sinews, Whose golden touch could soften steel and stones, Make tigers tame, and huge leviathans Forsake unsounded deeps to dance on sands. After your dire-lamenting elegies, Visit by night your lady’s chamber-window With some sweet consort; to their instruments Tune a deploring dump; the night’s dead silence Will well become such sweet-complaining grievance. This, or else nothing, will inherit her. DUKE. This discipline shows thou hast been in love. THURIO. And thy advice this night I’ll put in practice. Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver, Let us into the city presently To sort some gentlemen well skilled in music. I have a sonnet that will serve the turn To give the onset to thy good advice. DUKE. About it, gentlemen! PROTEUS. We’ll wait upon your Grace till after supper, And afterward determine our proceedings. DUKE. Even now about it! I will pardon you. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. A forest between Milan and Verona Enter certain Outlaws. FIRST OUTLAW. Fellows, stand fast. I see a passenger. SECOND OUTLAW. If there be ten, shrink not, but down with ’em. Enter Valentine and Speed. THIRD OUTLAW. Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye. If not, we’ll make you sit, and rifle you. SPEED. Sir, we are undone: these are the villains That all the travellers do fear so much. VALENTINE. My friends— FIRST OUTLAW. That’s not so, sir. We are your enemies. SECOND OUTLAW. Peace! We’ll hear him. THIRD OUTLAW. Ay, by my beard, will we, for he is a proper man. VALENTINE. Then know that I have little wealth to lose. A man I am crossed with adversity; My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have. SECOND OUTLAW. Whither travel you? VALENTINE. To Verona. FIRST OUTLAW. Whence came you? VALENTINE. From Milan. THIRD OUTLAW. Have you long sojourned there? VALENTINE. Some sixteen months, and longer might have stayed If crooked fortune had not thwarted me. FIRST OUTLAW. What, were you banished thence? VALENTINE. I was. SECOND OUTLAW. For what offence? VALENTINE. For that which now torments me to rehearse; I killed a man, whose death I much repent, But yet I slew him manfully in fight, Without false vantage or base treachery. FIRST OUTLAW. Why, ne’er repent it, if it were done so. But were you banished for so small a fault? VALENTINE. I was, and held me glad of such a doom. SECOND OUTLAW. Have you the tongues? VALENTINE. My youthful travel therein made me happy, Or else I often had been miserable. THIRD OUTLAW. By the bare scalp of Robin Hood’s fat friar, This fellow were a king for our wild faction. FIRST OUTLAW. We’ll have him. Sirs, a word. SPEED. Master, be one of them. It’s an honourable kind of thievery. VALENTINE. Peace, villain. SECOND OUTLAW. Tell us this: have you anything to take to? VALENTINE. Nothing but my fortune. THIRD OUTLAW. Know then that some of us are gentlemen, Such as the fury of ungoverned youth Thrust from the company of awful men. Myself was from Verona banished For practising to steal away a lady, An heir, and near allied unto the Duke. SECOND OUTLAW. And I from Mantua, for a gentleman Who, in my mood, I stabbed unto the heart. FIRST OUTLAW. And I for suchlike petty crimes as these. But to the purpose, for we cite our faults, That they may hold excused our lawless lives; And partly, seeing you are beautified With goodly shape, and by your own report A linguist, and a man of such perfection As we do in our quality much want— SECOND OUTLAW. Indeed because you are a banished man, Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you. Are you content to be our general? To make a virtue of necessity And live as we do in this wilderness? THIRD OUTLAW. What sayst thou? Wilt thou be of our consort? Say “Ay”, and be the captain of us all, We’ll do thee homage and be ruled by thee, Love thee as our commander and our king. FIRST OUTLAW. But if thou scorn our courtesy, thou diest. SECOND OUTLAW. Thou shalt not live to brag what we have offered. VALENTINE. I take your offer and will live with you, Provided that you do no outrages On silly women or poor passengers. THIRD OUTLAW. No, we detest such vile base practices. Come, go with us; we’ll bring thee to our crews And show thee all the treasure we have got, Which, with ourselves, all rest at thy dispose. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Milan. The court of the Duke’s palace Enter Proteus. PROTEUS. Already have I been false to Valentine, And now I must be as unjust to Thurio. Under the colour of commending him, I have access my own love to prefer. But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy To be corrupted with my worthless gifts. When I protest true loyalty to her, She twits me with my falsehood to my friend; When to her beauty I commend my vows, She bids me think how I have been forsworn In breaking faith with Julia, whom I loved; And notwithstanding all her sudden quips, The least whereof would quell a lover’s hope, Yet, spaniel-like, the more she spurns my love, The more it grows and fawneth on her still. But here comes Thurio. Now must we to her window, And give some evening music to her ear. Enter Thurio and Musicians. THURIO. How now, Sir Proteus, are you crept before us? PROTEUS. Ay, gentle Thurio, for you know that love Will creep in service where it cannot go. THURIO. Ay, but I hope, sir, that you love not here. PROTEUS. Sir, but I do, or else I would be hence. THURIO. Who? Silvia? PROTEUS. Ay, Silvia, for your sake. THURIO. I thank you for your own. Now, gentlemen, Let’s tune, and to it lustily awhile. Enter Host and Julia in boy’s clothes, as Sebastian. HOST. Now, my young guest, methinks you’re allycholly. I pray you, why is it? JULIA. Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry. HOST. Come, we’ll have you merry. I’ll bring you where you shall hear music, and see the gentleman that you asked for. JULIA. But shall I hear him speak? HOST. Ay, that you shall. JULIA. That will be music. [_Music plays._] HOST. Hark, hark! JULIA. Is he among these? HOST. Ay; but peace, let’s hear ’em. SONG PROTEUS. Who is Silvia? What is she, That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair, and wise is she; The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be. Is she kind as she is fair? For beauty lives with kindness. Love doth to her eyes repair, To help him of his blindness; And, being helped, inhabits there. Then to Silvia let us sing, That Silvia is excelling; She excels each mortal thing Upon the dull earth dwelling. To her let us garlands bring. HOST. How now, are you sadder than you were before? How do you, man? The music likes you not. JULIA. You mistake; the musician likes me not. HOST. Why, my pretty youth? JULIA. He plays false, father. HOST. How, out of tune on the strings? JULIA. Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very heart-strings. HOST. You have a quick ear. JULIA. Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart. HOST. I perceive you delight not in music. JULIA. Not a whit, when it jars so. HOST. Hark, what fine change is in the music! JULIA. Ay, that change is the spite. HOST. You would have them always play but one thing? JULIA. I would always have one play but one thing. But, host, doth this Sir Proteus, that we talk on, Often resort unto this gentlewoman? HOST. I tell you what Lance, his man, told me: he loved her out of all nick. JULIA. Where is Lance? HOST. Gone to seek his dog, which tomorrow, by his master’s command, he must carry for a present to his lady. JULIA. Peace, stand aside. The company parts. PROTEUS. Sir Thurio, fear not you; I will so plead That you shall say my cunning drift excels. THURIO. Where meet we? PROTEUS. At Saint Gregory’s well. THURIO. Farewell. [_Exeunt Thurio and Musicians._] Enter Silvia above. PROTEUS. Madam, good even to your ladyship. SILVIA. I thank you for your music, gentlemen. Who is that that spake? PROTEUS. One, lady, if you knew his pure heart’s truth, You would quickly learn to know him by his voice. SILVIA. Sir Proteus, as I take it. PROTEUS. Sir Proteus, gentle lady, and your servant. SILVIA. What’s your will? PROTEUS. That I may compass yours. SILVIA. You have your wish. My will is even this, That presently you hie you home to bed. Thou subtle, perjured, false, disloyal man, Think’st thou I am so shallow, so conceitless, To be seduced by thy flattery, That hast deceived so many with thy vows? Return, return, and make thy love amends. For me, by this pale queen of night I swear, I am so far from granting thy request That I despise thee for thy wrongful suit, And by and by intend to chide myself Even for this time I spend in talking to thee. PROTEUS. I grant, sweet love, that I did love a lady, But she is dead. JULIA. [_Aside_.] ’Twere false, if I should speak it, For I am sure she is not buried. SILVIA. Say that she be; yet Valentine thy friend Survives, to whom, thyself art witness, I am betrothed. And art thou not ashamed To wrong him with thy importunacy? PROTEUS. I likewise hear that Valentine is dead. SILVIA. And so suppose am I, for in his grave, Assure thyself, my love is buried. PROTEUS. Sweet lady, let me rake it from the earth. SILVIA. Go to thy lady’s grave and call hers thence, Or, at the least, in hers sepulchre thine. JULIA. [_Aside_.] He heard not that. PROTEUS. Madam, if your heart be so obdurate, Vouchsafe me yet your picture for my love, The picture that is hanging in your chamber; To that I’ll speak, to that I’ll sigh and weep; For since the substance of your perfect self Is else devoted, I am but a shadow; And to your shadow will I make true love. JULIA. [_Aside_.] If ’twere a substance you would sure deceive it And make it but a shadow, as I am. SILVIA. I am very loath to be your idol, sir; But since your falsehood shall become you well To worship shadows and adore false shapes, Send to me in the morning, and I’ll send it. And so, good rest. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. As wretches have o’ernight That wait for execution in the morn. [_Exit._] JULIA. Host, will you go? HOST. By my halidom, I was fast asleep. JULIA. Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus? HOST. Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think ’tis almost day. JULIA. Not so; but it hath been the longest night That e’er I watched, and the most heaviest. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same Enter Eglamour. EGLAMOUR. This is the hour that Madam Silvia Entreated me to call and know her mind; There’s some great matter she’d employ me in. Madam, madam! Enter Silvia above. SILVIA. Who calls? EGLAMOUR. Your servant and your friend; One that attends your ladyship’s command. SILVIA. Sir Eglamour, a thousand times good morrow. EGLAMOUR. As many, worthy lady, to yourself. According to your ladyship’s impose, I am thus early come to know what service It is your pleasure to command me in. SILVIA. O Eglamour, thou art a gentleman— Think not I flatter, for I swear I do not— Valiant, wise, remorseful, well accomplished. Thou art not ignorant what dear good will I bear unto the banished Valentine, Nor how my father would enforce me marry Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhorred. Thyself hast loved, and I have heard thee say No grief did ever come so near thy heart As when thy lady and thy true love died, Upon whose grave thou vowed’st pure chastity. Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine, To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode; And for the ways are dangerous to pass, I do desire thy worthy company, Upon whose faith and honour I repose. Urge not my father’s anger, Eglamour, But think upon my grief, a lady’s grief, And on the justice of my flying hence To keep me from a most unholy match, Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues. I do desire thee, even from a heart As full of sorrows as the sea of sands, To bear me company and go with me; If not, to hide what I have said to thee, That I may venture to depart alone. EGLAMOUR. Madam, I pity much your grievances, Which, since I know they virtuously are placed, I give consent to go along with you, Recking as little what betideth me As much I wish all good befortune you. When will you go? SILVIA. This evening coming. EGLAMOUR. Where shall I meet you? SILVIA. At Friar Patrick’s cell, Where I intend holy confession. EGLAMOUR. I will not fail your ladyship. Good morrow, gentle lady. SILVIA. Good morrow, kind Sir Eglamour. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same Enter Lance with his dog Crab. LANCE. When a man’s servant shall play the cur with him, look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a puppy; one that I saved from drowning when three or four of his blind brothers and sisters went to it. I have taught him even as one would say precisely, “Thus I would teach a dog.” I was sent to deliver him as a present to Mistress Silvia from my master; and I came no sooner into the dining-chamber but he steps me to her trencher and steals her capon’s leg. O, ’tis a foul thing when a cur cannot keep himself in all companies! I would have, as one should say, one that takes upon him to be a dog indeed, to be, as it were, a dog at all things. If I had not had more wit than he, to take a fault upon me that he did, I think verily he had been hanged for’t; sure as I live, he had suffered for’t. You shall judge. He thrusts me himself into the company of three or four gentleman-like dogs under the Duke’s table; he had not been there—bless the mark!—a pissing-while but all the chamber smelt him. “Out with the dog!” says one; “What cur is that?” says another; “Whip him out”, says the third; “Hang him up”, says the Duke. I, having been acquainted with the smell before, knew it was Crab, and goes me to the fellow that whips the dogs. “Friend,” quoth I, “you mean to whip the dog?” “Ay, marry do I,” quoth he. “You do him the more wrong,” quoth I. “’Twas I did the thing you wot of.” He makes me no more ado but whips me out of the chamber. How many masters would do this for his servant? Nay, I’ll be sworn I have sat in the stock for puddings he hath stolen, otherwise he had been executed. I have stood on the pillory for geese he hath killed, otherwise he had suffered for’t. [_To Crab_.] Thou think’st not of this now. Nay, I remember the trick you served me when I took my leave of Madam Silvia. Did not I bid thee still mark me, and do as I do? When didst thou see me heave up my leg and make water against a gentlewoman’s farthingale? Didst thou ever see me do such a trick? Enter Proteus and Julia disguised as Sebastian. PROTEUS. Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well, And will employ thee in some service presently. JULIA. In what you please; I’ll do what I can. PROTEUS. I hope thou wilt. [_To Lance_.] How now, you whoreson peasant, Where have you been these two days loitering? LANCE. Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me. PROTEUS. And what says she to my little jewel? LANCE. Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you currish thanks is good enough for such a present. PROTEUS. But she received my dog? LANCE. No, indeed, did she not. Here have I brought him back again. PROTEUS. What, didst thou offer her this from me? LANCE. Ay, sir, the other squirrel was stolen from me by the hangman’s boys in the market-place, and then I offered her mine own, who is a dog as big as ten of yours, and therefore the gift the greater. PROTEUS. Go, get thee hence, and find my dog again, Or ne’er return again into my sight. Away, I say. Stayest thou to vex me here? A slave that still an end turns me to shame. [_Exit Lance with Crab._] Sebastian, I have entertained thee Partly that I have need of such a youth That can with some discretion do my business— For ’tis no trusting to yond foolish lout— But chiefly for thy face and thy behaviour, Which, if my augury deceive me not, Witness good bringing up, fortune, and truth. Therefore, know thou, for this I entertain thee. Go presently, and take this ring with thee, Deliver it to Madam Silvia. She loved me well delivered it to me. JULIA. It seems you loved not her, to leave her token. She’s dead belike? PROTEUS. Not so; I think she lives. JULIA. Alas! PROTEUS. Why dost thou cry “Alas”? JULIA. I cannot choose But pity her. PROTEUS. Wherefore shouldst thou pity her? JULIA. Because methinks that she loved you as well As you do love your lady Silvia. She dreams on him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. ’Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking on it makes me cry “Alas.” PROTEUS. Well, give her that ring, and therewithal This letter. That’s her chamber. Tell my lady I claim the promise for her heavenly picture. Your message done, hie home unto my chamber, Where thou shalt find me sad and solitary. [_Exit._] JULIA. How many women would do such a message? Alas, poor Proteus, thou hast entertained A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs. Alas, poor fool, why do I pity him That with his very heart despiseth me? Because he loves her, he despiseth me; Because I love him, I must pity him. This ring I gave him when he parted from me, To bind him to remember my good will; And now am I, unhappy messenger, To plead for that which I would not obtain, To carry that which I would have refused, To praise his faith, which I would have dispraised. I am my master’s true confirmed love, But cannot be true servant to my master Unless I prove false traitor to myself. Yet will I woo for him, but yet so coldly As, heaven it knows, I would not have him speed. Enter Silvia attended. Gentlewoman, good day. I pray you be my mean To bring me where to speak with Madam Silvia. SILVIA. What would you with her, if that I be she? JULIA. If you be she, I do entreat your patience To hear me speak the message I am sent on. SILVIA. From whom? JULIA. From my master, Sir Proteus, madam. SILVIA. O, he sends you for a picture? JULIA. Ay, madam. SILVIA. Ursula, bring my picture there. [_She is brought the picture._] Go, give your master this. Tell him from me, One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget, Would better fit his chamber than this shadow. JULIA. Madam, please you peruse this letter. [_Gives her a letter._] Pardon me, madam, I have unadvised Delivered you a paper that I should not. This is the letter to your ladyship. [_Takes back the letter and gives her another._] SILVIA. I pray thee, let me look on that again. JULIA. It may not be. Good madam, pardon me. SILVIA. There, hold. I will not look upon your master’s lines. I know they are stuffed with protestations And full of new-found oaths, which he will break As easily as I do tear his paper. [_She tears the second letter._] JULIA. Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring. SILVIA. The more shame for him that he sends it me; For I have heard him say a thousand times His Julia gave it him at his departure. Though his false finger have profaned the ring, Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong. JULIA. She thanks you. SILVIA. What sayst thou? JULIA. I thank you, madam, that you tender her. Poor gentlewoman, my master wrongs her much. SILVIA. Dost thou know her? JULIA. Almost as well as I do know myself. To think upon her woes, I do protest That I have wept a hundred several times. SILVIA. Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her? JULIA. I think she doth, and that’s her cause of sorrow. SILVIA. Is she not passing fair? JULIA. She hath been fairer, madam, than she is. When she did think my master loved her well, She, in my judgement, was as fair as you. But since she did neglect her looking-glass And threw her sun-expelling mask away, The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks And pinched the lily-tincture of her face, That now she is become as black as I. SILVIA. How tall was she? JULIA. About my stature; for at Pentecost, When all our pageants of delight were played, Our youth got me to play the woman’s part, And I was trimmed in Madam Julia’s gown, Which served me as fit, by all men’s judgements, As if the garment had been made for me; Therefore I know she is about my height. And at that time I made her weep agood, For I did play a lamentable part. Madam, ’twas Ariadne, passioning For Theseus’ perjury and unjust flight, Which I so lively acted with my tears That my poor mistress, moved therewithal, Wept bitterly; and would I might be dead If I in thought felt not her very sorrow. SILVIA. She is beholding to thee, gentle youth. Alas, poor lady, desolate and left! I weep myself to think upon thy words. Here, youth, there is my purse. I give thee this For thy sweet mistress’ sake, because thou lov’st her. Farewell. JULIA. And she shall thank you for’t, if e’er you know her. [_Exeunt Silvia and Attendants._] A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful. I hope my master’s suit will be but cold, Since she respects my mistress’ love so much. Alas, how love can trifle with itself! Here is her picture; let me see. I think If I had such a tire, this face of mine Were full as lovely as is this of hers; And yet the painter flattered her a little, Unless I flatter with myself too much. Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow; If that be all the difference in his love, I’ll get me such a coloured periwig. Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine. Ay, but her forehead’s low, and mine’s as high. What should it be that he respects in her But I can make respective in myself, If this fond Love were not a blinded god? Come, shadow, come, and take this shadow up, For ’tis thy rival. O thou senseless form, Thou shalt be worshipped, kissed, loved, and adored; And were there sense in his idolatry, My substance should be statue in thy stead. I’ll use thee kindly for thy mistress’ sake, That used me so; or else, by Jove I vow, I should have scratched out your unseeing eyes To make my master out of love with thee. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Milan. An abbey Enter Eglamour. EGLAMOUR. The sun begins to gild the western sky, And now it is about the very hour That Silvia at Friar Patrick’s cell should meet me. She will not fail, for lovers break not hours, Unless it be to come before their time, So much they spur their expedition. Enter Silvia. See where she comes. Lady, a happy evening! SILVIA. Amen, amen. Go on, good Eglamour, Out at the postern by the abbey wall. I fear I am attended by some spies. EGLAMOUR. Fear not. The forest is not three leagues off; If we recover that, we are sure enough. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A room in the Duke’s palace Enter Thurio, Proteus and Julia. THURIO. Sir Proteus, what says Silvia to my suit? PROTEUS. O, sir, I find her milder than she was, And yet she takes exceptions at your person. THURIO. What? That my leg is too long? PROTEUS. No, that it is too little. THURIO. I’ll wear a boot to make it somewhat rounder. JULIA. [_Aside_.] But love will not be spurred to what it loathes. THURIO. What says she to my face? PROTEUS. She says it is a fair one. THURIO. Nay, then, the wanton lies; my face is black. PROTEUS. But pearls are fair; and the old saying is, “Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies’ eyes.” JULIA. [_Aside_.] ’Tis true, such pearls as put out ladies’ eyes, For I had rather wink than look on them. THURIO. How likes she my discourse? PROTEUS. Ill, when you talk of war. THURIO. But well when I discourse of love and peace. JULIA. [_Aside_.] But better, indeed, when you hold your peace. THURIO. What says she to my valour? PROTEUS. O, sir, she makes no doubt of that. JULIA. [_Aside_.] She needs not, when she knows it cowardice. THURIO. What says she to my birth? PROTEUS. That you are well derived. JULIA. [_Aside_.] True, from a gentleman to a fool. THURIO. Considers she my possessions? PROTEUS. O, ay, and pities them. THURIO. Wherefore? JULIA. [_Aside_.] That such an ass should owe them. PROTEUS. That they are out by lease. JULIA. Here comes the Duke. Enter Duke. DUKE. How now, Sir Proteus! How now, Thurio! Which of you saw Sir Eglamour of late? THURIO. Not I. PROTEUS. Nor I. DUKE. Saw you my daughter? PROTEUS. Neither. DUKE. Why then, she’s fled unto that peasant Valentine, And Eglamour is in her company. ’Tis true, for Friar Lawrence met them both As he in penance wandered through the forest; Him he knew well, and guessed that it was she, But, being masked, he was not sure of it. Besides, she did intend confession At Patrick’s cell this even, and there she was not. These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence. Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse, But mount you presently and meet with me Upon the rising of the mountain foot That leads toward Mantua, whither they are fled. Dispatch, sweet gentlemen, and follow me. [_Exit._] THURIO. Why, this it is to be a peevish girl That flies her fortune when it follows her. I’ll after, more to be revenged on Eglamour Than for the love of reckless Silvia. [_Exit._] PROTEUS. And I will follow, more for Silvia’s love Than hate of Eglamour that goes with her. [_Exit._] JULIA. And I will follow, more to cross that love Than hate for Silvia, that is gone for love. [_Exit._] SCENE III. Frontiers of Mantua. The forest Enter Silvia and Outlaws. FIRST OUTLAW. Come, come, be patient. We must bring you to our captain. SILVIA. A thousand more mischances than this one Have learned me how to brook this patiently. SECOND OUTLAW. Come, bring her away. FIRST OUTLAW. Where is the gentleman that was with her? SECOND OUTLAW. Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us. But Moyses and Valerius follow him. Go thou with her to the west end of the wood; There is our captain. We’ll follow him that’s fled. The thicket is beset; he cannot ’scape. [_Exeunt Second and Third Outlaws._] FIRST OUTLAW. Come, I must bring you to our captain’s cave. Fear not; he bears an honourable mind And will not use a woman lawlessly. SILVIA. O Valentine, this I endure for thee! [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. Another part of the forest Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. How use doth breed a habit in a man! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns. Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And to the nightingale’s complaining notes Tune my distresses and record my woes. O thou that dost inhabit in my breast, Leave not the mansion so long tenantless, Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall And leave no memory of what it was. Repair me with thy presence, Silvia; Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain. [_Shouts within._] What hallowing and what stir is this today? These are my mates, that make their wills their law, Have some unhappy passenger in chase. They love me well; yet I have much to do To keep them from uncivil outrages. Withdraw thee, Valentine. Who’s this comes here? [_Steps aside._] Enter Proteus, Silvia and Julia as Sebastian. PROTEUS. Madam, this service I have done for you— Though you respect not aught your servant doth— To hazard life, and rescue you from him That would have forced your honour and your love. Vouchsafe me for my meed but one fair look; A smaller boon than this I cannot beg, And less than this, I am sure, you cannot give. VALENTINE. [_Aside_.] How like a dream is this I see and hear! Love, lend me patience to forbear awhile. SILVIA. O miserable, unhappy that I am! PROTEUS. Unhappy were you, madam, ere I came; But by my coming I have made you happy. SILVIA. By thy approach thou mak’st me most unhappy. JULIA. [_Aside_.] And me, when he approacheth to your presence. SILVIA. Had I been seized by a hungry lion, I would have been a breakfast to the beast Rather than have false Proteus rescue me. O heaven, be judge how I love Valentine, Whose life’s as tender to me as my soul! And full as much, for more there cannot be, I do detest false perjured Proteus. Therefore be gone, solicit me no more. PROTEUS. What dangerous action, stood it next to death, Would I not undergo for one calm look! O, ’tis the curse in love, and still approved, When women cannot love where they’re beloved. SILVIA. When Proteus cannot love where he’s beloved. Read over Julia’s heart, thy first best love, For whose dear sake thou didst then rend thy faith Into a thousand oaths; and all those oaths Descended into perjury to love me. Thou hast no faith left now, unless thou’dst two, And that’s far worse than none; better have none Than plural faith, which is too much by one. Thou counterfeit to thy true friend! PROTEUS. In love Who respects friend? SILVIA. All men but Proteus. PROTEUS. Nay, if the gentle spirit of moving words Can no way change you to a milder form, I’ll woo you like a soldier, at arms’ end, And love you ’gainst the nature of love—force ye. [_He seizes her._] SILVIA. O heaven! PROTEUS. I’ll force thee yield to my desire. VALENTINE. [_Comes forward_.] Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch, Thou friend of an ill fashion! PROTEUS. Valentine! VALENTINE. Thou common friend, that’s without faith or love, For such is a friend now. Treacherous man, Thou hast beguiled my hopes; nought but mine eye Could have persuaded me. Now I dare not say I have one friend alive; thou wouldst disprove me. Who should be trusted, when one’s right hand Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust thee more, But count the world a stranger for thy sake. The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, ’Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst! PROTEUS. My shame and guilt confounds me. Forgive me, Valentine; if hearty sorrow Be a sufficient ransom for offence, I tender ’t here. I do as truly suffer As e’er I did commit. VALENTINE. Then I am paid, And once again I do receive thee honest. Who by repentance is not satisfied Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased; By penitence th’ Eternal’s wrath’s appeased. And that my love may appear plain and free, All that was mine in Silvia I give thee. JULIA. O me unhappy! [_Swoons._] PROTEUS. Look to the boy. VALENTINE. Why, boy! Why, wag! How now? What’s the matter? Look up; speak. JULIA. O good sir, my master charged me to deliver a ring to Madam Silvia, which out of my neglect was never done. PROTEUS. Where is that ring, boy? JULIA. Here ’tis; this is it. [_Gives him a ring._] PROTEUS. How, let me see. Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia. JULIA. O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook. This is the ring you sent to Silvia. [_Shows another ring._] PROTEUS. But how cam’st thou by this ring? At my depart I gave this unto Julia. JULIA. And Julia herself did give it me, And Julia herself have brought it hither. [_She reveals herself._] PROTEUS. How? Julia? JULIA. Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths And entertained ’em deeply in her heart. How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root! O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush. Be thou ashamed that I have took upon me Such an immodest raiment, if shame live In a disguise of love. It is the lesser blot, modesty finds, Women to change their shapes than men their minds. PROTEUS. Than men their minds! ’Tis true. O heaven, were man But constant, he were perfect. That one error Fills him with faults, makes him run through all th’ sins; Inconstancy falls off ere it begins. What is in Silvia’s face but I may spy More fresh in Julia’s with a constant eye? VALENTINE. Come, come, a hand from either. Let me be blest to make this happy close. ’Twere pity two such friends should be long foes. PROTEUS. Bear witness, heaven, I have my wish for ever. JULIA. And I mine. Enter Outlaws with Duke and Thurio. OUTLAWS. A prize, a prize, a prize! VALENTINE. Forbear, forbear, I say! It is my lord the Duke. Your Grace is welcome to a man disgraced, Banished Valentine. DUKE. Sir Valentine! THURIO. Yonder is Silvia, and Silvia’s mine. VALENTINE. Thurio, give back, or else embrace thy death; Come not within the measure of my wrath. Do not name Silvia thine; if once again, Verona shall not hold thee. Here she stands; Take but possession of her with a touch— I dare thee but to breathe upon my love. THURIO. Sir Valentine, I care not for her, I. I hold him but a fool that will endanger His body for a girl that loves him not. I claim her not, and therefore she is thine. DUKE. The more degenerate and base art thou To make such means for her as thou hast done, And leave her on such slight conditions.— Now, by the honour of my ancestry, I do applaud thy spirit, Valentine, And think thee worthy of an empress’ love. Know then, I here forget all former griefs, Cancel all grudge, repeal thee home again, Plead a new state in thy unrivalled merit, To which I thus subscribe: Sir Valentine, Thou art a gentleman, and well derived; Take thou thy Silvia, for thou hast deserved her. VALENTINE. I thank your Grace; the gift hath made me happy. I now beseech you, for your daughter’s sake, To grant one boon that I shall ask of you. DUKE. I grant it for thine own, whate’er it be. VALENTINE. These banished men, that I have kept withal, Are men endued with worthy qualities. Forgive them what they have committed here, And let them be recalled from their exile. They are reformed, civil, full of good, And fit for great employment, worthy lord. DUKE. Thou hast prevailed; I pardon them and thee. Dispose of them as thou know’st their deserts. Come, let us go; we will include all jars With triumphs, mirth, and rare solemnity. VALENTINE. And as we walk along, I dare be bold With our discourse to make your Grace to smile. What think you of this page, my lord? DUKE. I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes. VALENTINE. I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy. DUKE. What mean you by that saying? VALENTINE. Please you, I’ll tell you as we pass along, That you will wonder what hath fortuned. Come, Proteus, ’tis your penance but to hear The story of your loves discovered. That done, our day of marriage shall be yours, One feast, one house, one mutual happiness. [_Exeunt._] THE TWO NOBLE KINSMEN Contents ACT I PROLOGUE Scene I. Athens. Before a temple Scene II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace Scene III. Before the gates of Athens Scene IV. A field before Thebes. Scene V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes ACT II Scene I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background Scene II. The prison Scene III. The country near Athens Scene IV. Athens. A room in the prison Scene V. An open place in Athens Scene VI. Athens. Before the prison ACT III Scene I. A forest near Athens Scene II. Another part of the forest Scene III. The same part of the forest as in scene I. Scene IV. Another part of the forest Scene V. Another part of the forest Scene VI. The same part of the forest as in scene III. ACT IV Scene I. Athens. A room in the prison Scene II. A Room in the Palace Scene III. A room in the prison ACT V Scene I. Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana Scene II. Athens. A Room in the Prison Scene III. A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat Scene IV. The same; a Block prepared EPILOGUE Dramatis Personæ PROLOGUE ARCITE, the two noble kinsmen, cousins, PALAMON, nephews of Creon, King of Thebes THESEUS, Duke of Athens HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, later Duchess of Athens EMILIA, Sister of Hippolyta PIRITHOUS, friend to Theseus Three QUEENS, widows of the kings killed in laying siege to Thebes The JAILER of Theseus’s prison His DAUGHTER, in love with Palamon His BROTHER, The WOOER of the Jailer’s daughter Two FRIENDS of the Jailer, A DOCTOR ARTESIUS, an Athenian soldier VALERIUS, a Theban WOMAN, attending on Emilia An Athenian GENTLEMAN Six KNIGHTS, three accompanying Arcite, three Palamon Six COUNTRYMEN, one dressed as a Bavian or baboon Gerald, a SCHOOLMASTER NEL, a countrywoman A TABORER A singing BOY A HERALD A MESSENGER A SERVANT EPILOGUE Hymen (god of weddings), lords, soldiers, four countrywomen (Fritz, Maudlin, Luce, and Barbary), nymphs, attendants, maids, executioner, guard SCENE: Athens and the Neighbourhood, except in part of the first Act, where it is Thebes and the Neighbourhood PROLOGUE Flourish. Enter Prologue. PROLOGUE. New plays and maidenheads are near akin: Much followed both, for both much money gi’en, If they stand sound and well. And a good play, Whose modest scenes blush on his marriage day And shake to lose his honour, is like her That after holy tie and first night’s stir Yet still is Modesty, and still retains More of the maid, to sight, than husband’s pains. We pray our play may be so, for I am sure It has a noble breeder and a pure, A learned, and a poet never went More famous yet ’twixt Po and silver Trent. Chaucer, of all admired, the story gives; There, constant to eternity, it lives. If we let fall the nobleness of this, And the first sound this child hear be a hiss, How will it shake the bones of that good man And make him cry from underground, “O, fan From me the witless chaff of such a writer That blasts my bays and my famed works makes lighter Than Robin Hood!” This is the fear we bring; For, to say truth, it were an endless thing And too ambitious, to aspire to him, Weak as we are, and, almost breathless, swim In this deep water. Do but you hold out Your helping hands, and we shall tack about And something do to save us. You shall hear Scenes, though below his art, may yet appear Worth two hours’ travel. To his bones sweet sleep; Content to you. If this play do not keep A little dull time from us, we perceive Our losses fall so thick, we must needs leave. [_Flourish. Exit._] ACT I SCENE I. Athens. Before a temple Enter Hymen with a torch burning; a Boy, in a white robe before singing, and strewing flowers. After Hymen, a Nymph encompassed in her tresses, bearing a wheaten garland; then Theseus between two other Nymphs with wheaten chaplets on their heads. Then Hippolyta, the bride, led by Pirithous, and another holding a garland over her head, her tresses likewise hanging. After her, Emilia, holding up her train. Then Artesius and Attendants. [_Music._] The Song _Roses, their sharp spines being gone, Not royal in their smells alone, But in their hue; Maiden pinks of odour faint, Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint, And sweet thyme true;_ _Primrose, first-born child of Ver, Merry springtime’s harbinger, With harebells dim, Oxlips in their cradles growing, Marigolds on deathbeds blowing, Lark’s-heels trim;_ [_Strews flowers._] _All dear Nature’s children sweet Lie ’fore bride and bridegroom’s feet, Blessing their sense. Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Is absent hence._ _The crow, the sland’rous cuckoo, nor The boding raven, nor chough hoar, Nor chatt’ring ’pie, May on our bride-house perch or sing, Or with them any discord bring, But from it fly._ Enter three Queens in black, with veils stained, with imperial crowns. The first Queen falls down at the foot of Theseus; the second falls down at the foot of Hippolyta; the third before Emilia. FIRST QUEEN. For pity’s sake and true gentility’s, Hear and respect me. SECOND QUEEN. For your mother’s sake, And as you wish your womb may thrive with fair ones, Hear and respect me. THIRD QUEEN. Now, for the love of him whom Jove hath marked The honour of your bed, and for the sake Of clear virginity, be advocate For us and our distresses. This good deed Shall raze you out o’ th’ book of trespasses All you are set down there. THESEUS. Sad lady, rise. HIPPOLYTA. Stand up. EMILIA. No knees to me. What woman I may stead that is distressed, Does bind me to her. THESEUS. What’s your request? Deliver you for all. FIRST QUEEN. We are three queens whose sovereigns fell before The wrath of cruel Creon, who endure The beaks of ravens, talons of the kites, And pecks of crows, in the foul fields of Thebes. He will not suffer us to burn their bones, To urn their ashes, nor to take th’ offence Of mortal loathsomeness from the blest eye Of holy Phœbus, but infects the winds With stench of our slain lords. O, pity, Duke! Thou purger of the earth, draw thy feared sword That does good turns to th’ world; give us the bones Of our dead kings, that we may chapel them; And of thy boundless goodness take some note That for our crowned heads we have no roof Save this, which is the lion’s and the bear’s, And vault to everything. THESEUS. Pray you, kneel not. I was transported with your speech and suffered Your knees to wrong themselves. I have heard the fortunes Of your dead lords, which gives me such lamenting As wakes my vengeance and revenge for ’em. King Capaneus was your lord. The day That he should marry you, at such a season As now it is with me, I met your groom By Mars’s altar. You were that time fair! Not Juno’s mantle fairer than your tresses, Nor in more bounty spread her. Your wheaten wreath Was then nor threshed nor blasted. Fortune at you Dimpled her cheek with smiles. Hercules, our kinsman, Then weaker than your eyes, laid by his club; He tumbled down upon his Nemean hide And swore his sinews thawed. O grief and time, Fearful consumers, you will all devour! FIRST QUEEN. O, I hope some god, Some god hath put his mercy in your manhood, Whereto he’ll infuse power, and press you forth Our undertaker. THESEUS. O, no knees, none, widow! Unto the helmeted Bellona use them, And pray for me, your soldier. Troubled I am. [_Turns away._] SECOND QUEEN. Honoured Hippolyta, Most dreaded Amazonian, that hast slain The scythe-tusked boar; that with thy arm, as strong As it is white, wast near to make the male To thy sex captive, but that this thy lord, Born to uphold creation in that honour First nature styled it in, shrunk thee into The bound thou wast o’erflowing, at once subduing Thy force and thy affection; soldieress That equally canst poise sternness with pity, Whom now I know hast much more power on him Than ever he had on thee, who ow’st his strength And his love too, who is a servant for The tenor of thy speech, dear glass of ladies, Bid him that we, whom flaming war doth scorch, Under the shadow of his sword may cool us; Require him he advance it o’er our heads; Speak ’t in a woman’s key, like such a woman As any of us three; weep ere you fail. Lend us a knee; But touch the ground for us no longer time Than a dove’s motion when the head’s plucked off. Tell him if he i’ th’ blood-sized field lay swollen, Showing the sun his teeth, grinning at the moon, What you would do. HIPPOLYTA. Poor lady, say no more. I had as lief trace this good action with you As that whereto I am going, and never yet Went I so willing way. My lord is taken Heart-deep with your distress. Let him consider; I’ll speak anon. THIRD QUEEN. O, my petition was Set down in ice, which by hot grief uncandied Melts into drops; so sorrow, wanting form, Is pressed with deeper matter. EMILIA. Pray, stand up; Your grief is written in your cheek. THIRD QUEEN. O, woe! You cannot read it there. There through my tears, Like wrinkled pebbles in a glassy stream, You may behold ’em. Lady, lady, alack! He that will all the treasure know o’ th’ earth Must know the center too; he that will fish For my least minnow, let him lead his line To catch one at my heart. O, pardon me! Extremity, that sharpens sundry wits, Makes me a fool. EMILIA. Pray you say nothing, pray you. Who cannot feel nor see the rain, being in ’t, Knows neither wet nor dry. If that you were The ground-piece of some painter, I would buy you T’ instruct me ’gainst a capital grief, indeed Such heart-pierced demonstration. But, alas, Being a natural sister of our sex, Your sorrow beats so ardently upon me That it shall make a counter-reflect ’gainst My brother’s heart and warm it to some pity, Though it were made of stone. Pray have good comfort. THESEUS. Forward to th’ temple! Leave not out a jot O’ th’ sacred ceremony. FIRST QUEEN. O, this celebration Will longer last and be more costly than Your suppliants’ war! Remember that your fame Knolls in the ear o’ th’ world; what you do quickly Is not done rashly; your first thought is more Than others’ laboured meditance, your premeditating More than their actions. But, O Jove, your actions, Soon as they move, as ospreys do the fish, Subdue before they touch. Think, dear Duke, think What beds our slain kings have! SECOND QUEEN. What griefs our beds, That our dear lords have none! THIRD QUEEN. None fit for th’ dead. Those that with cords, knives, drams, precipitance, Weary of this world’s light, have to themselves Been death’s most horrid agents, human grace Affords them dust and shadow. FIRST QUEEN. But our lords Lie blist’ring ’fore the visitating sun, And were good kings when living. THESEUS. It is true, and I will give you comfort To give your dead lords graves; The which to do must make some work with Creon. FIRST QUEEN. And that work presents itself to th’ doing. Now ’twill take form; the heats are gone tomorrow. Then, bootless toil must recompense itself With its own sweat. Now he’s secure, Not dreams we stand before your puissance, Rinsing our holy begging in our eyes To make petition clear. SECOND QUEEN. Now you may take him, drunk with his victory. THIRD QUEEN. And his army full of bread and sloth. THESEUS. Artesius, that best knowest How to draw out fit to this enterprise The prim’st for this proceeding, and the number To carry such a business: forth and levy Our worthiest instruments, whilst we dispatch This grand act of our life, this daring deed Of fate in wedlock. FIRST QUEEN. Dowagers, take hands. Let us be widows to our woes; delay Commends us to a famishing hope. ALL THE QUEENS. Farewell! SECOND QUEEN. We come unseasonably; but when could grief Cull forth, as unpanged judgement can, fitt’st time For best solicitation? THESEUS. Why, good ladies, This is a service, whereto I am going, Greater than any war; it more imports me Than all the actions that I have foregone, Or futurely can cope. FIRST QUEEN. The more proclaiming Our suit shall be neglected when her arms, Able to lock Jove from a synod, shall By warranting moonlight corselet thee. O, when Her twinning cherries shall their sweetness fall Upon thy tasteful lips, what wilt thou think Of rotten kings or blubbered queens? What care For what thou feel’st not, what thou feel’st being able To make Mars spurn his drum? O, if thou couch But one night with her, every hour in ’t will Take hostage of thee for a hundred, and Thou shalt remember nothing more than what That banquet bids thee to. HIPPOLYTA. Though much unlike You should be so transported, as much sorry I should be such a suitor, yet I think, Did I not, by th’ abstaining of my joy, Which breeds a deeper longing, cure their surfeit That craves a present med’cine, I should pluck All ladies’ scandal on me. Therefore, sir, [_She kneels._] As I shall here make trial of my prayers, Either presuming them to have some force, Or sentencing for aye their vigor dumb, Prorogue this business we are going about, and hang Your shield afore your heart, about that neck Which is my fee, and which I freely lend To do these poor queens service. ALL QUEENS. [_To Emilia_.] O, help now! Our cause cries for your knee. EMILIA. [_To Theseus, kneeling_.] If you grant not My sister her petition in that force, With that celerity and nature, which She makes it in, from henceforth I’ll not dare To ask you anything, nor be so hardy Ever to take a husband. THESEUS. Pray stand up. I am entreating of myself to do [_They rise._] That which you kneel to have me.—Pirithous, Lead on the bride; get you and pray the gods For success and return; omit not anything In the pretended celebration.—Queens, Follow your soldier. [_To Artesius._] As before, hence you, And at the banks of Aulis meet us with The forces you can raise, where we shall find The moiety of a number for a business More bigger looked. [_Exit Artesius._] [_To Hippolyta._] Since that our theme is haste, I stamp this kiss upon thy currant lip; Sweet, keep it as my token. Set you forward, For I will see you gone. [_The wedding procession moves towards the temple._] Farewell, my beauteous sister.—Pirithous, Keep the feast full; bate not an hour on ’t. PIRITHOUS. Sir, I’ll follow you at heels. The feast’s solemnity Shall want till your return. THESEUS. Cousin, I charge you, Budge not from Athens. We shall be returning Ere you can end this feast, of which I pray you Make no abatement. Once more, farewell all. [_Exeunt all but Theseus and the Queens._] FIRST QUEEN. Thus dost thou still make good the tongue o’ th’ world. SECOND QUEEN. And earn’st a deity equal with Mars. THIRD QUEEN. If not above him, for Thou, being but mortal, mak’st affections bend To godlike honours; they themselves, some say, Groan under such a mast’ry. THESEUS. As we are men, Thus should we do; being sensually subdued, We lose our human title. Good cheer, ladies. Now turn we towards your comforts. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE II. Thebes. The Court of the Palace Enter Palamon and Arcite. ARCITE. Dear Palamon, dearer in love than blood And our prime cousin, yet unhardened in The crimes of nature, let us leave the city Thebes, and the temptings in ’t, before we further Sully our gloss of youth And here to keep in abstinence we shame As in incontinence; for not to swim I’ th’ aid o’ th’ current, were almost to sink, At least to frustrate striving; and to follow The common stream, ’twould bring us to an eddy Where we should turn or drown; if labour through, Our gain but life and weakness. PALAMON. Your advice Is cried up with example. What strange ruins, Since first we went to school, may we perceive Walking in Thebes! Scars and bare weeds The gain o’ th’ martialist, who did propound To his bold ends honour and golden ingots, Which, though he won, he had not, and now flirted By peace for whom he fought! Who then shall offer To Mars’s so-scorned altar? I do bleed When such I meet, and wish great Juno would Resume her ancient fit of jealousy To get the soldier work, that peace might purge For her repletion, and retain anew Her charitable heart, now hard and harsher Than strife or war could be. ARCITE. Are you not out? Meet you no ruin but the soldier in The cranks and turns of Thebes? You did begin As if you met decays of many kinds. Perceive you none that do arouse your pity But th’ unconsidered soldier? PALAMON. Yes, I pity Decays where’er I find them, but such most That, sweating in an honourable toil, Are paid with ice to cool ’em. ARCITE. ’Tis not this I did begin to speak of. This is virtue Of no respect in Thebes. I spake of Thebes, How dangerous, if we will keep our honours, It is for our residing, where every evil Hath a good colour; where every seeming good’s A certain evil; where not to be e’en jump As they are here were to be strangers, and, Such things to be, mere monsters. PALAMON. ’Tis in our power— Unless we fear that apes can tutor ’s—to Be masters of our manners. What need I Affect another’s gait, which is not catching Where there is faith? Or to be fond upon Another’s way of speech, when by mine own I may be reasonably conceived, saved too, Speaking it truly? Why am I bound By any generous bond to follow him Follows his tailor, haply so long until The followed make pursuit? Or let me know Why mine own barber is unblessed, with him My poor chin too, for ’tis not scissored just To such a favourite’s glass? What canon is there That does command my rapier from my hip To dangle ’t in my hand, or to go tiptoe Before the street be foul? Either I am The fore-horse in the team, or I am none That draw i’ th’ sequent trace. These poor slight sores Need not a plantain; that which rips my bosom Almost to th’ heart’s— ARCITE. Our uncle Creon. PALAMON. He. A most unbounded tyrant, whose successes Makes heaven unfeared and villainy assured Beyond its power there’s nothing; almost puts Faith in a fever, and deifies alone Voluble chance; who only attributes The faculties of other instruments To his own nerves and act; commands men service, And what they win in ’t, boot and glory; one That fears not to do harm; good, dares not. Let The blood of mine that’s sib to him be sucked From me with leeches; let them break and fall Off me with that corruption. ARCITE. Clear-spirited cousin, Let’s leave his court, that we may nothing share Of his loud infamy; for our milk Will relish of the pasture, and we must Be vile or disobedient; not his kinsmen In blood unless in quality. PALAMON. Nothing truer. I think the echoes of his shames have deafed The ears of heavenly justice. Widows’ cries Descend again into their throats and have not Due audience of the gods. Enter Valerius. Valerius! VALERIUS. The King calls for you; yet be leaden-footed Till his great rage be off him. Phœbus, when He broke his whipstock and exclaimed against The horses of the sun, but whispered to The loudness of his fury. PALAMON. Small winds shake him. But what’s the matter? VALERIUS. Theseus, who where he threats appalls, hath sent Deadly defiance to him and pronounces Ruin to Thebes, who is at hand to seal The promise of his wrath. ARCITE. Let him approach. But that we fear the gods in him, he brings not A jot of terror to us. Yet what man Thirds his own worth—the case is each of ours— When that his action’s dregged with mind assured ’Tis bad he goes about? PALAMON. Leave that unreasoned. Our services stand now for Thebes, not Creon. Yet to be neutral to him were dishonour, Rebellious to oppose; therefore we must With him stand to the mercy of our fate, Who hath bounded our last minute. ARCITE. So we must. [_To Valerius._] Is ’t said this war’s afoot? Or, it shall be, On fail of some condition? VALERIUS. ’Tis in motion; The intelligence of state came in the instant With the defier. PALAMON. Let’s to the King; who, were he A quarter carrier of that honour which His enemy come in, the blood we venture Should be as for our health, which were not spent, Rather laid out for purchase. But alas, Our hands advanced before our hearts, what will The fall o’ th’ stroke do damage? ARCITE. Let th’ event, That never-erring arbitrator, tell us When we know all ourselves; and let us follow The becking of our chance. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Before the gates of Athens Enter Pirithous, Hippolyta and Emilia. PIRITHOUS. No further. HIPPOLYTA. Sir, farewell. Repeat my wishes To our great lord, of whose success I dare not Make any timorous question; yet I wish him Excess and overflow of power, an ’t might be, To dure ill-dealing fortune. Speed to him! Store never hurts good governors. PIRITHOUS. Though I know His ocean needs not my poor drops, yet they Must yield their tribute there. My precious maid, Those best affections that the heavens infuse In their best-tempered pieces keep enthroned In your dear heart! EMILIA. Thanks, sir. Remember me To our all-royal brother, for whose speed The great Bellona I’ll solicit; and Since in our terrene state petitions are not Without gifts understood, I’ll offer to her What I shall be advised she likes. Our hearts Are in his army, in his tent. HIPPOLYTA. In ’s bosom. We have been soldiers, and we cannot weep When our friends don their helms, or put to sea, Or tell of babes broached on the lance, or women That have sod their infants in—and after eat them— The brine they wept at killing ’em. Then if You stay to see of us such spinsters, we Should hold you here for ever. PIRITHOUS. Peace be to you As I pursue this war, which shall be then Beyond further requiring. [_Exit Pirithous._] EMILIA. How his longing Follows his friend! Since his depart, his sports, Though craving seriousness and skill, passed slightly His careless execution, where nor gain Made him regard, or loss consider, but Playing one business in his hand, another Directing in his head, his mind nurse equal To these so differing twins. Have you observed him Since our great lord departed? HIPPOLYTA. With much labour, And I did love him for ’t. They two have cabined In many as dangerous as poor a corner, Peril and want contending; they have skiffed Torrents whose roaring tyranny and power I’ th’ least of these was dreadful; and they have Fought out together where Death’s self was lodged; Yet fate hath brought them off. Their knot of love, Tied, weaved, entangled, with so true, so long, And with a finger of so deep a cunning, May be outworn, never undone. I think Theseus cannot be umpire to himself, Cleaving his conscience into twain and doing Each side like justice, which he loves best. EMILIA. Doubtless There is a best, and reason has no manners To say it is not you. I was acquainted Once with a time when I enjoyed a playfellow; You were at wars when she the grave enriched, Who made too proud the bed, took leave o’ th’ moon Which then looked pale at parting, when our count Was each eleven. HIPPOLYTA. ’Twas Flavina. EMILIA. Yes. You talk of Pirithous’ and Theseus’ love. Theirs has more ground, is more maturely seasoned, More buckled with strong judgement, and their needs The one of th’ other may be said to water Their intertangled roots of love; but I, And she I sigh and spoke of, were things innocent, Loved for we did, and like the elements That know not what nor why, yet do effect Rare issues by their operance, our souls Did so to one another. What she liked Was then of me approved, what not, condemned, No more arraignment. The flower that I would pluck And put between my breasts, O, then but beginning To swell about the blossom—she would long Till she had such another, and commit it To the like innocent cradle, where, phœnix-like, They died in perfume. On my head no toy But was her pattern; her affections—pretty, Though haply her careless wear—I followed For my most serious decking; had mine ear Stol’n some new air, or at adventure hummed one From musical coinage, why, it was a note Whereon her spirits would sojourn—rather, dwell on, And sing it in her slumbers. This rehearsal, Which fury-innocent wots well, comes in Like old importment’s bastard—has this end, That the true love ’tween maid and maid may be More than in sex individual. HIPPOLYTA. You’re out of breath; And this high-speeded pace is but to say That you shall never, like the maid Flavina, Love any that’s called man. EMILIA. I am sure I shall not. HIPPOLYTA. Now, alack, weak sister, I must no more believe thee in this point— Though in ’t I know thou dost believe thyself— Than I will trust a sickly appetite, That loathes even as it longs. But sure, my sister, If I were ripe for your persuasion, you Have said enough to shake me from the arm Of the all-noble Theseus; for whose fortunes I will now in and kneel, with great assurance That we, more than his Pirithous, possess The high throne in his heart. EMILIA. I am not Against your faith, yet I continue mine. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A field before Thebes. Cornets. A battle struck within; then a retreat. Flourish. Then enter, Theseus, as victor, with a Herald, other Lords, and Soldiers. The three Queens meet him and fall on their faces before him. FIRST QUEEN. To thee no star be dark! SECOND QUEEN. Both heaven and earth Friend thee for ever! THIRD QUEEN. All the good that may Be wished upon thy head, I cry “Amen” to ’t! THESEUS. Th’ impartial gods, who from the mounted heavens View us their mortal herd, behold who err And, in their time, chastise. Go and find out The bones of your dead lords and honour them With treble ceremony, rather than a gap Should be in their dear rites, we would supply ’t, But those we will depute which shall invest You in your dignities and even each thing Our haste does leave imperfect. So, adieu, And heaven’s good eyes look on you. [_Exeunt Queens._] Enter a Herald and Soldiers bearing Palamon and Arcite on hearses. What are those? HERALD. Men of great quality, as may be judged By their appointment. Some of Thebes have told ’s They are sisters’ children, nephews to the King. THESEUS. By th’ helm of Mars, I saw them in the war, Like to a pair of lions, smeared with prey, Make lanes in troops aghast. I fixed my note Constantly on them, for they were a mark Worth a god’s view. What prisoner was ’t that told me When I enquired their names? HERALD. Wi’ leave, they’re called Arcite and Palamon. THESEUS. ’Tis right; those, those. They are not dead? HERALD. Nor in a state of life. Had they been taken When their last hurts were given, ’twas possible They might have been recovered; yet they breathe And have the name of men. THESEUS. Then like men use ’em. The very lees of such, millions of rates, Exceed the wine of others. All our surgeons Convent in their behoof; our richest balms, Rather than niggard, waste. Their lives concern us Much more than Thebes is worth. Rather than have ’em Freed of this plight, and in their morning state, Sound and at liberty, I would ’em dead; But forty-thousandfold we had rather have ’em Prisoners to us than death. Bear ’em speedily From our kind air, to them unkind, and minister What man to man may do, for our sake, more, Since I have known frights, fury, friends’ behests, Love’s provocations, zeal, a mistress’ task, Desire of liberty, a fever, madness, Hath set a mark which nature could not reach to Without some imposition, sickness in will O’er-wrestling strength in reason. For our love And great Apollo’s mercy, all our best Their best skill tender. Lead into the city, Where, having bound things scattered, we will post To Athens ’fore our army. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE V. Another part of the same, more remote from Thebes Music. Enter the Queens with the hearses of their knights, in a funeral solemnity, &c. SONG. _Urns and odours bring away; Vapours, sighs, darken the day; Our dole more deadly looks than dying; Balms and gums and heavy cheers, Sacred vials filled with tears, And clamours through the wild air flying._ _Come, all sad and solemn shows That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes; We convent naught else but woes. We convent naught else but woes._ THIRD QUEEN. This funeral path brings to your household’s grave. Joy seize on you again; peace sleep with him. SECOND QUEEN. And this to yours. FIRST QUEEN. Yours this way. Heavens lend A thousand differing ways to one sure end. THIRD QUEEN. This world’s a city full of straying streets, And death’s the market-place where each one meets. [_Exeunt severally._] ACT II SCENE I. Athens. A garden, with a castle in the background Enter Jailer and Wooer. JAILER. I may depart with little while I live; something I may cast to you, not much. Alas, the prison I keep, though it be for great ones, yet they seldom come; before one salmon, you shall take a number of minnows. I am given out to be better lined than it can appear to me report is a true speaker. I would I were really that I am delivered to be. Marry, what I have, be it what it will, I will assure upon my daughter at the day of my death. WOOER. Sir, I demand no more than your own offer, and I will estate your daughter in what I have promised. JAILER. Well, we will talk more of this when the solemnity is past. But have you a full promise of her? When that shall be seen, I tender my consent. Enter the Jailer’s Daughter, carrying rushes. WOOER. I have sir. Here she comes. JAILER. Your friend and I have chanced to name you here, upon the old business. But no more of that now; so soon as the court hurry is over, we will have an end of it. I’ th’ meantime, look tenderly to the two prisoners. I can tell you they are princes. DAUGHTER. These strewings are for their chamber. ’Tis pity they are in prison, and ’twere pity they should be out. I do think they have patience to make any adversity ashamed. The prison itself is proud of ’em, and they have all the world in their chamber. JAILER. They are famed to be a pair of absolute men. DAUGHTER. By my troth, I think fame but stammers ’em; they stand a grise above the reach of report. JAILER. I heard them reported in the battle to be the only doers. DAUGHTER. Nay, most likely, for they are noble sufferers. I marvel how they would have looked had they been victors, that with such a constant nobility enforce a freedom out of bondage, making misery their mirth and affliction a toy to jest at. JAILER. Do they so? DAUGHTER. It seems to me they have no more sense of their captivity than I of ruling Athens. They eat well, look merrily, discourse of many things, but nothing of their own restraint and disasters. Yet sometime a divided sigh, martyred as ’twere i’ th’ deliverance, will break from one of them—when the other presently gives it so sweet a rebuke that I could wish myself a sigh to be so chid, or at least a sigher to be comforted. WOOER. I never saw ’em. JAILER. The Duke himself came privately in the night, and so did they. Enter Palamon and Arcite, above. What the reason of it is, I know not. Look, yonder they are; that’s Arcite looks out. DAUGHTER. No, sir, no, that’s Palamon. Arcite is the lower of the twain; you may perceive a part of him. JAILER. Go to, leave your pointing; they would not make us their object. Out of their sight. DAUGHTER. It is a holiday to look on them. Lord, the difference of men! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The prison Enter Palamon and Arcite in prison. PALAMON. How do you, noble cousin? ARCITE. How do you, sir? PALAMON. Why, strong enough to laugh at misery And bear the chance of war; yet we are prisoners I fear for ever, cousin. ARCITE. I believe it, And to that destiny have patiently Laid up my hour to come. PALAMON. O, cousin Arcite, Where is Thebes now? Where is our noble country? Where are our friends and kindreds? Never more Must we behold those comforts, never see The hardy youths strive for the games of honour, Hung with the painted favours of their ladies, Like tall ships under sail; then start amongst ’em, And as an east wind leave ’em all behind us, Like lazy clouds, whilst Palamon and Arcite, Even in the wagging of a wanton leg, Outstripped the people’s praises, won the garlands, Ere they have time to wish ’em ours. O, never Shall we two exercise, like twins of honour, Our arms again, and feel our fiery horses Like proud seas under us! Our good swords now— Better the red-eyed god of war ne’er wore— Ravished our sides, like age must run to rust And deck the temples of those gods that hate us; These hands shall never draw ’em out like lightning To blast whole armies more. ARCITE. No, Palamon, Those hopes are prisoners with us. Here we are, And here the graces of our youths must wither Like a too-timely spring; here age must find us And, which is heaviest, Palamon, unmarried. The sweet embraces of a loving wife, Loaden with kisses, armed with thousand Cupids, Shall never clasp our necks; no issue know us, No figures of ourselves shall we e’er see, To glad our age, and like young eagles teach ’em Boldly to gaze against bright arms and say “Remember what your fathers were, and conquer!” The fair-eyed maids shall weep our banishments And in their songs curse ever-blinded Fortune Till she for shame see what a wrong she has done To youth and nature. This is all our world. We shall know nothing here but one another, Hear nothing but the clock that tells our woes. The vine shall grow, but we shall never see it; Summer shall come, and with her all delights, But dead-cold winter must inhabit here still. PALAMON. ’Tis too true, Arcite. To our Theban hounds That shook the aged forest with their echoes No more now must we hallow, no more shake Our pointed javelins whilst the angry swine Flies like a Parthian quiver from our rages, Struck with our well-steeled darts. All valiant uses, The food and nourishment of noble minds, In us two here shall perish; we shall die, Which is the curse of honour, lastly, Children of grief and ignorance. ARCITE. Yet, cousin, Even from the bottom of these miseries, From all that fortune can inflict upon us, I see two comforts rising, two mere blessings, If the gods please: to hold here a brave patience, And the enjoying of our griefs together. Whilst Palamon is with me, let me perish If I think this our prison! PALAMON. Certainly ’Tis a main goodness, cousin, that our fortunes Were twined together; ’tis most true, two souls Put in two noble bodies, let ’em suffer The gall of hazard, so they grow together, Will never sink; they must not, say they could. A willing man dies sleeping and all’s done. ARCITE. Shall we make worthy uses of this place That all men hate so much? PALAMON. How, gentle cousin? ARCITE. Let’s think this prison holy sanctuary, To keep us from corruption of worse men. We are young and yet desire the ways of honour; That liberty and common conversation, The poison of pure spirits, might like women, Woo us to wander from. What worthy blessing Can be but our imaginations May make it ours? And here being thus together, We are an endless mine to one another; We are one another’s wife, ever begetting New births of love; we are father, friends, acquaintance; We are, in one another, families; I am your heir, and you are mine. This place Is our inheritance; no hard oppressor Dare take this from us; here with a little patience We shall live long and loving. No surfeits seek us; The hand of war hurts none here, nor the seas Swallow their youth. Were we at liberty, A wife might part us lawfully, or business; Quarrels consume us; envy of ill men Crave our acquaintance. I might sicken, cousin, Where you should never know it, and so perish Without your noble hand to close mine eyes, Or prayers to the gods. A thousand chances, Were we from hence, would sever us. PALAMON. You have made me— I thank you, cousin Arcite—almost wanton With my captivity. What a misery It is to live abroad and everywhere! ’Tis like a beast, methinks. I find the court here, I am sure, a more content; and all those pleasures That woo the wills of men to vanity I see through now, and am sufficient To tell the world ’tis but a gaudy shadow That old Time as he passes by takes with him. What had we been, old in the court of Creon, Where sin is justice, lust and ignorance The virtues of the great ones? Cousin Arcite, Had not the loving gods found this place for us, We had died as they do, ill old men, unwept, And had their epitaphs, the people’s curses. Shall I say more? ARCITE. I would hear you still. PALAMON. Ye shall. Is there record of any two that loved Better than we do, Arcite? ARCITE. Sure, there cannot. PALAMON. I do not think it possible our friendship Should ever leave us. ARCITE. Till our deaths it cannot; Enter Emilia and her Woman, below. And after death our spirits shall be led To those that love eternally. Speak on, sir. EMILIA. This garden has a world of pleasures in’t. What flower is this? WOMAN. ’Tis called narcissus, madam. EMILIA. That was a fair boy, certain, but a fool, To love himself. Were there not maids enough? ARCITE. Pray, forward. PALAMON. Yes. EMILIA. Or were they all hard-hearted? WOMAN. They could not be to one so fair. EMILIA. Thou wouldst not. WOMAN. I think I should not, madam. EMILIA. That’s a good wench. But take heed to your kindness, though. WOMAN. Why, madam? EMILIA. Men are mad things. ARCITE. Will ye go forward, cousin? EMILIA. Canst not thou work such flowers in silk, wench? WOMAN. Yes. EMILIA. I’ll have a gown full of ’em, and of these. This is a pretty colour; will ’t not do Rarely upon a skirt, wench? WOMAN. Dainty, madam. ARCITE. Cousin, cousin! How do you, sir? Why, Palamon! PALAMON. Never till now I was in prison, Arcite. ARCITE. Why, what’s the matter, man? PALAMON. Behold, and wonder! By heaven, she is a goddess. ARCITE. Ha! PALAMON. Do reverence. She is a goddess, Arcite. EMILIA. Of all flowers, Methinks a rose is best. WOMAN. Why, gentle madam? EMILIA. It is the very emblem of a maid. For when the west wind courts her gently, How modestly she blows and paints the sun With her chaste blushes! When the north comes near her, Rude and impatient, then, like chastity, She locks her beauties in her bud again, And leaves him to base briers. WOMAN. Yet, good madam, Sometimes her modesty will blow so far She falls for ’t. A maid, If she have any honour, would be loath To take example by her. EMILIA. Thou art wanton. ARCITE. She is wondrous fair. PALAMON. She is all the beauty extant. EMILIA. The sun grows high; let’s walk in. Keep these flowers. We’ll see how near art can come near their colours. I am wondrous merry-hearted. I could laugh now. WOMAN. I could lie down, I am sure. EMILIA. And take one with you? WOMAN. That’s as we bargain, madam. EMILIA. Well, agree then. [_Exeunt Emilia and Woman._] PALAMON. What think you of this beauty? ARCITE. ’Tis a rare one. PALAMON. Is’t but a rare one? ARCITE. Yes, a matchless beauty. PALAMON. Might not a man well lose himself, and love her? ARCITE. I cannot tell what you have done; I have, Beshrew mine eyes for’t! Now I feel my shackles. PALAMON. You love her, then? ARCITE. Who would not? PALAMON. And desire her? ARCITE. Before my liberty. PALAMON. I saw her first. ARCITE. That’s nothing. PALAMON. But it shall be. ARCITE. I saw her too. PALAMON. Yes, but you must not love her. ARCITE. I will not, as you do, to worship her As she is heavenly and a blessed goddess. I love her as a woman, to enjoy her. So both may love. PALAMON. You shall not love at all. ARCITE. Not love at all! Who shall deny me? PALAMON. I, that first saw her; I that took possession First with mine eye of all those beauties in her Revealed to mankind. If thou lovest her, Or entertain’st a hope to blast my wishes, Thou art a traitor, Arcite, and a fellow False as thy title to her. Friendship, blood, And all the ties between us, I disclaim If thou once think upon her. ARCITE. Yes, I love her; And, if the lives of all my name lay on it, I must do so; I love her with my soul. If that will lose ye, farewell, Palamon. I say again, I love, and in loving her maintain I am as worthy and as free a lover And have as just a title to her beauty, As any Palamon, or any living That is a man’s son. PALAMON. Have I called thee friend? ARCITE. Yes, and have found me so. Why are you moved thus? Let me deal coldly with you: am not I Part of your blood, part of your soul? You have told me That I was Palamon and you were Arcite. PALAMON. Yes. ARCITE. Am not I liable to those affections, Those joys, griefs, angers, fears, my friend shall suffer? PALAMON. Ye may be. ARCITE. Why then would you deal so cunningly, So strangely, so unlike a noble kinsman, To love alone? Speak truly; do you think me Unworthy of her sight? PALAMON. No; but unjust, If thou pursue that sight. ARCITE. Because another First sees the enemy, shall I stand still And let mine honour down, and never charge? PALAMON. Yes, if he be but one. ARCITE. But say that one Had rather combat me? PALAMON. Let that one say so, And use thy freedom. Else, if thou pursuest her, Be as that cursed man that hates his country, A branded villain. ARCITE. You are mad. PALAMON. I must be, Till thou art worthy, Arcite; it concerns me; And in this madness, if I hazard thee And take thy life, I deal but truely. ARCITE. Fie, sir! You play the child extremely. I will love her; I must, I ought to do so, and I dare, And all this justly. PALAMON. O, that now, that now, Thy false self and thy friend had but this fortune, To be one hour at liberty, and grasp Our good swords in our hands! I would quickly teach thee What ’twere to filch affection from another! Thou art baser in it than a cutpurse. Put but thy head out of this window more And, as I have a soul, I’ll nail thy life to ’t. ARCITE. Thou dar’st not, fool, thou canst not, thou art feeble. Put my head out? I’ll throw my body out And leap the garden, when I see her next And pitch between her arms, to anger thee. Enter Jailer. PALAMON. No more; the keeper’s coming. I shall live To knock thy brains out with my shackles. ARCITE. Do! JAILER. By your leave, gentlemen. PALAMON. Now, honest keeper? JAILER. Lord Arcite, you must presently to th’ Duke; The cause I know not yet. ARCITE. I am ready, keeper. JAILER. Prince Palamon, I must awhile bereave you Of your fair cousin’s company. [_Exeunt Arcite and Jailer._] PALAMON. And me too, Even when you please, of life.—Why is he sent for? It may be he shall marry her; he’s goodly, And like enough the Duke hath taken notice Both of his blood and body. But his falsehood! Why should a friend be treacherous? If that Get him a wife so noble and so fair, Let honest men ne’er love again. Once more I would but see this fair one. Blessed garden And fruit and flowers more blessed that still blossom As her bright eyes shine on ye! Would I were, For all the fortune of my life hereafter, Yon little tree, yon blooming apricock! How I would spread and fling my wanton arms In at her window! I would bring her fruit Fit for the gods to feed on; youth and pleasure Still as she tasted should be doubled on her; And, if she be not heavenly, I would make her So near the gods in nature, they should fear her. Enter Jailer. And then I am sure she would love me. How now, keeper? Where’s Arcite? JAILER. Banished. Prince Pirithous Obtained his liberty, but never more Upon his oath and life must he set foot Upon this kingdom. PALAMON. He’s a blessed man. He shall see Thebes again, and call to arms The bold young men that, when he bids ’em charge, Fall on like fire. Arcite shall have a fortune, If he dare make himself a worthy lover, Yet in the field to strike a battle for her; And, if he lose her then, he’s a cold coward. How bravely may he bear himself to win her If he be noble Arcite, thousand ways! Were I at liberty, I would do things Of such a virtuous greatness that this lady, This blushing virgin, should take manhood to her And seek to ravish me. JAILER. My lord for you I have this charge to— PALAMON. To discharge my life? JAILER. No, but from this place to remove your lordship; The windows are too open. PALAMON. Devils take ’em, That are so envious to me! Prithee, kill me. JAILER. And hang for’t afterward! PALAMON. By this good light, Had I a sword I would kill thee. JAILER. Why, my Lord? PALAMON. Thou bringst such pelting, scurvy news continually, Thou art not worthy life. I will not go. JAILER. Indeed, you must, my lord. PALAMON. May I see the garden? JAILER. No. PALAMON. Then I am resolved, I will not go. JAILER. I must constrain you then; and, for you are dangerous, I’ll clap more irons on you. PALAMON. Do, good keeper. I’ll shake ’em so, ye shall not sleep; I’ll make you a new morris. Must I go? JAILER. There is no remedy. PALAMON. Farewell, kind window. May rude wind never hurt thee!—O, my lady, If ever thou hast felt what sorrow was, Dream how I suffer.—Come, now bury me. [_Exeunt Palamon and Jailer._] SCENE III. The country near Athens Enter Arcite. ARCITE. Banished the kingdom? ’Tis a benefit, A mercy I must thank ’em for; but banished The free enjoying of that face I die for, O, ’twas a studied punishment, a death Beyond imagination, such a vengeance That, were I old and wicked, all my sins Could never pluck upon me. Palamon, Thou hast the start now; thou shalt stay and see Her bright eyes break each morning ’gainst thy window And let in life into thee; thou shalt feed Upon the sweetness of a noble beauty That nature ne’er exceeded nor ne’er shall. Good gods, what happiness has Palamon! Twenty to one, he’ll come to speak to her; And if she be as gentle as she’s fair, I know she’s his; he has a tongue will tame Tempests and make the wild rocks wanton. Come what can come, The worst is death; I will not leave the kingdom. I know mine own is but a heap of ruins, And no redress there. If I go, he has her. I am resolved another shape shall make me Or end my fortunes. Either way I am happy. I’ll see her and be near her, or no more. Enter four Countrymen, and one with a garland before them. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. My masters, I’ll be there, that’s certain. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And I’ll be there. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. And I. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Why, then, have with you, boys. ’Tis but a chiding. Let the plough play today; I’ll tickle ’t out Of the jades’ tails tomorrow. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. I am sure To have my wife as jealous as a turkey, But that’s all one. I’ll go through; let her mumble. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Clap her aboard tomorrow night, and stow her, And all’s made up again. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Ay, do but put A fescue in her fist and you shall see her Take a new lesson out and be a good wench. Do we all hold against the Maying? FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Hold? What should ail us? THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Arcas will be there. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And Sennois. And Rycas; and three better lads ne’er danced Under green tree. And ye know what wenches, ha? But will the dainty domine, the schoolmaster, Keep touch, do you think? For he does all, ye know. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. He’ll eat a hornbook ere he fail. Go to; The matter’s too far driven between him And the tanner’s daughter to let slip now; And she must see the Duke, and she must dance too. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Shall we be lusty? SECOND COUNTRYMAN. All the boys in Athens Blow wind i’ th’ breech on ’s. And here I’ll be, And there I’ll be, for our town, and here again, And there again. Ha, boys, hey for the weavers! FIRST COUNTRYMAN. This must be done i’ th’ woods. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. O, pardon me. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. By any means; our thing of learning says so— Where he himself will edify the Duke Most parlously in our behalfs. He’s excellent i’ th’ woods; Bring him to th’ plains, his learning makes no cry. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. We’ll see the sports, then every man to ’s tackle; And, sweet companions, let’s rehearse, by any means, Before the ladies see us, and do sweetly, And God knows what may come on ’t. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Content; the sports once ended, we’ll perform. Away, boys, and hold. ARCITE. By your leaves, honest friends: pray you, whither go you? FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Whither? Why, what a question’s that? ARCITE. Yes, ’tis a question To me that know not. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. To the games, my friend. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Where were you bred, you know it not? ARCITE. Not far, sir; Are there such games today? FIRST COUNTRYMAN. Yes, marry, are there, And such as you never saw; the Duke himself Will be in person there. ARCITE. What pastimes are they? SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Wrestling, and running.—’Tis a pretty fellow. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Thou wilt not go along? ARCITE. Not yet, sir. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Well, sir, Take your own time. Come, boys. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. My mind misgives me, This fellow has a vengeance trick o’ th’ hip; Mark how his body’s made for ’t. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. I’ll be hanged, though, If he dare venture. Hang him, plum porridge! He wrestle? He roast eggs! Come, let’s be gone, lads. [_Exeunt Countrymen._] ARCITE. This is an offered opportunity I durst not wish for. Well I could have wrestled— The best men called it excellent—and run Swifter than wind upon a field of corn, Curling the wealthy ears, never flew. I’ll venture, And in some poor disguise be there. Who knows Whether my brows may not be girt with garlands, And happiness prefer me to a place Where I may ever dwell in sight of her? [_Exit Arcite._] SCENE IV. Athens. A room in the prison Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone. DAUGHTER. Why should I love this gentleman? ’Tis odds He never will affect me. I am base, My father the mean keeper of his prison, And he a prince. To marry him is hopeless; To be his whore is witless. Out upon ’t! What pushes are we wenches driven to When fifteen once has found us! First, I saw him; I, seeing, thought he was a goodly man; He has as much to please a woman in him, If he please to bestow it so, as ever These eyes yet looked on. Next, I pitied him, And so would any young wench, o’ my conscience, That ever dreamed, or vowed her maidenhead To a young handsome man. Then I loved him, Extremely loved him, infinitely loved him! And yet he had a cousin, fair as he too, But in my heart was Palamon, and there, Lord, what a coil he keeps! To hear him Sing in an evening, what a heaven it is! And yet his songs are sad ones. Fairer spoken Was never gentleman. When I come in To bring him water in a morning, first He bows his noble body, then salutes me thus: “Fair, gentle maid, good morrow. May thy goodness Get thee a happy husband.” Once he kissed me; I loved my lips the better ten days after. Would he would do so ev’ry day! He grieves much— And me as much to see his misery. What should I do to make him know I love him? For I would fain enjoy him. Say I ventured To set him free? What says the law then? Thus much for law or kindred! I will do it; And this night, or tomorrow, he shall love me. [_Exit._] SCENE V. An open place in Athens A short flourish of cornets and shouts within. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, Emilia; Arcite in disguise as a countryman, with a garland, Attendants, and others. THESEUS. You have done worthily. I have not seen, Since Hercules, a man of tougher sinews. Whate’er you are, you run the best and wrestle, That these times can allow. ARCITE. I am proud to please you. THESEUS. What country bred you? ARCITE. This; but far off, Prince. THESEUS. Are you a gentleman? ARCITE. My father said so; And to those gentle uses gave me life. THESEUS. Are you his heir? ARCITE. His youngest, sir. THESEUS. Your father Sure is a happy sire then. What profess you? ARCITE. A little of all noble qualities. I could have kept a hawk and well have hallowed To a deep cry of dogs. I dare not praise My feat in horsemanship, yet they that knew me Would say it was my best piece; last, and greatest, I would be thought a soldier. THESEUS. You are perfect. PIRITHOUS. Upon my soul, a proper man. EMILIA. He is so. PIRITHOUS. How do you like him, lady? HIPPOLYTA. I admire him. I have not seen so young a man so noble, If he say true, of his sort. EMILIA. Believe, His mother was a wondrous handsome woman; His face, methinks, goes that way. HIPPOLYTA. But his body And fiery mind illustrate a brave father. PIRITHOUS. Mark how his virtue, like a hidden sun, Breaks through his baser garments. HIPPOLYTA. He’s well got, sure. THESEUS. What made you seek this place, sir? ARCITE. Noble Theseus, To purchase name and do my ablest service To such a well-found wonder as thy worth; For only in thy court, of all the world, Dwells fair-eyed Honour. PIRITHOUS. All his words are worthy. THESEUS. Sir, we are much indebted to your travel, Nor shall you lose your wish.—Pirithous, Dispose of this fair gentleman. PIRITHOUS. Thanks, Theseus. Whate’er you are, you’re mine, and I shall give you To a most noble service: to this lady, This bright young virgin; pray, observe her goodness. You have honoured her fair birthday with your virtues, And, as your due, you’re hers; kiss her fair hand, sir. ARCITE. Sir, you’re a noble giver.—Dearest beauty, Thus let me seal my vowed faith. [_He kisses her hand._] When your servant, Your most unworthy creature, but offends you, Command him die, he shall. EMILIA. That were too cruel. If you deserve well, sir, I shall soon see ’t. You’re mine, and somewhat better than your rank I’ll use you. PIRITHOUS. I’ll see you furnished, and because you say You are a horseman, I must needs entreat you This afternoon to ride, but ’tis a rough one. ARCITE. I like him better, Prince; I shall not then Freeze in my saddle. THESEUS. Sweet, you must be ready,— And you, Emilia,—and you, friend,—and all, Tomorrow by the sun, to do observance To flowery May, in Dian’s wood.—Wait well, sir, Upon your mistress.—Emily, I hope He shall not go afoot. EMILIA. That were a shame, sir, While I have horses.—Take your choice, and what You want at any time, let me but know it. If you serve faithfully, I dare assure you You’ll find a loving mistress. ARCITE. If I do not, Let me find that my father ever hated, Disgrace and blows. THESEUS. Go lead the way; you have won it. It shall be so; you shall receive all dues Fit for the honour you have won; ’twere wrong else. Sister, beshrew my heart, you have a servant, That, if I were a woman, would be master. But you are wise. EMILIA. I hope too wise for that, sir. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] SCENE VI. Athens. Before the prison Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone. DAUGHTER. Let all the dukes and all the devils roar, He is at liberty! I have ventured for him And out I have brought him; to a little wood A mile hence I have sent him, where a cedar Higher than all the rest spreads like a plane Fast by a brook, and there he shall keep close Till I provide him files and food, for yet His iron bracelets are not off. O Love, What a stout-hearted child thou art! My father Durst better have endured cold iron than done it. I love him beyond love and beyond reason, Or wit, or safety. I have made him know it; I care not, I am desperate. If the law Find me and then condemn me for ’t, some wenches, Some honest-hearted maids, will sing my dirge And tell to memory my death was noble, Dying almost a martyr. That way he takes, I purpose is my way too. Sure he cannot Be so unmanly as to leave me here. If he do, maids will not so easily Trust men again. And yet he has not thanked me For what I have done; no, not so much as kissed me, And that, methinks, is not so well; nor scarcely Could I persuade him to become a free man, He made such scruples of the wrong he did To me and to my father. Yet I hope, When he considers more, this love of mine Will take more root within him. Let him do What he will with me, so he use me kindly; For use me so he shall, or I’ll proclaim him, And to his face, no man. I’ll presently Provide him necessaries and pack my clothes up, And where there is a path of ground I’ll venture, So he be with me. By him, like a shadow I’ll ever dwell. Within this hour the hubbub Will be all o’er the prison. I am then Kissing the man they look for. Farewell, father! Get many more such prisoners and such daughters, And shortly you may keep yourself. Now to him. [_Exit._] ACT III SCENE I. A forest near Athens Cornets in sundry places. Noise and hallowing as people a-Maying. Enter Arcite alone. ARCITE. The Duke has lost Hippolyta; each took A several land. This is a solemn rite They owe bloomed May, and the Athenians pay it To th’ heart of ceremony. O Queen Emilia, Fresher than May, sweeter Than her gold buttons on the boughs, or all Th’ enameled knacks o’ th’ mead or garden—yea, We challenge too the bank of any nymph That makes the stream seem flowers; thou, O jewel O’ th’ wood, o’ th’ world, hast likewise blessed a pace With thy sole presence. In thy rumination That I, poor man, might eftsoons come between And chop on some cold thought! Thrice blessed chance To drop on such a mistress, expectation Most guiltless on ’t. Tell me, O Lady Fortune, Next after Emily my sovereign, how far I may be proud. She takes strong note of me, Hath made me near her, and this beauteous morn, The prim’st of all the year, presents me with A brace of horses; two such steeds might well Be by a pair of kings backed, in a field That their crowns’ titles tried. Alas, alas, Poor cousin Palamon, poor prisoner, thou So little dream’st upon my fortune that Thou think’st thyself the happier thing, to be So near Emilia; me thou deem’st at Thebes, And therein wretched, although free. But if Thou knew’st my mistress breathed on me, and that I eared her language, lived in her eye, O coz, What passion would enclose thee! Enter Palamon as out of a bush, with his shackles; he bends his fist at Arcite. PALAMON. Traitor kinsman, Thou shouldst perceive my passion, if these signs Of prisonment were off me, and this hand But owner of a sword. By all oaths in one, I and the justice of my love would make thee A confessed traitor! O thou most perfidious That ever gently looked, the void’st of honour That e’er bore gentle token, falsest cousin That ever blood made kin! Call’st thou her thine? I’ll prove it in my shackles, with these hands, Void of appointment, that thou liest, and art A very thief in love, a chaffy lord, Nor worth the name of villain. Had I a sword, And these house-clogs away— ARCITE. Dear cousin Palamon— PALAMON. Cozener Arcite, give me language such As thou hast showed me feat. ARCITE. Not finding in The circuit of my breast any gross stuff To form me like your blazon holds me to This gentleness of answer. ’Tis your passion That thus mistakes, the which, to you being enemy, Cannot to me be kind. Honour and honesty I cherish and depend on, howsoe’er You skip them in me, and with them, fair coz, I’ll maintain my proceedings. Pray be pleased To show in generous terms your griefs, since that Your question’s with your equal, who professes To clear his own way with the mind and sword Of a true gentleman. PALAMON. That thou durst, Arcite! ARCITE. My coz, my coz, you have been well advertised How much I dare; you’ve seen me use my sword Against th’ advice of fear. Sure, of another You would not hear me doubted, but your silence Should break out, though i’ th’ sanctuary. PALAMON. Sir, I have seen you move in such a place, which well Might justify your manhood; you were called A good knight and a bold. But the whole week’s not fair If any day it rain. Their valiant temper Men lose when they incline to treachery; And then they fight like compelled bears, would fly Were they not tied. ARCITE. Kinsman, you might as well Speak this and act it in your glass as to His ear which now disdains you. PALAMON. Come up to me; Quit me of these cold gyves, give me a sword Though it be rusty, and the charity Of one meal lend me. Come before me then, A good sword in thy hand, and do but say That Emily is thine, I will forgive The trespass thou hast done me, yea, my life, If then thou carry ’t; and brave souls in shades That have died manly, which will seek of me Some news from earth, they shall get none but this: That thou art brave and noble. ARCITE. Be content. Again betake you to your hawthorn house. With counsel of the night, I will be here With wholesome viands. These impediments Will I file off; you shall have garments and Perfumes to kill the smell o’ th’ prison. After, When you shall stretch yourself and say but “Arcite, I am in plight,” there shall be at your choice Both sword and armour. PALAMON. Oh you heavens, dares any So noble bear a guilty business? None But only Arcite, therefore none but Arcite In this kind is so bold. ARCITE. Sweet Palamon. PALAMON. I do embrace you and your offer; for Your offer do ’t I only, sir; your person, Without hypocrisy I may not wish More than my sword’s edge on ’t. [_Wind horns of cornets._] ARCITE. You hear the horns. Enter your musit, lest this match between ’s Be crossed ere met. Give me your hand; farewell. I’ll bring you every needful thing. I pray you, Take comfort and be strong. PALAMON. Pray hold your promise, And do the deed with a bent brow. Most certain You love me not; be rough with me, and pour This oil out of your language. By this air, I could for each word give a cuff, my stomach Not reconciled by reason. ARCITE. Plainly spoken. Yet pardon me hard language. When I spur My horse, I chide him not; content and anger In me have but one face. [_Wind horns._] Hark, sir, they call The scattered to the banquet. You must guess I have an office there. PALAMON. Sir, your attendance Cannot please heaven, and I know your office Unjustly is achieved. ARCITE. ’Tis a good title. I am persuaded, this question, sick between ’s, By bleeding must be cured. I am a suitor That to your sword you will bequeath this plea, And talk of it no more. PALAMON. But this one word: You are going now to gaze upon my mistress, For, note you, mine she is— ARCITE. Nay, then— PALAMON. Nay, pray you, You talk of feeding me to breed me strength. You are going now to look upon a sun That strengthens what it looks on; there You have a vantage o’er me. But enjoy ’t till I may enforce my remedy. Farewell. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another Part of the forest Enter Jailer’s Daughter alone. DAUGHTER. He has mistook the brake I meant, is gone After his fancy. ’Tis now well-nigh morning. No matter; would it were perpetual night, And darkness lord o’ th’ world. Hark, ’tis a wolf! In me hath grief slain fear, and but for one thing, I care for nothing, and that’s Palamon. I reck not if the wolves would jaw me, so He had this file. What if I hallowed for him? I cannot hallow. If I whooped, what then? If he not answered, I should call a wolf, And do him but that service. I have heard Strange howls this livelong night; why may ’t not be They have made prey of him? He has no weapons; He cannot run; the jingling of his gyves Might call fell things to listen, who have in them A sense to know a man unarmed and can Smell where resistance is. I’ll set it down He’s torn to pieces; they howled many together, And then they fed on him. So much for that. Be bold to ring the bell. How stand I then? All’s chared when he is gone. No, no, I lie. My father’s to be hanged for his escape; Myself to beg, if I prized life so much As to deny my act; but that I would not, Should I try death by dozens. I am moped. Food took I none these two days; Sipped some water. I have not closed mine eyes Save when my lids scoured off their brine. Alas, Dissolve, my life! Let not my sense unsettle, Lest I should drown, or stab, or hang myself. O state of nature, fail together in me, Since thy best props are warped! So, which way now? The best way is the next way to a grave; Each errant step beside is torment. Lo, The moon is down, the crickets chirp, the screech owl Calls in the dawn. All offices are done Save what I fail in. But the point is this: An end, and that is all. [_Exit._] SCENE III. The same part of the forest as in scene I. Enter Arcite with meat, wine and files. ARCITE. I should be near the place.—Ho! Cousin Palamon! PALAMON. [_From the bush._] Arcite? ARCITE. The same. I have brought you food and files. Come forth and fear not; here’s no Theseus. Enter Palamon. PALAMON. Nor none so honest, Arcite. ARCITE. That’s no matter. We’ll argue that hereafter. Come, take courage; You shall not die thus beastly. Here, sir, drink— I know you are faint—then I’ll talk further with you. PALAMON. Arcite, thou mightst now poison me. ARCITE. I might; But I must fear you first. Sit down and, good now, No more of these vain parleys; let us not, Having our ancient reputation with us, Make talk for fools and cowards. To your health. [_Drinks._] PALAMON. Do. ARCITE. Pray sit down, then, and let me entreat you, By all the honesty and honour in you, No mention of this woman; ’twill disturb us. We shall have time enough. PALAMON. Well, sir, I’ll pledge you. [_Drinks._] ARCITE. Drink a good hearty draught; it breeds good blood, man. Do not you feel it thaw you? PALAMON. Stay, I’ll tell you After a draught or two more. ARCITE. Spare it not; the Duke has more, coz. Eat now. PALAMON. Yes. [_Eats._] ARCITE. I am glad you have so good a stomach. PALAMON. I am gladder I have so good meat to ’t. ARCITE. Is’t not mad lodging, Here in the wild woods, cousin? PALAMON. Yes, for them That have wild consciences. ARCITE. How tastes your victuals? Your hunger needs no sauce, I see. PALAMON. Not much. But if it did, yours is too tart, sweet cousin. What is this? ARCITE. Venison. PALAMON. ’Tis a lusty meat. Give me more wine. Here, Arcite, to the wenches We have known in our days! The Lord Steward’s daughter, Do you remember her? ARCITE. After you, coz. PALAMON. She loved a black-haired man. ARCITE. She did so; well, sir? PALAMON. And I have heard some call him Arcite, and— ARCITE. Out with’t, faith. PALAMON. She met him in an arbour. What did she there, coz? Play o’ th’ virginals? ARCITE. Something she did, sir. PALAMON. Made her groan a month for ’t, Or two, or three, or ten. ARCITE. The Marshal’s sister Had her share too, as I remember, cousin, Else there be tales abroad. You’ll pledge her? PALAMON. Yes. ARCITE. A pretty brown wench ’tis. There was a time When young men went a-hunting, and a wood, And a broad beech; and thereby hangs a tale. Heigh ho! PALAMON. For Emily, upon my life! Fool, Away with this strained mirth! I say again That sigh was breathed for Emily. Base cousin, Dar’st thou break first? ARCITE. You are wide. PALAMON. By heaven and earth, There’s nothing in thee honest. ARCITE. Then I’ll leave you. You are a beast now. PALAMON. As thou mak’st me, traitor. ARCITE. There’s all things needful: files and shirts and perfumes. I’ll come again some two hours hence, and bring That that shall quiet all. PALAMON. A sword and armour? ARCITE. Fear me not. You are now too foul. Farewell. Get off your trinkets; you shall want naught. PALAMON. Sirrah— ARCITE. I’ll hear no more. [_Exit._] PALAMON. If he keep touch, he dies for ’t. [_Exit._] SCENE IV. Another part of the forest Enter Jailer’s Daughter. DAUGHTER. I am very cold, and all the stars are out too, The little stars and all, that look like aglets. The sun has seen my folly. Palamon! Alas, no; he’s in heaven. Where am I now? Yonder’s the sea, and there’s a ship; how ’t tumbles! And there’s a rock lies watching under water; Now, now, it beats upon it; now, now, now, There’s a leak sprung, a sound one! How they cry! Run her before the wind, you’ll lose all else. Up with a course or two, and tack about, boys! Good night, good night; you’re gone. I am very hungry. Would I could find a fine frog; he would tell me News from all parts o’ th’ world; then would I make A carrack of a cockle shell, and sail By east and north-east to the king of pygmies, For he tells fortunes rarely. Now my father, Twenty to one, is trussed up in a trice Tomorrow morning. I’ll say never a word. [_Sings._] _For I’ll cut my green coat a foot above my knee, And I’ll clip my yellow locks an inch below mine eye. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny. He’s buy me a white cut, forth for to ride, And I’ll go seek him through the world that is so wide. Hey nonny, nonny, nonny._ O, for a prick now, like a nightingale, To put my breast against. I shall sleep like a top else. [_Exit._] SCENE V. Another part of the forest Enter a Schoolmaster and five Countrymen, one dressed as a Bavian. SCHOOLMASTER. Fie, fie, What tediosity and disinsanity Is here among ye! Have my rudiments Been laboured so long with ye, milked unto ye, And, by a figure, even the very plum-broth And marrow of my understanding laid upon ye, And do you still cry “Where?” and “How?” and “Wherefore?” You most coarse-frieze capacities, ye jean judgements, Have I said “Thus let be” and “There let be” And “Then let be” and no man understand me? _Proh Deum, medius fidius_, ye are all dunces! For why? Here stand I; here the Duke comes; there are you, Close in the thicket; the Duke appears; I meet him And unto him I utter learned things And many figures; he hears, and nods, and hums, And then cries “Rare!” and I go forward. At length I fling my cap up—mark there! Then do you As once did Meleager and the boar, Break comely out before him; like true lovers, Cast yourselves in a body decently, And sweetly, by a figure, trace and turn, boys. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And sweetly we will do it, Master Gerald. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Draw up the company. Where’s the taborer? THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Why, Timothy! TABORER. Here, my mad boys, have at ye. SCHOOLMASTER. But I say, where’s their women? Enter five Countrywomen. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Here’s Friz and Maudlin. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. And little Luce with the white legs, and bouncing Barbary. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. And freckled Nel, that never failed her master. SCHOOLMASTER. Where be your ribbons, maids? Swim with your bodies, And carry it sweetly and deliverly, And now and then a favour and a frisk. NEL. Let us alone, sir. SCHOOLMASTER. Where’s the rest o’ th’ music? THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Dispersed, as you commanded. SCHOOLMASTER. Couple, then, And see what’s wanting. Where’s the Bavian? My friend, carry your tail without offence Or scandal to the ladies; and be sure You tumble with audacity and manhood; And when you bark, do it with judgement. BAVIAN. Yes, sir. SCHOOLMASTER. _Quo usque tandem?_ Here is a woman wanting. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. We may go whistle; all the fat’s i’ th’ fire. SCHOOLMASTER. We have, as learned authors utter, washed a tile. we have been _fatuus_ and laboured vainly. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. This is that scornful piece, that scurvy hilding, That gave her promise faithfully, she would be here, Cicely, the sempster’s daughter. The next gloves that I give her shall be dogskin! Nay an she fail me once—You can tell, Arcas, She swore by wine and bread, she would not break. SCHOOLMASTER. An eel and woman, A learned poet says, unless by th’ tail And with thy teeth thou hold, will either fail. In manners this was false position. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A fire ill take her; does she flinch now? THIRD COUNTRYMAN. What Shall we determine, sir? SCHOOLMASTER. Nothing. Our business is become a nullity, Yea, and a woeful and a piteous nullity. FOURTH COUNTRYMAN. Now, when the credit of our town lay on it, Now to be frampul, now to piss o’ th’ nettle! Go thy ways; I’ll remember thee. I’ll fit thee. Enter Jailer’s Daughter. DAUGHTER. [_Sings_.] _The George Alow came from the south, From the coast of Barbary-a. And there he met with brave gallants of war, By one, by two, by three-a._ _Well hailed, well hailed, you jolly gallants, And whither now are you bound-a? O let me have your company Till I come to the sound-a._ _There was three fools fell out about an howlet: The one said it was an owl, The other he said nay, The third he said it was a hawk, And her bells were cut away._ THIRD COUNTRYMAN. There’s a dainty mad woman, Master, Comes i’ th’ nick, as mad as a March hare. If we can get her dance, we are made again; I warrant her, she’ll do the rarest gambols. FIRST COUNTRYMAN. A madwoman? We are made, boys. SCHOOLMASTER. And are you mad, good woman? DAUGHTER. I would be sorry else. Give me your hand. SCHOOLMASTER. Why? DAUGHTER. I can tell your fortune. You are a fool. Tell ten. I have posed him. Buzz! Friend, you must eat no white bread; if you do, Your teeth will bleed extremely. Shall we dance, ho? I know you, you’re a tinker; sirrah tinker, Stop no more holes but what you should. SCHOOLMASTER. _Dii boni!_ A tinker, damsel? DAUGHTER. Or a conjurer. Raise me a devil now, and let him play _Qui passa_ o’ th’ bells and bones. SCHOOLMASTER. Go, take her, And fluently persuade her to a peace. _Et opus exegi, quod nec Jovis ira, nec ignis—_ Strike up, and lead her in. SECOND COUNTRYMAN. Come, lass, let’s trip it. DAUGHTER. I’ll lead. THIRD COUNTRYMAN. Do, do! SCHOOLMASTER. Persuasively, and cunningly. Away, boys; I hear the horns. Give me some meditation, And mark your cue. [_Exeunt all but Schoolmaster._] Pallas inspire me. Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, and train. THESEUS. This way the stag took. SCHOOLMASTER. Stay, and edify! THESEUS. What have we here? PIRITHOUS. Some country sport, upon my life, sir. THESEUS. Well, sir, go forward; we will “edify.” Ladies, sit down. We’ll stay it. SCHOOLMASTER. Thou doughty Duke, all hail! All hail, sweet ladies! THESEUS. This is a cold beginning. SCHOOLMASTER. If you but favour, our country pastime made is. We are a few of those collected here That ruder tongues distinguish “villager.” And to say verity, and not to fable, We are a merry rout, or else a _rabble_, Or company, or by a figure, _chorus_, That ’fore thy dignity will dance a morris. And I that am the rectifier of all, By title _pædagogus_, that let fall The birch upon the breeches of the small ones, And humble with a ferula the tall ones, Do here present this machine, or this frame. And, dainty Duke, whose doughty dismal fame From Dis to Dædalus, from post to pillar, Is blown abroad, help me, thy poor well-willer, And with thy twinkling eyes look right and straight Upon this mighty _Morr_, of mickle weight. _Is_ now comes in, which being glued together Makes _Morris_, and the cause that we came hither. The body of our sport, of no small study. I first appear, though rude and raw and muddy, To speak before thy noble grace this tenner, At whose great feet I offer up my penner. The next, the Lord of May and Lady bright, The Chambermaid and Servingman, by night That seek out silent hanging; then mine Host And his fat Spouse, that welcomes to their cost The galled traveller, and with a beck’ning Informs the tapster to inflame the reck’ning. Then the beest-eating Clown and next the Fool, The Bavian with long tail and eke long tool, _Cum multis aliis_ that make a dance. Say “Ay,” and all shall presently advance. THESEUS. Ay, ay, by any means, dear _Domine_. PIRITHOUS. Produce. SCHOOLMASTER. _Intrate, filii!_ Come forth and foot it. Music. Enter the Countrymen, Countrywomen and Jailer’s Daughter; they perform a morris dance. Ladies, if we have been merry And have pleased ye with a derry, And a derry, and a down, Say the schoolmaster’s no clown. Duke, if we have pleased thee too And have done as good boys should do, Give us but a tree or twain For a Maypole, and again, Ere another year run out, We’ll make thee laugh, and all this rout. THESEUS. Take twenty, _Domine_.—How does my sweetheart? HIPPOLYTA. Never so pleased, sir. EMILIA. ’Twas an excellent dance, And, for a preface, I never heard a better. THESEUS. Schoolmaster, I thank you.—One see’em all rewarded. PIRITHOUS. And here’s something to paint your pole withal. [_He gives money._] THESEUS. Now to our sports again. SCHOOLMASTER. May the stag thou hunt’st stand long, And thy dogs be swift and strong; May they kill him without lets, And the ladies eat his dowsets. [_Exeunt Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite and Train. Horns winded as they go out._] Come, we are all made. _Dii deæque omnes_, You have danced rarely, wenches. [_Exeunt._] SCENE VI. The same part of the forest as in scene III. Enter Palamon from the bush. PALAMON. About this hour my cousin gave his faith To visit me again, and with him bring Two swords and two good armours. If he fail, He’s neither man nor soldier. When he left me, I did not think a week could have restored My lost strength to me, I was grown so low And crestfall’n with my wants. I thank thee, Arcite, Thou art yet a fair foe, and I feel myself, With this refreshing, able once again To outdure danger. To delay it longer Would make the world think, when it comes to hearing, That I lay fatting like a swine to fight And not a soldier. Therefore, this blest morning Shall be the last; and that sword he refuses, If it but hold, I kill him with. ’Tis justice. So, love and fortune for me! Enter Arcite with armours and swords. O, good morrow. ARCITE. Good morrow, noble kinsman. PALAMON. I have put you To too much pains, sir. ARCITE. That too much, fair cousin, Is but a debt to honour, and my duty. PALAMON. Would you were so in all, sir; I could wish ye As kind a kinsman as you force me find A beneficial foe, that my embraces Might thank ye, not my blows. ARCITE. I shall think either, Well done, a noble recompence. PALAMON. Then I shall quit you. ARCITE. Defy me in these fair terms, and you show More than a mistress to me. No more anger, As you love anything that’s honourable! We were not bred to talk, man; when we are armed And both upon our guards, then let our fury, Like meeting of two tides, fly strongly from us; And then to whom the birthright of this beauty Truly pertains—without upbraidings, scorns, Despisings of our persons, and such poutings, Fitter for girls and schoolboys—will be seen, And quickly, yours or mine. Will ’t please you arm, sir? Or, if you feel yourself not fitting yet And furnished with your old strength, I’ll stay, cousin, And every day discourse you into health, As I am spared. Your person I am friends with, And I could wish I had not said I loved her, Though I had died; but, loving such a lady, And justifying my love, I must not fly from ’t. PALAMON. Arcite, thou art so brave an enemy, That no man but thy cousin’s fit to kill thee. I am well and lusty; choose your arms. ARCITE. Choose you, sir. PALAMON. Wilt thou exceed in all, or dost thou do it To make me spare thee? ARCITE. If you think so, cousin, You are deceived, for as I am a soldier, I will not spare you. PALAMON. That’s well said. ARCITE. You’ll find it. PALAMON. Then, as I am an honest man and love With all the justice of affection, I’ll pay thee soundly. [_He chooses armour._] This I’ll take. ARCITE. That’s mine, then. I’ll arm you first. PALAMON. Do. [_Arcite begins arming him._] Pray thee, tell me, cousin, Where got’st thou this good armour? ARCITE. ’Tis the Duke’s, And, to say true, I stole it. Do I pinch you? PALAMON. No. ARCITE. Is’t not too heavy? PALAMON. I have worn a lighter, But I shall make it serve. ARCITE. I’ll buckle ’t close. PALAMON. By any means. ARCITE. You care not for a grand guard? PALAMON. No, no; we’ll use no horses: I perceive You would fain be at that fight. ARCITE. I am indifferent. PALAMON. Faith, so am I. Good cousin, thrust the buckle Through far enough. ARCITE. I warrant you. PALAMON. My casque now. ARCITE. Will you fight bare-armed? PALAMON. We shall be the nimbler. ARCITE. But use your gauntlets though. Those are o’ th’ least; Prithee take mine, good cousin. PALAMON. Thank you, Arcite. How do I look? Am I fall’n much away? ARCITE. Faith, very little; love has used you kindly. PALAMON. I’ll warrant thee, I’ll strike home. ARCITE. Do, and spare not. I’ll give you cause, sweet cousin. PALAMON. Now to you, sir. [_He begins to arm Arcite._] Methinks this armour’s very like that, Arcite, Thou wor’st that day the three kings fell, but lighter. ARCITE. That was a very good one; and that day, I well remember, you outdid me, cousin; I never saw such valour. When you charged Upon the left wing of the enemy, I spurred hard to come up, and under me I had a right good horse. PALAMON. You had indeed; A bright bay, I remember. ARCITE. Yes, but all Was vainly laboured in me; you outwent me, Nor could my wishes reach you. Yet a little I did by imitation. PALAMON. More by virtue; You are modest, cousin. ARCITE. When I saw you charge first, Me thought I heard a dreadful clap of thunder Break from the troop. PALAMON. But still before that flew The lightning of your valour. Stay a little; Is not this piece too strait? ARCITE. No, no, ’tis well. PALAMON. I would have nothing hurt thee but my sword. A bruise would be dishonour. ARCITE. Now I am perfect. PALAMON. Stand off, then. ARCITE. Take my sword; I hold it better. PALAMON. I thank ye, no; keep it; your life lies on it. Here’s one; if it but hold, I ask no more For all my hopes. My cause and honour guard me! ARCITE. And me my love! [_They bow several ways, then advance and stand._] Is there aught else to say? PALAMON. This only, and no more. Thou art mine aunt’s son. And that blood we desire to shed is mutual, In me thine, and in thee mine. My sword Is in my hand, and if thou killest me, The gods and I forgive thee. If there be A place prepared for those that sleep in honour, I wish his weary soul that falls may win it. Fight bravely, cousin; give me thy noble hand. ARCITE. Here, Palamon. This hand shall never more Come near thee with such friendship. PALAMON. I commend thee. ARCITE. If I fall, curse me, and say I was a coward, For none but such dare die in these just trials. Once more farewell, my cousin. PALAMON. Farewell, Arcite. [_They fight. Horns within. They stand_.] ARCITE. Lo, cousin, lo, our folly has undone us. PALAMON. Why? ARCITE. This is the Duke, a-hunting, as I told you. If we be found, we are wretched. O, retire, For honour’s sake and safety, presently Into your bush again. Sir, we shall find Too many hours to die in. Gentle cousin, If you be seen, you perish instantly For breaking prison and I, if you reveal me, For my contempt. Then all the world will scorn us, And say we had a noble difference, But base disposers of it. PALAMON. No, no, cousin, I will no more be hidden, nor put off This great adventure to a second trial; I know your cunning and I know your cause. He that faints now, shame take him! Put thyself Upon thy present guard— ARCITE. You are not mad? PALAMON. Or I will make th’advantage of this hour Mine own, and what to come shall threaten me I fear less than my fortune. Know, weak cousin, I love Emilia, and in that I’ll bury Thee, and all crosses else. ARCITE. Then, come what can come, Thou shalt know, Palamon, I dare as well Die, as discourse, or sleep. Only this fears me, The law will have the honour of our ends. Have at thy life! PALAMON. Look to thine own well, Arcite. [_They fight. Horns within. They stand._] Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and train. THESEUS. What ignorant and mad malicious traitors Are you, that ’gainst the tenor of my laws Are making battle, thus like knights appointed, Without my leave, and officers of arms? By Castor, both shall die. PALAMON. Hold thy word, Theseus. We are certainly both traitors, both despisers Of thee and of thy goodness. I am Palamon, That cannot love thee, he that broke thy prison. Think well what that deserves. And this is Arcite. A bolder traitor never trod thy ground, A falser ne’er seemed friend. This is the man Was begged and banished; this is he contemns thee And what thou dar’st do; and in this disguise, Against thine own edict, follows thy sister, That fortunate bright star, the fair Emilia, Whose servant—if there be a right in seeing And first bequeathing of the soul to—justly I am; and, which is more, dares think her his. This treachery, like a most trusty lover, I called him now to answer. If thou be’st As thou art spoken, great and virtuous, The true decider of all injuries, Say “Fight again,” and thou shalt see me, Theseus, Do such a justice thou thyself wilt envy. Then take my life; I’ll woo thee to ’t. PIRITHOUS. O heaven, What more than man is this! THESEUS. I have sworn. ARCITE. We seek not Thy breath of mercy, Theseus. ’Tis to me A thing as soon to die as thee to say it, And no more moved. Where this man calls me traitor, Let me say thus much: if in love be treason, In service of so excellent a beauty, As I love most, and in that faith will perish, As I have brought my life here to confirm it, As I have served her truest, worthiest, As I dare kill this cousin that denies it, So let me be most traitor, and you please me. For scorning thy edict, Duke, ask that lady Why she is fair, and why her eyes command me Stay here to love her; and if she say “traitor,” I am a villain fit to lie unburied. PALAMON. Thou shalt have pity of us both, O Theseus, If unto neither thou show mercy. Stop, As thou art just, thy noble ear against us; As thou art valiant, for thy cousin’s soul, Whose twelve strong labours crown his memory, Let’s die together at one instant, Duke; Only a little let him fall before me, That I may tell my soul he shall not have her. THESEUS. I grant your wish, for, to say true, your cousin Has ten times more offended, for I gave him More mercy than you found, sir, your offences Being no more than his. None here speak for ’em, For, ere the sun set, both shall sleep for ever. HIPPOLYTA. Alas the pity! Now or never, sister, Speak, not to be denied. That face of yours Will bear the curses else of after ages For these lost cousins. EMILIA. In my face, dear sister, I find no anger to ’em, nor no ruin; The misadventure of their own eyes kill ’em. Yet that I will be woman and have pity, My knees shall grow to’ th’ ground but I’ll get mercy. [_She kneels._] Help me, dear sister; in a deed so virtuous The powers of all women will be with us. Most royal brother— HIPPOLYTA. [_Kneels._] Sir, by our tie of marriage— EMILIA. By your own spotless honour— HIPPOLYTA. By that faith, That fair hand, and that honest heart you gave me— EMILIA. By that you would have pity in another, By your own virtues infinite— HIPPOLYTA. By valour, By all the chaste nights I have ever pleased you— THESEUS. These are strange conjurings. PIRITHOUS. Nay, then, I’ll in too. [_Kneels._] By all our friendship, sir, by all our dangers, By all you love most: wars and this sweet lady— EMILIA. By that you would have trembled to deny A blushing maid— HIPPOLYTA. By your own eyes, by strength, In which you swore I went beyond all women, Almost all men, and yet I yielded, Theseus— PIRITHOUS. To crown all this, by your most noble soul, Which cannot want due mercy, I beg first. HIPPOLYTA. Next, hear my prayers. EMILIA. Last, let me entreat, sir. PIRITHOUS. For mercy. HIPPOLYTA. Mercy. EMILIA. Mercy on these princes. THESEUS. Ye make my faith reel. Say I felt Compassion to’em both, how would you place it? [_Emilia, Hippolyta and Pirithous rise._] EMILIA. Upon their lives. But with their banishments. THESEUS. You are a right woman, sister: you have pity, But want the understanding where to use it. If you desire their lives, invent a way Safer than banishment. Can these two live, And have the agony of love about ’em, And not kill one another? Every day They’d fight about you, hourly bring your honour In public question with their swords. Be wise, then, And here forget ’em; it concerns your credit And my oath equally. I have said they die. Better they fall by th’ law than one another. Bow not my honour. EMILIA. O, my noble brother, That oath was rashly made, and in your anger; Your reason will not hold it; if such vows Stand for express will, all the world must perish. Besides, I have another oath ’gainst yours, Of more authority, I am sure more love, Not made in passion neither, but good heed. THESEUS. What is it, sister? PIRITHOUS. Urge it home, brave lady. EMILIA. That you would ne’er deny me anything Fit for my modest suit and your free granting. I tie you to your word now; if ye fail in ’t, Think how you maim your honour— For now I am set a-begging, sir, I am deaf To all but your compassion—how their lives Might breed the ruin of my name. Opinion! Shall anything that loves me perish for me? That were a cruel wisdom. Do men prune The straight young boughs that blush with thousand blossoms Because they may be rotten? O, Duke Theseus, The goodly mothers that have groaned for these, And all the longing maids that ever loved, If your vow stand, shall curse me and my beauty, And in their funeral songs for these two cousins Despise my cruelty, and cry woe worth me, Till I am nothing but the scorn of women. For heaven’s sake, save their lives, and banish ’em. THESEUS. On what conditions? EMILIA. Swear ’em never more To make me their contention, or to know me, To tread upon thy dukedom, and to be, Wherever they shall travel, ever strangers To one another. PALAMON. I’ll be cut a-pieces Before I take this oath! Forget I love her? O, all ye gods, despise me then! Thy banishment I not mislike, so we may fairly carry Our swords and cause along; else never trifle, But take our lives, Duke. I must love, and will And for that love must and dare kill this cousin On any piece the earth has. THESEUS. Will you, Arcite, Take these conditions? PALAMON. He’s a villain, then. PIRITHOUS. These are men! ARCITE. No, never, Duke. ’Tis worse to me than begging To take my life so basely. Though I think I never shall enjoy her, yet I’ll preserve The honour of affection, and die for her, Make death a devil. THESEUS. What may be done? For now I feel compassion. PIRITHOUS. Let it not fall again, sir. THESEUS. Say, Emilia, If one of them were dead, as one must, are you Content to take th’ other to your husband? They cannot both enjoy you. They are princes As goodly as your own eyes, and as noble As ever fame yet spoke of. Look upon ’em, And, if you can love, end this difference; I give consent.—Are you content too, princes? BOTH. With all our souls. THESEUS. He that she refuses Must die, then. BOTH. Any death thou canst invent, Duke. PALAMON. If I fall from that mouth, I fall with favour, And lovers yet unborn shall bless my ashes. ARCITE. If she refuse me, yet my grave will wed me, And soldiers sing my epitaph. THESEUS. Make choice, then. EMILIA. I cannot, sir, they are both too excellent; For me, a hair shall never fall of these men. HIPPOLYTA. What will become of ’em? THESEUS. Thus I ordain it And, by mine honour, once again, it stands, Or both shall die. You shall both to your country, And each within this month, accompanied With three fair knights, appear again in this place, In which I’ll plant a pyramid; and whether, Before us that are here, can force his cousin By fair and knightly strength to touch the pillar, He shall enjoy her; th’ other lose his head, And all his friends; nor shall he grudge to fall, Nor think he dies with interest in this lady. Will this content ye? PALAMON. Yes. Here, cousin Arcite, I am friends again, till that hour. [_He offers his hand._] ARCITE. I embrace ye. THESEUS. Are you content, sister? EMILIA. Yes, I must, sir, Else both miscarry. THESEUS. Come, shake hands again, then; And take heed, as you are gentlemen, this quarrel Sleep till the hour prefixed, and hold your course. PALAMON. We dare not fail thee, Theseus. [_They shake hands._] THESEUS. Come, I’ll give ye Now usage like to princes, and to friends. When ye return, who wins, I’ll settle here; Who loses, yet I’ll weep upon his bier. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Athens. A room in the prison Enter Jailer and his Friend. JAILER. Hear you no more? Was nothing said of me Concerning the escape of Palamon? Good sir, remember. FIRST FRIEND. Nothing that I heard, For I came home before the business Was fully ended. Yet I might perceive, Ere I departed, a great likelihood Of both their pardons; for Hippolyta And fair-eyed Emily, upon their knees, Begged with such handsome pity that the Duke Methought stood staggering whether he should follow His rash oath or the sweet compassion Of those two ladies. And, to second them, That truly noble prince, Pirithous, Half his own heart, set in too, that I hope All shall be well. Neither heard I one question Of your name or his ’scape. JAILER. Pray heaven it hold so. Enter Second Friend. SECOND FRIEND. Be of good comfort, man; I bring you news, Good news. JAILER. They are welcome. SECOND FRIEND. Palamon has cleared you, And got your pardon, and discovered how And by whose means he escaped, which was your daughter’s, Whose pardon is procured too; and the prisoner, Not to be held ungrateful to her goodness, Has given a sum of money to her marriage, A large one, I’ll assure you. JAILER. You are a good man And ever bring good news. FIRST FRIEND. How was it ended? SECOND FRIEND. Why, as it should be; they that never begged But they prevailed had their suits fairly granted; The prisoners have their lives. FIRST FRIEND. I knew ’twould be so. SECOND FRIEND. But there be new conditions, which you’ll hear of At better time. JAILER. I hope they are good. SECOND FRIEND. They are honourable; How good they’ll prove, I know not. FIRST FRIEND. ’Twill be known. Enter Wooer. WOOER. Alas, sir, where’s your daughter? JAILER. Why do you ask? WOOER. O, sir, when did you see her? SECOND FRIEND. How he looks? JAILER. This morning. WOOER. Was she well? Was she in health, sir? When did she sleep? FIRST FRIEND. These are strange questions. JAILER. I do not think she was very well, for now You make me mind her, but this very day I asked her questions, and she answered me So far from what she was, so childishly, So sillily, as if she were a fool, An innocent, and I was very angry. But what of her, sir? WOOER. Nothing but my pity. But you must know it, and as good by me As by another that less loves her. JAILER. Well, sir? FIRST FRIEND. Not right? SECOND FRIEND. Not well? WOOER. No, sir, not well: ’Tis too true, she is mad. FIRST FRIEND. It cannot be. WOOER. Believe, you’ll find it so. JAILER. I half suspected What you have told me. The gods comfort her! Either this was her love to Palamon, Or fear of my miscarrying on his ’scape, Or both. WOOER. ’Tis likely. JAILER. But why all this haste, sir? WOOER. I’ll tell you quickly. As I late was angling In the great lake that lies behind the palace, From the far shore, thick set with reeds and sedges, As patiently I was attending sport, I heard a voice, a shrill one; and, attentive, I gave my ear, when I might well perceive ’Twas one that sung, and by the smallness of it A boy or woman. I then left my angle To his own skill, came near, but yet perceived not Who made the sound, the rushes and the reeds Had so encompassed it. I laid me down And listened to the words she sung, for then, Through a small glade cut by the fishermen, I saw it was your daughter. JAILER. Pray, go on, sir. WOOER. She sung much, but no sense; only I heard her Repeat this often: “Palamon is gone, Is gone to th’ wood to gather mulberries; I’ll find him out tomorrow.” FIRST FRIEND. Pretty soul! WOOER. “His shackles will betray him; he’ll be taken, And what shall I do then? I’ll bring a bevy, A hundred black-eyed maids that love as I do, With chaplets on their heads of daffadillies, With cherry lips and cheeks of damask roses, And all we’ll dance an antic ’fore the Duke, And beg his pardon.” Then she talked of you, sir; That you must lose your head tomorrow morning, And she must gather flowers to bury you, And see the house made handsome. Then she sung Nothing but “Willow, willow, willow,” and between Ever was “Palamon, fair Palamon,” And “Palamon was a tall young man.” The place Was knee-deep where she sat; her careless tresses, A wreath of bulrush rounded; about her stuck Thousand fresh water-flowers of several colours, That methought she appeared like the fair nymph That feeds the lake with waters, or as Iris Newly dropped down from heaven. Rings she made Of rushes that grew by, and to ’em spoke The prettiest posies: “Thus our true love’s tied,” “This you may loose, not me,” and many a one; And then she wept, and sung again, and sighed, And with the same breath smiled and kissed her hand. SECOND FRIEND. Alas, what pity it is! WOOER. I made in to her. She saw me, and straight sought the flood. I saved her And set her safe to land, when presently She slipped away, and to the city made With such a cry and swiftness that, believe me, She left me far behind her. Three or four I saw from far off cross her—one of ’em I knew to be your brother—where she stayed And fell, scarce to be got away. I left them with her And hither came to tell you. Enter Jailer’s Brother, Jailer’s Daughter and others. Here they are. DAUGHTER. [_Sings_.] _May you never more enjoy the light, &c._ Is not this a fine song? BROTHER. O, a very fine one. DAUGHTER. I can sing twenty more. BROTHER. I think you can. DAUGHTER. Yes, truly can I. I can sing “The Broom” and “Bonny Robin.” Are not you a tailor? BROTHER. Yes. DAUGHTER. Where’s my wedding gown? BROTHER. I’ll bring it tomorrow. DAUGHTER. Do, very rarely, I must be abroad else To call the maids and pay the minstrels, For I must lose my maidenhead by cocklight. ’Twill never thrive else. [_Sings_.] _O fair, O sweet, &c._ BROTHER. [_To Jailer._] You must e’en take it patiently. JAILER. ’Tis true. DAUGHTER. Good ev’n, good men; pray, did you ever hear Of one young Palamon? JAILER. Yes, wench, we know him. DAUGHTER. Is’t not a fine young gentleman? JAILER. ’Tis, love. BROTHER. By no means cross her; she is then distempered Far worse than now she shows. FIRST FRIEND. Yes, he’s a fine man. DAUGHTER. O, is he so? You have a sister? FIRST FRIEND. Yes. DAUGHTER. But she shall never have him, tell her so, For a trick that I know; you’d best look to her, For if she see him once, she’s gone, she’s done, And undone in an hour. All the young maids Of our town are in love with him, but I laugh at ’em And let ’em all alone. Is ’t not a wise course? FIRST FRIEND. Yes. DAUGHTER. There is at least two hundred now with child by him— There must be four; yet I keep close for all this, Close as a cockle; and all these must be boys He has the trick on ’t; and at ten years old They must be all gelt for musicians And sing the wars of Theseus. SECOND FRIEND. This is strange. DAUGHTER. As ever you heard, but say nothing. FIRST FRIEND. No. DAUGHTER. They come from all parts of the dukedom to him. I’ll warrant ye, he had not so few last night As twenty to dispatch. He’ll tickle ’t up In two hours, if his hand be in. JAILER. She’s lost Past all cure. BROTHER. Heaven forbid, man! DAUGHTER. Come hither, you are a wise man. FIRST FRIEND. [_Aside._] Does she know him? SECOND FRIEND. [_Aside._] No, would she did. DAUGHTER. You are master of a ship? JAILER. Yes. DAUGHTER. Where’s your compass? JAILER. Here. DAUGHTER. Set it to th’ north. And now direct your course to th’ wood, where Palamon Lies longing for me. For the tackling, Let me alone. Come, weigh, my hearts, cheerly. ALL. Owgh, owgh, owgh! ’Tis up, the wind’s fair! Top the bowline; out with the mainsail; Where’s your whistle, master? BROTHER. Let’s get her in. JAILER. Up to the top, boy. BROTHER. Where’s the pilot? FIRST FRIEND. Here. DAUGHTER. What kenn’st thou? SECOND FRIEND. A fair wood. DAUGHTER. Bear for it, master. Tack about! [_Sings_.] _When Cinthia with her borrowed light, &c._ [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. A Room in the Palace Enter Emilia alone, with two pictures. EMILIA. Yet I may bind those wounds up, that must open And bleed to death for my sake else. I’ll choose, And end their strife. Two such young handsome men Shall never fall for me; their weeping mothers, Following the dead cold ashes of their sons, Shall never curse my cruelty. [_Looks at one of the pictures._] Good heaven, What a sweet face has Arcite! If wise Nature, With all her best endowments, all those beauties She sows into the births of noble bodies, Were here a mortal woman, and had in her The coy denials of young maids, yet doubtless She would run mad for this man. What an eye, Of what a fiery sparkle and quick sweetness, Has this young prince! Here Love himself sits smiling; Just such another wanton Ganymede Set Jove afire with, and enforced the god Snatch up the goodly boy and set him by him, A shining constellation. What a brow, Of what a spacious majesty, he carries, Arched like the great-eyed Juno’s, but far sweeter, Smoother than Pelops’ shoulder! Fame and Honour, Methinks, from hence, as from a promontory Pointed in heaven, should clap their wings and sing To all the under-world the loves and fights Of gods and such men near ’em. [_Looks at the other picture._] Palamon Is but his foil; to him a mere dull shadow; He’s swart and meagre, of an eye as heavy As if he had lost his mother; a still temper, No stirring in him, no alacrity; Of all this sprightly sharpness, not a smile. Yet these that we count errors may become him; Narcissus was a sad boy but a heavenly. O, who can find the bent of woman’s fancy? I am a fool; my reason is lost in me; I have no choice, and I have lied so lewdly That women ought to beat me. On my knees I ask thy pardon, Palamon, thou art alone And only beautiful, and these the eyes, These the bright lamps of beauty, that command And threaten love, and what young maid dare cross ’em? What a bold gravity, and yet inviting, Has this brown manly face! O Love, this only From this hour is complexion. Lie there, Arcite. [_She puts aside his picture._] Thou art a changeling to him, a mere gypsy, And this the noble body. I am sotted, Utterly lost. My virgin’s faith has fled me. For if my brother but even now had asked me Whether I loved, I had run mad for Arcite; Now, if my sister, more for Palamon. Stand both together. Now, come ask me, brother. Alas, I know not! Ask me now, sweet sister. I may go look! What a mere child is Fancy, That, having two fair gauds of equal sweetness, Cannot distinguish, but must cry for both. Enter a Gentleman. EMILIA. How now, sir? GENTLEMAN. From the noble Duke your brother, Madam, I bring you news. The knights are come. EMILIA. To end the quarrel? GENTLEMAN. Yes. EMILIA. Would I might end first! What sins have I committed, chaste Diana, That my unspotted youth must now be soiled With blood of princes, and my chastity Be made the altar where the lives of lovers— Two greater and two better never yet Made mothers joy—must be the sacrifice To my unhappy beauty? Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous and Attendants. THESEUS. Bring ’em in Quickly, by any means; I long to see ’em. Your two contending lovers are returned, And with them their fair knights. Now, my fair sister, You must love one of them. EMILIA. I had rather both, So neither for my sake should fall untimely. THESEUS. Who saw ’em? PIRITHOUS. I a while. GENTLEMAN. And I. Enter Messenger. THESEUS. From whence come you, sir? MESSENGER. From the knights. THESEUS. Pray, speak, You that have seen them, what they are. MESSENGER. I will, sir, And truly what I think. Six braver spirits Than these they have brought, if we judge by the outside, I never saw nor read of. He that stands In the first place with Arcite, by his seeming Should be a stout man, by his face a prince, His very looks so say him; his complexion Nearer a brown than black, stern and yet noble, Which shows him hardy, fearless, proud of dangers; The circles of his eyes show fire within him, And as a heated lion so he looks. His hair hangs long behind him, black and shining Like ravens’ wings; his shoulders broad and strong; Armed long and round; and on his thigh a sword Hung by a curious baldric, when he frowns To seal his will with. Better, o’ my conscience, Was never soldier’s friend. THESEUS. Thou hast well described him. PIRITHOUS. Yet a great deal short, Methinks, of him that’s first with Palamon. THESEUS. Pray, speak him, friend. PIRITHOUS. I guess he is a prince too, And, if it may be, greater; for his show Has all the ornament of honour in ’t: He’s somewhat bigger than the knight he spoke of, But of a face far sweeter; his complexion Is, as a ripe grape, ruddy. He has felt Without doubt what he fights for, and so apter To make this cause his own. In ’s face appears All the fair hopes of what he undertakes And when he’s angry, then a settled valour, Not tainted with extremes, runs through his body And guides his arm to brave things. Fear he cannot; He shows no such soft temper. His head’s yellow, Hard-haired and curled, thick-twined like ivy tods, Not to undo with thunder. In his face The livery of the warlike maid appears, Pure red and white, for yet no beard has blessed him; And in his rolling eyes sits Victory, As if she ever meant to crown his valour. His nose stands high, a character of honour; His red lips, after fights, are fit for ladies. EMILIA. Must these men die too? PIRITHOUS. When he speaks, his tongue Sounds like a trumpet. All his lineaments Are as a man would wish ’em, strong and clean. He wears a well-steeled axe, the staff of gold; His age some five-and-twenty. MESSENGER. There’s another, A little man, but of a tough soul, seeming As great as any; fairer promises In such a body yet I never looked on. PIRITHOUS. O, he that’s freckle-faced? MESSENGER. The same, my lord; Are they not sweet ones? PIRITHOUS. Yes, they are well. MESSENGER. Methinks, Being so few and well disposed, they show Great and fine art in nature. He’s white-haired, Not wanton white, but such a manly colour Next to an auburn; tough and nimble-set, Which shows an active soul. His arms are brawny, Lined with strong sinews. To the shoulder-piece Gently they swell, like women new-conceived, Which speaks him prone to labour, never fainting Under the weight of arms; stout-hearted still, But when he stirs, a tiger. He’s grey-eyed, Which yields compassion where he conquers; sharp To spy advantages, and where he finds ’em, He’s swift to make ’em his. He does no wrongs, Nor takes none. He’s round-faced, and when he smiles He shows a lover; when he frowns, a soldier. About his head he wears the winner’s oak, And in it stuck the favour of his lady. His age some six-and-thirty. In his hand He bears a charging-staff embossed with silver. THESEUS. Are they all thus? PIRITHOUS. They are all the sons of honour. THESEUS. Now, as I have a soul, I long to see’em. Lady, you shall see men fight now. HIPPOLYTA. I wish it, But not the cause, my lord. They would show Bravely about the titles of two kingdoms. ’Tis pity love should be so tyrannous.— O, my soft-hearted sister, what think you? Weep not till they weep blood. Wench, it must be. THESEUS. You have steeled ’em with your beauty. Honoured friend, To you I give the field; pray order it Fitting the persons that must use it. PIRITHOUS. Yes, sir. THESEUS. Come, I’ll go visit ’em. I cannot stay, Their fame has fired me so; till they appear. Good friend, be royal. PIRITHOUS. There shall want no bravery. [_Exeunt all but Emilia._] EMILIA. Poor wench, go weep, for whosoever wins, Loses a noble cousin for thy sins. [_Exit._] SCENE III. A room in the prison Enter Jailer, Wooer and Doctor. DOCTOR. Her distraction is more at some time of the moon, than at other some, is it not? JAILER. She is continually in a harmless distemper, sleeps little, altogether without appetite, save often drinking, dreaming of another world, and a better; and what broken piece of matter soe’er she’s about, the name Palamon lards it, that she farces every business withal, fits it to every question. Enter Jailer’s Daughter. Look where she comes; you shall perceive her behaviour. DAUGHTER. I have forgot it quite. The burden on ’t was “Down-a, down-a,” and penned by no worse man than Geraldo, Emilia’s schoolmaster. He’s as fantastical, too, as ever he may go upon’s legs, for in the next world will Dido see Palamon, and then will she be out of love with Æneas. DOCTOR. What stuff’s here? Poor soul! JAILER. Even thus all day long. DAUGHTER. Now for this charm that I told you of: you must bring a piece of silver on the tip of your tongue, or no ferry. Then if it be your chance to come where the blessed spirits are, there’s a sight now! We maids that have our livers perished, cracked to pieces with love, we shall come there, and do nothing all day long but pick flowers with Proserpine. Then will I make Palamon a nosegay; then let him mark me—then. DOCTOR. How prettily she’s amiss! Note her a little further. DAUGHTER. Faith, I’ll tell you, sometime we go to barley-break, we of the blessed. Alas, ’tis a sore life they have i’ th’ other place—such burning, frying, boiling, hissing, howling, chattering, cursing—O, they have shrewd measure; take heed! If one be mad, or hang or drown themselves, thither they go; Jupiter bless us! And there shall we be put in a cauldron of lead and usurers’ grease, amongst a whole million of cutpurses, and there boil like a gammon of bacon that will never be enough. DOCTOR. How her brain coins! DAUGHTER. Lords and courtiers that have got maids with child, they are in this place. They shall stand in fire up to the navel and in ice up to the heart, and there th’ offending part burns and the deceiving part freezes. In troth, a very grievous punishment, as one would think, for such a trifle. Believe me, one would marry a leprous witch to be rid on ’t, I’ll assure you. DOCTOR. How she continues this fancy! ’Tis not an engraffed madness, but a most thick, and profound melancholy. DAUGHTER. To hear there a proud lady and a proud city wife howl together! I were a beast an I’d call it good sport. One cries “O this smoke!” th’ other, “This fire!”; one cries, “O, that ever I did it behind the arras!” and then howls; th’ other curses a suing fellow and her garden house. [_Sings._] _I will be true, my stars, my fate, &c._ [_Exit Jailer’s Daughter._] JAILER. What think you of her, sir? DOCTOR. I think she has a perturbed mind, which I cannot minister to. JAILER. Alas, what then? DOCTOR. Understand you she ever affected any man ere she beheld Palamon? JAILER. I was once, sir, in great hope she had fixed her liking on this gentleman, my friend. WOOER. I did think so too, and would account I had a great penn’orth on’t, to give half my state, that both she and I at this present stood unfeignedly on the same terms. DOCTOR. That intemperate surfeit of her eye hath distempered the other senses. They may return and settle again to execute their preordained faculties, but they are now in a most extravagant vagary. This you must do: confine her to a place where the light may rather seem to steal in than be permitted. Take upon you, young sir, her friend, the name of Palamon; say you come to eat with her, and to commune of love. This will catch her attention, for this her mind beats upon; other objects that are inserted ’tween her mind and eye become the pranks and friskins of her madness. Sing to her such green songs of love as she says Palamon hath sung in prison. Come to her stuck in as sweet flowers as the season is mistress of, and thereto make an addition of some other compounded odours which are grateful to the sense. All this shall become Palamon, for Palamon can sing, and Palamon is sweet and every good thing. Desire to eat with her, carve her, drink to her, and still among intermingle your petition of grace and acceptance into her favour. Learn what maids have been her companions and play-feres, and let them repair to her with Palamon in their mouths, and appear with tokens, as if they suggested for him. It is a falsehood she is in, which is with falsehoods to be combated. This may bring her to eat, to sleep, and reduce what’s now out of square in her into their former law and regiment. I have seen it approved, how many times I know not, but to make the number more I have great hope in this. I will, between the passages of this project, come in with my appliance. Let us put it in execution and hasten the success, which, doubt not, will bring forth comfort. [_Exeunt._] ACT V SCENE I. Athens. Before the Temples of Mars, Venus, and Diana Flourish. Enter Theseus, Pirithous, Hippolyta and Attendants. THESEUS. Now let ’em enter and before the gods Tender their holy prayers. Let the temples Burn bright with sacred fires, and the altars In hallowed clouds commend their swelling incense To those above us. Let no due be wanting. They have a noble work in hand, will honour The very powers that love ’em. PIRITHOUS. Sir, they enter. Enter Palamon and Arcite and their Knights. THESEUS. You valiant and strong-hearted enemies, You royal german foes, that this day come To blow that nearness out that flames between ye, Lay by your anger for an hour and, dove-like, Before the holy altars of your helpers, The all-feared gods, bow down your stubborn bodies. Your ire is more than mortal; so your help be; And, as the gods regard ye, fight with justice. I’ll leave you to your prayers, and betwixt ye I part my wishes. PIRITHOUS. Honour crown the worthiest. [_Exeunt Theseus and his Train._] PALAMON. The glass is running now that cannot finish Till one of us expire. Think you but thus, That were there aught in me which strove to show Mine enemy in this business, were ’t one eye Against another, arm oppressed by arm, I would destroy th’ offender, coz, I would Though parcel of myself. Then from this gather How I should tender you. ARCITE. I am in labour To push your name, your ancient love, our kindred Out of my memory, and i’ th’ selfsame place To seat something I would confound. So hoist we The sails that must these vessels port even where The heavenly limiter pleases. PALAMON. You speak well. Before I turn, let me embrace thee, cousin. This I shall never do again. ARCITE. One farewell. PALAMON. Why, let it be so. Farewell, coz. ARCITE. Farewell, sir. [_Exeunt Palamon and his Knights._] Knights, kinsmen, lovers, yea, my sacrifices, True worshippers of Mars, whose spirit in you Expels the seeds of fear and th’ apprehension Which still is father of it, go with me Before the god of our profession. There Require of him the hearts of lions and The breath of tigers, yea, the fierceness too, Yea, the speed also—to go on, I mean; Else wish we to be snails. You know my prize Must be dragged out of blood; force and great feat Must put my garland on, where she sticks, The queen of flowers. Our intercession, then, Must be to him that makes the camp a cistern Brimmed with the blood of men. Give me your aid, And bend your spirits towards him. [_They advance to the altar of Mars, fall on their faces before it, and then kneel._] Thou mighty one, that with thy power hast turned Green Neptune into purple; whose approach Comets prewarn, whose havoc in vast field Unearthed skulls proclaim; whose breath blows down The teeming Ceres’ foison, who dost pluck With hand armipotent from forth blue clouds The masoned turrets, that both mak’st and break’st The stony girths of cities; me thy pupil, Youngest follower of thy drum, instruct this day With military skill, that to thy laud I may advance my streamer, and by thee Be styled the lord o’ th’ day. Give me, great Mars, Some token of thy pleasure. [_Here they fall on their faces as formerly, and there is heard clanging of armour, with a short thunder, as the burst of a battle, whereupon they all rise and bow to the altar._] O, great corrector of enormous times, Shaker of o’er-rank states, thou grand decider Of dusty and old titles, that heal’st with blood The earth when it is sick, and cur’st the world O’ th’ pleurisy of people; I do take Thy signs auspiciously, and in thy name To my design march boldly.—Let us go. [_Exeunt._] Enter Palamon and his Knights, with the former observance. PALAMON. Our stars must glister with new fire, or be Today extinct. Our argument is love, Which, if the goddess of it grant, she gives Victory too. Then blend your spirits with mine, You whose free nobleness do make my cause Your personal hazard. To the goddess Venus Commend we our proceeding, and implore Her power unto our party. [_Here they kneel as formerly._] Hail, sovereign queen of secrets, who hast power To call the fiercest tyrant from his rage And weep unto a girl; that hast the might Even with an eye-glance to choke Mars’s drum And turn th’ alarm to whispers; that canst make A cripple flourish with his crutch, and cure him Before Apollo; that mayst force the king To be his subject’s vassal, and induce Stale gravity to dance. The polled bachelor, Whose youth, like wanton boys through bonfires, Have skipped thy flame, at seventy thou canst catch, And make him, to the scorn of his hoarse throat, Abuse young lays of love. What godlike power Hast thou not power upon? To Phœbus thou Add’st flames hotter than his; the heavenly fires Did scorch his mortal son, thine him. The huntress, All moist and cold, some say, began to throw Her bow away and sigh. Take to thy grace Me, thy vowed soldier, who do bear thy yoke As ’twere a wreath of roses, yet is heavier Than lead itself, stings more than nettles. I have never been foul-mouthed against thy law, Ne’er revealed secret, for I knew none—would not, Had I kenned all that were. I never practised Upon man’s wife, nor would the libels read Of liberal wits. I never at great feasts Sought to betray a beauty, but have blushed At simpering sirs that did. I have been harsh To large confessors, and have hotly asked them If they had mothers—I had one, a woman, And women ’twere they wronged. I knew a man Of eighty winters, this I told them, who A lass of fourteen brided; ’twas thy power To put life into dust. The aged cramp Had screwed his square foot round; The gout had knit his fingers into knots, Torturing convulsions from his globy eyes Had almost drawn their spheres, that what was life In him seemed torture. This anatomy Had by his young fair fere a boy, and I Believed it was his, for she swore it was, And who would not believe her? Brief, I am To those that prate and have done, no companion; To those that boast and have not, a defier; To those that would and cannot, a rejoicer. Yea, him I do not love that tells close offices The foulest way, nor names concealments in The boldest language. Such a one I am, And vow that lover never yet made sigh Truer than I. O, then, most soft sweet goddess, Give me the victory of this question, which Is true love’s merit, and bless me with a sign Of thy great pleasure. [_Here music is heard; doves are seen to flutter. They fall again upon their faces, then on their knees._] O thou that from eleven to ninety reign’st In mortal bosoms, whose chase is this world And we in herds thy game, I give thee thanks For this fair token, which being laid unto Mine innocent true heart, arms in assurance My body to this business.—Let us rise And bow before the goddess. [_They rise and bow._] Time comes on. [_Exeunt._] Still music of recorders. Enter Emilia in white, her hair about her shoulders, wearing a wheaten wreath. One in white holding up her train, her hair stuck with flowers. One before her carrying a silver hind, in which is conveyed incense and sweet odours, which being set upon the altar of Diana, her maids standing aloof, she sets fire to it; then they curtsy and kneel. EMILIA. O sacred, shadowy, cold, and constant queen, Abandoner of revels, mute contemplative, Sweet, solitary, white as chaste, and pure As wind-fanned snow, who to thy female knights Allow’st no more blood than will make a blush, Which is their order’s robe, I here, thy priest, Am humbled ’fore thine altar. O, vouchsafe With that thy rare green eye, which never yet Beheld thing maculate, look on thy virgin; And, sacred silver mistress, lend thine ear, Which ne’er heard scurrile term, into whose port Ne’er entered wanton sound, to my petition, Seasoned with holy fear. This is my last Of vestal office. I am bride-habited But maiden-hearted. A husband I have ’pointed, But do not know him. Out of two I should Choose one, and pray for his success, but I Am guiltless of election. Of mine eyes, Were I to lose one, they are equal precious; I could doom neither; that which perished should Go to ’t unsentenced. Therefore, most modest queen, He of the two pretenders that best loves me And has the truest title in ’t, let him Take off my wheaten garland, or else grant The file and quality I hold I may Continue in thy band. [_Here the hind vanishes under the altar, and in the place ascends a rose tree, having one rose upon it._] See what our general of ebbs and flows Out from the bowels of her holy altar With sacred act advances: but one rose! If well inspired, this battle shall confound Both these brave knights, and I, a virgin flower, Must grow alone, unplucked. [_Here is heard a sudden twang of instruments, and the rose falls from the tree._] The flower is fall’n, the tree descends. O mistress, Thou here dischargest me. I shall be gathered; I think so, but I know not thine own will. Unclasp thy mystery!—I hope she’s pleased; Her signs were gracious. [_They curtsy and exeunt._] SCENE II. Athens. A Room in the Prison Enter Doctor, Jailer and Wooer in the habit of Palamon. DOCTOR. Has this advice I told you, done any good upon her? WOOER. O, very much. The maids that kept her company Have half persuaded her that I am Palamon; Within this half-hour she came smiling to me, And asked me what I would eat, and when I would kiss her. I told her “Presently,” and kissed her twice. DOCTOR. ’Twas well done. Twenty times had been far better, For there the cure lies mainly. WOOER. Then she told me She would watch with me tonight, for well she knew What hour my fit would take me. DOCTOR. Let her do so, And when your fit comes, fit her home, and presently. WOOER. She would have me sing. DOCTOR. You did so? WOOER. No. DOCTOR. ’Twas very ill done, then; You should observe her every way. WOOER. Alas, I have no voice, sir, to confirm her that way. DOCTOR. That’s all one, if ye make a noise. If she entreat again, do anything. Lie with her, if she ask you. JAILER. Hoa, there, doctor! DOCTOR. Yes, in the way of cure. JAILER. But first, by your leave, I’ th’ way of honesty. DOCTOR. That’s but a niceness, Ne’er cast your child away for honesty. Cure her first this way; then if she will be honest, She has the path before her. JAILER. Thank ye, Doctor. DOCTOR. Pray, bring her in, And let’s see how she is. JAILER. I will, and tell her Her Palamon stays for her. But, Doctor, Methinks you are i’ th’ wrong still. [_Exit Jailer._] DOCTOR. Go, go; You fathers are fine fools. Her honesty? An we should give her physic till we find that! WOOER. Why, do you think she is not honest, sir? DOCTOR. How old is she? WOOER. She’s eighteen. DOCTOR. She may be, But that’s all one; ’tis nothing to our purpose. Whate’er her father says, if you perceive Her mood inclining that way that I spoke of, _Videlicet_, the way of flesh—you have me? WOOER. Yes, very well, sir. DOCTOR. Please her appetite, And do it home; it cures her, _ipso facto_, The melancholy humour that infects her. WOOER. I am of your mind, Doctor. Enter Jailer, Jailer’s Daughter and Maid. DOCTOR. You’ll find it so. She comes, pray, humour her. JAILER. Come, your love Palamon stays for you, child, And has done this long hour, to visit you. DAUGHTER. I thank him for his gentle patience; He’s a kind gentleman, and I am much bound to him. Did you ne’er see the horse he gave me? JAILER. Yes. DAUGHTER. How do you like him? JAILER. He’s a very fair one. DAUGHTER. You never saw him dance? JAILER. No. DAUGHTER. I have often. He dances very finely, very comely, And for a jig, come cut and long tail to him, He turns ye like a top. JAILER. That’s fine, indeed. DAUGHTER. He’ll dance the morris twenty mile an hour, And that will founder the best hobby-horse If I have any skill in all the parish, And gallops to the tune of “Light o’ love.” What think you of this horse? JAILER. Having these virtues, I think he might be brought to play at tennis. DAUGHTER. Alas, that’s nothing. JAILER. Can he write and read too? DAUGHTER. A very fair hand, and casts himself th’ accounts Of all his hay and provender. That hostler Must rise betime that cozens him. You know The chestnut mare the Duke has? JAILER. Very well. DAUGHTER. She is horribly in love with him, poor beast; But he is like his master, coy and scornful. JAILER. What dowry has she? DAUGHTER. Some two hundred bottles, And twenty strike of oates; but he’ll ne’er have her. He lisps in’s neighing, able to entice A miller’s mare. He’ll be the death of her. DOCTOR. What stuff she utters! JAILER. Make curtsy; here your love comes. Enter Wooer and Doctor come forward. WOOER. Pretty soul, How do ye? That’s a fine maid; there’s a curtsy! DAUGHTER. Yours to command i’ th’ way of honesty. How far is’t now to’ th’ end o’ th’ world, my masters? DOCTOR. Why, a day’s journey, wench. DAUGHTER. Will you go with me? WOOER. What shall we do there, wench? DAUGHTER. Why, play at stool-ball; What is there else to do? WOOER. I am content, If we shall keep our wedding there. DAUGHTER. ’Tis true, For there, I will assure you, we shall find Some blind priest for the purpose, that will venture To marry us, for here they are nice and foolish. Besides, my father must be hanged tomorrow, And that would be a blot i’ th’ business. Are not you Palamon? WOOER. Do not you know me? DAUGHTER. Yes, but you care not for me. I have nothing But this poor petticoat, and two coarse smocks. WOOER. That’s all one; I will have you. DAUGHTER. Will you surely? WOOER. [_Taking her hand._] Yes, by this fair hand, will I. DAUGHTER. We’ll to bed, then. WOOER. E’en when you will. [_Kisses her._] DAUGHTER. [_Rubs off the kiss._] O sir, you would fain be nibbling. WOOER. Why do you rub my kiss off? DAUGHTER. ’Tis a sweet one, And will perfume me finely against the wedding. Is not this your cousin Arcite? [_She indicates the Doctor._] DOCTOR. Yes, sweetheart, And I am glad my cousin Palamon Has made so fair a choice. DAUGHTER. Do you think he’ll have me? DOCTOR. Yes, without doubt. DAUGHTER. Do you think so too? JAILER. Yes. DAUGHTER. We shall have many children. [_To Doctor._] Lord, how you’re grown! My Palamon, I hope, will grow too, finely, Now he’s at liberty. Alas, poor chicken, He was kept down with hard meat and ill lodging, But I’ll kiss him up again. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. What do you here? You’ll lose the noblest sight That e’er was seen. JAILER. Are they i’ th’ field? MESSENGER. They are. You bear a charge there too. JAILER. I’ll away straight. I must e’en leave you here. DOCTOR. Nay, we’ll go with you; I will not lose the sight. JAILER. How did you like her? DOCTOR. I’ll warrant you, within these three or four days I’ll make her right again. You must not from her, But still preserve her in this way. WOOER. I will. DOCTOR. Let’s get her in. WOOER. Come, sweet, we’ll go to dinner; And then we’ll play at cards. DAUGHTER. And shall we kiss too? WOOER. A hundred times. DAUGHTER. And twenty. WOOER. Ay, and twenty. DAUGHTER. And then we’ll sleep together. DOCTOR. Take her offer. WOOER. Yes, marry, will we. DAUGHTER. But you shall not hurt me. WOOER. I will not, sweet. DAUGHTER. If you do, love, I’ll cry. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. A part of the Forest near Athens, and near the Place appointed for the Combat Flourish. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Pirithous and some Attendants. EMILIA. I’ll no step further. PIRITHOUS. Will you lose this sight? EMILIA. I had rather see a wren hawk at a fly Than this decision. Every blow that falls Threats a brave life; each stroke laments The place whereon it falls, and sounds more like A bell than blade. I will stay here. It is enough my hearing shall be punished With what shall happen, ’gainst the which there is No deafing, but to hear; not taint mine eye With dread sights it may shun. PIRITHOUS. Sir, my good lord, Your sister will no further. THESEUS. O, she must. She shall see deeds of honour in their kind, Which sometime show well, penciled. Nature now Shall make and act the story, the belief Both sealed with eye and ear. You must be present; You are the victor’s meed, the price and garland To crown the question’s title. EMILIA. Pardon me; If I were there, I’d wink. THESEUS. You must be there; This trial is as ’twere i’ th’ night, and you The only star to shine. EMILIA. I am extinct. There is but envy in that light which shows The one the other. Darkness, which ever was The dam of horror, who does stand accursed Of many mortal millions, may even now, By casting her black mantle over both, That neither could find other, get herself Some part of a good name, and many a murder Set off whereto she’s guilty. HIPPOLYTA. You must go. EMILIA. In faith, I will not. THESEUS. Why, the knights must kindle Their valour at your eye. Know, of this war You are the treasure, and must needs be by To give the service pay. EMILIA. Sir, pardon me; The title of a kingdom may be tried Out of itself. THESEUS. Well, well, then, at your pleasure. Those that remain with you could wish their office To any of their enemies. HIPPOLYTA. Farewell, sister. I am like to know your husband ’fore yourself By some small start of time. He whom the gods Do of the two know best, I pray them he Be made your lot. [_Exeunt all but Emilia._] EMILIA. Arcite is gently visaged, yet his eye Is like an engine bent, or a sharp weapon In a soft sheath; mercy and manly courage Are bedfellows in his visage. Palamon Has a most menacing aspect; his brow Is graved, and seems to bury what it frowns on; Yet sometimes ’tis not so, but alters to The quality of his thoughts. Long time his eye Will dwell upon his object. Melancholy Becomes him nobly; so does Arcite’s mirth; But Palamon’s sadness is a kind of mirth, So mingled as if mirth did make him sad And sadness merry. Those darker humours that Stick misbecomingly on others, on them Live in fair dwelling. [_Cornets. Trumpets sound as to a charge._] Hark how yon spurs to spirit do incite The princes to their proof! Arcite may win me And yet may Palamon wound Arcite to The spoiling of his figure. O, what pity Enough for such a chance? If I were by, I might do hurt, for they would glance their eyes Towards my seat, and in that motion might Omit a ward or forfeit an offence Which craved that very time. It is much better I am not there. [_Cornets. A great cry and noise within crying “À Palamon!”_] Oh better never born Than minister to such harm. Enter Servant. What is the chance? SERVANT. The cry’s “À Palamon.” EMILIA. Then he has won. ’Twas ever likely. He looked all grace and success, and he is Doubtless the prim’st of men. I prithee run And tell me how it goes. [_Shout and cornets, crying “À Palamon!”_] SERVANT. Still “Palamon.” EMILIA. Run and enquire. [_Exit Servant._] Poor servant, thou hast lost. Upon my right side still I wore thy picture, Palamon’s on the left. Why so, I know not. I had no end in ’t else; chance would have it so. On the sinister side the heart lies; Palamon Had the best-boding chance. [_Another cry and shout within, and cornets._] This burst of clamour Is sure th’ end o’ th’ combat. Enter Servant. SERVANT. They said that Palamon had Arcite’s body Within an inch o’ th’ pyramid, that the cry Was general “À Palamon.” But anon, Th’ assistants made a brave redemption, and The two bold titlers at this instant are Hand to hand at it. EMILIA. Were they metamorphosed Both into one—O, why? There were no woman Worth so composed a man! Their single share, Their nobleness peculiar to them, gives The prejudice of disparity, value’s shortness, To any lady breathing. [_Cornets. Cry within, “Arcite, Arcite.”_] More exulting? “Palamon” still? SERVANT. Nay, now the sound is “Arcite.” EMILIA. I prithee, lay attention to the cry; Set both thine ears to th’ business. [_Cornets. A great shout and cry “Arcite, victory!”_] SERVANT. The cry is “Arcite”, and “Victory!” Hark, “Arcite, victory!” The combat’s consummation is proclaimed By the wind instruments. EMILIA. Half-sights saw That Arcite was no babe. God’s lid, his richness And costliness of spirit looked through him; it could No more be hid in him than fire in flax, Than humble banks can go to law with waters That drift-winds force to raging. I did think Good Palamon would miscarry, yet I knew not Why I did think so. Our reasons are not prophets When oft our fancies are. They are coming off. Alas, poor Palamon! Cornets. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Pirithous, Arcite as victor, and Attendants. THESEUS. Lo, where our sister is in expectation, Yet quaking and unsettled.—Fairest Emily, The gods by their divine arbitrament Have given you this knight; he is a good one As ever struck at head. Give me your hands. Receive you her, you him; be plighted with A love that grows as you decay. ARCITE. Emily, To buy you, I have lost what’s dearest to me, Save what is bought; and yet I purchase cheaply, As I do rate your value. THESEUS. O loved sister, He speaks now of as brave a knight as e’er Did spur a noble steed. Surely the gods Would have him die a bachelor, lest his race Should show i’ th’ world too godlike. His behaviour So charmed me that methought Alcides was To him a sow of lead. If I could praise Each part of him to th’ all I have spoke, your Arcite Did not lose by ’t, for he that was thus good Encountered yet his better. I have heard Two emulous Philomels beat the ear o’ th’ night With their contentious throats, now one the higher, Anon the other, then again the first, And by-and-by out-breasted, that the sense Could not be judge between ’em. So it fared Good space between these kinsmen, till heavens did Make hardly one the winner.—Wear the garland With joy that you have won.—For the subdued, Give them our present justice, since I know Their lives but pinch ’em. Let it here be done. The scene’s not for our seeing. Go we hence Right joyful, with some sorrow.—Arm your prize; I know you will not lose her.—Hippolyta, I see one eye of yours conceives a tear, The which it will deliver. [_Flourish._] EMILIA. Is this winning? O all you heavenly powers, where is your mercy? But that your wills have said it must be so, And charge me live to comfort this unfriended, This miserable prince, that cuts away A life more worthy from him than all women, I should and would die too. HIPPOLYTA. Infinite pity That four such eyes should be so fixed on one That two must needs be blind for ’t. THESEUS. So it is. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. The same; a Block prepared Enter Palamon and his Knights pinioned; Jailer, Executioner and Guard. PALAMON. There’s many a man alive that hath outlived The love o’ th’ people; yea, i’ th’ selfsame state Stands many a father with his child. Some comfort We have by so considering. We expire, And not without men’s pity; to live still, Have their good wishes; we prevent The loathsome misery of age, beguile The gout and rheum that in lag hours attend For gray approachers; we come towards the gods Young and unwappered, not halting under crimes Many and stale. That sure shall please the gods Sooner than such, to give us nectar with ’em, For we are more clear spirits. My dear kinsmen, Whose lives for this poor comfort are laid down, You have sold ’em too too cheap. FIRST KNIGHT. What ending could be Of more content? O’er us the victors have Fortune, whose title is as momentary, As to us death is certain. A grain of honour They not o’erweigh us. SECOND KNIGHT. Let us bid farewell; And with our patience anger tottering Fortune, Who at her certain’st reels. THIRD KNIGHT. Come; who begins? PALAMON. E’en he that led you to this banquet shall Taste to you all.—Ah ha, my friend, my friend, Your gentle daughter gave me freedom once; You’ll see ’t done now for ever. Pray, how does she? I heard she was not well; her kind of ill Gave me some sorrow. JAILER. Sir, she’s well restored, And to be married shortly. PALAMON. By my short life, I am most glad on’t. ’Tis the latest thing I shall be glad of; prithee, tell her so. Commend me to her, and, to piece her portion, Tender her this. [_Gives him his purse._] FIRST KNIGHT. Nay let’s be offerers all. SECOND KNIGHT. Is it a maid? PALAMON. Verily, I think so. A right good creature, more to me deserving Then I can ’quite or speak of. ALL KNIGHTS. Commend us to her. [_They give their purses._] JAILER. The gods requite you all, and make her thankful. PALAMON. Adieu; and let my life be now as short As my leave-taking. [_Lays his head on the block._] FIRST KNIGHT. Lead, courageous cousin. SECOND AND THIRD KNIGHT. We’ll follow cheerfully. [_A great noise within crying “Run!” “Save!” “Hold!”_] Enter in haste a Messenger. MESSENGER. Hold, hold! O hold, hold, hold! Enter Pirithous in haste. PIRITHOUS. Hold, ho! It is a cursed haste you made If you have done so quickly!—Noble Palamon, The gods will show their glory in a life That thou art yet to lead. PALAMON. Can that be, When Venus, I have said, is false? How do things fare? PIRITHOUS. Arise, great sir, and give the tidings ear That are most dearly sweet and bitter. PALAMON. What Hath waked us from our dream? PIRITHOUS. List, then. Your cousin, Mounted upon a steed that Emily Did first bestow on him, a black one, owing Not a hair-worth of white, which some will say Weakens his price, and many will not buy His goodness with this note, which superstition Here finds allowance—on this horse is Arcite Trotting the stones of Athens, which the calkins Did rather tell than trample; for the horse Would make his length a mile, if ’t pleased his rider To put pride in him. As he thus went counting The flinty pavement, dancing, as ’twere, to th’ music His own hooves made—for, as they say, from iron Came music’s origin—what envious flint, Cold as old Saturn, and like him possessed With fire malevolent, darted a spark, Or what fierce sulphur else, to this end made, I comment not; the hot horse, hot as fire, Took toy at this and fell to what disorder His power could give his will; bounds, comes on end, Forgets school-doing, being therein trained And of kind manage. Pig-like he whines At the sharp rowel, which he frets at rather Than any jot obeys; seeks all foul means Of boist’rous and rough jad’ry to disseat His lord that kept it bravely. When naught served, When neither curb would crack, girth break, nor diff’ring plunges Disroot his rider whence he grew, but that He kept him ’tween his legs, on his hind hoofs On end he stands That Arcite’s legs, being higher than his head, Seemed with strange art to hang. His victor’s wreath Even then fell off his head and presently Backward the jade comes o’er, and his full poise Becomes the rider’s load. Yet is he living, But such a vessel ’tis that floats but for The surge that next approaches. He much desires To have some speech with you. Lo, he appears. Enter Theseus, Hippolyta, Emilia, Arcite in a chair. PALAMON. O miserable end of our alliance! The gods are mighty. Arcite, if thy heart, Thy worthy, manly heart, be yet unbroken, Give me thy last words. I am Palamon, One that yet loves thee dying. ARCITE. Take Emilia And with her all the world’s joy. Reach thy hand; Farewell. I have told my last hour. I was false, Yet never treacherous. Forgive me, cousin. One kiss from fair Emilia. [_Emilia kisses Arcite._] ’Tis done. Take her. I die. PALAMON. Thy brave soul seek Elysium! [_Arcite dies._] EMILIA. I’ll close thine eyes, Prince; blessed souls be with thee! Thou art a right good man, and, while I live, This day I give to tears. PALAMON. And I to honour. THESEUS. In this place first you fought; e’en very here I sundered you. Acknowledge to the gods Our thanks that you are living. His part is played, and, though it were too short, He did it well; your day is lengthened, and The blissful dew of heaven does arrose you. The powerful Venus well hath graced her altar, And given you your love. Our master Mars, Hath vouched his oracle, and to Arcite gave The grace of the contention. So the deities Have showed due justice.—Bear this hence. PALAMON. O cousin, That we should things desire, which do cost us The loss of our desire! That naught could buy Dear love, but loss of dear love! [_Arcite’s body is carried out._] THESEUS. Never Fortune Did play a subtler game. The conquered triumphs; The victor has the loss; yet in the passage The gods have been most equal. Palamon, Your kinsman hath confessed the right o’ th’ lady Did lie in you, for you first saw her and Even then proclaimed your fancy. He restored her As your stol’n jewel and desired your spirit To send him hence forgiven. The gods my justice Take from my hand and they themselves become The executioners. Lead your lady off And call your lovers from the stage of death, Whom I adopt my friends. A day or two Let us look sadly, and give grace unto The funeral of Arcite, in whose end The visages of bridegrooms we’ll put on And smile with Palamon; for whom an hour, But one hour since, I was as dearly sorry As glad of Arcite, and am now as glad As for him sorry. O you heavenly charmers, What things you make of us! For what we lack We laugh, for what we have are sorry, still Are children in some kind. Let us be thankful For that which is, and with you leave dispute That are above our question. Let’s go off And bear us like the time. [_Flourish. Exeunt._] EPILOGUE Enter Epilogue. EPILOGUE I would now ask ye how you like the play, But, as it is with schoolboys, cannot say. I am cruel fearful! Pray yet, stay a while, And let me look upon ye. No man smile? Then it goes hard, I see. He that has Loved a young handsome wench, then, show his face— ’Tis strange if none be here—and, if he will, Against his conscience let him hiss, and kill Our market. ’Tis in vain, I see, to stay ye. Have at the worst can come, then! Now what say ye? And yet mistake me not: I am not bold; We have no such cause. If the tale we have told For ’tis no other—any way content ye— For to that honest purpose it was meant ye— We have our end; and you shall have ere long, I dare say, many a better, to prolong Your old loves to us. We, and all our might, Rest at your service. Gentlemen, good night. [_Flourish. Exit._] FINIS THE WINTER’S TALE Contents ACT I Scene I. Sicilia. An Antechamber in Leontes’ Palace. Scene II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. ACT II Scene I. Sicilia. A Room in the Palace. Scene II. The same. The outer Room of a Prison. Scene III. The same. A Room in the Palace. ACT III Scene I. Sicilia. A Street in some Town. Scene II. The same. A Court of Justice. Scene III. Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea. ACT IV Scene I. Prologue. Scene II. Bohemia. A Room in the palace of Polixenes. Scene III. The same. A Road near the Shepherd’s cottage. Scene IV. The same. A Shepherd’s Cottage. ACT V Scene I. Sicilia. A Room in the palace of Leontes. Scene II. The same. Before the Palace. Scene III. The same. A Room in Paulina’s house. Dramatis Personæ LEONTES, King of Sicilia MAMILLIUS, his son CAMILLO, Sicilian Lord ANTIGONUS, Sicilian Lord CLEOMENES, Sicilian Lord DION, Sicilian Lord POLIXENES, King of Bohemia FLORIZEL, his son ARCHIDAMUS, a Bohemian Lord An Old Shepherd, reputed father of Perdita CLOWN, his son AUTOLYCUS, a rogue A Mariner A Gaoler Servant to the Old Shepherd Other Sicilian Lords Sicilian Gentlemen Officers of a Court of Judicature HERMIONE, Queen to Leontes PERDITA, daughter to Leontes and Hermione PAULINA, wife to Antigonus EMILIA, a lady attending on the Queen MOPSA, shepherdess DORCAS, shepherdess Other Ladies, attending on the Queen Lords, Ladies, and Attendants; Satyrs for a Dance; Shepherds, Shepherdesses, Guards, &c. TIME, as Chorus Scene: Sometimes in Sicilia; sometimes in Bohemia. ACT I SCENE I. Sicilia. An Antechamber in Leontes’ Palace. Enter Camillo and Archidamus. ARCHIDAMUS. If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia, on the like occasion whereon my services are now on foot, you shall see, as I have said, great difference betwixt our Bohemia and your Sicilia. CAMILLO. I think this coming summer the King of Sicilia means to pay Bohemia the visitation which he justly owes him. ARCHIDAMUS. Wherein our entertainment shall shame us; we will be justified in our loves. For indeed,— CAMILLO. Beseech you— ARCHIDAMUS. Verily, I speak it in the freedom of my knowledge. We cannot with such magnificence—in so rare—I know not what to say. We will give you sleepy drinks, that your senses, unintelligent of our insufficience, may, though they cannot praise us, as little accuse us. CAMILLO. You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely. ARCHIDAMUS. Believe me, I speak as my understanding instructs me and as mine honesty puts it to utterance. CAMILLO. Sicilia cannot show himself over-kind to Bohemia. They were trained together in their childhoods, and there rooted betwixt them then such an affection which cannot choose but branch now. Since their more mature dignities and royal necessities made separation of their society, their encounters, though not personal, have been royally attorneyed with interchange of gifts, letters, loving embassies, that they have seemed to be together, though absent; shook hands, as over a vast; and embraced as it were from the ends of opposed winds. The heavens continue their loves! ARCHIDAMUS. I think there is not in the world either malice or matter to alter it. You have an unspeakable comfort of your young Prince Mamillius. It is a gentleman of the greatest promise that ever came into my note. CAMILLO. I very well agree with you in the hopes of him. It is a gallant child; one that indeed physics the subject, makes old hearts fresh. They that went on crutches ere he was born desire yet their life to see him a man. ARCHIDAMUS. Would they else be content to die? CAMILLO. Yes, if there were no other excuse why they should desire to live. ARCHIDAMUS. If the king had no son, they would desire to live on crutches till he had one. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A Room of State in the Palace. Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Hermione, Mamillius, Camillo and Attendants. POLIXENES. Nine changes of the watery star hath been The shepherd’s note since we have left our throne Without a burden. Time as long again Would be fill’d up, my brother, with our thanks; And yet we should, for perpetuity, Go hence in debt: and therefore, like a cipher, Yet standing in rich place, I multiply With one “we thank you” many thousands more That go before it. LEONTES. Stay your thanks a while, And pay them when you part. POLIXENES. Sir, that’s tomorrow. I am question’d by my fears, of what may chance Or breed upon our absence; that may blow No sneaping winds at home, to make us say “This is put forth too truly.” Besides, I have stay’d To tire your royalty. LEONTES. We are tougher, brother, Than you can put us to ’t. POLIXENES. No longer stay. LEONTES. One seve’night longer. POLIXENES. Very sooth, tomorrow. LEONTES. We’ll part the time between ’s then: and in that I’ll no gainsaying. POLIXENES. Press me not, beseech you, so, There is no tongue that moves, none, none i’ th’ world, So soon as yours, could win me: so it should now, Were there necessity in your request, although ’Twere needful I denied it. My affairs Do even drag me homeward: which to hinder Were, in your love a whip to me; my stay To you a charge and trouble: to save both, Farewell, our brother. LEONTES. Tongue-tied, our queen? Speak you. HERMIONE. I had thought, sir, to have held my peace until You had drawn oaths from him not to stay. You, sir, Charge him too coldly. Tell him you are sure All in Bohemia’s well: this satisfaction The by-gone day proclaimed. Say this to him, He’s beat from his best ward. LEONTES. Well said, Hermione. HERMIONE. To tell he longs to see his son were strong. But let him say so then, and let him go; But let him swear so, and he shall not stay, We’ll thwack him hence with distaffs. [_To Polixenes._] Yet of your royal presence I’ll adventure The borrow of a week. When at Bohemia You take my lord, I’ll give him my commission To let him there a month behind the gest Prefix’d for’s parting:—yet, good deed, Leontes, I love thee not a jar of th’ clock behind What lady she her lord. You’ll stay? POLIXENES. No, madam. HERMIONE. Nay, but you will? POLIXENES. I may not, verily. HERMIONE. Verily! You put me off with limber vows; but I, Though you would seek t’ unsphere the stars with oaths, Should yet say “Sir, no going.” Verily, You shall not go. A lady’s verily is As potent as a lord’s. Will go yet? Force me to keep you as a prisoner, Not like a guest: so you shall pay your fees When you depart, and save your thanks. How say you? My prisoner or my guest? By your dread “verily,” One of them you shall be. POLIXENES. Your guest, then, madam. To be your prisoner should import offending; Which is for me less easy to commit Than you to punish. HERMIONE. Not your gaoler then, But your kind hostess. Come, I’ll question you Of my lord’s tricks and yours when you were boys. You were pretty lordings then. POLIXENES. We were, fair queen, Two lads that thought there was no more behind But such a day tomorrow as today, And to be boy eternal. HERMIONE. Was not my lord The verier wag o’ th’ two? POLIXENES. We were as twinn’d lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun And bleat the one at th’ other. What we chang’d Was innocence for innocence; we knew not The doctrine of ill-doing, nor dream’d That any did. Had we pursu’d that life, And our weak spirits ne’er been higher rear’d With stronger blood, we should have answer’d heaven Boldly “Not guilty,” the imposition clear’d Hereditary ours. HERMIONE. By this we gather You have tripp’d since. POLIXENES. O my most sacred lady, Temptations have since then been born to ’s! for In those unfledg’d days was my wife a girl; Your precious self had then not cross’d the eyes Of my young play-fellow. HERMIONE. Grace to boot! Of this make no conclusion, lest you say Your queen and I are devils. Yet go on; Th’ offences we have made you do we’ll answer, If you first sinn’d with us, and that with us You did continue fault, and that you slipp’d not With any but with us. LEONTES. Is he won yet? HERMIONE. He’ll stay, my lord. LEONTES. At my request he would not. Hermione, my dearest, thou never spok’st To better purpose. HERMIONE. Never? LEONTES. Never but once. HERMIONE. What! have I twice said well? when was’t before? I prithee tell me. Cram ’s with praise, and make ’s As fat as tame things: one good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages. You may ride ’s With one soft kiss a thousand furlongs ere With spur we heat an acre. But to th’ goal: My last good deed was to entreat his stay. What was my first? It has an elder sister, Or I mistake you: O, would her name were Grace! But once before I spoke to the purpose—when? Nay, let me have’t; I long. LEONTES. Why, that was when Three crabbed months had sour’d themselves to death, Ere I could make thee open thy white hand And clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter “I am yours for ever.” HERMIONE. ’Tis Grace indeed. Why, lo you now, I have spoke to th’ purpose twice. The one for ever earn’d a royal husband; Th’ other for some while a friend. [_Giving her hand to Polixenes._] LEONTES. [_Aside._] Too hot, too hot! To mingle friendship far is mingling bloods. I have _tremor cordis_ on me. My heart dances, But not for joy,—not joy. This entertainment May a free face put on, derive a liberty From heartiness, from bounty, fertile bosom, And well become the agent: ’t may, I grant: But to be paddling palms and pinching fingers, As now they are, and making practis’d smiles As in a looking-glass; and then to sigh, as ’twere The mort o’ th’ deer. O, that is entertainment My bosom likes not, nor my brows. Mamillius, Art thou my boy? MAMILLIUS. Ay, my good lord. LEONTES. I’ fecks! Why, that’s my bawcock. What! hast smutch’d thy nose? They say it is a copy out of mine. Come, captain, We must be neat; not neat, but cleanly, captain: And yet the steer, the heifer, and the calf Are all call’d neat.—Still virginalling Upon his palm?—How now, you wanton calf! Art thou my calf? MAMILLIUS. Yes, if you will, my lord. LEONTES. Thou want’st a rough pash and the shoots that I have To be full like me:—yet they say we are Almost as like as eggs; women say so, That will say anything. But were they false As o’er-dy’d blacks, as wind, as waters, false As dice are to be wish’d by one that fixes No bourn ’twixt his and mine, yet were it true To say this boy were like me. Come, sir page, Look on me with your welkin eye: sweet villain! Most dear’st! my collop! Can thy dam?—may’t be? Affection! thy intention stabs the centre: Thou dost make possible things not so held, Communicat’st with dreams;—how can this be?— With what’s unreal thou coactive art, And fellow’st nothing: then ’tis very credent Thou may’st co-join with something; and thou dost, And that beyond commission, and I find it, And that to the infection of my brains And hardening of my brows. POLIXENES. What means Sicilia? HERMIONE. He something seems unsettled. POLIXENES. How, my lord? What cheer? How is’t with you, best brother? HERMIONE. You look As if you held a brow of much distraction: Are you mov’d, my lord? LEONTES. No, in good earnest. How sometimes nature will betray its folly, Its tenderness, and make itself a pastime To harder bosoms! Looking on the lines Of my boy’s face, methoughts I did recoil Twenty-three years, and saw myself unbreech’d, In my green velvet coat; my dagger muzzled Lest it should bite its master, and so prove, As ornaments oft do, too dangerous. How like, methought, I then was to this kernel, This squash, this gentleman. Mine honest friend, Will you take eggs for money? MAMILLIUS. No, my lord, I’ll fight. LEONTES. You will? Why, happy man be ’s dole! My brother, Are you so fond of your young prince as we Do seem to be of ours? POLIXENES. If at home, sir, He’s all my exercise, my mirth, my matter: Now my sworn friend, and then mine enemy; My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all. He makes a July’s day short as December; And with his varying childness cures in me Thoughts that would thick my blood. LEONTES. So stands this squire Offic’d with me. We two will walk, my lord, And leave you to your graver steps. Hermione, How thou lov’st us show in our brother’s welcome; Let what is dear in Sicily be cheap: Next to thyself and my young rover, he’s Apparent to my heart. HERMIONE. If you would seek us, We are yours i’ the garden. Shall ’s attend you there? LEONTES. To your own bents dispose you: you’ll be found, Be you beneath the sky. [_Aside._] I am angling now, Though you perceive me not how I give line. Go to, go to! How she holds up the neb, the bill to him! And arms her with the boldness of a wife To her allowing husband! [_Exeunt Polixenes, Hermione and Attendants._] Gone already! Inch-thick, knee-deep, o’er head and ears a fork’d one!— Go, play, boy, play. Thy mother plays, and I Play too; but so disgrac’d a part, whose issue Will hiss me to my grave: contempt and clamour Will be my knell. Go, play, boy, play. There have been, Or I am much deceiv’d, cuckolds ere now; And many a man there is, even at this present, Now while I speak this, holds his wife by th’ arm, That little thinks she has been sluic’d in ’s absence, And his pond fish’d by his next neighbour, by Sir Smile, his neighbour. Nay, there’s comfort in ’t, Whiles other men have gates, and those gates open’d, As mine, against their will. Should all despair That hath revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves. Physic for’t there’s none; It is a bawdy planet, that will strike Where ’tis predominant; and ’tis powerful, think it, From east, west, north, and south. Be it concluded, No barricado for a belly. Know’t; It will let in and out the enemy With bag and baggage. Many thousand of us Have the disease, and feel’t not.—How now, boy! MAMILLIUS. I am like you, they say. LEONTES. Why, that’s some comfort. What! Camillo there? CAMILLO. Ay, my good lord. LEONTES. Go play, Mamillius; thou’rt an honest man. [_Exit Mamillius._] Camillo, this great sir will yet stay longer. CAMILLO. You had much ado to make his anchor hold: When you cast out, it still came home. LEONTES. Didst note it? CAMILLO. He would not stay at your petitions; made His business more material. LEONTES. Didst perceive it? [_Aside._] They’re here with me already; whisp’ring, rounding, “Sicilia is a so-forth.” ’Tis far gone When I shall gust it last.—How came’t, Camillo, That he did stay? CAMILLO. At the good queen’s entreaty. LEONTES. At the queen’s be’t: “good” should be pertinent, But so it is, it is not. Was this taken By any understanding pate but thine? For thy conceit is soaking, will draw in More than the common blocks. Not noted, is’t, But of the finer natures? by some severals Of head-piece extraordinary? lower messes Perchance are to this business purblind? say. CAMILLO. Business, my lord? I think most understand Bohemia stays here longer. LEONTES. Ha? CAMILLO. Stays here longer. LEONTES. Ay, but why? CAMILLO. To satisfy your highness, and the entreaties Of our most gracious mistress. LEONTES. Satisfy? Th’ entreaties of your mistress? Satisfy? Let that suffice. I have trusted thee, Camillo, With all the nearest things to my heart, as well My chamber-counsels, wherein, priest-like, thou Hast cleans’d my bosom; I from thee departed Thy penitent reform’d. But we have been Deceiv’d in thy integrity, deceiv’d In that which seems so. CAMILLO. Be it forbid, my lord! LEONTES. To bide upon’t: thou art not honest; or, If thou inclin’st that way, thou art a coward, Which hoxes honesty behind, restraining From course requir’d; or else thou must be counted A servant grafted in my serious trust, And therein negligent; or else a fool That seest a game play’d home, the rich stake drawn, And tak’st it all for jest. CAMILLO. My gracious lord, I may be negligent, foolish, and fearful; In every one of these no man is free, But that his negligence, his folly, fear, Among the infinite doings of the world, Sometime puts forth. In your affairs, my lord, If ever I were wilful-negligent, It was my folly; if industriously I play’d the fool, it was my negligence, Not weighing well the end; if ever fearful To do a thing, where I the issue doubted, Whereof the execution did cry out Against the non-performance, ’twas a fear Which oft affects the wisest: these, my lord, Are such allow’d infirmities that honesty Is never free of. But, beseech your Grace, Be plainer with me; let me know my trespass By its own visage: if I then deny it, ’Tis none of mine. LEONTES. Ha’ not you seen, Camillo? (But that’s past doubt: you have, or your eye-glass Is thicker than a cuckold’s horn) or heard? (For, to a vision so apparent, rumour Cannot be mute) or thought? (for cogitation Resides not in that man that does not think) My wife is slippery? If thou wilt confess, Or else be impudently negative, To have nor eyes nor ears nor thought, then say My wife’s a hobby-horse, deserves a name As rank as any flax-wench that puts to Before her troth-plight: say’t and justify’t. CAMILLO. I would not be a stander-by to hear My sovereign mistress clouded so, without My present vengeance taken: ’shrew my heart, You never spoke what did become you less Than this; which to reiterate were sin As deep as that, though true. LEONTES. Is whispering nothing? Is leaning cheek to cheek? is meeting noses? Kissing with inside lip? Stopping the career Of laughter with a sigh?—a note infallible Of breaking honesty?—horsing foot on foot? Skulking in corners? Wishing clocks more swift? Hours, minutes? Noon, midnight? and all eyes Blind with the pin and web but theirs, theirs only, That would unseen be wicked? Is this nothing? Why, then the world and all that’s in’t is nothing, The covering sky is nothing, Bohemia nothing, My wife is nothing, nor nothing have these nothings, If this be nothing. CAMILLO. Good my lord, be cur’d Of this diseas’d opinion, and betimes, For ’tis most dangerous. LEONTES. Say it be, ’tis true. CAMILLO. No, no, my lord. LEONTES. It is; you lie, you lie: I say thou liest, Camillo, and I hate thee, Pronounce thee a gross lout, a mindless slave, Or else a hovering temporizer that Canst with thine eyes at once see good and evil, Inclining to them both. Were my wife’s liver Infected as her life, she would not live The running of one glass. CAMILLO. Who does infect her? LEONTES. Why, he that wears her like her medal, hanging About his neck, Bohemia: who, if I Had servants true about me, that bare eyes To see alike mine honour as their profits, Their own particular thrifts, they would do that Which should undo more doing: ay, and thou, His cupbearer,—whom I from meaner form Have bench’d and rear’d to worship, who mayst see Plainly as heaven sees earth and earth sees heaven, How I am galled,—mightst bespice a cup, To give mine enemy a lasting wink; Which draught to me were cordial. CAMILLO. Sir, my lord, I could do this, and that with no rash potion, But with a ling’ring dram, that should not work Maliciously like poison. But I cannot Believe this crack to be in my dread mistress, So sovereignly being honourable. I have lov’d thee,— LEONTES. Make that thy question, and go rot! Dost think I am so muddy, so unsettled, To appoint myself in this vexation; sully The purity and whiteness of my sheets, (Which to preserve is sleep, which being spotted Is goads, thorns, nettles, tails of wasps) Give scandal to the blood o’ th’ prince, my son, (Who I do think is mine, and love as mine) Without ripe moving to’t? Would I do this? Could man so blench? CAMILLO. I must believe you, sir: I do; and will fetch off Bohemia for’t; Provided that, when he’s remov’d, your highness Will take again your queen as yours at first, Even for your son’s sake, and thereby for sealing The injury of tongues in courts and kingdoms Known and allied to yours. LEONTES. Thou dost advise me Even so as I mine own course have set down: I’ll give no blemish to her honour, none. CAMILLO. My lord, Go then; and with a countenance as clear As friendship wears at feasts, keep with Bohemia And with your queen. I am his cupbearer. If from me he have wholesome beverage, Account me not your servant. LEONTES. This is all: Do’t, and thou hast the one half of my heart; Do’t not, thou splitt’st thine own. CAMILLO. I’ll do’t, my lord. LEONTES. I will seem friendly, as thou hast advis’d me. [_Exit._] CAMILLO. O miserable lady! But, for me, What case stand I in? I must be the poisoner Of good Polixenes, and my ground to do’t Is the obedience to a master; one Who, in rebellion with himself, will have All that are his so too. To do this deed, Promotion follows. If I could find example Of thousands that had struck anointed kings And flourish’d after, I’d not do’t. But since Nor brass, nor stone, nor parchment, bears not one, Let villainy itself forswear’t. I must Forsake the court: to do’t, or no, is certain To me a break-neck. Happy star reign now! Here comes Bohemia. Enter Polixenes. POLIXENES. This is strange. Methinks My favour here begins to warp. Not speak? Good day, Camillo. CAMILLO. Hail, most royal sir! POLIXENES. What is the news i’ th’ court? CAMILLO. None rare, my lord. POLIXENES. The king hath on him such a countenance As he had lost some province, and a region Lov’d as he loves himself. Even now I met him With customary compliment, when he, Wafting his eyes to the contrary, and falling A lip of much contempt, speeds from me, and So leaves me to consider what is breeding That changes thus his manners. CAMILLO. I dare not know, my lord. POLIXENES. How, dare not? Do not? Do you know, and dare not? Be intelligent to me? ’Tis thereabouts; For, to yourself, what you do know, you must, And cannot say you dare not. Good Camillo, Your chang’d complexions are to me a mirror Which shows me mine chang’d too; for I must be A party in this alteration, finding Myself thus alter’d with’t. CAMILLO. There is a sickness Which puts some of us in distemper, but I cannot name the disease, and it is caught Of you that yet are well. POLIXENES. How caught of me? Make me not sighted like the basilisk. I have look’d on thousands who have sped the better By my regard, but kill’d none so. Camillo,— As you are certainly a gentleman, thereto Clerk-like, experienc’d, which no less adorns Our gentry than our parents’ noble names, In whose success we are gentle,—I beseech you, If you know aught which does behove my knowledge Thereof to be inform’d, imprison’t not In ignorant concealment. CAMILLO. I may not answer. POLIXENES. A sickness caught of me, and yet I well? I must be answer’d. Dost thou hear, Camillo, I conjure thee, by all the parts of man Which honour does acknowledge, whereof the least Is not this suit of mine, that thou declare What incidency thou dost guess of harm Is creeping toward me; how far off, how near; Which way to be prevented, if to be; If not, how best to bear it. CAMILLO. Sir, I will tell you; Since I am charg’d in honour, and by him That I think honourable. Therefore mark my counsel, Which must be ev’n as swiftly follow’d as I mean to utter it, or both yourself and me Cry lost, and so goodnight! POLIXENES. On, good Camillo. CAMILLO. I am appointed him to murder you. POLIXENES. By whom, Camillo? CAMILLO. By the king. POLIXENES. For what? CAMILLO. He thinks, nay, with all confidence he swears, As he had seen’t or been an instrument To vice you to’t, that you have touch’d his queen Forbiddenly. POLIXENES. O, then my best blood turn To an infected jelly, and my name Be yok’d with his that did betray the Best! Turn then my freshest reputation to A savour that may strike the dullest nostril Where I arrive, and my approach be shunn’d, Nay, hated too, worse than the great’st infection That e’er was heard or read! CAMILLO. Swear his thought over By each particular star in heaven and By all their influences, you may as well Forbid the sea for to obey the moon As or by oath remove or counsel shake The fabric of his folly, whose foundation Is pil’d upon his faith, and will continue The standing of his body. POLIXENES. How should this grow? CAMILLO. I know not: but I am sure ’tis safer to Avoid what’s grown than question how ’tis born. If therefore you dare trust my honesty, That lies enclosed in this trunk, which you Shall bear along impawn’d, away tonight. Your followers I will whisper to the business, And will by twos and threes, at several posterns, Clear them o’ th’ city. For myself, I’ll put My fortunes to your service, which are here By this discovery lost. Be not uncertain, For, by the honour of my parents, I Have utter’d truth: which if you seek to prove, I dare not stand by; nor shall you be safer Than one condemned by the king’s own mouth, Thereon his execution sworn. POLIXENES. I do believe thee. I saw his heart in ’s face. Give me thy hand, Be pilot to me, and thy places shall Still neighbour mine. My ships are ready, and My people did expect my hence departure Two days ago. This jealousy Is for a precious creature: as she’s rare, Must it be great; and, as his person’s mighty, Must it be violent; and as he does conceive He is dishonour’d by a man which ever Profess’d to him, why, his revenges must In that be made more bitter. Fear o’ershades me. Good expedition be my friend, and comfort The gracious queen, part of his theme, but nothing Of his ill-ta’en suspicion! Come, Camillo, I will respect thee as a father if Thou bear’st my life off hence. Let us avoid. CAMILLO. It is in mine authority to command The keys of all the posterns: please your highness To take the urgent hour. Come, sir, away. [_Exeunt._] ACT II SCENE I. Sicilia. A Room in the Palace. Enter Hermione, Mamillius and Ladies. HERMIONE. Take the boy to you: he so troubles me, ’Tis past enduring. FIRST LADY. Come, my gracious lord, Shall I be your playfellow? MAMILLIUS. No, I’ll none of you. FIRST LADY. Why, my sweet lord? MAMILLIUS. You’ll kiss me hard, and speak to me as if I were a baby still. I love you better. SECOND LADY. And why so, my lord? MAMILLIUS. Not for because Your brows are blacker; yet black brows, they say, Become some women best, so that there be not Too much hair there, but in a semicircle Or a half-moon made with a pen. SECOND LADY. Who taught this? MAMILLIUS. I learn’d it out of women’s faces. Pray now, What colour are your eyebrows? FIRST LADY. Blue, my lord. MAMILLIUS. Nay, that’s a mock. I have seen a lady’s nose That has been blue, but not her eyebrows. FIRST LADY. Hark ye, The queen your mother rounds apace. We shall Present our services to a fine new prince One of these days, and then you’d wanton with us, If we would have you. SECOND LADY. She is spread of late Into a goodly bulk: good time encounter her! HERMIONE. What wisdom stirs amongst you? Come, sir, now I am for you again. Pray you sit by us, And tell ’s a tale. MAMILLIUS. Merry or sad shall’t be? HERMIONE. As merry as you will. MAMILLIUS. A sad tale’s best for winter. I have one Of sprites and goblins. HERMIONE. Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down. Come on, and do your best To fright me with your sprites: you’re powerful at it. MAMILLIUS. There was a man,— HERMIONE. Nay, come, sit down, then on. MAMILLIUS. Dwelt by a churchyard. I will tell it softly, Yond crickets shall not hear it. HERMIONE. Come on then, And give’t me in mine ear. Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords and Guards. LEONTES. Was he met there? his train? Camillo with him? FIRST LORD. Behind the tuft of pines I met them, never Saw I men scour so on their way: I ey’d them Even to their ships. LEONTES. How blest am I In my just censure, in my true opinion! Alack, for lesser knowledge! How accurs’d In being so blest! There may be in the cup A spider steep’d, and one may drink, depart, And yet partake no venom, for his knowledge Is not infected; but if one present Th’ abhorr’d ingredient to his eye, make known How he hath drunk, he cracks his gorge, his sides, With violent hefts. I have drunk, and seen the spider. Camillo was his help in this, his pander. There is a plot against my life, my crown; All’s true that is mistrusted. That false villain Whom I employ’d, was pre-employ’d by him. He has discover’d my design, and I Remain a pinch’d thing; yea, a very trick For them to play at will. How came the posterns So easily open? FIRST LORD. By his great authority, Which often hath no less prevail’d than so On your command. LEONTES. I know’t too well. Give me the boy. I am glad you did not nurse him. Though he does bear some signs of me, yet you Have too much blood in him. HERMIONE. What is this? sport? LEONTES. Bear the boy hence, he shall not come about her, Away with him, and let her sport herself With that she’s big with; for ’tis Polixenes Has made thee swell thus. [_Exit Mamillius with some of the Guards._] HERMIONE. But I’d say he had not, And I’ll be sworn you would believe my saying, Howe’er you learn th’ nayward. LEONTES. You, my lords, Look on her, mark her well. Be but about To say, “she is a goodly lady,” and The justice of your hearts will thereto add “’Tis pity she’s not honest, honourable”: Praise her but for this her without-door form, Which on my faith deserves high speech, and straight The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands That calumny doth use—O, I am out, That mercy does; for calumny will sear Virtue itself—these shrugs, these hum’s, and ha’s, When you have said “she’s goodly,” come between, Ere you can say “she’s honest”: but be it known, From him that has most cause to grieve it should be, She’s an adultress! HERMIONE. Should a villain say so, The most replenish’d villain in the world, He were as much more villain: you, my lord, Do but mistake. LEONTES. You have mistook, my lady, Polixenes for Leontes. O thou thing, Which I’ll not call a creature of thy place, Lest barbarism, making me the precedent, Should a like language use to all degrees, And mannerly distinguishment leave out Betwixt the prince and beggar. I have said She’s an adultress; I have said with whom: More, she’s a traitor, and Camillo is A federary with her; and one that knows What she should shame to know herself But with her most vile principal, that she’s A bed-swerver, even as bad as those That vulgars give bold’st titles; ay, and privy To this their late escape. HERMIONE. No, by my life, Privy to none of this. How will this grieve you, When you shall come to clearer knowledge, that You thus have publish’d me! Gentle my lord, You scarce can right me throughly then, to say You did mistake. LEONTES. No. If I mistake In those foundations which I build upon, The centre is not big enough to bear A school-boy’s top. Away with her to prison! He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty But that he speaks. HERMIONE. There’s some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable. Good my lords, I am not prone to weeping, as our sex Commonly are; the want of which vain dew Perchance shall dry your pities. But I have That honourable grief lodg’d here which burns Worse than tears drown: beseech you all, my lords, With thoughts so qualified as your charities Shall best instruct you, measure me; and so The king’s will be perform’d. LEONTES. Shall I be heard? HERMIONE. Who is’t that goes with me? Beseech your highness My women may be with me, for you see My plight requires it. Do not weep, good fools; There is no cause: when you shall know your mistress Has deserv’d prison, then abound in tears As I come out: this action I now go on Is for my better grace. Adieu, my lord: I never wish’d to see you sorry; now I trust I shall. My women, come; you have leave. LEONTES. Go, do our bidding. Hence! [_Exeunt Queen and Ladies with Guards._] FIRST LORD. Beseech your highness, call the queen again. ANTIGONUS. Be certain what you do, sir, lest your justice Prove violence, in the which three great ones suffer, Yourself, your queen, your son. FIRST LORD. For her, my lord, I dare my life lay down, and will do’t, sir, Please you to accept it, that the queen is spotless I’ th’ eyes of heaven and to you—I mean In this which you accuse her. ANTIGONUS. If it prove She’s otherwise, I’ll keep my stables where I lodge my wife; I’ll go in couples with her; Than when I feel and see her no further trust her. For every inch of woman in the world, Ay, every dram of woman’s flesh, is false, If she be. LEONTES. Hold your peaces. FIRST LORD. Good my lord,— ANTIGONUS. It is for you we speak, not for ourselves: You are abus’d, and by some putter-on That will be damn’d for’t: would I knew the villain, I would land-damn him. Be she honour-flaw’d, I have three daughters; the eldest is eleven; The second and the third, nine and some five; If this prove true, they’ll pay for’t. By mine honour, I’ll geld ’em all; fourteen they shall not see, To bring false generations: they are co-heirs, And I had rather glib myself than they Should not produce fair issue. LEONTES. Cease; no more. You smell this business with a sense as cold As is a dead man’s nose: but I do see’t and feel’t, As you feel doing thus; and see withal The instruments that feel. ANTIGONUS. If it be so, We need no grave to bury honesty. There’s not a grain of it the face to sweeten Of the whole dungy earth. LEONTES. What! Lack I credit? FIRST LORD. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord, Upon this ground: and more it would content me To have her honour true than your suspicion, Be blam’d for’t how you might. LEONTES. Why, what need we Commune with you of this, but rather follow Our forceful instigation? Our prerogative Calls not your counsels, but our natural goodness Imparts this; which, if you, or stupified Or seeming so in skill, cannot or will not Relish a truth, like us, inform yourselves We need no more of your advice: the matter, The loss, the gain, the ord’ring on’t, is all Properly ours. ANTIGONUS. And I wish, my liege, You had only in your silent judgement tried it, Without more overture. LEONTES. How could that be? Either thou art most ignorant by age, Or thou wert born a fool. Camillo’s flight, Added to their familiarity, (Which was as gross as ever touch’d conjecture, That lack’d sight only, nought for approbation But only seeing, all other circumstances Made up to th’ deed) doth push on this proceeding. Yet, for a greater confirmation (For in an act of this importance, ’twere Most piteous to be wild), I have dispatch’d in post To sacred Delphos, to Apollo’s temple, Cleomenes and Dion, whom you know Of stuff’d sufficiency: now from the oracle They will bring all, whose spiritual counsel had, Shall stop or spur me. Have I done well? FIRST LORD. Well done, my lord. LEONTES. Though I am satisfied, and need no more Than what I know, yet shall the oracle Give rest to the minds of others, such as he Whose ignorant credulity will not Come up to th’ truth. So have we thought it good From our free person she should be confin’d, Lest that the treachery of the two fled hence Be left her to perform. Come, follow us; We are to speak in public; for this business Will raise us all. ANTIGONUS. [_Aside._] To laughter, as I take it, If the good truth were known. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. The outer Room of a Prison. Enter Paulina, a Gentleman and Attendants. PAULINA. The keeper of the prison, call to him; Let him have knowledge who I am. [_Exit the Gentleman._] Good lady! No court in Europe is too good for thee; What dost thou then in prison? Enter Gentleman with the Gaoler. Now, good sir, You know me, do you not? GAOLER. For a worthy lady And one who much I honour. PAULINA. Pray you then, Conduct me to the queen. GAOLER. I may not, madam. To the contrary I have express commandment. PAULINA. Here’s ado, to lock up honesty and honour from Th’ access of gentle visitors! Is’t lawful, pray you, To see her women? any of them? Emilia? GAOLER. So please you, madam, To put apart these your attendants, I Shall bring Emilia forth. PAULINA. I pray now, call her. Withdraw yourselves. [_Exeunt Gentleman and Attendants._] GAOLER. And, madam, I must be present at your conference. PAULINA. Well, be’t so, prithee. [_Exit Gaoler._] Here’s such ado to make no stain a stain As passes colouring. Re-enter Gaoler with Emilia. Dear gentlewoman, How fares our gracious lady? EMILIA. As well as one so great and so forlorn May hold together: on her frights and griefs, (Which never tender lady hath borne greater) She is, something before her time, deliver’d. PAULINA. A boy? EMILIA. A daughter; and a goodly babe, Lusty, and like to live: the queen receives Much comfort in ’t; says “My poor prisoner, I am as innocent as you.” PAULINA. I dare be sworn. These dangerous unsafe lunes i’ th’ king, beshrew them! He must be told on’t, and he shall: the office Becomes a woman best. I’ll take’t upon me. If I prove honey-mouth’d, let my tongue blister, And never to my red-look’d anger be The trumpet any more. Pray you, Emilia, Commend my best obedience to the queen. If she dares trust me with her little babe, I’ll show’t the king, and undertake to be Her advocate to th’ loud’st. We do not know How he may soften at the sight o’ th’ child: The silence often of pure innocence Persuades, when speaking fails. EMILIA. Most worthy madam, Your honour and your goodness is so evident, That your free undertaking cannot miss A thriving issue: there is no lady living So meet for this great errand. Please your ladyship To visit the next room, I’ll presently Acquaint the queen of your most noble offer, Who but today hammer’d of this design, But durst not tempt a minister of honour, Lest she should be denied. PAULINA. Tell her, Emilia, I’ll use that tongue I have: if wit flow from ’t As boldness from my bosom, let’t not be doubted I shall do good. EMILIA. Now be you blest for it! I’ll to the queen: please you come something nearer. GAOLER. Madam, if ’t please the queen to send the babe, I know not what I shall incur to pass it, Having no warrant. PAULINA. You need not fear it, sir: This child was prisoner to the womb, and is, By law and process of great nature thence Freed and enfranchis’d: not a party to The anger of the king, nor guilty of, If any be, the trespass of the queen. GAOLER. I do believe it. PAULINA. Do not you fear: upon mine honour, I Will stand betwixt you and danger. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Room in the Palace. Enter Leontes, Antigonus, Lords and other Attendants. LEONTES. Nor night nor day no rest: it is but weakness To bear the matter thus, mere weakness. If The cause were not in being,—part o’ th’ cause, She th’ adultress; for the harlot king Is quite beyond mine arm, out of the blank And level of my brain, plot-proof. But she I can hook to me. Say that she were gone, Given to the fire, a moiety of my rest Might come to me again. Who’s there? FIRST ATTENDANT. My lord. LEONTES. How does the boy? FIRST ATTENDANT. He took good rest tonight; ’Tis hop’d his sickness is discharg’d. LEONTES. To see his nobleness, Conceiving the dishonour of his mother. He straight declin’d, droop’d, took it deeply, Fasten’d and fix’d the shame on’t in himself, Threw off his spirit, his appetite, his sleep, And downright languish’d. Leave me solely: go, See how he fares. [_Exit First Attendant._] Fie, fie! no thought of him. The very thought of my revenges that way Recoil upon me: in himself too mighty, And in his parties, his alliance. Let him be, Until a time may serve. For present vengeance, Take it on her. Camillo and Polixenes Laugh at me; make their pastime at my sorrow: They should not laugh if I could reach them, nor Shall she, within my power. Enter Paulina carrying a baby, with Antigonus, lords and servants. FIRST LORD. You must not enter. PAULINA. Nay, rather, good my lords, be second to me: Fear you his tyrannous passion more, alas, Than the queen’s life? a gracious innocent soul, More free than he is jealous. ANTIGONUS. That’s enough. SERVANT. Madam, he hath not slept tonight; commanded None should come at him. PAULINA. Not so hot, good sir; I come to bring him sleep. ’Tis such as you, That creep like shadows by him, and do sigh At each his needless heavings,—such as you Nourish the cause of his awaking. I Do come with words as med’cinal as true, Honest as either, to purge him of that humour That presses him from sleep. LEONTES. What noise there, ho? PAULINA. No noise, my lord; but needful conference About some gossips for your highness. LEONTES. How! Away with that audacious lady! Antigonus, I charg’d thee that she should not come about me. I knew she would. ANTIGONUS. I told her so, my lord, On your displeasure’s peril and on mine, She should not visit you. LEONTES. What, canst not rule her? PAULINA. From all dishonesty he can. In this, Unless he take the course that you have done, Commit me for committing honour—trust it, He shall not rule me. ANTIGONUS. La you now, you hear. When she will take the rein I let her run; But she’ll not stumble. PAULINA. Good my liege, I come,— And, I beseech you hear me, who professes Myself your loyal servant, your physician, Your most obedient counsellor, yet that dares Less appear so, in comforting your evils, Than such as most seem yours—I say I come From your good queen. LEONTES. Good queen! PAULINA. Good queen, my lord, good queen: I say, good queen, And would by combat make her good, so were I A man, the worst about you. LEONTES. Force her hence. PAULINA. Let him that makes but trifles of his eyes First hand me: on mine own accord I’ll off; But first I’ll do my errand. The good queen, (For she is good) hath brought you forth a daughter; Here ’tis; commends it to your blessing. [_Laying down the child._] LEONTES. Out! A mankind witch! Hence with her, out o’ door: A most intelligencing bawd! PAULINA. Not so. I am as ignorant in that as you In so entitling me; and no less honest Than you are mad; which is enough, I’ll warrant, As this world goes, to pass for honest. LEONTES. Traitors! Will you not push her out? [_To Antigonus._] Give her the bastard, Thou dotard! Thou art woman-tir’d, unroosted By thy Dame Partlet here. Take up the bastard, Take’t up, I say; give’t to thy crone. PAULINA. For ever Unvenerable be thy hands, if thou Tak’st up the princess by that forced baseness Which he has put upon ’t! LEONTES. He dreads his wife. PAULINA. So I would you did; then ’twere past all doubt You’d call your children yours. LEONTES. A nest of traitors! ANTIGONUS. I am none, by this good light. PAULINA. Nor I; nor any But one that’s here, and that’s himself. For he The sacred honour of himself, his queen’s, His hopeful son’s, his babe’s, betrays to slander, Whose sting is sharper than the sword’s; and will not, (For, as the case now stands, it is a curse He cannot be compell’d to’t) once remove The root of his opinion, which is rotten As ever oak or stone was sound. LEONTES. A callat Of boundless tongue, who late hath beat her husband, And now baits me! This brat is none of mine; It is the issue of Polixenes. Hence with it, and together with the dam Commit them to the fire. PAULINA. It is yours; And, might we lay th’ old proverb to your charge, So like you ’tis the worse. Behold, my lords, Although the print be little, the whole matter And copy of the father: eye, nose, lip, The trick of ’s frown, his forehead; nay, the valley, The pretty dimples of his chin and cheek; his smiles; The very mould and frame of hand, nail, finger: And thou, good goddess Nature, which hast made it So like to him that got it, if thou hast The ordering of the mind too, ’mongst all colours No yellow in ’t, lest she suspect, as he does, Her children not her husband’s! LEONTES. A gross hag! And, losel, thou art worthy to be hang’d That wilt not stay her tongue. ANTIGONUS. Hang all the husbands That cannot do that feat, you’ll leave yourself Hardly one subject. LEONTES. Once more, take her hence. PAULINA. A most unworthy and unnatural lord Can do no more. LEONTES. I’ll have thee burnt. PAULINA. I care not. It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in ’t. I’ll not call you tyrant; But this most cruel usage of your queen, Not able to produce more accusation Than your own weak-hing’d fancy, something savours Of tyranny, and will ignoble make you, Yea, scandalous to the world. LEONTES. On your allegiance, Out of the chamber with her! Were I a tyrant, Where were her life? She durst not call me so, If she did know me one. Away with her! PAULINA. I pray you, do not push me; I’ll be gone. Look to your babe, my lord; ’tis yours: Jove send her A better guiding spirit! What needs these hands? You that are thus so tender o’er his follies, Will never do him good, not one of you. So, so. Farewell; we are gone. [_Exit._] LEONTES. Thou, traitor, hast set on thy wife to this. My child? Away with’t. Even thou, that hast A heart so tender o’er it, take it hence, And see it instantly consum’d with fire; Even thou, and none but thou. Take it up straight: Within this hour bring me word ’tis done, And by good testimony, or I’ll seize thy life, With that thou else call’st thine. If thou refuse And wilt encounter with my wrath, say so; The bastard brains with these my proper hands Shall I dash out. Go, take it to the fire; For thou set’st on thy wife. ANTIGONUS. I did not, sir: These lords, my noble fellows, if they please, Can clear me in ’t. LORDS We can: my royal liege, He is not guilty of her coming hither. LEONTES. You’re liars all. FIRST LORD. Beseech your highness, give us better credit: We have always truly serv’d you; and beseech So to esteem of us. And on our knees we beg, As recompense of our dear services Past and to come, that you do change this purpose, Which being so horrible, so bloody, must Lead on to some foul issue. We all kneel. LEONTES. I am a feather for each wind that blows. Shall I live on to see this bastard kneel And call me father? better burn it now Than curse it then. But be it; let it live. It shall not neither. [_To Antigonus._] You, sir, come you hither, You that have been so tenderly officious With Lady Margery, your midwife, there, To save this bastard’s life—for ’tis a bastard, So sure as this beard’s grey. What will you adventure To save this brat’s life? ANTIGONUS. Anything, my lord, That my ability may undergo, And nobleness impose: at least thus much: I’ll pawn the little blood which I have left To save the innocent. Anything possible. LEONTES. It shall be possible. Swear by this sword Thou wilt perform my bidding. ANTIGONUS. I will, my lord. LEONTES. Mark, and perform it, seest thou? for the fail Of any point in’t shall not only be Death to thyself, but to thy lewd-tongu’d wife, Whom for this time we pardon. We enjoin thee, As thou art liegeman to us, that thou carry This female bastard hence, and that thou bear it To some remote and desert place, quite out Of our dominions; and that there thou leave it, Without more mercy, to it own protection And favour of the climate. As by strange fortune It came to us, I do in justice charge thee, On thy soul’s peril and thy body’s torture, That thou commend it strangely to some place Where chance may nurse or end it. Take it up. ANTIGONUS. I swear to do this, though a present death Had been more merciful. Come on, poor babe: Some powerful spirit instruct the kites and ravens To be thy nurses! Wolves and bears, they say, Casting their savageness aside, have done Like offices of pity. Sir, be prosperous In more than this deed does require! And blessing Against this cruelty, fight on thy side, Poor thing, condemn’d to loss! [_Exit with the child._] LEONTES. No, I’ll not rear Another’s issue. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Please your highness, posts From those you sent to th’ oracle are come An hour since: Cleomenes and Dion, Being well arriv’d from Delphos, are both landed, Hasting to th’ court. FIRST LORD. So please you, sir, their speed Hath been beyond account. LEONTES. Twenty-three days They have been absent: ’tis good speed; foretells The great Apollo suddenly will have The truth of this appear. Prepare you, lords; Summon a session, that we may arraign Our most disloyal lady; for, as she hath Been publicly accus’d, so shall she have A just and open trial. While she lives, My heart will be a burden to me. Leave me, And think upon my bidding. [_Exeunt._] ACT III SCENE I. Sicilia. A Street in some Town. Enter Cleomenes and Dion. CLEOMENES The climate’s delicate; the air most sweet, Fertile the isle, the temple much surpassing The common praise it bears. DION. I shall report, For most it caught me, the celestial habits (Methinks I so should term them) and the reverence Of the grave wearers. O, the sacrifice! How ceremonious, solemn, and unearthly, It was i’ th’ offering! CLEOMENES But of all, the burst And the ear-deaf’ning voice o’ th’ oracle, Kin to Jove’s thunder, so surprised my sense That I was nothing. DION. If the event o’ th’ journey Prove as successful to the queen,—O, be’t so!— As it hath been to us rare, pleasant, speedy, The time is worth the use on’t. CLEOMENES Great Apollo Turn all to th’ best! These proclamations, So forcing faults upon Hermione, I little like. DION. The violent carriage of it Will clear or end the business: when the oracle, (Thus by Apollo’s great divine seal’d up) Shall the contents discover, something rare Even then will rush to knowledge. Go. Fresh horses! And gracious be the issue! [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. A Court of Justice. Enter Leontes, Lords and Officers appear, properly seated. LEONTES. This sessions (to our great grief we pronounce) Even pushes ’gainst our heart: the party tried The daughter of a king, our wife, and one Of us too much belov’d. Let us be clear’d Of being tyrannous, since we so openly Proceed in justice, which shall have due course, Even to the guilt or the purgation. Produce the prisoner. OFFICER. It is his highness’ pleasure that the queen Appear in person here in court. Silence! Hermione is brought in guarded; Paulina and Ladies attending. LEONTES. Read the indictment. OFFICER. [_Reads._] “Hermione, queen to the worthy Leontes, king of Sicilia, thou art here accused and arraigned of high treason, in committing adultery with Polixenes, king of Bohemia; and conspiring with Camillo to take away the life of our sovereign lord the king, thy royal husband: the pretence whereof being by circumstances partly laid open, thou, Hermione, contrary to the faith and allegiance of a true subject, didst counsel and aid them, for their better safety, to fly away by night.” HERMIONE. Since what I am to say must be but that Which contradicts my accusation, and The testimony on my part no other But what comes from myself, it shall scarce boot me To say “Not guilty”. Mine integrity, Being counted falsehood, shall, as I express it, Be so receiv’d. But thus, if powers divine Behold our human actions, as they do, I doubt not, then, but innocence shall make False accusation blush, and tyranny Tremble at patience. You, my lord, best know, Who least will seem to do so, my past life Hath been as continent, as chaste, as true, As I am now unhappy; which is more Than history can pattern, though devis’d And play’d to take spectators. For behold me, A fellow of the royal bed, which owe A moiety of the throne, a great king’s daughter, The mother to a hopeful prince, here standing To prate and talk for life and honour ’fore Who please to come and hear. For life, I prize it As I weigh grief, which I would spare. For honour, ’Tis a derivative from me to mine, And only that I stand for. I appeal To your own conscience, sir, before Polixenes Came to your court, how I was in your grace, How merited to be so; since he came, With what encounter so uncurrent I Have strain’d t’ appear thus: if one jot beyond The bound of honour, or in act or will That way inclining, harden’d be the hearts Of all that hear me, and my near’st of kin Cry fie upon my grave! LEONTES. I ne’er heard yet That any of these bolder vices wanted Less impudence to gainsay what they did Than to perform it first. HERMIONE. That’s true enough; Though ’tis a saying, sir, not due to me. LEONTES. You will not own it. HERMIONE. More than mistress of Which comes to me in name of fault, I must not At all acknowledge. For Polixenes, With whom I am accus’d, I do confess I lov’d him as in honour he requir’d, With such a kind of love as might become A lady like me; with a love even such, So and no other, as yourself commanded: Which not to have done, I think had been in me Both disobedience and ingratitude To you and toward your friend, whose love had spoke, Ever since it could speak, from an infant, freely, That it was yours. Now, for conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dish’d For me to try how: all I know of it Is that Camillo was an honest man; And why he left your court, the gods themselves, Wotting no more than I, are ignorant. LEONTES. You knew of his departure, as you know What you have underta’en to do in ’s absence. HERMIONE. Sir, You speak a language that I understand not: My life stands in the level of your dreams, Which I’ll lay down. LEONTES. Your actions are my dreams. You had a bastard by Polixenes, And I but dream’d it. As you were past all shame (Those of your fact are so) so past all truth, Which to deny concerns more than avails; for as Thy brat hath been cast out, like to itself, No father owning it (which is, indeed, More criminal in thee than it), so thou Shalt feel our justice; in whose easiest passage Look for no less than death. HERMIONE. Sir, spare your threats: The bug which you would fright me with, I seek. To me can life be no commodity. The crown and comfort of my life, your favour, I do give lost, for I do feel it gone, But know not how it went. My second joy, And first-fruits of my body, from his presence I am barr’d, like one infectious. My third comfort, Starr’d most unluckily, is from my breast, (The innocent milk in its most innocent mouth) Hal’d out to murder; myself on every post Proclaim’d a strumpet; with immodest hatred The child-bed privilege denied, which ’longs To women of all fashion; lastly, hurried Here to this place, i’ th’ open air, before I have got strength of limit. Now, my liege, Tell me what blessings I have here alive, That I should fear to die. Therefore proceed. But yet hear this: mistake me not: no life, I prize it not a straw, but for mine honour, Which I would free, if I shall be condemn’d Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you ’Tis rigour, and not law. Your honours all, I do refer me to the oracle: Apollo be my judge! FIRST LORD. This your request Is altogether just: therefore bring forth, And in Apollo’s name, his oracle: [_Exeunt certain Officers._] HERMIONE. The Emperor of Russia was my father. O that he were alive, and here beholding His daughter’s trial! that he did but see The flatness of my misery; yet with eyes Of pity, not revenge! Enter Officers with Cleomenes and Dion. OFFICER. You here shall swear upon this sword of justice, That you, Cleomenes and Dion, have Been both at Delphos, and from thence have brought This seal’d-up oracle, by the hand deliver’d Of great Apollo’s priest; and that since then You have not dared to break the holy seal, Nor read the secrets in’t. CLEOMENES, DION. All this we swear. LEONTES. Break up the seals and read. OFFICER. [_Reads._] “Hermione is chaste; Polixenes blameless; Camillo a true subject; Leontes a jealous tyrant; his innocent babe truly begotten; and the king shall live without an heir, if that which is lost be not found.” LORDS Now blessed be the great Apollo! HERMIONE. Praised! LEONTES. Hast thou read truth? OFFICER. Ay, my lord, even so As it is here set down. LEONTES. There is no truth at all i’ th’ oracle: The sessions shall proceed: this is mere falsehood. Enter a Servant hastily. SERVANT. My lord the king, the king! LEONTES. What is the business? SERVANT. O sir, I shall be hated to report it. The prince your son, with mere conceit and fear Of the queen’s speed, is gone. LEONTES. How! gone? SERVANT. Is dead. LEONTES. Apollo’s angry, and the heavens themselves Do strike at my injustice. [_Hermione faints._] How now there? PAULINA. This news is mortal to the queen. Look down And see what death is doing. LEONTES. Take her hence: Her heart is but o’ercharg’d; she will recover. I have too much believ’d mine own suspicion. Beseech you tenderly apply to her Some remedies for life. [_Exeunt Paulina and Ladies with Hermione._] Apollo, pardon My great profaneness ’gainst thine oracle! I’ll reconcile me to Polixenes, New woo my queen, recall the good Camillo, Whom I proclaim a man of truth, of mercy; For, being transported by my jealousies To bloody thoughts and to revenge, I chose Camillo for the minister to poison My friend Polixenes: which had been done, But that the good mind of Camillo tardied My swift command, though I with death and with Reward did threaten and encourage him, Not doing it and being done. He, most humane And fill’d with honour, to my kingly guest Unclasp’d my practice, quit his fortunes here, Which you knew great, and to the certain hazard Of all incertainties himself commended, No richer than his honour. How he glisters Thorough my rust! And how his piety Does my deeds make the blacker! Enter Paulina. PAULINA. Woe the while! O, cut my lace, lest my heart, cracking it, Break too! FIRST LORD. What fit is this, good lady? PAULINA. What studied torments, tyrant, hast for me? What wheels? racks? fires? what flaying? boiling In leads or oils? What old or newer torture Must I receive, whose every word deserves To taste of thy most worst? Thy tyranny, Together working with thy jealousies, Fancies too weak for boys, too green and idle For girls of nine. O, think what they have done, And then run mad indeed, stark mad! for all Thy by-gone fooleries were but spices of it. That thou betray’dst Polixenes, ’twas nothing; That did but show thee, of a fool, inconstant And damnable ingrateful; nor was’t much Thou wouldst have poison’d good Camillo’s honour, To have him kill a king; poor trespasses, More monstrous standing by: whereof I reckon The casting forth to crows thy baby daughter, To be or none or little, though a devil Would have shed water out of fire ere done’t, Nor is’t directly laid to thee the death Of the young prince, whose honourable thoughts, Thoughts high for one so tender, cleft the heart That could conceive a gross and foolish sire Blemish’d his gracious dam: this is not, no, Laid to thy answer: but the last—O lords, When I have said, cry Woe!—the queen, the queen, The sweet’st, dear’st creature’s dead, and vengeance for’t Not dropp’d down yet. FIRST LORD. The higher powers forbid! PAULINA. I say she’s dead: I’ll swear’t. If word nor oath Prevail not, go and see: if you can bring Tincture, or lustre, in her lip, her eye, Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you As I would do the gods. But, O thou tyrant! Do not repent these things, for they are heavier Than all thy woes can stir. Therefore betake thee To nothing but despair. A thousand knees Ten thousand years together, naked, fasting, Upon a barren mountain, and still winter In storm perpetual, could not move the gods To look that way thou wert. LEONTES. Go on, go on: Thou canst not speak too much; I have deserv’d All tongues to talk their bitterest. FIRST LORD. Say no more: Howe’er the business goes, you have made fault I’ th’ boldness of your speech. PAULINA. I am sorry for ’t: All faults I make, when I shall come to know them, I do repent. Alas, I have show’d too much The rashness of a woman: he is touch’d To th’ noble heart. What’s gone and what’s past help, Should be past grief. Do not receive affliction At my petition; I beseech you, rather Let me be punish’d, that have minded you Of what you should forget. Now, good my liege, Sir, royal sir, forgive a foolish woman: The love I bore your queen—lo, fool again! I’ll speak of her no more, nor of your children. I’ll not remember you of my own lord, Who is lost too. Take your patience to you, And I’ll say nothing. LEONTES. Thou didst speak but well When most the truth, which I receive much better Than to be pitied of thee. Prithee, bring me To the dead bodies of my queen and son: One grave shall be for both. Upon them shall The causes of their death appear, unto Our shame perpetual. Once a day I’ll visit The chapel where they lie, and tears shed there Shall be my recreation. So long as nature Will bear up with this exercise, so long I daily vow to use it. Come, and lead me To these sorrows. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. Bohemia. A desert Country near the Sea. Enter Antigonus with the Child and a Mariner. ANTIGONUS. Thou art perfect, then, our ship hath touch’d upon The deserts of Bohemia? MARINER. Ay, my lord, and fear We have landed in ill time: the skies look grimly, And threaten present blusters. In my conscience, The heavens with that we have in hand are angry, And frown upon ’s. ANTIGONUS. Their sacred wills be done! Go, get aboard; Look to thy bark: I’ll not be long before I call upon thee. MARINER. Make your best haste, and go not Too far i’ th’ land: ’tis like to be loud weather; Besides, this place is famous for the creatures Of prey that keep upon ’t. ANTIGONUS. Go thou away: I’ll follow instantly. MARINER. I am glad at heart To be so rid o’ th’ business. [_Exit._] ANTIGONUS. Come, poor babe. I have heard, but not believ’d, the spirits of the dead May walk again: if such thing be, thy mother Appear’d to me last night; for ne’er was dream So like a waking. To me comes a creature, Sometimes her head on one side, some another. I never saw a vessel of like sorrow, So fill’d and so becoming: in pure white robes, Like very sanctity, she did approach My cabin where I lay: thrice bow’d before me, And, gasping to begin some speech, her eyes Became two spouts. The fury spent, anon Did this break from her: “Good Antigonus, Since fate, against thy better disposition, Hath made thy person for the thrower-out Of my poor babe, according to thine oath, Places remote enough are in Bohemia, There weep, and leave it crying. And, for the babe Is counted lost for ever, Perdita I prithee call’t. For this ungentle business, Put on thee by my lord, thou ne’er shalt see Thy wife Paulina more.” And so, with shrieks, She melted into air. Affrighted much, I did in time collect myself and thought This was so, and no slumber. Dreams are toys, Yet for this once, yea, superstitiously, I will be squar’d by this. I do believe Hermione hath suffer’d death, and that Apollo would, this being indeed the issue Of King Polixenes, it should here be laid, Either for life or death, upon the earth Of its right father. Blossom, speed thee well! There lie; and there thy character: there these; [_Laying down the child and a bundle._] Which may if fortune please, both breed thee, pretty, And still rest thine. The storm begins: poor wretch, That for thy mother’s fault art thus expos’d To loss and what may follow! Weep I cannot, But my heart bleeds, and most accurs’d am I To be by oath enjoin’d to this. Farewell! The day frowns more and more. Thou’rt like to have A lullaby too rough. I never saw The heavens so dim by day. A savage clamour! Well may I get aboard! This is the chase: I am gone for ever. [_Exit, pursued by a bear._] Enter an old Shepherd. SHEPHERD. I would there were no age between ten and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting—Hark you now! Would any but these boiled brains of nineteen and two-and-twenty hunt this weather? They have scared away two of my best sheep, which I fear the wolf will sooner find than the master: if anywhere I have them, ’tis by the sea-side, browsing of ivy. Good luck, an ’t be thy will, what have we here? [_Taking up the child._] Mercy on ’s, a bairn! A very pretty bairn! A boy or a child, I wonder? A pretty one; a very pretty one. Sure, some scape. Though I am not bookish, yet I can read waiting-gentlewoman in the scape. This has been some stair-work, some trunk-work, some behind-door-work. They were warmer that got this than the poor thing is here. I’ll take it up for pity: yet I’ll tarry till my son come; he halloed but even now. Whoa-ho-hoa! Enter Clown. CLOWN. Hilloa, loa! SHEPHERD. What, art so near? If thou’lt see a thing to talk on when thou art dead and rotten, come hither. What ail’st thou, man? CLOWN. I have seen two such sights, by sea and by land! But I am not to say it is a sea, for it is now the sky: betwixt the firmament and it, you cannot thrust a bodkin’s point. SHEPHERD. Why, boy, how is it? CLOWN. I would you did but see how it chafes, how it rages, how it takes up the shore! But that’s not to the point. O, the most piteous cry of the poor souls! sometimes to see ’em, and not to see ’em. Now the ship boring the moon with her mainmast, and anon swallowed with yest and froth, as you’d thrust a cork into a hogshead. And then for the land service, to see how the bear tore out his shoulder-bone, how he cried to me for help, and said his name was Antigonus, a nobleman. But to make an end of the ship, to see how the sea flap-dragon’d it: but first, how the poor souls roared, and the sea mocked them, and how the poor gentleman roared, and the bear mocked him, both roaring louder than the sea or weather. SHEPHERD. Name of mercy, when was this, boy? CLOWN. Now, now. I have not winked since I saw these sights: the men are not yet cold under water, nor the bear half dined on the gentleman. He’s at it now. SHEPHERD. Would I had been by to have helped the old man! CLOWN. I would you had been by the ship side, to have helped her: there your charity would have lacked footing. SHEPHERD. Heavy matters, heavy matters! But look thee here, boy. Now bless thyself: thou met’st with things dying, I with things new-born. Here’s a sight for thee. Look thee, a bearing-cloth for a squire’s child! Look thee here; take up, take up, boy; open’t. So, let’s see. It was told me I should be rich by the fairies. This is some changeling: open’t. What’s within, boy? CLOWN. You’re a made old man. If the sins of your youth are forgiven you, you’re well to live. Gold! all gold! SHEPHERD. This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so. Up with it, keep it close: home, home, the next way. We are lucky, boy, and to be so still requires nothing but secrecy. Let my sheep go: come, good boy, the next way home. CLOWN. Go you the next way with your findings. I’ll go see if the bear be gone from the gentleman, and how much he hath eaten. They are never curst but when they are hungry: if there be any of him left, I’ll bury it. SHEPHERD. That’s a good deed. If thou mayest discern by that which is left of him what he is, fetch me to th’ sight of him. CLOWN. Marry, will I; and you shall help to put him i’ th’ ground. SHEPHERD. ’Tis a lucky day, boy, and we’ll do good deeds on ’t. [_Exeunt._] ACT IV SCENE I. Enter Time, the Chorus. TIME. I that please some, try all: both joy and terror Of good and bad, that makes and unfolds error, Now take upon me, in the name of Time, To use my wings. Impute it not a crime To me or my swift passage, that I slide O’er sixteen years, and leave the growth untried Of that wide gap, since it is in my power To o’erthrow law, and in one self-born hour To plant and o’erwhelm custom. Let me pass The same I am, ere ancient’st order was Or what is now received. I witness to The times that brought them in; so shall I do To th’ freshest things now reigning, and make stale The glistering of this present, as my tale Now seems to it. Your patience this allowing, I turn my glass, and give my scene such growing As you had slept between. Leontes leaving Th’ effects of his fond jealousies, so grieving That he shuts up himself, imagine me, Gentle spectators, that I now may be In fair Bohemia, and remember well, I mentioned a son o’ th’ king’s, which Florizel I now name to you; and with speed so pace To speak of Perdita, now grown in grace Equal with wondering. What of her ensues I list not prophesy; but let Time’s news Be known when ’tis brought forth. A shepherd’s daughter, And what to her adheres, which follows after, Is th’ argument of Time. Of this allow, If ever you have spent time worse ere now; If never, yet that Time himself doth say He wishes earnestly you never may. [_Exit._] SCENE II. Bohemia. A Room in the palace of Polixenes. Enter Polixenes and Camillo. POLIXENES. I pray thee, good Camillo, be no more importunate: ’tis a sickness denying thee anything; a death to grant this. CAMILLO. It is fifteen years since I saw my country. Though I have for the most part been aired abroad, I desire to lay my bones there. Besides, the penitent king, my master, hath sent for me; to whose feeling sorrows I might be some allay, or I o’erween to think so,—which is another spur to my departure. POLIXENES. As thou lov’st me, Camillo, wipe not out the rest of thy services by leaving me now: the need I have of thee, thine own goodness hath made; better not to have had thee than thus to want thee. Thou, having made me businesses which none without thee can sufficiently manage, must either stay to execute them thyself, or take away with thee the very services thou hast done, which if I have not enough considered (as too much I cannot) to be more thankful to thee shall be my study; and my profit therein the heaping friendships. Of that fatal country Sicilia, prithee speak no more; whose very naming punishes me with the remembrance of that penitent, as thou call’st him, and reconciled king, my brother; whose loss of his most precious queen and children are even now to be afresh lamented. Say to me, when sawest thou the Prince Florizel, my son? Kings are no less unhappy, their issue not being gracious, than they are in losing them when they have approved their virtues. CAMILLO. Sir, it is three days since I saw the prince. What his happier affairs may be, are to me unknown, but I have missingly noted he is of late much retired from court, and is less frequent to his princely exercises than formerly he hath appeared. POLIXENES. I have considered so much, Camillo, and with some care; so far that I have eyes under my service which look upon his removedness; from whom I have this intelligence, that he is seldom from the house of a most homely shepherd, a man, they say, that from very nothing, and beyond the imagination of his neighbours, is grown into an unspeakable estate. CAMILLO. I have heard, sir, of such a man, who hath a daughter of most rare note: the report of her is extended more than can be thought to begin from such a cottage. POLIXENES. That’s likewise part of my intelligence: but, I fear, the angle that plucks our son thither. Thou shalt accompany us to the place, where we will, not appearing what we are, have some question with the shepherd; from whose simplicity I think it not uneasy to get the cause of my son’s resort thither. Prithee, be my present partner in this business, and lay aside the thoughts of Sicilia. CAMILLO. I willingly obey your command. POLIXENES. My best Camillo! We must disguise ourselves. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Road near the Shepherd’s cottage. Enter Autolycus, singing. AUTOLYCUS. _When daffodils begin to peer, With, hey! the doxy over the dale, Why, then comes in the sweet o’ the year, For the red blood reigns in the winter’s pale._ _The white sheet bleaching on the hedge, With, hey! the sweet birds, O, how they sing! Doth set my pugging tooth on edge; For a quart of ale is a dish for a king._ _The lark, that tirra-lirra chants, With, hey! with, hey! the thrush and the jay, Are summer songs for me and my aunts, While we lie tumbling in the hay._ I have served Prince Florizel, and in my time wore three-pile, but now I am out of service. _But shall I go mourn for that, my dear? The pale moon shines by night: And when I wander here and there, I then do most go right._ _If tinkers may have leave to live, And bear the sow-skin budget, Then my account I well may give And in the stocks avouch it._ My traffic is sheets; when the kite builds, look to lesser linen. My father named me Autolycus; who being, I as am, littered under Mercury, was likewise a snapper-up of unconsidered trifles. With die and drab I purchased this caparison, and my revenue is the silly cheat. Gallows and knock are too powerful on the highway. Beating and hanging are terrors to me. For the life to come, I sleep out the thought of it. A prize! a prize! Enter Clown. CLOWN. Let me see: every ’leven wether tods; every tod yields pound and odd shilling; fifteen hundred shorn, what comes the wool to? AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] If the springe hold, the cock’s mine. CLOWN. I cannot do’t without counters. Let me see; what am I to buy for our sheep-shearing feast? “Three pound of sugar, five pound of currants, rice”—what will this sister of mine do with rice? But my father hath made her mistress of the feast, and she lays it on. She hath made me four-and-twenty nosegays for the shearers, three-man song-men all, and very good ones; but they are most of them means and basses, but one puritan amongst them, and he sings psalms to hornpipes. I must have saffron to colour the warden pies; “mace; dates”, none, that’s out of my note; “nutmegs, seven; a race or two of ginger”, but that I may beg; “four pound of prunes, and as many of raisins o’ th’ sun.” AUTOLYCUS. [_Grovelling on the ground._] O that ever I was born! CLOWN. I’ th’ name of me! AUTOLYCUS. O, help me, help me! Pluck but off these rags; and then, death, death! CLOWN. Alack, poor soul! thou hast need of more rags to lay on thee, rather than have these off. AUTOLYCUS. O sir, the loathsomeness of them offends me more than the stripes I have received, which are mighty ones and millions. CLOWN. Alas, poor man! a million of beating may come to a great matter. AUTOLYCUS. I am robbed, sir, and beaten; my money and apparel ta’en from me, and these detestable things put upon me. CLOWN. What, by a horseman or a footman? AUTOLYCUS. A footman, sweet sir, a footman. CLOWN. Indeed, he should be a footman by the garments he has left with thee: if this be a horseman’s coat, it hath seen very hot service. Lend me thy hand, I’ll help thee: come, lend me thy hand. [_Helping him up._] AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, tenderly, O! CLOWN. Alas, poor soul! AUTOLYCUS. O, good sir, softly, good sir. I fear, sir, my shoulder blade is out. CLOWN. How now! canst stand? AUTOLYCUS. Softly, dear sir! [_Picks his pocket._] good sir, softly. You ha’ done me a charitable office. CLOWN. Dost lack any money? I have a little money for thee. AUTOLYCUS. No, good sweet sir; no, I beseech you, sir: I have a kinsman not past three-quarters of a mile hence, unto whom I was going. I shall there have money or anything I want. Offer me no money, I pray you; that kills my heart. CLOWN. What manner of fellow was he that robbed you? AUTOLYCUS. A fellow, sir, that I have known to go about with troll-my-dames. I knew him once a servant of the prince; I cannot tell, good sir, for which of his virtues it was, but he was certainly whipped out of the court. CLOWN. His vices, you would say; there’s no virtue whipped out of the court. They cherish it to make it stay there; and yet it will no more but abide. AUTOLYCUS. Vices, I would say, sir. I know this man well. He hath been since an ape-bearer, then a process-server, a bailiff. Then he compassed a motion of the Prodigal Son, and married a tinker’s wife within a mile where my land and living lies; and, having flown over many knavish professions, he settled only in rogue. Some call him Autolycus. CLOWN. Out upon him! prig, for my life, prig: he haunts wakes, fairs, and bear-baitings. AUTOLYCUS. Very true, sir; he, sir, he; that’s the rogue that put me into this apparel. CLOWN. Not a more cowardly rogue in all Bohemia. If you had but looked big and spit at him, he’d have run. AUTOLYCUS. I must confess to you, sir, I am no fighter. I am false of heart that way; and that he knew, I warrant him. CLOWN. How do you now? AUTOLYCUS. Sweet sir, much better than I was. I can stand and walk: I will even take my leave of you and pace softly towards my kinsman’s. CLOWN. Shall I bring thee on the way? AUTOLYCUS. No, good-faced sir; no, sweet sir. CLOWN. Then fare thee well. I must go buy spices for our sheep-shearing. AUTOLYCUS. Prosper you, sweet sir! [_Exit Clown._] Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your spice. I’ll be with you at your sheep-shearing too. If I make not this cheat bring out another, and the shearers prove sheep, let me be unrolled, and my name put in the book of virtue! [_Sings._] _Jog on, jog on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a mile-a._ [_Exit._] SCENE IV. The same. A Shepherd’s Cottage. Enter Florizel and Perdita. FLORIZEL. These your unusual weeds to each part of you Do give a life, no shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April’s front. This your sheep-shearing Is as a meeting of the petty gods, And you the queen on ’t. PERDITA. Sir, my gracious lord, To chide at your extremes it not becomes me; O, pardon that I name them! Your high self, The gracious mark o’ th’ land, you have obscur’d With a swain’s wearing, and me, poor lowly maid, Most goddess-like prank’d up. But that our feasts In every mess have folly, and the feeders Digest it with a custom, I should blush To see you so attir’d; swoon, I think, To show myself a glass. FLORIZEL. I bless the time When my good falcon made her flight across Thy father’s ground. PERDITA. Now Jove afford you cause! To me the difference forges dread. Your greatness Hath not been us’d to fear. Even now I tremble To think your father, by some accident, Should pass this way, as you did. O, the Fates! How would he look to see his work, so noble, Vilely bound up? What would he say? Or how Should I, in these my borrow’d flaunts, behold The sternness of his presence? FLORIZEL. Apprehend Nothing but jollity. The gods themselves, Humbling their deities to love, have taken The shapes of beasts upon them. Jupiter Became a bull and bellow’d; the green Neptune A ram and bleated; and the fire-rob’d god, Golden Apollo, a poor humble swain, As I seem now. Their transformations Were never for a piece of beauty rarer, Nor in a way so chaste, since my desires Run not before mine honour, nor my lusts Burn hotter than my faith. PERDITA. O, but, sir, Your resolution cannot hold when ’tis Oppos’d, as it must be, by the power of the king: One of these two must be necessities, Which then will speak, that you must change this purpose, Or I my life. FLORIZEL. Thou dearest Perdita, With these forc’d thoughts, I prithee, darken not The mirth o’ th’ feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair, Or not my father’s. For I cannot be Mine own, nor anything to any, if I be not thine. To this I am most constant, Though destiny say no. Be merry, gentle. Strangle such thoughts as these with anything That you behold the while. Your guests are coming: Lift up your countenance, as it were the day Of celebration of that nuptial which We two have sworn shall come. PERDITA. O lady Fortune, Stand you auspicious! FLORIZEL. See, your guests approach: Address yourself to entertain them sprightly, And let’s be red with mirth. Enter Shepherd with Polixenes and Camillo, disguised; Clown, Mopsa, Dorcas with others. SHEPHERD. Fie, daughter! When my old wife liv’d, upon This day she was both pantler, butler, cook, Both dame and servant; welcom’d all; serv’d all; Would sing her song and dance her turn; now here At upper end o’ th’ table, now i’ th’ middle; On his shoulder, and his; her face o’ fire With labour, and the thing she took to quench it She would to each one sip. You are retired, As if you were a feasted one, and not The hostess of the meeting: pray you, bid These unknown friends to ’s welcome, for it is A way to make us better friends, more known. Come, quench your blushes, and present yourself That which you are, mistress o’ th’ feast. Come on, And bid us welcome to your sheep-shearing, As your good flock shall prosper. PERDITA. [_To Polixenes._] Sir, welcome. It is my father’s will I should take on me The hostess-ship o’ the day. [_To Camillo._] You’re welcome, sir. Give me those flowers there, Dorcas. Reverend sirs, For you there’s rosemary and rue; these keep Seeming and savour all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you both! And welcome to our shearing! POLIXENES. Shepherdess— A fair one are you—well you fit our ages With flowers of winter. PERDITA. Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer’s death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o’ th’ season Are our carnations and streak’d gillyvors, Which some call nature’s bastards: of that kind Our rustic garden’s barren; and I care not To get slips of them. POLIXENES. Wherefore, gentle maiden, Do you neglect them? PERDITA. For I have heard it said There is an art which, in their piedness, shares With great creating nature. POLIXENES. Say there be; Yet nature is made better by no mean But nature makes that mean. So, over that art Which you say adds to nature, is an art That nature makes. You see, sweet maid, we marry A gentler scion to the wildest stock, And make conceive a bark of baser kind By bud of nobler race. This is an art Which does mend nature, change it rather, but The art itself is nature. PERDITA. So it is. POLIXENES. Then make your garden rich in gillyvors, And do not call them bastards. PERDITA. I’ll not put The dibble in earth to set one slip of them; No more than, were I painted, I would wish This youth should say ’twere well, and only therefore Desire to breed by me. Here’s flowers for you: Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, The marigold, that goes to bed with th’ sun And with him rises weeping. These are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. You’re very welcome. CAMILLO. I should leave grazing, were I of your flock, And only live by gazing. PERDITA. Out, alas! You’d be so lean that blasts of January Would blow you through and through. [_To Florizel_] Now, my fair’st friend, I would I had some flowers o’ th’ spring, that might Become your time of day; and yours, and yours, That wear upon your virgin branches yet Your maidenheads growing. O Proserpina, From the flowers now that, frighted, thou let’st fall From Dis’s waggon! daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty; violets dim, But sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes Or Cytherea’s breath; pale primroses, That die unmarried ere they can behold Bright Phoebus in his strength (a malady Most incident to maids); bold oxlips and The crown imperial; lilies of all kinds, The flower-de-luce being one. O, these I lack, To make you garlands of; and my sweet friend, To strew him o’er and o’er! FLORIZEL. What, like a corse? PERDITA. No, like a bank for love to lie and play on; Not like a corse; or if, not to be buried, But quick, and in mine arms. Come, take your flowers. Methinks I play as I have seen them do In Whitsun pastorals. Sure this robe of mine Does change my disposition. FLORIZEL. What you do Still betters what is done. When you speak, sweet, I’d have you do it ever. When you sing, I’d have you buy and sell so, so give alms, Pray so; and, for the ord’ring your affairs, To sing them too. When you do dance, I wish you A wave o’ th’ sea, that you might ever do Nothing but that, move still, still so, And own no other function. Each your doing, So singular in each particular, Crowns what you are doing in the present deeds, That all your acts are queens. PERDITA. O Doricles, Your praises are too large. But that your youth, And the true blood which peeps fairly through ’t, Do plainly give you out an unstained shepherd, With wisdom I might fear, my Doricles, You woo’d me the false way. FLORIZEL. I think you have As little skill to fear as I have purpose To put you to ’t. But, come; our dance, I pray. Your hand, my Perdita. So turtles pair That never mean to part. PERDITA. I’ll swear for ’em. POLIXENES. This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever Ran on the green-sward. Nothing she does or seems But smacks of something greater than herself, Too noble for this place. CAMILLO. He tells her something That makes her blood look out. Good sooth, she is The queen of curds and cream. CLOWN. Come on, strike up. DORCAS. Mopsa must be your mistress: marry, garlic, to mend her kissing with! MOPSA. Now, in good time! CLOWN. Not a word, a word; we stand upon our manners. Come, strike up. [_Music. Here a dance Of Shepherds and Shepherdesses._] POLIXENES. Pray, good shepherd, what fair swain is this Which dances with your daughter? SHEPHERD. They call him Doricles; and boasts himself To have a worthy feeding. But I have it Upon his own report, and I believe it. He looks like sooth. He says he loves my daughter. I think so too; for never gaz’d the moon Upon the water as he’ll stand and read, As ’twere, my daughter’s eyes. And, to be plain, I think there is not half a kiss to choose Who loves another best. POLIXENES. She dances featly. SHEPHERD. So she does anything, though I report it That should be silent. If young Doricles Do light upon her, she shall bring him that Which he not dreams of. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. O master, if you did but hear the pedlar at the door, you would never dance again after a tabor and pipe; no, the bagpipe could not move you. He sings several tunes faster than you’ll tell money. He utters them as he had eaten ballads, and all men’s ears grew to his tunes. CLOWN. He could never come better: he shall come in. I love a ballad but even too well, if it be doleful matter merrily set down, or a very pleasant thing indeed and sung lamentably. SERVANT. He hath songs for man or woman of all sizes. No milliner can so fit his customers with gloves. He has the prettiest love-songs for maids, so without bawdry, which is strange; with such delicate burdens of dildos and fadings, “jump her and thump her”; and where some stretch-mouthed rascal would, as it were, mean mischief and break a foul gap into the matter, he makes the maid to answer “Whoop, do me no harm, good man”; puts him off, slights him, with “Whoop, do me no harm, good man.” POLIXENES. This is a brave fellow. CLOWN. Believe me, thou talkest of an admirable conceited fellow. Has he any unbraided wares? SERVANT. He hath ribbons of all the colours i’ th’ rainbow; points, more than all the lawyers in Bohemia can learnedly handle, though they come to him by th’ gross; inkles, caddisses, cambrics, lawns; why he sings ’em over as they were gods or goddesses; you would think a smock were a she-angel, he so chants to the sleeve-hand and the work about the square on ’t. CLOWN. Prithee bring him in; and let him approach singing. PERDITA. Forewarn him that he use no scurrilous words in ’s tunes. [_Exit Servant._] CLOWN. You have of these pedlars that have more in them than you’d think, sister. PERDITA. Ay, good brother, or go about to think. Enter Autolycus, singing. AUTOLYCUS. _Lawn as white as driven snow, Cypress black as e’er was crow, Gloves as sweet as damask roses, Masks for faces and for noses, Bugle-bracelet, necklace amber, Perfume for a lady’s chamber, Golden quoifs and stomachers For my lads to give their dears, Pins and poking-sticks of steel, What maids lack from head to heel. Come buy of me, come; come buy, come buy; Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry. Come, buy._ CLOWN. If I were not in love with Mopsa, thou shouldst take no money of me; but being enthralled as I am, it will also be the bondage of certain ribbons and gloves. MOPSA. I was promised them against the feast; but they come not too late now. DORCAS. He hath promised you more than that, or there be liars. MOPSA. He hath paid you all he promised you. Maybe he has paid you more, which will shame you to give him again. CLOWN. Is there no manners left among maids? Will they wear their plackets where they should bear their faces? Is there not milking-time, when you are going to bed, or kiln-hole, to whistle of these secrets, but you must be tittle-tattling before all our guests? ’Tis well they are whispering. Clamour your tongues, and not a word more. MOPSA. I have done. Come, you promised me a tawdry lace and a pair of sweet gloves. CLOWN. Have I not told thee how I was cozened by the way and lost all my money? AUTOLYCUS. And indeed, sir, there are cozeners abroad; therefore it behoves men to be wary. CLOWN. Fear not thou, man. Thou shalt lose nothing here. AUTOLYCUS. I hope so, sir; for I have about me many parcels of charge. CLOWN. What hast here? Ballads? MOPSA. Pray now, buy some. I love a ballad in print alife, for then we are sure they are true. AUTOLYCUS. Here’s one to a very doleful tune. How a usurer’s wife was brought to bed of twenty money-bags at a burden, and how she longed to eat adders’ heads and toads carbonadoed. MOPSA. Is it true, think you? AUTOLYCUS. Very true, and but a month old. DORCAS. Bless me from marrying a usurer! AUTOLYCUS. Here’s the midwife’s name to’t, one Mistress Taleporter, and five or six honest wives that were present. Why should I carry lies abroad? MOPSA. Pray you now, buy it. CLOWN. Come on, lay it by; and let’s first see more ballads. We’ll buy the other things anon. AUTOLYCUS. Here’s another ballad, of a fish that appeared upon the coast on Wednesday the fourscore of April, forty thousand fathom above water, and sung this ballad against the hard hearts of maids. It was thought she was a woman, and was turned into a cold fish for she would not exchange flesh with one that loved her. The ballad is very pitiful, and as true. DORCAS. Is it true too, think you? AUTOLYCUS. Five justices’ hands at it, and witnesses more than my pack will hold. CLOWN. Lay it by too: another. AUTOLYCUS. This is a merry ballad; but a very pretty one. MOPSA. Let’s have some merry ones. AUTOLYCUS. Why, this is a passing merry one and goes to the tune of “Two maids wooing a man.” There’s scarce a maid westward but she sings it. ’Tis in request, I can tell you. MOPSA. We can both sing it: if thou’lt bear a part, thou shalt hear; ’tis in three parts. DORCAS. We had the tune on ’t a month ago. AUTOLYCUS. I can bear my part; you must know ’tis my occupation: have at it with you. SONG. AUTOLYCUS. _Get you hence, for I must go Where it fits not you to know._ DORCAS. _Whither?_ MOPSA. _O, whither?_ DORCAS. _Whither?_ MOPSA. _It becomes thy oath full well Thou to me thy secrets tell._ DORCAS. _Me too! Let me go thither._ MOPSA. Or thou goest to th’ grange or mill. DORCAS. _If to either, thou dost ill._ AUTOLYCUS. _Neither._ DORCAS. _What, neither?_ AUTOLYCUS. _Neither._ DORCAS. _Thou hast sworn my love to be._ MOPSA. _Thou hast sworn it more to me. Then whither goest? Say, whither?_ CLOWN. We’ll have this song out anon by ourselves. My father and the gentlemen are in sad talk, and we’ll not trouble them. Come, bring away thy pack after me. Wenches, I’ll buy for you both. Pedlar, let’s have the first choice. Follow me, girls. [_Exit with Dorcas and Mopsa._] AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] And you shall pay well for ’em. SONG. _Will you buy any tape, Or lace for your cape, My dainty duck, my dear-a? Any silk, any thread, Any toys for your head, Of the new’st and fin’st, fin’st wear-a? Come to the pedlar; Money’s a meddler That doth utter all men’s ware-a._ [_Exit._] Enter Servant. SERVANT. Master, there is three carters, three shepherds, three neat-herds, three swine-herds, that have made themselves all men of hair. They call themselves saltiers, and they have dance which the wenches say is a gallimaufry of gambols, because they are not in ’t; but they themselves are o’ the mind (if it be not too rough for some that know little but bowling) it will please plentifully. SHEPHERD. Away! we’ll none on ’t. Here has been too much homely foolery already. I know, sir, we weary you. POLIXENES. You weary those that refresh us: pray, let’s see these four threes of herdsmen. SERVANT. One three of them, by their own report, sir, hath danced before the king; and not the worst of the three but jumps twelve foot and a half by th’ square. SHEPHERD. Leave your prating: since these good men are pleased, let them come in; but quickly now. SERVANT. Why, they stay at door, sir. [_Exit._] Enter Twelve Rustics, habited like Satyrs. They dance, and then exeunt. POLIXENES. O, father, you’ll know more of that hereafter. [_To Camillo._] Is it not too far gone? ’Tis time to part them. He’s simple and tells much. [_To Florizel._] How now, fair shepherd! Your heart is full of something that does take Your mind from feasting. Sooth, when I was young And handed love, as you do, I was wont To load my she with knacks: I would have ransack’d The pedlar’s silken treasury and have pour’d it To her acceptance. You have let him go, And nothing marted with him. If your lass Interpretation should abuse, and call this Your lack of love or bounty, you were straited For a reply, at least if you make a care Of happy holding her. FLORIZEL. Old sir, I know She prizes not such trifles as these are: The gifts she looks from me are pack’d and lock’d Up in my heart, which I have given already, But not deliver’d. O, hear me breathe my life Before this ancient sir, who, it should seem, Hath sometime lov’d. I take thy hand! this hand, As soft as dove’s down and as white as it, Or Ethiopian’s tooth, or the fann’d snow that’s bolted By th’ northern blasts twice o’er. POLIXENES. What follows this? How prettily the young swain seems to wash The hand was fair before! I have put you out. But to your protestation. Let me hear What you profess. FLORIZEL. Do, and be witness to ’t. POLIXENES. And this my neighbour, too? FLORIZEL. And he, and more Than he, and men, the earth, the heavens, and all: That were I crown’d the most imperial monarch, Thereof most worthy, were I the fairest youth That ever made eye swerve, had force and knowledge More than was ever man’s, I would not prize them Without her love; for her employ them all; Commend them and condemn them to her service, Or to their own perdition. POLIXENES. Fairly offer’d. CAMILLO. This shows a sound affection. SHEPHERD. But my daughter, Say you the like to him? PERDITA. I cannot speak So well, nothing so well; no, nor mean better: By th’ pattern of mine own thoughts I cut out The purity of his. SHEPHERD. Take hands, a bargain! And, friends unknown, you shall bear witness to’t. I give my daughter to him, and will make Her portion equal his. FLORIZEL. O, that must be I’ th’ virtue of your daughter: one being dead, I shall have more than you can dream of yet; Enough then for your wonder. But come on, Contract us ’fore these witnesses. SHEPHERD. Come, your hand; And, daughter, yours. POLIXENES. Soft, swain, awhile, beseech you; Have you a father? FLORIZEL. I have; but what of him? POLIXENES. Knows he of this? FLORIZEL. He neither does nor shall. POLIXENES. Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table. Pray you once more, Is not your father grown incapable Of reasonable affairs? is he not stupid With age and alt’ring rheums? can he speak? hear? Know man from man? dispute his own estate? Lies he not bed-rid? and again does nothing But what he did being childish? FLORIZEL. No, good sir; He has his health, and ampler strength indeed Than most have of his age. POLIXENES. By my white beard, You offer him, if this be so, a wrong Something unfilial: reason my son Should choose himself a wife, but as good reason The father, all whose joy is nothing else But fair posterity, should hold some counsel In such a business. FLORIZEL. I yield all this; But for some other reasons, my grave sir, Which ’tis not fit you know, I not acquaint My father of this business. POLIXENES. Let him know ’t. FLORIZEL. He shall not. POLIXENES. Prithee let him. FLORIZEL. No, he must not. SHEPHERD. Let him, my son: he shall not need to grieve At knowing of thy choice. FLORIZEL. Come, come, he must not. Mark our contract. POLIXENES. [_Discovering himself._] Mark your divorce, young sir, Whom son I dare not call; thou art too base To be acknowledged: thou a sceptre’s heir, That thus affects a sheep-hook! Thou, old traitor, I am sorry that, by hanging thee, I can But shorten thy life one week. And thou, fresh piece Of excellent witchcraft, whom of force must know The royal fool thou cop’st with,— SHEPHERD. O, my heart! POLIXENES. I’ll have thy beauty scratch’d with briers and made More homely than thy state. For thee, fond boy, If I may ever know thou dost but sigh That thou no more shalt see this knack (as never I mean thou shalt), we’ll bar thee from succession; Not hold thee of our blood, no, not our kin, Far than Deucalion off. Mark thou my words. Follow us to the court. Thou churl, for this time, Though full of our displeasure, yet we free thee From the dead blow of it. And you, enchantment, Worthy enough a herdsman; yea, him too That makes himself, but for our honour therein, Unworthy thee. If ever henceforth thou These rural latches to his entrance open, Or hoop his body more with thy embraces, I will devise a death as cruel for thee As thou art tender to ’t. [_Exit._] PERDITA. Even here undone. I was not much afeard, for once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly The selfsame sun that shines upon his court Hides not his visage from our cottage, but Looks on alike. [_To Florizel._] Will’t please you, sir, be gone? I told you what would come of this. Beseech you, Of your own state take care. This dream of mine— Being now awake, I’ll queen it no inch farther, But milk my ewes, and weep. CAMILLO. Why, how now, father! Speak ere thou diest. SHEPHERD. I cannot speak, nor think, Nor dare to know that which I know. O sir, You have undone a man of fourscore three, That thought to fill his grave in quiet; yea, To die upon the bed my father died, To lie close by his honest bones; but now Some hangman must put on my shroud and lay me Where no priest shovels in dust. O cursed wretch, That knew’st this was the prince, and wouldst adventure To mingle faith with him! Undone, undone! If I might die within this hour, I have liv’d To die when I desire. [_Exit._] FLORIZEL. Why look you so upon me? I am but sorry, not afeard; delay’d, But nothing alt’red: what I was, I am: More straining on for plucking back; not following My leash unwillingly. CAMILLO. Gracious my lord, You know your father’s temper: at this time He will allow no speech (which I do guess You do not purpose to him) and as hardly Will he endure your sight as yet, I fear: Then, till the fury of his highness settle, Come not before him. FLORIZEL. I not purpose it. I think Camillo? CAMILLO. Even he, my lord. PERDITA. How often have I told you ’twould be thus! How often said my dignity would last But till ’twere known! FLORIZEL. It cannot fail but by The violation of my faith; and then Let nature crush the sides o’ th’ earth together And mar the seeds within! Lift up thy looks. From my succession wipe me, father; I Am heir to my affection. CAMILLO. Be advis’d. FLORIZEL. I am, and by my fancy. If my reason Will thereto be obedient, I have reason; If not, my senses, better pleas’d with madness, Do bid it welcome. CAMILLO. This is desperate, sir. FLORIZEL. So call it: but it does fulfil my vow. I needs must think it honesty. Camillo, Not for Bohemia, nor the pomp that may Be thereat glean’d; for all the sun sees or The close earth wombs, or the profound seas hides In unknown fathoms, will I break my oath To this my fair belov’d. Therefore, I pray you, As you have ever been my father’s honour’d friend, When he shall miss me,—as, in faith, I mean not To see him any more,—cast your good counsels Upon his passion: let myself and fortune Tug for the time to come. This you may know, And so deliver, I am put to sea With her whom here I cannot hold on shore; And, most opportune to her need, I have A vessel rides fast by, but not prepar’d For this design. What course I mean to hold Shall nothing benefit your knowledge, nor Concern me the reporting. CAMILLO. O my lord, I would your spirit were easier for advice, Or stronger for your need. FLORIZEL. Hark, Perdita. [_Takes her aside._] [_To Camillo._] I’ll hear you by and by. CAMILLO. He’s irremovable, Resolv’d for flight. Now were I happy if His going I could frame to serve my turn, Save him from danger, do him love and honour, Purchase the sight again of dear Sicilia And that unhappy king, my master, whom I so much thirst to see. FLORIZEL. Now, good Camillo, I am so fraught with curious business that I leave out ceremony. CAMILLO. Sir, I think You have heard of my poor services, i’ th’ love That I have borne your father? FLORIZEL. Very nobly Have you deserv’d: it is my father’s music To speak your deeds, not little of his care To have them recompens’d as thought on. CAMILLO. Well, my lord, If you may please to think I love the king, And, through him, what’s nearest to him, which is Your gracious self, embrace but my direction, If your more ponderous and settled project May suffer alteration. On mine honour, I’ll point you where you shall have such receiving As shall become your highness; where you may Enjoy your mistress; from the whom, I see, There’s no disjunction to be made, but by, As heavens forfend, your ruin. Marry her, And with my best endeavours in your absence Your discontenting father strive to qualify And bring him up to liking. FLORIZEL. How, Camillo, May this, almost a miracle, be done? That I may call thee something more than man, And after that trust to thee. CAMILLO. Have you thought on A place whereto you’ll go? FLORIZEL. Not any yet. But as th’ unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows. CAMILLO. Then list to me: This follows, if you will not change your purpose, But undergo this flight, make for Sicilia, And there present yourself and your fair princess, For so, I see, she must be, ’fore Leontes: She shall be habited as it becomes The partner of your bed. Methinks I see Leontes opening his free arms and weeping His welcomes forth; asks thee, the son, forgiveness, As ’twere i’ th’ father’s person; kisses the hands Of your fresh princess; o’er and o’er divides him ’Twixt his unkindness and his kindness. Th’ one He chides to hell, and bids the other grow Faster than thought or time. FLORIZEL. Worthy Camillo, What colour for my visitation shall I Hold up before him? CAMILLO. Sent by the king your father To greet him and to give him comforts. Sir, The manner of your bearing towards him, with What you (as from your father) shall deliver, Things known betwixt us three, I’ll write you down, The which shall point you forth at every sitting What you must say; that he shall not perceive But that you have your father’s bosom there And speak his very heart. FLORIZEL. I am bound to you: There is some sap in this. CAMILLO. A course more promising Than a wild dedication of yourselves To unpath’d waters, undream’d shores, most certain To miseries enough: no hope to help you, But as you shake off one to take another: Nothing so certain as your anchors, who Do their best office if they can but stay you Where you’ll be loath to be. Besides, you know Prosperity’s the very bond of love, Whose fresh complexion and whose heart together Affliction alters. PERDITA. One of these is true: I think affliction may subdue the cheek, But not take in the mind. CAMILLO. Yea, say you so? There shall not at your father’s house, these seven years Be born another such. FLORIZEL. My good Camillo, She is as forward of her breeding as She is i’ th’ rear our birth. CAMILLO. I cannot say ’tis pity She lacks instructions, for she seems a mistress To most that teach. PERDITA. Your pardon, sir; for this I’ll blush you thanks. FLORIZEL. My prettiest Perdita! But, O, the thorns we stand upon! Camillo, Preserver of my father, now of me, The medicine of our house, how shall we do? We are not furnish’d like Bohemia’s son, Nor shall appear in Sicilia. CAMILLO. My lord, Fear none of this. I think you know my fortunes Do all lie there: it shall be so my care To have you royally appointed as if The scene you play were mine. For instance, sir, That you may know you shall not want,—one word. [_They talk aside._] Enter Autolycus. AUTOLYCUS. Ha, ha! what a fool Honesty is! and Trust, his sworn brother, a very simple gentleman! I have sold all my trumpery. Not a counterfeit stone, not a ribbon, glass, pomander, brooch, table-book, ballad, knife, tape, glove, shoe-tie, bracelet, horn-ring, to keep my pack from fasting. They throng who should buy first, as if my trinkets had been hallowed and brought a benediction to the buyer: by which means I saw whose purse was best in picture; and what I saw, to my good use I remembered. My clown (who wants but something to be a reasonable man) grew so in love with the wenches’ song that he would not stir his pettitoes till he had both tune and words; which so drew the rest of the herd to me that all their other senses stuck in ears: you might have pinched a placket, it was senseless; ’twas nothing to geld a codpiece of a purse; I would have filed keys off that hung in chains: no hearing, no feeling, but my sir’s song, and admiring the nothing of it. So that in this time of lethargy I picked and cut most of their festival purses; and had not the old man come in with a whoobub against his daughter and the king’s son, and scared my choughs from the chaff, I had not left a purse alive in the whole army. Camillo, Florizel and Perdita come forward. CAMILLO. Nay, but my letters, by this means being there So soon as you arrive, shall clear that doubt. FLORIZEL. And those that you’ll procure from king Leontes? CAMILLO. Shall satisfy your father. PERDITA. Happy be you! All that you speak shows fair. CAMILLO. [_Seeing Autolycus._] Who have we here? We’ll make an instrument of this; omit Nothing may give us aid. AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] If they have overheard me now,—why, hanging. CAMILLO. How now, good fellow! why shakest thou so? Fear not, man; here’s no harm intended to thee. AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir. CAMILLO. Why, be so still; here’s nobody will steal that from thee: yet, for the outside of thy poverty we must make an exchange; therefore discase thee instantly,—thou must think there’s a necessity in’t—and change garments with this gentleman: though the pennyworth on his side be the worst, yet hold thee, there’s some boot. [_Giving money._] AUTOLYCUS. I am a poor fellow, sir: [_Aside._] I know ye well enough. CAMILLO. Nay, prithee dispatch: the gentleman is half flayed already. AUTOLYCUS. Are you in earnest, sir? [_Aside._] I smell the trick on’t. FLORIZEL. Dispatch, I prithee. AUTOLYCUS. Indeed, I have had earnest; but I cannot with conscience take it. CAMILLO. Unbuckle, unbuckle. [_Florizel and Autolycus exchange garments._] Fortunate mistress,—let my prophecy Come home to you!—you must retire yourself Into some covert. Take your sweetheart’s hat And pluck it o’er your brows, muffle your face, Dismantle you; and, as you can, disliken The truth of your own seeming; that you may (For I do fear eyes over) to shipboard Get undescried. PERDITA. I see the play so lies That I must bear a part. CAMILLO. No remedy. Have you done there? FLORIZEL. Should I now meet my father, He would not call me son. CAMILLO. Nay, you shall have no hat. [_Giving it to Perdita._] Come, lady, come. Farewell, my friend. AUTOLYCUS. Adieu, sir. FLORIZEL. O Perdita, what have we twain forgot? Pray you a word. [_They converse apart._] CAMILLO. [_Aside._] What I do next, shall be to tell the king Of this escape, and whither they are bound; Wherein my hope is I shall so prevail To force him after: in whose company I shall re-view Sicilia; for whose sight I have a woman’s longing. FLORIZEL. Fortune speed us! Thus we set on, Camillo, to the sea-side. CAMILLO. The swifter speed the better. [_Exeunt Florizel, Perdita and Camillo._] AUTOLYCUS. I understand the business, I hear it. To have an open ear, a quick eye, and a nimble hand, is necessary for a cut-purse; a good nose is requisite also, to smell out work for the other senses. I see this is the time that the unjust man doth thrive. What an exchange had this been without boot! What a boot is here with this exchange! Sure the gods do this year connive at us, and we may do anything extempore. The prince himself is about a piece of iniquity, stealing away from his father with his clog at his heels: if I thought it were a piece of honesty to acquaint the king withal, I would not do’t: I hold it the more knavery to conceal it; and therein am I constant to my profession. Enter Clown and Shepherd. Aside, aside; here is more matter for a hot brain: every lane’s end, every shop, church, session, hanging, yields a careful man work. CLOWN. See, see; what a man you are now! There is no other way but to tell the king she’s a changeling, and none of your flesh and blood. SHEPHERD. Nay, but hear me. CLOWN. Nay, but hear me. SHEPHERD. Go to, then. CLOWN. She being none of your flesh and blood, your flesh and blood has not offended the king; and so your flesh and blood is not to be punished by him. Show those things you found about her, those secret things, all but what she has with her: this being done, let the law go whistle, I warrant you. SHEPHERD. I will tell the king all, every word, yea, and his son’s pranks too; who, I may say, is no honest man neither to his father nor to me, to go about to make me the king’s brother-in-law. CLOWN. Indeed, brother-in-law was the farthest off you could have been to him, and then your blood had been the dearer by I know how much an ounce. AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] Very wisely, puppies! SHEPHERD. Well, let us to the king: there is that in this fardel will make him scratch his beard. AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] I know not what impediment this complaint may be to the flight of my master. CLOWN. Pray heartily he be at’ palace. AUTOLYCUS. [_Aside._] Though I am not naturally honest, I am so sometimes by chance. Let me pocket up my pedlar’s excrement. [_Takes off his false beard._] How now, rustics! whither are you bound? SHEPHERD. To the palace, an it like your worship. AUTOLYCUS. Your affairs there, what, with whom, the condition of that fardel, the place of your dwelling, your names, your ages, of what having, breeding, and anything that is fitting to be known? discover! CLOWN. We are but plain fellows, sir. AUTOLYCUS. A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no lying. It becomes none but tradesmen, and they often give us soldiers the lie; but we pay them for it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore they do not give us the lie. CLOWN. Your worship had like to have given us one, if you had not taken yourself with the manner. SHEPHERD. Are you a courtier, an ’t like you, sir? AUTOLYCUS. Whether it like me or no, I am a courtier. Seest thou not the air of the court in these enfoldings? hath not my gait in it the measure of the court? receives not thy nose court-odour from me? reflect I not on thy baseness court-contempt? Think’st thou, for that I insinuate, or toaze from thee thy business, I am therefore no courtier? I am courtier _cap-a-pe_, and one that will either push on or pluck back thy business there. Whereupon I command thee to open thy affair. SHEPHERD. My business, sir, is to the king. AUTOLYCUS. What advocate hast thou to him? SHEPHERD. I know not, an ’t like you. CLOWN. Advocate’s the court-word for a pheasant. Say you have none. SHEPHERD. None, sir; I have no pheasant, cock nor hen. AUTOLYCUS. How bless’d are we that are not simple men! Yet nature might have made me as these are, Therefore I will not disdain. CLOWN. This cannot be but a great courtier. SHEPHERD. His garments are rich, but he wears them not handsomely. CLOWN. He seems to be the more noble in being fantastical: a great man, I’ll warrant; I know by the picking on’s teeth. AUTOLYCUS. The fardel there? What’s i’ th’ fardel? Wherefore that box? SHEPHERD. Sir, there lies such secrets in this fardel and box which none must know but the king; and which he shall know within this hour, if I may come to th’ speech of him. AUTOLYCUS. Age, thou hast lost thy labour. SHEPHERD. Why, sir? AUTOLYCUS. The king is not at the palace; he is gone aboard a new ship to purge melancholy and air himself: for, if thou beest capable of things serious, thou must know the king is full of grief. SHEPHERD. So ’tis said, sir; about his son, that should have married a shepherd’s daughter. AUTOLYCUS. If that shepherd be not in hand-fast, let him fly. The curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster. CLOWN. Think you so, sir? AUTOLYCUS. Not he alone shall suffer what wit can make heavy and vengeance bitter; but those that are germane to him, though removed fifty times, shall all come under the hangman: which, though it be great pity, yet it is necessary. An old sheep-whistling rogue, a ram-tender, to offer to have his daughter come into grace! Some say he shall be stoned; but that death is too soft for him, say I. Draw our throne into a sheepcote! All deaths are too few, the sharpest too easy. CLOWN. Has the old man e’er a son, sir, do you hear, an ’t like you, sir? AUTOLYCUS. He has a son, who shall be flayed alive; then ’nointed over with honey, set on the head of a wasp’s nest; then stand till he be three quarters and a dram dead; then recovered again with aqua-vitæ or some other hot infusion; then, raw as he is, and in the hottest day prognostication proclaims, shall he be set against a brick wall, the sun looking with a southward eye upon him, where he is to behold him with flies blown to death. But what talk we of these traitorly rascals, whose miseries are to be smiled at, their offences being so capital? Tell me (for you seem to be honest plain men) what you have to the king. Being something gently considered, I’ll bring you where he is aboard, tender your persons to his presence, whisper him in your behalfs; and if it be in man besides the king to effect your suits, here is man shall do it. CLOWN. He seems to be of great authority: close with him, give him gold; and though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft led by the nose with gold: show the inside of your purse to the outside of his hand, and no more ado. Remember: “ston’d” and “flayed alive”. SHEPHERD. An ’t please you, sir, to undertake the business for us, here is that gold I have. I’ll make it as much more, and leave this young man in pawn till I bring it you. AUTOLYCUS. After I have done what I promised? SHEPHERD. Ay, sir. AUTOLYCUS. Well, give me the moiety. Are you a party in this business? CLOWN. In some sort, sir: but though my case be a pitiful one, I hope I shall not be flayed out of it. AUTOLYCUS. O, that’s the case of the shepherd’s son. Hang him, he’ll be made an example. CLOWN. Comfort, good comfort! We must to the king and show our strange sights. He must know ’tis none of your daughter nor my sister; we are gone else. Sir, I will give you as much as this old man does when the business is performed, and remain, as he says, your pawn till it be brought you. AUTOLYCUS. I will trust you. Walk before toward the sea-side; go on the right-hand. I will but look upon the hedge, and follow you. CLOWN. We are blessed in this man, as I may say, even blessed. SHEPHERD. Let’s before, as he bids us. He was provided to do us good. [_Exeunt Shepherd and Clown._] AUTOLYCUS. If I had a mind to be honest, I see Fortune would not suffer me: she drops booties in my mouth. I am courted now with a double occasion: gold, and a means to do the prince my master good; which who knows how that may turn back to my advancement? I will bring these two moles, these blind ones, aboard him. If he think it fit to shore them again and that the complaint they have to the king concerns him nothing, let him call me rogue for being so far officious; for I am proof against that title and what shame else belongs to ’t. To him will I present them. There may be matter in it. [_Exit._] ACT V SCENE I. Sicilia. A Room in the palace of Leontes. Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina and others. CLEOMENES Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass: at the last, Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them, forgive yourself. LEONTES. Whilst I remember Her and her virtues, I cannot forget My blemishes in them; and so still think of The wrong I did myself: which was so much That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man Bred his hopes out of. PAULINA. True, too true, my lord. If, one by one, you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good, To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d Would be unparallel’d. LEONTES. I think so. Kill’d! She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strik’st me Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, Say so but seldom. CLEOMENES Not at all, good lady. You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit and grac’d Your kindness better. PAULINA. You are one of those Would have him wed again. DION. If you would not so, You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name; consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom, and devour Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well? What holier than, for royalty’s repair, For present comfort, and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to ’t? PAULINA. There is none worthy, Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said, Is ’t not the tenor of his oracle, That king Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me; who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. [_To Leontes._] Care not for issue; The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander Left his to th’ worthiest; so his successor Was like to be the best. LEONTES. Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, O that ever I Had squar’d me to thy counsel! Then, even now, I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips,— PAULINA. And left them More rich for what they yielded. LEONTES. Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, (Where we offenders now appear) soul-vexed, And begin “Why to me?” PAULINA. Had she such power, She had just cause. LEONTES. She had; and would incense me To murder her I married. PAULINA. I should so. Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’d bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in ’t You chose her: then I’d shriek, that even your ears Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d Should be “Remember mine.” LEONTES. Stars, stars, And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife; I’ll have no wife, Paulina. PAULINA. Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave? LEONTES. Never, Paulina; so be bless’d my spirit! PAULINA. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath. CLEOMENES You tempt him over-much. PAULINA. Unless another, As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye. CLEOMENES Good madam,— PAULINA. I have done. Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, No remedy but you will,—give me the office To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young As was your former, but she shall be such As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms. LEONTES. My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bid’st us. PAULINA. That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath; Never till then. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess (she The fairest I have yet beheld) desires access To your high presence. LEONTES. What with him? he comes not Like to his father’s greatness: his approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us ’Tis not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d By need and accident. What train? SERVANT. But few, And those but mean. LEONTES. His princess, say you, with him? SERVANT. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on. PAULINA. O Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so,—but your writing now Is colder than that theme,—‘She had not been, Nor was not to be equall’d’; thus your verse Flow’d with her beauty once; ’tis shrewdly ebb’d, To say you have seen a better. SERVANT. Pardon, madam: The one I have almost forgot,—your pardon;— The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else; make proselytes Of who she but bid follow. PAULINA. How! not women? SERVANT. Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women. LEONTES. Go, Cleomenes; Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends, Bring them to our embracement. [_Exeunt Cleomenes and others._] Still, ’tis strange He thus should steal upon us. PAULINA. Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d Well with this lord. There was not full a month Between their births. LEONTES. Prithee no more; cease; Thou know’st He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come. Enter Florizel, Perdita, Cleomenes and others. Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince; For she did print your royal father off, Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, Your father’s image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome! And your fair princess,—goddess! O, alas! I lost a couple that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as You, gracious couple, do! And then I lost,— All mine own folly,—the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him. FLORIZEL. By his command Have I here touch’d Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, Can send his brother: and, but infirmity, Which waits upon worn times, hath something seiz’d His wish’d ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measur’d, to look upon you; whom he loves, He bade me say so,—more than all the sceptres And those that bear them living. LEONTES. O my brother,— Good gentleman!—the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me; and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither, As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th’ adventure of her person? FLORIZEL. Good, my lord, She came from Libya. LEONTES. Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d? FLORIZEL. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence, A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross’d, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness: my best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety Here, where we are. LEONTES. The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman; against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless. And your father’s bless’d, As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on, Such goodly things as you! Enter a Lord. LORD. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit, Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has— His dignity and duty both cast off— Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter. LEONTES. Where’s Bohemia? speak. LORD. Here in your city; I now came from him. I speak amazedly, and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hast’ning—in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple—meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince. FLORIZEL. Camillo has betray’d me; Whose honour and whose honesty till now, Endur’d all weathers. LORD. Lay ’t so to his charge. He’s with the king your father. LEONTES. Who? Camillo? LORD. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth; Forswear themselves as often as they speak. Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death. PERDITA. O my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated. LEONTES. You are married? FLORIZEL. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first. The odds for high and low’s alike. LEONTES. My lord, Is this the daughter of a king? FLORIZEL. She is, When once she is my wife. LEONTES. That “once”, I see by your good father’s speed, Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking, Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her. FLORIZEL. Dear, look up: Though Fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, Remember since you ow’d no more to time Than I do now: with thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate. At your request My father will grant precious things as trifles. LEONTES. Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress, Which he counts but a trifle. PAULINA. Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month ’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now. LEONTES. I thought of her Even in these looks I made. [_To Florizel._] But your petition Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father. Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you: upon which errand I now go toward him; therefore follow me, And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. The same. Before the Palace. Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman. AUTOLYCUS. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation? FIRST GENTLEMAN. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child. AUTOLYCUS. I would most gladly know the issue of it. FIRST GENTLEMAN. I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing could not say if th’ importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more. Enter a Gentleman. The news, Rogero? SECOND GENTLEMAN. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more. Enter a third Gentleman. How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings? SECOND GENTLEMAN. No. THIRD GENTLEMAN. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries “O, thy mother, thy mother!” then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it. SECOND GENTLEMAN. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows. FIRST GENTLEMAN. What became of his bark and his followers? THIRD GENTLEMAN. Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing. FIRST GENTLEMAN. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted. THIRD GENTLEMAN. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish) was, when at the relation of the queen’s death (with the manner how she came to it bravely confessed and lamented by the king) how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an “Alas,” I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal. FIRST GENTLEMAN. Are they returned to the court? THIRD GENTLEMAN. No: the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup. SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing? FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along. [_Exeunt Gentlemen._] AUTOLYCUS. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscover’d. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relish’d among my other discredits. Enter Shepherd and Clown. Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune. SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born. CLOWN. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born. AUTOLYCUS. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born. CLOWN. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours. SHEPHERD. And so have I, boy! CLOWN. So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed. SHEPHERD. We may live, son, to shed many more. CLOWN. Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are. AUTOLYCUS. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master. SHEPHERD. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen. CLOWN. Thou wilt amend thy life? AUTOLYCUS. Ay, an it like your good worship. CLOWN. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia. SHEPHERD. You may say it, but not swear it. CLOWN. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it. SHEPHERD. How if it be false, son? CLOWN. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. And I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands. AUTOLYCUS. I will prove so, sir, to my power. CLOWN. Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters. [_Exeunt._] SCENE III. The same. A Room in Paulina’s house. Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords and Attendants. LEONTES. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee! PAULINA. What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home: but that you have vouchsaf’d, With your crown’d brother and these your contracted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My life may last to answer. LEONTES. O Paulina, We honour you with trouble. But we came To see the statue of our queen: your gallery Have we pass’d through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother. PAULINA. As she liv’d peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look’d upon Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death. Behold, and say ’tis well. Paulina undraws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing as a statue. I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder: but yet speak. First you, my liege. Comes it not something near? LEONTES. Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding; for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems. POLIXENES. O, not by much! PAULINA. So much the more our carver’s excellence, Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she liv’d now. LEONTES. As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! I am asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece, There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjur’d to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee. PERDITA. And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss. PAULINA. O, patience! The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s Not dry. CAMILLO. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry. Scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill’d itself much sooner. POLIXENES. Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself. PAULINA. Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you—for the stone is mine— I’d not have show’d it. LEONTES. Do not draw the curtain. PAULINA. No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves. LEONTES. Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that methinks already— What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breath’d? And that those veins Did verily bear blood? POLIXENES. Masterly done: The very life seems warm upon her lip. LEONTES. The fixture of her eye has motion in ’t, As we are mock’d with art. PAULINA. I’ll draw the curtain: My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives. LEONTES. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone. PAULINA. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but I could afflict you further. LEONTES. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still methinks There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her! PAULINA. Good my lord, forbear: The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain? LEONTES. No, not these twenty years. PERDITA. So long could I Stand by, a looker on. PAULINA. Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, And take you by the hand. But then you’ll think (Which I protest against) I am assisted By wicked powers. LEONTES. What you can make her do I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move. PAULINA. It is requir’d You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart. LEONTES. Proceed: No foot shall stir. PAULINA. Music, awake her: strike! [_Music._] ’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come; I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs. Hermione comes down from the pedestal. Start not; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo’d her; now in age Is she become the suitor? LEONTES. [_Embracing her._] O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating. POLIXENES. She embraces him. CAMILLO. She hangs about his neck. If she pertain to life, let her speak too. POLIXENES. Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv’d, Or how stol’n from the dead. PAULINA. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale; but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady, Our Perdita is found. [_Presenting Perdita who kneels to Hermione._] HERMIONE. You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how found Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d Myself to see the issue. PAULINA. There’s time enough for that; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to everyone. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost. LEONTES. O peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife: this is a match, And made between ’s by vows. Thou hast found mine; But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, As I thought, dead; and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind—to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted, and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law, And son unto the king, whom heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely Each one demand, and answer to his part Perform’d in this wide gap of time, since first We were dissever’d. Hastily lead away! [_Exeunt._] A LOVER’S COMPLAINT From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale, My spirits t’attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain. Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of a beauty spent and done; Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven’s fell rage Some beauty peeped through lattice of sear’d age. Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laund’ring the silken figures in the brine That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low. Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, As they did batt’ry to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th’orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and nowhere fix’d, The mind and sight distractedly commix’d. Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride; For some untuck’d descended her sheav’d hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, And, true to bondage, would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence. A thousand favours from a maund she drew, Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set, Like usury applying wet to wet, Or monarchs’ hands, that lets not bounty fall Where want cries ‘some,’ but where excess begs ‘all’. Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore and gave the flood; Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone, Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet mo letters sadly penn’d in blood, With sleided silk, feat and affectedly Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy. These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss’d, and often gave to tear; Cried, ‘O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seem’d more black and damned here!’ This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents. A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh, Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours observed as they flew, Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew; And, privileg’d by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe. So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely distant sits he by her side, When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide: If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, ’Tis promised in the charity of age. ‘Father,’ she says, ‘though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgement I am old, Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power. I might as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied Love to myself, and to no love beside. ‘But woe is me! Too early I attended A youthful suit; it was to gain my grace; O one by nature’s outwards so commended, That maiden’s eyes stuck over all his face, Love lack’d a dwelling and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodg’d and newly deified. ‘His browny locks did hang in crooked curls, And every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls, What’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find, Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind: For on his visage was in little drawn, What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn. ‘Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down began but to appear, Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin, Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seemed to wear. Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear, And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without. ‘His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; Yet if men mov’d him, was he such a storm As oft ’twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. His rudeness so with his authoriz’d youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth. ‘Well could he ride, and often men would say That horse his mettle from his rider takes, Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by th’ well-doing steed. ‘But quickly on this side the verdict went, His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case; All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions; yet their purpos’d trim Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him. ‘So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kind of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep, To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep: He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will. ‘That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted, Consent’s bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted, And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey. ‘Many there were that did his picture get To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind, Like fools that in th’ imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d, And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them, Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them. ‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand, Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart. My woeful self that did in freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple (not in part) What with his art in youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower. ‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded, Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded. Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil. ‘But ah! Who ever shunn’d by precedent The destin’d ill she must herself assay, Or force’d examples ’gainst her own content, To put the by-pass’d perils in her way? Counsel may stop a while what will not stay: For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wills more keen. ‘Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others’ proof, To be forbode the sweets that seems so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgement stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though reason weep and cry, “It is thy last.” ‘For further I could say, “This man’s untrue”, And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart. ‘And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he ’gan besiege me: “Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid: That’s to ye sworn, to none was ever said, For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo. ‘“All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind: Love made them not; with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true nor kind, They sought their shame that so their shame did find, And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains. ‘“Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed, Or my affection put to th’ smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charmed: Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign’d commanding in his monarchy. ‘“Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood, Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly. ‘“And, lo! behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously empleach’d, I have receiv’d from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d, With th’ annexions of fair gems enrich’d, And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify Each stone’s dear nature, worth and quality. ‘“The diamond, why ’twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invis’d properties did tend, The deep green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold; each several stone, With wit well blazon’d smil’d, or made some moan. ‘“Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender: For these of force must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you empatron me. ‘“O then advance of yours that phraseless hand, Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise: What me, your minister for you, obeys, Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums. ‘“Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified of holiest note, Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove To spend her living in eternal love. ‘“But O, my sweet, what labour is’t to leave The thing we have not, mast’ring what not strives, Planing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves, She that her fame so to herself contrives, The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might. ‘“O pardon me, in that my boast is true, The accident which brought me to her eye, Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly: Religious love put out religion’s eye: Not to be tempted would she be immur’d, And now to tempt all, liberty procur’d. ‘“How mighty then you are, O hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among: I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast. ‘“My parts had pow’r to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplin’d and dieted in grace, Believ’d her eyes when they t’assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place. O most potential love! Vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all and all things else are thine. ‘“When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth, Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense, ’gainst shame, And sweetens, in the suff’ring pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears. ‘“Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine, And supplicant their sighs to your extend, To leave the batt’ry that you make ’gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath, That shall prefer and undertake my troth.” ‘This said, his wat’ry eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flowed apace. O how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who, glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses. ‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath. ‘For lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolv’d my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff’d, Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears, Appear to him as he to me appears, All melting, though our drops this diff’rence bore: His poison’d me, and mine did him restore. ‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either’s aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows. ‘That not a heart which in his level came Could ’scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; And veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim. Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burned in heart-wish’d luxury, He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity. ‘Thus merely with the garment of a grace, The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d, That th’unexperient gave the tempter place, Which, like a cherubin, above them hover’d. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d? Ay me! I fell, and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake. ‘O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d! O, that forc’d thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d, O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed, And new pervert a reconciled maid.’ THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM I When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor’d youth, Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although I know my years be past the best, I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, And age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore, I’ll lie with love, and love with me, Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be. II Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, That like two spirits do suggest me still; My better angel is a man right fair, My worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell: The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out. III Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, ’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale 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 break an oath, to win a paradise? IV Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She show’d him favours to allure his eye; To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there; Touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refus’d to take her figur’d proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer. Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward: He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward! V If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed. Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can 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. Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue. VI Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen. Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim: The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. He, spying her, bounc’d in, whereas he stood, “O Jove,” quoth she, “why was not I a flood?” VII Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty, Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle, Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her. Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings. She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burnt out love, as soon as straw out-burneth; She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither. VIII If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, Because thou lov’st the one and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phœbus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d Whenas himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain. IX Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, * * * * * * Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill; Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will, Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds. “Once,” quoth she, “did I see a fair sweet youth Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! See in my thigh,” quoth she, “here was the sore.” She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone. X Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded, Pluck’d in the bud and vaded in the spring! Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting! Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls, through wind, before the fall should be. I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will; And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave; For why I craved nothing of thee still. O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me. XI Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him; She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, she fell to him. “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god embrac’d me,” And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god unlaced me;” As if the boy should use like loving charms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “he seized on my lips,” And with her lips on his did act the seizure; And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, To kiss and clip me till I run away! XII Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee. O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay’st too long. XIII Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud; A brittle glass that’s broken presently: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour. And as goods lost are seld or never found, As vaded gloss no rubbing will refresh, As flowers dead lie wither’d on the ground, As broken glass no cement can redress, So beauty blemish’d once, for ever’s lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain and cost. XIV Good night, good rest. Ah, neither be my share: She bade good night that kept my rest away; And daff’d me to a cabin hang’d with care, To descant on the doubts of my decay. “Farewell,” quoth she, “and come again tomorrow:” Fare well I could not, for I supp’d with sorrow. Yet at my parting sweetly did she smile, In scorn or friendship, nill I conster whether: ’T may be, she joy’d to jest at my exile, ’T may be, again to make me wander thither: “Wander,” a word for shadows like myself, As take the pain, but cannot pluck the pelf. Lord, how mine eyes throw gazes to the east! My heart doth charge the watch; the morning rise Doth cite each moving sense from idle rest. Not daring trust the office of mine eyes, While Philomela sits and sings, I sit and mark, And wish her lays were tuned like the lark. For she doth welcome daylight with her ditty, And drives away dark dreaming night. The night so pack’d, I post unto my pretty; Heart hath his hope and eyes their wished sight; Sorrow chang’d to solace, solace mix’d with sorrow; For why, she sigh’d, and bade me come tomorrow. Were I with her, the night would post too soon; But now are minutes added to the hours; To spite me now, each minute seems a moon; Yet not for me, shine sun to succour flowers! Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow: Short, night, tonight, and length thyself tomorrow. XV It was a lording’s daughter, the fairest one of three, That liked of her master as well as well might be, Till looking on an Englishman, the fairest that eye could see, Her fancy fell a-turning. Long was the combat doubtful, that love with love did fight, To leave the master loveless, or kill the gallant knight; To put in practice either, alas, it was a spite Unto the silly damsel! But one must be refused; more mickle was the pain, That nothing could be used to turn them both to gain, For of the two the trusty knight was wounded with disdain: Alas she could not help it! Thus art with arms contending was victor of the day, Which by a gift of learning did bear the maid away: Then lullaby, the learned man hath got the lady gay; For now my song is ended. XVI On a day, alack the day! Love, whose month was ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air. Through the velvet leaves the wind All unseen ’gan passage find, That the lover, sick to death, Wish’d himself the heaven’s breath: “Air,” quoth he, “thy cheeks may blow; Air, would I might triumph so! But, alas, my hand hath sworn Ne’er to pluck thee from thy thorn: Vow, alack, for youth unmeet, Youth, so apt to pluck a sweet! Thou for whom Jove would swear Juno but an Ethiope were, And deny himself for Jove, Turning mortal for thy love.” XVII My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not, My rams speed not, all is amis: Love is dying, faith’s defying, Heart’s denying, causer of this. All my merry jigs are quite forgot, All my lady’s love is lost, God wot: Where her faith was firmely fix’d in love, There a nay is plac’d without remove. One silly cross wrought all my loss; O frowning fortune, cursed fickle dame! For now I see inconstancy More in women than in men remain. In black mourn I, all fears scorn I, Love hath forlorn me, living in thrall. Heart is bleeding, all help needing, O cruel speeding, fraughted with gall. My shepherd’s pipe can sound no deal. My weather’s bell rings doleful knell; My curtal dog that wont to have play’d, Plays not at all, but seems afraid. With sighs so deep procures to weep, In howling wise, to see my doleful plight. How sighs resound through heartless ground, Like a thousand vanquish’d men in bloody fight! Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not, Green plants bring not forth their dye; Herds stands weeping, flocks all sleeping, Nymphs black peeping fearfully. All our pleasure known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled, All our love is lost, for love is dead. Farewel, sweet love, thy like ne’er was For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe! Poor Corydon must live alone; Other help for him I see that there is none. XVIII Whenas thine eye hath chose the dame, And stall’d the deer that thou shouldst strike, Let reason rule things worthy blame, As well as fancy, partial might; Take counsel of some wiser head, Neither too young nor yet unwed. And when thou com’st thy tale to tell, Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk, Least she some subtle practice smell,— A cripple soon can find a halt,— But plainly say thou lov’st her well, And set her person forth to sale. What though her frowning brows be bent, Her cloudy looks will calm ere night, And then too late she will repent, That thus dissembled her delight; And twice desire, ere it be day, That which with scorn she put away. What though she strive to try her strength, And ban and brawl, and say thee nay, Her feeble force will yield at length, When craft hath taught her thus to say: “Had women been so strong as men, In faith, you had not had it then.” And to her will frame all thy ways; Spare not to spend, and chiefly there Where thy desert may merit praise, By ringing in thy lady’s ear: The strongest castle, tower and town, The golden bullet beats it down. Serve always with assured trust, And in thy suit be humble true; Unless thy lady prove unjust, Press never thou to choose a new: When time shall serve, be thou not slack, To proffer, though she put thee back. The wiles and guiles that women work, Dissembled with an outward show, The tricks and toys that in them lurk, The cock that treads them shall not know, Have you not heard it said full oft, A woman’s nay doth stand for nought. Think women still to strive with men, To sin and never for to saint: There is no heaven, by holy then, When time with age shall them attaint, Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed. But soft, enough,—too much,—I fear Lest that my mistress hear my song: She will not stick to round me on th’ ear, To teach my tongue to be so long. Yet will she blush, here be it said, To hear her secrets so bewray’d. XIX Live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That hills and valleys, dales and fields, And all the craggy mountains yield. There will we sit upon the rocks, And see the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, by whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. There will I make thee a bed of roses, With a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle. A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs; And if these pleasures may thee move, Then live with me and be my love. Love’s Answer. If that the world and love were young, And truth in every shepherd’s tongue, These pretty pleasures might me move To live with thee and be thy love. XX As it fell upon a day In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made, Beasts did leap and birds did sing, Trees did grow and plants did spring; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone: She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean’d her breast up-till a thorn, And there sung the dolefull’st ditty, That to hear it was great pitty. “Fie, fie, fie,” now would she cry, “Tereu, Tereu,” by and by; That to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears refrain, For her griefs so lively shown Made me think upon mine own. Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in vain! None takes pitty on thy pain. Senseless trees they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee; King Pandion he is dead, All thy friends are lapp’d in lead, All thy fellow birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing. Whilst as fickle fortune smiled, Thou and I were both beguiled. Every one that flatters thee Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend; But if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call, And with such-like flattering, “Pity but he were a king.” If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; If to women he be bent, They have at commandement. But if Fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown. They that fawn’d on him before, Use his company no more. He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep; If thou wake, he cannot sleep. Thus of every grief in heart He with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flatt’ring foe. THE PHOENIX AND THE TURTLE Let the bird of loudest lay, On the sole Arabian tree, Herald sad and trumpet be, To whose sound chaste wings obey. But thou shrieking harbinger, Foul precurrer of the fiend, Augur of the fever’s end, To this troop come thou not near. From this session interdict Every fowl of tyrant wing, Save the eagle, feather’d king; Keep the obsequy so strict. Let the priest in surplice white, That defunctive music can, Be the death-divining swan, Lest the requiem lack his right. And thou treble-dated crow, That thy sable gender mak’st With the breath thou giv’st and tak’st, ’Mongst our mourners shalt thou go. Here the anthem doth commence: Love and constancy is dead; Phoenix and the turtle fled In a mutual flame from hence. So they lov’d, as love in twain Had the essence but in one; Two distincts, division none: Number there in love was slain. Hearts remote, yet not asunder; Distance and no space was seen ’Twixt this turtle and his queen; But in them it were a wonder. So between them love did shine, That the turtle saw his right Flaming in the phoenix’ sight; Either was the other’s mine. Property was thus appalled, That the self was not the same; Single nature’s double name Neither two nor one was called. Reason, in itself confounded, Saw division grow together; To themselves yet either neither, Simple were so well compounded. That it cried, How true a twain Seemeth this concordant one! Love hath reason, reason none, If what parts can so remain. Whereupon it made this threne To the phoenix and the dove, Co-supremes and stars of love, As chorus to their tragic scene. THRENOS Beauty, truth, and rarity. Grace in all simplicity, Here enclos’d in cinders lie. Death is now the phoenix’ nest; And the turtle’s loyal breast To eternity doth rest. Leaving no posterity:— ’Twas not their infirmity, It was married chastity. Truth may seem, but cannot be; Beauty brag, but ’tis not she; Truth and beauty buried be. To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair; For these dead birds sigh a prayer. THE RAPE OF LUCRECE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, and Baron of Titchfield. The love I dedicate to your Lordship is without end; whereof this pamphlet, without beginning, is but a superfluous moiety. The warrant I have of your honourable disposition, not the worth of my untutored lines, makes it assured of acceptance. What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours. Were my worth greater, my duty would show greater; meantime, as it is, it is bound to your Lordship, to whom I wish long life, still lengthened with all happiness. Your Lordship’s in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. THE ARGUMENT. Lucius Tarquinius (for his excessive pride surnamed Superbus), after he had caused his own father-in-law, Servius Tullius, to be cruelly murdered, and, contrary to the Roman laws and customs, not requiring or staying for the people’s suffrages, had possessed himself of the kingdom, went, accompanied with his sons and other noblemen of Rome, to besiege Ardea. During which siege the principal men of the army meeting one evening at the tent of Sextus Tarquinius, the king’s son, in their discourses after supper, everyone commended the virtues of his own wife; among whom Collatinus extolled the incomparable chastity of his wife Lucretia. In that pleasant humour they all posted to Rome; and intending, by their secret and sudden arrival, to make trial of that which everyone had before avouched, only Collatinus finds his wife, though it were late in the night, spinning amongst her maids: the other ladies were all found dancing and revelling, or in several disports. Whereupon the noblemen yielded Collatinus the victory, and his wife the fame. At that time Sextus Tarquinius being inflamed with Lucrece’s beauty, yet smothering his passions for the present, departed with the rest back to the camp; from whence he shortly after privily withdrew himself, and was (according to his estate) royally entertained and lodged by Lucrece at Collatium. The same night he treacherously stealeth into her chamber, violently ravished her, and early in the morning speedeth away. Lucrece, in this lamentable plight, hastily dispatched messengers, one to Rome for her father, another to the camp for Collatine. They came, the one accompanied with Junius Brutus, the other with Publius Valerius; and finding Lucrece attired in mourning habit, demanded the cause of her sorrow. She, first taking an oath of them for her revenge, revealed the actor, and whole manner of his dealing, and withal suddenly stabbed herself. Which done, with one consent they all vowed to root out the whole hated family of the Tarquins; and bearing the dead body to Rome, Brutus acquainted the people with the doer and manner of the vile deed, with a bitter invective against the tyranny of the king; wherewith the people were so moved, that with one consent and a general acclamation the Tarquins were all exiled, and the state government changed from kings to consuls. From the besieged Ardea all in post, Borne by the trustless wings of false desire, Lust-breathed Tarquin leaves the Roman host, And to Collatium bears the lightless fire, Which in pale embers hid, lurks to aspire And girdle with embracing flames the waist Of Collatine’s fair love, Lucrece the chaste. Haply that name of “chaste” unhapp’ly set This bateless edge on his keen appetite, When Collatine unwisely did not let To praise the clear unmatched red and white Which triumphed in that sky of his delight; Where mortal stars as bright as heaven’s beauties, With pure aspects did him peculiar duties. For he the night before, in Tarquin’s tent Unlocked the treasure of his happy state, What priceless wealth the heavens had him lent In the possession of his beauteous mate; Reck’ning his fortune at such high proud rate That kings might be espoused to more fame, But king nor peer to such a peerless dame. O happiness enjoyed but of a few, And, if possessed, as soon decayed and done As is the morning’s silver melting dew Against the golden splendour of the sun! An expired date, cancelled ere well begun. Honour and beauty in the owner’s arms, Are weakly fortressed from a world of harms. Beauty itself doth of itself persuade The eyes of men without an orator; What needeth then apologies be made, To set forth that which is so singular? Or why is Collatine the publisher Of that rich jewel he should keep unknown From thievish ears, because it is his own? Perchance his boast of Lucrece’ sov’reignty Suggested this proud issue of a king; For by our ears our hearts oft tainted be. Perchance that envy of so rich a thing, Braving compare, disdainfully did sting His high-pitched thoughts, that meaner men should vaunt That golden hap which their superiors want. But some untimely thought did instigate His all-too-timeless speed, if none of those; His honour, his affairs, his friends, his state, Neglected all, with swift intent he goes To quench the coal which in his liver glows. O rash false heat, wrapped in repentant cold, Thy hasty spring still blasts and ne’er grows old! When at Collatium this false lord arrived, Well was he welcomed by the Roman dame, Within whose face beauty and virtue strived Which of them both should underprop her fame. When virtue bragged, beauty would blush for shame; When beauty boasted blushes, in despite Virtue would stain that o’er with silver white. But beauty, in that white intituled From Venus’ doves, doth challenge that fair field. Then virtue claims from beauty beauty’s red, Which virtue gave the golden age to gild Their silver cheeks, and called it then their shield; Teaching them thus to use it in the fight, When shame assailed, the red should fence the white. This heraldry in Lucrece’ face was seen, Argued by beauty’s red and virtue’s white. Of either’s colour was the other queen, Proving from world’s minority their right. Yet their ambition makes them still to fight; The sovereignty of either being so great, That oft they interchange each other’s seat. Their silent war of lilies and of roses, Which Tarquin viewed in her fair face’s field, In their pure ranks his traitor eye encloses; Where, lest between them both it should be killed, The coward captive vanquished doth yield To those two armies that would let him go Rather than triumph in so false a foe. Now thinks he that her husband’s shallow tongue, The niggard prodigal that praised her so, In that high task hath done her beauty wrong, Which far exceeds his barren skill to show. Therefore that praise which Collatine doth owe Enchanted Tarquin answers with surmise, In silent wonder of still-gazing eyes. This earthly saint, adored by this devil, Little suspecteth the false worshipper; For unstained thoughts do seldom dream on evil; Birds never limed no secret bushes fear. So guiltless she securely gives good cheer And reverend welcome to her princely guest, Whose inward ill no outward harm expressed. For that he coloured with his high estate, Hiding base sin in pleats of majesty, That nothing in him seemed inordinate, Save sometime too much wonder of his eye, Which, having all, all could not satisfy; But, poorly rich, so wanteth in his store That, cloyed with much, he pineth still for more. But she, that never coped with stranger eyes, Could pick no meaning from their parling looks, Nor read the subtle shining secrecies Writ in the glassy margents of such books; She touched no unknown baits, nor feared no hooks, Nor could she moralize his wanton sight, More than his eyes were opened to the light. He stories to her ears her husband’s fame, Won in the fields of fruitful Italy; And decks with praises Collatine’s high name, Made glorious by his manly chivalry With bruised arms and wreaths of victory. Her joy with heaved-up hand she doth express, And, wordless, so greets heaven for his success. Far from the purpose of his coming thither, He makes excuses for his being there. No cloudy show of stormy blust’ring weather Doth yet in his fair welkin once appear, Till sable Night, mother of dread and fear, Upon the world dim darkness doth display, And in her vaulty prison stows the day. For then is Tarquin brought unto his bed, Intending weariness with heavy sprite; For after supper long he questioned With modest Lucrece, and wore out the night. Now leaden slumber with life’s strength doth fight, And every one to rest themselves betake, Save thieves and cares and troubled minds that wake. As one of which doth Tarquin lie revolving The sundry dangers of his will’s obtaining, Yet ever to obtain his will resolving, Though weak-built hopes persuade him to abstaining. Despair to gain doth traffic oft for gaining, And when great treasure is the meed proposed, Though death be adjunct, there’s no death supposed. Those that much covet are with gain so fond For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond; And so, by hoping more, they have but less, Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrout in this poor-rich gain. The aim of all is but to nurse the life With honour, wealth, and ease, in waning age; And in this aim there is such thwarting strife That one for all or all for one we gage: As life for honour in fell battle’s rage, Honour for wealth; and oft that wealth doth cost The death of all, and all together lost. So that in vent’ring ill we leave to be The things we are, for that which we expect; And this ambitious foul infirmity, In having much, torments us with defect Of that we have. So then we do neglect The thing we have, and, all for want of wit, Make something nothing by augmenting it. Such hazard now must doting Tarquin make, Pawning his honour to obtain his lust; And for himself himself he must forsake. Then where is truth, if there be no self-trust? When shall he think to find a stranger just, When he himself himself confounds, betrays To sland’rous tongues and wretched hateful days? Now stole upon the time the dead of night, When heavy sleep had closed up mortal eyes. No comfortable star did lend his light, No noise but owls’ and wolves’ death-boding cries; Now serves the season that they may surprise The silly lambs. Pure thoughts are dead and still, While lust and murder wake to stain and kill. And now this lustful lord leaped from his bed, Throwing his mantle rudely o’er his arm; Is madly tossed between desire and dread; Th’ one sweetly flatters, th’ other feareth harm. But honest fear, bewitched with lust’s foul charm, Doth too too oft betake him to retire, Beaten away by brain-sick rude desire. His falchion on a flint he softly smiteth, That from the cold stone sparks of fire do fly; Whereat a waxen torch forthwith he lighteth, Which must be lodestar to his lustful eye, And to the flame thus speaks advisedly: “As from this cold flint I enforced this fire, So Lucrece must I force to my desire.” Here pale with fear he doth premeditate The dangers of his loathsome enterprise, And in his inward mind he doth debate What following sorrow may on this arise. Then looking scornfully, he doth despise His naked armour of still-slaughtered lust, And justly thus controls his thoughts unjust: “Fair torch, burn out thy light, and lend it not To darken her whose light excelleth thine. And die, unhallowed thoughts, before you blot With your uncleanness that which is divine. Offer pure incense to so pure a shrine. Let fair humanity abhor the deed That spots and stains love’s modest snow-white weed. “O shame to knighthood and to shining arms! O foul dishonour to my household’s grave! O impious act including all foul harms! A martial man to be soft fancy’s slave! True valour still a true respect should have. Then my digression is so vile, so base, That it will live engraven in my face. “Yea, though I die, the scandal will survive And be an eye-sore in my golden coat; Some loathsome dash the herald will contrive, To cipher me how fondly I did dote, That my posterity, shamed with the note, Shall curse my bones, and hold it for no sin To wish that I their father had not been. “What win I if I gain the thing I seek? A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy. Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week, Or sells eternity to get a toy? For one sweet grape who will the vine destroy? Or what fond beggar, but to touch the crown, Would with the sceptre straight be strucken down? “If Collatinus dream of my intent, Will he not wake, and in a desp’rate rage Post hither, this vile purpose to prevent?— This siege that hath engirt his marriage, This blur to youth, this sorrow to the sage, This dying virtue, this surviving shame, Whose crime will bear an ever-during blame? “O, what excuse can my invention make When thou shalt charge me with so black a deed? Will not my tongue be mute, my frail joints shake, Mine eyes forgo their light, my false heart bleed? The guilt being great, the fear doth still exceed; And extreme fear can neither fight nor fly, But coward-like with trembling terror die. “Had Collatinus killed my son or sire, Or lain in ambush to betray my life, Or were he not my dear friend, this desire Might have excuse to work upon his wife, As in revenge or quittal of such strife; But as he is my kinsman, my dear friend, The shame and fault finds no excuse nor end. “Shameful it is; ay, if the fact be known. Hateful it is, there is no hate in loving. I’ll beg her love. But she is not her own. The worst is but denial and reproving. My will is strong, past reason’s weak removing. Who fears a sentence or an old man’s saw Shall by a painted cloth be kept in awe.” Thus, graceless, holds he disputation ’Tween frozen conscience and hot-burning will, And with good thoughts makes dispensation, Urging the worser sense for vantage still; Which in a moment doth confound and kill All pure effects, and doth so far proceed That what is vile shows like a virtuous deed. Quoth he, “She took me kindly by the hand, And gazed for tidings in my eager eyes, Fearing some hard news from the warlike band Where her beloved Collatinus lies. O how her fear did make her colour rise! First red as roses that on lawn we lay, Then white as lawn, the roses took away. “And how her hand, in my hand being locked, Forced it to tremble with her loyal fear, Which struck her sad, and then it faster rocked, Until her husband’s welfare she did hear; Whereat she smiled with so sweet a cheer That had Narcissus seen her as she stood, Self-love had never drowned him in the flood. “Why hunt I then for colour or excuses? All orators are dumb when beauty pleadeth. Poor wretches have remorse in poor abuses; Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth. Affection is my captain, and he leadeth; And when his gaudy banner is displayed, The coward fights and will not be dismayed. “Then, childish fear, avaunt! Debating, die! Respect and reason wait on wrinkled age! My heart shall never countermand mine eye. Sad pause and deep regard beseems the sage; My part is youth, and beats these from the stage. Desire my pilot is, beauty my prize; Then who fears sinking where such treasure lies?” As corn o’ergrown by weeds, so heedful fear Is almost choked by unresisted lust. Away he steals with opening, list’ning ear, Full of foul hope, and full of fond mistrust; Both which, as servitors to the unjust, So cross him with their opposite persuasion That now he vows a league, and now invasion. Within his thought her heavenly image sits, And in the self-same seat sits Collatine. That eye which looks on her confounds his wits; That eye which him beholds, as more divine, Unto a view so false will not incline, But with a pure appeal seeks to the heart, Which once corrupted takes the worser part; And therein heartens up his servile powers, Who, flattered by their leader’s jocund show, Stuff up his lust, as minutes fill up hours; And as their captain, so their pride doth grow, Paying more slavish tribute than they owe. By reprobate desire thus madly led, The Roman lord marcheth to Lucrece’ bed. The locks between her chamber and his will, Each one by him enforced, retires his ward; But, as they open, they all rate his ill, Which drives the creeping thief to some regard. The threshold grates the door to have him heard; Night-wand’ring weasels shriek to see him there; They fright him, yet he still pursues his fear. As each unwilling portal yields him way, Through little vents and crannies of the place The wind wars with his torch, to make him stay, And blows the smoke of it into his face, Extinguishing his conduct in this case; But his hot heart, which fond desire doth scorch, Puffs forth another wind that fires the torch. And being lighted, by the light he spies Lucretia’s glove, wherein her needle sticks; He takes it from the rushes where it lies, And griping it, the needle his finger pricks, As who should say, “This glove to wanton tricks Is not inured. Return again in haste; Thou seest our mistress’ ornaments are chaste.” But all these poor forbiddings could not stay him; He in the worst sense construes their denial. The doors, the wind, the glove that did delay him, He takes for accidental things of trial; Or as those bars which stop the hourly dial, Who with a ling’ring stay his course doth let, Till every minute pays the hour his debt. “So, so,” quoth he, “these lets attend the time, Like little frosts that sometime threat the spring, To add a more rejoicing to the prime, And give the sneaped birds more cause to sing. Pain pays the income of each precious thing: Huge rocks, high winds, strong pirates, shelves and sands The merchant fears, ere rich at home he lands.” Now is he come unto the chamber door That shuts him from the heaven of his thought, Which with a yielding latch, and with no more, Hath barred him from the blessed thing he sought. So from himself impiety hath wrought, That for his prey to pray he doth begin, As if the heavens should countenance his sin. But in the midst of his unfruitful prayer, Having solicited th’ eternal power That his foul thoughts might compass his fair fair, And they would stand auspicious to the hour, Even there he starts. Quoth he, “I must deflower. The powers to whom I pray abhor this fact, How can they then assist me in the act? “Then Love and Fortune be my gods, my guide! My will is backed with resolution. Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried; The blackest sin is cleared with absolution. Against love’s fire fear’s frost hath dissolution. The eye of heaven is out, and misty night Covers the shame that follows sweet delight.” This said, his guilty hand plucked up the latch, And with his knee the door he opens wide. The dove sleeps fast that this night-owl will catch; Thus treason works ere traitors be espied. Who sees the lurking serpent steps aside; But she, sound sleeping, fearing no such thing, Lies at the mercy of his mortal sting. Into the chamber wickedly he stalks, And gazeth on her yet unstained bed. The curtains being close, about he walks, Rolling his greedy eyeballs in his head. By their high treason is his heart misled, Which gives the watch-word to his hand full soon To draw the cloud that hides the silver moon. Look as the fair and fiery-pointed sun, Rushing from forth a cloud, bereaves our sight; Even so, the curtain drawn, his eyes begun To wink, being blinded with a greater light. Whether it is that she reflects so bright, That dazzleth them, or else some shame supposed; But blind they are, and keep themselves enclosed. O, had they in that darksome prison died, Then had they seen the period of their ill! Then Collatine again by Lucrece’ side In his clear bed might have reposed still. But they must ope, this blessed league to kill; And holy-thoughted Lucrece to their sight Must sell her joy, her life, her world’s delight. Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under, Coz’ning the pillow of a lawful kiss; Who, therefore angry, seems to part in sunder, Swelling on either side to want his bliss; Between whose hills her head entombed is, Where like a virtuous monument she lies, To be admired of lewd unhallowed eyes. Without the bed her other fair hand was, On the green coverlet; whose perfect white Showed like an April daisy on the grass, With pearly sweat resembling dew of night. Her eyes, like marigolds, had sheathed their light, And canopied in darkness sweetly lay, Till they might open to adorn the day. Her hair, like golden threads, played with her breath: O modest wantons, wanton modesty! Showing life’s triumph in the map of death, And death’s dim look in life’s mortality. Each in her sleep themselves so beautify, As if between them twain there were no strife, But that life lived in death and death in life. Her breasts like ivory globes circled with blue, A pair of maiden worlds unconquered, Save of their lord no bearing yoke they knew, And him by oath they truly honoured. These worlds in Tarquin new ambition bred; Who, like a foul usurper, went about From this fair throne to heave the owner out. What could he see but mightily he noted? What did he note but strongly he desired? What he beheld, on that he firmly doted, And in his will his wilful eye he tired. With more than admiration he admired Her azure veins, her alabaster skin, Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin. As the grim lion fawneth o’er his prey, Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied, So o’er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay, His rage of lust by grazing qualified— Slaked, not suppressed; for standing by her side, His eye, which late this mutiny restrains, Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins. And they, like straggling slaves for pillage fighting, Obdurate vassals fell exploits effecting, In bloody death and ravishment delighting, Nor children’s tears nor mothers’ groans respecting, Swell in their pride, the onset still expecting. Anon his beating heart, alarum striking, Gives the hot charge and bids them do their liking. His drumming heart cheers up his burning eye, His eye commends the leading to his hand; His hand, as proud of such a dignity, Smoking with pride, marched on to make his stand On her bare breast, the heart of all her land; Whose ranks of blue veins, as his hand did scale, Left their round turrets destitute and pale. They, must’ring to the quiet cabinet Where their dear governess and lady lies, Do tell her she is dreadfully beset, And fright her with confusion of their cries. She, much amazed, breaks ope her locked-up eyes, Who, peeping forth this tumult to behold, Are by his flaming torch dimmed and controlled. Imagine her as one in dead of night From forth dull sleep by dreadful fancy waking, That thinks she hath beheld some ghastly sprite, Whose grim aspect sets every joint a shaking. What terror ’tis! but she, in worser taking, From sleep disturbed, heedfully doth view The sight which makes supposed terror true. Wrapped and confounded in a thousand fears, Like to a new-killed bird she trembling lies. She dares not look; yet, winking, there appears Quick-shifting antics, ugly in her eyes. Such shadows are the weak brain’s forgeries; Who, angry that the eyes fly from their lights, In darkness daunts them with more dreadful sights. His hand, that yet remains upon her breast, Rude ram, to batter such an ivory wall! May feel her heart, poor citizen, distressed, Wounding itself to death, rise up and fall, Beating her bulk, that his hand shakes withal. This moves in him more rage, and lesser pity, To make the breach and enter this sweet city. First, like a trumpet doth his tongue begin To sound a parley to his heartless foe, Who o’er the white sheet peers her whiter chin, The reason of this rash alarm to know, Which he by dumb demeanour seeks to show; But she with vehement prayers urgeth still Under what colour he commits this ill. Thus he replies: “The colour in thy face, That even for anger makes the lily pale, And the red rose blush at her own disgrace, Shall plead for me and tell my loving tale. Under that colour am I come to scale Thy never-conquered fort; the fault is thine, For those thine eyes betray thee unto mine. “Thus I forestall thee, if thou mean to chide: Thy beauty hath ensnared thee to this night, Where thou with patience must my will abide, My will that marks thee for my earth’s delight, Which I to conquer sought with all my might. But as reproof and reason beat it dead, By thy bright beauty was it newly bred. “I see what crosses my attempt will bring; I know what thorns the growing rose defends; I think the honey guarded with a sting; All this beforehand counsel comprehends. But will is deaf, and hears no heedful friends; Only he hath an eye to gaze on beauty, And dotes on what he looks, ’gainst law or duty. “I have debated, even in my soul, What wrong, what shame, what sorrow I shall breed; But nothing can affection’s course control, Or stop the headlong fury of his speed. I know repentant tears ensue the deed, Reproach, disdain, and deadly enmity; Yet strike I to embrace mine infamy.” This said, he shakes aloft his Roman blade, Which, like a falcon tow’ring in the skies, Coucheth the fowl below with his wings’ shade, Whose crooked beak threats, if he mount he dies. So under his insulting falchion lies Harmless Lucretia, marking what he tells With trembling fear, as fowl hear falcon’s bells. “Lucrece,” quoth he, “this night I must enjoy thee. If thou deny, then force must work my way, For in thy bed I purpose to destroy thee; That done, some worthless slave of thine I’ll slay. To kill thine honour with thy life’s decay; And in thy dead arms do I mean to place him, Swearing I slew him, seeing thee embrace him. “So thy surviving husband shall remain The scornful mark of every open eye; Thy kinsmen hang their heads at this disdain, Thy issue blurred with nameless bastardy. And thou, the author of their obloquy, Shalt have thy trespass cited up in rhymes And sung by children in succeeding times. “But if thou yield, I rest thy secret friend. The fault unknown is as a thought unacted; A little harm done to a great good end For lawful policy remains enacted. The poisonous simple sometimes is compacted In a pure compound; being so applied, His venom in effect is purified. “Then, for thy husband and thy children’s sake, Tender my suit. Bequeath not to their lot The shame that from them no device can take, The blemish that will never be forgot, Worse than a slavish wipe, or birth-hour’s blot: For marks descried in men’s nativity Are nature’s faults, not their own infamy.” Here with a cockatrice’ dead-killing eye He rouseth up himself and makes a pause; While she, the picture of pure piety, Like a white hind under the gripe’s sharp claws, Pleads in a wilderness where are no laws, To the rough beast that knows no gentle right, Nor aught obeys but his foul appetite. But when a black-faced cloud the world doth threat, In his dim mist th’ aspiring mountains hiding, From earth’s dark womb some gentle gust doth get, Which blows these pitchy vapours from their biding, Hind’ring their present fall by this dividing; So his unhallowed haste her words delays, And moody Pluto winks while Orpheus plays. Yet, foul night-waking cat, he doth but dally, While in his hold-fast foot the weak mouse panteth. Her sad behaviour feeds his vulture folly, A swallowing gulf that even in plenty wanteth. His ear her prayers admits, but his heart granteth No penetrable entrance to her plaining; Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining. Her pity-pleading eyes are sadly fixed In the remorseless wrinkles of his face. Her modest eloquence with sighs is mixed, Which to her oratory adds more grace. She puts the period often from his place, And midst the sentence so her accent breaks That twice she doth begin ere once she speaks. She conjures him by high almighty Jove, By knighthood, gentry, and sweet friendship’s oath, By her untimely tears, her husband’s love, By holy human law, and common troth, By heaven and earth, and all the power of both, That to his borrowed bed he make retire, And stoop to honour, not to foul desire. Quoth she, “Reward not hospitality With such black payment as thou hast pretended; Mud not the fountain that gave drink to thee, Mar not the thing that cannot be amended. End thy ill aim before the shoot be ended; He is no woodman that doth bend his bow To strike a poor unseasonable doe. “My husband is thy friend; for his sake spare me. Thyself art mighty; for thine own sake leave me. Myself a weakling, do not then ensnare me; Thou look’st not like deceit; do not deceive me. My sighs, like whirlwinds, labour hence to heave thee. If ever man were moved with woman’s moans, Be moved with my tears, my sighs, my groans. “All which together, like a troubled ocean, Beat at thy rocky and wrack-threat’ning heart, To soften it with their continual motion; For stones dissolved to water do convert. O, if no harder than a stone thou art, Melt at my tears and be compassionate! Soft pity enters at an iron gate. “In Tarquin’s likeness I did entertain thee. Hast thou put on his shape to do him shame? To all the host of heaven I complain me, Thou wrong’st his honour, wound’st his princely name. Thou art not what thou seem’st; and if the same, Thou seem’st not what thou art, a god, a king; For kings like gods should govern everything. “How will thy shame be seeded in thine age, When thus thy vices bud before thy spring? If in thy hope thou dar’st do such outrage, What dar’st thou not when once thou art a king? O, be remembered, no outrageous thing From vassal actors can be wiped away; Then kings’ misdeeds cannot be hid in clay. “This deed will make thee only loved for fear, But happy monarchs still are feared for love. With foul offenders thou perforce must bear, When they in thee the like offences prove. If but for fear of this, thy will remove, For princes are the glass, the school, the book, Where subjects’ eyes do learn, do read, do look. “And wilt thou be the school where Lust shall learn? Must he in thee read lectures of such shame? Wilt thou be glass, wherein it shall discern Authority for sin, warrant for blame, To privilege dishonour in thy name? Thou back’st reproach against long-living laud, And mak’st fair reputation but a bawd. “Hast thou command? By him that gave it thee, From a pure heart command thy rebel will. Draw not thy sword to guard iniquity, For it was lent thee all that brood to kill. Thy princely office how canst thou fulfill, When, patterned by thy fault, foul Sin may say He learned to sin, and thou didst teach the way? “Think but how vile a spectacle it were To view thy present trespass in another. Men’s faults do seldom to themselves appear; Their own transgressions partially they smother. This guilt would seem death-worthy in thy brother. O how are they wrapped in with infamies That from their own misdeeds askance their eyes! “To thee, to thee, my heaved-up hands appeal, Not to seducing lust, thy rash relier. I sue for exiled majesty’s repeal; Let him return, and flatt’ring thoughts retire. His true respect will prison false desire, And wipe the dim mist from thy doting eyne, That thou shalt see thy state, and pity mine.” “Have done,” quoth he. “My uncontrolled tide Turns not, but swells the higher by this let. Small lights are soon blown out, huge fires abide, And with the wind in greater fury fret. The petty streams that pay a daily debt To their salt sovereign, with their fresh falls’ haste Add to his flow, but alter not his taste.” “Thou art,” quoth she, “a sea, a sovereign king, And, lo, there falls into thy boundless flood Black lust, dishonour, shame, misgoverning, Who seek to stain the ocean of thy blood. If all these petty ills shall change thy good, Thy sea within a puddle’s womb is hearsed, And not the puddle in thy sea dispersed. “So shall these slaves be king, and thou their slave; Thou nobly base, they basely dignified; Thou their fair life, and they thy fouler grave; Thou loathed in their shame, they in thy pride. The lesser thing should not the greater hide; The cedar stoops not to the base shrub’s foot, But low shrubs wither at the cedar’s root. “So let thy thoughts, low vassals to thy state”— “No more,” quoth he, “by heaven, I will not hear thee. Yield to my love. If not, enforced hate, Instead of love’s coy touch, shall rudely tear thee. That done, despitefully I mean to bear thee Unto the base bed of some rascal groom, To be thy partner in this shameful doom.” This said, he sets his foot upon the light, For light and lust are deadly enemies. Shame folded up in blind concealing night, When most unseen, then most doth tyrannize. The wolf hath seized his prey, the poor lamb cries, Till with her own white fleece her voice controlled Entombs her outcry in her lips’ sweet fold. For with the nightly linen that she wears He pens her piteous clamours in her head, Cooling his hot face in the chastest tears That ever modest eyes with sorrow shed. O, that prone lust should stain so pure a bed! The spots whereof could weeping purify, Her tears should drop on them perpetually. But she hath lost a dearer thing than life, And he hath won what he would lose again. This forced league doth force a further strife; This momentary joy breeds months of pain; This hot desire converts to cold disdain. Pure Chastity is rifled of her store, And Lust, the thief, far poorer than before. Look as the full-fed hound or gorged hawk, Unapt for tender smell or speedy flight, Make slow pursuit, or altogether balk The prey wherein by nature they delight; So surfeit-taking Tarquin fares this night. His taste delicious, in digestion souring, Devours his will, that lived by foul devouring. O deeper sin than bottomless conceit Can comprehend in still imagination! Drunken desire must vomit his receipt, Ere he can see his own abomination. While lust is in his pride no exclamation Can curb his heat or rein his rash desire, Till, like a jade, self-will himself doth tire. And then with lank and lean discoloured cheek, With heavy eye, knit brow, and strengthless pace, Feeble desire, all recreant, poor, and meek, Like to a bankrout beggar wails his case. The flesh being proud, desire doth fight with Grace, For there it revels; and when that decays, The guilty rebel for remission prays. So fares it with this faultful lord of Rome, Who this accomplishment so hotly chased; For now against himself he sounds this doom, That through the length of times he stands disgraced. Besides, his soul’s fair temple is defaced, To whose weak ruins muster troops of cares, To ask the spotted princess how she fares. She says her subjects with foul insurrection Have battered down her consecrated wall, And by their mortal fault brought in subjection Her immortality, and made her thrall To living death and pain perpetual, Which in her prescience she controlled still, But her foresight could not forestall their will. E’en in this thought through the dark night he stealeth, A captive victor that hath lost in gain, Bearing away the wound that nothing healeth, The scar that will, despite of cure, remain; Leaving his spoil perplexed in greater pain. She bears the load of lust he left behind, And he the burden of a guilty mind. He like a thievish dog creeps sadly thence; She like a wearied lamb lies panting there; He scowls, and hates himself for his offence; She, desperate, with her nails her flesh doth tear. He faintly flies, sweating with guilty fear; She stays, exclaiming on the direful night; He runs, and chides his vanished, loathed delight. He thence departs a heavy convertite; She there remains a hopeless castaway. He in his speed looks for the morning light; She prays she never may behold the day. “For day,” quoth she, “night’s scapes doth open lay, And my true eyes have never practised how To cloak offences with a cunning brow. “They think not but that every eye can see The same disgrace which they themselves behold; And therefore would they still in darkness be, To have their unseen sin remain untold. For they their guilt with weeping will unfold, And grave, like water that doth eat in steel, Upon my cheeks what helpless shame I feel.” Here she exclaims against repose and rest, And bids her eyes hereafter still be blind. She wakes her heart by beating on her breast, And bids it leap from thence, where it may find Some purer chest, to close so pure a mind. Frantic with grief thus breathes she forth her spite Against the unseen secrecy of night. “O comfort-killing night, image of hell, Dim register and notary of shame, Black stage for tragedies and murders fell, Vast sin-concealing chaos, nurse of blame, Blind muffled bawd, dark harbour for defame, Grim cave of death, whisp’ring conspirator With close-tongued treason and the ravisher! “O hateful, vaporous, and foggy night, Since thou art guilty of my cureless crime, Muster thy mists to meet the eastern light, Make war against proportioned course of time; Or if thou wilt permit the sun to climb His wonted height, yet ere he go to bed, Knit poisonous clouds about his golden head. “With rotten damps ravish the morning air; Let their exhaled unwholesome breaths make sick The life of purity, the supreme fair, Ere he arrive his weary noontide prick. And let thy misty vapours march so thick, That in their smoky ranks his smothered light May set at noon and make perpetual night. “Were Tarquin night, as he is but night’s child, The silver-shining queen he would distain; Her twinkling handmaids too, by him defiled, Through Night’s black bosom should not peep again. So should I have co-partners in my pain; And fellowship in woe doth woe assuage, As palmers’ chat makes short their pilgrimage. “Where now I have no one to blush with me, To cross their arms and hang their heads with mine, To mask their brows, and hide their infamy; But I alone alone must sit and pine, Seasoning the earth with showers of silver brine, Mingling my talk with tears, my grief with groans, Poor wasting monuments of lasting moans. “O night, thou furnace of foul reeking smoke, Let not the jealous day behold that face Which underneath thy black all-hiding cloak Immodesty lies martyred with disgrace! Keep still possession of thy gloomy place, That all the faults which in thy reign are made May likewise be sepulchred in thy shade. “Make me not object to the tell-tale day. The light will show charactered in my brow The story of sweet chastity’s decay, The impious breach of holy wedlock vow. Yea, the illiterate, that know not how To cipher what is writ in learned books, Will quote my loathsome trespass in my looks. “The nurse, to still her child, will tell my story And fright her crying babe with Tarquin’s name. The orator, to deck his oratory, Will couple my reproach to Tarquin’s shame. Feast-finding minstrels, tuning my defame, Will tie the hearers to attend each line, How Tarquin wronged me, I Collatine. “Let my good name, that senseless reputation, For Collatine’s dear love be kept unspotted. If that be made a theme for disputation, The branches of another root are rotted, And undeserved reproach to him allotted That is as clear from this attaint of mine As I, ere this, was pure to Collatine. “O unseen shame, invisible disgrace! O unfelt sore, crest-wounding, private scar! Reproach is stamped in Collatinus’ face, And Tarquin’s eye may read the mot afar, How he in peace is wounded, not in war. Alas, how many bear such shameful blows, Which not themselves, but he that gives them knows! “If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me, From me by strong assault it is bereft. My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee, Have no perfection of my summer left, But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft. In thy weak hive a wand’ring wasp hath crept, And sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept. “Yet am I guilty of thy honour’s wrack; Yet for thy honour did I entertain him. Coming from thee, I could not put him back, For it had been dishonour to disdain him. Besides, of weariness he did complain him, And talked of virtue. O unlooked-for evil, When virtue is profaned in such a devil! “Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud? Or hateful cuckoos hatch in sparrows’ nests? Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud? Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts? Or kings be breakers of their own behests? But no perfection is so absolute That some impurity doth not pollute. “The aged man that coffers up his gold Is plagued with cramps, and gouts and painful fits, And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold, But like still-pining Tantalus he sits, And useless barns the harvest of his wits, Having no other pleasure of his gain But torment that it cannot cure his pain. “So then he hath it when he cannot use it, And leaves it to be mastered by his young, Who in their pride do presently abuse it. Their father was too weak, and they too strong, To hold their cursed-blessed fortune long. The sweets we wish for turn to loathed sours Even in the moment that we call them ours. “Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring; Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers; The adder hisses where the sweet birds sing; What virtue breeds iniquity devours. We have no good that we can say is ours, But ill-annexed Opportunity Or kills his life or else his quality. “O Opportunity, thy guilt is great! ’Tis thou that execut’st the traitor’s treason; Thou sets the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the sin, thou ’point’st the season. ’Tis thou that spurn’st at right, at law, at reason; And in thy shady cell, where none may spy him, Sits Sin, to seize the souls that wander by him. “Thou mak’st the vestal violate her oath; Thou blow’st the fire when temperance is thawed; Thou smother’st honesty, thou murder’st troth, Thou foul abettor, thou notorious bawd! Thou plantest scandal and displacest laud. Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief, Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief. “Thy secret pleasure turns to open shame, Thy private feasting to a public fast, Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name, Thy sugared tongue to bitter wormwood taste. Thy violent vanities can never last. How comes it then, vile Opportunity, Being so bad, such numbers seek for thee? “When wilt thou be the humble suppliant’s friend, And bring him where his suit may be obtained? When wilt thou sort an hour great strifes to end, Or free that soul which wretchedness hath chained? Give physic to the sick, ease to the pained? The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee; But they ne’er meet with Opportunity. “The patient dies while the physician sleeps; The orphan pines while the oppressor feeds; Justice is feasting while the widow weeps; Advice is sporting while infection breeds. Thou grant’st no time for charitable deeds. Wrath, envy, treason, rape, and murder’s rages, Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages. “When truth and virtue have to do with thee, A thousand crosses keep them from thy aid; They buy thy help; but Sin ne’er gives a fee; He gratis comes, and thou art well appaid As well to hear as grant what he hath said. My Collatine would else have come to me When Tarquin did, but he was stayed by thee. “Guilty thou art of murder and of theft, Guilty of perjury and subornation, Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift, Guilty of incest, that abomination: An accessory by thine inclination To all sins past and all that are to come, From the creation to the general doom. “Misshapen Time, copesmate of ugly night, Swift subtle post, carrier of grisly care, Eater of youth, false slave to false delight, Base watch of woes, sin’s pack-horse, virtue’s snare! Thou nursest all and murd’rest all that are. O hear me then, injurious, shifting Time! Be guilty of my death, since of my crime. “Why hath thy servant, Opportunity Betrayed the hours thou gav’st me to repose, Cancelled my fortunes, and enchained me To endless date of never-ending woes? Time’s office is to fine the hate of foes, To eat up errors by opinion bred, Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed. “Time’s glory is to calm contending kings, To unmask falsehood and bring truth to light, To stamp the seal of time in aged things, To wake the morn and sentinel the night, To wrong the wronger till he render right, To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours, And smear with dust their glitt’ring golden towers; “To fill with worm-holes stately monuments, To feed oblivion with decay of things, To blot old books and alter their contents, To pluck the quills from ancient ravens’ wings, To dry the old oak’s sap and cherish springs, To spoil antiquities of hammered steel, And turn the giddy round of Fortune’s wheel; “To show the beldam daughters of her daughter, To make the child a man, the man a child, To slay the tiger that doth live by slaughter, To tame the unicorn and lion wild, To mock the subtle in themselves beguiled, To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops, And waste huge stones with little water-drops. “Why work’st thou mischief in thy pilgrimage, Unless thou couldst return to make amends? One poor retiring minute in an age Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends, Lending him wit that to bad debtors lends. O, this dread night, wouldst thou one hour come back, I could prevent this storm and shun thy wrack! “Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity, With some mischance cross Tarquin in his flight. Devise extremes beyond extremity, To make him curse this cursed crimeful night. Let ghastly shadows his lewd eyes affright, And the dire thought of his committed evil Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil. “Disturb his hours of rest with restless trances, Afflict him in his bed with bedrid groans; Let there bechance him pitiful mischances, To make him moan, but pity not his moans. Stone him with hard’ned hearts harder than stones, And let mild women to him lose their mildness, Wilder to him than tigers in their wildness. “Let him have time to tear his curled hair, Let him have time against himself to rave, Let him have time of Time’s help to despair, Let him have time to live a loathed slave, Let him have time a beggar’s orts to crave, And time to see one that by alms doth live Disdain to him disdained scraps to give. “Let him have time to see his friends his foes, And merry fools to mock at him resort; Let him have time to mark how slow time goes In time of sorrow, and how swift and short His time of folly and his time of sport; And ever let his unrecalling crime Have time to wail th’ abusing of his time. “O Time, thou tutor both to good and bad, Teach me to curse him that thou taught’st this ill! At his own shadow let the thief run mad, Himself himself seek every hour to kill. Such wretched hands such wretched blood should spill, For who so base would such an office have As sland’rous deathsman to so base a slave? “The baser is he, coming from a king, To shame his hope with deeds degenerate. The mightier man, the mightier is the thing That makes him honoured or begets him hate; For greatest scandal waits on greatest state. The moon being clouded presently is missed, But little stars may hide them when they list. “The crow may bathe his coal-black wings in mire, And unperceived fly with the filth away; But if the like the snow-white swan desire, The stain upon his silver down will stay. Poor grooms are sightless night, kings glorious day. Gnats are unnoted wheresoe’er they fly, But eagles gazed upon with every eye. “Out, idle words, servants to shallow fools, Unprofitable sounds, weak arbitrators! Busy yourselves in skill-contending schools; Debate where leisure serves with dull debaters; To trembling clients be you mediators. For me, I force not argument a straw, Since that my case is past the help of law. “In vain I rail at Opportunity, At Time, at Tarquin, and uncheerful night; In vain I cavil with mine infamy, In vain I spurn at my confirmed despite. This helpless smoke of words doth me no right. The remedy indeed to do me good Is to let forth my foul defiled blood. “Poor hand, why quiver’st thou at this decree? Honour thyself to rid me of this shame, For if I die, my honour lives in thee, But if I live, thou liv’st in my defame. Since thou couldst not defend thy loyal dame, And wast afeared to scratch her wicked foe, Kill both thyself and her for yielding so.” This said, from her betumbled couch she starteth, To find some desp’rate instrument of death; But this no slaughterhouse no tool imparteth To make more vent for passage of her breath, Which, thronging through her lips, so vanisheth As smoke from Ætna, that in air consumes, Or that which from discharged cannon fumes. “In vain,” quoth she, “I live, and seek in vain Some happy mean to end a hapless life. I feared by Tarquin’s falchion to be slain, Yet for the self-same purpose seek a knife. But when I feared I was a loyal wife; So am I now.—O no, that cannot be! Of that true type hath Tarquin rifled me. “O that is gone for which I sought to live, And therefore now I need not fear to die. To clear this spot by death, at least I give A badge of fame to slander’s livery, A dying life to living infamy. Poor helpless help, the treasure stol’n away, To burn the guiltless casket where it lay! “Well, well, dear Collatine, thou shalt not know The stained taste of violated troth; I will not wrong thy true affection so, To flatter thee with an infringed oath. This bastard graff shall never come to growth; He shall not boast who did thy stock pollute That thou art doting father of his fruit. “Nor shall he smile at thee in secret thought, Nor laugh with his companions at thy state; But thou shalt know thy int’rest was not bought Basely with gold, but stol’n from forth thy gate. For me, I am the mistress of my fate, And with my trespass never will dispense, Till life to death acquit my forced offence. “I will not poison thee with my attaint, Nor fold my fault in cleanly-coined excuses; My sable ground of sin I will not paint, To hide the truth of this false night’s abuses. My tongue shall utter all; mine eyes, like sluices, As from a mountain-spring that feeds a dale, Shall gush pure streams to purge my impure tale.” By this, lamenting Philomel had ended The well-tuned warble of her nightly sorrow, And solemn night with slow sad gait descended To ugly hell; when, lo, the blushing morrow Lends light to all fair eyes that light will borrow. But cloudy Lucrece shames herself to see, And therefore still in night would cloistered be. Revealing day through every cranny spies, And seems to point her out where she sits weeping, To whom she sobbing speaks: “O eye of eyes, Why pry’st thou through my window? Leave thy peeping, Mock with thy tickling beams eyes that are sleeping. Brand not my forehead with thy piercing light, For day hath naught to do what’s done by night.” Thus cavils she with everything she sees. True grief is fond and testy as a child, Who wayward once, his mood with naught agrees. Old woes, not infant sorrows, bear them mild. Continuance tames the one; the other wild, Like an unpractised swimmer plunging still With too much labour drowns for want of skill. So she, deep-drenched in a sea of care, Holds disputation with each thing she views, And to herself all sorrow doth compare; No object but her passion’s strength renews, And as one shifts, another straight ensues. Sometime her grief is dumb and hath no words; Sometime ’tis mad and too much talk affords. The little birds that tune their morning’s joy Make her moans mad with their sweet melody. For mirth doth search the bottom of annoy; Sad souls are slain in merry company. Grief best is pleased with grief’s society; True sorrow then is feelingly sufficed When with like semblance it is sympathized. ’Tis double death to drown in ken of shore; He ten times pines that pines beholding food; To see the salve doth make the wound ache more; Great grief grieves most at that would do it good; Deep woes roll forward like a gentle flood, Who, being stopped, the bounding banks o’erflows; Grief dallied with nor law nor limit knows. “You mocking birds,” quoth she, “your tunes entomb Within your hollow-swelling feathered breasts, And in my hearing be you mute and dumb; My restless discord loves no stops nor rests. A woeful hostess brooks not merry guests. Relish your nimble notes to pleasing ears; Distress likes dumps when time is kept with tears. “Come, Philomel, that sing’st of ravishment, Make thy sad grove in my disheveled hair. As the dank earth weeps at thy languishment, So I at each sad strain will strain a tear And with deep groans the diapason bear; For burden-wise I’ll hum on Tarquin still, While thou on Tereus descants better skill. “And whiles against a thorn thou bear’st thy part To keep thy sharp woes waking, wretched I, To imitate thee well, against my heart Will fix a sharp knife to affright mine eye, Who if it wink shall thereon fall and die. These means, as frets upon an instrument, Shall tune our heart-strings to true languishment. “And for, poor bird, thou sing’st not in the day, As shaming any eye should thee behold, Some dark deep desert seated from the way, That knows not parching heat nor freezing cold, Will we find out; and there we will unfold To creatures stern sad tunes to change their kinds. Since men prove beasts, let beasts bear gentle minds.” As the poor frighted deer that stands at gaze, Wildly determining which way to fly, Or one encompassed with a winding maze, That cannot tread the way out readily; So with herself is she in mutiny, To live or die which of the twain were better, When life is shamed and Death reproach’s debtor. “To kill myself,” quoth she, “alack, what were it, But with my body my poor soul’s pollution? They that lose half with greater patience bear it Than they whose whole is swallowed in confusion. That mother tries a merciless conclusion Who, having two sweet babes, when death takes one, Will slay the other, and be nurse to none. “My body or my soul, which was the dearer, When the one pure, the other made divine? Whose love of either to myself was nearer, When both were kept for heaven and Collatine? Ay me, the bark pilled from the lofty pine, His leaves will wither and his sap decay; So must my soul, her bark being pilled away. “Her house is sacked, her quiet interrupted, Her mansion battered by the enemy, Her sacred temple spotted, spoiled, corrupted, Grossly engirt with daring infamy. Then let it not be called impiety, If in this blemished fort I make some hole Through which I may convey this troubled soul. “Yet die I will not till my Collatine Have heard the cause of my untimely death, That he may vow, in that sad hour of mine, Revenge on him that made me stop my breath. My stained blood to Tarquin I’ll bequeath, Which by him tainted shall for him be spent, And as his due writ in my testament. “My honour I’ll bequeath unto the knife That wounds my body so dishonoured. ’Tis honour to deprive dishonoured life; The one will live, the other being dead. So of shame’s ashes shall my fame be bred, For in my death I murder shameful scorn; My shame so dead, mine honour is new born. “Dear lord of that dear jewel I have lost, What legacy shall I bequeath to thee? My resolution, love, shall be thy boast, By whose example thou revenged mayst be. How Tarquin must be used, read it in me; Myself, thy friend, will kill myself, thy foe, And for my sake serve thou false Tarquin so. “This brief abridgement of my will I make: My soul and body to the skies and ground; My resolution, husband, do thou take; Mine honour be the knife’s that makes my wound; My shame be his that did my fame confound; And all my fame that lives disbursed be To those that live and think no shame of me. “Thou, Collatine, shalt oversee this will; How was I overseen that thou shalt see it! My blood shall wash the slander of mine ill; My life’s foul deed my life’s fair end shall free it. Faint not, faint heart, but stoutly say, ‘So be it.’ Yield to my hand; my hand shall conquer thee. Thou dead, both die, and both shall victors be.” This plot of death when sadly she had laid, And wiped the brinish pearl from her bright eyes, With untuned tongue she hoarsely called her maid, Whose swift obedience to her mistress hies; For fleet-winged duty with thought’s feathers flies. Poor Lucrece’ cheeks unto her maid seem so As winter meads when sun doth melt their snow. Her mistress she doth give demure good-morrow, With soft slow tongue, true mark of modesty, And sorts a sad look to her lady’s sorrow, For why her face wore sorrow’s livery, But durst not ask of her audaciously Why her two suns were cloud-eclipsed so, Nor why her fair cheeks over-washed with woe. But as the earth doth weep, the sun being set, Each flower moistened like a melting eye, Even so the maid with swelling drops ’gan wet Her circled eyne, enforced by sympathy Of those fair suns set in her mistress’ sky, Who in a salt-waved ocean quench their light, Which makes the maid weep like the dewy night. A pretty while these pretty creatures stand, Like ivory conduits coral cisterns filling. One justly weeps; the other takes in hand No cause, but company, of her drops spilling. Their gentle sex to weep are often willing, Grieving themselves to guess at others’ smarts, And then they drown their eyes or break their hearts. For men have marble, women waxen, minds, And therefore are they formed as marble will; The weak oppressed, th’ impression of strange kinds Is formed in them by force, by fraud, or skill. Then call them not the authors of their ill, No more than wax shall be accounted evil, Wherein is stamped the semblance of a devil. Their smoothness, like a goodly champaign plain, Lays open all the little worms that creep; In men, as in a rough-grown grove, remain Cave-keeping evils that obscurely sleep. Through crystal walls each little mote will peep. Though men can cover crimes with bold stern looks, Poor women’s faces are their own faults’ books. No man inveigh against the withered flower, But chide rough winter that the flower hath killed; Not that devoured, but that which doth devour, Is worthy blame. O, let it not be hild Poor women’s faults, that they are so fulfilled With men’s abuses! Those proud lords, to blame, Make weak-made women tenants to their shame. The precedent whereof in Lucrece view, Assailed by night with circumstances strong Of present death, and shame that might ensue By that her death, to do her husband wrong. Such danger to resistance did belong, The dying fear through all her body spread; And who cannot abuse a body dead? By this, mild patience bid fair Lucrece speak To the poor counterfeit of her complaining: “My girl,” quoth she, “on what occasion break Those tears from thee, that down thy cheeks are raining? If thou dost weep for grief of my sustaining, Know, gentle wench, it small avails my mood. If tears could help, mine own would do me good. “But tell me, girl, when went”—and there she stayed Till after a deep groan—“Tarquin from hence?” “Madam, ere I was up,” replied the maid, “The more to blame my sluggard negligence. Yet with the fault I thus far can dispense: Myself was stirring ere the break of day, And, ere I rose, was Tarquin gone away. “But, lady, if your maid may be so bold, She would request to know your heaviness.” “O peace!” quoth Lucrece. “If it should be told, The repetition cannot make it less; For more it is than I can well express, And that deep torture may be called a hell, When more is felt than one hath power to tell. “Go, get me hither paper, ink, and pen. Yet save that labour, for I have them here. What should I say?—One of my husband’s men Bid thou be ready by and by to bear A letter to my lord, my love, my dear. Bid him with speed prepare to carry it; The cause craves haste, and it will soon be writ.” Her maid is gone, and she prepares to write, First hovering o’er the paper with her quill. Conceit and grief an eager combat fight; What wit sets down is blotted straight with will; This is too curious-good, this blunt and ill. Much like a press of people at a door, Throng her inventions, which shall go before. At last she thus begins: “Thou worthy lord Of that unworthy wife that greeteth thee, Health to thy person! Next vouchsafe t’ afford, If ever, love, thy Lucrece thou wilt see, Some present speed to come and visit me. So I commend me from our house in grief. My woes are tedious, though my words are brief.” Here folds she up the tenor of her woe, Her certain sorrow writ uncertainly. By this short schedule Collatine may know Her grief, but not her grief’s true quality; She dares not thereof make discovery, Lest he should hold it her own gross abuse, Ere she with blood had stained her stained excuse. Besides, the life and feeling of her passion She hoards, to spend when he is by to hear her; When sighs and groans and tears may grace the fashion Of her disgrace, the better so to clear her From that suspicion which the world might bear her. To shun this blot, she would not blot the letter With words, till action might become them better. To see sad sights moves more than hear them told, For then the eye interprets to the ear The heavy motion that it doth behold, When every part a part of woe doth bear. ’Tis but a part of sorrow that we hear. Deep sounds make lesser noise than shallow fords, And sorrow ebbs, being blown with wind of words. Her letter now is sealed, and on it writ “At Ardea to my lord with more than haste.” The post attends, and she delivers it, Charging the sour-faced groom to hie as fast As lagging fowls before the northern blast. Speed more than speed but dull and slow she deems; Extremely still urgeth such extremes. The homely villain curtsies to her low, And, blushing on her with a steadfast eye, Receives the scroll without or yea or no, And forth with bashful innocence doth hie. But they whose guilt within their bosoms lie Imagine every eye beholds their blame, For Lucrece thought he blushed to see her shame, When, silly groom! God wot, it was defect Of spirit, life, and bold audacity. Such harmless creatures have a true respect To talk in deeds, while others saucily Promise more speed, but do it leisurely. Even so this pattern of the worn-out age Pawned honest looks, but laid no words to gage. His kindled duty kindled her mistrust, That two red fires in both their faces blazed; She thought he blushed, as knowing Tarquin’s lust, And, blushing with him, wistly on him gazed. Her earnest eye did make him more amazed. The more she saw the blood his cheeks replenish, The more she thought he spied in her some blemish. But long she thinks till he return again, And yet the duteous vassal scarce is gone. The weary time she cannot entertain, For now ’tis stale to sigh, to weep, to groan; So woe hath wearied woe, moan tired moan, That she her plaints a little while doth stay, Pausing for means to mourn some newer way. At last she calls to mind where hangs a piece Of skilful painting, made for Priam’s Troy, Before the which is drawn the power of Greece, For Helen’s rape the city to destroy, Threat’ning cloud-kissing Ilion with annoy; Which the conceited painter drew so proud, As heaven, it seemed, to kiss the turrets bowed. A thousand lamentable objects there, In scorn of Nature, Art gave lifeless life. Many a dry drop seemed a weeping tear, Shed for the slaughtered husband by the wife. The red blood reeked to show the painter’s strife, The dying eyes gleamed forth their ashy lights, Like dying coals burnt out in tedious nights. There might you see the labouring pioneer Begrimed with sweat and smeared all with dust; And from the towers of Troy there would appear The very eyes of men through loop-holes thrust, Gazing upon the Greeks with little lust. Such sweet observance in this work was had, That one might see those far-off eyes look sad. In great commanders grace and majesty You might behold, triumphing in their faces; In youth, quick bearing and dexterity; And here and there the painter interlaces Pale cowards marching on with trembling paces, Which heartless peasants did so well resemble, That one would swear he saw them quake and tremble. In Ajax and Ulysses, O, what art Of physiognomy might one behold! The face of either ciphered either’s heart; Their face their manners most expressly told. In Ajax’ eyes blunt rage and rigour rolled, But the mild glance that sly Ulysses lent Showed deep regard and smiling government. There pleading might you see grave Nestor stand, As ’twere encouraging the Greeks to fight, Making such sober action with his hand That it beguiled attention, charmed the sight. In speech, it seemed, his beard, all silver white, Wagged up and down, and from his lips did fly Thin winding breath, which purled up to the sky. About him were a press of gaping faces, Which seemed to swallow up his sound advice, All jointly list’ning, but with several graces, As if some mermaid did their ears entice; Some high, some low, the painter was so nice. The scalps of many, almost hid behind, To jump up higher seemed to mock the mind. Here one man’s hand leaned on another’s head, His nose being shadowed by his neighbour’s ear; Here one being thronged bears back, all boll’n and red; Another smothered seems to pelt and swear; And in their rage such signs of rage they bear As, but for loss of Nestor’s golden words, It seemed they would debate with angry swords. For much imaginary work was there, Conceit deceitful, so compact, so kind, That for Achilles’ image stood his spear Griped in an armed hand; himself, behind, Was left unseen, save to the eye of mind. A hand, a foot, a face, a leg, a head, Stood for the whole to be imagined. And from the walls of strong-besieged Troy, When their brave hope, bold Hector, marched to field, Stood many Trojan mothers, sharing joy To see their youthful sons bright weapons wield; And to their hope they such odd action yield That through their light joy seemed to appear, Like bright things stained, a kind of heavy fear. And from the strand of Dardan, where they fought, To Simois’ reedy banks the red blood ran, Whose waves to imitate the battle sought With swelling ridges, and their ranks began To break upon the galled shore, and then Retire again till, meeting greater ranks, They join, and shoot their foam at Simois’ banks. To this well-painted piece is Lucrece come, To find a face where all distress is stelled. Many she sees where cares have carved some, But none where all distress and dolour dwelled, Till she despairing Hecuba beheld, Staring on Priam’s wounds with her old eyes, Which bleeding under Pyrrhus’ proud foot lies. In her the painter had anatomized Time’s ruin, beauty’s wrack, and grim care’s reign. Her cheeks with chops and wrinkles were disguised; Of what she was no semblance did remain. Her blue blood, changed to black in every vein, Wanting the spring that those shrunk pipes had fed, Showed life imprisoned in a body dead. On this sad shadow Lucrece spends her eyes, And shapes her sorrow to the beldam’s woes, Who nothing wants to answer her but cries And bitter words to ban her cruel foes. The painter was no god to lend her those, And therefore Lucrece swears he did her wrong, To give her so much grief, and not a tongue. “Poor instrument,” quoth she, “without a sound, I’ll tune thy woes with my lamenting tongue, And drop sweet balm in Priam’s painted wound, And rail on Pyrrhus that hath done him wrong, And with my tears quench Troy that burns so long, And with my knife scratch out the angry eyes Of all the Greeks that are thine enemies. “Show me the strumpet that began this stir, That with my nails her beauty I may tear. Thy heat of lust, fond Paris, did incur This load of wrath that burning Troy doth bear; Thy eye kindled the fire that burneth here, And here in Troy, for trespass of thine eye, The sire, the son, the dame, and daughter die. “Why should the private pleasure of some one Become the public plague of many moe? Let sin, alone committed, light alone Upon his head that hath transgressed so; Let guiltless souls be freed from guilty woe. For one’s offence why should so many fall, To plague a private sin in general? “Lo, here weeps Hecuba, here Priam dies, Here manly Hector faints, here Troilus swounds; Here friend by friend in bloody channel lies, And friend to friend gives unadvised wounds, And one man’s lust these many lives confounds. Had doting Priam checked his son’s desire, Troy had been bright with fame and not with fire.” Here feelingly she weeps Troy’s painted woes, For sorrow, like a heavy-hanging bell, Once set on ringing, with his own weight goes; Then little strength rings out the doleful knell. So Lucrece set a-work, sad tales doth tell To pencilled pensiveness and coloured sorrow; She lends them words, and she their looks doth borrow. She throws her eyes about the painting round, And who she finds forlorn she doth lament. At last she sees a wretched image bound, That piteous looks to Phrygian shepherds lent. His face, though full of cares, yet showed content; Onward to Troy with the blunt swains he goes, So mild, that patience seemed to scorn his woes. In him the painter laboured with his skill To hide deceit and give the harmless show An humble gait, calm looks, eyes wailing still, A brow unbent that seemed to welcome woe, Cheeks neither red nor pale, but mingled so That blushing red no guilty instance gave, Nor ashy pale the fear that false hearts have. But, like a constant and confirmed devil, He entertained a show so seeming just, And therein so ensconced his secret evil, That jealousy itself could not mistrust False-creeping craft and perjury should thrust Into so bright a day such black-faced storms, Or blot with hell-born sin such saint-like forms. The well-skilled workman this mild image drew For perjured Sinon, whose enchanting story The credulous Old Priam after slew; Whose words like wildfire burnt the shining glory Of rich-built Ilion, that the skies were sorry, And little stars shot from their fixed places, When their glass fell wherein they viewed their faces. This picture she advisedly perused, And chid the painter for his wondrous skill, Saying some shape in Sinon’s was abused; So fair a form lodged not a mind so ill. And still on him she gazed, and gazing still, Such signs of truth in his plain face she spied, That she concludes the picture was belied. “It cannot be,” quoth she, “that so much guile”— She would have said “can lurk in such a look.” But Tarquin’s shape came in her mind the while, And from her tongue “can lurk” from “cannot” took. “It cannot be” she in that sense forsook, And turned it thus: “It cannot be, I find, But such a face should bear a wicked mind. “For even as subtle Sinon here is painted, So sober-sad, so weary, and so mild, As if with grief or travail he had fainted, To me came Tarquin armed too, beguiled With outward honesty, but yet defiled With inward vice. As Priam him did cherish, So did I Tarquin; so my Troy did perish. “Look, look, how listening Priam wets his eyes, To see those borrowed tears that Sinon sheds! Priam, why art thou old and yet not wise? For every tear he falls a Trojan bleeds. His eye drops fire, no water thence proceeds; Those round clear pearls of his that move thy pity, Are balls of quenchless fire to burn thy city. “Such devils steal effects from lightless hell, For Sinon in his fire doth quake with cold, And in that cold hot-burning fire doth dwell. These contraries such unity do hold, Only to flatter fools and make them bold; So Priam’s trust false Sinon’s tears doth flatter, That he finds means to burn his Troy with water.” Here, all enraged, such passion her assails, That patience is quite beaten from her breast. She tears the senseless Sinon with her nails, Comparing him to that unhappy guest Whose deed hath made herself herself detest. At last she smilingly with this gives o’er; “Fool, fool!” quoth she, “his wounds will not be sore.” Thus ebbs and flows the current of her sorrow, And time doth weary time with her complaining. She looks for night, and then she longs for morrow, And both she thinks too long with her remaining. Short time seems long in sorrow’s sharp sustaining. Though woe be heavy, yet it seldom sleeps, And they that watch see time how slow it creeps. Which all this time hath overslipped her thought, That she with painted images hath spent, Being from the feeling of her own grief brought By deep surmise of others’ detriment, Losing her woes in shows of discontent. It easeth some, though none it ever cured, To think their dolour others have endured. But now the mindful messenger, come back, Brings home his lord and other company; Who finds his Lucrece clad in mourning black, And round about her tear-distained eye Blue circles streamed, like rainbows in the sky. These water-galls in her dim element Foretell new storms to those already spent. Which when her sad-beholding husband saw, Amazedly in her sad face he stares. Her eyes, though sod in tears, looked red and raw, Her lively colour killed with deadly cares. He hath no power to ask her how she fares; Both stood like old acquaintance in a trance, Met far from home, wond’ring each other’s chance. At last he takes her by the bloodless hand, And thus begins: “What uncouth ill event Hath thee befall’n, that thou dost trembling stand? Sweet love, what spite hath thy fair colour spent? Why art thou thus attired in discontent? Unmask, dear dear, this moody heaviness, And tell thy grief, that we may give redress.” Three times with sighs she gives her sorrow fire, Ere once she can discharge one word of woe. At length addressed to answer his desire, She modestly prepares to let them know Her honour is ta’en prisoner by the foe; While Collatine and his consorted lords With sad attention long to hear her words. And now this pale swan in her wat’ry nest Begins the sad dirge of her certain ending: “Few words,” quoth she, “shall fit the trespass best, Where no excuse can give the fault amending. In me more woes than words are now depending; And my laments would be drawn out too long, To tell them all with one poor tired tongue. “Then be this all the task it hath to say: Dear husband, in the interest of thy bed A stranger came, and on that pillow lay Where thou wast wont to rest thy weary head; And what wrong else may be imagined By foul enforcement might be done to me, From that, alas, thy Lucrece is not free. “For in the dreadful dead of dark midnight, With shining falchion in my chamber came A creeping creature with a flaming light, And softly cried ‘Awake, thou Roman dame, And entertain my love; else lasting shame On thee and thine this night I will inflict, If thou my love’s desire do contradict. “‘For some hard-favoured groom of thine,’ quoth he, ‘Unless thou yoke thy liking to my will, I’ll murder straight, and then I’ll slaughter thee And swear I found you where you did fulfil The loathsome act of lust, and so did kill The lechers in their deed. This act will be My fame and thy perpetual infamy.’ “With this, I did begin to start and cry, And then against my heart he sets his sword, Swearing, unless I took all patiently, I should not live to speak another word; So should my shame still rest upon record, And never be forgot in mighty Rome The adulterate death of Lucrece and her groom. “Mine enemy was strong, my poor self weak, And far the weaker with so strong a fear. My bloody judge forbade my tongue to speak; No rightful plea might plead for justice there. His scarlet lust came evidence to swear That my poor beauty had purloined his eyes; And when the judge is robbed, the prisoner dies. “O, teach me how to make mine own excuse, Or at the least, this refuge let me find: Though my gross blood be stained with this abuse, Immaculate and spotless is my mind; That was not forced; that never was inclined To accessary yieldings, but still pure Doth in her poisoned closet yet endure.” Lo, here the hopeless merchant of this loss, With head declined and voice dammed up with woe, With sad set eyes and wretched arms across, From lips new-waxen pale begins to blow The grief away that stops his answer so. But wretched as he is, he strives in vain; What he breathes out his breath drinks up again. As through an arch the violent roaring tide Outruns the eye that doth behold his haste, Yet in the eddy boundeth in his pride Back to the strait that forced him on so fast, In rage sent out, recalled in rage, being past: Even so his sighs, his sorrows make a saw, To push grief on, and back the same grief draw. Which speechless woe of his poor she attendeth, And his untimely frenzy thus awaketh: “Dear lord, thy sorrow to my sorrow lendeth Another power; no flood by raining slaketh. My woe too sensible thy passion maketh More feeling-painful. Let it then suffice To drown one woe, one pair of weeping eyes. “And for my sake, when I might charm thee so, For she that was thy Lucrece, now attend me: Be suddenly revenged on my foe, Thine, mine, his own. Suppose thou dost defend me From what is past. The help that thou shalt lend me Comes all too late, yet let the traitor die, For sparing justice feeds iniquity. “But ere I name him, you fair lords,” quoth she, Speaking to those that came with Collatine, “Shall plight your honourable faiths to me, With swift pursuit to venge this wrong of mine; For ’tis a meritorious fair design To chase injustice with revengeful arms. Knights, by their oaths, should right poor ladies’ harms.” At this request, with noble disposition Each present lord began to promise aid, As bound in knighthood to her imposition, Longing to hear the hateful foe bewrayed. But she, that yet her sad task hath not said, The protestation stops. “O, speak,” quoth she, “How may this forced stain be wiped from me? “What is the quality of my offence, Being constrained with dreadful circumstance? May my pure mind with the foul act dispense, My low-declined honour to advance? May any terms acquit me from this chance? The poisoned fountain clears itself again, And why not I from this compelled stain? With this, they all at once began to say, Her body’s stain her mind untainted clears, While with a joyless smile she turns away The face, that map which deep impression bears Of hard misfortune, carved in it with tears. “No, no,” quoth she, “no dame, hereafter living By my excuse shall claim excuse’s giving.” Here with a sigh, as if her heart would break, She throws forth Tarquin’s name: “He, he,” she says, But more than “he” her poor tongue could not speak; Till after many accents and delays, Untimely breathings, sick and short assays, She utters this: “He, he, fair lords, ’tis he, That guides this hand to give this wound to me.” Even here she sheathed in her harmless breast A harmful knife, that thence her soul unsheathed. That blow did bail it from the deep unrest Of that polluted prison where it breathed. Her contrite sighs unto the clouds bequeathed Her winged sprite, and through her wounds doth fly Life’s lasting date from cancelled destiny. Stone-still, astonished with this deadly deed, Stood Collatine and all his lordly crew, Till Lucrece’ father that beholds her bleed, Himself on her self-slaughtered body threw, And from the purple fountain Brutus drew The murd’rous knife, and, as it left the place, Her blood, in poor revenge, held it in chase; And bubbling from her breast, it doth divide In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood Circles her body in on every side, Who, like a late-sacked island, vastly stood Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood. Some of her blood still pure and red remained, And some looked black, and that false Tarquin stained. About the mourning and congealed face Of that black blood a wat’ry rigol goes, Which seems to weep upon the tainted place; And ever since, as pitying Lucrece’ woes, Corrupted blood some watery token shows, And blood untainted still doth red abide, Blushing at that which is so putrified. “Daughter, dear daughter,” old Lucretius cries, “That life was mine which thou hast here deprived. If in the child the father’s image lies, Where shall I live now Lucrece is unlived? Thou wast not to this end from me derived. If children predecease progenitors, We are their offspring, and they none of ours. “Poor broken glass, I often did behold In thy sweet semblance my old age new born; But now that fair fresh mirror, dim and old, Shows me a bare-boned death by time outworn. O, from thy cheeks my image thou hast torn, And shivered all the beauty of my glass, That I no more can see what once I was! “O time, cease thou thy course and last no longer, If they surcease to be that should survive! Shall rotten death make conquest of the stronger, And leave the falt’ring feeble souls alive? The old bees die, the young possess their hive. Then live, sweet Lucrece, live again and see Thy father die, and not thy father thee!” By this starts Collatine as from a dream, And bids Lucretius give his sorrow place; And then in key-cold Lucrece’ bleeding stream He falls, and bathes the pale fear in his face, And counterfeits to die with her a space; Till manly shame bids him possess his breath, And live to be revenged on her death. The deep vexation of his inward soul Hath served a dumb arrest upon his tongue; Who, mad that sorrow should his use control Or keep him from heart-easing words so long, Begins to talk; but through his lips do throng Weak words, so thick come in his poor heart’s aid That no man could distinguish what he said. Yet sometime “Tarquin” was pronounced plain, But through his teeth, as if the name he tore. This windy tempest, till it blow up rain, Held back his sorrow’s tide, to make it more. At last it rains, and busy winds give o’er. Then son and father weep with equal strife Who should weep most, for daughter or for wife. The one doth call her his, the other his, Yet neither may possess the claim they lay, The father says “She’s mine.” “O, mine she is,” Replies her husband. “Do not take away My sorrow’s interest; let no mourner say He weeps for her, for she was only mine, And only must be wailed by Collatine.” “O,” quoth Lucretius, “I did give that life Which she too early and too late hath spilled.” “Woe, woe,” quoth Collatine, “she was my wife, I owed her, and ’tis mine that she hath killed.” “My daughter” and “my wife” with clamours filled The dispersed air, who, holding Lucrece’ life, Answered their cries, “my daughter” and “my wife”. Brutus, who plucked the knife from Lucrece’ side, Seeing such emulation in their woe, Began to clothe his wit in state and pride, Burying in Lucrece’ wound his folly’s show. He with the Romans was esteemed so As silly jeering idiots are with kings, For sportive words and utt’ring foolish things. But now he throws that shallow habit by, Wherein deep policy did him disguise, And armed his long-hid wits advisedly, To check the tears in Collatinus’ eyes. “Thou wronged lord of Rome,” quoth he, “arise! Let my unsounded self, supposed a fool, Now set thy long-experienced wit to school. “Why, Collatine, is woe the cure for woe? Do wounds help wounds, or grief help grievous deeds? Is it revenge to give thyself a blow For his foul act by whom thy fair wife bleeds? Such childish humour from weak minds proceeds. Thy wretched wife mistook the matter so, To slay herself, that should have slain her foe. “Courageous Roman, do not steep thy heart In such relenting dew of lamentations, But kneel with me, and help to bear thy part To rouse our Roman gods with invocations, That they will suffer these abominations,— Since Rome herself in them doth stand disgraced,— By our strong arms from forth her fair streets chased. “Now, by the Capitol that we adore, And by this chaste blood so unjustly stained, By heaven’s fair sun that breeds the fat earth’s store, By all our country rights in Rome maintained, And by chaste Lucrece’ soul that late complained Her wrongs to us, and by this bloody knife, We will revenge the death of this true wife.” This said, he struck his hand upon his breast, And kissed the fatal knife, to end his vow; And to his protestation urged the rest, Who, wond’ring at him, did his words allow. Then jointly to the ground their knees they bow, And that deep vow which Brutus made before, He doth again repeat, and that they swore. When they had sworn to this advised doom, They did conclude to bear dead Lucrece thence, To show her bleeding body thorough Rome, And so to publish Tarquin’s foul offence; Which being done with speedy diligence, The Romans plausibly did give consent To Tarquin’s everlasting banishment. VENUS AND ADONIS _Vilia miretur vulgus; mihi flavus Apollo Pocula Castalia plena ministret aqua._ TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE HENRY WRIOTHESLEY, EARL OF SOUTHAMPTON, and Baron of Titchfield. Right Honourable, I know not how I shall offend in dedicating my unpolished lines to your lordship, nor how the world will censure me for choosing so strong a prop to support so weak a burthen: only, if your honour seem but pleased, I account myself highly praised, and vow to take advantage of all idle hours, till I have honoured you with some graver labour. But if the first heir of my invention prove deformed, I shall be sorry it had so noble a godfather, and never after ear so barren a land, for fear it yield me still so bad a harvest. I leave it to your honourable survey, and your honour to your heart’s content; which I wish may always answer your own wish and the world’s hopeful expectation. Your honour’s in all duty, WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. VENUS AND ADONIS Even as the sun with purple-colour’d face Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn, Rose-cheek’d Adonis tried him to the chase; Hunting he lov’d, but love he laugh’d to scorn; 4 Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him, And like a bold-fac’d suitor ’gins to woo him. “Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began, “The field’s chief flower, sweet above compare, 8 Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man, More white and red than doves or roses are: Nature that made thee, with herself at strife, Saith that the world hath ending with thy life. 12 “Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed, And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow; If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know: 16 Here come and sit, where never serpent hisses, And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses. “And yet not cloy thy lips with loath’d satiety, But rather famish them amid their plenty, 20 Making them red, and pale, with fresh variety: Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty: A summer’s day will seem an hour but short, Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.” 24 With this she seizeth on his sweating palm, The precedent of pith and livelihood, And trembling in her passion, calls it balm, Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good: 28 Being so enrag’d, desire doth lend her force Courageously to pluck him from his horse. Over one arm the lusty courser’s rein, Under her other was the tender boy, 32 Who blush’d and pouted in a dull disdain, With leaden appetite, unapt to toy; She red and hot as coals of glowing fire, He red for shame, but frosty in desire. 36 The studded bridle on a ragged bough Nimbly she fastens;—O! how quick is love!— The steed is stalled up, and even now To tie the rider she begins to prove: 40 Backward she push’d him, as she would be thrust, And govern’d him in strength, though not in lust. So soon was she along, as he was down, Each leaning on their elbows and their hips: 44 Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown, And ’gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips, And kissing speaks, with lustful language broken, “If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open.” 48 He burns with bashful shame, she with her tears Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks; Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs To fan and blow them dry again she seeks. 52 He saith she is immodest, blames her miss; What follows more, she murders with a kiss. Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast, Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh and bone, 56 Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste, Till either gorge be stuff’d or prey be gone: Even so she kiss’d his brow, his cheek, his chin, And where she ends she doth anew begin. 60 Forc’d to content, but never to obey, Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face. She feedeth on the steam, as on a prey, And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace, 64 Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers So they were dew’d with such distilling showers. Look how a bird lies tangled in a net, So fasten’d in her arms Adonis lies; 68 Pure shame and aw’d resistance made him fret, Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes: Rain added to a river that is rank Perforce will force it overflow the bank. 72 Still she entreats, and prettily entreats, For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale. Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets, ’Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy pale; 76 Being red she loves him best, and being white, Her best is better’d with a more delight. Look how he can, she cannot choose but love; And by her fair immortal hand she swears, 80 From his soft bosom never to remove, Till he take truce with her contending tears, Which long have rain’d, making her cheeks all wet; And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt. Upon this promise did he raise his chin, 85 Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave, Who, being look’d on, ducks as quickly in; So offers he to give what she did crave, 88 But when her lips were ready for his pay, He winks, and turns his lips another way. Never did passenger in summer’s heat More thirst for drink than she for this good turn. 92 Her help she sees, but help she cannot get; She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn: “O! pity,” ’gan she cry, “flint-hearted boy, ’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy? 96 “I have been woo’d as I entreat thee now, Even by the stern and direful god of war, Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow, Who conquers where he comes in every jar; 100 Yet hath he been my captive and my slave, And begg’d for that which thou unask’d shalt have. “Over my altars hath he hung his lance, His batter’d shield, his uncontrolled crest, 104 And for my sake hath learn’d to sport and dance, To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest; Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red Making my arms his field, his tent my bed. 108 “Thus he that overrul’d I oversway’d, Leading him prisoner in a red rose chain: Strong-temper’d steel his stronger strength obey’d, Yet was he servile to my coy disdain. 112 Oh be not proud, nor brag not of thy might, For mast’ring her that foil’d the god of fight. “Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine, Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red, 116 The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine: What see’st thou in the ground? hold up thy head, Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies; Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes? 120 “Art thou asham’d to kiss? then wink again, And I will wink; so shall the day seem night. Love keeps his revels where there are but twain; Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight, 124 These blue-vein’d violets whereon we lean Never can blab, nor know not what we mean. “The tender spring upon thy tempting lip 127 Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted, Make use of time, let not advantage slip; Beauty within itself should not be wasted, Fair flowers that are not gather’d in their prime Rot, and consume themselves in little time. 132 “Were I hard-favour’d, foul, or wrinkled old, Ill-nurtur’d, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice, O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold, Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice, 136 Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee; But having no defects, why dost abhor me? “Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow, 139 Mine eyes are grey and bright, and quick in turning; My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow, My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning, My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt, Would in thy palm dissolve, or seem to melt. 144 “Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear, Or like a fairy, trip upon the green, Or like a nymph, with long dishevell’d hair, Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen. 148 Love is a spirit all compact of fire, Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire. “Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie: 151 These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me; Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky, From morn till night, even where I list to sport me. Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be That thou shouldst think it heavy unto thee? 156 “Is thine own heart to thine own face affected? Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left? Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected, Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft. 160 Narcissus so himself himself forsook, And died to kiss his shadow in the brook. “Torches are made to light, jewels to wear, Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use, 164 Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear; Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse, Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty; Thou wast begot; to get it is thy duty. 168 “Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed, Unless the earth with thy increase be fed? By law of nature thou art bound to breed, That thine may live when thou thyself art dead; 172 And so in spite of death thou dost survive, In that thy likeness still is left alive.” By this the love-sick queen began to sweat, For where they lay the shadow had forsook them, 176 And Titan, tired in the midday heat, With burning eye did hotly overlook them, Wishing Adonis had his team to guide, So he were like him and by Venus’ side. 180 And now Adonis with a lazy spright, And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye, His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight, Like misty vapours when they blot the sky, 184 Souring his cheeks, cries, “Fie, no more of love: The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.” “Ay me,” quoth Venus, “young, and so unkind! What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone! 188 I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind Shall cool the heat of this descending sun: I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs; If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears. 192 “The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm, And lo I lie between that sun and thee: The heat I have from thence doth little harm, Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me; 196 And were I not immortal, life were done, Between this heavenly and earthly sun. “Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel? Nay more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth: 200 Art thou a woman’s son and canst not feel What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth? O had thy mother borne so hard a mind, She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind. 204 “What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this? Or what great danger dwells upon my suit? What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss? Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute: 208 Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again, And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain. “Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone, Well-painted idol, image dull and dead, 212 Statue contenting but the eye alone, Thing like a man, but of no woman bred: Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion, For men will kiss even by their own direction.” 216 This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue, And swelling passion doth provoke a pause; Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong; Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause. 220 And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak, And now her sobs do her intendments break. Sometimes she shakes her head, and then his hand, Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground; 224 Sometimes her arms infold him like a band: She would, he will not in her arms be bound; And when from thence he struggles to be gone, She locks her lily fingers one in one. 228 “Fondling,” she saith, “since I have hemm’d thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer; Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: 232 Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie. “Within this limit is relief enough, Sweet bottom grass and high delightful plain, 236 Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough, To shelter thee from tempest and from rain: Then be my deer, since I am such a park, 239 No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.” At this Adonis smiles as in disdain, That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple; Love made those hollows, if himself were slain, He might be buried in a tomb so simple; 244 Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie, Why there love liv’d, and there he could not die. These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits, Open’d their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking. 248 Being mad before, how doth she now for wits? Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking? Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn, To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn! 252 Now which way shall she turn? what shall she say? Her words are done, her woes the more increasing; The time is spent, her object will away, And from her twining arms doth urge releasing: 256 “Pity,” she cries; “some favour, some remorse!” Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse. But lo from forth a copse that neighbours by, A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud, 260 Adonis’ tramping courser doth espy, And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud: The strong-neck’d steed, being tied unto a tree, Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he. 264 Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds, And now his woven girths he breaks asunder; The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds, Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder; The iron bit he crusheth ’tween his teeth, 269 Controlling what he was controlled with. His ears up-prick’d; his braided hanging mane Upon his compass’d crest now stand on end; 272 His nostrils drink the air, and forth again, As from a furnace, vapours doth he send: His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire, Shows his hot courage and his high desire. 276 Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps, With gentle majesty and modest pride; Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps, As who should say, “Lo thus my strength is tried; And this I do to captivate the eye 281 Of the fair breeder that is standing by.” What recketh he his rider’s angry stir, His flattering “Holla”, or his “Stand, I say”? 284 What cares he now for curb or pricking spur? For rich caparisons or trappings gay? He sees his love, and nothing else he sees, Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees. 288 Look when a painter would surpass the life, In limning out a well-proportion’d steed, His art with nature’s workmanship at strife, As if the dead the living should exceed: 292 So did this horse excel a common one, In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone. Round-hoof’d, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide: Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back. 300 Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares; Anon he starts at stirring of a feather: To bid the wind a base he now prepares, And where he run or fly they know not whether; 304 For through his mane and tail the high wind sings, Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather’d wings. He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her; She answers him as if she knew his mind, 308 Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her, She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind, Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels, Beating his kind embracements with her heels. 312 Then like a melancholy malcontent, He vails his tail that like a falling plume, Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent: He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume. 316 His love, perceiving how he was enrag’d, Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag’d. His testy master goeth about to take him, When lo the unback’d breeder, full of fear, 320 Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him, With her the horse, and left Adonis there: As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them, Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them. 324 All swoln with chafing, down Adonis sits, Banning his boisterous and unruly beast; And now the happy season once more fits That love-sick love by pleading may be blest; 328 For lovers say, the heart hath treble wrong, When it is barr’d the aidance of the tongue. An oven that is stopp’d, or river stay’d, Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage: 332 So of concealed sorrow may be said, Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage; But when the heart’s attorney once is mute, The client breaks, as desperate in his suit. 336 He sees her coming, and begins to glow, Even as a dying coal revives with wind, And with his bonnet hides his angry brow, Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind, 340 Taking no notice that she is so nigh, For all askance he holds her in his eye. O what a sight it was, wistly to view How she came stealing to the wayward boy, 344 To note the fighting conflict of her hue, How white and red each other did destroy: But now her cheek was pale, and by and by It flash’d forth fire, as lightning from the sky. 348 Now was she just before him as he sat, And like a lowly lover down she kneels; With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat, Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels: 352 His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print, As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint. Oh what a war of looks was then between them, Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing, 356 His eyes saw her eyes, as they had not seen them, Her eyes woo’d still, his eyes disdain’d the wooing: And all this dumb play had his acts made plain With tears, which, chorus-like, her eyes did rain. Full gently now she takes him by the hand, 361 A lily prison’d in a gaol of snow, Or ivory in an alabaster band, So white a friend engirts so white a foe: 364 This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling, Show’d like two silver doves that sit a-billing. Once more the engine of her thoughts began: “O fairest mover on this mortal round, 368 Would thou wert as I am, and I a man, My heart all whole as thine, thy heart my wound, For one sweet look thy help I would assure thee, Though nothing but my body’s bane would cure thee.” “Give me my hand,” saith he, “why dost thou feel it?” “Give me my heart,” saith she, “and thou shalt have it. O give it me lest thy hard heart do steel it, And being steel’d, soft sighs can never grave it. 376 Then love’s deep groans I never shall regard, Because Adonis’ heart hath made mine hard.” “For shame,” he cries, “let go, and let me go, My day’s delight is past, my horse is gone, 380 And ’tis your fault I am bereft him so, I pray you hence, and leave me here alone, For all my mind, my thought, my busy care, Is how to get my palfrey from the mare.” 384 Thus she replies: “Thy palfrey as he should, Welcomes the warm approach of sweet desire, Affection is a coal that must be cool’d; Else, suffer’d, it will set the heart on fire, 388 The sea hath bounds, but deep desire hath none; Therefore no marvel though thy horse be gone. “How like a jade he stood tied to the tree, Servilely master’d with a leathern rein! 392 But when he saw his love, his youth’s fair fee, He held such petty bondage in disdain; Throwing the base thong from his bending crest, Enfranchising his mouth, his back, his breast. 396 “Who sees his true-love in her naked bed, Teaching the sheets a whiter hue than white, But when his glutton eye so full hath fed, His other agents aim at like delight? 400 Who is so faint that dare not be so bold To touch the fire, the weather being cold? “Let me excuse thy courser, gentle boy, And learn of him, I heartily beseech thee, 404 To take advantage on presented joy, Though I were dumb, yet his proceedings teach thee. O learn to love, the lesson is but plain, And once made perfect, never lost again.” 408 “I know not love,” quoth he, “nor will not know it, Unless it be a boar, and then I chase it; ’Tis much to borrow, and I will not owe it; My love to love is love but to disgrace it; 412 For I have heard, it is a life in death, That laughs and weeps, and all but with a breath. “Who wears a garment shapeless and unfinish’d? Who plucks the bud before one leaf put forth? 416 If springing things be any jot diminish’d, They wither in their prime, prove nothing worth; The colt that’s back’d and burden’d being young, Loseth his pride, and never waxeth strong. 420 “You hurt my hand with wringing. Let us part, And leave this idle theme, this bootless chat: Remove your siege from my unyielding heart, To love’s alarms it will not ope the gate: 424 Dismiss your vows, your feigned tears, your flatt’ry; For where a heart is hard they make no batt’ry.” “What! canst thou talk?” quoth she, “hast thou a tongue? O would thou hadst not, or I had no hearing; 428 Thy mermaid’s voice hath done me double wrong; I had my load before, now press’d with bearing: Melodious discord, heavenly tune, harsh-sounding, Ear’s deep sweet music, and heart’s deep sore wounding. “Had I no eyes but ears, my ears would love 433 That inward beauty and invisible; Or were I deaf, thy outward parts would move Each part in me that were but sensible: 436 Though neither eyes nor ears, to hear nor see, Yet should I be in love by touching thee. “Say that the sense of feeling were bereft me, And that I could not see, nor hear, nor touch, 440 And nothing but the very smell were left me, Yet would my love to thee be still as much; For from the stillitory of thy face excelling Comes breath perfum’d, that breedeth love by smelling. “But oh what banquet wert thou to the taste, 445 Being nurse and feeder of the other four; Would they not wish the feast might ever last, And bid suspicion double-lock the door, Lest jealousy, that sour unwelcome guest, Should by his stealing in disturb the feast?” 448 Once more the ruby-colour’d portal open’d, Which to his speech did honey passage yield, 452 Like a red morn that ever yet betoken’d Wrack to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds. 456 This ill presage advisedly she marketh: Even as the wind is hush’d before it raineth, Or as the wolf doth grin before he barketh, Or as the berry breaks before it staineth, 460 Or like the deadly bullet of a gun, His meaning struck her ere his words begun. And at his look she flatly falleth down For looks kill love, and love by looks reviveth; 464 A smile recures the wounding of a frown; But blessed bankrout, that by love so thriveth! The silly boy, believing she is dead, Claps her pale cheek, till clapping makes it red. 468 And all amaz’d brake off his late intent, For sharply he did think to reprehend her, Which cunning love did wittily prevent: Fair fall the wit that can so well defend her! 472 For on the grass she lies as she were slain, Till his breath breatheth life in her again. He wrings her nose, he strikes her on the cheeks, He bends her fingers, holds her pulses hard, 476 He chafes her lips; a thousand ways he seeks To mend the hurt that his unkindness marr’d: He kisses her; and she, by her good will, Will never rise, so he will kiss her still. 480 The night of sorrow now is turn’d to day: Her two blue windows faintly she up-heaveth, Like the fair sun when in his fresh array He cheers the morn, and all the world relieveth: 484 And as the bright sun glorifies the sky, So is her face illumin’d with her eye. Whose beams upon his hairless face are fix’d, As if from thence they borrow’d all their shine. 488 Were never four such lamps together mix’d, Had not his clouded with his brow’s repine; But hers, which through the crystal tears gave light Shone like the moon in water seen by night. 492 “O where am I?” quoth she, “in earth or heaven? Or in the ocean drench’d, or in the fire? What hour is this? or morn or weary even? Do I delight to die, or life desire? 496 But now I liv’d, and life was death’s annoy; But now I died, and death was lively joy. “O thou didst kill me; kill me once again: Thy eyes’ shrewd tutor, that hard heart of thine, 500 Hath taught them scornful tricks, and such disdain, That they have murder’d this poor heart of mine; And these mine eyes, true leaders to their queen, But for thy piteous lips no more had seen. 504 “Long may they kiss each other for this cure! Oh never let their crimson liveries wear, And as they last, their verdure still endure, To drive infection from the dangerous year: 508 That the star-gazers, having writ on death, May say, the plague is banish’d by thy breath. “Pure lips, sweet seals in my soft lips imprinted, What bargains may I make, still to be sealing? 512 To sell myself I can be well contented, So thou wilt buy, and pay, and use good dealing; Which purchase if thou make, for fear of slips, Set thy seal manual on my wax-red lips. 516 “A thousand kisses buys my heart from me; And pay them at thy leisure, one by one, What is ten hundred touches unto thee? Are they not quickly told and quickly gone? 520 Say, for non-payment that the debt should double, Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?” “Fair queen,” quoth he, “if any love you owe me, Measure my strangeness with my unripe years: 524 Before I know myself, seek not to know me; No fisher but the ungrown fry forbears: The mellow plum doth fall, the green sticks fast, Or being early pluck’d, is sour to taste. 528 “Look the world’s comforter, with weary gait His day’s hot task hath ended in the west; The owl, night’s herald, shrieks, ’tis very late; The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest, 532 And coal-black clouds that shadow heaven’s light Do summon us to part, and bid good night. “Now let me say good night, and so say you; If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.” 536 “Good night,” quoth she; and ere he says adieu, The honey fee of parting tender’d is: Her arms do lend his neck a sweet embrace; Incorporate then they seem, face grows to face. 540 Till breathless he disjoin’d, and backward drew The heavenly moisture, that sweet coral mouth, Whose precious taste her thirsty lips well knew, Whereon they surfeit, yet complain on drouth, 544 He with her plenty press’d, she faint with dearth, Their lips together glued, fall to the earth. Now quick desire hath caught the yielding prey, And glutton-like she feeds, yet never filleth; 548 Her lips are conquerors, his lips obey, Paying what ransom the insulter willeth; Whose vulture thought doth pitch the price so high, That she will draw his lips’ rich treasure dry. 552 And having felt the sweetness of the spoil, With blindfold fury she begins to forage; Her face doth reek and smoke, her blood doth boil, And careless lust stirs up a desperate courage, 556 Planting oblivion, beating reason back, Forgetting shame’s pure blush and honour’s wrack. Hot, faint, and weary, with her hard embracing, Like a wild bird being tam’d with too much handling, Or as the fleet-foot roe that’s tir’d with chasing, 561 Or like the froward infant still’d with dandling: He now obeys, and now no more resisteth, While she takes all she can, not all she listeth. 564 What wax so frozen but dissolves with temp’ring, And yields at last to every light impression? Things out of hope are compass’d oft with vent’ring, Chiefly in love, whose leave exceeds commission: 568 Affection faints not like a pale-fac’d coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward. When he did frown, O had she then gave over, Such nectar from his lips she had not suck’d. 572 Foul words and frowns must not repel a lover; What though the rose have prickles, yet ’tis pluck’d. Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, Yet love breaks through, and picks them all at last. For pity now she can no more detain him; 577 The poor fool prays her that he may depart: She is resolv’d no longer to restrain him, Bids him farewell, and look well to her heart, 580 The which by Cupid’s bow she doth protest, He carries thence encaged in his breast. “Sweet boy,” she says, “this night I’ll waste in sorrow, For my sick heart commands mine eyes to watch. 584 Tell me, love’s master, shall we meet tomorrow Say, shall we? shall we? wilt thou make the match?” He tells her no, tomorrow he intends To hunt the boar with certain of his friends. 588 “The boar!” quoth she; whereat a sudden pale, Like lawn being spread upon the blushing rose, Usurps her cheek, she trembles at his tale, And on his neck her yoking arms she throws. 592 She sinketh down, still hanging by his neck, He on her belly falls, she on her back. Now is she in the very lists of love, Her champion mounted for the hot encounter: 596 All is imaginary she doth prove, He will not manage her, although he mount her; That worse than Tantalus’ is her annoy, To clip Elysium and to lack her joy. 600 Even as poor birds, deceiv’d with painted grapes, Do surfeit by the eye and pine the maw: Even so she languisheth in her mishaps, As those poor birds that helpless berries saw. 604 The warm effects which she in him finds missing, She seeks to kindle with continual kissing. But all in vain, good queen, it will not be, She hath assay’d as much as may be prov’d; 608 Her pleading hath deserv’d a greater fee; She’s love, she loves, and yet she is not lov’d. “Fie, fie,” he says, “you crush me; let me go; You have no reason to withhold me so.” 612 “Thou hadst been gone,” quoth she, “sweet boy, ere this, But that thou told’st me thou wouldst hunt the boar. Oh be advis’d; thou know’st not what it is, With javelin’s point a churlish swine to gore, 616 Whose tushes never sheath’d he whetteth still, Like to a mortal butcher, bent to kill. “On his bow-back he hath a battle set Of bristly pikes, that ever threat his foes; 620 His eyes like glow-worms shine when he doth fret; His snout digs sepulchres where’er he goes; Being mov’d, he strikes whate’er is in his way, And whom he strikes his crooked tushes slay. 624 “His brawny sides, with hairy bristles armed, Are better proof than thy spear’s point can enter; His short thick neck cannot be easily harmed; Being ireful, on the lion he will venture: 628 The thorny brambles and embracing bushes, As fearful of him, part, through whom he rushes. “Alas! he naught esteems that face of thine, To which love’s eyes pay tributary gazes; 632 Nor thy soft hands, sweet lips, and crystal eyne, Whose full perfection all the world amazes; But having thee at vantage, wondrous dread! Would root these beauties as he roots the mead. “Oh let him keep his loathsome cabin still, 637 Beauty hath naught to do with such foul fiends: Come not within his danger by thy will; They that thrive well, take counsel of their friends. When thou didst name the boar, not to dissemble, I fear’d thy fortune, and my joints did tremble. “Didst thou not mark my face, was it not white? Saw’st thou not signs of fear lurk in mine eye? 644 Grew I not faint, and fell I not downright? Within my bosom, whereon thou dost lie, My boding heart pants, beats, and takes no rest, But like an earthquake, shakes thee on my breast. “For where love reigns, disturbing jealousy 649 Doth call himself affection’s sentinel; Gives false alarms, suggesteth mutiny, And in a peaceful hour doth cry “Kill, kill!” 652 Distemp’ring gentle love in his desire, As air and water do abate the fire. “This sour informer, this bate-breeding spy, This canker that eats up love’s tender spring, 656 This carry-tale, dissentious jealousy, That sometime true news, sometime false doth bring, Knocks at my heart, and whispers in mine ear, That if I love thee, I thy death should fear. 660 “And more than so, presenteth to mine eye The picture of an angry chafing boar, Under whose sharp fangs on his back doth lie An image like thyself, all stain’d with gore; 664 Whose blood upon the fresh flowers being shed, Doth make them droop with grief and hang the head. “What should I do, seeing thee so indeed, That tremble at th’imagination? 668 The thought of it doth make my faint heart bleed, And fear doth teach it divination: I prophesy thy death, my living sorrow, If thou encounter with the boar tomorrow. 672 “But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul’d by me; Uncouple at the timorous flying hare, Or at the fox which lives by subtilty, Or at the roe which no encounter dare: 676 Pursue these fearful creatures o’er the downs, And on thy well-breath’d horse keep with thy hounds. “And when thou hast on foot the purblind hare, Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles 680 How he outruns the wind, and with what care He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles: The many musits through the which he goes Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes. 684 “Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep, To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell, And sometime where earth-delving conies keep, To stop the loud pursuers in their yell, 688 And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer; Danger deviseth shifts, wit waits on fear. “For there his smell with others being mingled, 691 The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt, Ceasing their clamorous cry, till they have singled With much ado the cold fault cleanly out; Then do they spend their mouths: echo replies, As if another chase were in the skies. 696 “By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill, Stands on his hinder legs with list’ning ear, To hearken if his foes pursue him still. Anon their loud alarums he doth hear; 700 And now his grief may be compared well To one sore sick that hears the passing bell. “Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch Turn, and return, indenting with the way, 704 Each envious briar his weary legs do scratch, Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay: For misery is trodden on by many, And being low never reliev’d by any. 708 “Lie quietly, and hear a little more; Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise: To make thee hate the hunting of the boar, Unlike myself thou hear’st me moralize, 712 Applying this to that, and so to so, For love can comment upon every woe. “Where did I leave?” “No matter where,” quoth he “Leave me, and then the story aptly ends: 716 The night is spent.” “Why, what of that?” quoth she. “I am,” quoth he, “expected of my friends; And now ’tis dark, and going I shall fall.” “In night,” quoth she, “desire sees best of all.” 720 But if thou fall, oh then imagine this, The earth, in love with thee, thy footing trips, And all is but to rob thee of a kiss. 723 Rich preys make true men thieves; so do thy lips Make modest Dian cloudy and forlorn, Lest she should steal a kiss and die forsworn. “Now of this dark night I perceive the reason: Cynthia for shame obscures her silver shine 728 Till forging nature be condemn’d of treason, For stealing moulds from heaven, that were divine; Wherein she fram’d thee, in high heaven’s despite, To shame the sun by day and her by night. 732 “And therefore hath she brib’d the destinies, To cross the curious workmanship of nature, To mingle beauty with infirmities, And pure perfection with impure defeature, 736 Making it subject to the tyranny Of mad mischances and much misery. “As burning fevers, agues pale and faint, Life-poisoning pestilence and frenzies wood, 740 The marrow-eating sickness, whose attaint Disorder breeds by heating of the blood; Surfeits, imposthumes, grief, and damn’d despair, Swear nature’s death, for framing thee so fair. 744 “And not the least of all these maladies But in one minute’s fight brings beauty under: Both favour, savour, hue and qualities, Whereat th’impartial gazer late did wonder, 748 Are on the sudden wasted, thaw’d and done, As mountain snow melts with the midday sun. “Therefore despite of fruitless chastity, Love-lacking vestals and self-loving nuns, 752 That on the earth would breed a scarcity And barren dearth of daughters and of sons, Be prodigal: the lamp that burns by night Dries up his oil to lend the world his light. 756 “What is thy body but a swallowing grave, Seeming to bury that posterity, Which by the rights of time thou needs must have, If thou destroy them not in dark obscurity? 760 If so, the world will hold thee in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. “So in thyself thyself art made away; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, 764 Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher sire that reeves his son of life. Foul cank’ring rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold that’s put to use more gold begets.” 768 “Nay then,” quoth Adon, “you will fall again Into your idle over-handled theme; The kiss I gave you is bestow’d in vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream; 772 For by this black-fac’d night, desire’s foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. “If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving than your own, 776 Bewitching like the wanton mermaid’s songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown; For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there. 780 “Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast, And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber to be barr’d of rest. 784 No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. “What have you urg’d that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger; 790 I hate not love, but your device in love That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase: O strange excuse! When reason is the bawd to lust’s abuse. 792 “Call it not, love, for love to heaven is fled, Since sweating lust on earth usurp’d his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; 796 Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves. “Love comforteth like sunshine after rain, But lust’s effect is tempest after sun; 800 Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lust’s winter comes ere summer half be done. Love surfeits not, lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies. 804 “More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, in sadness, now I will away; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen, 808 Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended Do burn themselves for having so offended.” With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace 811 Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, And homeward through the dark laund runs apace; Leaves love upon her back deeply distress’d. Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus’ eye. 816 Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: 820 So did the merciless and pitchy night Fold in the object that did feed her sight. Whereat amaz’d, as one that unaware Hath dropp’d a precious jewel in the flood, 824 Or ’stonish’d as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. 828 And now she beats her heart, whereat it groans, That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: 832 “Ay me!” she cries, and twenty times, “Woe, woe!” And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemporally a woeful ditty; 836 How love makes young men thrall, and old men dote, How love is wise in folly foolish witty: Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. 840 Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers’ hours are long, though seeming short, If pleas’d themselves, others they think, delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport: 844 Their copious stories oftentimes begun, End without audience, and are never done. For who hath she to spend the night withal, But idle sounds resembling parasites; 848 Like shrill-tongu’d tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says, “’Tis so:” they answer all, “’Tis so;” And would say after her, if she said “No.” 852 Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest, From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; 856 Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar tops and hills seem burnish’d gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow: “Oh thou clear god, and patron of all light, 860 From whom each lamp and shining star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son that suck’d an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other.” This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, 865 Musing the morning is so much o’erworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love; She hearkens for his hounds and for his horn. 868 Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, 872 Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. 876 By this she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder Wreath’d up in fatal folds just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder; 880 Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses, and her spirit confounds. For now she knows it is no gentle chase, But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, 884 Because the cry remaineth in one place, Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud, Finding their enemy to be so curst, They all strain court’sy who shall cope him first. 888 This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which it enters to surprise her heart; Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part; 892 Like soldiers when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy, Till cheering up her senses sore dismay’d, 896 She tells them ’tis a causeless fantasy, And childish error, that they are afraid; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more: And with that word, she spied the hunted boar. 900 Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: 904 This way she runs, and now she will no further, But back retires, to rate the boar for murther. A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways, She treads the path that she untreads again; 908 Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet naught at all respecting, In hand with all things, naught at all effecting. Here kennel’d in a brake she finds a hound, 913 And asks the weary caitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, ’Gainst venom’d sores the only sovereign plaster. 916 And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. When he hath ceas’d his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouth’d mourner, black and grim, 920 Against the welkin volleys out his voice; Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratch’d ears, bleeding as they go. Look how the world’s poor people are amazed 925 At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies; 928 So she at these sad sighs draws up her breath, And sighing it again, exclaims on death. “Hard-favour’d tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, 931 Hateful divorce of love,” thus chides she death, “Grim-grinning ghost, earth’s worm, what dost thou mean? To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, Who when he liv’d, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet. 936 “If he be dead, O no, it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it, O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. 940 Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infant’s heart. “Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing him, thy power had lost his power. 944 The destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluck’st a flower. Love’s golden arrow at him should have fled, And not death’s ebon dart to strike him dead. 948 “Dost thou drink tears, that thou provok’st such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? 952 Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruin’d with thy rigour.” Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vail’d her eyelids, who like sluices stopp’d 956 The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of her bosom dropp’d But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. 960 O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow; Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they view’d each other’s sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; 964 But like a stormy day, now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; 968 All entertain’d, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best, then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. 972 By this, far off she hears some huntsman holla; A nurse’s song ne’er pleas’d her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; 976 For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis’ voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prison’d in her eye, like pearls in glass; 980 Yet sometimes falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drown’d. O hard-believing love, how strange it seems 985 Not to believe, and yet too credulous; Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous, 988 The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought, Adonis lives, and death is not to blame; 992 It was not she that call’d him all to naught; Now she adds honours to his hateful name. She clepes him king of graves, and grave for kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. 996 “No, no,” quoth she, “sweet death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; 1000 Then, gentle shadow,—truth I must confess— I rail’d on thee, fearing my love’s decease. “’Tis not my fault, the boar provok’d my tongue; Be wreak’d on him, invisible commander; 1004 ’Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, he’s author of my slander. Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet, Could rule them both, without ten women’s wit.” Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, 1009 Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate; 1012 Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories. “O love!” quoth she, “how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind, 1016 To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal kind; For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. 1020 “Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemm’d with thieves, Trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves.” 1024 Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps that was but late forlorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light, 1028 And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boar’s conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, her eyes, as murder’d with the view, Like stars asham’d of day, themselves withdrew. Or as the snail, whose tender horns being hit, 1033 Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain, And there all smother’d up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again: 1036 So at his bloody view her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head. Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain, 1040 Who bids them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again; Who like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. 1044 Whereat each tributary subject quakes, As when the wind imprison’d in the ground, Struggling for passage, earth’s foundation shakes, Which with cold terror doth men’s minds confound. This mutiny each part doth so surprise 1049 That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes. And being open’d, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trench’d In his soft flank, whose wonted lily white 1053 With purple tears that his wound wept, was drench’d. No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed, But stole his blood and seem’d with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth, 1057 Over one shoulder doth she hang her head, Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead: 1060 Her voice is stopp’d, her joints forget to bow, Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now. Upon his hurt she looks so steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye, 1065 That makes more gashes, where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled, For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. “My tongue cannot express my grief for one, 1069 And yet,” quoth she, “behold two Adons dead! My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turn’d to fire, my heart to lead: 1072 Heavy heart’s lead, melt at mine eyes’ red fire! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. “Alas poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive that’s worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? what canst thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? 1078 The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim, But true sweet beauty liv’d and died with him. “Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! 1081 Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn you, and the wind doth hiss you. But when Adonis liv’d, sun and sharp air 1085 Lurk’d like two thieves, to rob him of his fair. “And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; 1088 The wind would blow it off, and being gone, Play with his locks; then would Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears. “To see his face the lion walk’d along 1093 Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him. 1096 If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the silly lamb that day. “When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; 1100 When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries, He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. “But this foul, grim, and urchin-snouted boar, 1105 Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Ne’er saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave. 1108 If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath kill’d him so. “’Tis true, ’tis true; thus was Adonis slain: He ran upon the boar with his sharp spear, 1112 Who did not whet his teeth at him again, But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheath’d unaware the tusk in his soft groin. 1116 “Had I been tooth’d like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have kill’d him first; But he is dead, and never did he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst.” 1120 With this she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold, 1124 She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the woeful words she told; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies. Two glasses where herself herself beheld 1129 A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excell’d, And every beauty robb’d of his effect. 1132 “Wonder of time,” quoth she, “this is my spite, That thou being dead, the day should yet be light. “Since thou art dead, lo here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: 1136 It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end; Ne’er settled equally, but high or low, That all love’s pleasure shall not match his woe. “It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, 1141 Bud, and be blasted in a breathing while; The bottom poison, and the top o’erstraw’d With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile. 1144 The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. “It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; 1148 The staring ruffian shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. 1152 “It shall suspect where is no cause of fear, It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving when it seems most just; 1156 Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. “It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension ’twixt the son and sire; 1160 Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire, Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, They that love best their love shall not enjoy.” 1164 By this the boy that by her side lay kill’d Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spill’d, A purple flower sprung up, chequer’d with white, 1168 Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness stood. She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis’ breath; 1172 And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death; She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears. “Poor flower,” quoth she, “this was thy father’s guise, Sweet issue of a more sweet-smelling sire, For every little grief to wet his eyes, To grow unto himself was his desire, 1180 And so ’tis thine; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. “Here was thy father’s bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and ’tis thy right: 1184 Lo in this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet love’s flower.” Thus weary of the world, away she hies, 1189 And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies, In her light chariot quickly is convey’d; 1192 Holding their course to Paphos, where their queen Means to immure herself and not be seen. FINIS