Software Vault: The Diamond Collection/The Diamond Collection (Software Vault)(Digital Impact).ISO/cdr14/shkspr2.zip/SHKSPR2.TXT

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KING HENRY V


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


KING HENRY    the Fifth. (KING HENRY V)

DUKE OF GLOUCESTER    (GLOUCESTER:)    |
        |  brothers to the King.
DUKE OF BEDFORD    (BEDFORD:)    |


DUKE OF EXETER    uncle to the King. (EXETER:)

DUKE OF YORK    cousin to the King. (YORK:)

EARL OF SALISBURY    (SALISBURY:)

EARL OF
WESTMORELAND    (WESTMORELAND:)

EARL OF WARWICK    (WARWICK:)

BISHOP OF
CANTERBURY    (CANTERBURY:)

BISHOP OF ELY    (ELY:)

EARL OF CAMBRIDGE    (CAMBRIDGE:)

LORD SCROOP    (SCROOP:)

SIR THOMAS GREY    (GREY:)


SIR
THOMAS ERPINGHAM    (ERPINGHAM:)    |
        |
GOWER        |
        |
FLUELLEN        |  Officers in King Henry's army.
        |
MACMORRIS        |
        |
JAMY        |


BATES    |
    |
COURT    |  soldiers in the same.
    |
WILLIAMS    |


PISTOL:

NYM:

BARDOLPH:

    Boy
    A Herald.

CHARLES the Sixth    King of France. (KING OF FRANCE:) (FRENCH KING:)

LEWIS    the Dauphin. (DAUPHIN:)

DUKE OF BURGUNDY    (BURGUNDY:)

DUKE OF ORLEANS    (ORLEANS:)

DUKE OF BOURBON    (BOURBON:)

    The Constable of France. (Constable:)


RAMBURES    |
    |  French Lords.
GRANDPRE    |


GOVERNOR    of Harfleur.

MONTJOY    a French Herald.

    Ambassadors to the King of England.

ISABEL    Queen of France. (QUEEN ISABEL:)

KATHARINE    daughter to Charles and Isabel.

ALICE    a lady attending on her.

    Hostess of a tavern in Eastcheap formerly
    Mistress Quickly, and now married to Pistol.
    Lords, Ladies, Officers, Soldiers, Citizens,
    Messengers, and Attendants. Chorus.
    (Hostess:)
    (First Ambassador:)
    (Messenger:)
    (French Soldier:)

SCENE    England; afterwards France.




    KING HENRY V

    PROLOGUE


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
    The brightest heaven of invention,
    A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
    And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
    Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
    Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
    Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire
    Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all,
    The flat unraised spirits that have dared
    On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
    So great an object: can this cockpit hold
    The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
    Within this wooden O the very casques
    That did affright the air at Agincourt?
    O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
    Attest in little place a million;
    And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
    On your imaginary forces work.
    Suppose within the girdle of these walls
    Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
    Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
    The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:
    Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
    Into a thousand parts divide on man,
    And make imaginary puissance;
    Think when we talk of horses, that you see them
    Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth;
    For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
    Carry them here and there; jumping o'er times,
    Turning the accomplishment of many years
    Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,
    Admit me Chorus to this history;
    Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,
    Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT I



SCENE I    London. An ante-chamber in the KING'S palace.


    [Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY, and the BISHOP OF ELY]

CANTERBURY    My lord, I'll tell you; that self bill is urged,
    Which in the eleventh year of the last king's reign
    Was like, and had indeed against us pass'd,
    But that the scambling and unquiet time
    Did push it out of farther question.

ELY    But how, my lord, shall we resist it now?

CANTERBURY    It must be thought on. If it pass against us,
    We lose the better half of our possession:
    For all the temporal lands which men devout
    By testament have given to the church
    Would they strip from us; being valued thus:
    As much as would maintain, to the king's honour,
    Full fifteen earls and fifteen hundred knights,
    Six thousand and two hundred good esquires;
    And, to relief of lazars and weak age,
    Of indigent faint souls past corporal toil.
    A hundred almshouses right well supplied;
    And to the coffers of the king beside,
    A thousand pounds by the year: thus runs the bill.

ELY    This would drink deep.

CANTERBURY    'Twould drink the cup and all.

ELY    But what prevention?

CANTERBURY    The king is full of grace and fair regard.

ELY    And a true lover of the holy church.

CANTERBURY    The courses of his youth promised it not.
    The breath no sooner left his father's body,
    But that his wildness, mortified in him,
    Seem'd to die too; yea, at that very moment
    Consideration, like an angel, came
    And whipp'd the offending Adam out of him,
    Leaving his body as a paradise,
    To envelop and contain celestial spirits.
    Never was such a sudden scholar made;
    Never came reformation in a flood,
    With such a heady currance, scouring faults
    Nor never Hydra-headed wilfulness
    So soon did lose his seat and all at once
    As in this king.

ELY                      We are blessed in the change.

CANTERBURY    Hear him but reason in divinity,
    And all-admiring with an inward wish
    You would desire the king were made a prelate:
    Hear him debate of commonwealth affairs,
    You would say it hath been all in all his study:
    List his discourse of war, and you shall hear
    A fearful battle render'd you in music:
    Turn him to any cause of policy,
    The Gordian knot of it he will unloose,
    Familiar as his garter: that, when he speaks,
    The air, a charter'd libertine, is still,
    And the mute wonder lurketh in men's ears,
    To steal his sweet and honey'd sentences;
    So that the art and practic part of life
    Must be the mistress to this theoric:
    Which is a wonder how his grace should glean it,
    Since his addiction was to courses vain,
    His companies unletter'd, rude and shallow,
    His hours fill'd up with riots, banquets, sports,
    And never noted in him any study,
    Any retirement, any sequestration
    From open haunts and popularity.

ELY    The strawberry grows underneath the nettle
    And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best
    Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality:
    And so the prince obscured his contemplation
    Under the veil of wildness; which, no doubt,
    Grew like the summer grass, fastest by night,
    Unseen, yet crescive in his faculty.

CANTERBURY    It must be so; for miracles are ceased;
    And therefore we must needs admit the means
    How things are perfected.

ELY    But, my good lord,
    How now for mitigation of this bill
    Urged by the commons? Doth his majesty
    Incline to it, or no?

CANTERBURY    He seems indifferent,
    Or rather swaying more upon our part
    Than cherishing the exhibiters against us;
    For I have made an offer to his majesty,
    Upon our spiritual convocation
    And in regard of causes now in hand,
    Which I have open'd to his grace at large,
    As touching France, to give a greater sum
    Than ever at one time the clergy yet
    Did to his predecessors part withal.

ELY    How did this offer seem received, my lord?

CANTERBURY    With good acceptance of his majesty;
    Save that there was not time enough to hear,
    As I perceived his grace would fain have done,
    The severals and unhidden passages
    Of his true titles to some certain dukedoms
    And generally to the crown and seat of France
    Derived from Edward, his great-grandfather.

ELY    What was the impediment that broke this off?

CANTERBURY    The French ambassador upon that instant
    Craved audience; and the hour, I think, is come
    To give him hearing: is it four o'clock?

ELY    It is.

CANTERBURY    Then go we in, to know his embassy;
    Which I could with a ready guess declare,
    Before the Frenchman speak a word of it.

ELY    I'll wait upon you, and I long to hear it.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT I



SCENE II    The same. The Presence chamber.


    [Enter KING HENRY V, GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER,
    WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and Attendants]

KING HENRY V    Where is my gracious Lord of Canterbury?

EXETER    Not here in presence.

KING HENRY V    Send for him, good uncle.

WESTMORELAND    Shall we call in the ambassador, my liege?

KING HENRY V    Not yet, my cousin: we would be resolved,
    Before we hear him, of some things of weight
    That task our thoughts, concerning us and France.

    [Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY, and the BISHOP of ELY]

CANTERBURY    God and his angels guard your sacred throne
    And make you long become it!

KING HENRY V    Sure, we thank you.
    My learned lord, we pray you to proceed
    And justly and religiously unfold
    Why the law Salique that they have in France
    Or should, or should not, bar us in our claim:
    And God forbid, my dear and faithful lord,
    That you should fashion, wrest, or bow your reading,
    Or nicely charge your understanding soul
    With opening titles miscreate, whose right
    Suits not in native colours with the truth;
    For God doth know how many now in health
    Shall drop their blood in approbation
    Of what your reverence shall incite us to.
    Therefore take heed how you impawn our person,
    How you awake our sleeping sword of war:
    We charge you, in the name of God, take heed;
    For never two such kingdoms did contend
    Without much fall of blood; whose guiltless drops
    Are every one a woe, a sore complaint
    'Gainst him whose wrong gives edge unto the swords
    That make such waste in brief mortality.
    Under this conjuration, speak, my lord;
    For we will hear, note and believe in heart
    That what you speak is in your conscience wash'd
    As pure as sin with baptism.

CANTERBURY    Then hear me, gracious sovereign, and you peers,
    That owe yourselves, your lives and services
    To this imperial throne. There is no bar
    To make against your highness' claim to France
    But this, which they produce from Pharamond,
    'In terram Salicam mulieres ne succedant:'
    'No woman shall succeed in Salique land:'
    Which Salique land the French unjustly gloze
    To be the realm of France, and Pharamond
    The founder of this law and female bar.
    Yet their own authors faithfully affirm
    That the land Salique is in Germany,
    Between the floods of Sala and of Elbe;
    Where Charles the Great, having subdued the Saxons,
    There left behind and settled certain French;
    Who, holding in disdain the German women
    For some dishonest manners of their life,
    Establish'd then this law; to wit, no female
    Should be inheritrix in Salique land:
    Which Salique, as I said, 'twixt Elbe and Sala,
    Is at this day in Germany call'd Meisen.
    Then doth it well appear that Salique law
    Was not devised for the realm of France:
    Nor did the French possess the Salique land
    Until four hundred one and twenty years
    After defunction of King Pharamond,
    Idly supposed the founder of this law;
    Who died within the year of our redemption
    Four hundred twenty-six; and Charles the Great
    Subdued the Saxons, and did seat the French
    Beyond the river Sala, in the year
    Eight hundred five. Besides, their writers say,
    King Pepin, which deposed Childeric,
    Did, as heir general, being descended
    Of Blithild, which was daughter to King Clothair,
    Make claim and title to the crown of France.
    Hugh Capet also, who usurped the crown
    Of Charles the duke of Lorraine, sole heir male
    Of the true line and stock of Charles the Great,
    To find his title with some shows of truth,
    'Through, in pure truth, it was corrupt and naught,
    Convey'd himself as heir to the Lady Lingare,
    Daughter to Charlemain, who was the son
    To Lewis the emperor, and Lewis the son
    Of Charles the Great. Also King Lewis the Tenth,
    Who was sole heir to the usurper Capet,
    Could not keep quiet in his conscience,
    Wearing the crown of France, till satisfied
    That fair Queen Isabel, his grandmother,
    Was lineal of the Lady Ermengare,
    Daughter to Charles the foresaid duke of Lorraine:
    By the which marriage the line of Charles the Great
    Was re-united to the crown of France.
    So that, as clear as is the summer's sun.
    King Pepin's title and Hugh Capet's claim,
    King Lewis his satisfaction, all appear
    To hold in right and title of the female:
    So do the kings of France unto this day;
    Howbeit they would hold up this Salique law
    To bar your highness claiming from the female,
    And rather choose to hide them in a net
    Than amply to imbar their crooked titles
    Usurp'd from you and your progenitors.

KING HENRY V    May I with right and conscience make this claim?

CANTERBURY    The sin upon my head, dread sovereign!
    For in the book of Numbers is it writ,
    When the man dies, let the inheritance
    Descend unto the daughter. Gracious lord,
    Stand for your own; unwind your bloody flag;
    Look back into your mighty ancestors:
    Go, my dread lord, to your great-grandsire's tomb,
    From whom you claim; invoke his warlike spirit,
    And your great-uncle's, Edward the Black Prince,
    Who on the French ground play'd a tragedy,
    Making defeat on the full power of France,
    Whiles his most mighty father on a hill
    Stood smiling to behold his lion's whelp
    Forage in blood of French nobility.
    O noble English. that could entertain
    With half their forces the full Pride of France
    And let another half stand laughing by,
    All out of work and cold for action!

ELY    Awake remembrance of these valiant dead
    And with your puissant arm renew their feats:
    You are their heir; you sit upon their throne;
    The blood and courage that renowned them
    Runs in your veins; and my thrice-puissant liege
    Is in the very May-morn of his youth,
    Ripe for exploits and mighty enterprises.

EXETER    Your brother kings and monarchs of the earth
    Do all expect that you should rouse yourself,
    As did the former lions of your blood.

WESTMORELAND    They know your grace hath cause and means and might;
    So hath your highness; never king of England
    Had nobles richer and more loyal subjects,
    Whose hearts have left their bodies here in England
    And lie pavilion'd in the fields of France.

CANTERBURY    O, let their bodies follow, my dear liege,
    With blood and sword and fire to win your right;
    In aid whereof we of the spiritualty
    Will raise your highness such a mighty sum
    As never did the clergy at one time
    Bring in to any of your ancestors.

KING HENRY V    We must not only arm to invade the French,
    But lay down our proportions to defend
    Against the Scot, who will make road upon us
    With all advantages.

CANTERBURY    They of those marches, gracious sovereign,
    Shall be a wall sufficient to defend
    Our inland from the pilfering borderers.

KING HENRY V    We do not mean the coursing snatchers only,
    But fear the main intendment of the Scot,
    Who hath been still a giddy neighbour to us;
    For you shall read that my great-grandfather
    Never went with his forces into France
    But that the Scot on his unfurnish'd kingdom
    Came pouring, like the tide into a breach,
    With ample and brim fulness of his force,
    Galling the gleaned land with hot assays,
    Girding with grievous siege castles and towns;
    That England, being empty of defence,
    Hath shook and trembled at the ill neighbourhood.

CANTERBURY    She hath been then more fear'd than harm'd, my liege;
    For hear her but exampled by herself:
    When all her chivalry hath been in France
    And she a mourning widow of her nobles,
    She hath herself not only well defended
    But taken and impounded as a stray
    The King of Scots; whom she did send to France,
    To fill King Edward's fame with prisoner kings
    And make her chronicle as rich with praise
    As is the ooze and bottom of the sea
    With sunken wreck and sunless treasuries.

WESTMORELAND    But there's a saying very old and true,
    'If that you will France win,
    Then with Scotland first begin:'
    For once the eagle England being in prey,
    To her unguarded nest the weasel Scot
    Comes sneaking and so sucks her princely eggs,
    Playing the mouse in absence of the cat,
    To tear and havoc more than she can eat.

EXETER    It follows then the cat must stay at home:
    Yet that is but a crush'd necessity,
    Since we have locks to safeguard necessaries,
    And pretty traps to catch the petty thieves.
    While that the armed hand doth fight abroad,
    The advised head defends itself at home;
    For government, though high and low and lower,
    Put into parts, doth keep in one consent,
    Congreeing in a full and natural close,
    Like music.

CANTERBURY              Therefore doth heaven divide
    The state of man in divers functions,
    Setting endeavour in continual motion;
    To which is fixed, as an aim or butt,
    Obedience: for so work the honey-bees,
    Creatures that by a rule in nature teach
    The act of order to a peopled kingdom.
    They have a king and officers of sorts;
    Where some, like magistrates, correct at home,
    Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad,
    Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings,
    Make boot upon the summer's velvet buds,
    Which pillage they with merry march bring home
    To the tent-royal of their emperor;
    Who, busied in his majesty, surveys
    The singing masons building roofs of gold,
    The civil citizens kneading up the honey,
    The poor mechanic porters crowding in
    Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate,
    The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum,
    Delivering o'er to executors pale
    The lazy yawning drone. I this infer,
    That many things, having full reference
    To one consent, may work contrariously:
    As many arrows, loosed several ways,
    Come to one mark; as many ways meet in one town;
    As many fresh streams meet in one salt sea;
    As many lines close in the dial's centre;
    So may a thousand actions, once afoot.
    End in one purpose, and be all well borne
    Without defeat. Therefore to France, my liege.
    Divide your happy England into four;
    Whereof take you one quarter into France,
    And you withal shall make all Gallia shake.
    If we, with thrice such powers left at home,
    Cannot defend our own doors from the dog,
    Let us be worried and our nation lose
    The name of hardiness and policy.

KING HENRY V    Call in the messengers sent from the Dauphin.

    [Exeunt some Attendants]

    Now are we well resolved; and, by God's help,
    And yours, the noble sinews of our power,
    France being ours, we'll bend it to our awe,
    Or break it all to pieces: or there we'll sit,
    Ruling in large and ample empery
    O'er France and all her almost kingly dukedoms,
    Or lay these bones in an unworthy urn,
    Tombless, with no remembrance over them:
    Either our history shall with full mouth
    Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave,
    Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth,
    Not worshipp'd with a waxen epitaph.

    [Enter Ambassadors of France]

    Now are we well prepared to know the pleasure
    Of our fair cousin Dauphin; for we hear
    Your greeting is from him, not from the king.

First Ambassador    May't please your majesty to give us leave
    Freely to render what we have in charge;
    Or shall we sparingly show you far off
    The Dauphin's meaning and our embassy?

KING HENRY V    We are no tyrant, but a Christian king;
    Unto whose grace our passion is as subject
    As are our wretches fetter'd in our prisons:
    Therefore with frank and with uncurbed plainness
    Tell us the Dauphin's mind.

First Ambassador    Thus, then, in few.
    Your highness, lately sending into France,
    Did claim some certain dukedoms, in the right
    Of your great predecessor, King Edward the Third.
    In answer of which claim, the prince our master
    Says that you savour too much of your youth,
    And bids you be advised there's nought in France
    That can be with a nimble galliard won;
    You cannot revel into dukedoms there.
    He therefore sends you, meeter for your spirit,
    This tun of treasure; and, in lieu of this,
    Desires you let the dukedoms that you claim
    Hear no more of you. This the Dauphin speaks.

KING HENRY V    What treasure, uncle?

EXETER    Tennis-balls, my liege.

KING HENRY V    We are glad the Dauphin is so pleasant with us;
    His present and your pains we thank you for:
    When we have march'd our rackets to these balls,
    We will, in France, by God's grace, play a set
    Shall strike his father's crown into the hazard.
    Tell him he hath made a match with such a wrangler
    That all the courts of France will be disturb'd
    With chaces. And we understand him well,
    How he comes o'er us with our wilder days,
    Not measuring what use we made of them.
    We never valued this poor seat of England;
    And therefore, living hence, did give ourself
    To barbarous licence; as 'tis ever common
    That men are merriest when they are from home.
    But tell the Dauphin I will keep my state,
    Be like a king and show my sail of greatness
    When I do rouse me in my throne of France:
    For that I have laid by my majesty
    And plodded like a man for working-days,
    But I will rise there with so full a glory
    That I will dazzle all the eyes of France,
    Yea, strike the Dauphin blind to look on us.
    And tell the pleasant prince this mock of his
    Hath turn'd his balls to gun-stones; and his soul
    Shall stand sore charged for the wasteful vengeance
    That shall fly with them: for many a thousand widows
    Shall this his mock mock out of their dear husbands;
    Mock mothers from their sons, mock castles down;
    And some are yet ungotten and unborn
    That shall have cause to curse the Dauphin's scorn.
    But this lies all within the will of God,
    To whom I do appeal; and in whose name
    Tell you the Dauphin I am coming on,
            To venge me as I may and to put forth
    My rightful hand in a well-hallow'd cause.
    So get you hence in peace; and tell the Dauphin
    His jest will savour but of shallow wit,
    When thousands weep more than did laugh at it.
    Convey them with safe conduct. Fare you well.

    [Exeunt Ambassadors]

EXETER    This was a merry message.

KING HENRY V    We hope to make the sender blush at it.
    Therefore, my lords, omit no happy hour
    That may give furtherance to our expedition;
    For we have now no thought in us but France,
    Save those to God, that run before our business.
    Therefore let our proportions for these wars
    Be soon collected and all things thought upon
    That may with reasonable swiftness add
    More feathers to our wings; for, God before,
    We'll chide this Dauphin at his father's door.
    Therefore let every man now task his thought,
    That this fair action may on foot be brought.

    [Exeunt. Flourish]




    KING HENRY V


ACT II


    PROLOGUE


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    Now all the youth of England are on fire,
    And silken dalliance in the wardrobe lies:
    Now thrive the armourers, and honour's thought
    Reigns solely in the breast of every man:
    They sell the pasture now to buy the horse,
    Following the mirror of all Christian kings,
    With winged heels, as English Mercuries.
    For now sits Expectation in the air,
    And hides a sword from hilts unto the point
    With crowns imperial, crowns and coronets,
    Promised to Harry and his followers.
    The French, advised by good intelligence
    Of this most dreadful preparation,
    Shake in their fear and with pale policy
    Seek to divert the English purposes.
    O England! model to thy inward greatness,
    Like little body with a mighty heart,
    What mightst thou do, that honour would thee do,
    Were all thy children kind and natural!
    But see thy fault! France hath in thee found out
    A nest of hollow bosoms, which he fills
    With treacherous crowns; and three corrupted men,
    One, Richard Earl of Cambridge, and the second,
    Henry Lord Scroop of Masham, and the third,
    Sir Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland,
    Have, for the gilt of France,--O guilt indeed!
    Confirm'd conspiracy with fearful France;
    And by their hands this grace of kings must die,
    If hell and treason hold their promises,
    Ere he take ship for France, and in Southampton.
    Linger your patience on; and we'll digest
    The abuse of distance; force a play:
    The sum is paid; the traitors are agreed;
    The king is set from London; and the scene
    Is now transported, gentles, to Southampton;
    There is the playhouse now, there must you sit:
    And thence to France shall we convey you safe,
    And bring you back, charming the narrow seas
    To give you gentle pass; for, if we may,
    We'll not offend one stomach with our play.
    But, till the king come forth, and not till then,
    Unto Southampton do we shift our scene.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT II



SCENE I    London. A street.


    [Enter Corporal NYM and Lieutenant BARDOLPH]

BARDOLPH    Well met, Corporal Nym.

NYM    Good morrow, Lieutenant Bardolph.

BARDOLPH    What, are Ancient Pistol and you friends yet?

NYM    For my part, I care not: I say little; but when
    time shall serve, there shall be smiles; but that
    shall be as it may. I dare not fight; but I will
    wink and hold out mine iron: it is a simple one; but
    what though? it will toast cheese, and it will
    endure cold as another man's sword will: and
    there's an end.

BARDOLPH    I will bestow a breakfast to make you friends; and
    we'll be all three sworn brothers to France: let it
    be so, good Corporal Nym.

NYM    Faith, I will live so long as I may, that's the
    certain of it; and when I cannot live any longer, I
    will do as I may: that is my rest, that is the
    rendezvous of it.

BARDOLPH    It is certain, corporal, that he is married to Nell
    Quickly: and certainly she did you wrong; for you
    were troth-plight to her.

NYM    I cannot tell: things must be as they may: men may
    sleep, and they may have their throats about them at
    that time; and some say knives have edges. It must
    be as it may: though patience be a tired mare, yet
    she will plod. There must be conclusions. Well, I
    cannot tell.

    [Enter PISTOL and Hostess]

BARDOLPH    Here comes Ancient Pistol and his wife: good
    corporal, be patient here. How now, mine host Pistol!

PISTOL    Base tike, call'st thou me host? Now, by this hand,
    I swear, I scorn the term; Nor shall my Nell keep lodgers.

Hostess    No, by my troth, not long; for we cannot lodge and
    board a dozen or fourteen gentlewomen that live
    honestly by the prick of their needles, but it will
    be thought we keep a bawdy house straight.

    [NYM and PISTOL draw]

    O well a day, Lady, if he be not drawn now! we
    shall see wilful adultery and murder committed.

BARDOLPH    Good lieutenant! good corporal! offer nothing here.

NYM    Pish!

PISTOL    Pish for thee, Iceland dog! thou prick-ear'd cur of Iceland!

Hostess    Good Corporal Nym, show thy valour, and put up your sword.

NYM    Will you shog off? I would have you solus.

PISTOL    'Solus,' egregious dog? O viper vile!
    The 'solus' in thy most mervailous face;
    The 'solus' in thy teeth, and in thy throat,
    And in thy hateful lungs, yea, in thy maw, perdy,
    And, which is worse, within thy nasty mouth!
    I do retort the 'solus' in thy bowels;
    For I can take, and Pistol's cock is up,
    And flashing fire will follow.

NYM    I am not Barbason; you cannot conjure me. I have an
    humour to knock you indifferently well. If you grow
    foul with me, Pistol, I will scour you with my
    rapier, as I may, in fair terms: if you would walk
    off, I would prick your guts a little, in good
    terms, as I may: and that's the humour of it.

PISTOL    O braggart vile and damned furious wight!
    The grave doth gape, and doting death is near;
    Therefore exhale.

BARDOLPH    Hear me, hear me what I say: he that strikes the
    first stroke, I'll run him up to the hilts, as I am a soldier.

    [Draws]

PISTOL    An oath of mickle might; and fury shall abate.
    Give me thy fist, thy fore-foot to me give:
    Thy spirits are most tall.

NYM    I will cut thy throat, one time or other, in fair
    terms: that is the humour of it.

PISTOL    'Couple a gorge!'
    That is the word. I thee defy again.
    O hound of Crete, think'st thou my spouse to get?
    No; to the spital go,
    And from the powdering tub of infamy
    Fetch forth the lazar kite of Cressid's kind,
    Doll Tearsheet she by name, and her espouse:
    I have, and I will hold, the quondam Quickly
    For the only she; and--pauca, there's enough. Go to.

    [Enter the Boy]

Boy    Mine host Pistol, you must come to my master, and
    you, hostess: he is very sick, and would to bed.
    Good Bardolph, put thy face between his sheets, and
    do the office of a warming-pan. Faith, he's very ill.

BARDOLPH    Away, you rogue!

Hostess    By my troth, he'll yield the crow a pudding one of
    these days. The king has killed his heart. Good
    husband, come home presently.

    [Exeunt Hostess and Boy]

BARDOLPH    Come, shall I make you two friends? We must to
    France together: why the devil should we keep
    knives to cut one another's throats?

PISTOL    Let floods o'erswell, and fiends for food howl on!

NYM    You'll pay me the eight shillings I won of you at betting?

PISTOL    Base is the slave that pays.

NYM    That now I will have: that's the humour of it.

PISTOL    As manhood shall compound: push home.

    [They draw]

BARDOLPH    By this sword, he that makes the first thrust, I'll
    kill him; by this sword, I will.

PISTOL    Sword is an oath, and oaths must have their course.

BARDOLPH    Corporal Nym, an thou wilt be friends, be friends:
    an thou wilt not, why, then, be enemies with me too.
    Prithee, put up.

NYM    I shall have my eight shillings I won of you at betting?

PISTOL    A noble shalt thou have, and present pay;
    And liquor likewise will I give to thee,
    And friendship shall combine, and brotherhood:
    I'll live by Nym, and Nym shall live by me;
    Is not this just? for I shall sutler be
    Unto the camp, and profits will accrue.
    Give me thy hand.

NYM    I shall have my noble?

PISTOL    In cash most justly paid.

NYM    Well, then, that's the humour of't.

    [Re-enter Hostess]

Hostess    As ever you came of women, come in quickly to Sir
    John. Ah, poor heart! he is so shaked of a burning
    quotidian tertian, that it is most lamentable to
    behold. Sweet men, come to him.

NYM    The king hath run bad humours on the knight; that's
    the even of it.

PISTOL    Nym, thou hast spoke the right;
    His heart is fracted and corroborate.

NYM    The king is a good king: but it must be as it may;
    he passes some humours and careers.

PISTOL    Let us condole the knight; for, lambkins we will live.




    KING HENRY V


ACT II



SCENE II    Southampton. A council-chamber.


    [Enter EXETER, BEDFORD, and WESTMORELAND]

BEDFORD    'Fore God, his grace is bold, to trust these traitors.

EXETER    They shall be apprehended by and by.

WESTMORELAND    How smooth and even they do bear themselves!
    As if allegiance in their bosoms sat,
    Crowned with faith and constant loyalty.

BEDFORD    The king hath note of all that they intend,
    By interception which they dream not of.

EXETER    Nay, but the man that was his bedfellow,
    Whom he hath dull'd and cloy'd with gracious favours,
    That he should, for a foreign purse, so sell
    His sovereign's life to death and treachery.

    [Trumpets sound. Enter KING HENRY V, SCROOP,
    CAMBRIDGE, GREY, and Attendants]

KING HENRY V    Now sits the wind fair, and we will aboard.
    My Lord of Cambridge, and my kind Lord of Masham,
    And you, my gentle knight, give me your thoughts:
    Think you not that the powers we bear with us
    Will cut their passage through the force of France,
    Doing the execution and the act
    For which we have in head assembled them?

SCROOP    No doubt, my liege, if each man do his best.

KING HENRY V    I doubt not that; since we are well persuaded
    We carry not a heart with us from hence
    That grows not in a fair consent with ours,
    Nor leave not one behind that doth not wish
    Success and conquest to attend on us.

CAMBRIDGE    Never was monarch better fear'd and loved
    Than is your majesty: there's not, I think, a subject
    That sits in heart-grief and uneasiness
    Under the sweet shade of your government.

GREY    True: those that were your father's enemies
    Have steep'd their galls in honey and do serve you
    With hearts create of duty and of zeal.

KING HENRY V    We therefore have great cause of thankfulness;
    And shall forget the office of our hand,
    Sooner than quittance of desert and merit
    According to the weight and worthiness.

SCROOP    So service shall with steeled sinews toil,
    And labour shall refresh itself with hope,
    To do your grace incessant services.

KING HENRY V    We judge no less. Uncle of Exeter,
    Enlarge the man committed yesterday,
    That rail'd against our person: we consider
    it was excess of wine that set him on;
    And on his more advice we pardon him.

SCROOP    That's mercy, but too much security:
    Let him be punish'd, sovereign, lest example
    Breed, by his sufferance, more of such a kind.

KING HENRY V    O, let us yet be merciful.

CAMBRIDGE    So may your highness, and yet punish too.

GREY    Sir,
    You show great mercy, if you give him life,
    After the taste of much correction.

KING HENRY V    Alas, your too much love and care of me
    Are heavy orisons 'gainst this poor wretch!
    If little faults, proceeding on distemper,
    Shall not be wink'd at, how shall we stretch our eye
    When capital crimes, chew'd, swallow'd and digested,
    Appear before us? We'll yet enlarge that man,
    Though Cambridge, Scroop and Grey, in their dear care
    And tender preservation of our person,
    Would have him punished. And now to our French causes:
    Who are the late commissioners?

CAMBRIDGE    I one, my lord:
    Your highness bade me ask for it to-day.

SCROOP    So did you me, my liege.

GREY    And I, my royal sovereign.

KING HENRY V    Then, Richard Earl of Cambridge, there is yours;
    There yours, Lord Scroop of Masham; and, sir knight,
    Grey of Northumberland, this same is yours:
    Read them; and know, I know your worthiness.
    My Lord of Westmoreland, and uncle Exeter,
    We will aboard to night. Why, how now, gentlemen!
    What see you in those papers that you lose
    So much complexion? Look ye, how they change!
    Their cheeks are paper. Why, what read you there
    That hath so cowarded and chased your blood
    Out of appearance?

CAMBRIDGE                      I do confess my fault;
    And do submit me to your highness' mercy.


GREY    |
    |  To which we all appeal.
SCROOP    |


KING HENRY V    The mercy that was quick in us but late,
    By your own counsel is suppress'd and kill'd:
    You must not dare, for shame, to talk of mercy;
    For your own reasons turn into your bosoms,
    As dogs upon their masters, worrying you.
    See you, my princes, and my noble peers,
    These English monsters! My Lord of Cambridge here,
    You know how apt our love was to accord
    To furnish him with all appertinents
    Belonging to his honour; and this man
    Hath, for a few light crowns, lightly conspired,
    And sworn unto the practises of France,
    To kill us here in Hampton: to the which
    This knight, no less for bounty bound to us
    Than Cambridge is, hath likewise sworn. But, O,
    What shall I say to thee, Lord Scroop? thou cruel,
    Ingrateful, savage and inhuman creature!
    Thou that didst bear the key of all my counsels,
    That knew'st the very bottom of my soul,
    That almost mightst have coin'd me into gold,
    Wouldst thou have practised on me for thy use,
    May it be possible, that foreign hire
    Could out of thee extract one spark of evil
    That might annoy my finger? 'tis so strange,
    That, though the truth of it stands off as gross
    As black and white, my eye will scarcely see it.
    Treason and murder ever kept together,
    As two yoke-devils sworn to either's purpose,
    Working so grossly in a natural cause,
    That admiration did not whoop at them:
    But thou, 'gainst all proportion, didst bring in
    Wonder to wait on treason and on murder:
    And whatsoever cunning fiend it was
    That wrought upon thee so preposterously
    Hath got the voice in hell for excellence:
    All other devils that suggest by treasons
    Do botch and bungle up damnation
    With patches, colours, and with forms being fetch'd
    From glistering semblances of piety;
    But he that temper'd thee bade thee stand up,
    Gave thee no instance why thou shouldst do treason,
    Unless to dub thee with the name of traitor.
    If that same demon that hath gull'd thee thus
    Should with his lion gait walk the whole world,
    He might return to vasty Tartar back,
    And tell the legions 'I can never win
    A soul so easy as that Englishman's.'
    O, how hast thou with 'jealousy infected
    The sweetness of affiance! Show men dutiful?
    Why, so didst thou: seem they grave and learned?
    Why, so didst thou: come they of noble family?
    Why, so didst thou: seem they religious?
    Why, so didst thou: or are they spare in diet,
    Free from gross passion or of mirth or anger,
    Constant in spirit, not swerving with the blood,
    Garnish'd and deck'd in modest complement,
    Not working with the eye without the ear,
    And but in purged judgment trusting neither?
    Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem:
    And thus thy fall hath left a kind of blot,
    To mark the full-fraught man and best indued
    With some suspicion. I will weep for thee;
    For this revolt of thine, methinks, is like
    Another fall of man. Their faults are open:
    Arrest them to the answer of the law;
    And God acquit them of their practises!

EXETER       I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of
    Richard Earl of Cambridge.
    I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of
    Henry Lord Scroop of Masham.
    I arrest thee of high treason, by the name of
    Thomas Grey, knight, of Northumberland.

SCROOP    Our purposes God justly hath discover'd;
    And I repent my fault more than my death;
    Which I beseech your highness to forgive,
    Although my body pay the price of it.

CAMBRIDGE    For me, the gold of France did not seduce;
    Although I did admit it as a motive
    The sooner to effect what I intended:
    But God be thanked for prevention;
    Which I in sufferance heartily will rejoice,
    Beseeching God and you to pardon me.

GREY    Never did faithful subject more rejoice
    At the discovery of most dangerous treason
    Than I do at this hour joy o'er myself.
    Prevented from a damned enterprise:
    My fault, but not my body, pardon, sovereign.

KING HENRY V    God quit you in his mercy! Hear your sentence.
    You have conspired against our royal person,
    Join'd with an enemy proclaim'd and from his coffers
    Received the golden earnest of our death;
    Wherein you would have sold your king to slaughter,
    His princes and his peers to servitude,
    His subjects to oppression and contempt
    And his whole kingdom into desolation.
    Touching our person seek we no revenge;
    But we our kingdom's safety must so tender,
    Whose ruin you have sought, that to her laws
    We do deliver you. Get you therefore hence,
    Poor miserable wretches, to your death:
    The taste whereof, God of his mercy give
    You patience to endure, and true repentance
    Of all your dear offences! Bear them hence.

    [Exeunt CAMBRIDGE, SCROOP and GREY, guarded]

    Now, lords, for France; the enterprise whereof
    Shall be to you, as us, like glorious.
    We doubt not of a fair and lucky war,
    Since God so graciously hath brought to light
    This dangerous treason lurking in our way
    To hinder our beginnings. We doubt not now
    But every rub is smoothed on our way.
    Then forth, dear countrymen: let us deliver
    Our puissance into the hand of God,
    Putting it straight in expedition.
    Cheerly to sea; the signs of war advance:
    No king of England, if not king of France.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT II



SCENE III    London. Before a tavern.


    [Enter PISTOL, Hostess, NYM, BARDOLPH, and Boy]

Hostess    Prithee, honey-sweet husband, let me bring thee to Staines.

PISTOL    No; for my manly heart doth yearn.
    Bardolph, be blithe: Nym, rouse thy vaunting veins:
    Boy, bristle thy courage up; for Falstaff he is dead,
    And we must yearn therefore.

BARDOLPH    Would I were with him, wheresome'er he is, either in
    heaven or in hell!

Hostess    Nay, sure, he's not in hell: he's in Arthur's
    bosom, if ever man went to Arthur's bosom. A' made
    a finer end and went away an it had been any
    christom child; a' parted even just between twelve
    and one, even at the turning o' the tide: for after
    I saw him fumble with the sheets and play with
    flowers and smile upon his fingers' ends, I knew
    there was but one way; for his nose was as sharp as
    a pen, and a' babbled of green fields. 'How now,
    sir John!' quoth I    'what, man! be o' good
    cheer.' So a' cried out 'God, God, God!' three or
    four times. Now I, to comfort him, bid him a'
    should not think of God; I hoped there was no need
    to trouble himself with any such thoughts yet. So
    a' bade me lay more clothes on his feet: I put my
    hand into the bed and felt them, and they were as
    cold as any stone; then I felt to his knees, and
    they were as cold as any stone, and so upward and
    upward, and all was as cold as any stone.

NYM    They say he cried out of sack.

Hostess    Ay, that a' did.

BARDOLPH    And of women.

Hostess    Nay, that a' did not.

Boy    Yes, that a' did; and said they were devils
    incarnate.

Hostess    A' could never abide carnation; 'twas a colour he
    never liked.

Boy    A' said once, the devil would have him about women.

Hostess    A' did in some sort, indeed, handle women; but then
    he was rheumatic, and talked of the whore of Babylon.

Boy    Do you not remember, a' saw a flea stick upon
    Bardolph's nose, and a' said it was a black soul
    burning in hell-fire?

BARDOLPH    Well, the fuel is gone that maintained that fire:
    that's all the riches I got in his service.

NYM    Shall we shog? the king will be gone from
    Southampton.

PISTOL    Come, let's away. My love, give me thy lips.
    Look to my chattels and my movables:
    Let senses rule; the word is 'Pitch and Pay:'
    Trust none;
    For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes,
    And hold-fast is the only dog, my duck:
    Therefore, Caveto be thy counsellor.
    Go, clear thy crystals. Yoke-fellows in arms,
    Let us to France; like horse-leeches, my boys,
    To suck, to suck, the very blood to suck!

Boy    And that's but unwholesome food they say.

PISTOL    Touch her soft mouth, and march.

BARDOLPH    Farewell, hostess.

    [Kissing her]

NYM    I cannot kiss, that is the humour of it; but, adieu.

PISTOL    Let housewifery appear: keep close, I thee command.

Hostess    Farewell; adieu.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT II



SCENE IV    France. The KING'S palace.


    [Flourish. Enter the FRENCH KING, the DAUPHIN, the
    DUKES of BERRI and BRETAGNE, the Constable, and others]

KING OF FRANCE    Thus comes the English with full power upon us;
    And more than carefully it us concerns
    To answer royally in our defences.
    Therefore the Dukes of Berri and of Bretagne,
    Of Brabant and of Orleans, shall make forth,
    And you, Prince Dauphin, with all swift dispatch,
    To line and new repair our towns of war
    With men of courage and with means defendant;
    For England his approaches makes as fierce
    As waters to the sucking of a gulf.
    It fits us then to be as provident
    As fear may teach us out of late examples
    Left by the fatal and neglected English
    Upon our fields.

DAUPHIN                      My most redoubted father,
    It is most meet we arm us 'gainst the foe;
    For peace itself should not so dull a kingdom,
    Though war nor no known quarrel were in question,
    But that defences, musters, preparations,
    Should be maintain'd, assembled and collected,
    As were a war in expectation.
    Therefore, I say 'tis meet we all go forth
    To view the sick and feeble parts of France:
    And let us do it with no show of fear;
    No, with no more than if we heard that England
    Were busied with a Whitsun morris-dance:
    For, my good liege, she is so idly king'd,
    Her sceptre so fantastically borne
    By a vain, giddy, shallow, humorous youth,
    That fear attends her not.

Constable    O peace, Prince Dauphin!
    You are too much mistaken in this king:
    Question your grace the late ambassadors,
    With what great state he heard their embassy,
    How well supplied with noble counsellors,
    How modest in exception, and withal
    How terrible in constant resolution,
    And you shall find his vanities forespent
    Were but the outside of the Roman Brutus,
    Covering discretion with a coat of folly;
    As gardeners do with ordure hide those roots
    That shall first spring and be most delicate.

DAUPHIN    Well, 'tis not so, my lord high constable;
    But though we think it so, it is no matter:
    In cases of defence 'tis best to weigh
    The enemy more mighty than he seems:
    So the proportions of defence are fill'd;
    Which of a weak or niggardly projection
    Doth, like a miser, spoil his coat with scanting
    A little cloth.

KING OF FRANCE                      Think we King Harry strong;
    And, princes, look you strongly arm to meet him.
    The kindred of him hath been flesh'd upon us;
    And he is bred out of that bloody strain
    That haunted us in our familiar paths:
    Witness our too much memorable shame
    When Cressy battle fatally was struck,
    And all our princes captiv'd by the hand
    Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales;
    Whiles that his mountain sire, on mountain standing,
    Up in the air, crown'd with the golden sun,
    Saw his heroical seed, and smiled to see him,
    Mangle the work of nature and deface
    The patterns that by God and by French fathers
    Had twenty years been made. This is a stem
    Of that victorious stock; and let us fear
    The native mightiness and fate of him.

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    Ambassadors from Harry King of England
    Do crave admittance to your majesty.

KING OF FRANCE    We'll give them present audience. Go, and bring them.

    [Exeunt Messenger and certain Lords]

    You see this chase is hotly follow'd, friends.

DAUPHIN    Turn head, and stop pursuit; for coward dogs
    Most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten
    Runs far before them. Good my sovereign,
    Take up the English short, and let them know
    Of what a monarchy you are the head:
    Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin
    As self-neglecting.

    [Re-enter Lords, with EXETER and train]

KING OF FRANCE    From our brother England?

EXETER    From him; and thus he greets your majesty.
    He wills you, in the name of God Almighty,
    That you divest yourself, and lay apart
    The borrow'd glories that by gift of heaven,
    By law of nature and of nations, 'long
    To him and to his heirs; namely, the crown
    And all wide-stretched honours that pertain
    By custom and the ordinance of times
    Unto the crown of France. That you may know
    'Tis no sinister nor no awkward claim,
    Pick'd from the worm-holes of long-vanish'd days,
    Nor from the dust of old oblivion raked,
    He sends you this most memorable line,
    In every branch truly demonstrative;
    Willing to overlook this pedigree:
    And when you find him evenly derived
    From his most famed of famous ancestors,
    Edward the Third, he bids you then resign
    Your crown and kingdom, indirectly held
    From him the native and true challenger.

KING OF FRANCE    Or else what follows?

EXETER    Bloody constraint; for if you hide the crown
    Even in your hearts, there will he rake for it:
    Therefore in fierce tempest is he coming,
    In thunder and in earthquake, like a Jove,
    That, if requiring fail, he will compel;
    And bids you, in the bowels of the Lord,
    Deliver up the crown, and to take mercy
    On the poor souls for whom this hungry war
    Opens his vasty jaws; and on your head
    Turning the widows' tears, the orphans' cries
    The dead men's blood, the pining maidens groans,
    For husbands, fathers and betrothed lovers,
    That shall be swallow'd in this controversy.
    This is his claim, his threatening and my message;
    Unless the Dauphin be in presence here,
    To whom expressly I bring greeting too.

KING OF FRANCE    For us, we will consider of this further:
    To-morrow shall you bear our full intent
    Back to our brother England.

DAUPHIN    For the Dauphin,
    I stand here for him: what to him from England?

EXETER    Scorn and defiance; slight regard, contempt,
    And any thing that may not misbecome
    The mighty sender, doth he prize you at.
    Thus says my king; an' if your father's highness
    Do not, in grant of all demands at large,
    Sweeten the bitter mock you sent his majesty,
    He'll call you to so hot an answer of it,
    That caves and womby vaultages of France
    Shall chide your trespass and return your mock
    In second accent of his ordnance.

DAUPHIN    Say, if my father render fair return,
    It is against my will; for I desire
    Nothing but odds with England: to that end,
    As matching to his youth and vanity,
    I did present him with the Paris balls.

EXETER    He'll make your Paris Louvre shake for it,
    Were it the mistress-court of mighty Europe:
    And, be assured, you'll find a difference,
    As we his subjects have in wonder found,
    Between the promise of his greener days
    And these he masters now: now he weighs time
    Even to the utmost grain: that you shall read
    In your own losses, if he stay in France.

KING OF FRANCE    To-morrow shall you know our mind at full.

EXETER    Dispatch us with all speed, lest that our king
    Come here himself to question our delay;
    For he is footed in this land already.

KING OF FRANCE    You shall be soon dispatch's with fair conditions:
    A night is but small breath and little pause
    To answer matters of this consequence.

    [Flourish. Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III


    PROLOGUE.


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    Thus with imagined wing our swift scene flies
    In motion of no less celerity
    Than that of thought. Suppose that you have seen
    The well-appointed king at Hampton pier
    Embark his royalty; and his brave fleet
    With silken streamers the young Phoebus fanning:
    Play with your fancies, and in them behold
    Upon the hempen tackle ship-boys climbing;
    Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give
    To sounds confused; behold the threaden sails,
    Borne with the invisible and creeping wind,
    Draw the huge bottoms through the furrow'd sea,
    Breasting the lofty surge: O, do but think
    You stand upon the ravage and behold
    A city on the inconstant billows dancing;
    For so appears this fleet majestical,
    Holding due course to Harfleur. Follow, follow:
    Grapple your minds to sternage of this navy,
    And leave your England, as dead midnight still,
    Guarded with grandsires, babies and old women,
    Either past or not arrived to pith and puissance;
    For who is he, whose chin is but enrich'd
    With one appearing hair, that will not follow
    These cull'd and choice-drawn cavaliers to France?
    Work, work your thoughts, and therein see a siege;
    Behold the ordnance on their carriages,
    With fatal mouths gaping on girded Harfleur.
    Suppose the ambassador from the French comes back;
    Tells Harry that the king doth offer him
    Katharine his daughter, and with her, to dowry,
    Some petty and unprofitable dukedoms.
    The offer likes not: and the nimble gunner
    With linstock now the devilish cannon touches,

    [Alarum, and chambers go off]

    And down goes all before them. Still be kind,
    And eke out our performance with your mind.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE I    France. Before Harfleur.


    [Alarum. Enter KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD,
    GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers, with scaling-ladders]

KING HENRY V    Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
    Or close the wall up with our English dead.
    In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
    As modest stillness and humility:
    But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
    Then imitate the action of the tiger;
    Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
    Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
    Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
    Let pry through the portage of the head
    Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
    As fearfully as doth a galled rock
    O'erhang and jutty his confounded base,
    Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
    Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
    Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
    To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
    Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
    Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
    Have in these parts from morn till even fought
    And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
    Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
    That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
    Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
    And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
    Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
    The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
    That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
    For there is none of you so mean and base,
    That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
    I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
    Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
    Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
    Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'

    [Exeunt. Alarum, and chambers go off]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter NYM, BARDOLPH, PISTOL, and Boy]

BARDOLPH    On, on, on, on, on! to the breach, to the breach!

NYM    Pray thee, corporal, stay: the knocks are too hot;
    and, for mine own part, I have not a case of lives:
    the humour of it is too hot, that is the very
    plain-song of it.

PISTOL    The plain-song is most just: for humours do abound:
    Knocks go and come; God's vassals drop and die;
    And sword and shield,
    In bloody field,
    Doth win immortal fame.

Boy    Would I were in an alehouse in London! I would give
    all my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

PISTOL    And I:
    If wishes would prevail with me,
    My purpose should not fail with me,
    But thither would I hie.

Boy              As duly, but not as truly,
    As bird doth sing on bough.

    [Enter FLUELLEN]

FLUELLEN    Up to the breach, you dogs! avaunt, you cullions!

    [Driving them forward]

PISTOL    Be merciful, great duke, to men of mould.
    Abate thy rage, abate thy manly rage,
    Abate thy rage, great duke!
    Good bawcock, bate thy rage; use lenity, sweet chuck!

NYM    These be good humours! your honour wins bad humours.

    [Exeunt all but Boy]

Boy    As young as I am, I have observed these three
    swashers. I am boy to them all three: but all they
    three, though they would serve me, could not be man
    to me; for indeed three such antics do not amount to
    a man. For Bardolph, he is white-livered and
    red-faced; by the means whereof a' faces it out, but
    fights not. For Pistol, he hath a killing tongue
    and a quiet sword; by the means whereof a' breaks
    words, and keeps whole weapons. For Nym, he hath
    heard that men of few words are the best men; and
    therefore he scorns to say his prayers, lest a'
    should be thought a coward: but his few bad words
    are matched with as few good deeds; for a' never
    broke any man's head but his own, and that was
    against a post when he was drunk. They will steal
    any thing, and call it purchase. Bardolph stole a
    lute-case, bore it twelve leagues, and sold it for
    three half pence. Nym and Bardolph are sworn
    brothers in filching, and in Calais they stole a
    fire-shovel: I knew by that piece of service the
    men would carry coals. They would have me as
    familiar with men's pockets as their gloves or their
    handkerchers: which makes much against my manhood,
    if I should take from another's pocket to put into
    mine; for it is plain pocketing up of wrongs. I
    must leave them, and seek some better service:
    their villany goes against my weak stomach, and
    therefore I must cast it up.

    [Exit]

    [Re-enter FLUELLEN, GOWER following]

GOWER    Captain Fluellen, you must come presently to the
    mines; the Duke of Gloucester would speak with you.

FLUELLEN    To the mines! tell you the duke, it is not so good
    to come to the mines; for, look you, the mines is
    not according to the disciplines of the war: the
    concavities of it is not sufficient; for, look you,
    the athversary, you may discuss unto the duke, look
    you, is digt himself four yard under the
    countermines: by Cheshu, I think a' will plough up
    all, if there is not better directions.

GOWER    The Duke of Gloucester, to whom the order of the
    siege is given, is altogether directed by an
    Irishman, a very valiant gentleman, i' faith.

FLUELLEN    It is Captain Macmorris, is it not?

GOWER    I think it be.

FLUELLEN    By Cheshu, he is an ass, as in the world: I will
    verify as much in his beard: be has no more
    directions in the true disciplines of the wars, look
    you, of the Roman disciplines, than is a puppy-dog.

    [Enter MACMORRIS and Captain JAMY]

GOWER    Here a' comes; and the Scots captain, Captain Jamy, with him.

FLUELLEN    Captain Jamy is a marvellous falourous gentleman,
    that is certain; and of great expedition and
    knowledge in th' aunchient wars, upon my particular
    knowledge of his directions: by Cheshu, he will
    maintain his argument as well as any military man in
    the world, in the disciplines of the pristine wars
    of the Romans.

JAMY    I say gud-day, Captain Fluellen.

FLUELLEN    God-den to your worship, good Captain James.

GOWER    How now, Captain Macmorris! have you quit the
    mines? have the pioneers given o'er?

MACMORRIS    By Chrish, la! tish ill done: the work ish give
    over, the trompet sound the retreat. By my hand, I
    swear, and my father's soul, the work ish ill done;
    it ish give over: I would have blowed up the town, so
    Chrish save me, la! in an hour: O, tish ill done,
    tish ill done; by my hand, tish ill done!

FLUELLEN    Captain Macmorris, I beseech you now, will you
    voutsafe me, look you, a few disputations with you,
    as partly touching or concerning the disciplines of
    the war, the Roman wars, in the way of argument,
    look you, and friendly communication; partly to
    satisfy my opinion, and partly for the satisfaction,
    look you, of my mind, as touching the direction of
    the military discipline; that is the point.

JAMY    It sall be vary gud, gud feith, gud captains bath:
    and I sall quit you with gud leve, as I may pick
    occasion; that sall I, marry.

MACMORRIS    It is no time to discourse, so Chrish save me: the
    day is hot, and the weather, and the wars, and the
    king, and the dukes: it is no time to discourse. The
    town is beseeched, and the trumpet call us to the
    breach; and we talk, and, be Chrish, do nothing:
    'tis shame for us all: so God sa' me, 'tis shame to
    stand still; it is shame, by my hand: and there is
    throats to be cut, and works to be done; and there
    ish nothing done, so Chrish sa' me, la!

JAMY    By the mess, ere theise eyes of mine take themselves
    to slomber, ay'll de gud service, or ay'll lig i'
    the grund for it; ay, or go to death; and ay'll pay
    't as valourously as I may, that sall I suerly do,
    that is the breff and the long. Marry, I wad full
    fain hear some question 'tween you tway.

FLUELLEN    Captain Macmorris, I think, look you, under your
    correction, there is not many of your nation--

MACMORRIS    Of my nation! What ish my nation? Ish a villain,
    and a bastard, and a knave, and a rascal. What ish
    my nation? Who talks of my nation?

FLUELLEN    Look you, if you take the matter otherwise than is
    meant, Captain Macmorris, peradventure I shall think
    you do not use me with that affability as in
    discretion you ought to use me, look you: being as
    good a man as yourself, both in the disciplines of
    war, and in the derivation of my birth, and in
    other particularities.

MACMORRIS    I do not know you so good a man as myself: so
    Chrish save me, I will cut off your head.

GOWER    Gentlemen both, you will mistake each other.

JAMY    A! that's a foul fault.

    [A parley sounded]

GOWER    The town sounds a parley.

FLUELLEN    Captain Macmorris, when there is more better
    opportunity to be required, look you, I will be so
    bold as to tell you I know the disciplines of war;
    and there is an end.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE III    The same. Before the gates.


    [The Governor and some Citizens on the walls; the
    English forces below. Enter KING HENRY and his train]

KING HENRY V    How yet resolves the governor of the town?
    This is the latest parle we will admit;
    Therefore to our best mercy give yourselves;
    Or like to men proud of destruction
    Defy us to our worst: for, as I am a soldier,
    A name that in my thoughts becomes me best,
    If I begin the battery once again,
    I will not leave the half-achieved Harfleur
    Till in her ashes she lie buried.
    The gates of mercy shall be all shut up,
    And the flesh'd soldier, rough and hard of heart,
    In liberty of bloody hand shall range
    With conscience wide as hell, mowing like grass
    Your fresh-fair virgins and your flowering infants.
    What is it then to me, if impious war,
    Array'd in flames like to the prince of fiends,
    Do, with his smirch'd complexion, all fell feats
    Enlink'd to waste and desolation?
    What is't to me, when you yourselves are cause,
    If your pure maidens fall into the hand
    Of hot and forcing violation?
    What rein can hold licentious wickedness
    When down the hill he holds his fierce career?
    We may as bootless spend our vain command
    Upon the enraged soldiers in their spoil
    As send precepts to the leviathan
    To come ashore. Therefore, you men of Harfleur,
    Take pity of your town and of your people,
    Whiles yet my soldiers are in my command;
    Whiles yet the cool and temperate wind of grace
    O'erblows the filthy and contagious clouds
    Of heady murder, spoil and villany.
    If not, why, in a moment look to see
    The blind and bloody soldier with foul hand
    Defile the locks of your shrill-shrieking daughters;
    Your fathers taken by the silver beards,
    And their most reverend heads dash'd to the walls,
    Your naked infants spitted upon pikes,
    Whiles the mad mothers with their howls confused
    Do break the clouds, as did the wives of Jewry
    At Herod's bloody-hunting slaughtermen.
    What say you? will you yield, and this avoid,
    Or, guilty in defence, be thus destroy'd?

GOVERNOR    Our expectation hath this day an end:
    The Dauphin, whom of succors we entreated,
    Returns us that his powers are yet not ready
    To raise so great a siege. Therefore, great king,
    We yield our town and lives to thy soft mercy.
    Enter our gates; dispose of us and ours;
    For we no longer are defensible.

KING HENRY V    Open your gates. Come, uncle Exeter,
    Go you and enter Harfleur; there remain,
    And fortify it strongly 'gainst the French:
    Use mercy to them all. For us, dear uncle,
    The winter coming on and sickness growing
    Upon our soldiers, we will retire to Calais.
    To-night in Harfleur we will be your guest;
    To-morrow for the march are we addrest.

    [Flourish. The King and his train enter the town]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE IV    The FRENCH KING's palace.


    [Enter KATHARINE and ALICE]

KATHARINE    Alice, tu as ete en Angleterre, et tu parles bien le langage.

ALICE    Un peu, madame.

KATHARINE    Je te prie, m'enseignez: il faut que j'apprenne a
    parler. Comment appelez-vous la main en Anglois?

ALICE    La main? elle est appelee de hand.

KATHARINE    De hand. Et les doigts?

ALICE    Les doigts? ma foi, j'oublie les doigts; mais je me
    souviendrai. Les doigts? je pense qu'ils sont
    appeles de fingres; oui, de fingres.

KATHARINE    La main, de hand; les doigts, de fingres. Je pense
    que je suis le bon ecolier; j'ai gagne deux mots
    d'Anglois vitement. Comment appelez-vous les ongles?

ALICE    Les ongles? nous les appelons de nails.

KATHARINE    De nails. Ecoutez; dites-moi, si je parle bien: de
    hand, de fingres, et de nails.

ALICE    C'est bien dit, madame; il est fort bon Anglois.

KATHARINE    Dites-moi l'Anglois pour le bras.

ALICE    De arm, madame.

KATHARINE    Et le coude?

ALICE    De elbow.

KATHARINE    De elbow. Je m'en fais la repetition de tous les
    mots que vous m'avez appris des a present.

ALICE    Il est trop difficile, madame, comme je pense.

KATHARINE    Excusez-moi, Alice; ecoutez: de hand, de fingres,
    de nails, de arma, de bilbow.

ALICE    De elbow, madame.

KATHARINE    O Seigneur Dieu, je m'en oublie! de elbow. Comment
    appelez-vous le col?

ALICE    De neck, madame.

KATHARINE    De nick. Et le menton?

ALICE    De chin.

KATHARINE    De sin. Le col, de nick; de menton, de sin.

ALICE    Oui. Sauf votre honneur, en verite, vous prononcez
    les mots aussi droit que les natifs d'Angleterre.

KATHARINE    Je ne doute point d'apprendre, par la grace de Dieu,
    et en peu de temps.

ALICE    N'avez vous pas deja oublie ce que je vous ai enseigne?

KATHARINE    Non, je reciterai a vous promptement: de hand, de
    fingres, de mails--

ALICE    De nails, madame.

KATHARINE    De nails, de arm, de ilbow.

ALICE    Sauf votre honneur, de elbow.

KATHARINE    Ainsi dis-je; de elbow, de nick, et de sin. Comment
    appelez-vous le pied et la robe?

ALICE    De foot, madame; et de coun.

KATHARINE    De foot et de coun! O Seigneur Dieu! ce sont mots
    de son mauvais, corruptible, gros, et impudique, et
    non pour les dames d'honneur d'user: je ne voudrais
    prononcer ces mots devant les seigneurs de France
    pour tout le monde. Foh! le foot et le coun!
    Neanmoins, je reciterai une autre fois ma lecon
    ensemble: de hand, de fingres, de nails, de arm, de
    elbow, de nick, de sin, de foot, de coun.

ALICE    Excellent, madame!

KATHARINE    C'est assez pour une fois: allons-nous a diner.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE V    The same.


    [Enter the KING OF FRANCE, the DAUPHIN, the DUKE oF
    BOURBON, the Constable Of France, and others]

KING OF FRANCE    'Tis certain he hath pass'd the river Somme.

Constable    And if he be not fought withal, my lord,
    Let us not live in France; let us quit all
    And give our vineyards to a barbarous people.

DAUPHIN    O Dieu vivant! shall a few sprays of us,
    The emptying of our fathers' luxury,
    Our scions, put in wild and savage stock,
    Spirt up so suddenly into the clouds,
    And overlook their grafters?

BOURBON    Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards!
    Mort de ma vie! if they march along
    Unfought withal, but I will sell my dukedom,
    To buy a slobbery and a dirty farm
    In that nook-shotten isle of Albion.

Constable    Dieu de batailles! where have they this mettle?
    Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull,
    On whom, as in despite, the sun looks pale,
    Killing their fruit with frowns? Can sodden water,
    A drench for sur-rein'd jades, their barley-broth,
    Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat?
    And shall our quick blood, spirited with wine,
    Seem frosty? O, for honour of our land,
    Let us not hang like roping icicles
    Upon our houses' thatch, whiles a more frosty people
    Sweat drops of gallant youth in our rich fields!
    Poor we may call them in their native lords.

DAUPHIN    By faith and honour,
    Our madams mock at us, and plainly say
    Our mettle is bred out and they will give
    Their bodies to the lust of English youth
    To new-store France with bastard warriors.

BOURBON    They bid us to the English dancing-schools,
    And teach lavoltas high and swift corantos;
    Saying our grace is only in our heels,
    And that we are most lofty runaways.

KING OF FRANCE    Where is Montjoy the herald? speed him hence:
    Let him greet England with our sharp defiance.
    Up, princes! and, with spirit of honour edged
    More sharper than your swords, hie to the field:
    Charles Delabreth, high constable of France;
    You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berri,
    Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgundy;
    Jaques Chatillon, Rambures, Vaudemont,
    Beaumont, Grandpre, Roussi, and Fauconberg,
    Foix, Lestrale, Bouciqualt, and Charolois;
    High dukes, great princes, barons, lords and knights,
    For your great seats now quit you of great shames.
    Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our land
    With pennons painted in the blood of Harfleur:
    Rush on his host, as doth the melted snow
    Upon the valleys, whose low vassal seat
    The Alps doth spit and void his rheum upon:
    Go down upon him, you have power enough,
    And in a captive chariot into Rouen
    Bring him our prisoner.

Constable    This becomes the great.
    Sorry am I his numbers are so few,
    His soldiers sick and famish'd in their march,
    For I am sure, when he shall see our army,
    He'll drop his heart into the sink of fear
    And for achievement offer us his ransom.

KING OF FRANCE    Therefore, lord constable, haste on Montjoy.
    And let him say to England that we send
    To know what willing ransom he will give.
    Prince Dauphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.

DAUPHIN    Not so, I do beseech your majesty.

KING OF FRANCE    Be patient, for you shall remain with us.
    Now forth, lord constable and princes all,
    And quickly bring us word of England's fall.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE VI    The English camp in Picardy.


    [Enter GOWER and FLUELLEN, meeting]

GOWER    How now, Captain Fluellen! come you from the bridge?

FLUELLEN    I assure you, there is very excellent services
    committed at the bridge.

GOWER    Is the Duke of Exeter safe?

FLUELLEN    The Duke of Exeter is as magnanimous as Agamemnon;
    and a man that I love and honour with my soul, and my
    heart, and my duty, and my life, and my living, and
    my uttermost power: he is not-God be praised and
    blessed!--any hurt in the world; but keeps the
    bridge most valiantly, with excellent discipline.
    There is an aunchient lieutenant there at the
    pridge, I think in my very conscience he is as
    valiant a man as Mark Antony; and he is a man of no
    estimation in the world; but did see him do as
    gallant service.

GOWER    What do you call him?

FLUELLEN    He is called Aunchient Pistol.

GOWER    I know him not.

    [Enter PISTOL]

FLUELLEN    Here is the man.

PISTOL    Captain, I thee beseech to do me favours:
    The Duke of Exeter doth love thee well.

FLUELLEN    Ay, I praise God; and I have merited some love at
    his hands.

PISTOL    Bardolph, a soldier, firm and sound of heart,
    And of buxom valour, hath, by cruel fate,
    And giddy Fortune's furious fickle wheel,
    That goddess blind,
    That stands upon the rolling restless stone--

FLUELLEN    By your patience, Aunchient Pistol. Fortune is
    painted blind, with a muffler afore her eyes, to
    signify to you that Fortune is blind; and she is
    painted also with a wheel, to signify to you, which
    is the moral of it, that she is turning, and
    inconstant, and mutability, and variation: and her
    foot, look you, is fixed upon a spherical stone,
    which rolls, and rolls, and rolls: in good truth,
    the poet makes a most excellent description of it:
    Fortune is an excellent moral.

PISTOL    Fortune is Bardolph's foe, and frowns on him;
    For he hath stolen a pax, and hanged must a' be:
    A damned death!
    Let gallows gape for dog; let man go free
    And let not hemp his wind-pipe suffocate:
    But Exeter hath given the doom of death
    For pax of little price.
    Therefore, go speak: the duke will hear thy voice:
    And let not Bardolph's vital thread be cut
    With edge of penny cord and vile reproach:
    Speak, captain, for his life, and I will thee requite.

FLUELLEN    Aunchient Pistol, I do partly understand your meaning.

PISTOL    Why then, rejoice therefore.

FLUELLEN    Certainly, aunchient, it is not a thing to rejoice
    at: for if, look you, he were my brother, I would
    desire the duke to use his good pleasure, and put
    him to execution; for discipline ought to be used.

PISTOL    Die and be damn'd! and figo for thy friendship!

FLUELLEN    It is well.

PISTOL    The fig of Spain!

    [Exit]

FLUELLEN    Very good.

GOWER    Why, this is an arrant counterfeit rascal; I
    remember him now; a bawd, a cutpurse.

FLUELLEN    I'll assure you, a' uttered as brave words at the
    bridge as you shall see in a summer's day. But it
    is very well; what he has spoke to me, that is well,
    I warrant you, when time is serve.

GOWER    Why, 'tis a gull, a fool, a rogue, that now and then
    goes to the wars, to grace himself at his return
    into London under the form of a soldier. And such
    fellows are perfect in the great commanders' names:
    and they will learn you by rote where services were
    done; at such and such a sconce, at such a breach,
    at such a convoy; who came off bravely, who was
    shot, who disgraced, what terms the enemy stood on;
    and this they con perfectly in the phrase of war,
    which they trick up with new-tuned oaths: and what
    a beard of the general's cut and a horrid suit of
    the camp will do among foaming bottles and
    ale-washed wits, is wonderful to be thought on. But
    you must learn to know such slanders of the age, or
    else you may be marvellously mistook.

FLUELLEN    I tell you what, Captain Gower; I do perceive he is
    not the man that he would gladly make show to the
    world he is: if I find a hole in his coat, I will
    tell him my mind.

    [Drum heard]

    Hark you, the king is coming, and I must speak with
    him from the pridge.

    [Drum and colours. Enter KING HENRY, GLOUCESTER, and Soldiers]

    God pless your majesty!

KING HENRY V    How now, Fluellen! camest thou from the bridge?

FLUELLEN    Ay, so please your majesty. The Duke of Exeter has
    very gallantly maintained the pridge: the French is
    gone off, look you; and there is gallant and most
    prave passages; marry, th' athversary was have
    possession of the pridge; but he is enforced to
    retire, and the Duke of Exeter is master of the
    pridge: I can tell your majesty, the duke is a
    prave man.

KING HENRY V    What men have you lost, Fluellen?

FLUELLEN    The perdition of th' athversary hath been very
    great, reasonable great: marry, for my part, I
    think the duke hath lost never a man, but one that
    is like to be executed for robbing a church, one
    Bardolph, if your majesty know the man: his face is
    all bubukles, and whelks, and knobs, and flames o'
    fire: and his lips blows at his nose, and it is like
    a coal of fire, sometimes plue and sometimes red;
    but his nose is executed and his fire's out.

KING HENRY V    We would have all such offenders so cut off: and we
    give express charge, that in our marches through the
    country, there be nothing compelled from the
    villages, nothing taken but paid for, none of the
    French upbraided or abused in disdainful language;
    for when lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the
    gentler gamester is the soonest winner.

    [Tucket. Enter MONTJOY]

MONTJOY    You know me by my habit.

KING HENRY V    Well then I know thee: what shall I know of thee?

MONTJOY    My master's mind.

KING HENRY V    Unfold it.

MONTJOY    Thus says my king: Say thou to Harry of England:
    Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep: advantage
    is a better soldier than rashness. Tell him we
    could have rebuked him at Harfleur, but that we
    thought not good to bruise an injury till it were
    full ripe: now we speak upon our cue, and our voice
    is imperial: England shall repent his folly, see
    his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him
    therefore consider of his ransom; which must
    proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we
    have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in
    weight to re-answer, his pettiness would bow under.
    For our losses, his exchequer is too poor; for the
    effusion of our blood, the muster of his kingdom too
    faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own
    person, kneeling at our feet, but a weak and
    worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: and
    tell him, for conclusion, he hath betrayed his
    followers, whose condemnation is pronounced. So far
    my king and master; so much my office.

KING HENRY V    What is thy name? I know thy quality.

MONTJOY    Montjoy.

KING HENRY V    Thou dost thy office fairly. Turn thee back.
    And tell thy king I do not seek him now;
    But could be willing to march on to Calais
    Without impeachment: for, to say the sooth,
    Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much
    Unto an enemy of craft and vantage,
    My people are with sickness much enfeebled,
    My numbers lessened, and those few I have
    Almost no better than so many French;
    Who when they were in health, I tell thee, herald,
    I thought upon one pair of English legs
    Did march three Frenchmen. Yet, forgive me, God,
    That I do brag thus! This your air of France
    Hath blown that vice in me: I must repent.
    Go therefore, tell thy master here I am;
    My ransom is this frail and worthless trunk,
    My army but a weak and sickly guard;
    Yet, God before, tell him we will come on,
    Though France himself and such another neighbour
    Stand in our way. There's for thy labour, Montjoy.
    Go bid thy master well advise himself:
    If we may pass, we will; if we be hinder'd,
    We shall your tawny ground with your red blood
    Discolour: and so Montjoy, fare you well.
    The sum of all our answer is but this:
    We would not seek a battle, as we are;
    Nor, as we are, we say we will not shun it:
    So tell your master.

MONTJOY    I shall deliver so. Thanks to your highness.

    [Exit]

GLOUCESTER    I hope they will not come upon us now.

KING HENRY V    We are in God's hand, brother, not in theirs.
    March to the bridge; it now draws toward night:
    Beyond the river we'll encamp ourselves,
    And on to-morrow, bid them march away.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT III



SCENE VII    The French camp, near Agincourt:


    [Enter the Constable of France, the LORD RAMBURES,
    ORLEANS, DAUPHIN, with others]

Constable    Tut! I have the best armour of the world. Would it were day!

ORLEANS    You have an excellent armour; but let my horse have his due.

Constable    It is the best horse of Europe.

ORLEANS    Will it never be morning?

DAUPHIN    My lord of Orleans, and my lord high constable, you
    talk of horse and armour?

ORLEANS    You are as well provided of both as any prince in the world.

DAUPHIN    What a long night is this! I will not change my
    horse with any that treads but on four pasterns.
    Ca, ha! he bounds from the earth, as if his
    entrails were hairs; le cheval volant, the Pegasus,
    chez les narines de feu! When I bestride him, I
    soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air; the earth
    sings when he touches it; the basest horn of his
    hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.

ORLEANS    He's of the colour of the nutmeg.

DAUPHIN    And of the heat of the ginger. It is a beast for
    Perseus: he is pure air and fire; and the dull
    elements of earth and water never appear in him, but
    only in Patient stillness while his rider mounts
    him: he is indeed a horse; and all other jades you
    may call beasts.

Constable    Indeed, my lord, it is a most absolute and excellent horse.

DAUPHIN    It is the prince of palfreys; his neigh is like the
    bidding of a monarch and his countenance enforces homage.

ORLEANS    No more, cousin.

DAUPHIN    Nay, the man hath no wit that cannot, from the
    rising of the lark to the lodging of the lamb, vary
    deserved praise on my palfrey: it is a theme as
    fluent as the sea: turn the sands into eloquent
    tongues, and my horse is argument for them all:
    'tis a subject for a sovereign to reason on, and for
    a sovereign's sovereign to ride on; and for the
    world, familiar to us and unknown to lay apart
    their particular functions and wonder at him. I
    once writ a sonnet in his praise and began thus:
    'Wonder of nature,'--

ORLEANS    I have heard a sonnet begin so to one's mistress.

DAUPHIN    Then did they imitate that which I composed to my
    courser, for my horse is my mistress.

ORLEANS    Your mistress bears well.

DAUPHIN    Me well; which is the prescript praise and
    perfection of a good and particular mistress.

Constable    Nay, for methought yesterday your mistress shrewdly
    shook your back.

DAUPHIN    So perhaps did yours.

Constable    Mine was not bridled.

DAUPHIN    O then belike she was old and gentle; and you rode,
    like a kern of Ireland, your French hose off, and in
    your straight strossers.

Constable    You have good judgment in horsemanship.

DAUPHIN    Be warned by me, then: they that ride so and ride
    not warily, fall into foul bogs. I had rather have
    my horse to my mistress.

Constable    I had as lief have my mistress a jade.

DAUPHIN    I tell thee, constable, my mistress wears his own hair.

Constable    I could make as true a boast as that, if I had a sow
    to my mistress.

DAUPHIN    'Le chien est retourne a son propre vomissement, et
    la truie lavee au bourbier;' thou makest use of any thing.

Constable    Yet do I not use my horse for my mistress, or any
    such proverb so little kin to the purpose.

RAMBURES    My lord constable, the armour that I saw in your tent
    to-night, are those stars or suns upon it?

Constable    Stars, my lord.

DAUPHIN    Some of them will fall to-morrow, I hope.

Constable    And yet my sky shall not want.

DAUPHIN    That may be, for you bear a many superfluously, and
    'twere more honour some were away.

Constable    Even as your horse bears your praises; who would
    trot as well, were some of your brags dismounted.

DAUPHIN    Would I were able to load him with his desert! Will
    it never be day? I will trot to-morrow a mile, and
    my way shall be paved with English faces.

Constable    I will not say so, for fear I should be faced out of
    my way: but I would it were morning; for I would
    fain be about the ears of the English.

RAMBURES    Who will go to hazard with me for twenty prisoners?

Constable    You must first go yourself to hazard, ere you have them.

DAUPHIN    'Tis midnight; I'll go arm myself.

    [Exit]

ORLEANS    The Dauphin longs for morning.

RAMBURES    He longs to eat the English.

Constable    I think he will eat all he kills.

ORLEANS    By the white hand of my lady, he's a gallant prince.

Constable    Swear by her foot, that she may tread out the oath.

ORLEANS    He is simply the most active gentleman of France.

Constable    Doing is activity; and he will still be doing.

ORLEANS    He never did harm, that I heard of.

Constable    Nor will do none to-morrow: he will keep that good name still.

ORLEANS    I know him to be valiant.

Constable    I was told that by one that knows him better than
    you.

ORLEANS    What's he?

Constable    Marry, he told me so himself; and he said he cared
    not who knew it

ORLEANS    He needs not; it is no hidden virtue in him.

Constable    By my faith, sir, but it is; never any body saw it
    but his lackey: 'tis a hooded valour; and when it
    appears, it will bate.

ORLEANS    Ill will never said well.

Constable    I will cap that proverb with 'There is flattery in friendship.'

ORLEANS    And I will take up that with 'Give the devil his due.'

Constable    Well placed: there stands your friend for the
    devil: have at the very eye of that proverb with 'A
    pox of the devil.'

ORLEANS    You are the better at proverbs, by how much 'A
    fool's bolt is soon shot.'

Constable    You have shot over.

ORLEANS    'Tis not the first time you were overshot.

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    My lord high constable, the English lie within
    fifteen hundred paces of your tents.

Constable    Who hath measured the ground?

Messenger    The Lord Grandpre.

Constable    A valiant and most expert gentleman. Would it were
    day! Alas, poor Harry of England! he longs not for
    the dawning as we do.

ORLEANS    What a wretched and peevish fellow is this king of
    England, to mope with his fat-brained followers so
    far out of his knowledge!

Constable    If the English had any apprehension, they would run away.

ORLEANS    That they lack; for if their heads had any
    intellectual armour, they could never wear such heavy
    head-pieces.

RAMBURES    That island of England breeds very valiant
    creatures; their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.

ORLEANS    Foolish curs, that run winking into the mouth of a
    Russian bear and have their heads crushed like
    rotten apples! You may as well say, that's a
    valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Constable    Just, just; and the men do sympathize with the
    mastiffs in robustious and rough coming on, leaving
    their wits with their wives: and then give them
    great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will
    eat like wolves and fight like devils.

ORLEANS    Ay, but these English are shrewdly out of beef.

Constable    Then shall we find to-morrow they have only stomachs
    to eat and none to fight. Now is it time to arm:
    come, shall we about it?

ORLEANS    It is now two o'clock: but, let me see, by ten
    We shall have each a hundred Englishmen.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV


    PROLOGUE.


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    Now entertain conjecture of a time
    When creeping murmur and the poring dark
    Fills the wide vessel of the universe.
    From camp to camp through the foul womb of night
    The hum of either army stilly sounds,
    That the fixed sentinels almost receive
    The secret whispers of each other's watch:
    Fire answers fire, and through their paly flames
    Each battle sees the other's umber'd face;
    Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs
    Piercing the night's dull ear, and from the tents
    The armourers, accomplishing the knights,
    With busy hammers closing rivets up,
    Give dreadful note of preparation:
    The country cocks do crow, the clocks do toll,
    And the third hour of drowsy morning name.
    Proud of their numbers and secure in soul,
    The confident and over-lusty French
    Do the low-rated English play at dice;
    And chide the cripple tardy-gaited night
    Who, like a foul and ugly witch, doth limp
    So tediously away. The poor condemned English,
    Like sacrifices, by their watchful fires
    Sit patiently and inly ruminate
    The morning's danger, and their gesture sad
    Investing lank-lean; cheeks and war-worn coats
    Presenteth them unto the gazing moon
    So many horrid ghosts. O now, who will behold
    The royal captain of this ruin'd band
    Walking from watch to watch, from tent to tent,
    Let him cry 'Praise and glory on his head!'
    For forth he goes and visits all his host.
    Bids them good morrow with a modest smile
    And calls them brothers, friends and countrymen.
    Upon his royal face there is no note
    How dread an army hath enrounded him;
    Nor doth he dedicate one jot of colour
    Unto the weary and all-watched night,
    But freshly looks and over-bears attaint
    With cheerful semblance and sweet majesty;
    That every wretch, pining and pale before,
    Beholding him, plucks comfort from his looks:
    A largess universal like the sun
    His liberal eye doth give to every one,
    Thawing cold fear, that mean and gentle all,
    Behold, as may unworthiness define,
    A little touch of Harry in the night.
    And so our scene must to the battle fly;
    Where--O for pity!--we shall much disgrace
    With four or five most vile and ragged foils,
    Right ill-disposed in brawl ridiculous,
    The name of Agincourt. Yet sit and see,
    Minding true things by what their mockeries be.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE I    The English camp at Agincourt.


    [Enter KING HENRY, BEDFORD, and GLOUCESTER]

KING HENRY V    Gloucester, 'tis true that we are in great danger;
    The greater therefore should our courage be.
    Good morrow, brother Bedford. God Almighty!
    There is some soul of goodness in things evil,
    Would men observingly distil it out.
    For our bad neighbour makes us early stirrers,
    Which is both healthful and good husbandry:
    Besides, they are our outward consciences,
    And preachers to us all, admonishing
    That we should dress us fairly for our end.
    Thus may we gather honey from the weed,
    And make a moral of the devil himself.

    [Enter ERPINGHAM]

    Good morrow, old Sir Thomas Erpingham:
    A good soft pillow for that good white head
    Were better than a churlish turf of France.

ERPINGHAM    Not so, my liege: this lodging likes me better,
    Since I may say 'Now lie I like a king.'

KING HENRY V    'Tis good for men to love their present pains
    Upon example; so the spirit is eased:
    And when the mind is quicken'd, out of doubt,
    The organs, though defunct and dead before,
    Break up their drowsy grave and newly move,
    With casted slough and fresh legerity.
    Lend me thy cloak, Sir Thomas. Brothers both,
    Commend me to the princes in our camp;
    Do my good morrow to them, and anon
    Desire them an to my pavilion.

GLOUCESTER    We shall, my liege.

ERPINGHAM    Shall I attend your grace?

KING HENRY V    No, my good knight;
    Go with my brothers to my lords of England:
    I and my bosom must debate awhile,
    And then I would no other company.

ERPINGHAM    The Lord in heaven bless thee, noble Harry!

    [Exeunt all but KING HENRY]

KING HENRY V    God-a-mercy, old heart! thou speak'st cheerfully.

    [Enter PISTOL]

PISTOL    Qui va la?

KING HENRY V    A friend.

PISTOL    Discuss unto me; art thou officer?
    Or art thou base, common and popular?

KING HENRY V    I am a gentleman of a company.

PISTOL    Trail'st thou the puissant pike?

KING HENRY V    Even so. What are you?

PISTOL    As good a gentleman as the emperor.

KING HENRY V    Then you are a better than the king.

PISTOL    The king's a bawcock, and a heart of gold,
    A lad of life, an imp of fame;
    Of parents good, of fist most valiant.
    I kiss his dirty shoe, and from heart-string
    I love the lovely bully. What is thy name?

KING HENRY V    Harry le Roy.

PISTOL    Le Roy! a Cornish name: art thou of Cornish crew?

KING HENRY V    No, I am a Welshman.

PISTOL    Know'st thou Fluellen?

KING HENRY V    Yes.

PISTOL    Tell him, I'll knock his leek about his pate
    Upon Saint Davy's day.

KING HENRY V    Do not you wear your dagger in your cap that day,
    lest he knock that about yours.

PISTOL    Art thou his friend?

KING HENRY V    And his kinsman too.

PISTOL    The figo for thee, then!

KING HENRY V    I thank you: God be with you!

PISTOL    My name is Pistol call'd.

    [Exit]

KING HENRY V    It sorts well with your fierceness.

    [Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER]

GOWER    Captain Fluellen!

FLUELLEN    So! in the name of Jesu Christ, speak lower. It is
    the greatest admiration of the universal world, when
    the true and aunchient prerogatifes and laws of the
    wars is not kept: if you would take the pains but to
    examine the wars of Pompey the Great, you shall
    find, I warrant you, that there is no tiddle toddle
    nor pibble pabble in Pompey's camp; I warrant you,
    you shall find the ceremonies of the wars, and the
    cares of it, and the forms of it, and the sobriety
    of it, and the modesty of it, to be otherwise.

GOWER    Why, the enemy is loud; you hear him all night.

FLUELLEN    If the enemy is an ass and a fool and a prating
    coxcomb, is it meet, think you, that we should also,
    look you, be an ass and a fool and a prating
    coxcomb? in your own conscience, now?

GOWER    I will speak lower.

FLUELLEN    I pray you and beseech you that you will.

    [Exeunt GOWER and FLUELLEN]

KING HENRY V    Though it appear a little out of fashion,
    There is much care and valour in this Welshman.

    [Enter three soldiers, JOHN BATES, ALEXANDER COURT,
    and MICHAEL WILLIAMS]

COURT    Brother John Bates, is not that the morning which
    breaks yonder?

BATES    I think it be: but we have no great cause to desire
    the approach of day.

WILLIAMS    We see yonder the beginning of the day, but I think
    we shall never see the end of it. Who goes there?

KING HENRY V    A friend.

WILLIAMS    Under what captain serve you?

KING HENRY V    Under Sir Thomas Erpingham.

WILLIAMS    A good old commander and a most kind gentleman: I
    pray you, what thinks he of our estate?

KING HENRY V    Even as men wrecked upon a sand, that look to be
    washed off the next tide.

BATES    He hath not told his thought to the king?

KING HENRY V    No; nor it is not meet he should. For, though I
    speak it to you, I think the king is but a man, as I
    am: the violet smells to him as it doth to me: the
    element shows to him as it doth to me; all his
    senses have but human conditions: his ceremonies
    laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man; and
    though his affections are higher mounted than ours,
    yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like
    wing. Therefore when he sees reason of fears, as we
    do, his fears, out of doubt, be of the same relish
    as ours are: yet, in reason, no man should possess
    him with any appearance of fear, lest he, by showing
    it, should dishearten his army.

BATES    He may show what outward courage he will; but I
    believe, as cold a night as 'tis, he could wish
    himself in Thames up to the neck; and so I would he
    were, and I by him, at all adventures, so we were quit here.

KING HENRY V    By my troth, I will speak my conscience of the king:
    I think he would not wish himself any where but
    where he is.

BATES    Then I would he were here alone; so should he be
    sure to be ransomed, and a many poor men's lives saved.

KING HENRY V    I dare say you love him not so ill, to wish him here
    alone, howsoever you speak this to feel other men's
    minds: methinks I could not die any where so
    contented as in the king's company; his cause being
    just and his quarrel honourable.

WILLIAMS    That's more than we know.

BATES    Ay, or more than we should seek after; for we know
    enough, if we know we are the kings subjects: if
    his cause be wrong, our obedience to the king wipes
    the crime of it out of us.

WILLIAMS    But if the cause be not good, the king himself hath
    a heavy reckoning to make, when all those legs and
    arms and heads, chopped off in battle, shall join
    together at the latter day and cry all 'We died at
    such a place;' some swearing, some crying for a
    surgeon, some upon their wives left poor behind
    them, some upon the debts they owe, some upon their
    children rawly left. I am afeard there are few die
    well that die in a battle; for how can they
    charitably dispose of any thing, when blood is their
    argument? Now, if these men do not die well, it
    will be a black matter for the king that led them to
    it; whom to disobey were against all proportion of
    subjection.

KING HENRY V    So, if a son that is by his father sent about
    merchandise do sinfully miscarry upon the sea, the
    imputation of his wickedness by your rule, should be
    imposed upon his father that sent him: or if a
    servant, under his master's command transporting a
    sum of money, be assailed by robbers and die in
    many irreconciled iniquities, you may call the
    business of the master the author of the servant's
    damnation: but this is not so: the king is not
    bound to answer the particular endings of his
    soldiers, the father of his son, nor the master of
    his servant; for they purpose not their death, when
    they purpose their services. Besides, there is no
    king, be his cause never so spotless, if it come to
    the arbitrement of swords, can try it out with all
    unspotted soldiers: some peradventure have on them
    the guilt of premeditated and contrived murder;
    some, of beguiling virgins with the broken seals of
    perjury; some, making the wars their bulwark, that
    have before gored the gentle bosom of peace with
    pillage and robbery. Now, if these men have
    defeated the law and outrun native punishment,
    though they can outstrip men, they have no wings to
    fly from God: war is his beadle, war is vengeance;
    so that here men are punished for before-breach of
    the king's laws in now the king's quarrel: where
    they feared the death, they have borne life away;
    and where they would be safe, they perish: then if
    they die unprovided, no more is the king guilty of
    their damnation than he was before guilty of those
    impieties for the which they are now visited. Every
    subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's
    soul is his own. Therefore should every soldier in
    the wars do as every sick man in his bed, wash every
    mote out of his conscience: and dying so, death
    is to him advantage; or not dying, the time was
    blessedly lost wherein such preparation was gained:
    and in him that escapes, it were not sin to think
    that, making God so free an offer, He let him
    outlive that day to see His greatness and to teach
    others how they should prepare.

WILLIAMS    'Tis certain, every man that dies ill, the ill upon
    his own head, the king is not to answer it.

BATES    But I do not desire he should answer for me; and
    yet I determine to fight lustily for him.

KING HENRY V    I myself heard the king say he would not be ransomed.

WILLIAMS    Ay, he said so, to make us fight cheerfully: but
    when our throats are cut, he may be ransomed, and we
    ne'er the wiser.

KING HENRY V    If I live to see it, I will never trust his word after.

WILLIAMS    You pay him then. That's a perilous shot out of an
    elder-gun, that a poor and private displeasure can
    do against a monarch! you may as well go about to
    turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a
    peacock's feather. You'll never trust his word
    after! come, 'tis a foolish saying.

KING HENRY V    Your reproof is something too round: I should be
    angry with you, if the time were convenient.

WILLIAMS    Let it be a quarrel between us, if you live.

KING HENRY V    I embrace it.

WILLIAMS    How shall I know thee again?

KING HENRY V    Give me any gage of thine, and I will wear it in my
    bonnet: then, if ever thou darest acknowledge it, I
    will make it my quarrel.

WILLIAMS    Here's my glove: give me another of thine.

KING HENRY V    There.

WILLIAMS    This will I also wear in my cap: if ever thou come
    to me and say, after to-morrow, 'This is my glove,'
    by this hand, I will take thee a box on the ear.

KING HENRY V    If ever I live to see it, I will challenge it.

WILLIAMS    Thou darest as well be hanged.

KING HENRY V    Well. I will do it, though I take thee in the
    king's company.

WILLIAMS    Keep thy word: fare thee well.

BATES    Be friends, you English fools, be friends: we have
    French quarrels enow, if you could tell how to reckon.

KING HENRY V    Indeed, the French may lay twenty French crowns to
    one, they will beat us; for they bear them on their
    shoulders: but it is no English treason to cut
    French crowns, and to-morrow the king himself will
    be a clipper.

    [Exeunt soldiers]

    Upon the king! let us our lives, our souls,
    Our debts, our careful wives,
    Our children and our sins lay on the king!
    We must bear all. O hard condition,
    Twin-born with greatness, subject to the breath
    Of every fool, whose sense no more can feel
    But his own wringing! What infinite heart's-ease
    Must kings neglect, that private men enjoy!
    And what have kings, that privates have not too,
    Save ceremony, save general ceremony?
    And what art thou, thou idle ceremony?
    What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more
    Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
    What are thy rents? what are thy comings in?
    O ceremony, show me but thy worth!
    What is thy soul of adoration?
    Art thou aught else but place, degree and form,
    Creating awe and fear in other men?
    Wherein thou art less happy being fear'd
    Than they in fearing.
    What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet,
    But poison'd flattery? O, be sick, great greatness,
    And bid thy ceremony give thee cure!
    Think'st thou the fiery fever will go out
    With titles blown from adulation?
    Will it give place to flexure and low bending?
    Canst thou, when thou command'st the beggar's knee,
    Command the health of it? No, thou proud dream,
    That play'st so subtly with a king's repose;
    I am a king that find thee, and I know
    'Tis not the balm, the sceptre and the ball,
    The sword, the mace, the crown imperial,
    The intertissued robe of gold and pearl,
    The farced title running 'fore the king,
    The throne he sits on, nor the tide of pomp
    That beats upon the high shore of this world,
    No, not all these, thrice-gorgeous ceremony,
    Not all these, laid in bed majestical,
    Can sleep so soundly as the wretched slave,
    Who with a body fill'd and vacant mind
    Gets him to rest, cramm'd with distressful bread;
    Never sees horrid night, the child of hell,
    But, like a lackey, from the rise to set
    Sweats in the eye of Phoebus and all night
    Sleeps in Elysium; next day after dawn,
    Doth rise and help Hyperion to his horse,
    And follows so the ever-running year,
    With profitable labour, to his grave:
    And, but for ceremony, such a wretch,
    Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep,
    Had the fore-hand and vantage of a king.
    The slave, a member of the country's peace,
    Enjoys it; but in gross brain little wots
    What watch the king keeps to maintain the peace,
    Whose hours the peasant best advantages.

    [Enter ERPINGHAM]

ERPINGHAM    My lord, your nobles, jealous of your absence,
    Seek through your camp to find you.

KING HENRY V    Good old knight,
    Collect them all together at my tent:
    I'll be before thee.

ERPINGHAM    I shall do't, my lord.

    [Exit]

KING HENRY V    O God of battles! steel my soldiers' hearts;
    Possess them not with fear; take from them now
    The sense of reckoning, if the opposed numbers
    Pluck their hearts from them. Not to-day, O Lord,
    O, not to-day, think not upon the fault
    My father made in compassing the crown!
    I Richard's body have interred anew;
    And on it have bestow'd more contrite tears
    Than from it issued forced drops of blood:
    Five hundred poor I have in yearly pay,
    Who twice a-day their wither'd hands hold up
    Toward heaven, to pardon blood; and I have built
    Two chantries, where the sad and solemn priests
    Sing still for Richard's soul. More will I do;
    Though all that I can do is nothing worth,
    Since that my penitence comes after all,
    Imploring pardon.

    [Enter GLOUCESTER]

GLOUCESTER    My liege!

KING HENRY V    My brother Gloucester's voice? Ay;
    I know thy errand, I will go with thee:
    The day, my friends and all things stay for me.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE II    The French camp.


    [Enter the DAUPHIN, ORLEANS, RAMBURES, and others]

ORLEANS    The sun doth gild our armour; up, my lords!

DAUPHIN    Montez A cheval! My horse! varlet! laquais! ha!

ORLEANS    O brave spirit!

DAUPHIN    Via! les eaux et la terre.

ORLEANS    Rien puis? L'air et la feu.

DAUPHIN    Ciel, cousin Orleans.

    [Enter Constable]

    Now, my lord constable!

Constable    Hark, how our steeds for present service neigh!

DAUPHIN    Mount them, and make incision in their hides,
    That their hot blood may spin in English eyes,
    And dout them with superfluous courage, ha!

RAMBURES    What, will you have them weep our horses' blood?
    How shall we, then, behold their natural tears?

    [Enter Messenger]

Messenger    The English are embattled, you French peers.

Constable    To horse, you gallant princes! straight to horse!
    Do but behold yon poor and starved band,
    And your fair show shall suck away their souls,
    Leaving them but the shales and husks of men.
    There is not work enough for all our hands;
    Scarce blood enough in all their sickly veins
    To give each naked curtle-axe a stain,
    That our French gallants shall to-day draw out,
    And sheathe for lack of sport: let us but blow on them,
    The vapour of our valour will o'erturn them.
    'Tis positive 'gainst all exceptions, lords,
    That our superfluous lackeys and our peasants,
    Who in unnecessary action swarm
    About our squares of battle, were enow
    To purge this field of such a hilding foe,
    Though we upon this mountain's basis by
    Took stand for idle speculation:
    But that our honours must not. What's to say?
    A very little little let us do.
    And all is done. Then let the trumpets sound
    The tucket sonance and the note to mount;
    For our approach shall so much dare the field
    That England shall couch down in fear and yield.

    [Enter GRANDPRE]

GRANDPRE    Why do you stay so long, my lords of France?
    Yon island carrions, desperate of their bones,
    Ill-favouredly become the morning field:
    Their ragged curtains poorly are let loose,
    And our air shakes them passing scornfully:
    Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggar'd host
    And faintly through a rusty beaver peeps:
    The horsemen sit like fixed candlesticks,
    With torch-staves in their hand; and their poor jades
    Lob down their heads, dropping the hides and hips,
    The gum down-roping from their pale-dead eyes
    And in their pale dull mouths the gimmal bit
    Lies foul with chew'd grass, still and motionless;
    And their executors, the knavish crows,
    Fly o'er them, all impatient for their hour.
    Description cannot suit itself in words
    To demonstrate the life of such a battle
    In life so lifeless as it shows itself.

Constable    They have said their prayers, and they stay for death.

DAUPHIN    Shall we go send them dinners and fresh suits
    And give their fasting horses provender,
    And after fight with them?

Constable    I stay but for my guidon: to the field!
    I will the banner from a trumpet take,
    And use it for my haste. Come, come, away!
    The sun is high, and we outwear the day.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE III    The English camp.


    [Enter GLOUCESTER, BEDFORD, EXETER, ERPINGHAM, with
    all his host: SALISBURY and WESTMORELAND]

GLOUCESTER    Where is the king?

BEDFORD    The king himself is rode to view their battle.

WESTMORELAND    Of fighting men they have full three score thousand.

EXETER    There's five to one; besides, they all are fresh.

SALISBURY    God's arm strike with us! 'tis a fearful odds.
    God be wi' you, princes all; I'll to my charge:
    If we no more meet till we meet in heaven,
    Then, joyfully, my noble Lord of Bedford,
    My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter,
    And my kind kinsman, warriors all, adieu!

BEDFORD    Farewell, good Salisbury; and good luck go with thee!

EXETER    Farewell, kind lord; fight valiantly to-day:
    And yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it,
    For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.

    [Exit SALISBURY]

BEDFORD    He is full of valour as of kindness;
    Princely in both.

    [Enter the KING]

WESTMORELAND                      O that we now had here
    But one ten thousand of those men in England
    That do no work to-day!

KING HENRY V    What's he that wishes so?
    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
    If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
    To do our country loss; and if to live,
    The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
    By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
    Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
    It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
    Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
    But if it be a sin to covet honour,
    I am the most offending soul alive.
    No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
    God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
    As one man more, methinks, would share from me
    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
    Let him depart; his passport shall be made
    And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
    We would not die in that man's company
    That fears his fellowship to die with us.
    This day is called the feast of Crispian:
    He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
    Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
    And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
    He that shall live this day, and see old age,
    Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
    And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
    Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
    But he'll remember with advantages
    What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
    Familiar in his mouth as household words
    Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
    Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
    This story shall the good man teach his son;
    And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
    From this day to the ending of the world,
    But we in it shall be remember'd;
    We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
    For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
    Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
    This day shall gentle his condition:
    And gentlemen in England now a-bed
    Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
    And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
    That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

    [Re-enter SALISBURY]

SALISBURY    My sovereign lord, bestow yourself with speed:
    The French are bravely in their battles set,
    And will with all expedience charge on us.

KING HENRY V    All things are ready, if our minds be so.

WESTMORELAND    Perish the man whose mind is backward now!

KING HENRY V    Thou dost not wish more help from England, coz?

WESTMORELAND    God's will! my liege, would you and I alone,
    Without more help, could fight this royal battle!

KING HENRY V    Why, now thou hast unwish'd five thousand men;
    Which likes me better than to wish us one.
    You know your places: God be with you all!

    [Tucket. Enter MONTJOY]

MONTJOY    Once more I come to know of thee, King Harry,
    If for thy ransom thou wilt now compound,
    Before thy most assured overthrow:
    For certainly thou art so near the gulf,
    Thou needs must be englutted. Besides, in mercy,
    The constable desires thee thou wilt mind
    Thy followers of repentance; that their souls
    May make a peaceful and a sweet retire
    From off these fields, where, wretches, their poor bodies
    Must lie and fester.

KING HENRY V    Who hath sent thee now?

MONTJOY    The Constable of France.

KING HENRY V    I pray thee, bear my former answer back:
    Bid them achieve me and then sell my bones.
    Good God! why should they mock poor fellows thus?
    The man that once did sell the lion's skin
    While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him.
    A many of our bodies shall no doubt
    Find native graves; upon the which, I trust,
    Shall witness live in brass of this day's work:
    And those that leave their valiant bones in France,
    Dying like men, though buried in your dunghills,
    They shall be famed; for there the sun shall greet them,
    And draw their honours reeking up to heaven;
    Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime,
    The smell whereof shall breed a plague in France.
    Mark then abounding valour in our English,
    That being dead, like to the bullet's grazing,
    Break out into a second course of mischief,
    Killing in relapse of mortality.
    Let me speak proudly: tell the constable
    We are but warriors for the working-day;
    Our gayness and our gilt are all besmirch'd
    With rainy marching in the painful field;
    There's not a piece of feather in our host--
    Good argument, I hope, we will not fly--
    And time hath worn us into slovenry:
    But, by the mass, our hearts are in the trim;
    And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night
    They'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck
    The gay new coats o'er the French soldiers' heads
    And turn them out of service. If they do this,--
    As, if God please, they shall,--my ransom then
    Will soon be levied. Herald, save thou thy labour;
    Come thou no more for ransom, gentle herald:
    They shall have none, I swear, but these my joints;
    Which if they have as I will leave 'em them,
    Shall yield them little, tell the constable.

MONTJOY    I shall, King Harry. And so fare thee well:
    Thou never shalt hear herald any more.

    [Exit]

KING HENRY V    I fear thou'lt once more come again for ransom.

    [Enter YORK]

YORK    My lord, most humbly on my knee I beg
    The leading of the vaward.

KING HENRY V    Take it, brave York. Now, soldiers, march away:
    And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day!

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE IV    The field of battle.


    [Alarum. Excursions. Enter PISTOL, French Soldier, and Boy]

PISTOL    Yield, cur!

French Soldier    Je pense que vous etes gentilhomme de bonne qualite.

PISTOL    Qualtitie calmie custure me! Art thou a gentleman?
    what is thy name? discuss.

French Soldier    O Seigneur Dieu!

PISTOL    O, Signieur Dew should be a gentleman:
    Perpend my words, O Signieur Dew, and mark;
    O Signieur Dew, thou diest on point of fox,
    Except, O signieur, thou do give to me
    Egregious ransom.

French Soldier    O, prenez misericorde! ayez pitie de moi!

PISTOL    Moy shall not serve; I will have forty moys;
    Or I will fetch thy rim out at thy throat
    In drops of crimson blood.

French Soldier    Est-il impossible d'echapper la force de ton bras?

PISTOL    Brass, cur!
    Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat,
    Offer'st me brass?

French Soldier    O pardonnez moi!

PISTOL    Say'st thou me so? is that a ton of moys?
    Come hither, boy: ask me this slave in French
    What is his name.

Boy    Ecoutez: comment etes-vous appele?

French Soldier    Monsieur le Fer.

Boy    He says his name is Master Fer.

PISTOL    Master Fer! I'll fer him, and firk him, and ferret
    him: discuss the same in French unto him.

Boy    I do not know the French for fer, and ferret, and firk.

PISTOL    Bid him prepare; for I will cut his throat.

French Soldier    Que dit-il, monsieur?

Boy    Il me commande de vous dire que vous faites vous
    pret; car ce soldat ici est dispose tout a cette
    heure de couper votre gorge.

PISTOL    Owy, cuppele gorge, permafoy,
    Peasant, unless thou give me crowns, brave crowns;
    Or mangled shalt thou be by this my sword.

French Soldier    O, je vous supplie, pour l'amour de Dieu, me
    pardonner! Je suis gentilhomme de bonne maison:
    gardez ma vie, et je vous donnerai deux cents ecus.

PISTOL    What are his words?

Boy    He prays you to save his life: he is a gentleman of
    a good house; and for his ransom he will give you
    two hundred crowns.

PISTOL    Tell him my fury shall abate, and I the crowns will take.

French Soldier    Petit monsieur, que dit-il?

Boy    Encore qu'il est contre son jurement de pardonner
    aucun prisonnier, neanmoins, pour les ecus que vous
    l'avez promis, il est content de vous donner la
    liberte, le franchisement.

French Soldier    Sur mes genoux je vous donne mille remercimens; et
    je m'estime heureux que je suis tombe entre les
    mains d'un chevalier, je pense, le plus brave,
    vaillant, et tres distingue seigneur d'Angleterre.

PISTOL    Expound unto me, boy.

Boy    He gives you, upon his knees, a thousand thanks; and
    he esteems himself happy that he hath fallen into
    the hands of one, as he thinks, the most brave,
    valorous, and thrice-worthy signieur of England.

PISTOL    As I suck blood, I will some mercy show.
    Follow me!

Boy    Suivez-vous le grand capitaine.

    [Exeunt PISTOL, and French Soldier]

    I did never know so full a voice issue from so
    empty a heart: but the saying is true 'The empty
    vessel makes the greatest sound.' Bardolph and Nym
    had ten times more valour than this roaring devil i'
    the old play, that every one may pare his nails with
    a wooden dagger; and they are both hanged; and so
    would this be, if he durst steal any thing
    adventurously. I must stay with the lackeys, with
    the luggage of our camp: the French might have a
    good prey of us, if he knew of it; for there is
    none to guard it but boys.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE V    Another part of the field.


    [Enter Constable, ORLEANS, BOURBON, DAUPHIN, and RAMBURES]

Constable    O diable!

ORLEANS    O seigneur! le jour est perdu, tout est perdu!

DAUPHIN    Mort de ma vie! all is confounded, all!
    Reproach and everlasting shame
    Sits mocking in our plumes. O merchante fortune!
    Do not run away.

    [A short alarum]

Constable                      Why, all our ranks are broke.

DAUPHIN    O perdurable shame! let's stab ourselves.
    Be these the wretches that we play'd at dice for?

ORLEANS    Is this the king we sent to for his ransom?

BOURBON    Shame and eternal shame, nothing but shame!
    Let us die in honour: once more back again;
    And he that will not follow Bourbon now,
    Let him go hence, and with his cap in hand,
    Like a base pander, hold the chamber-door
    Whilst by a slave, no gentler than my dog,
    His fairest daughter is contaminated.

Constable    Disorder, that hath spoil'd us, friend us now!
    Let us on heaps go offer up our lives.

ORLEANS    We are enow yet living in the field
    To smother up the English in our throngs,
    If any order might be thought upon.

BOURBON    The devil take order now! I'll to the throng:
    Let life be short; else shame will be too long.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE VI    Another part of the field.


    [Alarums. Enter KING HENRY and forces, EXETER, and others]

KING HENRY V    Well have we done, thrice valiant countrymen:
    But all's not done; yet keep the French the field.

EXETER    The Duke of York commends him to your majesty.

KING HENRY V    Lives he, good uncle? thrice within this hour
    I saw him down; thrice up again and fighting;
    From helmet to the spur all blood he was.

EXETER    In which array, brave soldier, doth he lie,
    Larding the plain; and by his bloody side,
    Yoke-fellow to his honour-owing wounds,
    The noble Earl of Suffolk also lies.
    Suffolk first died: and York, all haggled over,
    Comes to him, where in gore he lay insteep'd,
    And takes him by the beard; kisses the gashes
    That bloodily did spawn upon his face;
    And cries aloud 'Tarry, dear cousin Suffolk!
    My soul shall thine keep company to heaven;
    Tarry, sweet soul, for mine, then fly abreast,
    As in this glorious and well-foughten field
    We kept together in our chivalry!'
    Upon these words I came and cheer'd him up:
    He smiled me in the face, raught me his hand,
    And, with a feeble gripe, says 'Dear my lord,
    Commend my service to me sovereign.'
    So did he turn and over Suffolk's neck
    He threw his wounded arm and kiss'd his lips;
    And so espoused to death, with blood he seal'd
    A testament of noble-ending love.
    The pretty and sweet manner of it forced
    Those waters from me which I would have stopp'd;
    But I had not so much of man in me,
    And all my mother came into mine eyes
    And gave me up to tears.

KING HENRY V    I blame you not;
    For, hearing this, I must perforce compound
    With mistful eyes, or they will issue too.

    [Alarum]

    But, hark! what new alarum is this same?
    The French have reinforced their scatter'd men:
    Then every soldier kill his prisoners:
    Give the word through.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE VII    Another part of the field.


    [Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER]

FLUELLEN    Kill the poys and the luggage! 'tis expressly
    against the law of arms: 'tis as arrant a piece of
    knavery, mark you now, as can be offer't; in your
    conscience, now, is it not?

GOWER    'Tis certain there's not a boy left alive; and the
    cowardly rascals that ran from the battle ha' done
    this slaughter: besides, they have burned and
    carried away all that was in the king's tent;
    wherefore the king, most worthily, hath caused every
    soldier to cut his prisoner's throat. O, 'tis a
    gallant king!

FLUELLEN    Ay, he was porn at Monmouth, Captain Gower. What
    call you the town's name where Alexander the Pig was born!

GOWER    Alexander the Great.

FLUELLEN    Why, I pray you, is not pig great? the pig, or the
    great, or the mighty, or the huge, or the
    magnanimous, are all one reckonings, save the phrase
    is a little variations.

GOWER    I think Alexander the Great was born in Macedon; his
    father was called Philip of Macedon, as I take it.

FLUELLEN    I think it is in Macedon where Alexander is porn. I
    tell you, captain, if you look in the maps of the
    'orld, I warrant you sall find, in the comparisons
    between Macedon and Monmouth, that the situations,
    look you, is both alike. There is a river in
    Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at
    Monmouth: it is called Wye at Monmouth; but it is
    out of my prains what is the name of the other
    river; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is
    to my fingers, and there is salmons in both. If you
    mark Alexander's life well, Harry of Monmouth's life
    is come after it indifferent well; for there is
    figures in all things. Alexander, God knows, and
    you know, in his rages, and his furies, and his
    wraths, and his cholers, and his moods, and his
    displeasures, and his indignations, and also being a
    little intoxicates in his prains, did, in his ales and
    his angers, look you, kill his best friend, Cleitus.

GOWER    Our king is not like him in that: he never killed
    any of his friends.

FLUELLEN    It is not well done, mark you now take the tales out
    of my mouth, ere it is made and finished. I speak
    but in the figures and comparisons of it: as
    Alexander killed his friend Cleitus, being in his
    ales and his cups; so also Harry Monmouth, being in
    his right wits and his good judgments, turned away
    the fat knight with the great belly-doublet: he
    was full of jests, and gipes, and knaveries, and
    mocks; I have forgot his name.

GOWER    Sir John Falstaff.

FLUELLEN    That is he: I'll tell you there is good men porn at Monmouth.

GOWER    Here comes his majesty.

    [Alarum. Enter KING HENRY, and forces; WARWICK,
    GLOUCESTER, EXETER, and others]

KING HENRY V    I was not angry since I came to France
    Until this instant. Take a trumpet, herald;
    Ride thou unto the horsemen on yon hill:
    If they will fight with us, bid them come down,
    Or void the field; they do offend our sight:
    If they'll do neither, we will come to them,
    And make them skirr away, as swift as stones
    Enforced from the old Assyrian slings:
    Besides, we'll cut the throats of those we have,
    And not a man of them that we shall take
    Shall taste our mercy. Go and tell them so.

    [Enter MONTJOY]

EXETER    Here comes the herald of the French, my liege.

GLOUCESTER    His eyes are humbler than they used to be.

KING HENRY V    How now! what means this, herald? know'st thou not
    That I have fined these bones of mine for ransom?
    Comest thou again for ransom?

MONTJOY    No, great king:
    I come to thee for charitable licence,
    That we may wander o'er this bloody field
    To look our dead, and then to bury them;
    To sort our nobles from our common men.
    For many of our princes--woe the while!--
    Lie drown'd and soak'd in mercenary blood;
    So do our vulgar drench their peasant limbs
    In blood of princes; and their wounded steeds
    Fret fetlock deep in gore and with wild rage
    Yerk out their armed heels at their dead masters,
    Killing them twice. O, give us leave, great king,
    To view the field in safety and dispose
    Of their dead bodies!

KING HENRY V    I tell thee truly, herald,
    I know not if the day be ours or no;
    For yet a many of your horsemen peer
    And gallop o'er the field.

MONTJOY    The day is yours.

KING HENRY V    Praised be God, and not our strength, for it!
    What is this castle call'd that stands hard by?

MONTJOY    They call it Agincourt.

KING HENRY V    Then call we this the field of Agincourt,
    Fought on the day of Crispin Crispianus.

FLUELLEN    Your grandfather of famous memory, an't please your
    majesty, and your great-uncle Edward the Plack
    Prince of Wales, as I have read in the chronicles,
    fought a most prave pattle here in France.

KING HENRY V    They did, Fluellen.

FLUELLEN    Your majesty says very true: if your majesties is
    remembered of it, the Welshmen did good service in a
    garden where leeks did grow, wearing leeks in their
    Monmouth caps; which, your majesty know, to this
    hour is an honourable badge of the service; and I do
    believe your majesty takes no scorn to wear the leek
    upon Saint Tavy's day.

KING HENRY V    I wear it for a memorable honour;
    For I am Welsh, you know, good countryman.

FLUELLEN    All the water in Wye cannot wash your majesty's
    Welsh plood out of your pody, I can tell you that:
    God pless it and preserve it, as long as it pleases
    his grace, and his majesty too!

KING HENRY V    Thanks, good my countryman.

FLUELLEN    By Jeshu, I am your majesty's countryman, I care not
    who know it; I will confess it to all the 'orld: I
    need not to be ashamed of your majesty, praised be
    God, so long as your majesty is an honest man.

KING HENRY V    God keep me so! Our heralds go with him:
    Bring me just notice of the numbers dead
    On both our parts. Call yonder fellow hither.

    [Points to WILLIAMS. Exeunt Heralds with Montjoy]

EXETER    Soldier, you must come to the king.

KING HENRY V    Soldier, why wearest thou that glove in thy cap?

WILLIAMS    An't please your majesty, 'tis the gage of one that
    I should fight withal, if he be alive.

KING HENRY V    An Englishman?

WILLIAMS    An't please your majesty, a rascal that swaggered
    with me last night; who, if alive and ever dare to
    challenge this glove, I have sworn to take him a box
    o' th' ear: or if I can see my glove in his cap,
    which he swore, as he was a soldier, he would wear
    if alive, I will strike it out soundly.

KING HENRY V    What think you, Captain Fluellen? is it fit this
    soldier keep his oath?

FLUELLEN    He is a craven and a villain else, an't please your
    majesty, in my conscience.

KING HENRY V    It may be his enemy is a gentleman of great sort,
    quite from the answer of his degree.

FLUELLEN    Though he be as good a gentleman as the devil is, as
    Lucifer and Belzebub himself, it is necessary, look
    your grace, that he keep his vow and his oath: if
    he be perjured, see you now, his reputation is as
    arrant a villain and a Jacksauce, as ever his black
    shoe trod upon God's ground and his earth, in my
    conscience, la!

KING HENRY V    Then keep thy vow, sirrah, when thou meetest the fellow.

WILLIAMS    So I will, my liege, as I live.

KING HENRY V    Who servest thou under?

WILLIAMS    Under Captain Gower, my liege.

FLUELLEN    Gower is a good captain, and is good knowledge and
    literatured in the wars.

KING HENRY V    Call him hither to me, soldier.

WILLIAMS    I will, my liege.

    [Exit]

KING HENRY V    Here, Fluellen; wear thou this favour for me and
    stick it in thy cap: when Alencon and myself were
    down together, I plucked this glove from his helm:
    if any man challenge this, he is a friend to
    Alencon, and an enemy to our person; if thou
    encounter any such, apprehend him, an thou dost me love.

FLUELLEN    Your grace doo's me as great honours as can be
    desired in the hearts of his subjects: I would fain
    see the man, that has but two legs, that shall find
    himself aggrieved at this glove; that is all; but I
    would fain see it once, an please God of his grace
    that I might see.

KING HENRY V    Knowest thou Gower?

FLUELLEN    He is my dear friend, an please you.

KING HENRY V    Pray thee, go seek him, and bring him to my tent.

FLUELLEN    I will fetch him.

    [Exit]

KING HENRY V    My Lord of Warwick, and my brother Gloucester,
    Follow Fluellen closely at the heels:
    The glove which I have given him for a favour
    May haply purchase him a box o' th' ear;
    It is the soldier's; I by bargain should
    Wear it myself. Follow, good cousin Warwick:
    If that the soldier strike him, as I judge
    By his blunt bearing he will keep his word,
    Some sudden mischief may arise of it;
    For I do know Fluellen valiant
    And, touched with choler, hot as gunpowder,
    And quickly will return an injury:
    Follow and see there be no harm between them.
    Go you with me, uncle of Exeter.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT IV



SCENE VIII    Before KING HENRY'S pavilion.


    [Enter GOWER and WILLIAMS]

WILLIAMS    I warrant it is to knight you, captain.

    [Enter FLUELLEN]

FLUELLEN    God's will and his pleasure, captain, I beseech you
    now, come apace to the king: there is more good
    toward you peradventure than is in your knowledge to dream of.

WILLIAMS    Sir, know you this glove?

FLUELLEN    Know the glove! I know the glove is glove.

WILLIAMS    I know this; and thus I challenge it.

    [Strikes him]

FLUELLEN    'Sblood! an arrant traitor as any is in the
    universal world, or in France, or in England!

GOWER    How now, sir! you villain!

WILLIAMS    Do you think I'll be forsworn?

FLUELLEN    Stand away, Captain Gower; I will give treason his
    payment into ploughs, I warrant you.

WILLIAMS    I am no traitor.

FLUELLEN    That's a lie in thy throat. I charge you in his
    majesty's name, apprehend him: he's a friend of the
    Duke Alencon's.

    [Enter WARWICK and GLOUCESTER]

WARWICK    How now, how now! what's the matter?

FLUELLEN    My Lord of Warwick, here is--praised be God for it!
    --a most contagious treason come to light, look
    you, as you shall desire in a summer's day. Here is
    his majesty.

    [Enter KING HENRY and EXETER]

KING HENRY V    How now! what's the matter?

FLUELLEN    My liege, here is a villain and a traitor, that,
    look your grace, has struck the glove which your
    majesty is take out of the helmet of Alencon.

WILLIAMS    My liege, this was my glove; here is the fellow of
    it; and he that I gave it to in change promised to
    wear it in his cap: I promised to strike him, if he
    did: I met this man with my glove in his cap, and I
    have been as good as my word.

FLUELLEN    Your majesty hear now, saving your majesty's
    manhood, what an arrant, rascally, beggarly, lousy
    knave it is: I hope your majesty is pear me
    testimony and witness, and will avouchment, that
    this is the glove of Alencon, that your majesty is
    give me; in your conscience, now?

KING HENRY V    Give me thy glove, soldier: look, here is the
    fellow of it.
    'Twas I, indeed, thou promised'st to strike;
    And thou hast given me most bitter terms.

FLUELLEN    An please your majesty, let his neck answer for it,
    if there is any martial law in the world.

KING HENRY V    How canst thou make me satisfaction?

WILLIAMS    All offences, my lord, come from the heart: never
    came any from mine that might offend your majesty.

KING HENRY V    It was ourself thou didst abuse.

WILLIAMS    Your majesty came not like yourself: you appeared to
    me but as a common man; witness the night, your
    garments, your lowliness; and what your highness
    suffered under that shape, I beseech you take it for
    your own fault and not mine: for had you been as I
    took you for, I made no offence; therefore, I
    beseech your highness, pardon me.

KING HENRY V    Here, uncle Exeter, fill this glove with crowns,
    And give it to this fellow. Keep it, fellow;
    And wear it for an honour in thy cap
    Till I do challenge it. Give him the crowns:
    And, captain, you must needs be friends with him.

FLUELLEN    By this day and this light, the fellow has mettle
    enough in his belly. Hold, there is twelve pence
    for you; and I pray you to serve Got, and keep you
    out of prawls, and prabbles' and quarrels, and
    dissensions, and, I warrant you, it is the better for you.

WILLIAMS    I will none of your money.

FLUELLEN    It is with a good will; I can tell you, it will
    serve you to mend your shoes: come, wherefore should
    you be so pashful? your shoes is not so good: 'tis
    a good silling, I warrant you, or I will change it.

    [Enter an English Herald]

KING HENRY V    Now, herald, are the dead number'd?

Herald    Here is the number of the slaughter'd French.

KING HENRY V    What prisoners of good sort are taken, uncle?

EXETER    Charles Duke of Orleans, nephew to the king;
    John Duke of Bourbon, and Lord Bouciqualt:
    Of other lords and barons, knights and squires,
    Full fifteen hundred, besides common men.

KING HENRY V    This note doth tell me of ten thousand French
    That in the field lie slain: of princes, in this number,
    And nobles bearing banners, there lie dead
    One hundred twenty six: added to these,
    Of knights, esquires, and gallant gentlemen,
    Eight thousand and four hundred; of the which,
    Five hundred were but yesterday dubb'd knights:
    So that, in these ten thousand they have lost,
    There are but sixteen hundred mercenaries;
    The rest are princes, barons, lords, knights, squires,
    And gentlemen of blood and quality.
    The names of those their nobles that lie dead:
    Charles Delabreth, high constable of France;
    Jaques of Chatillon, admiral of France;
    The master of the cross-bows, Lord Rambures;
    Great Master of France, the brave Sir Guichard Dolphin,
    John Duke of Alencon, Anthony Duke of Brabant,
    The brother of the Duke of Burgundy,
    And Edward Duke of Bar: of lusty earls,
    Grandpre and Roussi, Fauconberg and Foix,
    Beaumont and Marle, Vaudemont and Lestrale.
    Here was a royal fellowship of death!
    Where is the number of our English dead?

    [Herald shews him another paper]

    Edward the Duke of York, the Earl of Suffolk,
    Sir Richard Ketly, Davy Gam, esquire:
    None else of name; and of all other men
    But five and twenty. O God, thy arm was here;
    And not to us, but to thy arm alone,
    Ascribe we all! When, without stratagem,
    But in plain shock and even play of battle,
    Was ever known so great and little loss
    On one part and on the other? Take it, God,
    For it is none but thine!

EXETER    'Tis wonderful!

KING HENRY V    Come, go we in procession to the village.
    And be it death proclaimed through our host
    To boast of this or take the praise from God
    Which is his only.

FLUELLEN    Is it not lawful, an please your majesty, to tell
    how many is killed?

KING HENRY V    Yes, captain; but with this acknowledgement,
    That God fought for us.

FLUELLEN    Yes, my conscience, he did us great good.

KING HENRY V    Do we all holy rites;
    Let there be sung 'Non nobis' and 'Te Deum;'
    The dead with charity enclosed in clay:
    And then to Calais; and to England then:
    Where ne'er from France arrived more happy men.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V


ACT V


    PROLOGUE.


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    Vouchsafe to those that have not read the story,
    That I may prompt them: and of such as have,
    I humbly pray them to admit the excuse
    Of time, of numbers and due course of things,
    Which cannot in their huge and proper life
    Be here presented. Now we bear the king
    Toward Calais: grant him there; there seen,
    Heave him away upon your winged thoughts
    Athwart the sea. Behold, the English beach
    Pales in the flood with men, with wives and boys,
    Whose shouts and claps out-voice the deep mouth'd sea,
    Which like a mighty whiffler 'fore the king
    Seems to prepare his way: so let him land,
    And solemnly see him set on to London.
    So swift a pace hath thought that even now
    You may imagine him upon Blackheath;
    Where that his lords desire him to have borne
    His bruised helmet and his bended sword
    Before him through the city: he forbids it,
    Being free from vainness and self-glorious pride;
    Giving full trophy, signal and ostent
    Quite from himself to God. But now behold,
    In the quick forge and working-house of thought,
    How London doth pour out her citizens!
    The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,
    Like to the senators of the antique Rome,
    With the plebeians swarming at their heels,
    Go forth and fetch their conquering Caesar in:
    As, by a lower but loving likelihood,
    Were now the general of our gracious empress,
    As in good time he may, from Ireland coming,
    Bringing rebellion broached on his sword,
    How many would the peaceful city quit,
    To welcome him! much more, and much more cause,
    Did they this Harry. Now in London place him;
    As yet the lamentation of the French
    Invites the King of England's stay at home;
    The emperor's coming in behalf of France,
    To order peace between them; and omit
    All the occurrences, whatever chanced,
    Till Harry's back-return again to France:
    There must we bring him; and myself have play'd
    The interim, by remembering you 'tis past.
    Then brook abridgment, and your eyes advance,
    After your thoughts, straight back again to France.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT V



SCENE I    France. The English camp.


    [Enter FLUELLEN and GOWER]

GOWER    Nay, that's right; but why wear you your leek today?
    Saint Davy's day is past.

FLUELLEN    There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in
    all things: I will tell you, asse my friend,
    Captain Gower: the rascally, scald, beggarly,
    lousy, pragging knave, Pistol, which you and
    yourself and all the world know to be no petter
    than a fellow, look you now, of no merits, he is
    come to me and prings me pread and salt yesterday,
    look you, and bid me eat my leek: it was in place
    where I could not breed no contention with him; but
    I will be so bold as to wear it in my cap till I see
    him once again, and then I will tell him a little
    piece of my desires.

    [Enter PISTOL]

GOWER    Why, here he comes, swelling like a turkey-cock.

FLUELLEN    'Tis no matter for his swellings nor his
    turkey-cocks. God pless you, Aunchient Pistol! you
    scurvy, lousy knave, God pless you!

PISTOL    Ha! art thou bedlam? dost thou thirst, base Trojan,
    To have me fold up Parca's fatal web?
    Hence! I am qualmish at the smell of leek.

FLUELLEN    I peseech you heartily, scurvy, lousy knave, at my
    desires, and my requests, and my petitions, to eat,
    look you, this leek: because, look you, you do not
    love it, nor your affections and your appetites and
    your digestions doo's not agree with it, I would
    desire you to eat it.

PISTOL    Not for Cadwallader and all his goats.

FLUELLEN    There is one goat for you.

    [Strikes him]

    Will you be so good, scauld knave, as eat it?

PISTOL    Base Trojan, thou shalt die.

FLUELLEN    You say very true, scauld knave, when God's will is:
    I will desire you to live in the mean time, and eat
    your victuals: come, there is sauce for it.

    [Strikes him]

    You called me yesterday mountain-squire; but I will
    make you to-day a squire of low degree. I pray you,
    fall to: if you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek.

GOWER    Enough, captain: you have astonished him.

FLUELLEN    I say, I will make him eat some part of my leek, or
    I will peat his pate four days. Bite, I pray you; it
    is good for your green wound and your ploody coxcomb.

PISTOL    Must I bite?

FLUELLEN    Yes, certainly, and out of doubt and out of question
    too, and ambiguities.

PISTOL    By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat
    and eat, I swear--

FLUELLEN    Eat, I pray you: will you have some more sauce to
    your leek? there is not enough leek to swear by.

PISTOL    Quiet thy cudgel; thou dost see I eat.

FLUELLEN    Much good do you, scauld knave, heartily. Nay, pray
    you, throw none away; the skin is good for your
    broken coxcomb. When you take occasions to see leeks
    hereafter, I pray you, mock at 'em; that is all.

PISTOL    Good.

FLUELLEN    Ay, leeks is good: hold you, there is a groat to
    heal your pate.

PISTOL    Me a groat!

FLUELLEN    Yes, verily and in truth, you shall take it; or I
    have another leek in my pocket, which you shall eat.

PISTOL    I take thy groat in earnest of revenge.

FLUELLEN    If I owe you any thing, I will pay you in cudgels:
    you shall be a woodmonger, and buy nothing of me but
    cudgels. God b' wi' you, and keep you, and heal your pate.

    [Exit]

PISTOL    All hell shall stir for this.

GOWER    Go, go; you are a counterfeit cowardly knave. Will
    you mock at an ancient tradition, begun upon an
    honourable respect, and worn as a memorable trophy of
    predeceased valour and dare not avouch in your deeds
    any of your words? I have seen you gleeking and
    galling at this gentleman twice or thrice. You
    thought, because he could not speak English in the
    native garb, he could not therefore handle an
    English cudgel: you find it otherwise; and
    henceforth let a Welsh correction teach you a good
    English condition. Fare ye well.

    [Exit]

PISTOL    Doth Fortune play the huswife with me now?
    News have I, that my Nell is dead i' the spital
    Of malady of France;
    And there my rendezvous is quite cut off.
    Old I do wax; and from my weary limbs
    Honour is cudgelled. Well, bawd I'll turn,
    And something lean to cutpurse of quick hand.
    To England will I steal, and there I'll steal:
    And patches will I get unto these cudgell'd scars,
    And swear I got them in the Gallia wars.

    [Exit]




    KING HENRY V


ACT V



SCENE II    France. A royal palace.


    [Enter, at one door KING HENRY, EXETER, BEDFORD,
    GLOUCESTER, WARWICK, WESTMORELAND, and other Lords;
    at another, the FRENCH KING, QUEEN ISABEL, the
    PRINCESS KATHARINE, ALICE and other Ladies; the
    DUKE of BURGUNDY, and his train]

KING HENRY V    Peace to this meeting, wherefore we are met!
    Unto our brother France, and to our sister,
    Health and fair time of day; joy and good wishes
    To our most fair and princely cousin Katharine;
    And, as a branch and member of this royalty,
    By whom this great assembly is contrived,
    We do salute you, Duke of Burgundy;
    And, princes French, and peers, health to you all!

KING OF FRANCE    Right joyous are we to behold your face,
    Most worthy brother England; fairly met:
    So are you, princes English, every one.

QUEEN ISABEL    So happy be the issue, brother England,
    Of this good day and of this gracious meeting,
    As we are now glad to behold your eyes;
    Your eyes, which hitherto have borne in them
    Against the French, that met them in their bent,
    The fatal balls of murdering basilisks:
    The venom of such looks, we fairly hope,
    Have lost their quality, and that this day
    Shall change all griefs and quarrels into love.

KING HENRY V    To cry amen to that, thus we appear.

QUEEN ISABEL    You English princes all, I do salute you.

BURGUNDY    My duty to you both, on equal love,
    Great Kings of France and England! That I have labour'd,
    With all my wits, my pains and strong endeavours,
    To bring your most imperial majesties
    Unto this bar and royal interview,
    Your mightiness on both parts best can witness.
    Since then my office hath so far prevail'd
    That, face to face and royal eye to eye,
    You have congreeted, let it not disgrace me,
    If I demand, before this royal view,
    What rub or what impediment there is,
    Why that the naked, poor and mangled Peace,
    Dear nurse of arts and joyful births,
    Should not in this best garden of the world
    Our fertile France, put up her lovely visage?
    Alas, she hath from France too long been chased,
    And all her husbandry doth lie on heaps,
    Corrupting in its own fertility.
    Her vine, the merry cheerer of the heart,
    Unpruned dies; her hedges even-pleach'd,
    Like prisoners wildly overgrown with hair,
    Put forth disorder'd twigs; her fallow leas
    The darnel, hemlock and rank fumitory
    Doth root upon, while that the coulter rusts
    That should deracinate such savagery;
    The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth
    The freckled cowslip, burnet and green clover,
    Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank,
    Conceives by idleness and nothing teems
    But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs,
    Losing both beauty and utility.
    And as our vineyards, fallows, meads and hedges,
    Defective in their natures, grow to wildness,
    Even so our houses and ourselves and children
    Have lost, or do not learn for want of time,
    The sciences that should become our country;
    But grow like savages,--as soldiers will
    That nothing do but meditate on blood,--
    To swearing and stern looks, diffused attire
    And every thing that seems unnatural.
    Which to reduce into our former favour
    You are assembled: and my speech entreats
    That I may know the let, why gentle Peace
    Should not expel these inconveniences
    And bless us with her former qualities.

KING HENRY V    If, Duke of Burgundy, you would the peace,
    Whose want gives growth to the imperfections
    Which you have cited, you must buy that peace
    With full accord to all our just demands;
    Whose tenors and particular effects
    You have enscheduled briefly in your hands.

BURGUNDY    The king hath heard them; to the which as yet
    There is no answer made.

KING HENRY V    Well then the peace,
    Which you before so urged, lies in his answer.

KING OF FRANCE    I have but with a cursorary eye
    O'erglanced the articles: pleaseth your grace
    To appoint some of your council presently
    To sit with us once more, with better heed
    To re-survey them, we will suddenly
    Pass our accept and peremptory answer.

KING HENRY V    Brother, we shall. Go, uncle Exeter,
    And brother Clarence, and you, brother Gloucester,
    Warwick and Huntingdon, go with the king;
    And take with you free power to ratify,
    Augment, or alter, as your wisdoms best
    Shall see advantageable for our dignity,
    Any thing in or out of our demands,
    And we'll consign thereto. Will you, fair sister,
    Go with the princes, or stay here with us?

QUEEN ISABEL    Our gracious brother, I will go with them:
    Haply a woman's voice may do some good,
    When articles too nicely urged be stood on.

KING HENRY V    Yet leave our cousin Katharine here with us:
    She is our capital demand, comprised
    Within the fore-rank of our articles.

QUEEN ISABEL    She hath good leave.

    [Exeunt all except HENRY, KATHARINE, and ALICE]

KING HENRY V    Fair Katharine, and most fair,
    Will you vouchsafe to teach a soldier terms
    Such as will enter at a lady's ear
    And plead his love-suit to her gentle heart?

KATHARINE    Your majesty shall mock at me; I cannot speak your England.

KING HENRY V    O fair Katharine, if you will love me soundly with
    your French heart, I will be glad to hear you
    confess it brokenly with your English tongue. Do
    you like me, Kate?

KATHARINE    Pardonnez-moi, I cannot tell vat is 'like me.'

KING HENRY V    An angel is like you, Kate, and you are like an angel.

KATHARINE    Que dit-il? que je suis semblable a les anges?

ALICE    Oui, vraiment, sauf votre grace, ainsi dit-il.

KING HENRY V    I said so, dear Katharine; and I must not blush to
    affirm it.

KATHARINE    O bon Dieu! les langues des hommes sont pleines de
    tromperies.

KING HENRY V    What says she, fair one? that the tongues of men
    are full of deceits?

ALICE    Oui, dat de tongues of de mans is be full of
    deceits: dat is de princess.

KING HENRY V    The princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith,
    Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am
    glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if
    thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king
    that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my
    crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but
    directly to say 'I love you:' then if you urge me
    farther than to say 'do you in faith?' I wear out
    my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so
    clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady?

KATHARINE    Sauf votre honneur, me understand vell.

KING HENRY V    Marry, if you would put me to verses or to dance for
    your sake, Kate, why you undid me: for the one, I
    have neither words nor measure, and for the other, I
    have no strength in measure, yet a reasonable
    measure in strength. If I could win a lady at
    leap-frog, or by vaulting into my saddle with my
    armour on my back, under the correction of bragging
    be it spoken. I should quickly leap into a wife.
    Or if I might buffet for my love, or bound my horse
    for her favours, I could lay on like a butcher and
    sit like a jack-an-apes, never off. But, before God,
    Kate, I cannot look greenly nor gasp out my
    eloquence, nor I have no cunning in protestation;
    only downright oaths, which I never use till urged,
    nor never break for urging. If thou canst love a
    fellow of this temper, Kate, whose face is not worth
    sun-burning, that never looks in his glass for love
    of any thing he sees there, let thine eye be thy
    cook. I speak to thee plain soldier: If thou canst
    love me for this, take me: if not, to say to thee
    that I shall die, is true; but for thy love, by the
    Lord, no; yet I love thee too. And while thou
    livest, dear Kate, take a fellow of plain and
    uncoined constancy; for he perforce must do thee
    right, because he hath not the gift to woo in other
    places: for these fellows of infinite tongue, that
    can rhyme themselves into ladies' favours, they do
    always reason themselves out again. What! a
    speaker is but a prater; a rhyme is but a ballad. A
    good leg will fall; a straight back will stoop; a
    black beard will turn white; a curled pate will grow
    bald; a fair face will wither; a full eye will wax
    hollow: but a good heart, Kate, is the sun and the
    moon; or, rather, the sun, and not the moon; for it
    shines bright and never changes, but keeps his
    course truly. If thou would have such a one, take
    me; and take me, take a soldier; take a soldier,
    take a king. And what sayest thou then to my love?
    speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.

KATHARINE    Is it possible dat I sould love de enemy of France?

KING HENRY V    No; it is not possible you should love the enemy of
    France, Kate: but, in loving me, you should love
    the friend of France; for I love France so well that
    I will not part with a village of it; I will have it
    all mine: and, Kate, when France is mine and I am
    yours, then yours is France and you are mine.

KATHARINE    I cannot tell vat is dat.

KING HENRY V    No, Kate? I will tell thee in French; which I am
    sure will hang upon my tongue like a new-married
    wife about her husband's neck, hardly to be shook
    off. Je quand sur le possession de France, et quand
    vous avez le possession de moi,--let me see, what
    then? Saint Denis be my speed!--donc votre est
    France et vous etes mienne. It is as easy for me,
    Kate, to conquer the kingdom as to speak so much
    more French: I shall never move thee in French,
    unless it be to laugh at me.

KATHARINE    Sauf votre honneur, le Francois que vous parlez, il
    est meilleur que l'Anglois lequel je parle.

KING HENRY V    No, faith, is't not, Kate: but thy speaking of my
    tongue, and I thine, most truly-falsely, must needs
    be granted to be much at one. But, Kate, dost thou
    understand thus much English, canst thou love me?

KATHARINE    I cannot tell.

KING HENRY V    Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask
    them. Come, I know thou lovest me: and at night,
    when you come into your closet, you'll question this
    gentlewoman about me; and I know, Kate, you will to
    her dispraise those parts in me that you love with
    your heart: but, good Kate, mock me mercifully; the
    rather, gentle princess, because I love thee
    cruelly. If ever thou beest mine, Kate, as I have a
    saving faith within me tells me thou shalt, I get
    thee with scambling, and thou must therefore needs
    prove a good soldier-breeder: shall not thou and I,
    between Saint Denis and Saint George, compound a
    boy, half French, half English, that shall go to
    Constantinople and take the Turk by the beard?
    shall we not? what sayest thou, my fair
    flower-de-luce?

KATHARINE    I do not know dat

KING HENRY V    No; 'tis hereafter to know, but now to promise: do
    but now promise, Kate, you will endeavour for your
    French part of such a boy; and for my English moiety
    take the word of a king and a bachelor. How answer
    you, la plus belle Katharine du monde, mon tres cher
    et devin deesse?

KATHARINE    Your majestee ave fausse French enough to deceive de
    most sage demoiselle dat is en France.

KING HENRY V    Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in
    true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honour I
    dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to
    flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor
    and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew
    my father's ambition! he was thinking of civil wars
    when he got me: therefore was I created with a
    stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when
    I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith,
    Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear:
    my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of
    beauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face: thou
    hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou
    shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better:
    and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you
    have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the
    thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress;
    take me by the hand, and say 'Harry of England I am
    thine:' which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine
    ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud 'England is
    thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry
    Plantagenet is thine;' who though I speak it before
    his face, if he be not fellow with the best king,
    thou shalt find the best king of good fellows.
    Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is
    music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of
    all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken
    English; wilt thou have me?

KATHARINE    Dat is as it sall please de roi mon pere.

KING HENRY V    Nay, it will please him well, Kate it shall please
    him, Kate.

KATHARINE    Den it sall also content me.

KING HENRY V    Upon that I kiss your hand, and I call you my queen.

KATHARINE    Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: ma foi, je
    ne veux point que vous abaissiez votre grandeur en
    baisant la main d'une de votre seigeurie indigne
    serviteur; excusez-moi, je vous supplie, mon
    tres-puissant seigneur.

KING HENRY V    Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

KATHARINE    Les dames et demoiselles pour etre baisees devant
    leur noces, il n'est pas la coutume de France.

KING HENRY V    Madam my interpreter, what says she?

ALICE    Dat it is not be de fashion pour les ladies of
    France,--I cannot tell vat is baiser en Anglish.

KING HENRY V    To kiss.

ALICE    Your majesty entendre bettre que moi.

KING HENRY V    It is not a fashion for the maids in France to kiss
    before they are married, would she say?

ALICE    Oui, vraiment.

KING HENRY V    O Kate, nice customs curtsy to great kings. Dear
    Kate, you and I cannot be confined within the weak
    list of a country's fashion: we are the makers of
    manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our
    places stops the mouth of all find-faults; as I will
    do yours, for upholding the nice fashion of your
    country in denying me a kiss: therefore, patiently
    and yielding.

    [Kissing her]

    You have witchcraft in your lips, Kate: there is
    more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the
    tongues of the French council; and they should
    sooner persuade Harry of England than a general
    petition of monarchs. Here comes your father.

    [Re-enter the FRENCH KING and his QUEEN, BURGUNDY,
    and other Lords]

BURGUNDY    God save your majesty! my royal cousin, teach you
    our princess English?

KING HENRY V    I would have her learn, my fair cousin, how
    perfectly I love her; and that is good English.

BURGUNDY    Is she not apt?

KING HENRY V    Our tongue is rough, coz, and my condition is not
    smooth; so that, having neither the voice nor the
    heart of flattery about me, I cannot so conjure up
    the spirit of love in her, that he will appear in
    his true likeness.

BURGUNDY    Pardon the frankness of my mirth, if I answer you
    for that. If you would conjure in her, you must
    make a circle; if conjure up love in her in his true
    likeness, he must appear naked and blind. Can you
    blame her then, being a maid yet rosed over with the
    virgin crimson of modesty, if she deny the
    appearance of a naked blind boy in her naked seeing
    self? It were, my lord, a hard condition for a maid
    to consign to.

KING HENRY V    Yet they do wink and yield, as love is blind and enforces.

BURGUNDY    They are then excused, my lord, when they see not
    what they do.

KING HENRY V    Then, good my lord, teach your cousin to consent winking.

BURGUNDY    I will wink on her to consent, my lord, if you will
    teach her to know my meaning: for maids, well
    summered and warm kept, are like flies at
    Bartholomew-tide, blind, though they have their
    eyes; and then they will endure handling, which
    before would not abide looking on.

KING HENRY V    This moral ties me over to time and a hot summer;
    and so I shall catch the fly, your cousin, in the
    latter end and she must be blind too.

BURGUNDY    As love is, my lord, before it loves.

KING HENRY V    It is so: and you may, some of you, thank love for
    my blindness, who cannot see many a fair French city
    for one fair French maid that stands in my way.

FRENCH KING    Yes, my lord, you see them perspectively, the cities
    turned into a maid; for they are all girdled with
    maiden walls that war hath never entered.

KING HENRY V    Shall Kate be my wife?

FRENCH KING    So please you.

KING HENRY V    I am content; so the maiden cities you talk of may
    wait on her: so the maid that stood in the way for
    my wish shall show me the way to my will.

FRENCH KING    We have consented to all terms of reason.

KING HENRY V    Is't so, my lords of England?

WESTMORELAND    The king hath granted every article:
    His daughter first, and then in sequel all,
    According to their firm proposed natures.

EXETER    Only he hath not yet subscribed this:
    Where your majesty demands, that the King of France,
    having any occasion to write for matter of grant,
    shall name your highness in this form and with this
    addition in French, Notre trescher fils Henri, Roi
    d'Angleterre, Heritier de France; and thus in
    Latin, Praeclarissimus filius noster Henricus, Rex
    Angliae, et Haeres Franciae.

FRENCH KING    Nor this I have not, brother, so denied,
    But your request shall make me let it pass.

KING HENRY V    I pray you then, in love and dear alliance,
    Let that one article rank with the rest;
    And thereupon give me your daughter.

FRENCH KING    Take her, fair son, and from her blood raise up
    Issue to me; that the contending kingdoms
    Of France and England, whose very shores look pale
    With envy of each other's happiness,
    May cease their hatred, and this dear conjunction
    Plant neighbourhood and Christian-like accord
    In their sweet bosoms, that never war advance
    His bleeding sword 'twixt England and fair France.

ALL    Amen!

KING HENRY V    Now, welcome, Kate: and bear me witness all,
    That here I kiss her as my sovereign queen.

    [Flourish]

QUEEN ISABEL    God, the best maker of all marriages,
    Combine your hearts in one, your realms in one!
    As man and wife, being two, are one in love,
    So be there 'twixt your kingdoms such a spousal,
    That never may ill office, or fell jealousy,
    Which troubles oft the bed of blessed marriage,
    Thrust in between the paction of these kingdoms,
    To make divorce of their incorporate league;
    That English may as French, French Englishmen,
    Receive each other. God speak this Amen!

ALL    Amen!

KING HENRY V    Prepare we for our marriage--on which day,
    My Lord of Burgundy, we'll take your oath,
    And all the peers', for surety of our leagues.
    Then shall I swear to Kate, and you to me;
    And may our oaths well kept and prosperous be!

    [Sennet. Exeunt]




    KING HENRY V

    EPILOGUE


    [Enter Chorus]

Chorus    Thus far, with rough and all-unable pen,
    Our bending author hath pursued the story,
    In little room confining mighty men,
    Mangling by starts the full course of their glory.
    Small time, but in that small most greatly lived
    This star of England: Fortune made his sword;
    By which the world's best garden be achieved,
    And of it left his son imperial lord.
    Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King
    Of France and England, did this king succeed;
    Whose state so many had the managing,
    That they lost France and made his England bleed:
    Which oft our stage hath shown; and, for their sake,
    In your fair minds let this acceptance take.

    [Exit]




    SONNETS



TO THE ONLY BEGETTER OF
THESE INSUING SONNETS
MR. W. H. ALL HAPPINESS
AND THAT ETERNITY
PROMISED BY
OUR EVER-LIVING POET WISHETH
THE WELL-WISHING
ADVENTURER IN
SETTING FORTH
T. T.


I.

FROM fairest creatures we desire increase,
That thereby beauty's rose might never die,
But as the riper should by time decease,
His tender heir might bear his memory:
But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,
Feed'st thy light'st flame with self-substantial fuel,
Making a famine where abundance lies,
Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
Thou that art now the world's fresh ornament
And only herald to the gaudy spring,
Within thine own bud buriest thy content
And, tender churl, makest waste in niggarding.
  Pity the world, or else this glutton be,
  To eat the world's due, by the grave and thee.

II.

When forty winters shall beseige thy brow,
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a tatter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being ask'd where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days,
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty's use,
If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count and make my old excuse,'
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
  This were to be new made when thou art old,
  And see thy blood warm when thou feel'st it cold.

III.

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
  But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
  Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

IV.

Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Upon thyself thy beauty's legacy?
Nature's bequest gives nothing but doth lend,
And being frank she lends to those are free.
Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuse
The bounteous largess given thee to give?
Profitless usurer, why dost thou use
So great a sum of sums, yet canst not live?
For having traffic with thyself alone,
Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive.
Then how, when nature calls thee to be gone,
What acceptable audit canst thou leave?
  Thy unused beauty must be tomb'd with thee,
  Which, used, lives th' executor to be.

V.

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
  But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
  Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

VI.

Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
That use is not forbidden usury,
Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
That's for thyself to breed another thee,
Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;
Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,
If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
Then what could death do, if thou shouldst depart,
Leaving thee living in posterity?
  Be not self-will'd, for thou art much too fair
  To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

VII.

Lo! in the orient when the gracious light
Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
Serving with looks his sacred majesty;
And having climb'd the steep-up heavenly hill,
Resembling strong youth in his middle age,
yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,
Attending on his golden pilgrimage;
But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,
Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,
The eyes, 'fore duteous, now converted are
From his low tract and look another way:
  So thou, thyself out-going in thy noon,
  Unlook'd on diest, unless thou get a son.

VIII.

Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
Why lovest thou that which thou receivest not gladly,
Or else receivest with pleasure thine annoy?
If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,
By unions married, do offend thine ear,
They do but sweetly chide thee, who confounds
In singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear.
Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,
Strikes each in each by mutual ordering,
Resembling sire and child and happy mother
Who all in one, one pleasing note do sing:
  Whose speechless song, being many, seeming one,
  Sings this to thee: 'thou single wilt prove none.'

IX.

Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye
That thou consumest thyself in single life?
Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die.
The world will wail thee, like a makeless wife;
The world will be thy widow and still weep
That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
When every private widow well may keep
By children's eyes her husband's shape in mind.
Look, what an unthrift in the world doth spend
Shifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;
But beauty's waste hath in the world an end,
And kept unused, the user so destroys it.
  No love toward others in that bosom sits
  That on himself such murderous shame commits.

X.

For shame! deny that thou bear'st love to any,
Who for thyself art so unprovident.
Grant, if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
But that thou none lovest is most evident;
For thou art so possess'd with murderous hate
That 'gainst thyself thou stick'st not to conspire.
Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
Which to repair should be thy chief desire.
O, change thy thought, that I may change my mind!
Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,
Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:
  Make thee another self, for love of me,
  That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

XI.

As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou growest
In one of thine, from that which thou departest;
And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestowest
Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest.
Herein lives wisdom, beauty and increase:
Without this, folly, age and cold decay:
If all were minded so, the times should cease
And threescore year would make the world away.
Let those whom Nature hath not made for store,
Harsh featureless and rude, barrenly perish:
Look, whom she best endow'd she gave the more;
Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
  She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby
  Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.

XII.

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silver'd o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
  And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
  Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

XIII.

O, that you were yourself! but, love, you are
No longer yours than you yourself here live:
Against this coming end you should prepare,
And your sweet semblance to some other give.
So should that beauty which you hold in lease
Find no determination: then you were
Yourself again after yourself's decease,
When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.
Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,
Which husbandry in honour might uphold
Against the stormy gusts of winter's day
And barren rage of death's eternal cold?
  O, none but unthrifts! Dear my love, you know
  You had a father: let your son say so.

XIV.

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well,
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And, constant stars, in them I read such art
As truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself to store thou wouldst convert;
  Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
  Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

XV.

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
  And all in war with Time for love of you,
  As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

XVI.

But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Make war upon this bloody tyrant, Time?
And fortify yourself in your decay
With means more blessed than my barren rhyme?
Now stand you on the top of happy hours,
And many maiden gardens yet unset
With virtuous wish would bear your living flowers,
Much liker than your painted counterfeit:
So should the lines of life that life repair,
Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen,
Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,
Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.
  To give away yourself keeps yourself still,
  And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill.

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
  But were some child of yours alive that time,
  You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.

XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
  So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
  So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

XIX.

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion's paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger's jaws,
And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate'er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O, carve not with thy hours my love's fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
  Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong,
  My love shall in my verse ever live young.

XX.

A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
  But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
  Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

XXI.

So is it not with me as with that Muse
Stirr'd by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse
Making a couplement of proud compare,
With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems,
With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare
That heaven's air in this huge rondure hems.
O' let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother's child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix'd in heaven's air:
  Let them say more than like of hearsay well;
  I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

XXII.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
  Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
  Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.

XXIII.

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.
  O, learn to read what silent love hath writ:
  To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

XXIV.

Mine eye hath play'd the painter and hath stell'd
Thy beauty's form in table of my heart;
My body is the frame wherein 'tis held,
And perspective it is the painter's art.
For through the painter must you see his skill,
To find where your true image pictured lies;
Which in my bosom's shop is hanging still,
That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes.
Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:
Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for me
Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
Delights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;
  Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art;
  They draw but what they see, know not the heart.

XXV.

Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.
Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun's eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil'd,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd:
  Then happy I, that love and am beloved
  Where I may not remove nor be removed.

XXVI.

Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I send this written embassage,
To witness duty, not to show my wit:
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,
But that I hope some good conceit of thine
In thy soul's thought, all naked, will bestow it;
Till whatsoever star that guides my moving
Points on me graciously with fair aspect
And puts apparel on my tatter'd loving,
To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:
  Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;
  Till then not show my head where thou mayst prove me.

XXVII.

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
  Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
  For thee and for myself no quiet find.

XXVIII.

How can I then return in happy plight,
That am debarr'd the benefit of rest?
When day's oppression is not eased by night,
But day by night, and night by day, oppress'd?
And each, though enemies to either's reign,
Do in consent shake hands to torture me;
The one by toil, the other to complain
How far I toil, still farther off from thee.
I tell the day, to please them thou art bright
And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:
So flatter I the swart-complexion'd night,
When sparkling stars twire not thou gild'st the even.
But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer
  And night doth nightly make grief's strength
      seem stronger.

XXIX.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deal heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
  For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
  That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

XXX.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancell'd woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish'd sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
  But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
  All losses are restored and sorrows end.

XXXI.

Thy bosom is endeared with all hearts,
Which I by lacking have supposed dead,
And there reigns love and all love's loving parts,
And all those friends which I thought buried.
How many a holy and obsequious tear
Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye
As interest of the dead, which now appear
But things removed that hidden in thee lie!
Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,
Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,
Who all their parts of me to thee did give;
That due of many now is thine alone:
  Their images I loved I view in thee,
  And thou, all they, hast all the all of me.

XXXII.

If thou survive my well-contented day,
When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover,
And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,
Compare them with the bettering of the time,
And though they be outstripp'd by every pen,
Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,
Exceeded by the height of happier men.
O, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:
'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age,
A dearer birth than this his love had brought,
To march in ranks of better equipage:
  But since he died and poets better prove,
  Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'

XXXIII.

Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendor on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine;
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
  Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
  Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun staineth.

XXXIV.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day,
And make me travel forth without my cloak,
To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way,
Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke?
'Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,
To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,
For no man well of such a salve can speak
That heals the wound and cures not the disgrace:
Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;
Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:
The offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
To him that bears the strong offence's cross.
  Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
  And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds.

XXXV.

No more be grieved at that which thou hast done:
Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud;
Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,
And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud.
All men make faults, and even I in this,
Authorizing thy trespass with compare,
Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,
Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;
For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense--
Thy adverse party is thy advocate--
And 'gainst myself a lawful plea commence:
Such civil war is in my love and hate
  That I an accessary needs must be
  To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me.

XXXVI.

Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Although our undivided loves are one:
So shall those blots that do with me remain
Without thy help by me be borne alone.
In our two loves there is but one respect,
Though in our lives a separable spite,
Which though it alter not love's sole effect,
Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love's delight.
I may not evermore acknowledge thee,
Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,
Nor thou with public kindness honour me,
Unless thou take that honour from thy name:
  But do not so; I love thee in such sort
  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVII.

As a decrepit father takes delight
To see his active child do deeds of youth,
So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite,
Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,
Or any of these all, or all, or more,
Entitled in thy parts do crowned sit,
I make my love engrafted to this store:
So then I am not lame, poor, nor despised,
Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give
That I in thy abundance am sufficed
And by a part of all thy glory live.
  Look, what is best, that best I wish in thee:
  This wish I have; then ten times happy me!

XXXVIII.

How can my Muse want subject to invent,
While thou dost breathe, that pour'st into my verse
Thine own sweet argument, too excellent
For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
O, give thyself the thanks, if aught in me
Worthy perusal stand against thy sight;
For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
When thou thyself dost give invention light?
Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
Than those old nine which rhymers invocate;
And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
  If my slight Muse do please these curious days,
  The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

XXXIX.

O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
When thou art all the better part of me?
What can mine own praise to mine own self bring?
And what is 't but mine own when I praise thee?
Even for this let us divided live,
And our dear love lose name of single one,
That by this separation I may give
That due to thee which thou deservest alone.
O absence, what a torment wouldst thou prove,
Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave
To entertain the time with thoughts of love,
Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,
  And that thou teachest how to make one twain,
  By praising him here who doth hence remain!

XL.

Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
What hast thou then more than thou hadst before?
No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;
All mine was thine before thou hadst this more.
Then if for my love thou my love receivest,
I cannot blame thee for my love thou usest;
But yet be blamed, if thou thyself deceivest
By wilful taste of what thyself refusest.
I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,
Although thou steal thee all my poverty;
And yet, love knows, it is a greater grief
To bear love's wrong than hate's known injury.
  Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
  Kill me with spites; yet we must not be foes.

XLI.

Those petty wrongs that liberty commits,
When I am sometime absent from thy heart,
Thy beauty and thy years full well befits,
For still temptation follows where thou art.
Gentle thou art and therefore to be won,
Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed;
And when a woman woos, what woman's son
Will sourly leave her till she have prevailed?
Ay me! but yet thou mightest my seat forbear,
And chide try beauty and thy straying youth,
Who lead thee in their riot even there
Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth,
  Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
  Thine, by thy beauty being false to me.

XLII.

That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,
And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;
That she hath thee, is of my wailing chief,
A loss in love that touches me more nearly.
Loving offenders, thus I will excuse ye:
Thou dost love her, because thou knowst I love her;
And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,
Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her.
If I lose thee, my loss is my love's gain,
And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;
Both find each other, and I lose both twain,
And both for my sake lay on me this cross:
  But here's the joy; my friend and I are one;
  Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone.

XLIII.

When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
For all the day they view things unrespected;
But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,
And darkly bright are bright in dark directed.
Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,
How would thy shadow's form form happy show
To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed made
By looking on thee in the living day,
When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade
Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!
  All days are nights to see till I see thee,
  And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

XLIV.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth removed from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought
I must attend time's leisure with my moan,
  Receiving nought by elements so slow
  But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

XLV.

The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Are both with thee, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my desire,
These present-absent with swift motion slide.
For when these quicker elements are gone
In tender embassy of love to thee,
My life, being made of four, with two alone
Sinks down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until life's composition be recured
By those swift messengers return'd from thee,
Who even but now come back again, assured
Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:
  This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
  I send them back again and straight grow sad.

XLVI.

Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
How to divide the conquest of thy sight;
Mine eye my heart thy picture's sight would bar,
My heart mine eye the freedom of that right.
My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie--
A closet never pierced with crystal eyes--
But the defendant doth that plea deny
And says in him thy fair appearance lies.
To 'cide this title is impanneled
A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
And by their verdict is determined
The clear eye's moiety and the dear heart's part:
  As thus; mine eye's due is thy outward part,
  And my heart's right thy inward love of heart.

XLVII.

Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
And each doth good turns now unto the other:
When that mine eye is famish'd for a look,
Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,
With my love's picture then my eye doth feast
And to the painted banquet bids my heart;
Another time mine eye is my heart's guest
And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:
So, either by thy picture or my love,
Thyself away art resent still with me;
For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them and they with thee;
  Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
  Awakes my heart to heart's and eye's delight.

XLVIII.

How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
  And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
  For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.

XLIX.

Against that time, if ever that time come,
When I shall see thee frown on my defects,
When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,
Call'd to that audit by advised respects;
Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass
And scarcely greet me with that sun thine eye,
When love, converted from the thing it was,
Shall reasons find of settled gravity,--
Against that time do I ensconce me here
Within the knowledge of mine own desert,
And this my hand against myself uprear,
To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:
  To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,
  Since why to love I can allege no cause.

L.

How heavy do I journey on the way,
When what I seek, my weary travel's end,
Doth teach that ease and that repose to say
'Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend!'
The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,
Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,
As if by some instinct the wretch did know
His rider loved not speed, being made from thee:
The bloody spur cannot provoke him on
That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide;
Which heavily he answers with a groan,
More sharp to me than spurring to his side;
  For that same groan doth put this in my mind;
  My grief lies onward and my joy behind.

LI.

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;
Therefore desire of perfect'st love being made,
Shall neigh--no dull flesh--in his fiery race;
But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade;
  Since from thee going he went wilful-slow,
  Towards thee I'll run, and give him leave to go.

LII.

So am I as the rich, whose blessed key
Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,
The which he will not every hour survey,
For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure.
Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,
Since, seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcanet.
So is the time that keeps you as my chest,
Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,
To make some special instant special blest,
By new unfolding his imprison'd pride.
  Blessed are you, whose worthiness gives scope,
  Being had, to triumph, being lack'd, to hope.

LIII.

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one hath, every one, one shade,
And you, but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring and foison of the year;
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
  In all external grace you have some part,
  But you like none, none you, for constant heart.

LIV.

O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
  And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
  When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

LV.

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
  So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
  You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

LVI.

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said
Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,
To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:
So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill
Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness,
To-morrow see again, and do not kill
The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness.
Let this sad interim like the ocean be
Which parts the shore, where two contracted new
Come daily to the banks, that, when they see
Return of love, more blest may be the view;
  Else call it winter, which being full of care
  Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

LVII.

Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Upon the hours and times of your desire?
I have no precious time at all to spend,
Nor services to do, till you require.
Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour
When you have bid your servant once adieu;
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of nought
Save, where you are how happy you make those.
  So true a fool is love that in your will,
  Though you do any thing, he thinks no ill.

LVIII.

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison'd absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each cheque,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
  I am to wait, though waiting so be hell;
  Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

LIX.

If there be nothing new, but that which is
Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
Which, labouring for invention, bear amiss
The second burden of a former child!
O, that record could with a backward look,
Even of five hundred courses of the sun,
Show me your image in some antique book,
Since mind at first in character was done!
That I might see what the old world could say
To this composed wonder of your frame;
Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
Or whether revolution be the same.
  O, sure I am, the wits of former days
  To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

LX.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd,
Crooked elipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:
  And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

LXI.

Is it thy will thy image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,
While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?
Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee
So far from home into my deeds to pry,
To find out shames and idle hours in me,
The scope and tenor of thy jealousy?
O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake;
Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for thy sake:
  For thee watch I whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
  From me far off, with others all too near.

LXII.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye
And all my soul and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account;
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;
Self so self-loving were iniquity.
  'Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,
  Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

LXIII.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and o'er-worn;
When hours have drain'd his blood and fill'd his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travell'd on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
  His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
  And they shall live, and he in them still green.

LXIV.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate,
That Time will come and take my love away.
  This thought is as a death, which cannot choose
  But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

LXV.

Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wreckful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but Time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
  O, none, unless this miracle have might,
  That in black ink my love may still shine bright.

LXVI.

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly doctor-like controlling skill,
And simple truth miscall'd simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill:
  Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
  Save that, to die, I leave my love alone.

LXVII.

Ah! wherefore with infection should he live,
And with his presence grace impiety,
That sin by him advantage should achieve
And lace itself with his society?
Why should false painting imitate his cheek
And steal dead seeing of his living hue?
Why should poor beauty indirectly seek
Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,
Beggar'd of blood to blush through lively veins?
For she hath no exchequer now but his,
And, proud of many, lives upon his gains.
  O, him she stores, to show what wealth she had
  In days long since, before these last so bad.

LXVIII.

Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,
Before the bastard signs of fair were born,
Or durst inhabit on a living brow;
Before the golden tresses of the dead,
The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,
To live a second life on second head;
Ere beauty's dead fleece made another gay:
In him those holy antique hours are seen,
Without all ornament, itself and true,
Making no summer of another's green,
Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;
  And him as for a map doth Nature store,
  To show false Art what beauty was of yore.

LXIX.

Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Want nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;
All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,
Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend.
Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown'd;
But those same tongues that give thee so thine own
In other accents do this praise confound
By seeing farther than the eye hath shown.
They look into the beauty of thy mind,
And that, in guess, they measure by thy deeds;
Then, churls, their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,
To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:
  But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,
  The solve is this, that thou dost common grow.

LXX.

That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater, being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast pass'd by the ambush of young days,
Either not assail'd or victor being charged;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy evermore enlarged:
  If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
  Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

LXXI.

No longer mourn for me when I am dead
Then you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled
From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell:
Nay, if you read this line, remember not
The hand that writ it; for I love you so
That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot
If thinking on me then should make you woe.
O, if, I say, you look upon this verse
When I perhaps compounded am with clay,
Do not so much as my poor name rehearse.
But let your love even with my life decay,
  Lest the wise world should look into your moan
  And mock you with me after I am gone.

LXXII.

O, lest the world should task you to recite
What merit lived in me, that you should love
After my death, dear love, forget me quite,
For you in me can nothing worthy prove;
Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,
To do more for me than mine own desert,
And hang more praise upon deceased I
Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
O, lest your true love may seem false in this,
That you for love speak well of me untrue,
My name be buried where my body is,
And live no more to shame nor me nor you.
  For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,
  And so should you, to love things nothing worth.

LXXIII.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
  This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
  To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

LXXIV.

But be contented: when that fell arrest
Without all bail shall carry me away,
My life hath in this line some interest,
Which for memorial still with thee shall stay.
When thou reviewest this, thou dost review
The very part was consecrate to thee:
The earth can have but earth, which is his due;
My spirit is thine, the better part of me:
So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,
The prey of worms, my body being dead,
The coward conquest of a wretch's knife,
Too base of thee to be remembered.
  The worth of that is that which it contains,
  And that is this, and this with thee remains.

LXXV.

So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found;
Now proud as an enjoyer and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure;
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight,
Save what is had or must from you be took.
  Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
  Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

LXXVI.

Why is my verse so barren of new pride,
So far from variation or quick change?
Why with the time do I not glance aside
To new-found methods and to compounds strange?
Why write I still all one, ever the same,
And keep invention in a noted weed,
That every word doth almost tell my name,
Showing their birth and where they did proceed?
O, know, sweet love, I always write of you,
And you and love are still my argument;
So all my best is dressing old words new,
Spending again what is already spent:
  For as the sun is daily new and old,
  So is my love still telling what is told.

LXXVII.

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind's imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know
Time's thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver'd from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
  These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
  Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

LXXVIII.

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
  But thou art all my art and dost advance
  As high as learning my rude ignorance.

LXXIX.

Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
But now my gracious numbers are decay'd
And my sick Muse doth give another place.
I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argument
Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent
He robs thee of and pays it thee again.
He lends thee virtue and he stole that word
From thy behavior; beauty doth he give
And found it in thy cheek; he can afford
No praise to thee but what in thee doth live.
  Then thank him not for that which he doth say,
  Since what he owes thee thou thyself dost pay.

LXXX.

O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied, speaking of your fame!
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark inferior far to his
On your broad main doth wilfully appear.
Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;
Or being wreck'd, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride:
  Then if he thrive and I be cast away,
  The worst was this; my love was my decay.

LXXXI.

Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'er-read,
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead;
  You still shall live--such virtue hath my pen--
  Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.

LXXXII.

I grant thou wert not married to my Muse
And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
The dedicated words which writers use
Of their fair subject, blessing every book
Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,
Finding thy worth a limit past my praise,
And therefore art enforced to seek anew
Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days
And do so, love; yet when they have devised
What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
Thou truly fair wert truly sympathized
In true plain words by thy true-telling friend;
  And their gross painting might be better used
  Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abused.

LXXXIII.

I never saw that you did painting need
And therefore to your fair no painting set;
I found, or thought I found, you did exceed
The barren tender of a poet's debt;
And therefore have I slept in your report,
That you yourself being extant well might show
How far a modern quill doth come too short,
Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.
This silence for my sin you did impute,
Which shall be most my glory, being dumb;
For I impair not beauty being mute,
When others would give life and bring a tomb.
  There lives more life in one of your fair eyes
  Than both your poets can in praise devise.

LXXXIV.

Who is it that says most? which can say more
Than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
In whose confine immured is the store
Which should example where your equal grew.
Lean penury within that pen doth dwell
That to his subject lends not some small glory;
But he that writes of you, if he can tell
That you are you, so dignifies his story,
Let him but copy what in you is writ,
Not making worse what nature made so clear,
And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,
Making his style admired every where.
  You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,
  Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse.

LXXXV.

My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
While comments of your praise, richly compiled,
Reserve their character with golden quill
And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
I think good thoughts whilst other write good words,
And like unletter'd clerk still cry 'Amen'
To every hymn that able spirit affords
In polish'd form of well-refined pen.
Hearing you praised, I say ''Tis so, 'tis true,'
And to the most of praise add something more;
But that is in my thought, whose love to you,
Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.
  Then others for the breath of words respect,
  Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect.

LXXXVI.

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
  But when your countenance fill'd up his line,
  Then lack'd I matter; that enfeebled mine.

LXXXVII.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
  Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
  In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

LXXXVIII.

When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
The injuries that to myself I do,
Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
  Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
  That for thy right myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIX.

Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
And I will comment upon that offence;
Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making no defence.
Thou canst not, love, disgrace me half so ill,
To set a form upon desired change,
As I'll myself disgrace: knowing thy will,
I will acquaintance strangle and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks, and in my tongue
Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong
And haply of our old acquaintance tell.
  For thee against myself I'll vow debate,
  For I must ne'er love him whom thou dost hate.

XC.

Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,
Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,
And do not drop in for an after-loss:
Ah, do not, when my heart hath 'scoped this sorrow,
Come in the rearward of a conquer'd woe;
Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
To linger out a purposed overthrow.
If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,
When other petty griefs have done their spite
But in the onset come; so shall I taste
At first the very worst of fortune's might,
  And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
  Compared with loss of thee will not seem so.

XCI.

Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,
Some in their wealth, some in their bodies' force,
Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill,
Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;
And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,
Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:
But these particulars are not my measure;
All these I better in one general best.
Thy love is better than high birth to me,
Richer than wealth, prouder than garments' cost,
Of more delight than hawks or horses be;
And having thee, of all men's pride I boast:
  Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take
  All this away and me most wretched make.

XCII.

But do thy worst to steal thyself away,
For term of life thou art assured mine,
And life no longer than thy love will stay,
For it depends upon that love of thine.
Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,
When in the least of them my life hath end.
I see a better state to me belongs
Than that which on thy humour doth depend;
Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,
Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie.
O, what a happy title do I find,
Happy to have thy love, happy to die!
  But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot?
  Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

XCIII.

So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
Like a deceived husband; so love's face
May still seem love to me, though alter'd new;
Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:
For there can live no hatred in thine eye,
Therefore in that I cannot know thy change.
In many's looks the false heart's history
Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange,
But heaven in thy creation did decree
That in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;
Whate'er thy thoughts or thy heart's workings be,
Thy looks should nothing thence but sweetness tell.
  How like Eve's apple doth thy beauty grow,
  if thy sweet virtue answer not thy show!

XCIV.

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
  For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
  Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

XCV.

How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
Which, like a canker in the fragrant rose,
Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name!
O, in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose!
That tongue that tells the story of thy days,
Making lascivious comments on thy sport,
Cannot dispraise but in a kind of praise;
Naming thy name blesses an ill report.
O, what a mansion have those vices got
Which for their habitation chose out thee,
Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
And all things turn to fair that eyes can see!
  Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;
  The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

XCVI.

Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;
Both grace and faults are loved of more and less;
Thou makest faults graces that to thee resort.
As on the finger of a throned queen
The basest jewel will be well esteem'd,
So are those errors that in thee are seen
To truths translated and for true things deem'd.
How many lambs might the stem wolf betray,
If like a lamb he could his looks translate!
How many gazers mightst thou lead away,
If thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!
  But do not so; I love thee in such sort
  As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XCVII.

How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What old December's bareness every where!
And yet this time removed was summer's time,
The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,
Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,
Like widow'd wombs after their lords' decease:
Yet this abundant issue seem'd to me
But hope of orphans and unfather'd fruit;
For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,
And, thou away, the very birds are mute;
  Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer
  That leaves look pale, dreading the winter's near.

XCVIII.

From you have I been absent in the spring,
When proud-pied April dress'd in all his trim
Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,
That heavy Saturn laugh'd and leap'd with him.
Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell
Of different flowers in odour and in hue
Could make me any summer's story tell,
Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew;
Nor did I wonder at the lily's white,
Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;
They were but sweet, but figures of delight,
Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
  Yet seem'd it winter still, and, you away,
  As with your shadow I with these did play:

XCIX.

The forward violet thus did I chide:
Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,
If not from my love's breath? The purple pride
Which on thy soft cheek for complexion dwells
In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
The lily I condemned for thy hand,
And buds of marjoram had stol'n thy hair:
The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,
One blushing shame, another white despair;
A third, nor red nor white, had stol'n of both
And to his robbery had annex'd thy breath;
But, for his theft, in pride of all his growth
A vengeful canker eat him up to death.
  More flowers I noted, yet I none could see
  But sweet or colour it had stol'n from thee.

C.

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey,
If Time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make Time's spoils despised every where.
  Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
  So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.

CI.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for't lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be praised of ages yet to be.
  Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
  To make him seem long hence as he shows now.

CII.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming;
I love not less, though less the show appear:
That love is merchandized whose rich esteeming
The owner's tongue doth publish every where.
Our love was new and then but in the spring
When I was wont to greet it with my lays,
As Philomel in summer's front doth sing
And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:
Not that the summer is less pleasant now
Than when her mournful hymns did hush the night,
But that wild music burthens every bough
And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
  Therefore like her I sometime hold my tongue,
  Because I would not dull you with my song.

CIII.

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside!
O, blame me not, if I no more can write!
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other pass my verses tend
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell;
  And more, much more, than in my verse can sit
  Your own glass shows you when you look in it.

CIV.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn'd
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn'd,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion and mine eye may be deceived:
  For fear of which, hear this, thou age unbred;
  Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

CV.

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
'Fair, kind and true' is all my argument,
'Fair, kind, and true' varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
  'Fair, kind, and true,' have often lived alone,
  Which three till now never kept seat in one.

CVI.

When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rhyme
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express'd
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
  For we, which now behold these present days,
  Had eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

CVII.

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
Of the wide world dreaming on things to come,
Can yet the lease of my true love control,
Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured
And the sad augurs mock their own presage;
Incertainties now crown themselves assured
And peace proclaims olives of endless age.
Now with the drops of this most balmy time
My love looks fresh, and death to me subscribes,
Since, spite of him, I'll live in this poor rhyme,
While he insults o'er dull and speechless tribes:
  And thou in this shalt find thy monument,
  When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIII.

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page,
  Finding the first conceit of love there bred
  Where time and outward form would show it dead.

CIX.

O, never say that I was false of heart,
Though absence seem'd my flame to qualify.
As easy might I from myself depart
As from my soul, which in thy breast doth lie:
That is my home of love: if I have ranged,
Like him that travels I return again,
Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,
So that myself bring water for my stain.
Never believe, though in my nature reign'd
All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
That it could so preposterously be stain'd,
To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;
  For nothing this wide universe I call,
  Save thou, my rose; in it thou art my all.

CX.

Alas, 'tis true I have gone here and there
And made myself a motley to the view,
Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
Made old offences of affections new;
Most true it is that I have look'd on truth
Askance and strangely: but, by all above,
These blenches gave my heart another youth,
And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
Now all is done, have what shall have no end:
Mine appetite I never more will grind
On newer proof, to try an older friend,
A god in love, to whom I am confined.
  Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
  Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

CXI.

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me then and wish I were renew'd;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
  Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye
  Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

CXII.

Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp'd upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o'er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue:
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel'd sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others' voices, that my adder's sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
  You are so strongly in my purpose bred
  That all the world besides methinks are dead.

CXIII.

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
  Incapable of more, replete with you,
  My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue.

CXIV.

Or whether doth my mind, being crown'd with you,
Drink up the monarch's plague, this flattery?
Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,
And that your love taught it this alchemy,
To make of monsters and things indigest
Such cherubins as your sweet self resemble,
Creating every bad a perfect best,
As fast as objects to his beams assemble?
O,'tis the first; 'tis flattery in my seeing,
And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:
Mine eye well knows what with his gust is 'greeing,
And to his palate doth prepare the cup:
  If it be poison'd, 'tis the lesser sin
  That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

CXV.

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer:
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose million'd accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;
Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say 'Now I love you best,'
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
  Love is a babe; then might I not say so,
  To give full growth to that which still doth grow?

CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
  If this be error and upon me proved,
  I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

CXVII.

Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds
And given to time your own dear-purchased right
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down
And on just proof surmise accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your waken'd hate;
  Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
  The constancy and virtue of your love.

CXVIII.

Like as, to make our appetites more keen,
With eager compounds we our palate urge,
As, to prevent our maladies unseen,
We sicken to shun sickness when we purge,
Even so, being tuff of your ne'er-cloying sweetness,
To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding
And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetness
To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
Thus policy in love, to anticipate
The ills that were not, grew to faults assured
And brought to medicine a healthful state
Which, rank of goodness, would by ill be cured:
  But thence I learn, and find the lesson true,
  Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you.

CXIX.

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
Distill'd from limbecks foul as hell within,
Applying fears to hopes and hopes to fears,
Still losing when I saw myself to win!
What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never!
How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted
In the distraction of this madding fever!
O benefit of ill! now I find true
That better is by evil still made better;
And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
  So I return rebuked to my content
  And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent.

CXX.

That you were once unkind befriends me now,
And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammer'd steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken
As I by yours, you've pass'd a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O, that our night of woe might have remember'd
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you, as you to me, then tender'd
The humble slave which wounded bosoms fits!
  But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
  Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

CXXI.

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteem'd,
When not to be receives reproach of being,
And the just pleasure lost which is so deem'd
Not by our feeling but by others' seeing:
For why should others false adulterate eyes
Give salutation to my sportive blood?
Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,
Which in their wills count bad what I think good?
No, I am that I am, and they that level
At my abuses reckon up their own:
I may be straight, though they themselves be bevel;
By their rank thoughts my deeds must not be shown;
  Unless this general evil they maintain,
  All men are bad, and in their badness reign.

CXXII.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Full character'd with lasting memory,
Which shall above that idle rank remain
Beyond all date, even to eternity;
Or at the least, so long as brain and heart
Have faculty by nature to subsist;
Till each to razed oblivion yield his part
Of thee, thy record never can be miss'd.
That poor retention could not so much hold,
Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;
Therefore to give them from me was I bold,
To trust those tables that receive thee more:
  To keep an adjunct to remember thee
  Were to import forgetfulness in me.

CXXIII.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
  This I do vow and this shall ever be;
  I will be true, despite thy scythe and thee.

CXXIV.

If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune's bastard be unfather'd'
As subject to Time's love or to Time's hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather'd.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto the inviting time our fashion calls:
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-number'd hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat nor drowns with showers.
  To this I witness call the fools of time,
  Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.

CXXV.

Were 't aught to me I bore the canopy,
With my extern the outward honouring,
Or laid great bases for eternity,
Which prove more short than waste or ruining?
Have I not seen dwellers on form and favour
Lose all, and more, by paying too much rent,
For compound sweet forgoing simple savour,
Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent?
No, let me be obsequious in thy heart,
And take thou my oblation, poor but free,
Which is not mix'd with seconds, knows no art,
But mutual render, only me for thee.
  Hence, thou suborn'd informer! a true soul
  When most impeach'd stands least in thy control.

CXXVI.

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour;
Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st
Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st;
If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,
As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,
She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill
May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill.
Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure!
She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:
  Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be,
  And her quietus is to render thee.

CXXVII.

In the old age black was not counted fair,
Or if it were, it bore not beauty's name;
But now is black beauty's successive heir,
And beauty slander'd with a bastard shame:
For since each hand hath put on nature's power,
Fairing the foul with art's false borrow'd face,
Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,
But is profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
Therefore my mistress' brows are raven black,
Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem
At such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,
Slandering creation with a false esteem:
  Yet so they mourn, becoming of their woe,
  That every tongue says beauty should look so.

CXXVIII.

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st
The wiry concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap
To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,
Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap,
At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
To be so tickled, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chips,
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
Making dead wood more blest than living lips.
  Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
  Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

CXXIX.

The expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Is lust in action; and till action, lust
Is perjured, murderous, bloody, full of blame,
Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight,
Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
Past reason hated, as a swallow'd bait
On purpose laid to make the taker mad;
Mad in pursuit and in possession so;
Had, having, and in quest to have, extreme;
A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;
Before, a joy proposed; behind, a dream.
  All this the world well knows; yet none knows well
  To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

CXXX.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
  And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
  As any she belied with false compare.

CXXXI.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.
Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold
Thy face hath not the power to make love groan:
To say they err I dare not be so bold,
Although I swear it to myself alone.
And, to be sure that is not false I swear,
A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,
One on another's neck, do witness bear
Thy black is fairest in my judgment's place.
  In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,
  And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds.

CXXXII.

Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing thy heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and loving mourners be,
Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
And truly not the morning sun of heaven
Better becomes the grey cheeks of the east,
Nor that full star that ushers in the even
Doth half that glory to the sober west,
As those two mourning eyes become thy face:
O, let it then as well beseem thy heart
To mourn for me, since mourning doth thee grace,
And suit thy pity like in every part.
  Then will I swear beauty herself is black
  And all they foul that thy complexion lack.

CXXXIII.

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
For that deep wound it gives my friend and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,
And my next self thou harder hast engross'd:
Of him, myself, and thee, I am forsaken;
A torment thrice threefold thus to be cross'd.
Prison my heart in thy steel bosom's ward,
But then my friend's heart let my poor heart bail;
Whoe'er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;
Thou canst not then use rigor in my gaol:
  And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,
  Perforce am thine, and all that is in me.

CXXXIV.

So, now I have confess'd that he is thine,
And I myself am mortgaged to thy will,
Myself I'll forfeit, so that other mine
Thou wilt restore, to be my comfort still:
But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,
For thou art covetous and he is kind;
He learn'd but surety-like to write for me
Under that bond that him as fast doth bind.
The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
Thou usurer, that put'st forth all to use,
And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;
So him I lose through my unkind abuse.
  Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:
  He pays the whole, and yet am I not free.

CXXXV.

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy 'Will,'
And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in overplus;
More than enough am I that vex thee still,
To thy sweet will making addition thus.
Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,
Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine?
Shall will in others seem right gracious,
And in my will no fair acceptance shine?
The sea all water, yet receives rain still
And in abundance addeth to his store;
So thou, being rich in 'Will,' add to thy 'Will'
One will of mine, to make thy large 'Will' more.
  Let no unkind, no fair beseechers kill;
  Think all but one, and me in that one 'Will.'

CXXXVI.

If thy soul cheque thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckon'd none:
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy stores' account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
  Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
  And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'

CXXXVII.

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,
That they behold, and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by over-partial looks
Be anchor'd in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes' falsehood hast thou forged hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world's common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not,
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
  In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
  And to this false plague are they now transferr'd.

CXXXVIII.

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,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppress'd.
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O, love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
  Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
  And in our faults by lies we flatter'd be.

CXXXIX.

O, call not me to justify the wrong
That thy unkindness lays upon my heart;
Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue;
Use power with power and slay me not by art.
Tell me thou lovest elsewhere, but in my sight,
Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:
What need'st thou wound with cunning when thy might
Is more than my o'er-press'd defense can bide?
Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knows
Her pretty looks have been mine enemies,
And therefore from my face she turns my foes,
That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:
  Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,
  Kill me outright with looks and rid my pain.

CXL.

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For if I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be,
  That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
  Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

CXLI.

In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote;
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,
Thy proud hearts slave and vassal wretch to be:
  Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
  That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

CXLII.

Love is my sin and thy dear virtue hate,
Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:
O, but with mine compare thou thine own state,
And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;
Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,
That have profaned their scarlet ornaments
And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,
Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.
Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lovest those
Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:
Root pity in thy heart, that when it grows
Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.
  If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,
  By self-example mayst thou be denied!

CXLIII.

Lo! as a careful housewife runs to catch
One of her feather'd creatures broke away,
Sets down her babe and makes an swift dispatch
In pursuit of the thing she would have stay,
Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent
To follow that which flies before her face,
Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,
Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;
But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,
And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind:
  So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'
  If thou turn back, and my loud crying still.

CXLIV.

Two loves I have of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair,
The worser spirit a woman 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 foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend
Suspect I may, but not directly tell;
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another's hell:
  Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,
  Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

CXLV.

Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
  'I hate' from hate away she threw,
  And saved my life, saying 'not you.'

CXLVI.

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
[         ] these rebel powers that thee array;
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,
Eat up thy charge? is this thy body's end?
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;
Within be fed, without be rich no more:
  So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,
  And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

CXLVII.

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease,
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve
Desire is death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;
  For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright,
  Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

CXLVIII.

O me, what eyes hath Love put in my head,
Which have no correspondence with true sight!
Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,
That censures falsely what they see aright?
If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,
What means the world to say it is not so?
If it be not, then love doth well denote
Love's eye is not so true as all men's 'No.'
How can it? O, how can Love's eye be true,
That is so vex'd with watching and with tears?
No marvel then, though I mistake my view;
The sun itself sees not till heaven clears.
  O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,
  Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

CXLIX.

Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,
When I against myself with thee partake?
Do I not think on thee, when I forgot
Am of myself, all tyrant, for thy sake?
Who hateth thee that I do call my friend?
On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon?
Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend
Revenge upon myself with present moan?
What merit do I in myself respect,
That is so proud thy service to despise,
When all my best doth worship thy defect,
Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?
  But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;
  Those that can see thou lovest, and I am blind.

CL.

O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
With insufficiency my heart to sway?
To make me give the lie to my true sight,
And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?
Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,
That in the very refuse of thy deeds
There is such strength and warrantize of skill
That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?
Who taught thee how to make me love thee more
The more I hear and see just cause of hate?
O, though I love what others do abhor,
With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:
  If thy unworthiness raised love in me,
  More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

CLI.

Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no father reason;
But, rising at thy name, doth point out thee
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
  No want of conscience hold it that I call
  Her 'love' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

CLII.

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing,
In act thy bed-vow broke and new faith torn,
In vowing new hate after new love bearing.
But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,
When I break twenty? I am perjured most;
For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee
And all my honest faith in thee is lost,
For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,
Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy,
And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,
Or made them swear against the thing they see;
  For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,
  To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

CLIII.

Cupid laid by his brand, and fell asleep:
A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;
Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love
A dateless lively heat, still to endure,
And grew a seething bath, which yet men prove
Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.
But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,
The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;
I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,
And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,
  But found no cure: the bath for my help lies
  Where Cupid got new fire--my mistress' eyes.

CLIV.

The little Love-god lying once asleep
Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep
Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand
The fairest votary took up that fire
Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;
And so the general of hot desire
Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarm'd.
This brand she quenched in a cool well by,
Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,
Growing a bath and healthful remedy
For men diseased; but I, my mistress' thrall,
  Came there for cure, and this by that I prove,
  Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.




      A LOVER'S COMPLAINT



FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings 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 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 peep'd through lattice of sear'd age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne,
Which on it had conceited characters,
Laundering the silken figures in the brine
That season'd 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 battery to the spheres intend;
Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied
To the 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 sheaved hat,
Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside;
Some in her threaden fillet still did bide,
And true to bondage would not break from thence,
Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew
Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet,
Which one by one she in a river threw,
Upon whose weeping margent she was set;
Like usury, applying wet to wet,
Or monarch's hands that let not bounty fall
Where want cries some, but where excess begs all.

Of folded schedules had she many a one,
Which she perused, 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 moe letters sadly penn'd in blood,
With sleided silk feat and affectedly
Enswathed, and seal'd to curious secrecy.

These often bathed she in her fluxive eyes,
And often kiss'd, and often 'gan 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, privileged by age, desires to know
In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat,
And comely-distant sits he by her side;
When he again desires her, being sat,
Her grievance with his hearing to divide:
If that from him there may be aught applied
Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage,
'Tis promised in the charity of age.

'Father,' she says, 'though in me you behold
The injury of many a blasting hour,
Let it not tell your judgment 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--
Of one by nature's outwards so commended,
That maidens' 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 lodged and newly deified.

'His browny locks did hang in crooked curls;
And every light occasion of the wind
Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls.
What's sweet to do, to do will aptly find:
Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind,
For on his visage was in little drawn
What largeness thinks in Paradise was sawn.

'Small show of man was yet upon his chin;
His phoenix down began but to appear
Like unshorn velvet on that termless skin
Whose bare out-bragg'd the web it seem'd 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 moved him, was he such a storm
As oft 'twixt May and April is to see,
When winds breathe sweet, untidy though they be.
His rudeness so with his authorized youth
Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

'Well could he ride, and often men would say
'That horse his mettle from his rider takes:
Proud of subjection, noble by the sway,
What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop
he makes!'
And controversy hence a question takes,
Whether the horse by him became his deed,
Or he his manage by the 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 purposed trim
Pieced not his grace, but were all graced by him.

'So on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kinds of arguments and question deep,
All replication prompt, and reason strong,
For his advantage still did wake and sleep:
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep,
He had the dialect and different skill,
Catching all passions in his craft of will:

'That he did in the general bosom reign
Of young, of old; and sexes both enchanted,
To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain
In personal duty, following where he haunted:
Consents 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 supposed them mistress of his heart.
My woeful self, that did in freedom stand,
And was my own fee-simple, not in part,
What with his art in youth, and youth in art,
Threw my affections in his charmed power,
Reserved the stalk and gave him all my flower.

'Yet did I not, as some my equals did,
Demand of him, nor being desired yielded;
Finding myself in honour so forbid,
With safest distance I mine honour shielded:
Experience for me many bulwarks builded
Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain'd the foil
Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

'But, ah, who ever shunn'd by precedent
The destined ill she must herself assay?
Or forced examples, 'gainst her own content,
To put the by-past perils in her way?
Counsel may stop awhile what will not stay;
For when we rage, advice is often seen
By blunting us to make our wits more keen.

'Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood,
That we must curb it upon others' proof;
To be forbod the sweets that seem so good,
For fear of harms that preach in our behoof.
O appetite, from judgment 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 warm'd,
Or my affection put to the smallest teen,
Or any of my leisures ever charm'd:
Harm have I done to them, but ne'er was harm'd;
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 paled pearls and rubies red as blood;
Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me
Of grief and blushes, aptly understood
In bloodless white and the 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 impleach'd,
I have received from many a several fair,
Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech'd,
With the 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 invised 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, smiled or made some moan.

''Lo, all these trophies of affections hot,
Of pensived and subdued desires the tender,
Nature hath charged me that I hoard them not,
But yield them up where I myself must render,
That is, to you, my origin and ender;
For these, of force, must your oblations be,
Since I their altar, you enpatron me.

''O, then, advance of yours that phraseless hand,
Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise;
Take all these similes to your own command,
Hallow'd 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, mastering what not strives,
Playing the place which did no form receive,
Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves?
She that her fame so to herself contrives,
The scars of battle 'scapeth by the flight,
And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

''O, pardon me, in that my boast is true:
The accident which brought me to her eye
Upon the moment did her force subdue,
And now she would the caged cloister fly:
Religious love put out Religion's eye:
Not to be tempted, would she be immured,
And now, to tempt, all liberty procured.

''How mighty then you are, O, hear me tell!
The broken bosoms that to me belong
Have emptied all their fountains in my well,
And mine I pour your ocean all among:
I strong o'er them, and you o'er me being strong,
Must for your victory us all congest,
As compound love to physic your cold breast.

''My parts had power to charm a sacred nun,
Who, disciplined, ay, dieted in grace,
Believed her eyes when they to 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 suffering 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 you extend,
To leave the battery 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 watery 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 flow'd apace:
O, how the channel to the stream gave grace!
Who glazed with crystal gate the glowing roses
That flame through water which their hue encloses.

'O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies
In the small orb of one particular tear!
But with the inundation of the eyes
What rocky heart to water will not wear?
What breast so cold that is not warmed here?
O cleft effect! cold modesty, hot wrath,
Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

'For, lo, his passion, but an art of craft,
Even there resolved my reason into tears;
There my white stole of chastity I daff'd,
Shook off my sober guards and civil fears;
Appear to him, as he to me appears,
All melting; though our drops this difference 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 burn'd in heart-wish'd luxury,
He preach'd pure maid, and praised 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 forced thunder from his heart did fly,
O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow'd,
O, all that borrow'd motion seeming owed,
Would yet again betray the fore-betray'd,
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 showed him favors 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 refused to take her figured 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 vow'd:
Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll constant prove;
Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bow'd.
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, bounced 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 burn'd with love, as straw with fire flameth;
She burn'd out love, as soon as straw outburneth;
She framed 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 lovest 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 lovest to hear the sweet melodious sound
That Phoebus' lute, the queen of music, makes;
And I in deep delight am chiefly drown'd
When as 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, so fell she to him.
'Even thus,' quoth she, 'the warlike god embraced 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's for ever 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 construe 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.


XV.

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 dismal-dreaming night:
The night so pack'd, I post unto my pretty;
Heart hath his hope, and eyes their wished sight;
Sorrow changed 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 succor flowers!
Pack night, peep day; good day, of night now borrow:
Short, night, to-night, and length thyself tomorrow.



    SONNETS TO SUNDRY NOTES OF MUSIC


XVI.

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 fair'st 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 practise 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.


XVII.

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.'


XVIII.

My flocks feed not,
My ewes breed not,
My rams speed not,
All is amiss:
Love's denying,
Faith's defying,
Heart's renying,
Causer of this.
All my merry jigs are quite forgot,
All my lady's love is lost, God wot:
Where her faith was firmly fix'd in love,
There a nay is placed 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 wether's bell rings doleful knell;
My curtail dog, that wont to have play'd
Plays not at all, but seems afraid;
My sighs so deep
Procure 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 stand weeping,
Flocks all sleeping,
Nymphs back 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
Farewell, sweet lass,
Thy like ne'er was
For a sweet content, the cause of all my moan:
Poor Corydon
Must live alone;
Other help for him I see that there is none.


XIX.

When as 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 comest thy tale to tell,
Smooth not thy tongue with filed talk,
Lest she some subtle practise smell,--
A cripple soon can find a halt;--
But plainly say thou lovest her well,

And set thy person forth to sell.
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 anew:
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 doth 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 i' the ear,
To teach my tongue to be so long:
Yet will she blush, here be it said,
To hear her secrets so bewray'd.


XX.

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 yields.

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
Embroider'd 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.


XXI.

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;
Every thing 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 pity:
'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 pity on thy pain:
Senseless trees they cannot hear thee;
Ruthless beasts 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.
Even so, poor bird, like thee,
None alive will pity me.
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 flattering 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 makest
    With the breath thou givest and takest,
    '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 loved, 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 the 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 enclosed 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.




    KING HENRY VIII


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


KING HENRY
the Eighth    (KING HENRY VIII:)

CARDINAL WOLSEY:

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS:

CAPUCIUS    Ambassador from the Emperor Charles V

CRANMER    Archbishop of Canterbury.

DUKE OF NORFOLK    (NORFOLK:)

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM    (BUCKINGHAM:)

DUKE OF SUFFOLK    (SUFFOLK:)

EARL OF SURREY    (SURREY:)

Lord Chamberlain    (Chamberlain:)

Lord Chancellor    (Chancellor:)

GARDINER    Bishop of Winchester.

    Bishop of Lincoln. (LINCOLN:)

LORD ABERGAVENNY    (ABERGAVENNY:)

LORD SANDS    (SANDS:)

SIR HENRY
GUILDFORD    (GUILDFORD:)

SIR THOMAS LOVELL    (LOVELL:)

SIR ANTHONY DENNY    (DENNY:)

SIR NICHOLAS VAUX    (VAUX:)

    Secretaries to Wolsey.
    (First Secretary:)
    (Second Secretary:)

CROMWELL    Servant to Wolsey.

GRIFFITH    Gentleman-usher to Queen Katharine.

    Three Gentlemen.
    (First Gentleman:)
    (Second Gentleman:)
    (Third Gentleman:)

DOCTOR BUTTS    Physician to the King.

    Garter King-at-Arms. (Garter:)

    Surveyor to the Duke of Buckingham. (Surveyor:)

BRANDON:

    A Sergeant-at-Arms. (Sergeant:)

    Door-keeper of the Council-chamber. Porter, (Porter:)
    and his Man. (Man:)

    Page to Gardiner. (Boy:)
    A Crier. (Crier:)

QUEEN KATHARINE    (QUEEN KATHARINE:)  Wife to King Henry, afterwards
    divorced. (KATHARINE:)

ANNE BULLEN    (ANNE:) her Maid of Honour, afterwards Queen. (QUEEN ANNE:)

    An old Lady, friend to Anne Bullen. (Old Lady:)

PATIENCE    woman to Queen Katharine.

    Several Lords and Ladies in the Dumb Shows; Women
    attending upon the Queen; Scribes, Officers, Guards,
    and other Attendants.
    Spirits.

    (Scribe:)
    (Keeper:)
    (Servant:)
    (Messenger:)


SCENE    London; Westminster; Kimbolton




    KING HENRY VIII


    THE PROLOGUE


    I come no more to make you laugh: things now,
    That bear a weighty and a serious brow,
    Sad, high, and working, full of state and woe,
    Such noble scenes as draw the eye to flow,
    We now present. Those that can pity, here
    May, if they think it well, let fall a tear;
    The subject will deserve it. Such as give
    Their money out of hope they may believe,
    May here find truth too. Those that come to see
    Only a show or two, and so agree
    The play may pass, if they be still and willing,
    I'll undertake may see away their shilling
    Richly in two short hours. Only they
    That come to hear a merry bawdy play,
    A noise of targets, or to see a fellow
    In a long motley coat guarded with yellow,
    Will be deceived; for, gentle hearers, know,
    To rank our chosen truth with such a show
    As fool and fight is, beside forfeiting
    Our own brains, and the opinion that we bring,
    To make that only true we now intend,
    Will leave us never an understanding friend.
    Therefore, for goodness' sake, and as you are known
    The first and happiest hearers of the town,
    Be sad, as we would make ye: think ye see
    The very persons of our noble story
    As they were living; think you see them great,
    And follow'd with the general throng and sweat
    Of thousand friends; then in a moment, see
    How soon this mightiness meets misery:
    And, if you can be merry then, I'll say
    A man may weep upon his wedding-day.




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT I



SCENE I    London. An ante-chamber in the palace.


    [Enter NORFOLK at one door; at the other, BUCKINGHAM
    and ABERGAVENNY]

BUCKINGHAM    Good morrow, and well met. How have ye done
    Since last we saw in France?

NORFOLK    I thank your grace,
    Healthful; and ever since a fresh admirer
    Of what I saw there.

BUCKINGHAM    An untimely ague
    Stay'd me a prisoner in my chamber when
    Those suns of glory, those two lights of men,
    Met in the vale of Andren.

NORFOLK    'Twixt Guynes and Arde:
    I was then present, saw them salute on horseback;
    Beheld them, when they lighted, how they clung
    In their embracement, as they grew together;
    Which had they, what four throned ones could have weigh'd
    Such a compounded one?

BUCKINGHAM    All the whole time
    I was my chamber's prisoner.

NORFOLK    Then you lost
    The view of earthly glory: men might say,
    Till this time pomp was single, but now married
    To one above itself. Each following day
    Became the next day's master, till the last
    Made former wonders its. To-day the French,
    All clinquant, all in gold, like heathen gods,
    Shone down the English; and, to-morrow, they
    Made Britain India: every man that stood
    Show'd like a mine. Their dwarfish pages were
    As cherubins, all guilt: the madams too,
    Not used to toil, did almost sweat to bear
    The pride upon them, that their very labour
    Was to them as a painting: now this masque
    Was cried incomparable; and the ensuing night
    Made it a fool and beggar. The two kings,
    Equal in lustre, were now best, now worst,
    As presence did present them; him in eye,
    Still him in praise: and, being present both
    'Twas said they saw but one; and no discerner
    Durst wag his tongue in censure. When these suns--
    For so they phrase 'em--by their heralds challenged
    The noble spirits to arms, they did perform
    Beyond thought's compass; that former fabulous story,
    Being now seen possible enough, got credit,
    That Bevis was believed.

BUCKINGHAM    O, you go far.

NORFOLK    As I belong to worship and affect
    In honour honesty, the tract of every thing
    Would by a good discourser lose some life,
    Which action's self was tongue to. All was royal;
    To the disposing of it nought rebell'd.
    Order gave each thing view; the office did
    Distinctly his full function.

BUCKINGHAM    Who did guide,
    I mean, who set the body and the limbs
    Of this great sport together, as you guess?

NORFOLK    One, certes, that promises no element
    In such a business.

BUCKINGHAM    I pray you, who, my lord?

NORFOLK    All this was order'd by the good discretion
    Of the right reverend Cardinal of York.

BUCKINGHAM    The devil speed him! no man's pie is freed
    From his ambitious finger. What had he
    To do in these fierce vanities? I wonder
    That such a keech can with his very bulk
    Take up the rays o' the beneficial sun
    And keep it from the earth.

NORFOLK    Surely, sir,
    There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends;
    For, being not propp'd by ancestry, whose grace
    Chalks successors their way, nor call'd upon
    For high feats done to the crown; neither allied
    For eminent assistants; but, spider-like,
    Out of his self-drawing web, he gives us note,
    The force of his own merit makes his way
    A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys
    A place next to the king.

ABERGAVENNY    I cannot tell
    What heaven hath given him,--let some graver eye
    Pierce into that; but I can see his pride
    Peep through each part of him: whence has he that,
    If not from hell? the devil is a niggard,
    Or has given all before, and he begins
    A new hell in himself.

BUCKINGHAM    Why the devil,
    Upon this French going out, took he upon him,
    Without the privity o' the king, to appoint
    Who should attend on him? He makes up the file
    Of all the gentry; for the most part such
    To whom as great a charge as little honour
    He meant to lay upon: and his own letter,
    The honourable board of council out,
    Must fetch him in the papers.

ABERGAVENNY    I do know
    Kinsmen of mine, three at the least, that have
    By this so sickened their estates, that never
    They shall abound as formerly.

BUCKINGHAM    O, many
    Have broke their backs with laying manors on 'em
    For this great journey. What did this vanity
    But minister communication of
    A most poor issue?

NORFOLK                      Grievingly I think,
    The peace between the French and us not values
    The cost that did conclude it.

BUCKINGHAM    Every man,
    After the hideous storm that follow'd, was
    A thing inspired; and, not consulting, broke
    Into a general prophecy; That this tempest,
    Dashing the garment of this peace, aboded
    The sudden breach on't.

NORFOLK    Which is budded out;
    For France hath flaw'd the league, and hath attach'd
    Our merchants' goods at Bourdeaux.

ABERGAVENNY    Is it therefore
    The ambassador is silenced?

NORFOLK    Marry, is't.

ABERGAVENNY    A proper title of a peace; and purchased
    At a superfluous rate!

BUCKINGHAM    Why, all this business
    Our reverend cardinal carried.

NORFOLK    Like it your grace,
    The state takes notice of the private difference
    Betwixt you and the cardinal. I advise you--
    And take it from a heart that wishes towards you
    Honour and plenteous safety--that you read
    The cardinal's malice and his potency
    Together; to consider further that
    What his high hatred would effect wants not
    A minister in his power. You know his nature,
    That he's revengeful, and I know his sword
    Hath a sharp edge: it's long and, 't may be said,
    It reaches far, and where 'twill not extend,
    Thither he darts it. Bosom up my counsel,
    You'll find it wholesome. Lo, where comes that rock
    That I advise your shunning.

    [Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, the purse borne before him,
    certain of the Guard, and two Secretaries with
    papers. CARDINAL WOLSEY in his passage fixeth his
    eye on BUCKINGHAM, and BUCKINGHAM on him, both full
    of disdain]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    The Duke of Buckingham's surveyor, ha?
    Where's his examination?

First Secretary    Here, so please you.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Is he in person ready?

First Secretary    Ay, please your grace.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Well, we shall then know more; and Buckingham
    Shall lessen this big look.

    [Exeunt CARDINAL WOLSEY and his Train]

BUCKINGHAM    This butcher's cur is venom-mouth'd, and I
    Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best
    Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar's book
    Outworths a noble's blood.

NORFOLK    What, are you chafed?
    Ask God for temperance; that's the appliance only
    Which your disease requires.

BUCKINGHAM    I read in's looks
    Matter against me; and his eye reviled
    Me, as his abject object: at this instant
    He bores me with some trick: he's gone to the king;
    I'll follow and outstare him.

NORFOLK    Stay, my lord,
    And let your reason with your choler question
    What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills
    Requires slow pace at first: anger is like
    A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way,
    Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England
    Can advise me like you: be to yourself
    As you would to your friend.

BUCKINGHAM    I'll to the king;
    And from a mouth of honour quite cry down
    This Ipswich fellow's insolence; or proclaim
    There's difference in no persons.

NORFOLK    Be advised;
    Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot
    That it do singe yourself: we may outrun,
    By violent swiftness, that which we run at,
    And lose by over-running. Know you not,
    The fire that mounts the liquor til run o'er,
    In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised:
    I say again, there is no English soul
    More stronger to direct you than yourself,
    If with the sap of reason you would quench,
    Or but allay, the fire of passion.

BUCKINGHAM    Sir,
    I am thankful to you; and I'll go along
    By your prescription: but this top-proud fellow,
    Whom from the flow of gall I name not but
    From sincere motions, by intelligence,
    And proofs as clear as founts in July when
    We see each grain of gravel, I do know
    To be corrupt and treasonous.

NORFOLK    Say not 'treasonous.'

BUCKINGHAM    To the king I'll say't; and make my vouch as strong
    As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox,
    Or wolf, or both,--for he is equal ravenous
    As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief
    As able to perform't; his mind and place
    Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally--
    Only to show his pomp as well in France
    As here at home, suggests the king our master
    To this last costly treaty, the interview,
    That swallow'd so much treasure, and like a glass
    Did break i' the rinsing.

NORFOLK    Faith, and so it did.

BUCKINGHAM    Pray, give me favour, sir. This cunning cardinal
    The articles o' the combination drew
    As himself pleased; and they were ratified
    As he cried 'Thus let be': to as much end
    As give a crutch to the dead: but our count-cardinal
    Has done this, and 'tis well; for worthy Wolsey,
    Who cannot err, he did it. Now this follows,--
    Which, as I take it, is a kind of puppy
    To the old dam, treason,--Charles the emperor,
    Under pretence to see the queen his aunt--
    For 'twas indeed his colour, but he came
    To whisper Wolsey,--here makes visitation:
    His fears were, that the interview betwixt
    England and France might, through their amity,
    Breed him some prejudice; for from this league
    Peep'd harms that menaced him: he privily
    Deals with our cardinal; and, as I trow,--
    Which I do well; for I am sure the emperor
    Paid ere he promised; whereby his suit was granted
    Ere it was ask'd; but when the way was made,
    And paved with gold, the emperor thus desired,
    That he would please to alter the king's course,
    And break the foresaid peace. Let the king know,
    As soon he shall by me, that thus the cardinal
    Does buy and sell his honour as he pleases,
    And for his own advantage.

NORFOLK    I am sorry
    To hear this of him; and could wish he were
    Something mistaken in't.

BUCKINGHAM    No, not a syllable:
    I  do pronounce him in that very shape
    He shall appear in proof.

    [Enter BRANDON, a Sergeant-at-arms before him, and
    two or three of the Guard]

BRANDON    Your office, sergeant; execute it.

Sergeant    Sir,
    My lord the Duke of Buckingham, and Earl
    Of Hereford, Stafford, and Northampton, I
    Arrest thee of high treason, in the name
    Of our most sovereign king.

BUCKINGHAM    Lo, you, my lord,
    The net has fall'n upon me! I shall perish
    Under device and practise.

BRANDON    I am sorry
    To see you ta'en from liberty, to look on
    The business present: 'tis his highness' pleasure
    You shall to the Tower.

BUCKINGHAM    It will help me nothing
    To plead mine innocence; for that dye is on me
    Which makes my whitest part black. The will of heaven
    Be done in this and all things! I obey.
    O my Lord Abergavenny, fare you well!

BRANDON    Nay, he must bear you company. The king

    [To ABERGAVENNY]

    Is pleased you shall to the Tower, till you know
    How he determines further.

ABERGAVENNY    As the duke said,
    The will of heaven be done, and the king's pleasure
    By me obey'd!

BRANDON                      Here is a warrant from
    The king to attach Lord Montacute; and the bodies
    Of the duke's confessor, John de la Car,
    One Gilbert Peck, his chancellor--

BUCKINGHAM    So, so;
    These are the limbs o' the plot: no more, I hope.

BRANDON    A monk o' the Chartreux.

BUCKINGHAM    O, Nicholas Hopkins?

BRANDON    He.

BUCKINGHAM    My surveyor is false; the o'er-great cardinal
    Hath show'd him gold; my life is spann'd already:
    I am the shadow of poor Buckingham,
    Whose figure even this instant cloud puts on,
    By darkening my clear sun. My lord, farewell.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT I



SCENE II    The same. The council-chamber.


    [Cornets. Enter KING HENRY VIII, leaning on
    CARDINAL WOLSEY's shoulder, the Nobles, and LOVELL;
    CARDINAL WOLSEY places himself under KING HENRY
    VIII's feet on his right side]

KING HENRY VIII    My life itself, and the best heart of it,
    Thanks you for this great care: I stood i' the level
    Of a full-charged confederacy, and give thanks
    To you that choked it. Let be call'd before us
    That gentleman of Buckingham's; in person
    I'll hear him his confessions justify;
    And point by point the treasons of his master
    He shall again relate.

    [A noise within, crying 'Room for the Queen!' Enter
    QUEEN KATHARINE, ushered by NORFOLK, and SUFFOLK:
    she kneels. KING HENRY VIII riseth from his state,
    takes her up, kisses and placeth her by him]

QUEEN KATHARINE    Nay, we must longer kneel: I am a suitor.

KING HENRY VIII    Arise, and take place by us: half your suit
    Never name to us; you have half our power:
    The other moiety, ere you ask, is given;
    Repeat your will and take it.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Thank your majesty.
    That you would love yourself, and in that love
    Not unconsider'd leave your honour, nor
    The dignity of your office, is the point
    Of my petition.

KING HENRY VIII                      Lady mine, proceed.

QUEEN KATHARINE    I am solicited, not by a few,
    And those of true condition, that your subjects
    Are in great grievance: there have been commissions
    Sent down among 'em, which hath flaw'd the heart
    Of all their loyalties: wherein, although,
    My good lord cardinal, they vent reproaches
    Most bitterly on you, as putter on
    Of these exactions, yet the king our master--
    Whose honour heaven shield from soil!--even he
    escapes not
    Language unmannerly, yea, such which breaks
    The sides of loyalty, and almost appears
    In loud rebellion.

NORFOLK                      Not almost appears,
    It doth appear; for, upon these taxations,
    The clothiers all, not able to maintain
    The many to them longing, have put off
    The spinsters, carders, fullers, weavers, who,
    Unfit for other life, compell'd by hunger
    And lack of other means, in desperate manner
    Daring the event to the teeth, are all in uproar,
    And danger serves among then!

KING HENRY VIII    Taxation!
    Wherein? and what taxation? My lord cardinal,
    You that are blamed for it alike with us,
    Know you of this taxation?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Please you, sir,
    I know but of a single part, in aught
    Pertains to the state; and front but in that file
    Where others tell steps with me.

QUEEN KATHARINE    No, my lord,
    You know no more than others; but you frame
    Things that are known alike; which are not wholesome
    To those which would not know them, and yet must
    Perforce be their acquaintance. These exactions,
    Whereof my sovereign would have note, they are
    Most pestilent to the bearing; and, to bear 'em,
    The back is sacrifice to the load. They say
    They are devised by you; or else you suffer
    Too hard an exclamation.

KING HENRY VIII    Still exaction!
    The nature of it? in what kind, let's know,
    Is this exaction?

QUEEN KATHARINE                      I am much too venturous
    In tempting of your patience; but am bolden'd
    Under your promised pardon. The subjects' grief
    Comes through commissions, which compel from each
    The sixth part of his substance, to be levied
    Without delay; and the pretence for this
    Is named, your wars in France: this makes bold mouths:
    Tongues spit their duties out, and cold hearts freeze
    Allegiance in them; their curses now
    Live where their prayers did: and it's come to pass,
    This tractable obedience is a slave
    To each incensed will. I would your highness
    Would give it quick consideration, for
    There is no primer business.

KING HENRY VIII    By my life,
    This is against our pleasure.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    And for me,
    I have no further gone in this than by
    A single voice; and that not pass'd me but
    By learned approbation of the judges. If I am
    Traduced by ignorant tongues, which neither know
    My faculties nor person, yet will be
    The chronicles of my doing, let me say
    'Tis but the fate of place, and the rough brake
    That virtue must go through. We must not stint
    Our necessary actions, in the fear
    To cope malicious censurers; which ever,
    As ravenous fishes, do a vessel follow
    That is new-trimm'd, but benefit no further
    Than vainly longing. What we oft do best,
    By sick interpreters, once weak ones, is
    Not ours, or not allow'd; what worst, as oft,
    Hitting a grosser quality, is cried up
    For our best act. If we shall stand still,
    In fear our motion will be mock'd or carp'd at,
    We should take root here where we sit, or sit
    State-statues only.

KING HENRY VIII    Things done well,
    And with a care, exempt themselves from fear;
    Things done without example, in their issue
    Are to be fear'd. Have you a precedent
    Of this commission? I believe, not any.
    We must not rend our subjects from our laws,
    And stick them in our will. Sixth part of each?
    A trembling contribution! Why, we take
    From every tree lop, bark, and part o' the timber;
    And, though we leave it with a root, thus hack'd,
    The air will drink the sap. To every county
    Where this is question'd send our letters, with
    Free pardon to each man that has denied
    The force of this commission: pray, look to't;
    I put it to your care.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    A word with you.

    [To the Secretary]

    Let there be letters writ to every shire,
    Of the king's grace and pardon. The grieved commons
    Hardly conceive of me; let it be noised
    That through our intercession this revokement
    And pardon comes: I shall anon advise you
    Further in the proceeding.

    [Exit Secretary]

    [Enter Surveyor]

QUEEN KATHARINE    I am sorry that the Duke of Buckingham
    Is run in your displeasure.

KING HENRY VIII    It grieves many:
    The gentleman is learn'd, and a most rare speaker;
    To nature none more bound; his training such,
    That he may furnish and instruct great teachers,
    And never seek for aid out of himself. Yet see,
    When these so noble benefits shall prove
    Not well disposed, the mind growing once corrupt,
    They turn to vicious forms, ten times more ugly
    Than ever they were fair. This man so complete,
    Who was enroll'd 'mongst wonders, and when we,
    Almost with ravish'd listening, could not find
    His hour of speech a minute; he, my lady,
    Hath into monstrous habits put the graces
    That once were his, and is become as black
    As if besmear'd in hell. Sit by us; you shall hear--
    This was his gentleman in trust--of him
    Things to strike honour sad. Bid him recount
    The fore-recited practises; whereof
    We cannot feel too little, hear too much.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Stand forth, and with bold spirit relate what you,
    Most like a careful subject, have collected
    Out of the Duke of Buckingham.

KING HENRY VIII    Speak freely.

Surveyor    First, it was usual with him, every day
    It would infect his speech, that if the king
    Should without issue die, he'll carry it so
    To make the sceptre his: these very words
    I've heard him utter to his son-in-law,
    Lord Abergavenny; to whom by oath he menaced
    Revenge upon the cardinal.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Please your highness, note
    This dangerous conception in this point.
    Not friended by by his wish, to your high person
    His will is most malignant; and it stretches
    Beyond you, to your friends.

QUEEN KATHARINE    My learn'd lord cardinal,
    Deliver all with charity.

KING HENRY VIII    Speak on:
    How grounded he his title to the crown,
    Upon our fail? to this point hast thou heard him
    At any time speak aught?

Surveyor    He was brought to this
    By a vain prophecy of Nicholas Hopkins.

KING HENRY VIII    What was that Hopkins?

Surveyor    Sir, a Chartreux friar,
    His confessor, who fed him every minute
    With words of sovereignty.

KING HENRY VIII    How know'st thou this?

Surveyor    Not long before your highness sped to France,
    The duke being at the Rose, within the parish
    Saint Lawrence Poultney, did of me demand
    What was the speech among the Londoners
    Concerning the French journey: I replied,
    Men fear'd the French would prove perfidious,
    To the king's danger. Presently the duke
    Said, 'twas the fear, indeed; and that he doubted
    'Twould prove the verity of certain words
    Spoke by a holy monk; 'that oft,' says he,
    'Hath sent to me, wishing me to permit
    John de la Car, my chaplain, a choice hour
    To hear from him a matter of some moment:
    Whom after under the confession's seal
    He solemnly had sworn, that what he spoke
    My chaplain to no creature living, but
    To me, should utter, with demure confidence
    This pausingly ensued: neither the king nor's heirs,
    Tell you the duke, shall prosper: bid him strive
    To gain the love o' the commonalty: the duke
    Shall govern England.'

QUEEN KATHARINE    If I know you well,
    You were the duke's surveyor, and lost your office
    On the complaint o' the tenants: take good heed
    You charge not in your spleen a noble person
    And spoil your nobler soul: I say, take heed;
    Yes, heartily beseech you.

KING HENRY VIII    Let him on.
    Go forward.

Surveyor         On my soul, I'll speak but truth.
    I told my lord the duke, by the devil's illusions
    The monk might be deceived; and that 'twas dangerous for him
    To ruminate on this so far, until
    It forged him some design, which, being believed,
    It was much like to do: he answer'd, 'Tush,
    It can do me no damage;' adding further,
    That, had the king in his last sickness fail'd,
    The cardinal's and Sir Thomas Lovell's heads
    Should have gone off.

KING HENRY VIII    Ha! what, so rank? Ah ha!
    There's mischief in this man: canst thou say further?

Surveyor    I can, my liege.

KING HENRY VIII                      Proceed.

Surveyor    Being at Greenwich,
    After your highness had reproved the duke
    About Sir William Blomer,--

KING HENRY VIII    I remember
    Of such a time: being my sworn servant,
    The duke retain'd him his. But on; what hence?

Surveyor    'If,' quoth he, 'I for this had been committed,
    As, to the Tower, I thought, I would have play'd
    The part my father meant to act upon
    The usurper Richard; who, being at Salisbury,
    Made suit to come in's presence; which if granted,
    As he made semblance of his duty, would
    Have put his knife to him.'

KING HENRY VIII    A giant traitor!

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Now, madam, may his highness live in freedom,
    and this man out of prison?

QUEEN KATHARINE    God mend all!

KING HENRY VIII    There's something more would out of thee; what say'st?

Surveyor    After 'the duke his father,' with 'the knife,'
    He stretch'd him, and, with one hand on his dagger,
    Another spread on's breast, mounting his eyes
    He did discharge a horrible oath; whose tenor
    Was,--were he evil used, he would outgo
    His father by as much as a performance
    Does an irresolute purpose.

KING HENRY VIII    There's his period,
    To sheathe his knife in us. He is attach'd;
    Call him to present trial: if he may
    Find mercy in the law, 'tis his: if none,
    Let him not seek 't of us: by day and night,
    He's traitor to the height.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT I



SCENE III    An ante-chamber in the palace.


    [Enter Chamberlain and SANDS]

Chamberlain    Is't possible the spells of France should juggle
    Men into such strange mysteries?

SANDS    New customs,
    Though they be never so ridiculous,
    Nay, let 'em be unmanly, yet are follow'd.

Chamberlain    As far as I see, all the good our English
    Have got by the late voyage is but merely
    A fit or two o' the face; but they are shrewd ones;
    For when they hold 'em, you would swear directly
    Their very noses had been counsellors
    To Pepin or Clotharius, they keep state so.

SANDS    They have all new legs, and lame ones: one would take it,
    That never saw 'em pace before, the spavin
    Or springhalt reign'd among 'em.

Chamberlain    Death! my lord,
    Their clothes are after such a pagan cut too,
    That, sure, they've worn out Christendom.

    [Enter LOVELL]

                          How now!
    What news, Sir Thomas Lovell?

LOVELL    Faith, my lord,
    I hear of none, but the new proclamation
    That's clapp'd upon the court-gate.

Chamberlain    What is't for?

LOVELL    The reformation of our travell'd gallants,
    That fill the court with quarrels, talk, and tailors.

Chamberlain    I'm glad 'tis there: now I would pray our monsieurs
    To think an English courtier may be wise,
    And never see the Louvre.

LOVELL    They must either,
    For so run the conditions, leave those remnants
    Of fool and feather that they got in France,
    With all their honourable point of ignorance
    Pertaining thereunto, as fights and fireworks,
    Abusing better men than they can be,
    Out of a foreign wisdom, renouncing clean
    The faith they have in tennis, and tall stockings,
    Short blister'd breeches, and those types of travel,
    And understand again like honest men;
    Or pack to their old playfellows: there, I take it,
    They may, 'cum privilegio,' wear away
    The lag end of their lewdness and be laugh'd at.

SANDS    'Tis time to give 'em physic, their diseases
    Are grown so catching.

Chamberlain    What a loss our ladies
    Will have of these trim vanities!

LOVELL    Ay, marry,
    There will be woe indeed, lords: the sly whoresons
    Have got a speeding trick to lay down ladies;
    A French song and a fiddle has no fellow.

SANDS    The devil fiddle 'em! I am glad they are going,
    For, sure, there's no converting of 'em: now
    An honest country lord, as I am, beaten
    A long time out of play, may bring his plainsong
    And have an hour of hearing; and, by'r lady,
    Held current music too.

Chamberlain    Well said, Lord Sands;
    Your colt's tooth is not cast yet.

SANDS    No, my lord;
    Nor shall not, while I have a stump.

Chamberlain    Sir Thomas,
    Whither were you a-going?

LOVELL    To the cardinal's:
    Your lordship is a guest too.

Chamberlain    O, 'tis true:
    This night he makes a supper, and a great one,
    To many lords and ladies; there will be
    The beauty of this kingdom, I'll assure you.

LOVELL    That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed,
    A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us;
    His dews fall every where.

Chamberlain    No doubt he's noble;
    He had a black mouth that said other of him.

SANDS    He may, my lord; has wherewithal: in him
    Sparing would show a worse sin than ill doctrine:
    Men of his way should be most liberal;
    They are set here for examples.

Chamberlain    True, they are so:
    But few now give so great ones. My barge stays;
    Your lordship shall along. Come, good Sir Thomas,
    We shall be late else; which I would not be,
    For I was spoke to, with Sir Henry Guildford
    This night to be comptrollers.

SANDS    I am your lordship's.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT I



SCENE IV    A Hall in York Place.


    [Hautboys. A small table under a state for CARDINAL
    WOLSEY, a longer table for the guests. Then enter
    ANNE and divers other Ladies and Gentlemen as
    guests, at one door; at another door, enter
    GUILDFORD]

GUILDFORD    Ladies, a general welcome from his grace
    Salutes ye all; this night he dedicates
    To fair content and you: none here, he hopes,
    In all this noble bevy, has brought with her
    One care abroad; he would have all as merry
    As, first, good company, good wine, good welcome,
    Can make good people. O, my lord, you're tardy:

    [Enter Chamberlain, SANDS, and LOVELL]

    The very thought of this fair company
    Clapp'd wings to me.

Chamberlain    You are young, Sir Harry Guildford.

SANDS    Sir Thomas Lovell, had the cardinal
    But half my lay thoughts in him, some of these
    Should find a running banquet ere they rested,
    I think would better please 'em: by my life,
    They are a sweet society of fair ones.

LOVELL    O, that your lordship were but now confessor
    To one or two of these!

SANDS    I would I were;
    They should find easy penance.

LOVELL    Faith, how easy?

SANDS    As easy as a down-bed would afford it.

Chamberlain    Sweet ladies, will it please you sit? Sir Harry,
    Place you that side; I'll take the charge of this:
    His grace is entering. Nay, you must not freeze;
    Two women placed together makes cold weather:
    My Lord Sands, you are one will keep 'em waking;
    Pray, sit between these ladies.

SANDS    By my faith,
    And thank your lordship. By your leave, sweet ladies:
    If I chance to talk a little wild, forgive me;
    I had it from my father.

ANNE    Was he mad, sir?

SANDS    O, very mad, exceeding mad, in love too:
    But he would bite none; just as I do now,
    He would kiss you twenty with a breath.

    [Kisses her]

Chamberlain    Well said, my lord.
    So, now you're fairly seated. Gentlemen,
    The penance lies on you, if these fair ladies
    Pass away frowning.

SANDS    For my little cure,
    Let me alone.

    [Hautboys. Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, and takes his state]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    You're welcome, my fair guests: that noble lady,
    Or gentleman, that is not freely merry,
    Is not my friend: this, to confirm my welcome;
    And to you all, good health.

    [Drinks]

SANDS    Your grace is noble:
    Let me have such a bowl may hold my thanks,
    And save me so much talking.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    My Lord Sands,
    I am beholding to you: cheer your neighbours.
    Ladies, you are not merry: gentlemen,
    Whose fault is this?

SANDS    The red wine first must rise
    In their fair cheeks, my lord; then we shall have 'em
    Talk us to silence.

ANNE    You are a merry gamester,
    My Lord Sands.

SANDS                      Yes, if I make my play.
    Here's to your ladyship: and pledge it, madam,
    For 'tis to such a thing,--

ANNE    You cannot show me.

SANDS    I told your grace they would talk anon.

    [Drum and trumpet, chambers discharged]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    What's that?

Chamberlain    Look out there, some of ye.

    [Exit Servant]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    What warlike voice,
    And to what end is this? Nay, ladies, fear not;
    By all the laws of war you're privileged.

    [Re-enter Servant]

Chamberlain    How now! what is't?

Servant    A noble troop of strangers;
    For so they seem: they've left their barge and landed;
    And hither make, as great ambassadors
    From foreign princes.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Good lord chamberlain,
    Go, give 'em welcome; you can speak the French tongue;
    And, pray, receive 'em nobly, and conduct 'em
    Into our presence, where this heaven of beauty
    Shall shine at full upon them. Some attend him.

    [Exit Chamberlain, attended. All rise, and tables removed]

    You have now a broken banquet; but we'll mend it.
    A good digestion to you all: and once more
    I shower a welcome on ye; welcome all.

    [Hautboys. Enter KING HENRY VIII and others, as
    masquers, habited like shepherds, ushered by the
    Chamberlain. They pass directly before CARDINAL
    WOLSEY, and gracefully salute him]

    A noble company! what are their pleasures?

Chamberlain    Because they speak no English, thus they pray'd
    To tell your grace, that, having heard by fame
    Of this so noble and so fair assembly
    This night to meet here, they could do no less
    Out of the great respect they bear to beauty,
    But leave their flocks; and, under your fair conduct,
    Crave leave to view these ladies and entreat
    An hour of revels with 'em.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Say, lord chamberlain,
    They have done my poor house grace; for which I pay 'em
    A thousand thanks, and pray 'em take their pleasures.

    [They choose Ladies for the dance. KING HENRY VIII
    chooses ANNE]

KING HENRY VIII    The fairest hand I ever touch'd! O beauty,
    Till now I never knew thee!

    [Music. Dance]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    My lord!

Chamberlain    Your grace?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Pray, tell 'em thus much from me:
    There should be one amongst 'em, by his person,
    More worthy this place than myself; to whom,
    If I but knew him, with my love and duty
    I would surrender it.

Chamberlain    I will, my lord.

    [Whispers the Masquers]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    What say they?

Chamberlain                      Such a one, they all confess,
    There is indeed; which they would have your grace
    Find out, and he will take it.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Let me see, then.
    By all your good leaves, gentlemen; here I'll make
    My royal choice.

KING HENRY VIII                      Ye have found him, cardinal:

    [Unmasking]

    You hold a fair assembly; you do well, lord:
    You are a churchman, or, I'll tell you, cardinal,
    I should judge now unhappily.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    I am glad
    Your grace is grown so pleasant.

KING HENRY VIII    My lord chamberlain,
    Prithee, come hither: what fair lady's that?

Chamberlain    An't please your grace, Sir Thomas Bullen's daughter--
    The Viscount Rochford,--one of her highness' women.

KING HENRY VIII    By heaven, she is a dainty one. Sweetheart,
    I were unmannerly, to take you out,
    And not to kiss you. A health, gentlemen!
    Let it go round.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Sir Thomas Lovell, is the banquet ready
    I' the privy chamber?

LOVELL    Yes, my lord.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Your grace,
    I fear, with dancing is a little heated.

KING HENRY VIII    I fear, too much.

CARDINAL WOLSEY                      There's fresher air, my lord,
    In the next chamber.

KING HENRY VIII    Lead in your ladies, every one: sweet partner,
    I must not yet forsake you: let's be merry:
    Good my lord cardinal, I have half a dozen healths
    To drink to these fair ladies, and a measure
    To lead 'em once again; and then let's dream
    Who's best in favour. Let the music knock it.

    [Exeunt with trumpets]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT II



SCENE I    Westminster. A street.


    [Enter two Gentlemen, meeting]

First Gentleman    Whither away so fast?

Second Gentleman    O, God save ye!
    Even to the hall, to hear what shall become
    Of the great Duke of Buckingham.

First Gentleman    I'll save you
    That labour, sir. All's now done, but the ceremony
    Of bringing back the prisoner.

Second Gentleman    Were you there?

First Gentleman    Yes, indeed, was I.

Second Gentleman    Pray, speak what has happen'd.

First Gentleman    You may guess quickly what.

Second Gentleman    Is he found guilty?

First Gentleman    Yes, truly is he, and condemn'd upon't.

Second Gentleman    I am sorry for't.

First Gentleman                      So are a number more.

Second Gentleman    But, pray, how pass'd it?

First Gentleman    I'll tell you in a little. The great duke
    Came to the bar; where to his accusations
    He pleaded still not guilty and alleged
    Many sharp reasons to defeat the law.
    The king's attorney on the contrary
    Urged on the examinations, proofs, confessions
    Of divers witnesses; which the duke desired
    To have brought viva voce to his face:
    At which appear'd against him his surveyor;
    Sir Gilbert Peck his chancellor; and John Car,
    Confessor to him; with that devil-monk,
    Hopkins, that made this mischief.

Second Gentleman    That was he
    That fed him with his prophecies?

First Gentleman    The same.
    All these accused him strongly; which he fain
    Would have flung from him, but, indeed, he could not:
    And so his peers, upon this evidence,
    Have found him guilty of high treason. Much
    He spoke, and learnedly, for life; but all
    Was either pitied in him or forgotten.

Second Gentleman    After all this, how did he bear himself?

First Gentleman    When he was brought again to the bar, to hear
    His knell rung out, his judgment, he was stirr'd
    With such an agony, he sweat extremely,
    And something spoke in choler, ill, and hasty:
    But he fell to himself again, and sweetly
    In all the rest show'd a most noble patience.

Second Gentleman    I do not think he fears death.

First Gentleman    Sure, he does not:
    He never was so womanish; the cause
    He may a little grieve at.

Second Gentleman    Certainly
    The cardinal is the end of this.

First Gentleman    'Tis likely,
    By all conjectures: first, Kildare's attainder,
    Then deputy of Ireland; who removed,
    Earl Surrey was sent thither, and in haste too,
    Lest he should help his father.

Second Gentleman    That trick of state
    Was a deep envious one.

First Gentleman    At his return
    No doubt he will requite it. This is noted,
    And generally, whoever the king favours,
    The cardinal instantly will find employment,
    And far enough from court too.

Second Gentleman    All the commons
    Hate him perniciously, and, o' my conscience,
    Wish him ten fathom deep: this duke as much
    They love and dote on; call him bounteous Buckingham,
    The mirror of all courtesy;--

First Gentleman    Stay there, sir,
    And see the noble ruin'd man you speak of.

    [Enter BUCKINGHAM from his arraignment; tip-staves
    before him; the axe with the edge towards him;
    halberds on each side: accompanied with LOVELL,
    VAUX, SANDS, and common people]

Second Gentleman    Let's stand close, and behold him.

BUCKINGHAM    All good people,
    You that thus far have come to pity me,
    Hear what I say, and then go home and lose me.
    I have this day received a traitor's judgment,
    And by that name must die: yet, heaven bear witness,
    And if I have a conscience, let it sink me,
    Even as the axe falls, if I be not faithful!
    The law I bear no malice for my death;
    'T has done, upon the premises, but justice:
    But those that sought it I could wish more Christians:
    Be what they will, I heartily forgive 'em:
    Yet let 'em look they glory not in mischief,
    Nor build their evils on the graves of great men;
    For then my guiltless blood must cry against 'em.
    For further life in this world I ne'er hope,
    Nor will I sue, although the king have mercies
    More than I dare make faults. You few that loved me,
    And dare be bold to weep for Buckingham,
    His noble friends and fellows, whom to leave
    Is only bitter to him, only dying,
    Go with me, like good angels, to my end;
    And, as the long divorce of steel falls on me,
    Make of your prayers one sweet sacrifice,
    And lift my soul to heaven. Lead on, o' God's name.

LOVELL    I do beseech your grace, for charity,
    If ever any malice in your heart
    Were hid against me, now to forgive me frankly.

BUCKINGHAM    Sir Thomas Lovell, I as free forgive you
    As I would be forgiven: I forgive all;
    There cannot be those numberless offences
    'Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with:
    no black envy
    Shall mark my grave. Commend me to his grace;
    And if he speak of Buckingham, pray, tell him
    You met him half in heaven: my vows and prayers
    Yet are the king's; and, till my soul forsake,
    Shall cry for blessings on him: may he live
    Longer than I have time to tell his years!
    Ever beloved and loving may his rule be!
    And when old time shall lead him to his end,
    Goodness and he fill up one monument!

LOVELL    To the water side I must conduct your grace;
    Then give my charge up to Sir Nicholas Vaux,
    Who undertakes you to your end.

VAUX    Prepare there,
    The duke is coming: see the barge be ready;
    And fit it with such furniture as suits
    The greatness of his person.

BUCKINGHAM    Nay, Sir Nicholas,
    Let it alone; my state now will but mock me.
    When I came hither, I was lord high constable
    And Duke of Buckingham; now, poor Edward Bohun:
    Yet I am richer than my base accusers,
    That never knew what truth meant: I now seal it;
    And with that blood will make 'em one day groan for't.
    My noble father, Henry of Buckingham,
    Who first raised head against usurping Richard,
    Flying for succor to his servant Banister,
    Being distress'd, was by that wretch betray'd,
    And without trial fell; God's peace be with him!
    Henry the Seventh succeeding, truly pitying
    My father's loss, like a most royal prince,
    Restored me to my honours, and, out of ruins,
    Made my name once more noble. Now his son,
    Henry the Eighth, life, honour, name and all
    That made me happy at one stroke has taken
    For ever from the world. I had my trial,
    And, must needs say, a noble one; which makes me,
    A little happier than my wretched father:
    Yet thus far we are one in fortunes: both
    Fell by our servants, by those men we loved most;
    A most unnatural and faithless service!
    Heaven has an end in all: yet, you that hear me,
    This from a dying man receive as certain:
    Where you are liberal of your loves and counsels
    Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends
    And give your hearts to, when they once perceive
    The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
    Like water from ye, never found again
    But where they mean to sink ye. All good people,
    Pray for me! I must now forsake ye: the last hour
    Of my long weary life is come upon me. Farewell:
    And when you would say something that is sad,
    Speak how I fell. I have done; and God forgive me!

    [Exeunt BUCKINGHAM and Train]

First Gentleman    O, this is full of pity! Sir, it calls,
    I fear, too many curses on their beads
    That were the authors.

Second Gentleman    If the duke be guiltless,
    'Tis full of woe: yet I can give you inkling
    Of an ensuing evil, if it fall,
    Greater than this.

First Gentleman                      Good angels keep it from us!
    What may it be? You do not doubt my faith, sir?

Second Gentleman    This secret is so weighty, 'twill require
    A strong faith to conceal it.

First Gentleman    Let me have it;
    I do not talk much.

Second Gentleman    I am confident,
    You shall, sir: did you not of late days hear
    A buzzing of a separation
    Between the king and Katharine?

First Gentleman    Yes, but it held not:
    For when the king once heard it, out of anger
    He sent command to the lord mayor straight
    To stop the rumor, and allay those tongues
    That durst disperse it.

Second Gentleman    But that slander, sir,
    Is found a truth now: for it grows again
    Fresher than e'er it was; and held for certain
    The king will venture at it. Either the cardinal,
    Or some about him near, have, out of malice
    To the good queen, possess'd him with a scruple
    That will undo her: to confirm this too,
    Cardinal Campeius is arrived, and lately;
    As all think, for this business.

First Gentleman    'Tis the cardinal;
    And merely to revenge him on the emperor
    For not bestowing on him, at his asking,
    The archbishopric of Toledo, this is purposed.

Second Gentleman    I think you have hit the mark: but is't not cruel
    That she should feel the smart of this? The cardinal
    Will have his will, and she must fall.

First Gentleman    'Tis woful.
    We are too open here to argue this;
    Let's think in private more.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT II



SCENE II    An ante-chamber in the palace.


    [Enter Chamberlain, reading a letter]

Chamberlain    'My lord, the horses your lordship sent for, with
    all the care I had, I saw well chosen, ridden, and
    furnished. They were young and handsome, and of the
    best breed in the north. When they were ready to
    set out for London, a man of my lord cardinal's, by
    commission and main power, took 'em from me; with
    this reason: His master would be served before a
    subject, if not before the king; which stopped our
    mouths, sir.'
    I fear he will indeed: well, let him have them:
    He will have all, I think.

    [Enter, to Chamberlain, NORFOLK and SUFFOLK]

NORFOLK    Well met, my lord chamberlain.

Chamberlain    Good day to both your graces.

SUFFOLK    How is the king employ'd?

Chamberlain    I left him private,
    Full of sad thoughts and troubles.

NORFOLK    What's the cause?

Chamberlain    It seems the marriage with his brother's wife
    Has crept too near his conscience.

SUFFOLK    No, his conscience
    Has crept too near another lady.

NORFOLK    'Tis so:
    This is the cardinal's doing, the king-cardinal:
    That blind priest, like the eldest son of fortune,
    Turns what he list. The king will know him one day.

SUFFOLK    Pray God he do! he'll never know himself else.

NORFOLK    How holily he works in all his business!
    And with what zeal! for, now he has crack'd the league
    Between us and the emperor, the queen's great nephew,
    He dives into the king's soul, and there scatters
    Dangers, doubts, wringing of the conscience,
    Fears, and despairs; and all these for his marriage:
    And out of all these to restore the king,
    He counsels a divorce; a loss of her
    That, like a jewel, has hung twenty years
    About his neck, yet never lost her lustre;
    Of her that loves him with that excellence
    That angels love good men with; even of her
    That, when the greatest stroke of fortune falls,
    Will bless the king: and is not this course pious?

Chamberlain    Heaven keep me from such counsel! 'Tis most true
    These news are every where; every tongue speaks 'em,
    And every true heart weeps for't: all that dare
    Look into these affairs see this main end,
    The French king's sister. Heaven will one day open
    The king's eyes, that so long have slept upon
    This bold bad man.

SUFFOLK                      And free us from his slavery.

NORFOLK    We had need pray,
    And heartily, for our deliverance;
    Or this imperious man will work us all
    From princes into pages: all men's honours
    Lie like one lump before him, to be fashion'd
    Into what pitch he please.

SUFFOLK    For me, my lords,
    I love him not, nor fear him; there's my creed:
    As I am made without him, so I'll stand,
    If the king please; his curses and his blessings
    Touch me alike, they're breath I not believe in.
    I knew him, and I know him; so I leave him
    To him that made him proud, the pope.

NORFOLK    Let's in;
    And with some other business put the king
    From these sad thoughts, that work too much upon him:
    My lord, you'll bear us company?

Chamberlain    Excuse me;
    The king has sent me otherwhere: besides,
    You'll find a most unfit time to disturb him:
    Health to your lordships.

NORFOLK    Thanks, my good lord chamberlain.

    [Exit Chamberlain; and KING HENRY VIII draws the
    curtain, and sits reading pensively]

SUFFOLK    How sad he looks! sure, he is much afflicted.

KING HENRY VIII    Who's there, ha?

NORFOLK                      Pray God he be not angry.

KING HENRY VIII    Who's there, I say? How dare you thrust yourselves
    Into my private meditations?
    Who am I? ha?

NORFOLK    A gracious king that pardons all offences
    Malice ne'er meant: our breach of duty this way
    Is business of estate; in which we come
    To know your royal pleasure.

KING HENRY VIII    Ye are too bold:
    Go to; I'll make ye know your times of business:
    Is this an hour for temporal affairs, ha?

    [Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY and CARDINAL CAMPEIUS, with
    a commission]

    Who's there? my good lord cardinal? O my Wolsey,
    The quiet of my wounded conscience;
    Thou art a cure fit for a king.

    [To CARDINAL CAMPEIUS]

                  You're welcome,
    Most learned reverend sir, into our kingdom:
    Use us and it.

    [To CARDINAL WOLSEY]

    My good lord, have great care
    I be not found a talker.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Sir, you cannot.
    I would your grace would give us but an hour
    Of private conference.

KING HENRY VIII    [To NORFOLK and SUFFOLK]
         We are busy; go.

NORFOLK    [Aside to SUFFOLK]
    This priest has no pride in him?

SUFFOLK    [Aside to NORFOLK]             Not to speak of:
    I would not be so sick though for his place:
    But this cannot continue.

NORFOLK    [Aside to SUFFOLK]      If it do,
    I'll venture one have-at-him.

SUFFOLK    [Aside to NORFOLK]          I another.

    [Exeunt NORFOLK and SUFFOLK]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Your grace has given a precedent of wisdom
    Above all princes, in committing freely
    Your scruple to the voice of Christendom:
    Who can be angry now? what envy reach you?
    The Spaniard, tied blood and favour to her,
    Must now confess, if they have any goodness,
    The trial just and noble. All the clerks,
    I mean the learned ones, in Christian kingdoms
    Have their free voices: Rome, the nurse of judgment,
    Invited by your noble self, hath sent
    One general tongue unto us, this good man,
    This just and learned priest, Cardinal Campeius;
    Whom once more I present unto your highness.

KING HENRY VIII    And once more in mine arms I bid him welcome,
    And thank the holy conclave for their loves:
    They have sent me such a man I would have wish'd for.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Your grace must needs deserve all strangers' loves,
    You are so noble. To your highness' hand
    I tender my commission; by whose virtue,
    The court of Rome commanding, you, my lord
    Cardinal of York, are join'd with me their servant
    In the unpartial judging of this business.

KING HENRY VIII    Two equal men. The queen shall be acquainted
    Forthwith for what you come. Where's Gardiner?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    I know your majesty has always loved her
    So dear in heart, not to deny her that
    A woman of less place might ask by law:
    Scholars allow'd freely to argue for her.

KING HENRY VIII    Ay, and the best she shall have; and my favour
    To him that does best: God forbid else. Cardinal,
    Prithee, call Gardiner to me, my new secretary:
    I find him a fit fellow.

    [Exit CARDINAL WOLSEY]

    [Re-enter CARDINAL WOLSEY, with GARDINER]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    [Aside to GARDINER]  Give me your hand much joy and
    favour to you;
    You are the king's now.

GARDINER    [Aside to CARDINAL WOLSEY]
          But to be commanded
    For ever by your grace, whose hand has raised me.

KING HENRY VIII    Come hither, Gardiner.

    [Walks and whispers]

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    My Lord of York, was not one Doctor Pace
    In this man's place before him?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Yes, he was.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Was he not held a learned man?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Yes, surely.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Believe me, there's an ill opinion spread then
    Even of yourself, lord cardinal.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    How! of me?

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    They will not stick to say you envied him,
    And fearing he would rise, he was so virtuous,
    Kept him a foreign man still; which so grieved him,
    That he ran mad and died.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Heaven's peace be with him!
    That's Christian care enough: for living murmurers
    There's places of rebuke. He was a fool;
    For he would needs be virtuous: that good fellow,
    If I command him, follows my appointment:
    I will have none so near else. Learn this, brother,
    We live not to be grip'd by meaner persons.

KING HENRY VIII    Deliver this with modesty to the queen.

    [Exit GARDINER]

    The most convenient place that I can think of
    For such receipt of learning is Black-Friars;
    There ye shall meet about this weighty business.
    My Wolsey, see it furnish'd. O, my lord,
    Would it not grieve an able man to leave
    So sweet a bedfellow? But, conscience, conscience!
    O, 'tis a tender place; and I must leave her.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT II



SCENE III    An ante-chamber of the QUEEN'S apartments.


    [Enter ANNE and an Old Lady]

ANNE    Not for that neither: here's the pang that pinches:
    His highness having lived so long with her, and she
    So good a lady that no tongue could ever
    Pronounce dishonour of her; by my life,
    She never knew harm-doing: O, now, after
    So many courses of the sun enthroned,
    Still growing in a majesty and pomp, the which
    To leave a thousand-fold more bitter than
    'Tis sweet at first to acquire,--after this process,
    To give her the avaunt! it is a pity
    Would move a monster.

Old Lady    Hearts of most hard temper
    Melt and lament for her.

ANNE    O, God's will! much better
    She ne'er had known pomp: though't be temporal,
    Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce
    It from the bearer, 'tis a sufferance panging
    As soul and body's severing.

Old Lady    Alas, poor lady!
    She's a stranger now again.

ANNE    So much the more
    Must pity drop upon her. Verily,
    I swear, 'tis better to be lowly born,
    And range with humble livers in content,
    Than to be perk'd up in a glistering grief,
    And wear a golden sorrow.

Old Lady    Our content
    Is our best having.

ANNE    By my troth and maidenhead,
    I would not be a queen.

Old Lady    Beshrew me, I would,
    And venture maidenhead for't; and so would you,
    For all this spice of your hypocrisy:
    You, that have so fair parts of woman on you,
    Have too a woman's heart; which ever yet
    Affected eminence, wealth, sovereignty;
    Which, to say sooth, are blessings; and which gifts,
    Saving your mincing, the capacity
    Of your soft cheveril conscience would receive,
    If you might please to stretch it.

ANNE    Nay, good troth.

Old Lady    Yes, troth, and troth; you would not be a queen?

ANNE    No, not for all the riches under heaven.

Old Lady:    'Tis strange: a three-pence bow'd would hire me,
    Old as I am, to queen it: but, I pray you,
    What think you of a duchess? have you limbs
    To bear that load of title?

ANNE    No, in truth.

Old Lady    Then you are weakly made: pluck off a little;
    I would not be a young count in your way,
    For more than blushing comes to: if your back
    Cannot vouchsafe this burthen,'tis too weak
    Ever to get a boy.

ANNE                      How you do talk!
    I swear again, I would not be a queen
    For all the world.

Old Lady                      In faith, for little England
    You'ld venture an emballing: I myself
    Would for Carnarvonshire, although there long'd
    No more to the crown but that. Lo, who comes here?

    [Enter Chamberlain]

Chamberlain    Good morrow, ladies. What were't worth to know
    The secret of your conference?

ANNE    My good lord,
    Not your demand; it values not your asking:
    Our mistress' sorrows we were pitying.

Chamberlain    It was a gentle business, and becoming
    The action of good women: there is hope
    All will be well.

ANNE                      Now, I pray God, amen!

Chamberlain    You bear a gentle mind, and heavenly blessings
    Follow such creatures. That you may, fair lady,
    Perceive I speak sincerely, and high note's
    Ta'en of your many virtues, the king's majesty
    Commends his good opinion of you, and
    Does purpose honour to you no less flowing
    Than Marchioness of Pembroke: to which title
    A thousand pound a year, annual support,
    Out of his grace he adds.

ANNE    I do not know
    What kind of my obedience I should tender;
    More than my all is nothing: nor my prayers
    Are not words duly hallow'd, nor my wishes
    More worth than empty vanities; yet prayers and wishes
    Are all I can return. Beseech your lordship,
    Vouchsafe to speak my thanks and my obedience,
    As from a blushing handmaid, to his highness;
    Whose health and royalty I pray for.

Chamberlain    Lady,
    I shall not fail to approve the fair conceit
    The king hath of you.

    [Aside]

        I have perused her well;
    Beauty and honour in her are so mingled
    That they have caught the king: and who knows yet
    But from this lady may proceed a gem
    To lighten all this isle? I'll to the king,
    And say I spoke with you.

    [Exit Chamberlain]

ANNE    My honour'd lord.

Old Lady    Why, this it is; see, see!
    I have been begging sixteen years in court,
    Am yet a courtier beggarly, nor could
    Come pat betwixt too early and too late
    For any suit of pounds; and you, O fate!
    A very fresh-fish here--fie, fie, fie upon
    This compell'd fortune!--have your mouth fill'd up
    Before you open it.

ANNE    This is strange to me.

Old Lady    How tastes it? is it bitter? forty pence, no.
    There was a lady once, 'tis an old story,
    That would not be a queen, that would she not,
    For all the mud in Egypt: have you heard it?

ANNE    Come, you are pleasant.

Old Lady    With your theme, I could
    O'ermount the lark. The Marchioness of Pembroke!
    A thousand pounds a year for pure respect!
    No other obligation! By my life,
    That promises moe thousands: honour's train
    Is longer than his foreskirt. By this time
    I know your back will bear a duchess: say,
    Are you not stronger than you were?

ANNE    Good lady,
    Make yourself mirth with your particular fancy,
    And leave me out on't. Would I had no being,
    If this salute my blood a jot: it faints me,
    To think what follows.
    The queen is comfortless, and we forgetful
    In our long absence: pray, do not deliver
    What here you've heard to her.

Old Lady    What do you think me?

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT II



SCENE IV    A hall in Black-Friars.


    [Trumpets, sennet, and cornets. Enter two Vergers,
    with short silver wands; next them, two Scribes, in
    the habit of doctors; after them, CANTERBURY alone;
    after him, LINCOLN, Ely, Rochester, and Saint
    Asaph; next them, with some small distance, follows
    a Gentleman bearing the purse, with the great seal,
    and a cardinal's hat; then two Priests, bearing
    each a silver cross; then a Gentleman-usher
    bare-headed, accompanied with a Sergeant-at-arms
    bearing a silver mace; then two Gentlemen bearing
    two great silver pillars; after them, side by side,
    CARDINAL WOLSEY and CARDINAL CAMPEIUS; two Noblemen
    with the sword and mace. KING HENRY VIII takes
    place under the cloth of state; CARDINAL WOLSEY and
    CARDINAL CAMPEIUS sit under him as judges. QUEEN
    KATHARINE takes place some distance from KING
    HENRY VIII. The Bishops place themselves on each
    side the court, in manner of a consistory; below
    them, the Scribes. The Lords sit next the Bishops.
    The rest of the Attendants stand in convenient
    order about the stage]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Whilst our commission from Rome is read,
    Let silence be commanded.

KING HENRY VIII    What's the need?
    It hath already publicly been read,
    And on all sides the authority allow'd;
    You may, then, spare that time.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Be't so. Proceed.

Scribe    Say, Henry King of England, come into the court.

Crier    Henry King of England, &c.

KING HENRY VIII    Here.

Scribe    Say, Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

Crier    Katharine Queen of England, &c.

    [QUEEN KATHARINE makes no answer, rises out of her
    chair, goes about the court, comes to KING HENRY
    VIII, and kneels at his feet; then speaks]

QUEEN KATHARINE    Sir, I desire you do me right and justice;
    And to bestow your pity on me: for
    I am a most poor woman, and a stranger,
    Born out of your dominions; having here
    No judge indifferent, nor no more assurance
    Of equal friendship and proceeding. Alas, sir,
    In what have I offended you? what cause
    Hath my behavior given to your displeasure,
    That thus you should proceed to put me off,
    And take your good grace from me? Heaven witness,
    I have been to you a true and humble wife,
    At all times to your will conformable;
    Ever in fear to kindle your dislike,
    Yea, subject to your countenance, glad or sorry
    As I saw it inclined: when was the hour
    I ever contradicted your desire,
    Or made it not mine too? Or which of your friends
    Have I not strove to love, although I knew
    He were mine enemy? what friend of mine
    That had to him derived your anger, did I
    Continue in my liking? nay, gave notice
    He was from thence discharged. Sir, call to mind
    That I have been your wife, in this obedience,
    Upward of twenty years, and have been blest
    With many children by you: if, in the course
    And process of this time, you can report,
    And prove it too, against mine honour aught,
    My bond to wedlock, or my love and duty,
    Against your sacred person, in God's name,
    Turn me away; and let the foul'st contempt
    Shut door upon me, and so give me up
    To the sharp'st kind of justice. Please you sir,
    The king, your father, was reputed for
    A prince most prudent, of an excellent
    And unmatch'd wit and judgment: Ferdinand,
    My father, king of Spain, was reckon'd one
    The wisest prince that there had reign'd by many
    A year before: it is not to be question'd
    That they had gather'd a wise council to them
    Of every realm, that did debate this business,
    Who deem'd our marriage lawful: wherefore I humbly
    Beseech you, sir, to spare me, till I may
    Be by my friends in Spain advised; whose counsel
    I will implore: if not, i' the name of God,
    Your pleasure be fulfill'd!

CARDINAL WOLSEY    You have here, lady,
    And of your choice, these reverend fathers; men
    Of singular integrity and learning,
    Yea, the elect o' the land, who are assembled
    To plead your cause: it shall be therefore bootless
    That longer you desire the court; as well
    For your own quiet, as to rectify
    What is unsettled in the king.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    His grace
    Hath spoken well and justly: therefore, madam,
    It's fit this royal session do proceed;
    And that, without delay, their arguments
    Be now produced and heard.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Lord cardinal,
    To you I speak.

CARDINAL WOLSEY                      Your pleasure, madam?

QUEEN KATHARINE    Sir,
    I am about to weep; but, thinking that
    We are a queen, or long have dream'd so, certain
    The daughter of a king, my drops of tears
    I'll turn to sparks of fire.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Be patient yet.

QUEEN KATHARINE    I will, when you are humble; nay, before,
    Or God will punish me. I do believe,
    Induced by potent circumstances, that
    You are mine enemy, and make my challenge
    You shall not be my judge: for it is you
    Have blown this coal betwixt my lord and me;
    Which God's dew quench! Therefore I say again,
    I utterly abhor, yea, from my soul
    Refuse you for my judge; whom, yet once more,
    I hold my most malicious foe, and think not
    At all a friend to truth.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    I do profess
    You speak not like yourself; who ever yet
    Have stood to charity, and display'd the effects
    Of disposition gentle, and of wisdom
    O'ertopping woman's power. Madam, you do me wrong:
    I have no spleen against you; nor injustice
    For you or any: how far I have proceeded,
    Or how far further shall, is warranted
    By a commission from the consistory,
    Yea, the whole consistory of Rome. You charge me
    That I have blown this coal: I do deny it:
    The king is present: if it be known to him
    That I gainsay my deed, how may he wound,
    And worthily, my falsehood! yea, as much
    As you have done my truth. If he know
    That I am free of your report, he knows
    I am not of your wrong. Therefore in him
    It lies to cure me: and the cure is, to
    Remove these thoughts from you: the which before
    His highness shall speak in, I do beseech
    You, gracious madam, to unthink your speaking
    And to say so no more.

QUEEN KATHARINE    My lord, my lord,
    I am a simple woman, much too weak
    To oppose your cunning. You're meek and
    humble-mouth'd;
    You sign your place and calling, in full seeming,
    With meekness and humility; but your heart
    Is cramm'd with arrogancy, spleen, and pride.
    You have, by fortune and his highness' favours,
    Gone slightly o'er low steps and now are mounted
    Where powers are your retainers, and your words,
    Domestics to you, serve your will as't please
    Yourself pronounce their office. I must tell you,
    You tender more your person's honour than
    Your high profession spiritual: that again
    I do refuse you for my judge; and here,
    Before you all, appeal unto the pope,
    To bring my whole cause 'fore his holiness,
    And to be judged by him.

    [She curtsies to KING HENRY VIII, and offers to depart]

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    The queen is obstinate,
    Stubborn to justice, apt to accuse it, and
    Disdainful to be tried by't: 'tis not well.
    She's going away.

KING HENRY VIII    Call her again.

Crier    Katharine Queen of England, come into the court.

GRIFFITH    Madam, you are call'd back.

QUEEN KATHARINE    What need you note it? pray you, keep your way:
    When you are call'd, return. Now, the Lord help,
    They vex me past my patience! Pray you, pass on:
    I will not tarry; no, nor ever more
    Upon this business my appearance make
    In any of their courts.

    [Exeunt QUEEN KATHARINE and her Attendants]

KING HENRY VIII    Go thy ways, Kate:
    That man i' the world who shall report he has
    A better wife, let him in nought be trusted,
    For speaking false in that: thou art, alone,
    If thy rare qualities, sweet gentleness,
    Thy meekness saint-like, wife-like government,
    Obeying in commanding, and thy parts
    Sovereign and pious else, could speak thee out,
    The queen of earthly queens: she's noble born;
    And, like her true nobility, she has
    Carried herself towards me.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Most gracious sir,
    In humblest manner I require your highness,
    That it shall please you to declare, in hearing
    Of all these ears,--for where I am robb'd and bound,
    There must I be unloosed, although not there
    At once and fully satisfied,--whether ever I
    Did broach this business to your highness; or
    Laid any scruple in your way, which might
    Induce you to the question on't? or ever
    Have to you, but with thanks to God for such
    A royal lady, spake one the least word that might
    Be to the prejudice of her present state,
    Or touch of her good person?

KING HENRY VIII    My lord cardinal,
    I do excuse you; yea, upon mine honour,
    I free you from't. You are not to be taught
    That you have many enemies, that know not
    Why they are so, but, like to village-curs,
    Bark when their fellows do: by some of these
    The queen is put in anger. You're excused:
    But will you be more justified? You ever
    Have wish'd the sleeping of this business; never desired
    It to be stirr'd; but oft have hinder'd, oft,
    The passages made toward it: on my honour,
    I speak my good lord cardinal to this point,
    And thus far clear him. Now, what moved me to't,
    I will be bold with time and your attention:
    Then mark the inducement. Thus it came; give heed to't:
    My conscience first received a tenderness,
    Scruple, and prick, on certain speeches utter'd
    By the Bishop of Bayonne, then French ambassador;
    Who had been hither sent on the debating
    A marriage 'twixt the Duke of Orleans and
    Our daughter Mary: i' the progress of this business,
    Ere a determinate resolution, he,
    I mean the bishop, did require a respite;
    Wherein he might the king his lord advertise
    Whether our daughter were legitimate,
    Respecting this our marriage with the dowager,
    Sometimes our brother's wife. This respite shook
    The bosom of my conscience, enter'd me,
    Yea, with a splitting power, and made to tremble
    The region of my breast; which forced such way,
    That many mazed considerings did throng
    And press'd in with this caution. First, methought
    I stood not in the smile of heaven; who had
    Commanded nature, that my lady's womb,
    If it conceived a male child by me, should
    Do no more offices of life to't than
    The grave does to the dead; for her male issue
    Or died where they were made, or shortly after
    This world had air'd them: hence I took a thought,
    This was a judgment on me; that my kingdom,
    Well worthy the best heir o' the world, should not
    Be gladded in't by me: then follows, that
    I weigh'd the danger which my realms stood in
    By this my issue's fail; and that gave to me
    Many a groaning throe. Thus hulling in
    The wild sea of my conscience, I did steer
    Toward this remedy, whereupon we are
    Now present here together: that's to say,
    I meant to rectify my conscience,--which
    I then did feel full sick, and yet not well,--
    By all the reverend fathers of the land
    And doctors learn'd: first I began in private
    With you, my Lord of Lincoln; you remember
    How under my oppression I did reek,
    When I first moved you.

LINCOLN    Very well, my liege.

KING HENRY VIII    I have spoke long: be pleased yourself to say
    How far you satisfied me.

LINCOLN    So please your highness,
    The question did at first so stagger me,
    Bearing a state of mighty moment in't
    And consequence of dread, that I committed
    The daring'st counsel which I had to doubt;
    And did entreat your highness to this course
    Which you are running here.

KING HENRY VIII    I then moved you,
    My Lord of Canterbury; and got your leave
    To make this present summons: unsolicited
    I left no reverend person in this court;
    But by particular consent proceeded
    Under your hands and seals: therefore, go on:
    For no dislike i' the world against the person
    Of the good queen, but the sharp thorny points
    Of my alleged reasons, drive this forward:
    Prove but our marriage lawful, by my life
    And kingly dignity, we are contented
    To wear our mortal state to come with her,
    Katharine our queen, before the primest creature
    That's paragon'd o' the world.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    So please your highness,
    The queen being absent, 'tis a needful fitness
    That we adjourn this court till further day:
    Meanwhile must be an earnest motion
    Made to the queen, to call back her appeal
    She intends unto his holiness.

KING HENRY VIII    [Aside]    I may perceive
    These cardinals trifle with me: I abhor
    This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
    My learn'd and well-beloved servant, Cranmer,
    Prithee, return: with thy approach, I know,
    My comfort comes along. Break up the court:
    I say, set on.

    [Exeunt in manner as they entered]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT III



SCENE I    London. QUEEN KATHARINE's apartments.


    [Enter QUEEN KATHARINE and her Women, as at work]

QUEEN KATHARINE    Take thy lute, wench: my soul grows sad with troubles;
    Sing, and disperse 'em, if thou canst: leave working.
    [SONG]

    Orpheus with his lute made trees,
    And the mountain tops that freeze,
    Bow themselves when he did sing:
    To his music plants and flowers
    Ever sprung; as sun and showers
    There had made a lasting spring.

    Every thing that heard him play,
    Even the billows of the sea,
    Hung their heads, and then lay by.
    In sweet music is such art,
    Killing care and grief of heart
    Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

    [Enter a Gentleman]

QUEEN KATHARINE    How now!

Gentleman    An't please your grace, the two great cardinals
    Wait in the presence.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Would they speak with me?

Gentleman    They will'd me say so, madam.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Pray their graces
    To come near.

    [Exit Gentleman]

    What can be their business
    With me, a poor weak woman, fall'n from favour?
    I do not like their coming. Now I think on't,
    They should be good men; their affairs as righteous:
    But all hoods make not monks.

    [Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY and CARDINAL CAMPEIUS]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Peace to your highness!

QUEEN KATHARINE    Your graces find me here part of a housewife,
    I would be all, against the worst may happen.
    What are your pleasures with me, reverend lords?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    May it please you noble madam, to withdraw
    Into your private chamber, we shall give you
    The full cause of our coming.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Speak it here:
    There's nothing I have done yet, o' my conscience,
    Deserves a corner: would all other women
    Could speak this with as free a soul as I do!
    My lords, I care not, so much I am happy
    Above a number, if my actions
    Were tried by every tongue, every eye saw 'em,
    Envy and base opinion set against 'em,
    I know my life so even. If your business
    Seek me out, and that way I am wife in,
    Out with it boldly: truth loves open dealing.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Tanta est erga te mentis integritas, regina
    serenissima,--

QUEEN KATHARINE    O, good my lord, no Latin;
    I am not such a truant since my coming,
    As not to know the language I have lived in:
    A strange tongue makes my cause more strange,
    suspicious;
    Pray, speak in English: here are some will thank you,
    If you speak truth, for their poor mistress' sake;
    Believe me, she has had much wrong: lord cardinal,
    The willing'st sin I ever yet committed
    May be absolved in English.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Noble lady,
    I am sorry my integrity should breed,
    And service to his majesty and you,
    So deep suspicion, where all faith was meant.
    We come not by the way of accusation,
    To taint that honour every good tongue blesses,
    Nor to betray you any way to sorrow,
    You have too much, good lady; but to know
    How you stand minded in the weighty difference
    Between the king and you; and to deliver,
    Like free and honest men, our just opinions
    And comforts to your cause.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Most honour'd madam,
    My Lord of York, out of his noble nature,
    Zeal and obedience he still bore your grace,
    Forgetting, like a good man your late censure
    Both of his truth and him, which was too far,
    Offers, as I do, in a sign of peace,
    His service and his counsel.

QUEEN KATHARINE    [Aside]    To betray me.--
    My lords, I thank you both for your good wills;
    Ye speak like honest men; pray God, ye prove so!
    But how to make ye suddenly an answer,
    In such a point of weight, so near mine honour,--
    More near my life, I fear,--with my weak wit,
    And to such men of gravity and learning,
    In truth, I know not. I was set at work
    Among my maids: full little, God knows, looking
    Either for such men or such business.
    For her sake that I have been,--for I feel
    The last fit of my greatness,--good your graces,
    Let me have time and counsel for my cause:
    Alas, I am a woman, friendless, hopeless!

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Madam, you wrong the king's love with these fears:
    Your hopes and friends are infinite.

QUEEN KATHARINE    In England
    But little for my profit: can you think, lords,
    That any Englishman dare give me counsel?
    Or be a known friend, 'gainst his highness' pleasure,
    Though he be grown so desperate to be honest,
    And live a subject? Nay, forsooth, my friends,
    They that must weigh out my afflictions,
    They that my trust must grow to, live not here:
    They are, as all my other comforts, far hence
    In mine own country, lords.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    I would your grace
    Would leave your griefs, and take my counsel.

QUEEN KATHARINE    How, sir?

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Put your main cause into the king's protection;
    He's loving and most gracious: 'twill be much
    Both for your honour better and your cause;
    For if the trial of the law o'ertake ye,
    You'll part away disgraced.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    He tells you rightly.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Ye tell me what ye wish for both,--my ruin:
    Is this your Christian counsel? out upon ye!
    Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge
    That no king can corrupt.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Your rage mistakes us.

QUEEN KATHARINE    The more shame for ye: holy men I thought ye,
    Upon my soul, two reverend cardinal virtues;
    But cardinal sins and hollow hearts I fear ye:
    Mend 'em, for shame, my lords. Is this your comfort?
    The cordial that ye bring a wretched lady,
    A woman lost among ye, laugh'd at, scorn'd?
    I will not wish ye half my miseries;
    I have more charity: but say, I warn'd ye;
    Take heed, for heaven's sake, take heed, lest at once
    The burthen of my sorrows fall upon ye.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Madam, this is a mere distraction;
    You turn the good we offer into envy.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Ye turn me into nothing: woe upon ye
    And all such false professors! would you have me--
    If you have any justice, any pity;
    If ye be any thing but churchmen's habits--
    Put my sick cause into his hands that hates me?
    Alas, has banish'd me his bed already,
    His love, too long ago! I am old, my lords,
    And all the fellowship I hold now with him
    Is only my obedience. What can happen
    To me above this wretchedness? all your studies
    Make me a curse like this.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Your fears are worse.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Have I lived thus long--let me speak myself,
    Since virtue finds no friends--a wife, a true one?
    A woman, I dare say without vain-glory,
    Never yet branded with suspicion?
    Have I with all my full affections
    Still met the king? loved him next heaven?
    obey'd him?
    Been, out of fondness, superstitious to him?
    Almost forgot my prayers to content him?
    And am I thus rewarded? 'tis not well, lords.
    Bring me a constant woman to her husband,
    One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure;
    And to that woman, when she has done most,
    Yet will I add an honour, a great patience.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Madam, you wander from the good we aim at.

QUEEN KATHARINE    My lord, I dare not make myself so guilty,
    To give up willingly that noble title
    Your master wed me to: nothing but death
    Shall e'er divorce my dignities.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Pray, hear me.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Would I had never trod this English earth,
    Or felt the flatteries that grow upon it!
    Ye have angels' faces, but heaven knows your hearts.
    What will become of me now, wretched lady!
    I am the most unhappy woman living.
    Alas, poor wenches, where are now your fortunes!
    Shipwreck'd upon a kingdom, where no pity,
    No friend, no hope; no kindred weep for me;
    Almost no grave allow'd me: like the lily,
    That once was mistress of the field and flourish'd,
    I'll hang my head and perish.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    If your grace
    Could but be brought to know our ends are honest,
    You'ld feel more comfort: why should we, good lady,
    Upon what cause, wrong you? alas, our places,
    The way of our profession is against it:
    We are to cure such sorrows, not to sow 'em.
    For goodness' sake, consider what you do;
    How you may hurt yourself, ay, utterly
    Grow from the king's acquaintance, by this carriage.
    The hearts of princes kiss obedience,
    So much they love it; but to stubborn spirits
    They swell, and grow as terrible as storms.
    I know you have a gentle, noble temper,
    A soul as even as a calm: pray, think us
    Those we profess, peace-makers, friends, and servants.

CARDINAL CAMPEIUS    Madam, you'll find it so. You wrong your virtues
    With these weak women's fears: a noble spirit,
    As yours was put into you, ever casts
    Such doubts, as false coin, from it. The king loves you;
    Beware you lose it not: for us, if you please
    To trust us in your business, we are ready
    To use our utmost studies in your service.

QUEEN KATHARINE    Do what ye will, my lords: and, pray, forgive me,
    If I have used myself unmannerly;
    You know I am a woman, lacking wit
    To make a seemly answer to such persons.
    Pray, do my service to his majesty:
    He has my heart yet; and shall have my prayers
    While I shall have my life. Come, reverend fathers,
    Bestow your counsels on me: she now begs,
    That little thought, when she set footing here,
    She should have bought her dignities so dear.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT III



SCENE II    Ante-chamber to KING HENRY VIII's apartment.


    [Enter NORFOLK, SUFFOLK, SURREY, and Chamberlain]

NORFOLK    If you will now unite in your complaints,
    And force them with a constancy, the cardinal
    Cannot stand under them: if you omit
    The offer of this time, I cannot promise
    But that you shall sustain moe new disgraces,
    With these you bear already.

SURREY    I am joyful
    To meet the least occasion that may give me
    Remembrance of my father-in-law, the duke,
    To be revenged on him.

SUFFOLK    Which of the peers
    Have uncontemn'd gone by him, or at least
    Strangely neglected? when did he regard
    The stamp of nobleness in any person
    Out of himself?

Chamberlain                      My lords, you speak your pleasures:
    What he deserves of you and me I know;
    What we can do to him, though now the time
    Gives way to us, I much fear. If you cannot
    Bar his access to the king, never attempt
    Any thing on him; for he hath a witchcraft
    Over the king in's tongue.

NORFOLK    O, fear him not;
    His spell in that is out: the king hath found
    Matter against him that for ever mars
    The honey of his language. No, he's settled,
    Not to come off, in his displeasure.

SURREY    Sir,
    I should be glad to hear such news as this
    Once every hour.

NORFOLK                      Believe it, this is true:
    In the divorce his contrary proceedings
    Are all unfolded wherein he appears
    As I would wish mine enemy.

SURREY    How came
    His practises to light?

SUFFOLK    Most strangely.

SURREY    O, how, how?

SUFFOLK    The cardinal's letters to the pope miscarried,
    And came to the eye o' the king: wherein was read,
    How that the cardinal did entreat his holiness
    To stay the judgment o' the divorce; for if
    It did take place, 'I do,' quoth he, 'perceive
    My king is tangled in affection to
    A creature of the queen's, Lady Anne Bullen.'

SURREY    Has the king this?

SUFFOLK                      Believe it.

SURREY    Will this work?

Chamberlain    The king in this perceives him, how he coasts
    And hedges his own way. But in this point
    All his tricks founder, and he brings his physic
    After his patient's death: the king already
    Hath married the fair lady.

SURREY    Would he had!

SUFFOLK    May you be happy in your wish, my lord
    For, I profess, you have it.

SURREY    Now, all my joy
    Trace the conjunction!

SUFFOLK    My amen to't!

NORFOLK    All men's!

SUFFOLK    There's order given for her coronation:
    Marry, this is yet but young, and may be left
    To some ears unrecounted. But, my lords,
    She is a gallant creature, and complete
    In mind and feature: I persuade me, from her
    Will fall some blessing to this land, which shall
    In it be memorised.

SURREY    But, will the king
    Digest this letter of the cardinal's?
    The Lord forbid!

NORFOLK                      Marry, amen!

SUFFOLK    No, no;
    There be moe wasps that buzz about his nose
    Will make this sting the sooner. Cardinal Campeius
    Is stol'n away to Rome; hath ta'en no leave;
    Has left the cause o' the king unhandled; and
    Is posted, as the agent of our cardinal,
    To second all his plot. I do assure you
    The king cried Ha! at this.

Chamberlain    Now, God incense him,
    And let him cry Ha! louder!

NORFOLK    But, my lord,
    When returns Cranmer?

SUFFOLK    He is return'd in his opinions; which
    Have satisfied the king for his divorce,
    Together with all famous colleges
    Almost in Christendom: shortly, I believe,
    His second marriage shall be publish'd, and
    Her coronation. Katharine no more
    Shall be call'd queen, but princess dowager
    And widow to Prince Arthur.

NORFOLK    This same Cranmer's
    A worthy fellow, and hath ta'en much pain
    In the king's business.

SUFFOLK    He has; and we shall see him
    For it an archbishop.

NORFOLK    So I hear.

SUFFOLK    'Tis so.
    The cardinal!

    [Enter CARDINAL WOLSEY and CROMWELL]

NORFOLK                      Observe, observe, he's moody.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    The packet, Cromwell.
    Gave't you the king?

CROMWELL    To his own hand, in's bedchamber.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Look'd he o' the inside of the paper?

CROMWELL    Presently
    He did unseal them: and the first he view'd,
    He did it with a serious mind; a heed
    Was in his countenance. You he bade
    Attend him here this morning.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Is he ready
    To come abroad?

CROMWELL                      I think, by this he is.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Leave me awhile.

    [Exit CROMWELL]

    [Aside]

    It shall be to the Duchess of Alencon,
    The French king's sister: he shall marry her.
    Anne Bullen! No; I'll no Anne Bullens for him:
    There's more in't than fair visage. Bullen!
    No, we'll no Bullens. Speedily I wish
    To hear from Rome. The Marchioness of Pembroke!

NORFOLK    He's discontented.

SUFFOLK                      May be, he hears the king
    Does whet his anger to him.

SURREY    Sharp enough,
    Lord, for thy justice!

CARDINAL WOLSEY    [Aside]  The late queen's gentlewoman,
    a knight's daughter,
    To be her mistress' mistress! the queen's queen!
    This candle burns not clear: 'tis I must snuff it;
    Then out it goes. What though I know her virtuous
    And well deserving? yet I know her for
    A spleeny Lutheran; and not wholesome to
    Our cause, that she should lie i' the bosom of
    Our hard-ruled king. Again, there is sprung up
    An heretic, an arch one, Cranmer; one
    Hath crawl'd into the favour of the king,
    And is his oracle.

NORFOLK                      He is vex'd at something.

SURREY    I would 'twere something that would fret the string,
    The master-cord on's heart!

    [Enter KING HENRY VIII, reading of a schedule, and LOVELL]

SUFFOLK    The king, the king!

KING HENRY VIII    What piles of wealth hath he accumulated
    To his own portion! and what expense by the hour
    Seems to flow from him! How, i' the name of thrift,
    Does he rake this together! Now, my lords,
    Saw you the cardinal?

NORFOLK    My lord, we have
    Stood here observing him: some strange commotion
    Is in his brain: he bites his lip, and starts;
    Stops on a sudden, looks upon the ground,
    Then lays his finger on his temple, straight
    Springs out into fast gait; then stops again,
    Strikes his breast hard, and anon he casts
    His eye against the moon: in most strange postures
    We have seen him set himself.

KING HENRY VIII    It may well be;
    There is a mutiny in's mind. This morning
    Papers of state he sent me to peruse,
    As I required: and wot you what I found
    There,--on my conscience, put unwittingly?
    Forsooth, an inventory, thus importing;
    The several parcels of his plate, his treasure,
    Rich stuffs, and ornaments of household; which
    I find at such proud rate, that it out-speaks
    Possession of a subject.

NORFOLK    It's heaven's will:
    Some spirit put this paper in the packet,
    To bless your eye withal.

KING HENRY VIII    If we did think
    His contemplation were above the earth,
    And fix'd on spiritual object, he should still
    Dwell in his musings: but I am afraid
    His thinkings are below the moon, not worth
    His serious considering.

    [King HENRY VIII takes his seat; whispers LOVELL,
    who goes to CARDINAL WOLSEY]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Heaven forgive me!
    Ever God bless your highness!

KING HENRY VIII    Good my lord,
    You are full of heavenly stuff, and bear the inventory
    Of your best graces in your mind; the which
    You were now running o'er: you have scarce time
    To steal from spiritual leisure a brief span
    To keep your earthly audit: sure, in that
    I deem you an ill husband, and am glad
    To have you therein my companion.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Sir,
    For holy offices I have a time; a time
    To think upon the part of business which
    I bear i' the state; and nature does require
    Her times of preservation, which perforce
    I, her frail son, amongst my brethren mortal,
    Must give my tendence to.

KING HENRY VIII    You have said well.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    And ever may your highness yoke together,
    As I will lend you cause, my doing well
    With my well saying!

KING HENRY VIII    'Tis well said again;
    And 'tis a kind of good deed to say well:
    And yet words are no deeds. My father loved you:
    His said he did; and with his deed did crown
    His word upon you. Since I had my office,
    I have kept you next my heart; have not alone
    Employ'd you where high profits might come home,
    But pared my present havings, to bestow
    My bounties upon you.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    [Aside]             What should this mean?

SURREY    [Aside]  The Lord increase this business!

KING HENRY VIII    Have I not made you,
    The prime man of the state? I pray you, tell me,
    If what I now pronounce you have found true:
    And, if you may confess it, say withal,
    If you are bound to us or no. What say you?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    My sovereign, I confess your royal graces,
    Shower'd on me daily, have been more than could
    My studied purposes requite; which went
    Beyond all man's endeavours: my endeavours
    Have ever come too short of my desires,
    Yet filed with my abilities: mine own ends
    Have been mine so that evermore they pointed
    To the good of your most sacred person and
    The profit of the state. For your great graces
    Heap'd upon me, poor undeserver, I
    Can nothing render but allegiant thanks,
    My prayers to heaven for you, my loyalty,
    Which ever has and ever shall be growing,
    Till death, that winter, kill it.

KING HENRY VIII    Fairly answer'd;
    A loyal and obedient subject is
    Therein illustrated: the honour of it
    Does pay the act of it; as, i' the contrary,
    The foulness is the punishment. I presume
    That, as my hand has open'd bounty to you,
    My heart dropp'd love, my power rain'd honour, more
    On you than any; so your hand and heart,
    Your brain, and every function of your power,
    Should, notwithstanding that your bond of duty,
    As 'twere in love's particular, be more
    To me, your friend, than any.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    I do profess
    That for your highness' good I ever labour'd
    More than mine own; that am, have, and will be--
    Though all the world should crack their duty to you,
    And throw it from their soul; though perils did
    Abound, as thick as thought could make 'em, and
    Appear in forms more horrid,--yet my duty,
    As doth a rock against the chiding flood,
    Should the approach of this wild river break,
    And stand unshaken yours.

KING HENRY VIII    'Tis nobly spoken:
    Take notice, lords, he has a loyal breast,
    For you have seen him open't. Read o'er this;

    [Giving him papers]

    And after, this: and then to breakfast with
    What appetite you have.

    [Exit KING HENRY VIII, frowning upon CARDINAL WOLSEY:
    the Nobles throng after him, smiling and whispering]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    What should this mean?
    What sudden anger's this? how have I reap'd it?
    He parted frowning from me, as if ruin
    Leap'd from his eyes: so looks the chafed lion
    Upon the daring huntsman that has gall'd him;
    Then makes him nothing. I must read this paper;
    I fear, the story of his anger. 'Tis so;
    This paper has undone me: 'tis the account
    Of all that world of wealth I have drawn together
    For mine own ends; indeed, to gain the popedom,
    And fee my friends in Rome. O negligence!
    Fit for a fool to fall by: what cross devil
    Made me put this main secret in the packet
    I sent the king? Is there no way to cure this?
    No new device to beat this from his brains?
    I know 'twill stir him strongly; yet I know
    A way, if it take right, in spite of fortune
    Will bring me off again. What's this? 'To the Pope!'
    The letter, as I live, with all the business
    I writ to's holiness. Nay then, farewell!
    I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness;
    And, from that full meridian of my glory,
    I haste now to my setting: I shall fall
    Like a bright exhalation m the evening,
    And no man see me more.

    [Re-enter to CARDINAL WOLSEY, NORFOLK and SUFFOLK, SURREY,
    and the Chamberlain]

NORFOLK    Hear the king's pleasure, cardinal: who commands you
    To render up the great seal presently
    Into our hands; and to confine yourself
    To Asher House, my Lord of Winchester's,
    Till you hear further from his highness.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Stay:
    Where's your commission, lords? words cannot carry
    Authority so weighty.

SUFFOLK    Who dare cross 'em,
    Bearing the king's will from his mouth expressly?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Till I find more than will or words to do it,
    I mean your malice, know, officious lords,
    I dare and must deny it. Now I feel
    Of what coarse metal ye are moulded, envy:
    How eagerly ye follow my disgraces,
    As if it fed ye! and how sleek and wanton
    Ye appear in every thing may bring my ruin!
    Follow your envious courses, men of malice;
    You have Christian warrant for 'em, and, no doubt,
    In time will find their fit rewards. That seal,
    You ask with such a violence, the king,
    Mine and your master, with his own hand gave me;
    Bade me enjoy it, with the place and honours,
    During my life; and, to confirm his goodness,
    Tied it by letters-patents: now, who'll take it?

SURREY    The king, that gave it.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    It must be himself, then.

SURREY    Thou art a proud traitor, priest.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Proud lord, thou liest:
    Within these forty hours Surrey durst better
    Have burnt that tongue than said so.

SURREY    Thy ambition,
    Thou scarlet sin, robb'd this bewailing land
    Of noble Buckingham, my father-in-law:
    The heads of all thy brother cardinals,
    With thee and all thy best parts bound together,
    Weigh'd not a hair of his. Plague of your policy!
    You sent me deputy for Ireland;
    Far from his succor, from the king, from all
    That might have mercy on the fault thou gavest him;
    Whilst your great goodness, out of holy pity,
    Absolved him with an axe.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    This, and all else
    This talking lord can lay upon my credit,
    I answer is most false. The duke by law
    Found his deserts: how innocent I was
    From any private malice in his end,
    His noble jury and foul cause can witness.
    If I loved many words, lord, I should tell you
    You have as little honesty as honour,
    That in the way of loyalty and truth
    Toward the king, my ever royal master,
    Dare mate a sounder man than Surrey can be,
    And all that love his follies.

SURREY    By my soul,
    Your long coat, priest, protects you; thou
    shouldst feel
    My sword i' the life-blood of thee else. My lords,
    Can ye endure to hear this arrogance?
    And from this fellow? if we live thus tamely,
    To be thus jaded by a piece of scarlet,
    Farewell nobility; let his grace go forward,
    And dare us with his cap like larks.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    All goodness
    Is poison to thy stomach.

SURREY    Yes, that goodness
    Of gleaning all the land's wealth into one,
    Into your own hands, cardinal, by extortion;
    The goodness of your intercepted packets
    You writ to the pope against the king: your goodness,
    Since you provoke me, shall be most notorious.
    My Lord of Norfolk, as you are truly noble,
    As you respect the common good, the state
    Of our despised nobility, our issues,
    Who, if he live, will scarce be gentlemen,
    Produce the grand sum of his sins, the articles
    Collected from his life. I'll startle you
    Worse than the scaring bell, when the brown wench
    Lay kissing in your arms, lord cardinal.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    How much, methinks, I could despise this man,
    But that I am bound in charity against it!

NORFOLK    Those articles, my lord, are in the king's hand:
    But, thus much, they are foul ones.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    So much fairer
    And spotless shall mine innocence arise,
    When the king knows my truth.

SURREY    This cannot save you:
    I thank my memory, I yet remember
    Some of these articles; and out they shall.
    Now, if you can blush and cry 'guilty,' cardinal,
    You'll show a little honesty.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Speak on, sir;
    I dare your worst objections: if I blush,
    It is to see a nobleman want manners.

SURREY    I had rather want those than my head. Have at you!
    First, that, without the king's assent or knowledge,
    You wrought to be a legate; by which power
    You maim'd the jurisdiction of all bishops.

NORFOLK    Then, that in all you writ to Rome, or else
    To foreign princes, 'Ego et Rex meus'
    Was still inscribed; in which you brought the king
    To be your servant.

SUFFOLK    Then that, without the knowledge
    Either of king or council, when you went
    Ambassador to the emperor, you made bold
    To carry into Flanders the great seal.

SURREY    Item, you sent a large commission
    To Gregory de Cassado, to conclude,
    Without the king's will or the state's allowance,
    A league between his highness and Ferrara.

SUFFOLK    That, out of mere ambition, you have caused
    Your holy hat to be stamp'd on the king's coin.

SURREY    Then that you have sent innumerable substance--
    By what means got, I leave to your own conscience--
    To furnish Rome, and to prepare the ways
    You have for dignities; to the mere undoing
    Of all the kingdom. Many more there are;
    Which, since they are of you, and odious,
    I will not taint my mouth with.

Chamberlain    O my lord,
    Press not a falling man too far! 'tis virtue:
    His faults lie open to the laws; let them,
    Not you, correct him. My heart weeps to see him
    So little of his great self.

SURREY    I forgive him.

SUFFOLK    Lord cardinal, the king's further pleasure is,
    Because all those things you have done of late,
    By your power legatine, within this kingdom,
    Fall into the compass of a praemunire,
    That therefore such a writ be sued against you;
    To forfeit all your goods, lands, tenements,
    Chattels, and whatsoever, and to be
    Out of the king's protection. This is my charge.

NORFOLK    And so we'll leave you to your meditations
    How to live better. For your stubborn answer
    About the giving back the great seal to us,
    The king shall know it, and, no doubt, shall thank you.
    So fare you well, my little good lord cardinal.

    [Exeunt all but CARDINAL WOLSEY]

CARDINAL WOLSEY    So farewell to the little good you bear me.
    Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!
    This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth
    The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,
    And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;
    The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
    And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
    His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,
    And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,
    Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
    This many summers in a sea of glory,
    But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride
    At length broke under me and now has left me,
    Weary and old with service, to the mercy
    Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
    Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:
    I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched
    Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!
    There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
    That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,
    More pangs and fears than wars or women have:
    And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,
    Never to hope again.

    [Enter CROMWELL, and stands amazed]

        Why, how now, Cromwell!

CROMWELL    I have no power to speak, sir.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    What, amazed
    At my misfortunes? can thy spirit wonder
    A great man should decline? Nay, an you weep,
    I am fall'n indeed.

CROMWELL    How does your grace?

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Why, well;
    Never so truly happy, my good Cromwell.
    I know myself now; and I feel within me
    A peace above all earthly dignities,
    A still and quiet conscience. The king has cured me,
    I humbly thank his grace; and from these shoulders,
    These ruin'd pillars, out of pity, taken
    A load would sink a navy, too much honour:
    O, 'tis a burthen, Cromwell, 'tis a burthen
    Too heavy for a man that hopes for heaven!

CROMWELL    I am glad your grace has made that right use of it.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    I hope I have: I am able now, methinks,
    Out of a fortitude of soul I feel,
    To endure more miseries and greater far
    Than my weak-hearted enemies dare offer.
    What news abroad?

CROMWELL                      The heaviest and the worst
    Is your displeasure with the king.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    God bless him!

CROMWELL    The next is, that Sir Thomas More is chosen
    Lord chancellor in your place.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    That's somewhat sudden:
    But he's a learned man. May he continue
    Long in his highness' favour, and do justice
    For truth's sake and his conscience; that his bones,
    When he has run his course and sleeps in blessings,
    May have a tomb of orphans' tears wept on em! What more?

CROMWELL    That Cranmer is return'd with welcome,
    Install'd lord archbishop of Canterbury.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    That's news indeed.

CROMWELL    Last, that the Lady Anne,
    Whom the king hath in secrecy long married,
    This day was view'd in open as his queen,
    Going to chapel; and the voice is now
    Only about her coronation.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    There was the weight that pull'd me down. O Cromwell,
    The king has gone beyond me: all my glories
    In that one woman I have lost for ever:
    No sun shall ever usher forth mine honours,
    Or gild again the noble troops that waited
    Upon my smiles. Go, get thee from me, Cromwell;
    I am a poor fall'n man, unworthy now
    To be thy lord and master: seek the king;
    That sun, I pray, may never set! I have told him
    What and how true thou art: he will advance thee;
    Some little memory of me will stir him--
    I know his noble nature--not to let
    Thy hopeful service perish too: good Cromwell,
    Neglect him not; make use now, and provide
    For thine own future safety.

CROMWELL    O my lord,
    Must I, then, leave you? must I needs forego
    So good, so noble and so true a master?
    Bear witness, all that have not hearts of iron,
    With what a sorrow Cromwell leaves his lord.
    The king shall have my service: but my prayers
    For ever and for ever shall be yours.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    Cromwell, I did not think to shed a tear
    In all my miseries; but thou hast forced me,
    Out of thy honest truth, to play the woman.
    Let's dry our eyes: and thus far hear me, Cromwell;
    And, when I am forgotten, as I shall be,
    And sleep in dull cold marble, where no mention
    Of me more must be heard of, say, I taught thee,
    Say, Wolsey, that once trod the ways of glory,
    And sounded all the depths and shoals of honour,
    Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to rise in;
    A sure and safe one, though thy master miss'd it.
    Mark but my fall, and that that ruin'd me.
    Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
    By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
    The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
    Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;
    Corruption wins not more than honesty.
    Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
    To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
    Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
    Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st,
    O Cromwell,
    Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! Serve the king;
    And,--prithee, lead me in:
    There take an inventory of all I have,
    To the last penny; 'tis the king's: my robe,
    And my integrity to heaven, is all
    I dare now call mine own. O Cromwell, Cromwell!
    Had I but served my God with half the zeal
    I served my king, he would not in mine age
    Have left me naked to mine enemies.

CROMWELL    Good sir, have patience.

CARDINAL WOLSEY    So I have. Farewell
    The hopes of court! my hopes in heaven do dwell.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT IV



SCENE I    A street in Westminster.


    [Enter two Gentlemen, meeting one another]

First Gentleman    You're well met once again.

Second Gentleman    So are you.

First Gentleman    You come to take your stand here, and behold
    The Lady Anne pass from her coronation?

Second Gentleman    'Tis all my business. At our last encounter,
    The Duke of Buckingham came from his trial.

First Gentleman    'Tis very true: but that time offer'd sorrow;
    This, general joy.

Second Gentleman    'Tis well: the citizens,
    I am sure, have shown at full their royal minds--
    As, let 'em have their rights, they are ever forward--
    In celebration of this day with shows,
    Pageants and sights of honour.

First Gentleman    Never greater,
    Nor, I'll assure you, better taken, sir.

Second Gentleman    May I be bold to ask at what that contains,
    That paper in your hand?

First Gentleman    Yes; 'tis the list
    Of those that claim their offices this day
    By custom of the coronation.
    The Duke of Suffolk is the first, and claims
    To be high-steward; next, the Duke of Norfolk,
    He to be earl marshal: you may read the rest.

Second Gentleman    I thank you, sir: had I not known those customs,
    I should have been beholding to your paper.
    But, I beseech you, what's become of Katharine,
    The princess dowager? how goes her business?

First Gentleman    That I can tell you too. The Archbishop
    Of Canterbury, accompanied with other
    Learned and reverend fathers of his order,
    Held a late court at Dunstable, six miles off
    From Ampthill where the princess lay; to which
    She was often cited by them, but appear'd not:
    And, to be short, for not appearance and
    The king's late scruple, by the main assent
    Of all these learned men she was divorced,
    And the late marriage made of none effect
    Since which she was removed to Kimbolton,
    Where she remains now sick.

Second Gentleman    Alas, good lady!

    [Trumpets]

    The trumpets sound: stand close, the queen is coming.

    [Hautboys]

    [THE ORDER OF THE CORONATION]

    1. A lively flourish of Trumpets.

    2. Then, two Judges.

    3. Lord Chancellor, with the purse and mace
    before him.

    4. Choristers, singing.

    [Music]

    5. Mayor of London, bearing the mace. Then
    Garter, in his coat of arms, and on his
    head a gilt copper crown.

    6. Marquess Dorset, bearing a sceptre of gold,
    on his head a demi-coronal of gold. With
    him, SURREY, bearing the rod of silver with
    the dove, crowned with an earl's coronet.
    Collars of SS.

    7. SUFFOLK, in his robe of estate, his coronet
    on his head, bearing a long white wand, as
    high-steward. With him, NORFOLK, with the
    rod of marshalship, a coronet on his head.
    Collars of SS.

    8. A canopy borne by four of the Cinque-ports;
    under it, QUEEN ANNE in her robe; in her hair
    richly adorned with pearl, crowned. On each
    side her, the Bishops of London and
    Winchester.

    9. The old Duchess of Norfolk, in a coronal of
    gold, wrought with flowers, bearing QUEEN
    ANNE's train.

    10. Certain Ladies or Countesses, with plain
    circlets of gold without flowers.

    [They pass over the stage in order and state]

Second Gentleman    A royal train, believe me. These I know:
    Who's that that bears the sceptre?

First Gentleman    Marquess Dorset:
    And that the Earl of Surrey, with the rod.

Second Gentleman    A bold brave gentleman. That should be
    The Duke of Suffolk?

First Gentleman    'Tis the same: high-steward.

Second Gentleman    And that my Lord of Norfolk?

First Gentleman    Yes;

Second Gentleman    Heaven bless thee!

    [Looking on QUEEN ANNE]

    Thou hast the sweetest face I ever look'd on.
    Sir, as I have a soul, she is an angel;
    Our king has all the Indies in his arms,
    And more and richer, when he strains that lady:
    I cannot blame his conscience.

First Gentleman    They that bear
    The cloth of honour over her, are four barons
    Of the Cinque-ports.

Second Gentleman    Those men are happy; and so are all are near her.
    I take it, she that carries up the train
    Is that old noble lady, Duchess of Norfolk.

First Gentleman    It is; and all the rest are countesses.

Second Gentleman    Their coronets say so. These are stars indeed;
    And sometimes falling ones.

First Gentleman    No more of that.

    [Exit procession, and then a great flourish of trumpets]

    [Enter a third Gentleman]

First Gentleman    God save you, sir! where have you been broiling?

Third Gentleman    Among the crowd i' the Abbey; where a finger
    Could not be wedged in more: I am stifled
    With the mere rankness of their joy.

Second Gentleman    You saw
    The ceremony?

Third Gentleman                      That I did.

First Gentleman    How was it?

Third Gentleman    Well worth the seeing.

Second Gentleman    Good sir, speak it to us.

Third Gentleman    As well as I am able. The rich stream
    Of lords and ladies, having brought the queen
    To a prepared place in the choir, fell off
    A distance from her; while her grace sat down
    To rest awhile, some half an hour or so,
    In a rich chair of state, opposing freely
    The beauty of her person to the people.
    Believe me, sir, she is the goodliest woman
    That ever lay by man: which when the people
    Had the full view of, such a noise arose
    As the shrouds make at sea in a stiff tempest,
    As loud, and to as many tunes: hats, cloaks--
    Doublets, I think,--flew up; and had their faces
    Been loose, this day they had been lost. Such joy
    I never saw before. Great-bellied women,
    That had not half a week to go, like rams
    In the old time of war, would shake the press,
    And make 'em reel before 'em. No man living
    Could say 'This is my wife' there; all were woven
    So strangely in one piece.

Second Gentleman    But, what follow'd?

Third Gentleman    At length her grace rose, and with modest paces
    Came to the altar; where she kneel'd, and saint-like
    Cast her fair eyes to heaven and pray'd devoutly.
    Then rose again and bow'd her to the people:
    When by the Archbishop of Canterbury
    She had all the royal makings of a queen;
    As holy oil, Edward Confessor's crown,
    The rod, and bird of peace, and all such emblems
    Laid nobly on her: which perform'd, the choir,
    With all the choicest music of the kingdom,
    Together sung 'Te Deum.' So she parted,
    And with the same full state paced back again
    To York-place, where the feast is held.

First Gentleman    Sir,
    You must no more call it York-place, that's past;
    For, since the cardinal fell, that title's lost:
    'Tis now the king's, and call'd Whitehall.

Third Gentleman    I know it;
    But 'tis so lately alter'd, that the old name
    Is fresh about me.

Second Gentleman                      What two reverend bishops
    Were those that went on each side of the queen?

Third Gentleman    Stokesly and Gardiner; the one of Winchester,
    Newly preferr'd from the king's secretary,
    The other, London.

Second Gentleman                      He of Winchester
    Is held no great good lover of the archbishop's,
    The virtuous Cranmer.

Third Gentleman    All the land knows that:
    However, yet there is no great breach; when it comes,
    Cranmer will find a friend will not shrink from him.

Second Gentleman    Who may that be, I pray you?

Third Gentleman    Thomas Cromwell;
    A man in much esteem with the king, and truly
    A worthy friend. The king has made him master
    O' the jewel house,
    And one, already, of the privy council.

Second Gentleman    He will deserve more.

Third Gentleman    Yes, without all doubt.
    Come, gentlemen, ye shall go my way, which
    Is to the court, and there ye shall be my guests:
    Something I can command. As I walk thither,
    I'll tell ye more.

Both                      You may command us, sir.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT IV



SCENE II    Kimbolton.


    [Enter KATHARINE, Dowager, sick; led between
    GRIFFITH, her gentleman usher, and PATIENCE, her woman]

GRIFFITH    How does your grace?

KATHARINE    O Griffith, sick to death!
    My legs, like loaden branches, bow to the earth,
    Willing to leave their burthen. Reach a chair:
    So; now, methinks, I feel a little ease.
    Didst thou not tell me, Griffith, as thou led'st me,
    That the great child of honour, Cardinal Wolsey, Was dead?

GRIFFITH            Yes, madam; but I think your grace,
    Out of the pain you suffer'd, gave no ear to't.

KATHARINE    Prithee, good Griffith, tell me how he died:
    If well, he stepp'd before me, happily
    For my example.

GRIFFITH                      Well, the voice goes, madam:
    For after the stout Earl Northumberland
    Arrested him at York, and brought him forward,
    As a man sorely tainted, to his answer,
    He fell sick suddenly, and grew so ill
    He could not sit his mule.

KATHARINE    Alas, poor man!

GRIFFITH    At last, with easy roads, he came to Leicester,
    Lodged in the abbey; where the reverend abbot,
    With all his covent, honourably received him;
    To whom he gave these words, 'O, father abbot,
    An old man, broken with the storms of state,
    Is come to lay his weary bones among ye;
    Give him a little earth for charity!'
    So went to bed; where eagerly his sickness
    Pursued him still: and, three nights after this,
    About the hour of eight, which he himself
    Foretold should be his last, full of repentance,
    Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,
    He gave his honours to the world again,
    His blessed part to heaven, and slept in peace.

KATHARINE    So may he rest; his faults lie gently on him!
    Yet thus far, Griffith, give me leave to speak him,
    And yet with charity. He was a man
    Of an unbounded stomach, ever ranking
    Himself with princes; one that, by suggestion,
    Tied all the kingdom: simony was fair-play;
    His own opinion was his law: i' the presence
    He would say untruths; and be ever double
    Both in his words and meaning: he was never,
    But where he meant to ruin, pitiful:
    His promises were, as he then was, mighty;
    But his performance, as he is now, nothing:
    Of his own body he was ill, and gave
    The clergy in example.

GRIFFITH    Noble madam,
    Men's evil manners live in brass; their virtues
    We write in water. May it please your highness
    To hear me speak his good now?

KATHARINE    Yes, good Griffith;
    I were malicious else.

GRIFFITH    This cardinal,
    Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
    Was fashion'd to much honour from his cradle.
    He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one;
    Exceeding wise, fair-spoken, and persuading:
    Lofty and sour to them that loved him not;
    But to those men that sought him sweet as summer.
    And though he were unsatisfied in getting,
    Which was a sin, yet in bestowing, madam,
    He was most princely: ever witness for him
    Those twins Of learning that he raised in you,
    Ipswich and Oxford! one of which fell with him,
    Unwilling to outlive the good that did it;
    The other, though unfinish'd, yet so famous,
    So excellent in art, and still so rising,
    That Christendom shall ever speak his virtue.
    His overthrow heap'd happiness upon him;
    For then, and not till then, he felt himself,
    And found the blessedness of being little:
    And, to add greater honours to his age
    Than man could give him, he died fearing God.

KATHARINE    After my death I wish no other herald,
    No other speaker of my living actions,
    To keep mine honour from corruption,
    But such an honest chronicler as Griffith.
    Whom I most hated living, thou hast made me,
    With thy religious truth and modesty,
    Now in his ashes honour: peace be with him!
    Patience, be near me still; and set me lower:
    I have not long to trouble thee. Good Griffith,
    Cause the musicians play me that sad note
    I named my knell, whilst I sit meditating
    On that celestial harmony I go to.

    [Sad and solemn music]

GRIFFITH    She is asleep: good wench, let's sit down quiet,
    For fear we wake her: softly, gentle Patience.

    [The vision. Enter, solemnly tripping one after
    another, six personages, clad in white robes,
    wearing on their heads garlands of bays, and golden
    vizards on their faces; branches of bays or palm in
    their hands. They first congee unto her, then
    dance; and, at certain changes, the first two hold
    a spare garland over her head; at which the other
    four make reverent curtsies; then the two that held
    the garland deliver the same to the other next two,
    who observe the same order in their changes, and
    holding the garland over her head: which done,
    they deliver the same garland to the last two, who
    likewise observe the same order: at which, as it
    were by inspiration, she makes in her sleep signs
    of rejoicing, and holdeth up her hands to heaven:
    and so in their dancing vanish, carrying the
    garland with them. The music continues]

KATHARINE    Spirits of peace, where are ye? are ye all gone,
    And leave me here in wretchedness behind ye?

GRIFFITH    Madam, we are here.

KATHARINE    It is not you I call for:
    Saw ye none enter since I slept?

GRIFFITH    None, madam.

KATHARINE    No? Saw you not, even now, a blessed troop
    Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces
    Cast thousand beams upon me, like the sun?
    They promised me eternal happiness;
    And brought me garlands, Griffith, which I feel
    I am not worthy yet to wear: I shall, assuredly.

GRIFFITH    I am most joyful, madam, such good dreams
    Possess your fancy.

KATHARINE    Bid the music leave,
    They are harsh and heavy to me.

    [Music ceases]

PATIENCE    Do you note
    How much her grace is alter'd on the sudden?
    How long her face is drawn? how pale she looks,
    And of an earthy cold? Mark her eyes!

GRIFFITH    She is going, wench: pray, pray.

PATIENCE    Heaven comfort her!

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    An't like your grace,--

KATHARINE    You are a saucy fellow:
    Deserve we no more reverence?

GRIFFITH    You are to blame,
    Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness,
    To use so rude behavior; go to, kneel.

Messenger    I humbly do entreat your highness' pardon;
    My haste made me unmannerly. There is staying
    A gentleman, sent from the king, to see you.

KATHARINE    Admit him entrance, Griffith: but this fellow
    Let me ne'er see again.

    [Exeunt GRIFFITH and Messenger]

    [Re-enter GRIFFITH, with CAPUCIUS]

         If my sight fail not,
    You should be lord ambassador from the emperor,
    My royal nephew, and your name Capucius.

CAPUCIUS    Madam, the same; your servant.

KATHARINE    O, my lord,
    The times and titles now are alter'd strangely
    With me since first you knew me. But, I pray you,
    What is your pleasure with me?

CAPUCIUS    Noble lady,
    First mine own service to your grace; the next,
    The king's request that I would visit you;
    Who grieves much for your weakness, and by me
    Sends you his princely commendations,
    And heartily entreats you take good comfort.

KATHARINE    O my good lord, that comfort comes too late;
    'Tis like a pardon after execution:
    That gentle physic, given in time, had cured me;
    But now I am past an comforts here, but prayers.
    How does his highness?

CAPUCIUS    Madam, in good health.

KATHARINE    So may he ever do! and ever flourish,
    When I shall dwell with worms, and my poor name
    Banish'd the kingdom! Patience, is that letter,
    I caused you write, yet sent away?

PATIENCE    No, madam.

    [Giving it to KATHARINE]

KATHARINE    Sir, I most humbly pray you to deliver
    This to my lord the king.

CAPUCIUS    Most willing, madam.

KATHARINE    In which I have commended to his goodness
    The model of our chaste loves, his young daughter;
    The dews of heaven fall thick in blessings on her!
    Beseeching him to give her virtuous breeding--
    She is young, and of a noble modest nature,
    I hope she will deserve well,--and a little
    To love her for her mother's sake, that loved him,
    Heaven knows how dearly. My next poor petition
    Is, that his noble grace would have some pity
    Upon my wretched women, that so long
    Have follow'd both my fortunes faithfully:
    Of which there is not one, I dare avow,
    And now I should not lie, but will deserve
    For virtue and true beauty of the soul,
    For honesty and decent carriage,
    A right good husband, let him be a noble
    And, sure, those men are happy that shall have 'em.
    The last is, for my men; they are the poorest,
    But poverty could never draw 'em from me;
    That they may have their wages duly paid 'em,
    And something over to remember me by:
    If heaven had pleased to have given me longer life
    And able means, we had not parted thus.
    These are the whole contents: and, good my lord,
    By that you love the dearest in this world,
    As you wish Christian peace to souls departed,
    Stand these poor people's friend, and urge the king
    To do me this last right.

CAPUCIUS    By heaven, I will,
    Or let me lose the fashion of a man!

KATHARINE    I thank you, honest lord. Remember me
    In all humility unto his highness:
    Say his long trouble now is passing
    Out of this world; tell him, in death I bless'd him,
    For so I will. Mine eyes grow dim. Farewell,
    My lord. Griffith, farewell. Nay, Patience,
    You must not leave me yet: I must to bed;
    Call in more women. When I am dead, good wench,
    Let me be used with honour: strew me over
    With maiden flowers, that all the world may know
    I was a chaste wife to my grave: embalm me,
    Then lay me forth: although unqueen'd, yet like
    A queen, and daughter to a king, inter me.
    I can no more.

    [Exeunt, leading KATHARINE]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT V



SCENE I    London. A gallery in the palace.


    [Enter GARDINER, Bishop of Winchester, a Page with a
    torch before him, met by LOVELL]

GARDINER    It's one o'clock, boy, is't not?

Boy    It hath struck.

GARDINER    These should be hours for necessities,
    Not for delights; times to repair our nature
    With comforting repose, and not for us
    To waste these times. Good hour of night, Sir Thomas!
    Whither so late?

LOVELL                      Came you from the king, my lord

GARDINER    I did, Sir Thomas: and left him at primero
    With the Duke of Suffolk.

LOVELL    I must to him too,
    Before he go to bed. I'll take my leave.

GARDINER    Not yet, Sir Thomas Lovell. What's the matter?
    It seems you are in haste: an if there be
    No great offence belongs to't, give your friend
    Some touch of your late business: affairs, that walk,
    As they say spirits do, at midnight, have
    In them a wilder nature than the business
    That seeks dispatch by day.

LOVELL    My lord, I love you;
    And durst commend a secret to your ear
    Much weightier than this work. The queen's in labour,
    They say, in great extremity; and fear'd
    She'll with the labour end.

GARDINER    The fruit she goes with
    I pray for heartily, that it may find
    Good time, and live: but for the stock, Sir Thomas,
    I wish it grubb'd up now.

LOVELL    Methinks I could
    Cry the amen; and yet my conscience says
    She's a good creature, and, sweet lady, does
    Deserve our better wishes.

GARDINER    But, sir, sir,
    Hear me, Sir Thomas: you're a gentleman
    Of mine own way; I know you wise, religious;
    And, let me tell you, it will ne'er be well,
    'Twill not, Sir Thomas Lovell, take't of me,
    Till Cranmer, Cromwell, her two hands, and she,
    Sleep in their graves.

LOVELL    Now, sir, you speak of two
    The most remark'd i' the kingdom. As for Cromwell,
    Beside that of the jewel house, is made master
    O' the rolls, and the king's secretary; further, sir,
    Stands in the gap and trade of moe preferments,
    With which the time will load him. The archbishop
    Is the king's hand and tongue; and who dare speak
    One syllable against him?

GARDINER    Yes, yes, Sir Thomas,
    There are that dare; and I myself have ventured
    To speak my mind of him: and indeed this day,
    Sir, I may tell it you, I think I have
    Incensed the lords o' the council, that he is,
    For so I know he is, they know he is,
    A most arch heretic, a pestilence
    That does infect the land: with which they moved
    Have broken with the king; who hath so far
    Given ear to our complaint, of his great grace
    And princely care foreseeing those fell mischiefs
    Our reasons laid before him, hath commanded
    To-morrow morning to the council-board
    He be convented. He's a rank weed, Sir Thomas,
    And we must root him out. From your affairs
    I hinder you too long: good night, Sir Thomas.

LOVELL    Many good nights, my lord: I rest your servant.

    [Exeunt GARDINER and Page]

    [Enter KING HENRY VIII and SUFFOLK]

KING HENRY VIII    Charles, I will play no more tonight;
    My mind's not on't; you are too hard for me.

SUFFOLK    Sir, I did never win of you before.

KING HENRY VIII    But little, Charles;
    Nor shall not, when my fancy's on my play.
    Now, Lovell, from the queen what is the news?

LOVELL    I could not personally deliver to her
    What you commanded me, but by her woman
    I sent your message; who return'd her thanks
    In the great'st humbleness, and desired your highness
    Most heartily to pray for her.

KING HENRY VIII    What say'st thou, ha?
    To pray for her? what, is she crying out?

LOVELL    So said her woman; and that her sufferance made
    Almost each pang a death.

KING HENRY VIII    Alas, good lady!

SUFFOLK    God safely quit her of her burthen, and
    With gentle travail, to the gladding of
    Your highness with an heir!

KING HENRY VIII    'Tis midnight, Charles;
    Prithee, to bed; and in thy prayers remember
    The estate of my poor queen. Leave me alone;
    For I must think of that which company
    Would not be friendly to.

SUFFOLK    I wish your highness
    A quiet night; and my good mistress will
    Remember in my prayers.

KING HENRY VIII    Charles, good night.

    [Exit SUFFOLK]

    [Enter DENNY]

    Well, sir, what follows?

DENNY    Sir, I have brought my lord the archbishop,
    As you commanded me.

KING HENRY VIII    Ha! Canterbury?

DENNY    Ay, my good lord.

KING HENRY VIII    'Tis true: where is he, Denny?

DENNY    He attends your highness' pleasure.

    [Exit DENNY]

LOVELL    [Aside]  This is about that which the bishop spake:
    I am happily come hither.

    [Re-enter DENNY, with CRANMER]

KING HENRY VIII    Avoid the gallery.

    [LOVELL seems to stay]

    Ha! I have said. Be gone. What!

    [Exeunt LOVELL and DENNY]

CRANMER    [Aside]
    I am fearful: wherefore frowns he thus?
    'Tis his aspect of terror. All's not well.

KING HENRY VIII    How now, my lord! you desire to know
    Wherefore I sent for you.

CRANMER    [Kneeling]              It is my duty
    To attend your highness' pleasure.

KING HENRY VIII    Pray you, arise,
    My good and gracious Lord of Canterbury.
    Come, you and I must walk a turn together;
    I have news to tell you: come, come, give me your hand.
    Ah, my good lord, I grieve at what I speak,
    And am right sorry to repeat what follows
    I have, and most unwillingly, of late
    Heard many grievous, I do say, my lord,
    Grievous complaints of you; which, being consider'd,
    Have moved us and our council, that you shall
    This morning come before us; where, I know,
    You cannot with such freedom purge yourself,
    But that, till further trial in those charges
    Which will require your answer, you must take
    Your patience to you, and be well contented
    To make your house our Tower: you a brother of us,
    It fits we thus proceed, or else no witness
    Would come against you.

CRANMER    [Kneeling]

          I humbly thank your highness;
    And am right glad to catch this good occasion
    Most throughly to be winnow'd, where my chaff
    And corn shall fly asunder: for, I know,
    There's none stands under more calumnious tongues
    Than I myself, poor man.

KING HENRY VIII    Stand up, good Canterbury:
    Thy truth and thy integrity is rooted
    In us, thy friend: give me thy hand, stand up:
    Prithee, let's walk. Now, by my holidame.
    What manner of man are you? My lord, I look'd
    You would have given me your petition, that
    I should have ta'en some pains to bring together
    Yourself and your accusers; and to have heard you,
    Without indurance, further.

CRANMER    Most dread liege,
    The good I stand on is my truth and honesty:
    If they shall fail, I, with mine enemies,
    Will triumph o'er my person; which I weigh not,
    Being of those virtues vacant. I fear nothing
    What can be said against me.

KING HENRY VIII    Know you not
    How your state stands i' the world, with the whole world?
    Your enemies are many, and not small; their practises
    Must bear the same proportion; and not ever
    The justice and the truth o' the question carries
    The due o' the verdict with it: at what ease
    Might corrupt minds procure knaves as corrupt
    To swear against you? such things have been done.
    You are potently opposed; and with a malice
    Of as great size. Ween you of better luck,
    I mean, in perjured witness, than your master,
    Whose minister you are, whiles here he lived
    Upon this naughty earth? Go to, go to;
    You take a precipice for no leap of danger,
    And woo your own destruction.

CRANMER    God and your majesty
    Protect mine innocence, or I fall into
    The trap is laid for me!

KING HENRY VIII    Be of good cheer;
    They shall no more prevail than we give way to.
    Keep comfort to you; and this morning see
    You do appear before them: if they shall chance,
    In charging you with matters, to commit you,
    The best persuasions to the contrary
    Fail not to use, and with what vehemency
    The occasion shall instruct you: if entreaties
    Will render you no remedy, this ring
    Deliver them, and your appeal to us
    There make before them. Look, the good man weeps!
    He's honest, on mine honour. God's blest mother!
    I swear he is true--hearted; and a soul
    None better in my kingdom. Get you gone,
    And do as I have bid you.

    [Exit CRANMER]

            He has strangled
    His language in his tears.

    [Enter Old Lady, LOVELL following]

Gentleman    [Within]                 Come back: what mean you?

Old Lady    I'll not come back; the tidings that I bring
    Will make my boldness manners. Now, good angels
    Fly o'er thy royal head, and shade thy person
    Under their blessed wings!

KING HENRY VIII    Now, by thy looks
    I guess thy message. Is the queen deliver'd?
    Say, ay; and of a boy.

Old Lady    Ay, ay, my liege;
    And of a lovely boy: the God of heaven
    Both now and ever bless her! 'tis a girl,
    Promises boys hereafter. Sir, your queen
    Desires your visitation, and to be
    Acquainted with this stranger 'tis as like you
    As cherry is to cherry.

KING HENRY VIII    Lovell!

LOVELL    Sir?

KING HENRY VIII    Give her an hundred marks. I'll to the queen.

    [Exit]

Old Lady    An hundred marks! By this light, I'll ha' more.
    An ordinary groom is for such payment.
    I will have more, or scold it out of him.
    Said I for this, the girl was like to him?
    I will have more, or else unsay't; and now,
    While it is hot, I'll put it to the issue.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT V



SCENE II    Before the council-chamber. Pursuivants, Pages, &c.
    attending.


    [Enter CRANMER]

CRANMER    I hope I am not too late; and yet the gentleman,
    That was sent to me from the council, pray'd me
    To make great haste. All fast? what means this? Ho!
    Who waits there? Sure, you know me?

    [Enter Keeper]

Keeper    Yes, my lord;
    But yet I cannot help you.

CRANMER    Why?

    [Enter DOCTOR BUTTS]

Keeper    Your grace must wait till you be call'd for.

CRANMER    So.

DOCTOR BUTTS    [Aside]  This is a piece of malice. I am glad
    I came this way so happily: the king
    Shall understand it presently.

    [Exit]

CRANMER    [Aside]    'Tis Butts,
    The king's physician: as he pass'd along,
    How earnestly he cast his eyes upon me!
    Pray heaven, he sound not my disgrace! For certain,
    This is of purpose laid by some that hate me--
    God turn their hearts! I never sought their malice--
    To quench mine honour: they would shame to make me
    Wait else at door, a fellow-counsellor,
    'Mong boys, grooms, and lackeys. But their pleasures
    Must be fulfill'd, and I attend with patience.

    [Enter the KING HENRY VIII and DOCTOR BUTTS at a window above]

DOCTOR BUTTS    I'll show your grace the strangest sight--

KING HENRY VIII    What's that, Butts?

DOCTOR BUTTS    I think your highness saw this many a day.

KING HENRY VIII    Body o' me, where is it?

DOCTOR BUTTS    There, my lord:
    The high promotion of his grace of Canterbury;
    Who holds his state at door, 'mongst pursuivants,
    Pages, and footboys.

KING HENRY VIII    Ha! 'tis he, indeed:
    Is this the honour they do one another?
    'Tis well there's one above 'em yet. I had thought
    They had parted so much honesty among 'em
    At least, good manners, as not thus to suffer
    A man of his place, and so near our favour,
    To dance attendance on their lordships' pleasures,
    And at the door too, like a post with packets.
    By holy Mary, Butts, there's knavery:
    Let 'em alone, and draw the curtain close:
    We shall hear more anon.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT V



SCENE III    The Council-Chamber.


    [Enter Chancellor; places himself at the upper end
    of the table on the left hand; a seat being left
    void above him, as for CRANMER's seat. SUFFOLK,
    NORFOLK, SURREY, Chamberlain, GARDINER, seat
    themselves in order on each side. CROMWELL at
    lower end, as secretary. Keeper at the door]

Chancellor    Speak to the business, master-secretary:
    Why are we met in council?

CROMWELL    Please your honours,
    The chief cause concerns his grace of Canterbury.

GARDINER    Has he had knowledge of it?

CROMWELL    Yes.

NORFOLK    Who waits there?

Keeper    Without, my noble lords?

GARDINER    Yes.

Keeper    My lord archbishop;
    And has done half an hour, to know your pleasures.

Chancellor    Let him come in.

Keeper                      Your grace may enter now.

    [CRANMER enters and approaches the council-table]

Chancellor    My good lord archbishop, I'm very sorry
    To sit here at this present, and behold
    That chair stand empty: but we all are men,
    In our own natures frail, and capable
    Of our flesh; few are angels: out of which frailty
    And want of wisdom, you, that best should teach us,
    Have misdemean'd yourself, and not a little,
    Toward the king first, then his laws, in filling
    The whole realm, by your teaching and your chaplains,
    For so we are inform'd, with new opinions,
    Divers and dangerous; which are heresies,
    And, not reform'd, may prove pernicious.

GARDINER    Which reformation must be sudden too,
    My noble lords; for those that tame wild horses
    Pace 'em not in their hands to make 'em gentle,
    But stop their mouths with stubborn bits, and spur 'em,
    Till they obey the manage. If we suffer,
    Out of our easiness and childish pity
    To one man's honour, this contagious sickness,
    Farewell all physic: and what follows then?
    Commotions, uproars, with a general taint
    Of the whole state: as, of late days, our neighbours,
    The upper Germany, can dearly witness,
    Yet freshly pitied in our memories.

CRANMER    My good lords, hitherto, in all the progress
    Both of my life and office, I have labour'd,
    And with no little study, that my teaching
    And the strong course of my authority
    Might go one way, and safely; and the end
    Was ever, to do well: nor is there living,
    I speak it with a single heart, my lords,
    A man that more detests, more stirs against,
    Both in his private conscience and his place,
    Defacers of a public peace, than I do.
    Pray heaven, the king may never find a heart
    With less allegiance in it! Men that make
    Envy and crooked malice nourishment
    Dare bite the best. I do beseech your lordships,
    That, in this case of justice, my accusers,
    Be what they will, may stand forth face to face,
    And freely urge against me.

SUFFOLK    Nay, my lord,
    That cannot be: you are a counsellor,
    And, by that virtue, no man dare accuse you.

GARDINER    My lord, because we have business of more moment,
    We will be short with you. 'Tis his highness' pleasure,
    And our consent, for better trial of you,
    From hence you be committed to the Tower;
    Where, being but a private man again,
    You shall know many dare accuse you boldly,
    More than, I fear, you are provided for.

CRANMER    Ah, my good Lord of Winchester, I thank you;
    You are always my good friend; if your will pass,
    I shall both find your lordship judge and juror,
    You are so merciful: I see your end;
    'Tis my undoing: love and meekness, lord,
    Become a churchman better than ambition:
    Win straying souls with modesty again,
    Cast none away. That I shall clear myself,
    Lay all the weight ye can upon my patience,
    I make as little doubt, as you do conscience
    In doing daily wrongs. I could say more,
    But reverence to your calling makes me modest.

GARDINER    My lord, my lord, you are a sectary,
    That's the plain truth: your painted gloss discovers,
    To men that understand you, words and weakness.

CROMWELL    My Lord of Winchester, you are a little,
    By your good favour, too sharp; men so noble,
    However faulty, yet should find respect
    For what they have been: 'tis a cruelty
    To load a falling man.

GARDINER    Good master secretary,
    I cry your honour mercy; you may, worst
    Of all this table, say so.

CROMWELL    Why, my lord?

GARDINER    Do not I know you for a favourer
    Of this new sect? ye are not sound.

CROMWELL    Not sound?

GARDINER    Not sound, I say.

CROMWELL                      Would you were half so honest!
    Men's prayers then would seek you, not their fears.

GARDINER    I shall remember this bold language.

CROMWELL    Do.
    Remember your bold life too.

Chancellor    This is too much;
    Forbear, for shame, my lords.

GARDINER    I have done.

CROMWELL    And I.

Chancellor    Then thus for you, my lord: it stands agreed,
    I take it, by all voices, that forthwith
    You be convey'd to the Tower a prisoner;
    There to remain till the king's further pleasure
    Be known unto us: are you all agreed, lords?

All    We are.

CRANMER          Is there no other way of mercy,
    But I must needs to the Tower, my lords?

GARDINER    What other
    Would you expect? you are strangely troublesome.
    Let some o' the guard be ready there.

    [Enter Guard]

CRANMER    For me?
    Must I go like a traitor thither?

GARDINER    Receive him,
    And see him safe i' the Tower.

CRANMER    Stay, good my lords,
    I have a little yet to say. Look there, my lords;
    By virtue of that ring, I take my cause
    Out of the gripes of cruel men, and give it
    To a most noble judge, the king my master.

Chamberlain    This is the king's ring.

SURREY    'Tis no counterfeit.

SUFFOLK    'Tis the right ring, by heaven: I told ye all,
    When ye first put this dangerous stone a-rolling,
    'Twould fall upon ourselves.

NORFOLK    Do you think, my lords,
    The king will suffer but the little finger
    Of this man to be vex'd?

Chancellor    'Tis now too certain:
    How much more is his life in value with him?
    Would I were fairly out on't!

CROMWELL    My mind gave me,
    In seeking tales and informations
    Against this man, whose honesty the devil
    And his disciples only envy at,
    Ye blew the fire that burns ye: now have at ye!

    [Enter KING, frowning on them; takes his seat]

GARDINER    Dread sovereign, how much are we bound to heaven
    In daily thanks, that gave us such a prince;
    Not only good and wise, but most religious:
    One that, in all obedience, makes the church
    The chief aim of his honour; and, to strengthen
    That holy duty, out of dear respect,
    His royal self in judgment comes to hear
    The cause betwixt her and this great offender.

KING HENRY VIII    You were ever good at sudden commendations,
    Bishop of Winchester. But know, I come not
    To hear such flattery now, and in my presence;
    They are too thin and bare to hide offences.
    To me you cannot reach, you play the spaniel,
    And think with wagging of your tongue to win me;
    But, whatsoe'er thou takest me for, I'm sure
    Thou hast a cruel nature and a bloody.

    [To CRANMER]

    Good man, sit down. Now let me see the proudest
    He, that dares most, but wag his finger at thee:
    By all that's holy, he had better starve
    Than but once think this place becomes thee not.

SURREY    May it please your grace,--

KING HENRY VIII    No, sir, it does not please me.
    I had thought I had had men of some understanding
    And wisdom of my council; but I find none.
    Was it discretion, lords, to let this man,
    This good man,--few of you deserve that title,--
    This honest man, wait like a lousy footboy
    At chamber--door? and one as great as you are?
    Why, what a shame was this! Did my commission
    Bid ye so far forget yourselves? I gave ye
    Power as he was a counsellor to try him,
    Not as a groom: there's some of ye, I see,
    More out of malice than integrity,
    Would try him to the utmost, had ye mean;
    Which ye shall never have while I live.

Chancellor    Thus far,
    My most dread sovereign, may it like your grace
    To let my tongue excuse all. What was purposed
    Concerning his imprisonment, was rather,
    If there be faith in men, meant for his trial,
    And fair purgation to the world, than malice,
    I'm sure, in me.

KING HENRY VIII    Well, well, my lords, respect him;
    Take him, and use him well, he's worthy of it.
    I will say thus much for him, if a prince
    May be beholding to a subject, I
    Am, for his love and service, so to him.
    Make me no more ado, but all embrace him:
    Be friends, for shame, my lords! My Lord of
    Canterbury,
    I have a suit which you must not deny me;
    That is, a fair young maid that yet wants baptism,
    You must be godfather, and answer for her.

CRANMER    The greatest monarch now alive may glory
    In such an honour: how may I deserve it
    That am a poor and humble subject to you?

KING HENRY VIII    Come, come, my lord, you'ld spare your spoons: you
    shall have two noble partners with you; the old
    Duchess of Norfolk, and Lady Marquess Dorset: will
    these please you?
    Once more, my Lord of Winchester, I charge you,
    Embrace and love this man.

GARDINER    With a true heart
    And brother-love I do it.

CRANMER    And let heaven
    Witness, how dear I hold this confirmation.

KING HENRY VIII    Good man, those joyful tears show thy true heart:
    The common voice, I see, is verified
    Of thee, which says thus, 'Do my Lord of Canterbury
    A shrewd turn, and he is your friend for ever.'
    Come, lords, we trifle time away; I long
    To have this young one made a Christian.
    As I have made ye one, lords, one remain;
    So I grow stronger, you more honour gain.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT V



SCENE IV    The palace yard.


    [Noise and tumult within. Enter Porter and his Man]

Porter    You'll leave your noise anon, ye rascals: do you
    take the court for Paris-garden? ye rude slaves,
    leave your gaping.

    [Within]

    Good master porter, I belong to the larder.

Porter    Belong to the gallows, and be hanged, ye rogue! is
    this a place to roar in? Fetch me a dozen crab-tree
    staves, and strong ones: these are but switches to
    'em. I'll scratch your heads: you must be seeing
    christenings? do you look for ale and cakes here,
    you rude rascals?

Man    Pray, sir, be patient: 'tis as much impossible--
    Unless we sweep 'em from the door with cannons--
    To scatter 'em, as 'tis to make 'em sleep
    On May-day morning; which will never be:
    We may as well push against Powle's, as stir em.

Porter    How got they in, and be hang'd?

Man    Alas, I know not; how gets the tide in?
    As much as one sound cudgel of four foot--
    You see the poor remainder--could distribute,
    I made no spare, sir.

Porter    You did nothing, sir.

Man    I am not Samson, nor Sir Guy, nor Colbrand,
    To mow 'em down before me: but if I spared any
    That had a head to hit, either young or old,
    He or she, cuckold or cuckold-maker,
    Let me ne'er hope to see a chine again
    And that I would not for a cow, God save her!

    [Within]

    Do you hear, master porter?

Porter    I shall be with you presently, good master puppy.
    Keep the door close, sirrah.

Man    What would you have me do?

Porter    What should you do, but knock 'em down by the
    dozens? Is this Moorfields to muster in? or have
    we some strange Indian with the great tool come to
    court, the women so besiege us? Bless me, what a
    fry of fornication is at door! On my Christian
    conscience, this one christening will beget a
    thousand; here will be father, godfather, and all together.

Man    The spoons will be the bigger, sir. There is a
    fellow somewhat near the door, he should be a
    brazier by his face, for, o' my conscience, twenty
    of the dog-days now reign in's nose; all that stand
    about him are under the line, they need no other
    penance: that fire-drake did I hit three times on
    the head, and three times was his nose discharged
    against me; he stands there, like a mortar-piece, to
    blow us. There was a haberdasher's wife of small
    wit near him, that railed upon me till her pinked
    porringer fell off her head, for kindling such a
    combustion in the state. I missed the meteor once,
    and hit that woman; who cried out 'Clubs!' when I
    might see from far some forty truncheoners draw to
    her succor, which were the hope o' the Strand, where
    she was quartered. They fell on; I made good my
    place: at length they came to the broom-staff to
    me; I defied 'em still: when suddenly a file of
    boys behind 'em, loose shot, delivered such a shower
    of pebbles, that I was fain to draw mine honour in,
    and let 'em win the work: the devil was amongst
    'em, I think, surely.

Porter    These are the youths that thunder at a playhouse,
    and fight for bitten apples; that no audience, but
    the tribulation of Tower-hill, or the limbs of
    Limehouse, their dear brothers, are able to endure.
    I have some of 'em in Limbo Patrum, and there they
    are like to dance these three days; besides the
    running banquet of two beadles that is to come.

    [Enter Chamberlain]

Chamberlain    Mercy o' me, what a multitude are here!
    They grow still too; from all parts they are coming,
    As if we kept a fair here! Where are these porters,
    These lazy knaves? Ye have made a fine hand, fellows:
    There's a trim rabble let in: are all these
    Your faithful friends o' the suburbs? We shall have
    Great store of room, no doubt, left for the ladies,
    When they pass back from the christening.

Porter    An't please
    your honour,
    We are but men; and what so many may do,
    Not being torn a-pieces, we have done:
    An army cannot rule 'em.

Chamberlain    As I live,
    If the king blame me for't, I'll lay ye all
    By the heels, and suddenly; and on your heads
    Clap round fines for neglect: ye are lazy knaves;
    And here ye lie baiting of bombards, when
    Ye should do service. Hark! the trumpets sound;
    They're come already from the christening:
    Go, break among the press, and find a way out
    To let the troop pass fairly; or I'll find
    A Marshalsea shall hold ye play these two months.

Porter    Make way there for the princess.

Man    You great fellow,
    Stand close up, or I'll make your head ache.

Porter    You i' the camlet, get up o' the rail;
    I'll peck you o'er the pales else.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII


ACT V



SCENE V    The palace.


    [Enter trumpets, sounding; then two Aldermen, Lord
    Mayor, Garter, CRANMER, NORFOLK with his marshal's
    staff, SUFFOLK, two Noblemen bearing great
    standing-bowls for the christening-gifts; then
    four Noblemen bearing a canopy, under which the
    Duchess of Norfolk, godmother, bearing the child
    richly habited in a mantle, &c., train borne by a
    Lady; then follows the Marchioness Dorset, the
    other godmother, and Ladies. The troop pass once
    about the stage, and Garter speaks]

Garter    Heaven, from thy endless goodness, send prosperous
    life, long, and ever happy, to the high and mighty
    princess of England, Elizabeth!

    [Flourish. Enter KING HENRY VIII and Guard]

CRANMER    [Kneeling] And to your royal grace, and the good queen,
    My noble partners, and myself, thus pray:
    All comfort, joy, in this most gracious lady,
    Heaven ever laid up to make parents happy,
    May hourly fall upon ye!

KING HENRY VIII    Thank you, good lord archbishop:
    What is her name?

CRANMER                      Elizabeth.

KING HENRY VIII    Stand up, lord.

    [KING HENRY VIII kisses the child]

    With this kiss take my blessing: God protect thee!
    Into whose hand I give thy life.

CRANMER    Amen.

KING HENRY VIII    My noble gossips, ye have been too prodigal:
    I thank ye heartily; so shall this lady,
    When she has so much English.

CRANMER    Let me speak, sir,
    For heaven now bids me; and the words I utter
    Let none think flattery, for they'll find 'em truth.
    This royal infant--heaven still move about her!--
    Though in her cradle, yet now promises
    Upon this land a thousand thousand blessings,
    Which time shall bring to ripeness: she shall be--
    But few now living can behold that goodness--
    A pattern to all princes living with her,
    And all that shall succeed: Saba was never
    More covetous of wisdom and fair virtue
    Than this pure soul shall be: all princely graces,
    That mould up such a mighty piece as this is,
    With all the virtues that attend the good,
    Shall still be doubled on her: truth shall nurse her,
    Holy and heavenly thoughts still counsel her:
    She shall be loved and fear'd: her own shall bless her;
    Her foes shake like a field of beaten corn,
    And hang their heads with sorrow: good grows with her:
    In her days every man shall eat in safety,
    Under his own vine, what he plants; and sing
    The merry songs of peace to all his neighbours:
    God shall be truly known; and those about her
    From her shall read the perfect ways of honour,
    And by those claim their greatness, not by blood.
    Nor shall this peace sleep with her: but as when
    The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,
    Her ashes new create another heir,
    As great in admiration as herself;
    So shall she leave her blessedness to one,
    When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,
    Who from the sacred ashes of her honour
    Shall star-like rise, as great in fame as she was,
    And so stand fix'd: peace, plenty, love, truth, terror,
    That were the servants to this chosen infant,
    Shall then be his, and like a vine grow to him:
    Wherever the bright sun of heaven shall shine,
    His honour and the greatness of his name
    Shall be, and make new nations: he shall flourish,
    And, like a mountain cedar, reach his branches
    To all the plains about him: our children's children
    Shall see this, and bless heaven.

KING HENRY VIII    Thou speakest wonders.

CRANMER    She shall be, to the happiness of England,
    An aged princess; many days shall see her,
    And yet no day without a deed to crown it.
    Would I had known no more! but she must die,
    She must, the saints must have her; yet a virgin,
    A most unspotted lily shall she pass
    To the ground, and all the world shall mourn her.

KING HENRY VIII    O lord archbishop,
    Thou hast made me now a man! never, before
    This happy child, did I get any thing:
    This oracle of comfort has so pleased me,
    That when I am in heaven I shall desire
    To see what this child does, and praise my Maker.
    I thank ye all. To you, my good lord mayor,
    And your good brethren, I am much beholding;
    I have received much honour by your presence,
    And ye shall find me thankful. Lead the way, lords:
    Ye must all see the queen, and she must thank ye,
    She will be sick else. This day, no man think
    Has business at his house; for all shall stay:
    This little one shall make it holiday.

    [Exeunt]




    KING HENRY VIII

    EPILOGUE


    'Tis ten to one this play can never please
    All that are here: some come to take their ease,
    And sleep an act or two; but those, we fear,
    We have frighted with our trumpets; so, 'tis clear,
    They'll say 'tis naught: others, to hear the city
    Abused extremely, and to cry 'That's witty!'
    Which we have not done neither: that, I fear,
    All the expected good we're like to hear
    For this play at this time, is only in
    The merciful construction of good women;
    For such a one we show'd 'em: if they smile,
    And say 'twill do, I know, within a while
    All the best men are ours; for 'tis ill hap,
    If they hold when their ladies bid 'em clap.





The Complete Shakespeare: COMEDIES
----------------------------------




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


DUKE OF MILAN    Father to Silvia. (DUKE:)


VALENTINE    |
    |  the two Gentlemen.
PROTEUS    |


ANTONIO    Father to Proteus.

THURIO    a foolish rival to Valentine.

EGLAMOUR    Agent for Silvia in her escape.

HOST    where Julia lodges. (Host:)

OUTLAWS    with Valentine.
    (First Outlaw:)
    (Second Outlaw:)
    (Third Outlaw:)

SPEED    a clownish servant to Valentine.

LAUNCE    the like to Proteus.

PANTHINO    Servant to Antonio.

JULIA    beloved of Proteus.

SILVIA    beloved of Valentine.

LUCETTA    waiting-woman to Julia.

    Servants, Musicians.


SCENE    Verona; Milan; the frontiers of Mantua.




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT I



SCENE I    Verona. An open place.


    [Enter VALENTINE and PROTEUS]

VALENTINE    Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus:
    Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
    Were't not affection chains thy tender days
    To the sweet glances of thy honour'd love,
    I rather would entreat thy company
    To see the wonders of the world abroad,
    Than, living dully sluggardized at home,
    Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
    But since thou lovest, 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 note-worthy 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 beadsman, Valentine.

VALENTINE    And on a love-book pray for my success?

PROTEUS    Upon some book I love I'll pray for thee.

VALENTINE    That's on some shallow story of deep love:
    How young Leander cross'd the Hellespont.

PROTEUS    That's a deep story of a deeper love:
    For he was more than over shoes in love.

VALENTINE    'Tis true; for you are over boots in love,
    And yet you never swum the Hellespont.

PROTEUS    Over the boots? nay, give me not the boots.

VALENTINE    No, I will not, for it boots thee not.

PROTEUS    What?

VALENTINE    To be in love, where scorn is bought with groans;
    Coy looks with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth
    With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights:
    If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain;
    If lost, why then a grievous labour won;
    However, but a folly bought with wit,
    Or else a wit by folly vanquished.

PROTEUS    So, by your circumstance, you call me fool.

VALENTINE    So, by your circumstance, I fear you'll prove.

PROTEUS    'Tis love you cavil at: I am not Love.

VALENTINE    Love is your master, for he masters you:
    And he that is so yoked by a fool,
    Methinks, should not be chronicled for wise.

PROTEUS    Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud
    The eating canker dwells, so eating love
    Inhabits in the finest wits of all.

VALENTINE    And writers say, as the most forward bud
    Is eaten by the canker ere it blow,
    Even so by love the young and tender wit
    Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud,
    Losing his verdure even in the prime
    And all the fair effects of future hopes.
    But wherefore waste I time to counsel thee,
    That art a votary to fond desire?
    Once more adieu! my father at the road
    Expects my coming, there to see me shipp'd.

PROTEUS    And thither will I bring thee, Valentine.

VALENTINE    Sweet Proteus, no; now let us take our leave.
    To Milan let me hear from thee by letters
    Of thy success in love, and what news else
    Betideth here in absence of thy friend;
    And 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 shipp'd already,
    And I have play'd the sheep in losing him.

PROTEUS    Indeed, a sheep doth very often stray,
    An if the shepherd be 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? gavest 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    [First nodding]  Ay.

PROTEUS    Nod--Ay--why, that's noddy.

SPEED    You mistook, sir; I say, she did nod: and you ask
    me if she did nod; and I say, 'Ay.'

PROTEUS    And that set together is noddy.

SPEED    Now you have taken the pains to set it together,
    take it for your pains.

PROTEUS    No, no; you shall have it for bearing the letter.

SPEED    Well, I perceive I must be fain to bear with you.

PROTEUS    Why sir, how do you bear with me?

SPEED    Marry, sir, the letter, very orderly; having nothing
    but the word 'noddy' for my pains.

PROTEUS    Beshrew me, but you have a quick wit.

SPEED    And yet it cannot overtake your slow purse.

PROTEUS    Come come, open the matter in brief: what said she?

SPEED    Open your purse, that the money and the matter may
    be both at once delivered.

PROTEUS    Well, sir, here is for your pains. What said she?

SPEED    Truly, sir, I think you'll hardly win her.

PROTEUS    Why, couldst thou perceive so much from her?

SPEED    Sir, I could perceive nothing at all from her; no,
    not so much as a ducat for delivering your letter:
    and being so hard to me that brought your mind, I
    fear she'll prove as hard to you in telling your
    mind. Give her no token but stones; for she's as
    hard as steel.

PROTEUS    What said she? nothing?

SPEED    No, not so much as 'Take this for thy pains.' To
    testify your bounty, I thank you, you have testerned
    me; in requital whereof, henceforth carry your
    letters yourself: and so, sir, I'll commend you to my master.

PROTEUS    Go, go, be gone, to save your ship from wreck,
    Which cannot perish having thee aboard,
    Being 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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT I



SCENE II    The same. Garden of JULIA's house.


    [Enter JULlA 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.

JULIA    'To Julia.' Say, from whom?

LUCETTA    That the contents will show.

JULIA    Say, say, who gave it thee?

LUCETTA    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.
    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 a 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!

    [Re-enter LUCETTA]

LUCETTA                      What would your ladyship?

JULIA    Is't near dinner-time?

LUCETTA    I would it were,
    That you might kill your stomach on your meat
    And not upon your maid.

JULIA    What is't that you took up so gingerly?

LUCETTA    Nothing.

JULIA    Why didst thou stoop, then?

LUCETTA    To take a paper up that I let fall.

JULIA    And is that paper nothing?

LUCETTA    Nothing concerning me.

JULIA    Then let it lie for those that it concerns.

LUCETTA    Madam, it will not lie where it concerns
    Unless it have a false interpeter.

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. 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 drown'd with your unruly bass.

LUCETTA    Indeed, I bid the base for Proteus.

JULIA    This babble shall not henceforth trouble me.
    Here is a coil with protestation!

    [Tears the letter]

    Go get you gone, and let the papers lie:
    You would be fingering them, to anger me.

LUCETTA    She makes it strange; but she would be best pleased
    To be so anger'd with another letter.

    [Exit]

JULIA     Nay, would I were so anger'd 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 thoroughly heal'd;
    And thus I search it with a sovereign kiss.
    But twice or thrice was 'Proteus' written down.
    Be calm, good wind, blow not a word away
    Till I have found each letter in the letter,
    Except mine own name: that some whirlwind bear
    Unto a ragged fearful-hanging rock
    And throw it thence into the raging sea!
    Lo, here in one line is his name twice writ,
    'Poor forlorn Proteus, passionate Proteus,
    To the sweet Julia:' that I'll tear away.
    And yet I will not, sith so prettily
    He couples it to his complaining names.
    Thus will I fold them one on another:
    Now kiss, embrace, contend, do what you will.

    [Re-enter LUCETTA]

LUCETTA    Madam,
    Dinner is ready, and your father stays.

JULIA    Well, let us go.

LUCETTA    What, shall these papers lie like tell-tales here?

JULIA    If you respect them, best to take them up.

LUCETTA    Nay, I was taken up for laying them down:
    Yet here they shall not lie, for catching cold.

JULIA    I see you have a month's mind to them.

LUCETTA    Ay, madam, you may say what sights you see;
    I see things too, although you judge I wink.

JULIA    Come, come; will't please you go?

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT I



SCENE III    The same. ANTONIO's house.


    [Enter ANTONIO and PANTHINO]

ANTONIO    Tell me, Panthino, what sad talk was that
    Wherewith my brother held you in the cloister?

PANTHINO    'Twas of his nephew Proteus, your son.

ANTONIO    Why, what of him?

PANTHINO                      He wonder'd that your lordship
    Would suffer him to spend his youth at home,
    While other men, of slender reputation,
    Put forth their sons to seek preferment out:
    Some to the wars, to try their fortune there;
    Some to discover islands far away;
    Some to the studious universities.
    For any or for all these exercises,
    He said that Proteus your son was meet,
    And did request me to importune you
    To let him spend his time no more at home,
    Which would be great impeachment to his age,
    In having known no travel in his youth.

ANTONIO    Nor need'st thou much importune me to that
    Whereon this month I have been hammering.
    I have consider'd well his loss of time
    And how he cannot be a perfect man,
    Not being tried and tutor'd in the world:
    Experience is by industry achieved
    And perfected by the swift course of time.
    Then tell me, whither were I best to send him?

PANTHINO    I think your lordship is not ignorant
    How his companion, youthful Valentine,
    Attends the emperor in his royal court.

ANTONIO    I know it well.

PANTHINO    'Twere good, I think, your lordship sent him thither:
    There shall he practise tilts and tournaments,
    Hear sweet discourse, converse with noblemen.
    And be in eye of every exercise
    Worthy his youth and nobleness of birth.

ANTONIO    I like thy counsel; well hast thou 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.

PANTHINO    To-morrow, may it please you, Don Alphonso,
    With other gentlemen of good esteem,
    Are journeying to salute the emperor
    And to commend their service to his will.

ANTONIO    Good company; with them shall Proteus go:
    And, in good time! now will we break with him.

    [Enter PROTEUS]

PROTEUS    Sweet love! sweet lines! sweet life!
    Here is her hand, the agent of her heart;
    Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn.
    O, that our fathers would applaud our loves,
    To seal our happiness with their consents!
    O heavenly Julia!

ANTONIO    How now! what letter are you reading there?

PROTEUS    May't please your lordship, 'tis a word or two
    Of commendations sent from Valentine,
    Deliver'd by a friend that came from him.

ANTONIO    Lend me the letter; let me see what news.

PROTEUS    There is no news, my lord, but that he writes
    How happily he lives, how well 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.
    To-morrow be in readiness to go:
    Excuse it not, for I am peremptory.

PROTEUS    My lord, I cannot be so soon provided:
    Please you, deliberate a day or two.

ANTONIO    Look, what thou want'st shall be sent after thee:
    No more of stay! to-morrow thou must go.
    Come on, Panthino: you shall be employ'd
    To hasten on his expedition.

    [Exeunt ANTONIO and PANTHINO]

PROTEUS    Thus have I shunn'd the fire for fear of burning,
    And drench'd me in the sea, where I am drown'd.
    I fear'd to show my father Julia's letter,
    Lest he should take exceptions to my love;
    And with the vantage of mine own excuse
    Hath he excepted most against my love.
    O, how this spring of love resembleth
    The uncertain glory of an April day,
    Which now shows all the beauty of the sun,
    And by and by a cloud takes all away!

    [Re-enter PANTHINO]

PANTHINO    Sir Proteus, your father calls for you:
    He is in haste; therefore, I pray you to go.

PROTEUS    Why, this it is: my heart accords thereto,
    And yet a thousand times it answers 'no.'

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE I    Milan. The DUKE's palace.


    [Enter VALENTINE and SPEED]

SPEED    Sir, your glove.

VALENTINE                      Not mine; my gloves are on.

SPEED    Why, then, this may be yours, for this is but one.

VALENTINE    Ha! let me see: ay, give it me, it's mine:
    Sweet ornament that decks a thing divine!
    Ah, Silvia, Silvia!

SPEED    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 malecontent; to relish a love-song, like a
    robin-redbreast; to walk alone, like one that had
    the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had
    lost his A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had
    buried her grandam; to fast, like one that takes
    diet; to watch like one that fears robbing; to
    speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas. You were
    wont, when you laughed, to crow like a cock; when you
    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
    knowest 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 esteemest 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.

SPEED    [Aside]  O excellent motion! O exceeding puppet!
    Now will he interpret to her.

    [Enter SILVIA]

VALENTINE    Madam and mistress, a thousand good-morrows.

SPEED    [Aside]  O, give ye good even! here's a million of manners.

SILVIA    Sir Valentine and servant, to you two thousand.

SPEED    [Aside]  He should give her interest and she gives it him.

VALENTINE    As you enjoin'd me, I have writ your letter
    Unto the secret nameless friend of yours;
    Which I was much unwilling to proceed in
    But for my duty to your ladyship.

SILVIA    I thank you gentle servant: 'tis very clerkly done.

VALENTINE    Now trust me, madam, it came hardly off;
    For being ignorant to whom it goes
    I writ at random, very doubtfully.

SILVIA    Perchance you think too much of so much pains?

VALENTINE    No, madam; so it stead you, I will write
    Please you command, a thousand times as much; And yet--

SILVIA    A pretty period! Well, I guess the sequel;
    And yet I will not name it; and yet I care not;
    And yet take this again; and yet I thank you,
    Meaning henceforth to trouble you no more.

SPEED    [Aside]  And yet you will; and yet another 'yet.'

VALENTINE    What means your ladyship? do you not like it?

SILVIA    Yes, yes; the lines are very quaintly writ;
    But since unwillingly, take them again.
    Nay, take them.

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    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 for Madam Silvia.

VALENTINE    To whom?

SPEED    To yourself: why, she wooes 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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE II    Verona. JULIA'S house.


    [Enter PROTEUS and JULIA]

PROTEUS    Have patience, gentle Julia.

JULIA    I must, where is no remedy.

PROTEUS    When possibly I can, I will return.

JULIA    If you turn not, you will return the sooner.
    Keep this remembrance for thy Julia's sake.

    [Giving a ring]

PROTEUS    Why then, we'll make exchange; here, take you this.

JULIA    And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

PROTEUS    Here is my hand for my true constancy;
    And when that hour o'erslips me in the day
    Wherein I sigh not, Julia, for thy sake,
    The next ensuing hour some foul mischance
    Torment me for my love's forgetfulness!
    My father stays my coming; answer not;
    The tide is now: nay, not thy tide of tears;
    That tide will stay me longer than I should.
    Julia, farewell!

    [Exit JULIA]

    What, gone without a word?
    Ay, so true love should do: it cannot speak;
    For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.

    [Enter PANTHINO]

PANTHINO    Sir Proteus, you are stay'd for.

PROTEUS    Go; I come, I come.
    Alas! this parting strikes poor lovers dumb.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE III    The same. A street.


    [Enter LAUNCE, leading a dog]

LAUNCE    Nay, 'twill be this hour ere I have done weeping;
    all the kind of the Launces have this very fault. I
    have 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 pebble stone, and
    has no more pity in him than a dog: a Jew would have
    wept to have seen our parting; why, my grandam,
    having no eyes, look you, wept herself blind at my
    parting. Nay, I'll show you the manner of it. This
    shoe is my father: no, this left shoe is my father:
    no, no, 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, sit, 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--Oh! the dog is me, and I am myself; ay, so,
    so. Now come I to my father; Father, your blessing:
    now should not the shoe speak a word for weeping:
    now should I kiss my father; well, he weeps on. Now
    come I to my mother: O, that she could speak now
    like a wood woman! Well, I kiss her; why, there
    'tis; here's my mother's breath up and down. Now
    come I to my sister; mark the moan she makes. Now
    the dog all this while sheds not a tear nor speaks a
    word; but see how I lay the dust with my tears.

    [Enter PANTHINO]

PANTHINO    Launce, away, away, aboard! thy master is shipped
    and thou art to post after with oars. What's the
    matter? why weepest thou, man? Away, ass! You'll
    lose the tide, if you tarry any longer.

LAUNCE    It is no matter if the tied were lost; for it is the
    unkindest tied that ever any man tied.

PANTHINO    What's the unkindest tide?

LAUNCE    Why, he that's tied here, Crab, my dog.

PANTHINO    Tut, man, I mean thou'lt lose the flood, and, in
    losing the flood, lose thy voyage, and, in losing
    thy voyage, lose thy master, and, in losing thy
    master, lose thy service, and, in losing thy
    service,--Why dost thou stop my mouth?

LAUNCE    For fear thou shouldst lose thy tongue.

PANTHINO    Where should I lose my tongue?

LAUNCE    In thy tale.

PANTHINO    In thy tail!

LAUNCE    Lose the tide, and the voyage, and the master, and
    the service, and the tied! Why, man, if the river
    were dry, I am able to fill it with my tears; if the
    wind were down, I could drive the boat with my sighs.

PANTHINO    Come, come away, man; I was sent to call thee.

LAUNCE    Sir, call me what thou darest.

PANTHINO    Wilt thou go?

LAUNCE    Well, I will go.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE IV    Milan. The DUKE's palace.


    [Enter SILVIA, VALENTINE, THURIO, and SPEED]

SILVIA    Servant!

VALENTINE    Mistress?

SPEED    Master, Sir Thurio frowns on you.

VALENTINE    Ay, boy, it's for love.

SPEED    Not of you.

VALENTINE    Of my mistress, then.

SPEED    'Twere good you knocked him.

    [Exit]

SILVIA    Servant, you are sad.

VALENTINE    Indeed, madam, I seem so.

THURIO    Seem you that you are not?

VALENTINE    Haply I do.

THURIO    So do counterfeits.

VALENTINE    So do you.

THURIO    What seem I that I am not?

VALENTINE    Wise.

THURIO    What instance of the contrary?

VALENTINE    Your folly.

THURIO    And how quote you my folly?

VALENTINE    I quote it in your jerkin.

THURIO    My jerkin is a doublet.

VALENTINE    Well, then, I'll double your folly.

THURIO    How?

SILVIA    What, angry, Sir Thurio! do you change colour?

VALENTINE    Give him leave, madam; he is a kind of chameleon.

THURIO    That hath more mind to feed on your blood than live
    in your air.

VALENTINE    You have said, sir.

THURIO    Ay, sir, and done too, for this time.

VALENTINE    I know it well, sir; you always end ere you begin.

SILVIA    A fine volley of words, gentlemen, and quickly shot off.

VALENTINE    'Tis indeed, madam; we thank the giver.

SILVIA    Who is that, servant?

VALENTINE    Yourself, sweet lady; for you gave the fire. Sir
    Thurio borrows his wit from your ladyship's looks,
    and spends what he borrows kindly in your company.

THURIO    Sir, if you spend word for word with me, I shall
    make your wit bankrupt.

VALENTINE    I know it well, sir; you have an exchequer of words,
    and, I think, no other treasure to give your
    followers, for it appears by their bare liveries,
    that they live by your bare words.

SILVIA    No more, gentlemen, no more:--here comes my father.

    [Enter DUKE]

DUKE    Now, daughter Silvia, you are hard beset.
    Sir Valentine, your father's 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 know 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 unmellow'd, but his judgment ripe;
    And, in a word, for far behind his worth
    Comes all the praises that I now bestow,
    He is complete in feature and in mind
    With all good grace to grace a gentleman.

DUKE    Beshrew me, sir, but if he make this good,
    He is as worthy for an empress' love
    As meet to be an emperor's counsellor.
    Well, sir, this gentleman is come to me,
    With commendation from great potentates;
    And here he means to spend his time awhile:
    I think 'tis no unwelcome news to you.

VALENTINE    Should I have wish'd a thing, it had been he.

DUKE    Welcome him then according to his worth.
    Silvia, I speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio;
    For Valentine, I need not cite him to it:
    I will send him hither to you presently.

    [Exit]

VALENTINE    This is the gentleman I told your ladyship
    Had come along with me, but that his mistress
    Did hold his eyes lock'd 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.

    [Exit THURIO]

    [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 wish'd to hear from.

VALENTINE    Mistress, it is: sweet lady, entertain him
    To be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.

SILVIA    Too low a mistress for so high a servant.

PROTEUS    Not so, sweet lady: but too mean a servant
    To have a look of such a worthy mistress.

VALENTINE    Leave off discourse of disability:
    Sweet lady, entertain him for your servant.

PROTEUS    My duty will I boast of; nothing else.

SILVIA    And duty never yet did want his meed:
    Servant, you are welcome to a worthless mistress.

PROTEUS    I'll die on him that says so but yourself.

SILVIA    That you are welcome?

PROTEUS    That you are worthless.

    [Re-enter THURIO]

THURIO    Madam, my lord your father would speak with you.

SILVIA    I wait upon his pleasure. Come, Sir Thurio,
    Go with me. Once more, new servant, welcome:
    I'll leave you to confer of home affairs;
    When you have done, we look to hear from you.

PROTEUS    We'll both attend upon your ladyship.

    [Exeunt SILVIA and THURIO]

VALENTINE    Now, tell me, how do all from whence you came?

PROTEUS    Your friends are well and have them much commended.

VALENTINE    And how do yours?

PROTEUS                      I left them all in health.

VALENTINE    How does your lady? and how thrives your love?

PROTEUS    My tales of love were wont to weary you;
    I know you joy not in a love discourse.

VALENTINE    Ay, Proteus, but that life is alter'd now:
    I have done penance for contemning Love,
    Whose high imperious thoughts have punish'd me
    With bitter fasts, with penitential groans,
    With nightly tears and daily heart-sore sighs;
    For in revenge of my contempt of love,
    Love hath 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 braggardism is this?

VALENTINE    Pardon me, Proteus: all I can is nothing
    To her whose worth makes other worthies nothing;
    She is alone.

PROTEUS                      Then let her alone.

VALENTINE    Not for the world: why, man, she is mine own,
    And I as rich in having such a jewel
    As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
    The water nectar and the rocks pure gold.
    Forgive me that I do not dream on thee,
    Because thou see'st me dote upon my love.
    My foolish rival, that her father likes
    Only for his possessions are so huge,
    Is gone with her along, and I must after,
    For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy.

PROTEUS    But she loves you?

VALENTINE    Ay, and we are betroth'd: nay, more, our,
    marriage-hour,
    With all the cunning manner of our flight,
    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 inquire 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, 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 thaw'd;
    Which, like a waxen image, 'gainst a fire,
    Bears no impression of the thing it was.
    Methinks my zeal to Valentine is cold,
    And that I love him not as I was wont.
    O, but I love his lady too too much,
    And that's the reason I love him so little.
    How shall I dote on her with more advice,
    That thus without advice begin to love her!
    'Tis but her picture I have yet beheld,
    And that hath dazzled my reason's light;
    But when I look on her perfections,
    There is no reason but I shall be blind.
    If I can cheque my erring love, I will;
    If not, to compass her I'll use my skill.

    [Exit]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE V    The same. A street.


    [Enter SPEED and LAUNCE severally]

SPEED    Launce! by mine honesty, welcome to Milan!

LAUNCE    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?

LAUNCE    Marry, after they closed in earnest, they parted very
    fairly in jest.

SPEED    But shall she marry him?

LAUNCE    No.

SPEED    How then? shall he marry her?

LAUNCE    No, neither.

SPEED    What, are they broken?

LAUNCE    No, they are both as whole as a fish.

SPEED    Why, then, how stands the matter with them?

LAUNCE    Marry, thus: when it stands well with him, it
    stands well with her.

SPEED    What an ass art thou! I understand thee not.

LAUNCE    What a block art thou, that thou canst not! My
    staff understands me.

SPEED    What thou sayest?

LAUNCE    Ay, and what I do too: look thee, I'll but lean,
    and my staff understands me.

SPEED    It stands under thee, indeed.

LAUNCE    Why, stand-under and under-stand is all one.

SPEED    But tell me true, will't be a match?

LAUNCE    Ask my dog: if he say ay, it will! if he say no,
    it will; if he shake his tail and say nothing, it will.

SPEED    The conclusion is then that it will.

LAUNCE    Thou shalt never get such a secret from me but by a parable.

SPEED    'Tis well that I get it so. But, Launce, how sayest
    thou, that my master is become a notable lover?

LAUNCE    I never knew him otherwise.

SPEED    Than how?

LAUNCE    A notable lubber, as thou reportest him to be.

SPEED    Why, thou whoreson ass, thou mistakest me.

LAUNCE    Why, fool, I meant not thee; I meant thy master.

SPEED    I tell thee, my master is become a hot lover.

LAUNCE    Why, I tell thee, I care not though he burn himself
    in love. If thou wilt, go with me to the alehouse;
    if not, thou art an Hebrew, a Jew, and not worth the
    name of a Christian.

SPEED    Why?

LAUNCE    Because thou hast not so much charity in thee as to
    go to the ale with a Christian. Wilt thou go?

SPEED    At thy service.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE VI    The same. The DUKE'S palace.


    [Enter PROTEUS]

PROTEUS    To leave my Julia, shall I be forsworn;
    To love fair Silvia, shall I be forsworn;
    To wrong my friend, I shall be much forsworn;
    And even 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 to exchange the bad for better.
    Fie, fie, unreverend tongue! to call her bad,
    Whose sovereignty so oft thou hast preferr'd
    With twenty thousand soul-confirming oaths.
    I cannot leave to love, and yet I do;
    But there I leave to love where I should love.
    Julia I lose and Valentine I lose:
    If I keep them, I needs must lose myself;
    If I lose them, thus find I by their loss
    For Valentine myself, for Julia Silvia.
    I to myself am dearer than a friend,
    For love is still most precious in itself;
    And Silvia--witness Heaven, that made her fair!--
    Shows Julia but a swarthy Ethiope.
    I will forget that Julia is alive,
    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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT II



SCENE VII    Verona. JULIA'S house.


    [Enter JULIA and LUCETTA]

JULIA    Counsel, Lucetta; gentle girl, assist me;
    And even in kind love I do conjure thee,
    Who art the table wherein all my thoughts
    Are visibly character'd 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 stopp'd, impatiently doth rage;
    But when his fair course is not hindered,
    He makes sweet music with the enamell'ed 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 even what fashion thou best likest, Lucetta.

LUCETTA    You must needs have them with a codpiece, madam.

JULIA    Out, out, Lucetta! that would be ill-favour'd.

LUCETTA    A round hose, madam, now's not worth a pin,
    Unless you have a codpiece to stick pins on.

JULIA    Lucetta, as thou lovest me, let me have
    What thou thinkest 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 heaven he prove so, when you come to him!

JULIA    Now, as thou lovest 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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT III



SCENE I    Milan. The DUKE's palace.


    [Enter DUKE, THURIO, and PROTEUS]

DUKE    Sir Thurio, give us leave, I pray, awhile;
    We have some secrets to confer about.

    [Exit THURIO]

    Now, tell me, Proteus, what's your will with me?

PROTEUS    My gracious lord, that which I would discover
    The law of friendship bids me to conceal;
    But when I call to mind your gracious favours
    Done to me, undeserving as I am,
    My duty pricks me on to utter that
    Which else no worldly good should draw from me.
    Know, worthy prince, Sir Valentine, my friend,
    This night intends to steal away your daughter:
    Myself am one made privy to the plot.
    I know you have 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 shunn'd,
    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 convey'd 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 cherish'd by her child-like 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 in Verona here
    Whom I affect; but she is nice and coy
    And nought esteems my aged eloquence:
    Now therefore would I have thee to my tutor--
    For long agone I have forgot to court;
    Besides, the fashion of the time is 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 sometimes scorns what best contents her.
    Send her another; never give her o'er;
    For scorn at first makes after-love the more.
    If she do frown, 'tis not in hate of you,
    But rather to beget more love in you:
    If she do chide, 'tis not to have you gone;
    For why, the fools are mad, if left alone.
    Take no repulse, whatever she doth say;
    For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away!'
    Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces;
    Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces.
    That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
    If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.

DUKE    But she I mean is 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 lock'd and keys kept safe,
    That no man hath recourse to her by night.

VALENTINE    What lets but one may enter at her window?

DUKE    Her chamber is aloft, far from the ground,
    And built so shelving that one cannot climb it
    Without apparent hazard of his life.

VALENTINE    Why then, a ladder quaintly made of cords,
    To cast up, with a pair of anchoring hooks,
    Would serve to scale another Hero's 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 every thing that he can come by.

VALENTINE    By seven o'clock I'll get you such a ladder.

DUKE    But, hark thee; I will go to her alone:
    How shall I best convey the ladder thither?

VALENTINE    It will be light, my lord, that you may bear it
    Under a cloak that is of any length.

DUKE    A cloak as long as thine will serve the turn?

VALENTINE    Ay, my good lord.

DUKE                      Then let me see thy cloak:
    I'll get me one of such another length.

VALENTINE    Why, any cloak will serve the turn, my lord.

DUKE    How shall I fashion me to wear a cloak?
    I pray thee, let me feel thy cloak upon me.
    What letter is this same? What's here? 'To Silvia'!
    And here an engine fit for my proceeding.
    I'll be so bold to break the seal for once.

    [Reads]

    'My thoughts do harbour with my Silvia nightly,
    And slaves they are to me that send them flying:
    O, could their master come and go as lightly,
    Himself would lodge where senseless they are lying!
    My herald thoughts in thy pure bosom rest them:
    While I, their king, that hither them importune,
    Do curse the grace that with such grace hath bless'd them,
    Because myself do want my servants' fortune:
    I curse myself, for they are sent by me,
    That they should harbour where their lord would be.'
    What's here?
    'Silvia, this night I will enfranchise thee.'
    'Tis so; and here's the ladder for the purpose.
    Why, Phaeton,--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 bestow'd on thee.
    But if thou linger in my territories
    Longer than swiftest expedition
    Will give thee time to leave our royal court,
    By heaven! my wrath shall far exceed the love
    I ever bore my daughter or thyself.
    Be gone! I will not hear thy vain excuse;
    But, as thou lovest thy life, make speed from hence.

    [Exit]

VALENTINE    And why not death rather than living torment?
    To die is to be banish'd from myself;
    And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her
    Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
    What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?
    What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by?
    Unless it be to think that she is by
    And feed upon the shadow of perfection
    Except I be by Silvia in the night,
    There is no music in the nightingale;
    Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
    There is no day for me to look upon;
    She is my essence, and I leave to be,
    If I be not by her fair influence
    Foster'd, illumined, cherish'd, kept alive.
    I fly not death, to fly his deadly doom:
    Tarry I here, I but attend on death:
    But, fly I hence, I fly away from life.

    [Enter PROTEUS and LAUNCE]

PROTEUS    Run, boy, run, run, and seek him out.

LAUNCE    Soho, soho!

PROTEUS    What seest thou?

LAUNCE    Him we go to find: there's not a hair on's head
    but 'tis a Valentine.

PROTEUS    Valentine?

VALENTINE    No.

PROTEUS    Who then? his spirit?

VALENTINE    Neither.

PROTEUS    What then?

VALENTINE    Nothing.

LAUNCE    Can nothing speak? Master, shall I strike?

PROTEUS    Who wouldst thou strike?

LAUNCE    Nothing.

PROTEUS    Villain, forbear.

LAUNCE    Why, sir, I'll strike nothing: I pray you,--

PROTEUS    Sirrah, I say, forbear. Friend Valentine, a word.

VALENTINE    My ears are stopt and cannot hear good news,
    So much of bad already hath possess'd them.

PROTEUS    Then in dumb silence will I bury mine,
    For they are harsh, untuneable and bad.

VALENTINE    Is Silvia dead?

PROTEUS    No, Valentine.

VALENTINE    No Valentine, indeed, for sacred Silvia.
    Hath she forsworn me?

PROTEUS    No, Valentine.

VALENTINE    No Valentine, if Silvia have forsworn me.
    What is your news?

LAUNCE    Sir, there is a proclamation that you are vanished.

PROTEUS    That thou art banished--O, that's the news!--
    From hence, from Silvia and from me thy friend.

VALENTINE    O, I have fed upon this woe already,
    And now excess of it will make me surfeit.
    Doth Silvia know that I am banished?

PROTEUS    Ay, ay; and she hath offer'd 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 tender'd;
    With them, upon her knees, her humble self;
    Wringing her hands, whose whiteness so became them
    As if but now they waxed pale for woe:
    But neither bended knees, pure hands held up,
    Sad sighs, deep groans, nor silver-shedding tears,
    Could penetrate her uncompassionate sire;
    But Valentine, if he be ta'en, must die.
    Besides, her intercession 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 deliver'd
    Even in the milk-white bosom of thy love.
    The time now serves not to expostulate:
    Come, I'll convey thee through the city-gate;
    And, ere I part with thee, confer at large
    Of all that may concern thy love-affairs.
    As thou lovest Silvia, though not for thyself,
    Regard thy danger, and along with me!

VALENTINE    I pray thee, Launce, an if thou seest my boy,
    Bid him make haste and meet me at the North-gate.

PROTEUS    Go, sirrah, find him out. Come, Valentine.

VALENTINE    O my dear Silvia! Hapless Valentine!

    [Exeunt VALENTINE and PROTEUS]

LAUNCE    I am but a fool, look you; and yet I have the wit to
    think my master is a kind of a knave: but that's
    all one, if he be but one knave. He lives not now
    that knows me to be in love; yet I am in love; but a
    team of horse shall not pluck that from me; nor who
    'tis I love; and yet 'tis a woman; but what woman, I
    will not tell myself; and yet 'tis a milkmaid; yet
    'tis not a maid, for she hath had gossips; yet 'tis
    a maid, for she is her master's maid, and serves for
    wages. She hath more qualities than a water-spaniel;
    which is much in a bare Christian.

    [Pulling 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 Launce! what news with your
    mastership?

LAUNCE    With my master's ship? why, it is at sea.

SPEED    Well, your old vice still; mistake the word. What
    news, then, in your paper?

LAUNCE    The blackest news that ever thou heardest.

SPEED    Why, man, how black?

LAUNCE    Why, as black as ink.

SPEED    Let me read them.

LAUNCE    Fie on thee, jolt-head! thou canst not read.

SPEED    Thou liest; I can.

LAUNCE    I will try thee. Tell me this: who begot thee?

SPEED    Marry, the son of my grandfather.

LAUNCE    O illiterate loiterer! it was the son of thy
    grandmother: this proves that thou canst not read.

SPEED    Come, fool, come; try me in thy paper.

LAUNCE    There; and St. Nicholas be thy speed!

SPEED    [Reads]  'Imprimis: She can milk.'

LAUNCE    Ay, that she can.

SPEED    'Item: She brews good ale.'

LAUNCE    And thereof comes the proverb: 'Blessing of your
    heart, you brew good ale.'

SPEED    'Item: She can sew.'

LAUNCE    That's as much as to say, Can she so?

SPEED    'Item: She can knit.'

LAUNCE    What need a man care for a stock with a wench, when
    she can knit him a stock?

SPEED    'Item: She can wash and scour.'

LAUNCE    A special virtue: for then she need not be washed
    and scoured.

SPEED    'Item: She can spin.'

LAUNCE    Then may I set the world on wheels, when she can
    spin for her living.

SPEED    'Item: She hath many nameless virtues.'

LAUNCE    That's as much as to say, bastard virtues; that,
    indeed, know not their fathers and therefore have no names.

SPEED    'Here follow her vices.'

LAUNCE    Close at the heels of her virtues.

SPEED    'Item: She is not to be kissed fasting in respect
    of her breath.'

LAUNCE    Well, that fault may be mended with a breakfast. Read on.

SPEED    'Item: She hath a sweet mouth.'

LAUNCE    That makes amends for her sour breath.

SPEED    'Item: She doth talk in her sleep.'

LAUNCE    It's no matter for that, so she sleep not in her talk.

SPEED    'Item: She is slow in words.'

LAUNCE    O villain, that set this down among her vices! To
    be slow in words is a woman's only virtue: I pray
    thee, out with't, and place it for her chief virtue.

SPEED    'Item: She is proud.'

LAUNCE    Out with that too; it was Eve's legacy, and cannot
    be ta'en from her.

SPEED    'Item: She hath no teeth.'

LAUNCE    I care not for that neither, because I love crusts.

SPEED    'Item: She is curst.'

LAUNCE    Well, the best is, she hath no teeth to bite.

SPEED    'Item: She will often praise her liquor.'

LAUNCE    If her liquor be good, she shall: if she will not, I
    will; for good things should be praised.

SPEED    'Item: She is too liberal.'

LAUNCE    Of her tongue she cannot, for that's writ down she
    is slow of; of her purse she shall not, for that
    I'll keep shut: now, of another thing she may, and
    that cannot I help. Well, proceed.

SPEED    'Item: She hath more hair than wit, and more faults
    than hairs, and more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE    Stop there; I'll have her: she was mine, and not
    mine, twice or thrice in that last article.
    Rehearse that once more.

SPEED    'Item: She hath more hair than wit,'--

LAUNCE    More hair than wit? It may be; I'll prove it. The
    cover of the salt hides the salt, and therefore it
    is more than the salt; the hair that covers the wit
    is more than the wit, for the greater hides the
    less. What's next?

SPEED    'And more faults than hairs,'--

LAUNCE    That's monstrous: O, that that were out!

SPEED    'And more wealth than faults.'

LAUNCE    Why, that word makes the faults gracious. Well,
    I'll have her; and if it be a match, as nothing is
    impossible,--

SPEED    What then?

LAUNCE    Why, then will I tell thee--that thy master stays
    for thee at the North-gate.

SPEED    For me?

LAUNCE    For thee! ay, who art thou? he hath stayed for a
    better man than thee.

SPEED    And must I go to him?

LAUNCE    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]

LAUNCE    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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT III



SCENE II    The same. The DUKE's palace.


    [Enter DUKE and THURIO]

DUKE    Sir Thurio, fear not but that she will love you,
    Now Valentine is banish'd from her sight.

THURIO    Since his exile she hath despised me most,
    Forsworn my company and rail'd at me,
    That I am desperate of obtaining her.

DUKE    This weak impress of love is as a figure
    Trenched in ice, which with an hour's heat
    Dissolves to water and doth lose his form.
    A little time will melt her frozen thoughts
    And worthless Valentine shall be forgot.

    [Enter PROTEUS]

    How now, Sir Proteus! Is your countryman
    According to our proclamation gone?

PROTEUS    Gone, my good lord.

DUKE    My daughter takes his going grievously.

PROTEUS    A little time, my lord, will kill that grief.

DUKE    So I believe; but Thurio thinks not so.
    Proteus, the good conceit I hold of thee--
    For thou hast shown some sign of good desert--
    Makes me the better to confer with thee.

PROTEUS    Longer than I prove loyal to your grace
    Let me not live to look upon your grace.

DUKE    Thou know'st how willingly I would effect
    The match between Sir Thurio and my daughter.

PROTEUS    I do, my lord.

DUKE    And also, I think, thou art not ignorant
    How she opposes her against my will

PROTEUS    She did, my lord, when Valentine was here.

DUKE    Ay, and perversely she persevers so.
    What might we do to make the girl forget
    The love of Valentine and love Sir Thurio?

PROTEUS    The best way is to slander Valentine
    With falsehood, cowardice and poor descent,
    Three things that women highly hold in hate.

DUKE    Ay, but she'll think that it is spoke in hate.

PROTEUS    Ay, if his enemy deliver it:
    Therefore it must with circumstance be spoken
    By one whom she esteemeth as his friend.

DUKE    Then you must undertake to slander him.

PROTEUS    And that, my lord, I shall be loath to do:
    'Tis an ill office for a gentleman,
    Especially against his very friend.

DUKE    Where your good word cannot advantage him,
    Your slander never can endamage him;
    Therefore the office is indifferent,
    Being entreated to it by your friend.

PROTEUS    You have prevail'd, my lord; if I can do it
    By ought 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 concert; 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 practise.
    Therefore, sweet Proteus, my direction-giver,
    Let us into the city presently
    To sort some gentlemen well skill'd in music.
    I have a sonnet that will serve the turn
    To give the onset to thy good advice.

DUKE    About it, gentlemen!

PROTEUS    We'll wait upon your grace till after supper,
    And afterward determine our proceedings.

DUKE    Even now about it! I will pardon you.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT IV



SCENE I    The frontiers of Mantua. A forest.


    [Enter certain Outlaws]

First Outlaw    Fellows, stand fast; I see a passenger.

Second Outlaw    If there be ten, shrink not, but down with 'em.

    [Enter VALENTINE and SPEED]

Third Outlaw    Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about ye:
    If not: we'll make you sit and rifle you.

SPEED    Sir, we are undone; these are the villains
    That all the travellers do fear so much.

VALENTINE    My friends,--

First Outlaw    That's not so, sir: we are your enemies.

Second Outlaw    Peace! we'll hear him.

Third Outlaw    Ay, by my beard, will we, for he's a proper man.

VALENTINE    Then know that I have little wealth to lose:
    A man I am cross'd with adversity;
    My riches are these poor habiliments,
    Of which if you should here disfurnish me,
    You take the sum and substance that I have.

Second Outlaw    Whither travel you?

VALENTINE    To Verona.

First Outlaw    Whence came you?

VALENTINE    From Milan.

Third Outlaw    Have you long sojourned there?

VALENTINE    Some sixteen months, and longer might have stay'd,
    If crooked fortune had not thwarted me.

First Outlaw    What, were you banish'd thence?

VALENTINE    I was.

Second Outlaw    For what offence?

VALENTINE    For that which now torments me to rehearse:
    I kill'd a man, whose death I much repent;
    But yet I slew him manfully in fight,
    Without false vantage or base treachery.

First Outlaw    Why, ne'er repent it, if it were done so.
    But were you banish'd for so small a fault?

VALENTINE    I was, and held me glad of such a doom.

Second Outlaw    Have you the tongues?

VALENTINE    My youthful travel therein made me happy,
    Or else I often had been miserable.

Third Outlaw    By the bare scalp of Robin Hood's fat friar,
    This fellow were a king for our wild faction!

First Outlaw    We'll have him. Sirs, a word.

SPEED    Master, be one of them; it's an honourable kind of thievery.

VALENTINE    Peace, villain!

Second Outlaw    Tell us this: have you any thing to take to?

VALENTINE    Nothing but my fortune.

Third Outlaw    Know, then, that some of us are gentlemen,
    Such as the fury of ungovern'd youth
    Thrust from the company of awful men:
    Myself was from Verona banished
    For practising to steal away a lady,
    An heir, and near allied unto the duke.

Second Outlaw    And I from Mantua, for a gentleman,
    Who, in my mood, I stabb'd unto the heart.

First Outlaw    And I for such like petty crimes as these,
    But to the purpose--for we cite our faults,
    That they may hold excus'd our lawless lives;
    And partly, seeing you are beautified
    With goodly shape and by your own report
    A linguist and a man of such perfection
    As we do in our quality much want--

Second Outlaw    Indeed, because you are a banish'd man,
    Therefore, above the rest, we parley to you:
    Are you content to be our general?
    To make a virtue of necessity
    And live, as we do, in this wilderness?

Third Outlaw    What say'st thou? wilt thou be of our consort?
    Say ay, and be the captain of us all:
    We'll do thee homage and be 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 offer'd.

VALENTINE    I take your offer and will live with you,
    Provided that you do no outrages
    On silly women or poor passengers.

Third Outlaw    No, we detest such vile base practises.
    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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT IV



SCENE II    Milan. Outside the DUKE's palace, under SILVIA's chamber.


    [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, at a distance, Host, and JULIA in boy's clothes]

Host    Now, my young guest, methinks you're allycholly: I
    pray you, why is it?

JULIA    Marry, mine host, because I cannot be merry.

Host    Come, we'll have you merry: I'll bring you where
    you shall hear music and see the gentleman that you 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.
    Who is Silvia? what is she,
    That all our swains commend her?
    Holy, fair and wise is she;
    The heaven such grace did lend her,
    That she might admired be.

    Is she kind as she is fair?
    For beauty lives with kindness.
    Love doth to her eyes repair,
    To help him of his blindness,
    And, being help'd, inhabits there.

    Then to Silvia let us sing,
    That Silvia is excelling;
    She excels each mortal thing
    Upon the dull earth dwelling:
    To her let us garlands bring.

Host    How now! are you sadder than you were before? How
    do you, man? the music likes you not.

JULIA    You mistake; the musician likes me not.

Host    Why, my pretty youth?

JULIA    He plays false, father.

Host    How? out of tune on the strings?

JULIA    Not so; but yet so false that he grieves my very
    heart-strings.

Host    You have a quick ear.

JULIA    Ay, I would I were deaf; it makes me have a slow heart.

Host    I perceive you delight not in music.

JULIA    Not a whit, when it jars so.

Host    Hark, what fine change is in the music!

JULIA    Ay, that change is the spite.

Host    You would have them always play but one thing?

JULIA    I would always have one play but one thing.
    But, host, doth this Sir Proteus that we talk on
    Often resort unto this gentlewoman?

Host    I tell you what Launce, his man, told me: he loved
    her out of all nick.

JULIA    Where is Launce?

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 betroth'd: 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.

PROTEUS                      As wretches have o'ernight
    That wait for execution in the morn.

    [Exeunt PROTEUS and SILVIA severally]

JULIA    Host, will you go?

Host    By my halidom, I was fast asleep.

JULIA    Pray you, where lies Sir Proteus?

Host    Marry, at my house. Trust me, I think 'tis almost
    day.

JULIA    Not so; but it hath been the longest night
    That e'er I watch'd and the most heaviest.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT IV



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'ld 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 accomplish'd:
    Thou art not ignorant what dear good will
    I bear unto the banish'd Valentine,
    Nor how my father would enforce me marry
    Vain Thurio, whom my very soul abhors.
    Thyself hast 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 vow'dst pure chastity.
    Sir Eglamour, I would to Valentine,
    To Mantua, where I hear he makes abode;
    And, for the ways are dangerous to pass,
    I do desire thy worthy company,
    Upon whose faith and honour I repose.
    Urge not my father's anger, Eglamour,
    But think upon my grief, a lady's grief,
    And on the justice of my flying hence,
    To keep me from a most unholy match,
    Which heaven and fortune still rewards with plagues.
    I do desire thee, even from a heart
    As full of sorrows as the sea of sands,
    To bear me company and go with me:
    If not, to hide what I have said to thee,
    That I may venture to depart alone.

EGLAMOUR    Madam, I pity much your grievances;
    Which since I know they virtuously are 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 severally]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT IV



SCENE IV    The same.


    [Enter LAUNCE, with his his Dog]

LAUNCE    When a man's servant shall play the cur with him,
    look you, it goes hard: one that I brought up of a
    puppy; one that I 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
    gentlemanlike 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
    stocks 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.
    Thou thinkest 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]

PROTEUS    Sebastian is thy name? I like thee well
    And will employ thee in some service presently.

JULIA    In what you please: I'll do what I can.

PROTEUS    I hope thou wilt.

    [To LAUNCE]

    How now, you whoreson peasant!
    Where have you been these two days loitering?

LAUNCE    Marry, sir, I carried Mistress Silvia the dog you bade me.

PROTEUS    And what says she to my little jewel?

LAUNCE    Marry, she says your dog was a cur, and tells you
    currish thanks is good enough for such a present.

PROTEUS    But she received my dog?

LAUNCE    No, indeed, did she not: here have I brought him
    back again.

PROTEUS    What, didst thou offer her this from me?

LAUNCE    Ay, sir: the other squirrel was stolen from me by
    the hangman 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! stay'st thou to vex me here?

    [Exit LAUNCE]

    A slave, that still an end turns me to shame!
    Sebastian, I have entertained thee,
    Partly that I have need of such a youth
    That can with some discretion do my business,
    For 'tis no trusting to yond foolish lout,
    But chiefly for thy face and thy behavior,
    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 deliver'd it to me.

JULIA    It seems you loved not her, to leave her token.
    She is dead, belike?

PROTEUS    Not so; I think she lives.

JULIA    Alas!

PROTEUS    Why dost thou cry 'alas'?

JULIA    I cannot choose
    But pity her.

PROTEUS                      Wherefore shouldst thou pity her?

JULIA    Because methinks that she loved you as well
    As you do love your lady Silvia:
    She dreams of 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 of 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 entertain'd
    A fox to be the shepherd of thy lambs.
    Alas, poor fool! why do I pity him
    That with his very heart despiseth me?
    Because he loves her, he despiseth me;
    Because I love him I must pity him.
    This ring I gave him when he parted from me,
    To bind him to remember my good will;
    And now am I, unhappy messenger,
    To plead for that which I would not obtain,
    To carry that which I would have 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 here.
    Go give your master this: tell him from me,
    One Julia, that his changing thoughts forget,
    Would better fit his chamber than this shadow.

JULIA    Madam, please you peruse this letter.--
    Pardon me, madam; I have unadvised
    Deliver'd you a paper that I should not:
    This is the letter to your ladyship.

SILVIA    I pray thee, let me look on that again.

JULIA    It may not be; good madam, pardon me.

SILVIA    There, hold!
    I will not look upon your master's lines:
    I know they are stuff'd with protestations
    And full of new-found oaths; which he will break
    As easily as I do tear his paper.

JULIA    Madam, he sends your ladyship this ring.

SILVIA    The more shame for him that he sends it me;
    For I have heard him say a thousand times
    His Julia gave it him at his departure.
    Though his false finger have profaned the ring,
    Mine shall not do his Julia so much wrong.

JULIA    She thanks you.

SILVIA    What say'st thou?

JULIA    I thank you, madam, that you tender her.
    Poor gentlewoman! my master wrongs her much.

SILVIA    Dost thou know her?

JULIA    Almost as well as I do know myself:
    To think upon her woes I do protest
    That I have wept a hundred several times.

SILVIA    Belike she thinks that Proteus hath forsook her.

JULIA    I think she doth; and that's her cause of sorrow.

SILVIA    Is she not passing fair?

JULIA    She hath been fairer, madam, than she is:
    When she did think my master loved her well,
    She, in my judgment, was as fair as you:
    But since she did neglect her looking-glass
    And threw her sun-expelling mask away,
    The air hath starved the roses in her cheeks
    And pinch'd the lily-tincture of her face,
    That now she is become as black as I.

SILVIA    How tall was she?

JULIA    About my stature; for at Pentecost,
    When all our pageants of delight were play'd,
    Our youth got me to play the woman's part,
    And I was trimm'd in Madam Julia's gown,
    Which served me as fit, by all men's judgments,
    As if the garment had been made for me:
    Therefore I know she is about my height.
    And at that time I made her weep 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 lovest her.
    Farewell.

    [Exit SILVIA, with attendants]

JULIA    And she shall thank you for't, if e'er you know her.
    A virtuous gentlewoman, mild and beautiful
    I hope my master's suit will be but cold,
    Since she respects my mistress' love so much.
    Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
    Here is her picture: let me see; I think,
    If I had such a tire, this face of mine
    Were full as lovely as is this of hers:
    And yet the painter flatter'd her a little,
    Unless I flatter with myself too much.
    Her hair is auburn, mine is perfect yellow:
    If that be all the difference in his love,
    I'll get me such a colour'd periwig.
    Her eyes are grey as glass, and so are mine:
    Ay, but her forehead's low, and mine's as high.
    What should it be that he respects in her
    But I can make respective in myself,
    If this fond Love were not a blinded god?
    Come, shadow, come and take this shadow up,
    For 'tis thy rival. O thou senseless form,
    Thou shalt be worshipp'd, kiss'd, 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 scratch'd out your unseeing eyes
    To make my master out of love with thee!

    [Exit]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


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.
    See where she comes.

    [Enter SILVIA]

        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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT V



SCENE II    The same. 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 spurr'd to what
    it loathes.

THURIO    What says she to my face?

PROTEUS    She says it is a fair one.

THURIO    Nay then, the wanton lies; my face is black.

PROTEUS    But pearls are fair; and the old saying is,
    Black men are pearls in beauteous ladies' eyes.

JULIA    [Aside]  'Tis true; such pearls as put out
    ladies' eyes;
    For I had rather wink than look on them.

THURIO    How likes she my discourse?

PROTEUS    Ill, when you talk of war.

THURIO    But well, when I discourse of love and peace?

JULIA    [Aside]  But better, indeed, when you hold your peace.

THURIO    What says she to my valour?

PROTEUS    O, sir, she makes no doubt of that.

JULIA    [Aside]  She needs not, when she knows it cowardice.

THURIO    What says she to my birth?

PROTEUS    That you are well 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 Laurence met them both,
    As he in penance wander'd through the forest;
    Him he knew well, and guess'd that it was she,
    But, being mask'd, he was not sure of it;
    Besides, she did intend confession
    At Patrick's cell this even; and there she was not;
    These likelihoods confirm her flight from hence.
    Therefore, I pray you, stand not to discourse,
    But mount you presently and meet with me
    Upon the rising of the mountain-foot
    That leads towards 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]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT V



SCENE III    The frontiers of Mantua. The forest.


    [Enter Outlaws with SILVIA]

First Outlaw    Come, come,
    Be patient; we must bring you to our captain.

SILVIA    A thousand more mischances than this one
    Have learn'd me how to brook this patiently.

Second Outlaw    Come, bring her away.

First Outlaw    Where is the gentleman that was with her?

Third Outlaw    Being nimble-footed, he hath outrun us,
    But Moyses and Valerius follow him.
    Go thou with her to the west end of the wood;
    There is our captain: we'll follow him that's fled;
    The thicket is beset; he cannot 'scape.

First Outlaw    Come, I must bring you to our captain's cave:
    Fear not; he bears an honourable mind,
    And will not use a woman lawlessly.

SILVIA    O Valentine, this I endure for thee!

    [Exeunt]




    THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


ACT V



SCENE IV    Another part of the forest.


    [Enter VALENTINE]

VALENTINE    How use doth breed a habit in a man!
    This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods,
    I better brook than flourishing peopled towns:
    Here can I sit alone, unseen of any,
    And to the nightingale's complaining notes
    Tune my distresses and record my woes.
    O thou that dost inhabit in my breast,
    Leave not the mansion so long tenantless,
    Lest, growing ruinous, the building fall
    And leave no memory of what it was!
    Repair me with thy presence, Silvia;
    Thou gentle nymph, cherish thy forlorn swain!
    What halloing and what stir is this to-day?
    These are my mates, that make their wills their law,
    Have some unhappy passenger in chase.
    They love me well; yet I have much to do
    To keep them from uncivil outrages.
    Withdraw thee, Valentine: who's this comes here?

    [Enter PROTEUS, SILVIA, and JULIA]

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 makest 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.

SILVIA    O heaven!

PROTEUS            I'll force thee yield to my desire.

VALENTINE    Ruffian, let go that rude uncivil touch,
    Thou friend of an ill fashion!

PROTEUS    Valentine!

VALENTINE    Thou common friend, that's without faith or love,
    For such is a friend now; treacherous man!
    Thou hast 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 own right hand
    Is perjured to the bosom? Proteus,
    I am sorry I must never trust thee more,
    But count the world a stranger for thy sake.
    The private wound is deepest: O time most accurst,
    'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!

PROTEUS    My shame and guilt confounds me.
    Forgive me, Valentine: if hearty sorrow
    Be a sufficient ransom for offence,
    I tender 't here; I do as truly suffer
    As e'er I did commit.

VALENTINE    Then I am paid;
    And once again I do receive thee honest.
    Who by repentance is not satisfied
    Is nor of heaven nor earth, for these are pleased.
    By penitence the 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.

PROTEUS    How! let me see:
    Why, this is the ring I gave to Julia.

JULIA    O, cry you mercy, sir, I have mistook:
    This is the ring you sent to Silvia.

PROTEUS    But how camest thou by this ring? At my depart
    I gave this unto Julia.

JULIA    And Julia herself did give it me;
    And Julia herself hath brought it hither.

PROTEUS    How! Julia!

JULIA    Behold her that gave aim to all thy oaths,
    And entertain'd 'em deeply in her heart.
    How oft hast thou with perjury cleft the root!
    O Proteus, let this habit make thee blush!
    Be thou 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 the 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 unrivall'd 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 boom that I shall ask of you.

DUKE    I grant it, for thine own, whate'er it be.

VALENTINE    These banish'd men that I have kept withal
    Are men endued with worthy qualities:
    Forgive them what they have committed here
    And let them be recall'd from their exile:
    They are reformed, civil, full of good
    And fit for great employment, worthy lord.

DUKE    Thou hast prevail'd; I pardon them and thee:
    Dispose of them as thou know'st their deserts.
    Come, let us go: we will include all jars
    With triumphs, mirth and rare solemnity.

VALENTINE    And, as we walk along, I dare be bold
    With our discourse to make your grace to smile.
    What think you of this page, my lord?

DUKE    I think the boy hath grace in him; he blushes.

VALENTINE    I warrant you, my lord, more grace than boy.

DUKE    What mean you by that saying?

VALENTINE    Please you, I'll tell you as we pass along,
    That you will wonder what hath fortuned.
    Come, Proteus; 'tis your penance but to hear
    The story of your loves discovered:
    That done, our day of marriage shall be yours;
    One feast, one house, one mutual happiness.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


    A Lord.        |
            |
CHRISTOPHER SLY    a tinker. (SLY:)        |  Persons in
            |  the Induction.
    Hostess, Page, Players,    |
    Huntsmen, and Servants.    |
    (Hostess:)
    (Page:)
    (A Player:)
    (First Huntsman:)
    (Second Huntsman:)
    (Messenger:)
    (First Servant:)
    (Second Servant:)
    (Third Servant:)


BAPTISTA    a rich gentleman of Padua.

VINCENTIO    an old gentleman of Pisa.

LUCENTIO    son to Vincentio, in love with Bianca.

PETRUCHIO    a gentleman of Verona, a suitor to
    Katharina.


GREMIO    |
    | suitors to Bianca.
HORTENSIO    |


TRANIO    |
    | servants to Lucentio.
BIONDELLO    |


GRUMIO    |
    |
CURTIS    |
    |
NATHANIEL    |
    |
NICHOLAS    |  servants to Petruchio.
    |
JOSEPH    |
    |
PHILIP    |
    |
PETER    |

    A Pedant.


KATHARINA the shrew,    |
        | daughters to Baptista.
BIANCA        |

    Widow.

    Tailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending
    on Baptista and Petruchio.
    (Tailor:)
    (Haberdasher:)
    (First Servant:)


SCENE    Padua, and Petruchio's country house.




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

    INDUCTION



SCENE I    Before an alehouse on a heath.


    [Enter Hostess and SLY]

SLY    I'll pheeze you, in faith.

Hostess    A pair of stocks, you rogue!

SLY    Ye are a baggage: the Slys are no rogues; look in
    the chronicles; we came in with Richard Conqueror.
    Therefore paucas pallabris; let the world slide: sessa!

Hostess    You will not pay for the glasses you have burst?

SLY    No, not a denier. Go by, Jeronimy: go to thy cold
    bed, and warm thee.

Hostess    I know my remedy; I must go fetch the
    third--borough.

    [Exit]

SLY    Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I'll answer him
    by law: I'll not budge an inch, boy: let him come,
    and kindly.

    [Falls asleep]

    [Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with his train]

Lord    Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds:
    Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss'd;
    And couple Clowder with the deep--mouth'd brach.
    Saw'st thou not, boy, how Silver made it good
    At the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault?
    I would not lose the dog for twenty pound.

First Huntsman    Why, Belman is as good as he, my lord;
    He cried upon it at the merest loss
    And twice to-day pick'd out the dullest scent:
    Trust me, I take him for the better dog.

Lord    Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,
    I would esteem him worth a dozen such.
    But sup them well and look unto them all:
    To-morrow I intend to hunt again.

First Huntsman    I will, my lord.

Lord    What's here? one dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe?

Second Huntsman    He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm'd with ale,
    This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly.

Lord    O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies!
    Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image!
    Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man.
    What think you, if he were convey'd to bed,
    Wrapp'd in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,
    A most delicious banquet by his bed,
    And brave attendants near him when he wakes,
    Would not the beggar then forget himself?

First Huntsman    Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose.

Second Huntsman    It would seem strange unto him when he waked.

Lord    Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy.
    Then take him up and manage well the jest:
    Carry him gently to my fairest chamber
    And hang it round with all my wanton pictures:
    Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters
    And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet:
    Procure me music ready when he wakes,
    To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;
    And if he chance to speak, be ready straight
    And with a low submissive reverence
    Say 'What is it your honour will command?'
    Let one attend him with a silver basin
    Full of rose-water and bestrew'd with flowers,
    Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,
    And say 'Will't please your lordship cool your hands?'
    Some one be ready with a costly suit
    And ask him what apparel he will wear;
    Another tell him of his hounds and horse,
    And that his lady mourns at his disease:
    Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;
    And when he says he is, say that he dreams,
    For he is nothing but a mighty lord.
    This do and do it kindly, gentle sirs:
    It will be pastime passing excellent,
    If it be husbanded with modesty.

First Huntsman    My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,
    As he shall think by our true diligence
    He is no less than what we say he is.

Lord    Take him up gently and to bed with him;
    And each one to his office when he wakes.

    [Some bear out SLY. A trumpet sounds]

    Sirrah, go see what trumpet 'tis that sounds:

    [Exit Servingman]

    Belike, some noble gentleman that means,
    Travelling some journey, to repose him here.

    [Re-enter Servingman]

    How now! who is it?

Servant    An't please your honour, players
    That offer service to your lordship.

Lord    Bid them come near.

    [Enter Players]

    Now, fellows, you are welcome.

Players    We thank your honour.

Lord    Do you intend to stay with me tonight?

A Player    So please your lordship to accept our duty.

Lord    With all my heart. This fellow I remember,
    Since once he play'd a farmer's eldest son:
    'Twas where you woo'd the gentlewoman so well:
    I have forgot your name; but, sure, that part
    Was aptly fitted and naturally perform'd.

A Player    I think 'twas Soto that your honour means.

Lord    'Tis very true: thou didst it excellent.
    Well, you are come to me in a happy time;
    The rather for I have some sport in hand
    Wherein your cunning can assist me much.
    There is a lord will hear you play to-night:
    But I am doubtful of your modesties;
    Lest over-eyeing of his odd behavior,--
    For yet his honour never heard a play--
    You break into some merry passion
    And so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,
    If you should smile he grows impatient.

A Player    Fear not, my lord: we can contain ourselves,
    Were he the veriest antic in the world.

Lord    Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,
    And give them friendly welcome every one:
    Let them want nothing that my house affords.

    [Exit one with the Players]

    Sirrah, go you to Barthol'mew my page,
    And see him dress'd in all suits like a lady:
    That done, conduct him to the drunkard's chamber;
    And call him 'madam,' do him obeisance.
    Tell him from me, as he will win my love,
    He bear himself with honourable action,
    Such as he hath observed in noble ladies
    Unto their lords, by them accomplished:
    Such duty to the drunkard let him do
    With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,
    And say 'What is't your honour will command,
    Wherein your lady and your humble wife
    May show her duty and make known her love?'
    And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,
    And with declining head into his bosom,
    Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy'd
    To see her noble lord restored to health,
    Who for this seven years hath esteem'd him
    No better than a poor and loathsome beggar:
    And if the boy have not a woman's gift
    To rain a shower of commanded tears,
    An onion will do well for such a shift,
    Which in a napkin being close convey'd
    Shall in despite enforce a watery eye.
    See this dispatch'd with all the haste thou canst:
    Anon I'll give thee more instructions.

    [Exit a Servingman]

    I know the boy will well usurp the grace,
    Voice, gait and action of a gentlewoman:
    I long to hear him call the drunkard husband,
    And how my men will stay themselves from laughter
    When they do homage to this simple peasant.
    I'll in to counsel them; haply my presence
    May well abate the over-merry spleen
    Which otherwise would grow into extremes.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW

    INDUCTION



SCENE II    A bedchamber in the Lord's house.


    [Enter aloft SLY, with Attendants; some with apparel,
    others with basin and ewer and appurtenances; and Lord]

SLY    For God's sake, a pot of small ale.

First Servant    Will't please your lordship drink a cup of sack?

Second Servant    Will't please your honour taste of these conserves?

Third Servant    What raiment will your honour wear to-day?

SLY    I am Christophero Sly; call not me 'honour' nor
    'lordship:' I ne'er drank sack in my life; and if
    you give me any conserves, give me conserves of
    beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear; for I
    have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings
    than legs, nor no more shoes than feet; nay,
    sometimes more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my
    toes look through the over-leather.

Lord    Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour!
    O, that a mighty man of such descent,
    Of such possessions and so high esteem,
    Should be infused with so foul a spirit!

SLY    What, would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher
    Sly, old Sly's son of Burtonheath, by birth a
    pedlar, by education a cardmaker, by transmutation a
    bear-herd, and now by present profession a tinker?
    Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife of Wincot, if
    she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence
    on the score for sheer ale, score me up for the
    lyingest knave in Christendom. What! I am not
    bestraught: here's--

Third Servant    O, this it is that makes your lady mourn!

Second Servant    O, this is it that makes your servants droop!

Lord    Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,
    As beaten hence by your strange lunacy.
    O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,
    Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment
    And banish hence these abject lowly dreams.
    Look how thy servants do attend on thee,
    Each in his office ready at thy beck.
    Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays,

    [Music]

    And twenty caged nightingales do sing:
    Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a couch
    Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed
    On purpose trimm'd up for Semiramis.
    Say thou wilt walk; we will bestrew the ground:
    Or wilt thou ride? thy horses shall be trapp'd,
    Their harness studded all with gold and pearl.
    Dost thou love hawking? thou hast hawks will soar
    Above the morning lark or wilt thou hunt?
    Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer them
    And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.

First Servant    Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swift
    As breathed stags, ay, fleeter than the roe.

Second Servant    Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight
    Adonis painted by a running brook,
    And Cytherea all in sedges hid,
    Which seem to move and wanton with her breath,
    Even as the waving sedges play with wind.

Lord    We'll show thee Io as she was a maid,
    And how she was beguiled and surprised,
    As lively painted as the deed was done.

Third Servant    Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,
    Scratching her legs that one shall swear she bleeds,
    And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,
    So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn.

Lord    Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:
    Thou hast a lady far more beautiful
    Than any woman in this waning age.

First Servant    And till the tears that she hath shed for thee
    Like envious floods o'er-run her lovely face,
    She was the fairest creature in the world;
    And yet she is inferior to none.

SLY    Am I a lord? and have I such a lady?
    Or do I dream? or have I dream'd till now?
    I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;
    I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things:
    Upon my life, I am a lord indeed
    And not a tinker nor Christophero Sly.
    Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;
    And once again, a pot o' the smallest ale.

Second Servant    Will't please your mightiness to wash your hands?
    O, how we joy to see your wit restored!
    O, that once more you knew but what you are!
    These fifteen years you have been in a dream;
    Or when you waked, so waked as if you slept.

SLY    These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap.
    But did I never speak of all that time?

First Servant    O, yes, my lord, but very idle words:
    For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,
    Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door;
    And rail upon the hostess of the house;
    And say you would present her at the leet,
    Because she brought stone jugs and no seal'd quarts:
    Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket.

SLY    Ay, the woman's maid of the house.

Third Servant    Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,
    Nor no such men as you have reckon'd up,
    As Stephen Sly and did John Naps of Greece
    And Peter Turph and Henry Pimpernell
    And twenty more such names and men as these
    Which never were nor no man ever saw.

SLY    Now Lord be thanked for my good amends!

ALL    Amen.

SLY    I thank thee: thou shalt not lose by it.

    [Enter the Page as a lady, with attendants]

Page    How fares my noble lord?

SLY    Marry, I fare well for here is cheer enough.
    Where is my wife?

Page    Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her?

SLY    Are you my wife and will not call me husband?
    My men should call me 'lord:' I am your goodman.

Page    My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;
    I am your wife in all obedience.

SLY    I know it well. What must I call her?

Lord    Madam.

SLY    Al'ce madam, or Joan madam?

Lord    'Madam,' and nothing else: so lords
    call ladies.

SLY    Madam wife, they say that I have dream'd
    And slept above some fifteen year or more.

Page    Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,
    Being all this time abandon'd from your bed.

SLY    'Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone.
    Madam, undress you and come now to bed.

Page    Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of you
    To pardon me yet for a night or two,
    Or, if not so, until the sun be set:
    For your physicians have expressly charged,
    In peril to incur your former malady,
    That I should yet absent me from your bed:
    I hope this reason stands for my excuse.

SLY    Ay, it stands so that I may hardly
    tarry so long. But I would be loath to fall into
    my dreams again: I will therefore tarry in
    despite of the flesh and the blood.

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    Your honour's players, heating your amendment,
    Are come to play a pleasant comedy;
    For so your doctors hold it very meet,
    Seeing too much sadness hath congeal'd your blood,
    And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:
    Therefore they thought it good you hear a play
    And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,
    Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life.

SLY    Marry, I will, let them play it. Is not a
    comondy a Christmas gambold or a tumbling-trick?

Page    No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff.

SLY    What, household stuff?

Page    It is a kind of history.

SLY    Well, well see't. Come, madam wife, sit by my side
    and let the world slip: we shall ne'er be younger.

    [Flourish]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT I



SCENE I    Padua. A public place.


    [Enter LUCENTIO and his man TRANIO]

LUCENTIO    Tranio, since for the great desire I had
    To see fair Padua, nursery of arts,
    I am arrived for fruitful Lombardy,
    The pleasant garden of great Italy;
    And by my father's love and leave am arm'd
    With his good will and thy good company,
    My trusty servant, well approved in all,
    Here let us breathe and haply institute
    A course of learning and ingenious studies.
    Pisa renown'd for grave citizens
    Gave me my being and my father first,
    A merchant of great traffic through the world,
    Vincetino come of Bentivolii.
    Vincetino's son brought up in Florence
    It shall become to serve all hopes conceived,
    To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:
    And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,
    Virtue and that part of philosophy
    Will I apply that treats of happiness
    By virtue specially to be achieved.
    Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa left
    And am to Padua come, as he that leaves
    A shallow plash to plunge him in the deep
    And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst.

TRANIO    Mi perdonato, gentle master mine,
    I am in all affected as yourself;
    Glad that you thus continue your resolve
    To suck the sweets of sweet philosophy.
    Only, good master, while we do admire
    This virtue and this moral discipline,
    Let's be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;
    Or so devote to Aristotle's cheques
    As Ovid be an outcast quite abjured:
    Balk logic with acquaintance that you have
    And practise rhetoric in your common talk;
    Music and poesy use to quicken you;
    The mathematics and the metaphysics,
    Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you;
    No profit grows where is no pleasure ta'en:
    In brief, sir, study what you most affect.

LUCENTIO    Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise.
    If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,
    We could at once put us in readiness,
    And take a lodging fit to entertain
    Such friends as time in Padua shall beget.
    But stay a while: what company is this?

TRANIO    Master, some show to welcome us to town.

    [Enter BAPTISTA, KATHARINA, BIANCA, GREMIO, and
    HORTENSIO. LUCENTIO and TRANIO stand by]

BAPTISTA    Gentlemen, importune me no farther,
    For how I firmly am resolved you know;
    That is, not bestow my youngest daughter
    Before I have a husband for the elder:
    If either of you both love Katharina,
    Because I know you well and love you well,
    Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure.

GREMIO    [Aside]  To cart her rather: she's too rough for me.
    There, There, Hortensio, will you any wife?

KATHARINA    I pray you, sir, is it your will
    To make a stale of me amongst these mates?

HORTENSIO    Mates, maid! how mean you that? no mates for you,
    Unless you were of gentler, milder mould.

KATHARINA    I'faith, sir, you shall never need to fear:
    I wis it is not half way to her heart;
    But if it were, doubt not her care should be
    To comb your noddle with a three-legg'd stool
    And paint your face and use you like a fool.

HORTENSIA    From all such devils, good Lord deliver us!

GREMIO    And me too, good Lord!

TRANIO    Hush, master! here's some good pastime toward:
    That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward.

LUCENTIO    But in the other's silence do I see
    Maid's mild behavior and sobriety.
    Peace, Tranio!

TRANIO    Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill.

BAPTISTA    Gentlemen, that I may soon make good
    What I have said, Bianca, get you in:
    And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,
    For I will love thee ne'er the less, my girl.

KATHARINA    A pretty peat! it is best
    Put finger in the eye, an she knew why.

BIANCA    Sister, content you in my discontent.
    Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:
    My books and instruments shall be my company,
    On them to took and practise by myself.

LUCENTIO    Hark, Tranio! thou may'st hear Minerva speak.

HORTENSIO    Signior Baptista, will you be so strange?
    Sorry am I that our good will effects
    Bianca's grief.

GREMIO                      Why will you mew her up,
    Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,
    And make her bear the penance of her tongue?

BAPTISTA    Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolved:
    Go in, Bianca:

    [Exit BIANCA]

    And for I know she taketh most delight
    In music, instruments and poetry,
    Schoolmasters will I keep within my house,
    Fit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,
    Or Signior Gremio, you, know any such,
    Prefer them hither; for to cunning men
    I will be very kind, and liberal
    To mine own children in good bringing up:
    And so farewell. Katharina, you may stay;
    For I have more to commune with Bianca.

    [Exit]

KATHARINA    Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What,
    shall I be appointed hours; as though, belike, I
    knew not what to take and what to leave, ha?

    [Exit]

GREMIO    You may go to the devil's dam: your gifts are so
    good, here's none will hold you. Their love is not
    so great, Hortensio, but we may blow our nails
    together, and fast it fairly out: our cakes dough on
    both sides. Farewell: yet for the love I bear my
    sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit
    man to teach her that wherein she delights, I will
    wish him to her father.

HORTENSIO    So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray.
    Though the nature of our quarrel yet never brooked
    parle, know now, upon advice, it toucheth us both,
    that we may yet again have access to our fair
    mistress and be happy rivals in Bianco's love, to
    labour and effect one thing specially.

GREMIO    What's that, I pray?

HORTENSIO    Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister.

GREMIO    A husband! a devil.

HORTENSIO    I say, a husband.

GREMIO    I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though
    her father be very rich, any man is so very a fool
    to be married to hell?

HORTENSIO    Tush, Gremio, though it pass your patience and mine
    to endure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good
    fellows in the world, an a man could light on them,
    would take her with all faults, and money enough.

GREMIO    I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with
    this condition, to be whipped at the high cross
    every morning.

HORTENSIO    Faith, as you say, there's small choice in rotten
    apples. But come; since this bar in law makes us
    friends, it shall be so far forth friendly
    maintained all by helping Baptista's eldest daughter
    to a husband we set his youngest free for a husband,
    and then have to't a fresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy man
    be his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring.
    How say you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO    I am agreed; and would I had given him the best
    horse in Padua to begin his wooing that would
    thoroughly woo her, wed her and bed her and rid the
    house of her! Come on.

    [Exeunt GREMIO and HORTENSIO]

TRANIO    I pray, sir, tell me, is it possible
    That love should of a sudden take such hold?

LUCENTIO    O Tranio, till I found it to be true,
    I never thought it possible or likely;
    But see, while idly I stood looking on,
    I found the effect of love in idleness:
    And now in plainness do confess to thee,
    That art to me as secret and as dear
    As Anna to the queen of Carthage was,
    Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,
    If I achieve not this young modest girl.
    Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst;
    Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt.

TRANIO    Master, it is no time to chide you now;
    Affection is not rated from the heart:
    If love have touch'd you, nought remains but so,
    'Redime te captum quam queas minimo.'

LUCENTIO    Gramercies, lad, go forward; this contents:
    The rest will comfort, for thy counsel's sound.

TRANIO    Master, you look'd so longly on the maid,
    Perhaps you mark'd not what's the pith of all.

LUCENTIO    O yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,
    Such as the daughter of Agenor had,
    That made great Jove to humble him to her hand.
    When with his knees he kiss'd the Cretan strand.

TRANIO    Saw you no more? mark'd you not how her sister
    Began to scold and raise up such a storm
    That mortal ears might hardly endure the din?

LUCENTIO    Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move
    And with her breath she did perfume the air:
    Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her.

TRANIO    Nay, then, 'tis time to stir him from his trance.
    I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,
    Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:
    Her eldest sister is so curst and shrewd
    That till the father rid his hands of her,
    Master, your love must live a maid at home;
    And therefore has he closely mew'd her up,
    Because she will not be annoy'd with suitors.

LUCENTIO    Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father's he!
    But art thou not advised, he took some care
    To get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her?

TRANIO    Ay, marry, am I, sir; and now 'tis plotted.

LUCENTIO    I have it, Tranio.

TRANIO                      Master, for my hand,
    Both our inventions meet and jump in one.

LUCENTIO    Tell me thine first.

TRANIO    You will be schoolmaster
    And undertake the teaching of the maid:
    That's your device.

LUCENTIO    It is: may it be done?

TRANIO    Not possible; for who shall bear your part,
    And be in Padua here Vincentio's son,
    Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends,
    Visit his countrymen and banquet them?

LUCENTIO    Basta; content thee, for I have it full.
    We have not yet been seen in any house,
    Nor can we lie distinguish'd by our faces
    For man or master; then it follows thus;
    Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,
    Keep house and port and servants as I should:
    I will some other be, some Florentine,
    Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa.
    'Tis hatch'd and shall be so: Tranio, at once
    Uncase thee; take my colour'd hat and cloak:
    When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;
    But I will charm him first to keep his tongue.

TRANIO    So had you need.
    In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,
    And I am tied to be obedient;
    For so your father charged me at our parting,
    'Be serviceable to my son,' quoth he,
    Although I think 'twas in another sense;
    I am content to be Lucentio,
    Because so well I love Lucentio.

LUCENTIO    Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves:
    And let me be a slave, to achieve that maid
    Whose sudden sight hath thrall'd my wounded eye.
    Here comes the rogue.

    [Enter BIONDELLO]

        Sirrah, where have you been?

BIONDELLO    Where have I been! Nay, how now! where are you?
    Master, has my fellow Tranio stolen your clothes? Or
    you stolen his? or both? pray, what's the news?

LUCENTIO    Sirrah, come hither: 'tis no time to jest,
    And therefore frame your manners to the time.
    Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,
    Puts my apparel and my countenance on,
    And I for my escape have put on his;
    For in a quarrel since I came ashore
    I kill'd a man and fear I was descried:
    Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,
    While I make way from hence to save my life:
    You understand me?

BIONDELLO                      I, sir! ne'er a whit.

LUCENTIO    And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:
    Tranio is changed into Lucentio.

BIONDELLO    The better for him: would I were so too!

TRANIO    So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,
    That Lucentio indeed had Baptista's youngest daughter.
    But, sirrah, not for my sake, but your master's, I advise
    You use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:
    When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;
    But in all places else your master Lucentio.

LUCENTIO    Tranio, let's go: one thing more rests, that
    thyself execute, to make one among these wooers: if
    thou ask me why, sufficeth, my reasons are both good
    and weighty.

    [Exeunt]

    [The presenters above speak]

First Servant    My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play.

SLY    Yes, by Saint Anne, do I. A good matter, surely:
    comes there any more of it?

Page    My lord, 'tis but begun.

SLY    'Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady:
    would 'twere done!

    [They sit and mark]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT I



SCENE II    Padua. Before HORTENSIO'S house.


    [Enter PETRUCHIO and his man GRUMIO]

PETRUCHIO    Verona, for a while I take my leave,
    To see my friends in Padua, but of all
    My best beloved and approved friend,
    Hortensio; and I trow this is his house.
    Here, sirrah Grumio; knock, I say.

GRUMIO    Knock, sir! whom should I knock? is there man has
    rebused your worship?

PETRUCHIO    Villain, I say, knock me here soundly.

GRUMIO    Knock you here, sir! why, sir, what am I, sir, that
    I should knock you here, sir?

PETRUCHIO    Villain, I say, knock me at this gate
    And rap me well, or I'll knock your knave's pate.

GRUMIO    My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock
    you first,
    And then I know after who comes by the worst.

PETRUCHIO    Will it not be?
    Faith, sirrah, an you'll not knock, I'll ring it;
    I'll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it.

    [He wrings him by the ears]

GRUMIO    Help, masters, help! my master is mad.

PETRUCHIO    Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain!

    [Enter HORTENSIO]

HORTENSIO    How now! what's the matter? My old friend Grumio!
    and my good friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona?

PETRUCHIO    Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray?
    'Con tutto il cuore, ben trovato,' may I say.

HORTENSIO    'Alla nostra casa ben venuto, molto honorato signor
    mio Petruchio.' Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound
    this quarrel.

GRUMIO    Nay, 'tis no matter, sir, what he 'leges in Latin.
    if this be not a lawful case for me to leave his
    service, look you, sir, he bid me knock him and rap
    him soundly, sir: well, was it fit for a servant to
    use his master so, being perhaps, for aught I see,
    two and thirty, a pip out? Whom would to God I had
    well knock'd at first, Then had not Grumio come by the worst.

PETRUCHIO    A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,
    I bade the rascal knock upon your gate
    And could not get him for my heart to do it.

GRUMIO    Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these
    words plain, 'Sirrah, knock me here, rap me here,
    knock me well, and knock me soundly'? And come you
    now with, 'knocking at the gate'?

PETRUCHIO    Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you.

HORTENSIO    Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio's pledge:
    Why, this's a heavy chance 'twixt him and you,
    Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio.
    And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy gale
    Blows you to Padua here from old Verona?

PETRUCHIO    Such wind as scatters young men through the world,
    To seek their fortunes farther than at home
    Where small experience grows. But in a few,
    Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:
    Antonio, my father, is deceased;
    And I have thrust myself into this maze,
    Haply to wive and thrive as best I may:
    Crowns in my purse I have and goods at home,
    And so am come abroad to see the world.

HORTENSIO    Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to thee
    And wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour'd wife?
    Thou'ldst thank me but a little for my counsel:
    And yet I'll promise thee she shall be rich
    And very rich: but thou'rt too much my friend,
    And I'll not wish thee to her.

PETRUCHIO    Signior Hortensio, 'twixt such friends as we
    Few words suffice; and therefore, if thou know
    One rich enough to be Petruchio's wife,
    As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,
    Be she as foul as was Florentius' love,
    As old as Sibyl and as curst and shrewd
    As Socrates' Xanthippe, or a worse,
    She moves me not, or not removes, at least,
    Affection's edge in me, were she as rough
    As are the swelling Adriatic seas:
    I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;
    If wealthily, then happily in Padua.

GRUMIO    Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his
    mind is: Why give him gold enough and marry him to
    a puppet or an aglet-baby; or an old trot with ne'er
    a tooth in her head, though she have as many diseases
    as two and fifty horses: why, nothing comes amiss,
    so money comes withal.

HORTENSIO    Petruchio, since we are stepp'd thus far in,
    I will continue that I broach'd in jest.
    I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wife
    With wealth enough and young and beauteous,
    Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman:
    Her only fault, and that is faults enough,
    Is that she is intolerable curst
    And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure
    That, were my state far worser than it is,
    I would not wed her for a mine of gold.

PETRUCHIO    Hortensio, peace! thou know'st not gold's effect:
    Tell me her father's name and 'tis enough;
    For I will board her, though she chide as loud
    As thunder when the clouds in autumn crack.

HORTENSIO    Her father is Baptista Minola,
    An affable and courteous gentleman:
    Her name is Katharina Minola,
    Renown'd in Padua for her scolding tongue.

PETRUCHIO    I know her father, though I know not her;
    And he knew my deceased father well.
    I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;
    And therefore let me be thus bold with you
    To give you over at this first encounter,
    Unless you will accompany me thither.

GRUMIO    I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts.
    O' my word, an she knew him as well as I do, she
    would think scolding would do little good upon him:
    she may perhaps call him half a score knaves or so:
    why, that's nothing; an he begin once, he'll rail in
    his rope-tricks. I'll tell you what sir, an she
    stand him but a little, he will throw a figure in
    her face and so disfigure her with it that she
    shall have no more eyes to see withal than a cat.
    You know him not, sir.

HORTENSIO    Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,
    For in Baptista's keep my treasure is:
    He hath the jewel of my life in hold,
    His youngest daughter, beautiful Binaca,
    And her withholds from me and other more,
    Suitors to her and rivals in my love,
    Supposing it a thing impossible,
    For those defects I have before rehearsed,
    That ever Katharina will be woo'd;
    Therefore this order hath Baptista ta'en,
    That none shall have access unto Bianca
    Till Katharina the curst have got a husband.

GRUMIO    Katharina the curst!
    A title for a maid of all titles the worst.

HORTENSIO    Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,
    And offer me disguised in sober robes
    To old Baptista as a schoolmaster
    Well seen in music, to instruct Bianca;
    That so I may, by this device, at least
    Have leave and leisure to make love to her
    And unsuspected court her by herself.

GRUMIO    Here's no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks,
    how the young folks lay their heads together!

    [Enter GREMIO, and LUCENTIO disguised]

    Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha?

HORTENSIO    Peace, Grumio! it is the rival of my love.
    Petruchio, stand by a while.

GRUMIO    A proper stripling and an amorous!

GREMIO    O, very well; I have perused the note.
    Hark you, sir: I'll have them very fairly bound:
    All books of love, see that at any hand;
    And see you read no other lectures to her:
    You understand me: over and beside
    Signior Baptista's liberality,
    I'll mend it with a largess. Take your paper too,
    And let me have them very well perfumed
    For she is sweeter than perfume itself
    To whom they go to. What will you read to her?

LUCENTIO    Whate'er I read to her, I'll plead for you
    As for my patron, stand you so assured,
    As firmly as yourself were still in place:
    Yea, and perhaps with more successful words
    Than you, unless you were a scholar, sir.

GREMIO    O this learning, what a thing it is!

GRUMIO    O this woodcock, what an ass it is!

PETRUCHIO    Peace, sirrah!

HORTENSIO    Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio.

GREMIO    And you are well met, Signior Hortensio.
    Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola.
    I promised to inquire carefully
    About a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca:
    And by good fortune I have lighted well
    On this young man, for learning and behavior
    Fit for her turn, well read in poetry
    And other books, good ones, I warrant ye.

HORTENSIO    'Tis well; and I have met a gentleman
    Hath promised me to help me to another,
    A fine musician to instruct our mistress;
    So shall I no whit be behind in duty
    To fair Bianca, so beloved of me.

GREMIO    Beloved of me; and that my deeds shall prove.

GRUMIO    And that his bags shall prove.

HORTENSIO    Gremio, 'tis now no time to vent our love:
    Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,
    I'll tell you news indifferent good for either.
    Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,
    Upon agreement from us to his liking,
    Will undertake to woo curst Katharina,
    Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please.

GREMIO    So said, so done, is well.
    Hortensio, have you told him all her faults?

PETRUCHIO    I know she is an irksome brawling scold:
    If that be all, masters, I hear no harm.

GREMIO    No, say'st me so, friend? What countryman?

PETRUCHIO    Born in Verona, old Antonio's son:
    My father dead, my fortune lives for me;
    And I do hope good days and long to see.

GREMIO    O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange!
    But if you have a stomach, to't i' God's name:
    You shall have me assisting you in all.
    But will you woo this wild-cat?

PETRUCHIO    Will I live?

GRUMIO    Will he woo her? ay, or I'll hang her.

PETRUCHIO    Why came I hither but to that intent?
    Think you a little din can daunt mine ears?
    Have I not in my time heard lions roar?
    Have I not heard the sea puff'd up with winds
    Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat?
    Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
    And heaven's artillery thunder in the skies?
    Have I not in a pitched battle heard
    Loud 'larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets' clang?
    And do you tell me of a woman's tongue,
    That gives not half so great a blow to hear
    As will a chestnut in a farmer's fire?
    Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs.

GRUMIO    For he fears none.

GREMIO    Hortensio, hark:
    This gentleman is happily arrived,
    My mind presumes, for his own good and ours.

HORTENSIO    I promised we would be contributors
    And bear his charging of wooing, whatsoe'er.

GREMIO    And so we will, provided that he win her.

GRUMIO    I would I were as sure of a good dinner.

    [Enter TRANIO brave, and BIONDELLO]

TRANIO    Gentlemen, God save you. If I may be bold,
    Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest way
    To the house of Signior Baptista Minola?

BIONDELLO    He that has the two fair daughters: is't he you mean?

TRANIO    Even he, Biondello.

GREMIO    Hark you, sir; you mean not her to--

TRANIO    Perhaps, him and her, sir: what have you to do?

PETRUCHIO    Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray.

TRANIO    I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let's away.

LUCENTIO    Well begun, Tranio.

HORTENSIO    Sir, a word ere you go;
    Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no?

TRANIO    And if I be, sir, is it any offence?

GREMIO    No; if without more words you will get you hence.

TRANIO    Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as free
    For me as for you?

GREMIO                      But so is not she.

TRANIO    For what reason, I beseech you?

GREMIO    For this reason, if you'll know,
    That she's the choice love of Signior Gremio.

HORTENSIO    That she's the chosen of Signior Hortensio.

TRANIO    Softly, my masters! if you be gentlemen,
    Do me this right; hear me with patience.
    Baptista is a noble gentleman,
    To whom my father is not all unknown;
    And were his daughter fairer than she is,
    She may more suitors have and me for one.
    Fair Leda's daughter had a thousand wooers;
    Then well one more may fair Bianca have:
    And so she shall; Lucentio shall make one,
    Though Paris came in hope to speed alone.

GREMIO    What! this gentleman will out-talk us all.

LUCENTIO    Sir, give him head: I know he'll prove a jade.

PETRUCHIO    Hortensio, to what end are all these words?

HORTENSIO    Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,
    Did you yet ever see Baptista's daughter?

TRANIO    No, sir; but hear I do that he hath two,
    The one as famous for a scolding tongue
    As is the other for beauteous modesty.

PETRUCHIO    Sir, sir, the first's for me; let her go by.

GREMIO    Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules;
    And let it be more than Alcides' twelve.

PETRUCHIO    Sir, understand you this of me in sooth:
    The youngest daughter whom you hearken for
    Her father keeps from all access of suitors,
    And will not promise her to any man
    Until the elder sister first be wed:
    The younger then is free and not before.

TRANIO    If it be so, sir, that you are the man
    Must stead us all and me amongst the rest,
    And if you break the ice and do this feat,
    Achieve the elder, set the younger free
    For our access, whose hap shall be to have her
    Will not so graceless be to be ingrate.

HORTENSIO    Sir, you say well and well you do conceive;
    And since you do profess to be a suitor,
    You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,
    To whom we all rest generally beholding.

TRANIO    Sir, I shall not be slack: in sign whereof,
    Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,
    And quaff carouses to our mistress' health,
    And do as adversaries do in law,
    Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.


GRUMIO    |
    |  O excellent motion! Fellows, let's be gone.
BIONDELLO    |


HORTENSIO    The motion's good indeed and be it so,
    Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT II



SCENE I    Padua. A room in BAPTISTA'S house.


    [Enter KATHARINA and BIANCA]

BIANCA    Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,
    To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;
    That I disdain: but for these other gawds,
    Unbind my hands, I'll pull them off myself,
    Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;
    Or what you will command me will I do,
    So well I know my duty to my elders.

KATHARINA    Of all thy suitors, here I charge thee, tell
    Whom thou lovest best: see thou dissemble not.

BIANCA    Believe me, sister, of all the men alive
    I never yet beheld that special face
    Which I could fancy more than any other.

KATHARINA    Minion, thou liest. Is't not Hortensio?

BIANCA    If you affect him, sister, here I swear
    I'll plead for you myself, but you shall have
    him.

KATHARINA    O then, belike, you fancy riches more:
    You will have Gremio to keep you fair.

BIANCA    Is it for him you do envy me so?
    Nay then you jest, and now I well perceive
    You have but jested with me all this while:
    I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands.

KATHARINA    If that be jest, then all the rest was so.

    [Strikes her]

    [Enter BAPTISTA]

BAPTISTA    Why, how now, dame! whence grows this insolence?
    Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps.
    Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her.
    For shame, thou helding of a devilish spirit,
    Why dost thou wrong her that did ne'er wrong thee?
    When did she cross thee with a bitter word?

KATHARINA    Her silence flouts me, and I'll be revenged.

    [Flies after BIANCA]

BAPTISTA    What, in my sight? Bianca, get thee in.

    [Exit BIANCA]

KATHARINA    What, will you not suffer me? Nay, now I see
    She is your treasure, she must have a husband;
    I must dance bare-foot on her wedding day
    And for your love to her lead apes in hell.
    Talk not to me: I will go sit and weep
    Till I can find occasion of revenge.

    [Exit]

BAPTISTA    Was ever gentleman thus grieved as I?
    But who comes here?

    [Enter GREMIO, LUCENTIO in the habit of a mean man;
    PETRUCHIO, with HORTENSIO as a musician; and TRANIO,
    with BIONDELLO bearing a lute and books]

GREMIO    Good morrow, neighbour Baptista.

BAPTISTA    Good morrow, neighbour Gremio.
    God save you, gentlemen!

PETRUCHIO    And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughter
    Call'd Katharina, fair and virtuous?

BAPTISTA    I have a daughter, sir, called Katharina.

GREMIO    You are too blunt: go to it orderly.

PETRUCHIO    You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave.
    I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,
    That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,
    Her affability and bashful modesty,
    Her wondrous qualities and mild behavior,
    Am bold to show myself a forward guest
    Within your house, to make mine eye the witness
    Of that report which I so oft have heard.
    And, for an entrance to my entertainment,
    I do present you with a man of mine,

    [Presenting HORTENSIO]

    Cunning in music and the mathematics,
    To instruct her fully in those sciences,
    Whereof I know she is not ignorant:
    Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:
    His name is Licio, born in Mantua.

BAPTISTA    You're welcome, sir; and he, for your good sake.
    But for my daughter Katharina, this I know,
    She is not for your turn, the more my grief.

PETRUCHIO    I see you do not mean to part with her,
    Or else you like not of my company.

BAPTISTA    Mistake me not; I speak but as I find.
    Whence are you, sir? what may I call your name?

PETRUCHIO    Petruchio is my name; Antonio's son,
    A man well known throughout all Italy.

BAPTISTA    I know him well: you are welcome for his sake.

GREMIO    Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,
    Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too:
    Baccare! you are marvellous forward.

PETRUCHIO    O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing.

GREMIO    I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your
    wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am
    sure of it. To express the like kindness, myself,
    that have been more kindly beholding to you than
    any, freely give unto you this young scholar,

    [Presenting LUCENTIO]

    that hath been long studying at Rheims; as cunning
    in Greek, Latin, and other languages, as the other
    in music and mathematics: his name is Cambio; pray,
    accept his service.

BAPTISTA    A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio.
    Welcome, good Cambio.

    [To TRANIO]

    But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger:
    may I be so bold to know the cause of your coming?

TRANIO    Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,
    That, being a stranger in this city here,
    Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,
    Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous.
    Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,
    In the preferment of the eldest sister.
    This liberty is all that I request,
    That, upon knowledge of my parentage,
    I may have welcome 'mongst the rest that woo
    And free access and favour as the rest:
    And, toward the education of your daughters,
    I here bestow a simple instrument,
    And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:
    If you accept them, then their worth is great.

BAPTISTA    Lucentio is your name; of whence, I pray?

TRANIO    Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio.

BAPTISTA    A mighty man of Pisa; by report
    I know him well: you are very welcome, sir,
    Take you the lute, and you the set of books;
    You shall go see your pupils presently.
    Holla, within!

    [Enter a Servant]

    Sirrah, lead these gentlemen
    To my daughters; and tell them both,
    These are their tutors: bid them use them well.

    [Exit Servant, with LUCENTIO and HORTENSIO,
    BIONDELLO following]

    We will go walk a little in the orchard,
    And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,
    And so I pray you all to think yourselves.

PETRUCHIO    Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,
    And every day I cannot come to woo.
    You knew my father well, and in him me,
    Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,
    Which I have better'd rather than decreased:
    Then tell me, if I get your daughter's love,
    What dowry shall I have with her to wife?

BAPTISTA    After my death the one half of my lands,
    And in possession twenty thousand crowns.

PETRUCHIO    And, for that dowry, I'll assure her of
    Her widowhood, be it that she survive me,
    In all my lands and leases whatsoever:
    Let specialties be therefore drawn between us,
    That covenants may be kept on either hand.

BAPTISTA    Ay, when the special thing is well obtain'd,
    That is, her love; for that is all in all.

PETRUCHIO    Why, that is nothing: for I tell you, father,
    I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;
    And where two raging fires meet together
    They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:
    Though little fire grows great with little wind,
    Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all:
    So I to her and so she yields to me;
    For I am rough and woo not like a babe.

BAPTISTA    Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed!
    But be thou arm'd for some unhappy words.

PETRUCHIO    Ay, to the proof; as mountains are for winds,
    That shake not, though they blow perpetually.

    [Re-enter HORTENSIO, with his head broke]

BAPTISTA    How now, my friend! why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO    For fear, I promise you, if I look pale.

BAPTISTA    What, will my daughter prove a good musician?

HORTENSIO    I think she'll sooner prove a soldier
    Iron may hold with her, but never lutes.

BAPTISTA    Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute?

HORTENSIO    Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me.
    I did but tell her she mistook her frets,
    And bow'd her hand to teach her fingering;
    When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,
    'Frets, call you these?' quoth she; 'I'll fume
    with them:'
    And, with that word, she struck me on the head,
    And through the instrument my pate made way;
    And there I stood amazed for a while,
    As on a pillory, looking through the lute;
    While she did call me rascal fiddler
    And twangling Jack; with twenty such vile terms,
    As had she studied to misuse me so.

PETRUCHIO    Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench;
    I love her ten times more than e'er I did:
    O, how I long to have some chat with her!

BAPTISTA    Well, go with me and be not so discomfited:
    Proceed in practise with my younger daughter;
    She's apt to learn and thankful for good turns.
    Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,
    Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you?

PETRUCHIO    I pray you do.

    [Exeunt all but PETRUCHIO]

    I will attend her here,
    And woo her with some spirit when she comes.
    Say that she rail; why then I'll tell her plain
    She sings as sweetly as a nightingale:
    Say that she frown, I'll say she looks as clear
    As morning roses newly wash'd with dew:
    Say she be mute and will not speak a word;
    Then I'll commend her volubility,
    And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:
    If she do bid me pack, I'll give her thanks,
    As though she bid me stay by her a week:
    If she deny to wed, I'll crave the day
    When I shall ask the banns and when be married.
    But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak.

    [Enter KATHARINA]

    Good morrow, Kate; for that's your name, I hear.

KATHARINA    Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:
    They call me Katharina that do talk of me.

PETRUCHIO    You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate,
    And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst;
    But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom
    Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,
    For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,
    Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;
    Hearing thy mildness praised in every town,
    Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,
    Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,
    Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

KATHARINA    Moved! in good time: let him that moved you hither
    Remove you hence: I knew you at the first
    You were a moveable.

PETRUCHIO    Why, what's a moveable?

KATHARINA    A join'd-stool.

PETRUCHIO    Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me.

KATHARINA    Asses are made to bear, and so are you.

PETRUCHIO    Women are made to bear, and so are you.

KATHARINA    No such jade as you, if me you mean.

PETRUCHIO    Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;
    For, knowing thee to be but young and light--

KATHARINA    Too light for such a swain as you to catch;
    And yet as heavy as my weight should be.

PETRUCHIO    Should be! should--buzz!

KATHARINA    Well ta'en, and like a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO    O slow-wing'd turtle! shall a buzzard take thee?

KATHARINA    Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard.

PETRUCHIO    Come, come, you wasp; i' faith, you are too angry.

KATHARINA    If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

PETRUCHIO    My remedy is then, to pluck it out.

KATHARINA    Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies,

PETRUCHIO    Who knows not where a wasp does
    wear his sting? In his tail.

KATHARINA    In his tongue.

PETRUCHIO    Whose tongue?

KATHARINA    Yours, if you talk of tails: and so farewell.

PETRUCHIO    What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again,
    Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

KATHARINA    That I'll try.

    [She strikes him]

PETRUCHIO    I swear I'll cuff you, if you strike again.

KATHARINA    So may you lose your arms:
    If you strike me, you are no gentleman;
    And if no gentleman, why then no arms.

PETRUCHIO    A herald, Kate? O, put me in thy books!

KATHARINA    What is your crest? a coxcomb?

PETRUCHIO    A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen.

KATHARINA    No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven.

PETRUCHIO    Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour.

KATHARINA    It is my fashion, when I see a crab.

PETRUCHIO    Why, here's no crab; and therefore look not sour.

KATHARINA    There is, there is.

PETRUCHIO    Then show it me.

KATHARINA    Had I a glass, I would.

PETRUCHIO    What, you mean my face?

KATHARINA    Well aim'd of such a young one.

PETRUCHIO    Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you.

KATHARINA    Yet you are wither'd.

PETRUCHIO    'Tis with cares.

KATHARINA    I care not.

PETRUCHIO    Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth you scape not so.

KATHARINA    I chafe you, if I tarry: let me go.

PETRUCHIO    No, not a whit: I find you passing gentle.
    'Twas told me you were rough and coy and sullen,
    And now I find report a very liar;
    For thou are pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,
    But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers:
    Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,
    Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,
    Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk,
    But thou with mildness entertain'st thy wooers,
    With gentle conference, soft and affable.
    Why does the world report that Kate doth limp?
    O slanderous world! Kate like the hazel-twig
    Is straight and slender and as brown in hue
    As hazel nuts and sweeter than the kernels.
    O, let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt.

KATHARINA    Go, fool, and whom thou keep'st command.

PETRUCHIO    Did ever Dian so become a grove
    As Kate this chamber with her princely gait?
    O, be thou Dian, and let her be Kate;
    And then let Kate be chaste and Dian sportful!

KATHARINA    Where did you study all this goodly speech?

PETRUCHIO    It is extempore, from my mother-wit.

KATHARINA    A witty mother! witless else her son.

PETRUCHIO    Am I not wise?

KATHARINA    Yes; keep you warm.

PETRUCHIO    Marry, so I mean, sweet Katharina, in thy bed:
    And therefore, setting all this chat aside,
    Thus in plain terms: your father hath consented
    That you shall be my wife; your dowry 'greed on;
    And, Will you, nill you, I will marry you.
    Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;
    For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,
    Thy beauty, that doth make me like thee well,
    Thou must be married to no man but me;
    For I am he am born to tame you Kate,
    And bring you from a wild Kate to a Kate
    Conformable as other household Kates.
    Here comes your father: never make denial;
    I must and will have Katharina to my wife.

    [Re-enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and TRANIO]

BAPTISTA    Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter?

PETRUCHIO    How but well, sir? how but well?
    It were impossible I should speed amiss.

BAPTISTA    Why, how now, daughter Katharina! in your dumps?

KATHARINA    Call you me daughter? now, I promise you
    You have show'd a tender fatherly regard,
    To wish me wed to one half lunatic;
    A mad-cup ruffian and a swearing Jack,
    That thinks with oaths to face the matter out.

PETRUCHIO    Father, 'tis thus: yourself and all the world,
    That talk'd of her, have talk'd amiss of her:
    If she be curst, it is for policy,
    For she's not froward, but modest as the dove;
    She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;
    For patience she will prove a second Grissel,
    And Roman Lucrece for her chastity:
    And to conclude, we have 'greed so well together,
    That upon Sunday is the wedding-day.

KATHARINA    I'll see thee hang'd on Sunday first.

GREMIO    Hark, Petruchio; she says she'll see thee
    hang'd first.

TRANIO    Is this your speeding? nay, then, good night our part!

PETRUCHIO    Be patient, gentlemen; I choose her for myself:
    If she and I be pleased, what's that to you?
    'Tis bargain'd 'twixt us twain, being alone,
    That she shall still be curst in company.
    I tell you, 'tis incredible to believe
    How much she loves me: O, the kindest Kate!
    She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss
    She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
    That in a twink she won me to her love.
    O, you are novices! 'tis a world to see,
    How tame, when men and women are alone,
    A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew.
    Give me thy hand, Kate: I will unto Venice,
    To buy apparel 'gainst the wedding-day.
    Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;
    I will be sure my Katharina shall be fine.

BAPTISTA    I know not what to say: but give me your hands;
    God send you joy, Petruchio! 'tis a match.


GREMIO    |
    |  Amen, say we: we will be witnesses.
TRANIO    |


PETRUCHIO    Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu;
    I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace:
    We will have rings and things and fine array;
    And kiss me, Kate, we will be married o'Sunday.

    [Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA severally]

GREMIO    Was ever match clapp'd up so suddenly?

BAPTISTA    Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant's part,
    And venture madly on a desperate mart.

TRANIO    'Twas a commodity lay fretting by you:
    'Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas.

BAPTISTA    The gain I seek is, quiet in the match.

GREMIO    No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch.
    But now, Baptists, to your younger daughter:
    Now is the day we long have looked for:
    I am your neighbour, and was suitor first.

TRANIO    And I am one that love Bianca more
    Than words can witness, or your thoughts can guess.

GREMIO    Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I.

TRANIO    Graybeard, thy love doth freeze.

GREMIO    But thine doth fry.
    Skipper, stand back: 'tis age that nourisheth.

TRANIO    But youth in ladies' eyes that flourisheth.

BAPTISTA    Content you, gentlemen: I will compound this strife:
    'Tis deeds must win the prize; and he of both
    That can assure my daughter greatest dower
    Shall have my Bianca's love.
    Say, Signior Gremio, What can you assure her?

GREMIO    First, as you know, my house within the city
    Is richly furnished with plate and gold;
    Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;
    My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;
    In ivory coffers I have stuff'd my crowns;
    In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,
    Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,
    Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss'd with pearl,
    Valance of Venice gold in needlework,
    Pewter and brass and all things that belong
    To house or housekeeping: then, at my farm
    I have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,
    Sixscore fat oxen standing in my stalls,
    And all things answerable to this portion.
    Myself am struck in years, I must confess;
    And if I die to-morrow, this is hers,
    If whilst I live she will be only mine.

TRANIO    That 'only' came well in. Sir, list to me:
    I am my father's heir and only son:
    If I may have your daughter to my wife,
    I'll leave her houses three or four as good,
    Within rich Pisa walls, as any one
    Old Signior Gremio has in Padua;
    Besides two thousand ducats by the year
    Of fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure.
    What, have I pinch'd you, Signior Gremio?

GREMIO    Two thousand ducats by the year of land!
    My land amounts not to so much in all:
    That she shall have; besides an argosy
    That now is lying in Marseilles' road.
    What, have I choked you with an argosy?

TRANIO    Gremio, 'tis known my father hath no less
    Than three great argosies; besides two galliases,
    And twelve tight galleys: these I will assure her,
    And twice as much, whate'er thou offer'st next.

GREMIO    Nay, I have offer'd all, I have no more;
    And she can have no more than all I have:
    If you like me, she shall have me and mine.

TRANIO    Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,
    By your firm promise: Gremio is out-vied.

BAPTISTA    I must confess your offer is the best;
    And, let your father make her the assurance,
    She is your own; else, you must pardon me,
    if you should die before him, where's her dower?

TRANIO    That's but a cavil: he is old, I young.

GREMIO    And may not young men die, as well as old?

BAPTISTA    Well, gentlemen,
    I am thus resolved: on Sunday next you know
    My daughter Katharina is to be married:
    Now, on the Sunday following, shall Bianca
    Be bride to you, if you this assurance;
    If not, Signior Gremio:
    And so, I take my leave, and thank you both.

GREMIO    Adieu, good neighbour.

    [Exit BAPTISTA]

        Now I fear thee not:
    Sirrah young gamester, your father were a fool
    To give thee all, and in his waning age
    Set foot under thy table: tut, a toy!
    An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy.

    [Exit]

TRANIO    A vengeance on your crafty wither'd hide!
    Yet I have faced it with a card of ten.
    'Tis in my head to do my master good:
    I see no reason but supposed Lucentio
    Must get a father, call'd 'supposed Vincentio;'
    And that's a wonder: fathers commonly
    Do get their children; but in this case of wooing,
    A child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning.

    [Exit]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT III



SCENE I    Padua. BAPTISTA'S house.


    [Enter LUCENTIO, HORTENSIO, and BIANCA]

LUCENTIO    Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir:
    Have you so soon forgot the entertainment
    Her sister Katharina welcomed you withal?

HORTENSIO    But, wrangling pedant, this is
    The patroness of heavenly harmony:
    Then give me leave to have prerogative;
    And when in music we have spent an hour,
    Your lecture shall have leisure for as much.

LUCENTIO    Preposterous ass, that never read so far
    To know the cause why music was ordain'd!
    Was it not to refresh the mind of man
    After his studies or his usual pain?
    Then give me leave to read philosophy,
    And while I pause, serve in your harmony.

HORTENSIO    Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine.

BIANCA    Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong,
    To strive for that which resteth in my choice:
    I am no breeching scholar in the schools;
    I'll not be tied to hours nor 'pointed times,
    But learn my lessons as I please myself.
    And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down:
    Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;
    His lecture will be done ere you have tuned.

HORTENSIO    You'll leave his lecture when I am in tune?

LUCENTIO    That will be never: tune your instrument.

BIANCA    Where left we last?

LUCENTIO    Here, madam:
    'Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;
    Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.'

BIANCA    Construe them.

LUCENTIO    'Hic ibat,' as I told you before, 'Simois,' I am
    Lucentio, 'hic est,' son unto Vincentio of Pisa,
    'Sigeia tellus,' disguised thus to get your love;
    'Hic steterat,' and that Lucentio that comes
    a-wooing, 'Priami,' is my man Tranio, 'regia,'
    bearing my port, 'celsa senis,' that we might
    beguile the old pantaloon.

HORTENSIO    Madam, my instrument's in tune.

BIANCA    Let's hear. O fie! the treble jars.

LUCENTIO    Spit in the hole, man, and tune again.

BIANCA    Now let me see if I can construe it: 'Hic ibat
    Simois,' I know you not, 'hic est Sigeia tellus,' I
    trust you not; 'Hic steterat Priami,' take heed
    he hear us not, 'regia,' presume not, 'celsa senis,'
    despair not.

HORTENSIO    Madam, 'tis now in tune.

LUCENTIO    All but the base.

HORTENSIO    The base is right; 'tis the base knave that jars.

    [Aside]

    How fiery and forward our pedant is!
    Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:
    Pedascule, I'll watch you better yet.

BIANCA    In time I may believe, yet I mistrust.

LUCENTIO    Mistrust it not: for, sure, AEacides
    Was Ajax, call'd so from his grandfather.

BIANCA    I must believe my master; else, I promise you,
    I should be arguing still upon that doubt:
    But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you:
    Good masters, take it not unkindly, pray,
    That I have been thus pleasant with you both.

HORTENSIO    You may go walk, and give me leave a while:
    My lessons make no music in three parts.

LUCENTIO    Are you so formal, sir? well, I must wait,

    [Aside]

    And watch withal; for, but I be deceived,
    Our fine musician groweth amorous.

HORTENSIO    Madam, before you touch the instrument,
    To learn the order of my fingering,
    I must begin with rudiments of art;
    To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,
    More pleasant, pithy and effectual,
    Than hath been taught by any of my trade:
    And there it is in writing, fairly drawn.

BIANCA    Why, I am past my gamut long ago.

HORTENSIO    Yet read the gamut of Hortensio.

BIANCA    [Reads]  ''Gamut' I am, the ground of all accord,
    'A re,' to Plead Hortensio's passion;
    'B mi,' Bianca, take him for thy lord,
    'C fa ut,' that loves with all affection:
    'D sol re,' one clef, two notes have I:
    'E la mi,' show pity, or I die.'
    Call you this gamut? tut, I like it not:
    Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,
    To change true rules for old inventions.

    [Enter a Servant]

Servant    Mistress, your father prays you leave your books
    And help to dress your sister's chamber up:
    You know to-morrow is the wedding-day.

BIANCA    Farewell, sweet masters both; I must be gone.

    [Exeunt BIANCA and Servant]

LUCENTIO    Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay.

    [Exit]

HORTENSIO    But I have cause to pry into this pedant:
    Methinks he looks as though he were in love:
    Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humble
    To cast thy wandering eyes on every stale,
    Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging,
    Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing.

    [Exit]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT III



SCENE II    Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house.


    [Enter BAPTISTA, GREMIO, TRANIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA,
    LUCENTIO, and others, attendants]

BAPTISTA    [To TRANIO]  Signior Lucentio, this is the
    'pointed day.
    That Katharina and Petruchio should be married,
    And yet we hear not of our son-in-law.
    What will be said? what mockery will it be,
    To want the bridegroom when the priest attends
    To speak the ceremonial rites of marriage!
    What says Lucentio to this shame of ours?

KATHARINA    No shame but mine: I must, forsooth, be forced
    To give my hand opposed against my heart
    Unto a mad-brain rudesby full of spleen;
    Who woo'd in haste and means to wed at leisure.
    I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,
    Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behavior:
    And, to be noted for a merry man,
    He'll woo a thousand, 'point the day of marriage,
    Make feasts, invite friends, and proclaim the banns;
    Yet never means to wed where he hath woo'd.
    Now must the world point at poor Katharina,
    And say, 'Lo, there is mad Petruchio's wife,
    If it would please him come and marry her!'

TRANIO    Patience, good Katharina, and Baptista too.
    Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,
    Whatever fortune stays him from his word:
    Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;
    Though he be merry, yet withal he's honest.

KATHARINA    Would Katharina had never seen him though!

    [Exit weeping, followed by BIANCA and others]

BAPTISTA    Go, girl; I cannot blame thee now to weep;
    For such an injury would vex a very saint,
    Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour.

    [Enter BIONDELLO]

BIONDELLO    Master, master! news, old news, and such news as
    you never heard of!

BAPTISTA    Is it new and old too? how may that be?

BIONDELLO    Why, is it not news, to hear of Petruchio's coming?

BAPTISTA    Is he come?

BIONDELLO    Why, no, sir.

BAPTISTA    What then?

BIONDELLO    He is coming.

BAPTISTA    When will he be here?

BIONDELLO    When he stands where I am and sees you there.

TRANIO    But say, what to thine old news?

BIONDELLO    Why, Petruchio is coming in a new hat and an old
    jerkin, a pair of old breeches thrice turned, a pair
    of boots that have been candle-cases, one buckled,
    another laced, an old rusty sword ta'en out of the
    town-armory, with a broken hilt, and chapeless;
    with two broken points: his horse hipped with an
    old mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred;
    besides, possessed with the glanders and like to mose
    in the chine; troubled with the lampass, infected
    with the fashions, full of wingdalls, sped with
    spavins, rayed with yellows, past cure of the fives,
    stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the
    bots, swayed in the back and shoulder-shotten;
    near-legged before and with, a half-chequed bit
    and a head-stall of sheeps leather which, being
    restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been
    often burst and now repaired with knots; one girth
    six time pieced and a woman's crupper of velure,
    which hath two letters for her name fairly set down
    in studs, and here and there pieced with packthread.

BAPTISTA    Who comes with him?

BIONDELLO    O, sir, his lackey, for all the world caparisoned
    like the horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a
    kersey boot-hose on the other, gartered with a red
    and blue list; an old hat and 'the humour of forty
    fancies' pricked in't for a feather: a monster, a
    very monster in apparel, and not like a Christian
    footboy or a gentleman's lackey.

TRANIO    'Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;
    Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell'd.

BAPTISTA    I am glad he's come, howsoe'er he comes.

BIONDELLO    Why, sir, he comes not.

BAPTISTA    Didst thou not say he comes?

BIONDELLO    Who? that Petruchio came?

BAPTISTA    Ay, that Petruchio came.

BIONDELLO    No, sir, I say his horse comes, with him on his back.

BAPTISTA    Why, that's all one.

BIONDELLO       Nay, by Saint Jamy,
    I hold you a penny,
    A horse and a man
    Is more than one,
    And yet not many.

    [Enter PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO]

PETRUCHIO    Come, where be these gallants? who's at home?

BAPTISTA    You are welcome, sir.

PETRUCHIO    And yet I come not well.

BAPTISTA    And yet you halt not.

TRANIO    Not so well apparell'd
    As I wish you were.

PETRUCHIO    Were it better, I should rush in thus.
    But where is Kate? where is my lovely bride?
    How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown:
    And wherefore gaze this goodly company,
    As if they saw some wondrous monument,
    Some comet or unusual prodigy?

BAPTISTA    Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:
    First were we sad, fearing you would not come;
    Now sadder, that you come so unprovided.
    Fie, doff this habit, shame to your estate,
    An eye-sore to our solemn festival!

TRANIO    And tells us, what occasion of import
    Hath all so long detain'd you from your wife,
    And sent you hither so unlike yourself?

PETRUCHIO    Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear:
    Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,
    Though in some part enforced to digress;
    Which, at more leisure, I will so excuse
    As you shall well be satisfied withal.
    But where is Kate? I stay too long from her:
    The morning wears, 'tis time we were at church.

TRANIO    See not your bride in these unreverent robes:
    Go to my chamber; Put on clothes of mine.

PETRUCHIO    Not I, believe me: thus I'll visit her.

BAPTISTA    But thus, I trust, you will not marry her.

PETRUCHIO    Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha' done with words:
    To me she's married, not unto my clothes:
    Could I repair what she will wear in me,
    As I can change these poor accoutrements,
    'Twere well for Kate and better for myself.
    But what a fool am I to chat with you,
    When I should bid good morrow to my bride,
    And seal the title with a lovely kiss!

    [Exeunt PETRUCHIO and GRUMIO]

TRANIO    He hath some meaning in his mad attire:
    We will persuade him, be it possible,
    To put on better ere he go to church.

BAPTISTA    I'll after him, and see the event of this.

    [Exeunt BAPTISTA, GREMIO, and attendants]

TRANIO    But to her love concerneth us to add
    Her father's liking: which to bring to pass,
    As I before unparted to your worship,
    I am to get a man,--whate'er he be,
    It skills not much. we'll fit him to our turn,--
    And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa;
    And make assurance here in Padua
    Of greater sums than I have promised.
    So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,
    And marry sweet Bianca with consent.

LUCENTIO    Were it not that my fellow-school-master
    Doth watch Bianca's steps so narrowly,
    'Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;
    Which once perform'd, let all the world say no,
    I'll keep mine own, despite of all the world.

TRANIO    That by degrees we mean to look into,
    And watch our vantage in this business:
    We'll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,
    The narrow-prying father, Minola,
    The quaint musician, amorous Licio;
    All for my master's sake, Lucentio.

    [Re-enter GREMIO]

    Signior Gremio, came you from the church?

GREMIO    As willingly as e'er I came from school.

TRANIO    And is the bride and bridegroom coming home?

GREMIO    A bridegroom say you? 'tis a groom indeed,
    A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find.

TRANIO    Curster than she? why, 'tis impossible.

GREMIO    Why he's a devil, a devil, a very fiend.

TRANIO    Why, she's a devil, a devil, the devil's dam.

GREMIO    Tut, she's a lamb, a dove, a fool to him!
    I'll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priest
    Should ask, if Katharina should be his wife,
    'Ay, by gogs-wouns,' quoth he; and swore so loud,
    That, all-amazed, the priest let fall the book;
    And, as he stoop'd again to take it up,
    The mad-brain'd bridegroom took him such a cuff
    That down fell priest and book and book and priest:
    'Now take them up,' quoth he, 'if any list.'

TRANIO    What said the wench when he rose again?

GREMIO    Trembled and shook; for why, he stamp'd and swore,
    As if the vicar meant to cozen him.
    But after many ceremonies done,
    He calls for wine: 'A health!' quoth he, as if
    He had been aboard, carousing to his mates
    After a storm; quaff'd off the muscadel
    And threw the sops all in the sexton's face;
    Having no other reason
    But that his beard grew thin and hungerly
    And seem'd to ask him sops as he was drinking.
    This done, he took the bride about the neck
    And kiss'd her lips with such a clamorous smack
    That at the parting all the church did echo:
    And I seeing this came thence for very shame;
    And after me, I know, the rout is coming.
    Such a mad marriage never was before:
    Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play.

    [Music]

    [Re-enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, BIANCA, BAPTISTA,
    HORTENSIO, GRUMIO, and Train]


PETRUCHIO    Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:
    I know you think to dine with me to-day,
    And have prepared great store of wedding cheer;
    But so it is, my haste doth call me hence,
    And therefore here I mean to take my leave.

BAPTISTA    Is't possible you will away to-night?

PETRUCHIO    I must away to-day, before night come:
    Make it no wonder; if you knew my business,
    You would entreat me rather go than stay.
    And, honest company, I thank you all,
    That have beheld me give away myself
    To this most patient, sweet and virtuous wife:
    Dine with my father, drink a health to me;
    For I must hence; and farewell to you all.

TRANIO    Let us entreat you stay till after dinner.

PETRUCHIO    It may not be.

GREMIO                      Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO    It cannot be.

KATHARINA                      Let me entreat you.

PETRUCHIO    I am content.

KATHARINA                      Are you content to stay?

PETRUCHIO    I am content you shall entreat me stay;
    But yet not stay, entreat me how you can.

KATHARINA    Now, if you love me, stay.

PETRUCHIO    Grumio, my horse.

GRUMIO    Ay, sir, they be ready: the oats have eaten the horses.

KATHARINA    Nay, then,
    Do what thou canst, I will not go to-day;
    No, nor to-morrow, not till I please myself.
    The door is open, sir; there lies your way;
    You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;
    For me, I'll not be gone till I please myself:
    'Tis like you'll prove a jolly surly groom,
    That take it on you at the first so roundly.

PETRUCHIO    O Kate, content thee; prithee, be not angry.

KATHARINA    I will be angry: what hast thou to do?
    Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure.

GREMIO    Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work.

KATARINA    Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:
    I see a woman may be made a fool,
    If she had not a spirit to resist.

PETRUCHIO    They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command.
    Obey the bride, you that attend on her;
    Go to the feast, revel and domineer,
    Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,
    Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:
    But for my bonny Kate, she must with me.
    Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;
    I will be master of what is mine own:
    She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,
    My household stuff, my field, my barn,
    My horse, my ox, my ass, my any thing;
    And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;
    I'll bring mine action on the proudest he
    That stops my way in Padua. Grumio,
    Draw forth thy weapon, we are beset with thieves;
    Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man.
    Fear not, sweet wench, they shall not touch
    thee, Kate:
    I'll buckler thee against a million.

    [Exeunt PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, and GRUMIO]

BAPTISTA    Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones.

GREMIO    Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing.

TRANIO    Of all mad matches never was the like.

LUCENTIO    Mistress, what's your opinion of your sister?

BIANCA    That, being mad herself, she's madly mated.

GREMIO    I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated.

BAPTISTA    Neighbours and friends, though bride and
    bridegroom wants
    For to supply the places at the table,
    You know there wants no junkets at the feast.
    Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom's place:
    And let Bianca take her sister's room.

TRANIO    Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it?

BAPTISTA    She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let's go.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV



SCENE I    PETRUCHIO'S country house.


    [Enter GRUMIO]

GRUMIO    Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and
    all foul ways! Was ever man so beaten? was ever
    man so rayed? was ever man so weary? I am sent
    before to make a fire, and they are coming after to
    warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soon
    hot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my
    tongue to the roof of my mouth, my heart in my
    belly, ere I should come by a fire to thaw me: but
    I, with blowing the fire, shall warm myself; for,
    considering the weather, a taller man than I will
    take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis.

    [Enter CURTIS]

CURTIS    Who is that calls so coldly?

GRUMIO    A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide
    from my shoulder to my heel with no greater a run
    but my head and my neck. A fire good Curtis.

CURTIS    Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio?

GRUMIO    O, ay, Curtis, ay: and therefore fire, fire; cast
    on no water.

CURTIS    Is she so hot a shrew as she's reported?

GRUMIO    She was, good Curtis, before this frost: but, thou
    knowest, winter tames man, woman and beast; for it
    hath tamed my old master and my new mistress and
    myself, fellow Curtis.

CURTIS    Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast.

GRUMIO    Am I but three inches? why, thy horn is a foot; and
    so long am I at the least. But wilt thou make a
    fire, or shall I complain on thee to our mistress,
    whose hand, she being now at hand, thou shalt soon
    feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thy hot office?

CURTIS    I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world?

GRUMIO    A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; and
    therefore fire: do thy duty, and have thy duty; for
    my master and mistress are almost frozen to death.

CURTIS    There's fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news.

GRUMIO    Why, 'Jack, boy! ho! boy!' and as much news as
    will thaw.

CURTIS    Come, you are so full of cony-catching!

GRUMIO    Why, therefore fire; for I have caught extreme cold.
    Where's the cook? is supper ready, the house
    trimmed, rushes strewed, cobwebs swept; the
    serving-men in their new fustian, their white
    stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on?
    Be the jacks fair within, the jills fair without,
    the carpets laid, and every thing in order?

CURTIS    All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news.

GRUMIO    First, know, my horse is tired; my master and
    mistress fallen out.

CURTIS    How?

GRUMIO    Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby
    hangs a tale.

CURTIS    Let's ha't, good Grumio.

GRUMIO    Lend thine ear.

CURTIS    Here.

GRUMIO    There.

    [Strikes him]

CURTIS    This is to feel a tale, not to hear a tale.

GRUMIO    And therefore 'tis called a sensible tale: and this
    cuff was but to knock at your ear, and beseech
    listening. Now I begin: Imprimis, we came down a
    foul hill, my master riding behind my mistress,--

CURTIS    Both of one horse?

GRUMIO    What's that to thee?

CURTIS    Why, a horse.

GRUMIO    Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me,
    thou shouldst have heard how her horse fell and she
    under her horse; thou shouldst have heard in how
    miry a place, how she was bemoiled, how he left her
    with the horse upon her, how he beat me because
    her horse stumbled, how she waded through the dirt
    to pluck him off me, how he swore, how she prayed,
    that never prayed before, how I cried, how the
    horses ran away, how her bridle was burst, how I
    lost my crupper, with many things of worthy memory,
    which now shall die in oblivion and thou return
    unexperienced to thy grave.

CURTIS    By this reckoning he is more shrew than she.

GRUMIO    Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall
    find when he comes home. But what talk I of this?
    Call forth Nathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip,
    Walter, Sugarsop and the rest: let their heads be
    sleekly combed their blue coats brushed and their
    garters of an indifferent knit: let them curtsy
    with their left legs and not presume to touch a hair
    of my master's horse-tail till they kiss their
    hands. Are they all ready?

CURTIS    They are.

GRUMIO    Call them forth.

CURTIS    Do you hear, ho? you must meet my master to
    countenance my mistress.

GRUMIO    Why, she hath a face of her own.

CURTIS    Who knows not that?

GRUMIO    Thou, it seems, that calls for company to
    countenance her.

CURTIS    I call them forth to credit her.

GRUMIO    Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them.

    [Enter four or five Serving-men]

NATHANIEL    Welcome home, Grumio!

PHILIP    How now, Grumio!

JOSEPH    What, Grumio!

NICHOLAS    Fellow Grumio!

NATHANIEL    How now, old lad?

GRUMIO    Welcome, you;--how now, you;-- what, you;--fellow,
    you;--and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce
    companions, is all ready, and all things neat?

NATHANIEL    All things is ready. How near is our master?

GRUMIO    E'en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be
    not--Cock's passion, silence! I hear my master.

    [Enter PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA]

PETRUCHIO    Where be these knaves? What, no man at door
    To hold my stirrup nor to take my horse!
    Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip?

ALL SERVING-MEN    Here, here, sir; here, sir.

PETRUCHIO    Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir!
    You logger-headed and unpolish'd grooms!
    What, no attendance? no regard? no duty?
    Where is the foolish knave I sent before?

GRUMIO    Here, sir; as foolish as I was before.

PETRUCHIO    You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge!
    Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,
    And bring along these rascal knaves with thee?

GRUMIO    Nathaniel's coat, sir, was not fully made,
    And Gabriel's pumps were all unpink'd i' the heel;
    There was no link to colour Peter's hat,
    And Walter's dagger was not come from sheathing:
    There were none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;
    The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;
    Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you.

PETRUCHIO    Go, rascals, go, and fetch my supper in.

    [Exeunt Servants]

    [Singing]

    Where is the life that late I led--
    Where are those--Sit down, Kate, and welcome.--
    Sound, sound, sound, sound!

    [Re-enter Servants with supper]

    Why, when, I say? Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry.
    Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains, when?

    [Sings]

    It was the friar of orders grey,
    As he forth walked on his way:--
    Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:
    Take that, and mend the plucking off the other.

    [Strikes him]

    Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho!
    Where's my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you hence,
    And bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:
    One, Kate, that you must kiss, and be acquainted with.
    Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water?

    [Enter one with water]

    Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily.
    You whoreson villain! will you let it fall?

    [Strikes him]

KATHARINA    Patience, I pray you; 'twas a fault unwilling.

PETRUCHIO    A whoreson beetle-headed, flap-ear'd knave!
    Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach.
    Will you give thanks, sweet Kate; or else shall I?
    What's this? mutton?

First Servant    Ay.

PETRUCHIO    Who brought it?

PETER    I.

PETRUCHIO    'Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.
    What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook?
    How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,
    And serve it thus to me that love it not?
    Theretake it to you, trenchers, cups, and all;

    [Throws the meat, &c. about the stage]

    You heedless joltheads and unmanner'd slaves!
    What, do you grumble? I'll be with you straight.

KATHARINA    I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet:
    The meat was well, if you were so contented.

PETRUCHIO    I tell thee, Kate, 'twas burnt and dried away;
    And I expressly am forbid to touch it,
    For it engenders choler, planteth anger;
    And better 'twere that both of us did fast,
    Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,
    Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh.
    Be patient; to-morrow 't shall be mended,
    And, for this night, we'll fast for company:
    Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber.

    [Exeunt]

    [Re-enter Servants severally]

NATHANIEL    Peter, didst ever see the like?

PETER    He kills her in her own humour.

    [Re-enter CURTIS]

GRUMIO    Where is he?

CURTIS    In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;
    And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,
    Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,
    And sits as one new-risen from a dream.
    Away, away! for he is coming hither.

    [Exeunt]

    [Re-enter PETRUCHIO]

PETRUCHIO    Thus have I politicly begun my reign,
    And 'tis my hope to end successfully.
    My falcon now is sharp and passing empty;
    And till she stoop she must not be full-gorged,
    For then she never looks upon her lure.
    Another way I have to man my haggard,
    To make her come and know her keeper's call,
    That is, to watch her, as we watch these kites
    That bate and beat and will not be obedient.
    She eat no meat to-day, nor none shall eat;
    Last night she slept not, nor to-night she shall not;
    As with the meat, some undeserved fault
    I'll find about the making of the bed;
    And here I'll fling the pillow, there the bolster,
    This way the coverlet, another way the sheets:
    Ay, and amid this hurly I intend
    That all is done in reverend care of her;
    And in conclusion she shall watch all night:
    And if she chance to nod I'll rail and brawl
    And with the clamour keep her still awake.
    This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;
    And thus I'll curb her mad and headstrong humour.
    He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
    Now let him speak: 'tis charity to show.

    [Exit]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV



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.

    [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!

HORTENSIO    Quick proceeders, marry! Now, tell me, I pray,
    You that durst swear at your mistress Bianca
    Loved 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 no 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 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 loved me
    As I have loved this proud disdainful haggard.
    And so farewell, Signior Lucentio.
    Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,
    Shall win my love: and so I take my leave,
    In resolution as I swore before.

    [Exit]

TRANIO    Mistress Bianca, bless you with such grace
    As 'longeth to a lover's blessed case!
    Nay, I have ta'en you napping, gentle love,
    And have forsworn you with Hortensio.

BIANCA    Tranio, you jest: but have you both forsworn me?

TRANIO    Mistress, we have.

LUCENTIO                      Then we are rid of Licio.

TRANIO    I' faith, he'll have a lusty widow now,
    That shall be wood and wedded in a day.

BIANCA    God give him joy!

TRANIO    Ay, and he'll tame her.

BIANCA    He says so, Tranio.

TRANIO    Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school.

BIANCA    The taming-school! what, is there such a place?

TRANIO    Ay, mistress, and Petruchio is the master;
    That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,
    To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue.

    [Enter BIONDELLO]

BIONDELLO    O master, master, 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 format 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 for as Rome;
    And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life.

TRANIO    What countryman, I pray?

Pedant    Of Mantua.

TRANIO    Of Mantua, sir? marry, God forbid!
    And come to Padua, careless of your life?

Pedant    My life, sir! how, I pray? for that goes hard.

TRANIO    'Tis death for any one in Mantua
    To come to Padua. Know you not the cause?
    Your ships are stay'd at Venice, and the duke,
    For private quarrel 'twixt your duke and him,
    Hath publish'd and proclaim'd it openly:
    'Tis, marvel, but that you are but newly come,
    You might have heard it else proclaim'd about.

Pedant    Alas! sir, it is worse for me than so;
    For I have bills for money by exchange
    From Florence and must here deliver them.

TRANIO    Well, sir, to do you courtesy,
    This will I do, and this I will advise you:
    First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa?
Pedant    Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,
    Pisa renowned for grave citizens.

TRANIO    Among them know you one Vincentio?

Pedant    I know him not, but I have heard of him;
    A merchant of incomparable wealth.

TRANIO    He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,
    In 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 an your fortunes
    That you are like to Sir Vincentio.
    His name and credit shall you undertake,
    And in my house you shall be friendly lodged:
    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]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV



SCENE III    A room in PETRUCHIO'S house.


    [Enter KATHARINA and GRUMIO]

GRUMIO    No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life.

KATHARINA    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 aims;
    If not, elsewhere they meet with charity:
    But I, who never knew how to entreat,
    Nor never needed that I should entreat,
    Am starved for meat, giddy for lack of sleep,
    With oath 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?

KATHARINA    '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?

KATHARINA    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?

KATHARINA    A dish that I do love to feed upon.

GRUMIO    Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little.

KATHARINA    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.

KATHARINA    Then both, or one, or any thing thou wilt.

GRUMIO    Why then, the mustard without the beef.

KATHARINA    Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,

    [Beats him]

    That feed'st me with the very name of meat:
    Sorrow on thee and all the pack of you,
    That triumph thus upon my misery!
    Go, get thee gone, I say.

    [Enter PETRUCHIO and HORTENSIO with meat]

PETRUCHIO    How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort?

HORTENSIO    Mistress, what cheer?

KATHARINA    Faith, as cold as can be.

PETRUCHIO    Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me.
    Here love; thou see'st how diligent I am
    To dress thy meat myself and bring it thee:
    I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks.
    What, not a word? Nay, then thou lovest it not;
    And all my pains is sorted to no proof.
    Here, take away this dish.

KATHARINA    I pray you, let it stand.

PETRUCHIO    The poorest service is repaid with thanks;
    And so shall mine, before you touch the meat.

KATHARINA    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 fardingales and things;
    With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,
    With amber bracelets, beads and all this knavery.
    What, hast thou dined? 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.

KATHARINA    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.

KATHARINA    Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;
    And speak I will; I am no child, no babe:
    Your betters have endured 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 likest it not.

KATHARINA    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, carved 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.

KATHARINA    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!
    Braved 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 livest!
    I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr'd her gown.

Tailor    Your worship is deceived; 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 faced nor braved. I say unto
    thee, I bid thy master cut out the gown; but I did
    not bid him cut it to pieces: ergo, thou liest.

Tailor    Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify

PETRUCHIO    Read it.

GRUMIO    The note lies in's throat, if he say I said so.

Tailor    [Reads]  'Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown:'

GRUMIO    Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in
    the skirts of it, and beat me to death with a bottom
    of brown thread: I said a gown.

PETRUCHIO    Proceed.

Tailor    [Reads]  'With a small compassed cape:'

GRUMIO    I confess the cape.

Tailor    [Reads]  'With a trunk sleeve:'

GRUMIO    I confess two sleeves.

Tailor    [Reads]  'The sleeves curiously cut.'

PETRUCHIO    Ay, there's the villany.

GRUMIO    Error i' the bill, sir; error i' the bill.
    I commanded the sleeves should be cut out and
    sewed up again; and that I'll prove upon thee,
    though thy little finger be armed in a thimble.

Tailor    This is true that I say: an I had thee
    in place where, thou shouldst know it.

GRUMIO    I am for thee straight: take thou the
    bill, give me thy 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.
    Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more.

HORTENSIO    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 fathers 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.

KATHARINA    I dare assure you, sir, 'tis almost two;
    And 'twill be supper-time ere you come there.

PETRUCHIO    It shall be seven ere I go to horse:
    Look, what I speak, or do, or think to do,
    You are still crossing it. Sirs, let't alone:
    I will not go to-day; and ere I do,
    It shall be what o'clock I say it is.

HORTENSIO    [Aside]  Why, so this gallant will command the sun.

    [Exeunt]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV



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.

    [Enter BIONDELLO]

    But, sir, here comes your boy;
    'Twere good he were school'd.

TRANIO    Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
    Now do your duty throughly, I advise you:
    Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio.

BIONDELLO    Tut, fear not me.

TRANIO    But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?

BIONDELLO    I told him that your father was at Venice,
    And that you look'd for him this day in Padua.

TRANIO    Thou'rt 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, an it like you:
    There doth my father lie; and there, this night,
    We'll pass the business privately and well.
    Send for your daughter by your servant here:
    My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
    The worst is this, that, at so slender warning,
    You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.

BAPTISTA    It likes me well. Biondello, hie you home,
    And bid Bianca make her ready straight;
    And, if you will, tell what hath happened,
    Lucentio's father is arrived in Padua,
    And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife.

BIONDELLO    I pray the gods she may with all my heart!

TRANIO    Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.

    [Exit BIONDELLO]

    Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?
    Welcome! one mess is like to be your cheer:
    Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.

BAPTISTA    I follow you.

    [Exeunt TRANIO, Pedant, and BAPTISTA]

    [Re-enter BIONDELLO]

BIONDELLO    Cambio!

LUCENTIO    What sayest 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 of Saint Luke's church is at your
    command at all hours.

LUCENTIO    And what of all this?

BIONDELLO    I cannot tell; expect they are busied about a
    counterfeit assurance: take you 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 no more to say, But bid Bianca farewell for
    ever and a day.

LUCENTIO    Hearest 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 pleased; 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]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT IV



SCENE V    A public road.


    [Enter PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, 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!

KATHARINA    The moon! the sun: it is not moonlight now.

PETRUCHIO    I say it is the moon that shines so bright.

KATHARINA    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.

KATHARINA    Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,
    And be it moon, or sun, or what you please:
    An 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.

KATHARINA    I know it is the moon.

PETRUCHIO    Nay, then you lie: it is the blessed sun.

KATHARINA    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 named, even that it is;
    And so it shall be so for Katharina.

HORTENSIO    Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won.

PETRUCHIO    Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,
    And not unluckily against the bias.
    But, soft! company is coming here.

    [Enter VINCENTIO]

    [To VINCENTIO]

    Good morrow, gentle mistress: where away?
    Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,
    Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman?
    Such war of white and red within her cheeks!
    What stars do spangle heaven with such beauty,
    As those two eyes become that heavenly face?
    Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee.
    Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty's sake.

HORTENSIO    A' will make the man mad, to make a woman of him.

KATHARINA    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 bed-fellow!

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 say'st he is.

KATHARINA    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 amazed me,
    My name is call'd Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa;
    And bound I am to Padua; there to visit
    A son of mine, which long I have not seen.

PETRUCHIO    What is his name?

VINCENTIO                      Lucentio, gentle sir.

PETRUCHIO    Happily we 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 grieved: she is of good esteem,
    Her dowery 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 it true? or else is it 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]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT V



SCENE I    Padua. Before LUCENTIO'S house.


    [GREMIO discovered. Enter behind BIONDELLO,
    LUCENTIO, and BIANCA]

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, KATHARINA, VINCENTIO, GRUMIO,
    with Attendants]

PETRUCHIO    Sir, here's the door, this is Lucentio's house:
    My father's bears more toward the market-place;
    Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir.

VINCENTIO    You shall not choose but drink before you go:
    I think I shall command your welcome here,
    And, by all likelihood, some cheer is toward.

    [Knocks]

GREMIO    They're busy within; you were best knock louder.

    [Pedant looks out of the window]

Pedant    What's he that knocks as he would beat down the gate?

VINCENTIO    Is Signior Lucentio within, sir?

Pedant    He's within, sir, but not to be spoken withal.

VINCENTIO    What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two, to
    make merry withal?

Pedant    Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall
    need none, so long as I live.

PETRUCHIO    Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua.
    Do you hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances,
    I pray you, tell Signior Lucentio that his father is
    come from Pisa, and is here at the door to speak with him.

Pedant    Thou liest: his father is come from Padua and here
    looking out at the window.

VINCENTIO    Art thou his father?

Pedant    Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her.

PETRUCHIO    [To VINCENTIO]  Why, how now, gentleman! why, this
    is flat knavery, to take upon you another man's name.

Pedant    Lay hands on the villain: I believe a' means to
    cozen somebody in this city under my countenance.

    [Re-enter BIONDELLO]

BIONDELLO    I have seen them in the church together: God send
    'em good shipping! But who is here? mine old
    master Vincentio! now we are undone and brought to nothing.

VINCENTIO    [Seeing BIONDELLO]

    Come hither, crack-hemp.

BIONDELLO    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.

    [Beats BIONDELLO]

BIONDELLO    Help, help, help! here's a madman will murder me.

    [Exit]

Pedant    Help, son! help, Signior Baptista!

    [Exit from above]

PETRUCHIO    Prithee, Kate, let's stand aside and see the end of
    this controversy.

    [They retire]

    [Re-enter Pedant below; TRANIO, BAPTISTA, 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 hailed and abused: 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 sweet son?

    [Exeunt BIONDELLO, TRANIO, and Pedant, as fast
    as may be]

BIANCA    Pardon, dear father.

BAPTISTA    How hast thou offended?
    Where is Lucentio?

LUCENTIO                      Here's Lucentio,
    Right son to the right Vincentio;
    That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,
    While counterfeit supposes bleared thine eyne.

GREMIO    Here's packing, with a witness to deceive us all!

VINCENTIO    Where is that damned villain Tranio,
    That faced and braved me in this matter so?

BAPTISTA    Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio?

BIANCA    Cambio is changed into Lucentio.

LUCENTIO    Love wrought these miracles. Bianca's love
    Made me exchange my state with Tranio,
    While he did bear my countenance in the town;
    And happily I have arrived at the last
    Unto the wished haven of my bliss.
    What Tranio did, myself enforced 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    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 villany.

    [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]

KATHARINA    Husband, let's follow, to see the end of this ado.

PETRUCHIO    First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

KATHARINA    What, in the midst of the street?

PETRUCHIO    What, art thou ashamed of me?

KATHARINA    No, sir, God forbid; but ashamed to kiss.

PETRUCHIO    Why, then let's home again. Come, sirrah, let's away.

KATHARINA    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]




    THE TAMING OF THE SHREW


ACT V



SCENE II    Padua. LUCENTIO'S house.


    [Enter BAPTISTA, VINCENTIO, GREMIO, the Pedant,
    LUCENTIO, BIANCA, PETRUCHIO, KATHARINA, HORTENSIO,
    and Widow, TRANIO, BIONDELLO, and GRUMIO the
    Serving-men with Tranio bringing in a banquet]

LUCENTIO    At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:
    And time it is, when raging war is done,
    To smile at scapes and perils overblown.
    My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,
    While I with self-same kindness welcome thine.
    Brother Petruchio, sister Katharina,
    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.

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.

KATHARINA                      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.

KATHARINA    '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,

KATHARINA    A very mean meaning.

Widow    Right, I mean you.

KATHARINA    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, KATHARINA, 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 is 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 is 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 endured!
    Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress;
    Say, I command her to 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.

BAPTISTA    Now, by my holidame, here comes Katharina!

    [Re-enter KATARINA]

KATHARINA    What is your will, sir, that you send for me?

PETRUCHIO    Where is your sister, and Hortensio's wife?

KATHARINA    They sit conferring by the parlor 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 KATHARINA]

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,
    And awful rule and right supremacy;
    And, to be short, what not, that's sweet and happy?

BAPTISTA    Now, fair befal 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 changed, 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 KATHARINA, with BIANCA and Widow]

    Katharina, that cap of yours becomes you not:
    Off with that bauble, throw it under-foot.

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 an hundred crowns since supper-time.

BIANCA    The more fool you, for laying on my duty.

PETRUCHIO    Katharina, 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.

KATHARINA    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 moved 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 ashamed 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.

    [To LUCENTIO]

    'Twas I won the wager, though you hit the white;
    And, being a winner, God give you good night!

    [Exeunt PETRUCHIO and KATHARINA]

HORTENSIO    Now, go thy ways; thou hast tamed a curst shrew.

LUCENTIO    'Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tamed so.

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


SOLINUS    Duke of Ephesus. (DUKE SOLINUS:)

AEGEON    a merchant of Syracuse.


ANTIPHOLUS    |
OF EPHESUS    |
    |  twin brothers, and sons to AEgeon and AEmilia.
ANTIPHOLUS    |
OF SYRACUSE    |


DROMIO OF EPHESUS    |
    |  twin brothers, and attendants on the two Antipholuses.
DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    |


BALTHAZAR    a merchant

ANGELO    a goldsmith.

First Merchant    friend to Antipholus of Syracuse.

Second Merchant    to whom Angelo is a debtor.

PINCH    a schoolmaster.

AEMILIA    wife to AEgeon, an abbess at Ephesus.

ADRIANA    wife to Antipholus of Ephesus.

LUCIANA    her sister.

LUCE    servant to Adriana.

    A Courtezan.

    Gaoler, Officers, and other Attendants
    (Gaoler:)
    (Officer:)
    (Servant:)

SCENE    Ephesus.




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT I



SCENE I    A hall in DUKE SOLINUS'S palace.


    [Enter DUKE SOLINUS, AEGEON, Gaoler, Officers, and other
    Attendants]

AEGEON    Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall
    And by the doom of death end woes and all.

DUKE SOLINUS    Merchant of Syracuse, plead no more;
    I am not partial to infringe our laws:
    The enmity and discord which of late
    Sprung from the rancorous outrage of your duke
    To merchants, our well-dealing countrymen,
    Who wanting guilders to redeem their lives
    Have seal'd his rigorous statutes with their bloods,
    Excludes all pity from our threatening looks.
    For, since the mortal and intestine jars
    'Twixt thy seditious countrymen and us,
    It hath in solemn synods been decreed
    Both by the Syracusians and ourselves,
    To admit no traffic to our adverse towns Nay, more,
    If any born at Ephesus be seen
    At any Syracusian marts and fairs;
    Again: if any Syracusian born
    Come to the bay of Ephesus, he dies,
    His goods confiscate to the duke's dispose,
    Unless a thousand marks be levied,
    To quit the penalty and to ransom him.
    Thy substance, valued at the highest rate,
    Cannot amount unto a hundred marks;
    Therefore by law thou art condemned to die.

AEGEON    Yet this my comfort: when your words are done,
    My woes end likewise with the evening sun.

DUKE SOLINUS    Well, Syracusian, say in brief the cause
    Why thou departed'st from thy native home
    And for what cause thou camest to Ephesus.

AEGEON    A heavier task could not have been imposed
    Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable:
    Yet, that the world may witness that my end
    Was wrought by nature, not by vile offence,
    I'll utter what my sorrows give me leave.
    In Syracusa was I born, and wed
    Unto a woman, happy but for me,
    And by me, had not our hap been bad.
    With her I lived in joy; our wealth increased
    By prosperous voyages I often made
    To Epidamnum; till my factor's death
    And the great care of goods at random left
    Drew me from kind embracements of my spouse:
    From whom my absence was not six months old
    Before herself, almost at fainting under
    The pleasing punishment that women bear,
    Had made provision for her following me
    And soon and safe arrived where I was.
    There had she not been long, but she became
    A joyful mother of two goodly sons;
    And, which was strange, the one so like the other,
    As could not be distinguish'd but by names.
    That very hour, and in the self-same inn,
    A meaner woman was delivered
    Of such a burden, male twins, both alike:
    Those,--for their parents were exceeding poor,--
    I bought and brought up to attend my sons.
    My wife, not meanly proud of two such boys,
    Made daily motions for our home return:
    Unwilling I agreed. Alas! too soon,
    We came aboard.
    A league from Epidamnum had we sail'd,
    Before the always wind-obeying deep
    Gave any tragic instance of our harm:
    But longer did we not retain much hope;
    For what obscured light the heavens did grant
    Did but convey unto our fearful minds
    A doubtful warrant of immediate death;
    Which though myself would gladly have embraced,
    Yet the incessant weepings of my wife,
    Weeping before for what she saw must come,
    And piteous plainings of the pretty babes,
    That mourn'd for fashion, ignorant what to fear,
    Forced me to seek delays for them and me.
    And this it was, for other means was none:
    The sailors sought for safety by our boat,
    And left the ship, then sinking-ripe, to us:
    My wife, more careful for the latter-born,
    Had fasten'd him unto a small spare mast,
    Such as seafaring men provide for storms;
    To him one of the other twins was bound,
    Whilst I had been like heedful of the other:
    The children thus disposed, my wife and I,
    Fixing our eyes on whom our care was fix'd,
    Fasten'd ourselves at either end the mast;
    And floating straight, obedient to the stream,
    Was carried towards Corinth, as we thought.
    At length the sun, gazing upon the earth,
    Dispersed those vapours that offended us;
    And by the benefit of his wished light,
    The seas wax'd calm, and we discovered
    Two ships from far making amain to us,
    Of Corinth that, of Epidaurus this:
    But ere they came,--O, let me say no more!
    Gather the sequel by that went before.

DUKE SOLINUS    Nay, forward, old man; do not break off so;
    For we may pity, though not pardon thee.

AEGEON    O, had the gods done so, I had not now
    Worthily term'd them merciless to us!
    For, ere the ships could meet by twice five leagues,
    We were encounterd by a mighty rock;
    Which being violently borne upon,
    Our helpful ship was splitted in the midst;
    So that, in this unjust divorce of us,
    Fortune had left to both of us alike
    What to delight in, what to sorrow for.
    Her part, poor soul! seeming as burdened
    With lesser weight but not with lesser woe,
    Was carried with more speed before the wind;
    And in our sight they three were taken up
    By fishermen of Corinth, as we thought.
    At length, another ship had seized on us;
    And, knowing whom it was their hap to save,
    Gave healthful welcome to their shipwreck'd guests;
    And would have reft the fishers of their prey,
    Had not their bark been very slow of sail;
    And therefore homeward did they bend their course.
    Thus have you heard me sever'd from my bliss;
    That by misfortunes was my life prolong'd,
    To tell sad stories of my own mishaps.

DUKE SOLINUS    And for the sake of them thou sorrowest for,
    Do me the favour to dilate at full
    What hath befall'n of them and thee till now.

AEGEON    My youngest boy, and yet my eldest care,
    At eighteen years became inquisitive
    After his brother: and importuned me
    That his attendant--so his case was like,
    Reft of his brother, but retain'd his name--
    Might bear him company in the quest of him:
    Whom whilst I labour'd of a love to see,
    I hazarded the loss of whom I loved.
    Five summers have I spent in furthest Greece,
    Roaming clean through the bounds of Asia,
    And, coasting homeward, came to Ephesus;
    Hopeless to find, yet loath to leave unsought
    Or that or any place that harbours men.
    But here must end the story of my life;
    And happy were I in my timely death,
    Could all my travels warrant me they live.

DUKE SOLINUS    Hapless AEgeon, whom the fates have mark'd
    To bear the extremity of dire mishap!
    Now, trust me, were it not against our laws,
    Against my crown, my oath, my dignity,
    Which princes, would they, may not disannul,
    My soul would sue as advocate for thee.
    But, though thou art adjudged to the death
    And passed sentence may not be recall'd
    But to our honour's great disparagement,
    Yet I will favour thee in what I can.
    Therefore, merchant, I'll limit thee this day
    To seek thy life by beneficial help:
    Try all the friends thou hast in Ephesus;
    Beg thou, or borrow, to make up the sum,
    And live; if no, then thou art doom'd to die.
    Gaoler, take him to thy custody.

Gaoler    I will, my lord.

AEGEON    Hopeless and helpless doth AEgeon wend,
    But to procrastinate his lifeless end.

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT I



SCENE II    The Mart.


    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse, DROMIO of Syracuse,
    and First Merchant]

First Merchant    Therefore give out you are of Epidamnum,
    Lest that your goods too soon be confiscate.
    This very day a Syracusian merchant
    Is apprehended for arrival here;
    And not being able to buy out his life
    According to the statute of the town,
    Dies ere the weary sun set in the west.
    There is your money that I had to keep.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host,
    And stay there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
    Within this hour it will be dinner-time:
    Till that, I'll view the manners of the town,
    Peruse the traders, gaze upon the buildings,
    And then return and sleep within mine inn,
    For with long travel I am stiff and weary.
    Get thee away.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Many a man would take you at your word,
    And go indeed, having so good a mean.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    A trusty villain, sir, that very oft,
    When I am dull with care and melancholy,
    Lightens my humour with his merry jests.
    What, will you walk with me about the town,
    And then go to my inn and dine with me?

First Merchant    I am invited, sir, to certain merchants,
    Of whom I hope to make much benefit;
    I crave your pardon. Soon at five o'clock,
    Please you, I'll meet with you upon the mart
    And afterward consort you till bed-time:
    My present business calls me from you now.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Farewell till then: I will go lose myself
    And wander up and down to view the city.

First Merchant    Sir, I commend you to your own content.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    He that commends me to mine own content
    Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
    I to the world am like a drop of water
    That in the ocean seeks another drop,
    Who, falling there to find his fellow forth,
    Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself:
    So I, to find a mother and a brother,
    In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.

    [Enter DROMIO of Ephesus]

    Here comes the almanac of my true date.
    What now? how chance thou art return'd so soon?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Return'd so soon! rather approach'd too late:
    The capon burns, the pig falls from the spit,
    The clock hath strucken twelve upon the bell;
    My mistress made it one upon my cheek:
    She is so hot because the meat is cold;
    The meat is cold because you come not home;
    You come not home because you have no stomach;
    You have no stomach having broke your fast;
    But we that know what 'tis to fast and pray
    Are penitent for your default to-day.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Stop in your wind, sir: tell me this, I pray:
    Where have you left the money that I gave you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    O,--sixpence, that I had o' Wednesday last
    To pay the saddler for my mistress' crupper?
    The saddler had it, sir; I kept it not.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I am not in a sportive humour now:
    Tell me, and dally not, where is the money?
    We being strangers here, how darest thou trust
    So great a charge from thine own custody?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I pray you, air, as you sit at dinner:
    I from my mistress come to you in post;
    If I return, I shall be post indeed,
    For she will score your fault upon my pate.
    Methinks your maw, like mine, should be your clock,
    And strike you home without a messenger.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Come, Dromio, come, these jests are out of season;
    Reserve them till a merrier hour than this.
    Where is the gold I gave in charge to thee?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    To me, sir? why, you gave no gold to me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Come on, sir knave, have done your foolishness,
    And tell me how thou hast disposed thy charge.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    My charge was but to fetch you from the mart
    Home to your house, the Phoenix, sir, to dinner:
    My mistress and her sister stays for you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    In what safe place you have bestow'd my money,
    Or I shall break that merry sconce of yours
    That stands on tricks when I am undisposed:
    Where is the thousand marks thou hadst of me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I have some marks of yours upon my pate,
    Some of my mistress' marks upon my shoulders,
    But not a thousand marks between you both.
    If I should pay your worship those again,
    Perchance you will not bear them patiently.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thy mistress' marks? what mistress, slave, hast thou?


DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Your worship's wife, my mistress at the Phoenix;
    She that doth fast till you come home to dinner,
    And prays that you will hie you home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What, wilt thou flout me thus unto my face,
    Being forbid? There, take you that, sir knave.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    What mean you, sir? for God's sake, hold your hands!
    Nay, and you will not, sir, I'll take my heels.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Upon my life, by some device or other
    The villain is o'er-raught of all my money.
    They say this town is full of cozenage,
    As, nimble jugglers that deceive the eye,
    Dark-working sorcerers that change the mind,
    Soul-killing witches that deform the body,
    Disguised cheaters, prating mountebanks,
    And many such-like liberties of sin:
    If it prove so, I will be gone the sooner.
    I'll to the Centaur, to go seek this slave:
    I greatly fear my money is not safe.

    [Exit]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT II



SCENE I    The house of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.


    [Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA]

ADRIANA    Neither my husband nor the slave return'd,
    That in such haste I sent to seek his master!
    Sure, Luciana, it is two o'clock.

LUCIANA    Perhaps some merchant hath invited him,
    And from the mart he's somewhere gone to dinner.
    Good sister, let us dine and never fret:
    A man is master of his liberty:
    Time is their master, and, when they see time,
    They'll go or come: if so, be patient, sister.

ADRIANA    Why should their liberty than ours be more?

LUCIANA    Because their business still lies out o' door.

ADRIANA    Look, when I serve him so, he takes it ill.

LUCIANA    O, know he is the bridle of your will.

ADRIANA    There's none but asses will be bridled so.

LUCIANA    Why, headstrong liberty is lash'd with woe.
    There's nothing situate under heaven's eye
    But hath his bound, in earth, in sea, in sky:
    The beasts, the fishes, and the winged fowls,
    Are their males' subjects and at their controls:
    Men, more divine, the masters of all these,
    Lords of the wide world and wild watery seas,
    Indued with intellectual sense and souls,
    Of more preeminence than fish and fowls,
    Are masters to their females, and their lords:
    Then let your will attend on their accords.

ADRIANA    This servitude makes you to keep unwed.

LUCIANA    Not this, but troubles of the marriage-bed.

ADRIANA    But, were you wedded, you would bear some sway.

LUCIANA    Ere I learn love, I'll practise to obey.

ADRIANA    How if your husband start some other where?

LUCIANA    Till he come home again, I would forbear.

ADRIANA    Patience unmoved! no marvel though she pause;
    They can be meek that have no other cause.
    A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
    We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
    But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
    As much or more would we ourselves complain:
    So thou, that hast no unkind mate to grieve thee,
    With urging helpless patience wouldst relieve me,
    But, if thou live to see like right bereft,
    This fool-begg'd patience in thee will be left.

LUCIANA    Well, I will marry one day, but to try.
    Here comes your man; now is your husband nigh.

    [Enter DROMIO of Ephesus]

ADRIANA    Say, is your tardy master now at hand?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Nay, he's at two hands with me, and that my two ears
    can witness.

ADRIANA    Say, didst thou speak with him? know'st thou his mind?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Ay, ay, he told his mind upon mine ear:
    Beshrew his hand, I scarce could understand it.

LUCIANA    Spake he so doubtfully, thou couldst not feel his meaning?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Nay, he struck so plainly, I could too well feel his
    blows; and withal so doubtfully that I could scarce
    understand them.

ADRIANA    But say, I prithee, is he coming home? It seems he
    hath great care to please his wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Why, mistress, sure my master is horn-mad.

ADRIANA    Horn-mad, thou villain!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I mean not cuckold-mad;
    But, sure, he is stark mad.
    When I desired him to come home to dinner,
    He ask'd me for a thousand marks in gold:
    ''Tis dinner-time,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he;
    'Your meat doth burn,' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he:
    'Will you come home?' quoth I; 'My gold!' quoth he.
    'Where is the thousand marks I gave thee, villain?'
    'The pig,' quoth I, 'is burn'd;' 'My gold!' quoth he:
    'My mistress, sir' quoth I; 'Hang up thy mistress!
    I know not thy mistress; out on thy mistress!'

LUCIANA    Quoth who?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Quoth my master:
    'I know,' quoth he, 'no house, no wife, no mistress.'
    So that my errand, due unto my tongue,
    I thank him, I bare home upon my shoulders;
    For, in conclusion, he did beat me there.

ADRIANA    Go back again, thou slave, and fetch him home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Go back again, and be new beaten home?
    For God's sake, send some other messenger.

ADRIANA    Back, slave, or I will break thy pate across.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    And he will bless that cross with other beating:
    Between you I shall have a holy head.

ADRIANA    Hence, prating peasant! fetch thy master home.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Am I so round with you as you with me,
    That like a football you do spurn me thus?
    You spurn me hence, and he will spurn me hither:
    If I last in this service, you must case me in leather.

    [Exit]

LUCIANA    Fie, how impatience loureth in your face!

ADRIANA    His company must do his minions grace,
    Whilst I at home starve for a merry look.
    Hath homely age the alluring beauty took
    From my poor cheek? then he hath wasted it:
    Are my discourses dull? barren my wit?
    If voluble and sharp discourse be marr'd,
    Unkindness blunts it more than marble hard:
    Do their gay vestments his affections bait?
    That's not my fault: he's master of my state:
    What ruins are in me that can be found,
    By him not ruin'd? then is he the ground
    Of my defeatures. My decayed fair
    A sunny look of his would soon repair
    But, too unruly deer, he breaks the pale
    And feeds from home; poor I am but his stale.

LUCIANA    Self-harming jealousy! fie, beat it hence!

ADRIANA    Unfeeling fools can with such wrongs dispense.
    I know his eye doth homage otherwhere,
    Or else what lets it but he would be here?
    Sister, you know he promised me a chain;
    Would that alone, alone he would detain,
    So he would keep fair quarter with his bed!
    I see the jewel best enamelled
    Will lose his beauty; yet the gold bides still,
    That others touch, and often touching will
    Wear gold: and no man that hath a name,
    By falsehood and corruption doth it shame.
    Since that my beauty cannot please his eye,
    I'll weep what's left away, and weeping die.

LUCIANA    How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT II



SCENE II    A public place.


    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse]

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

    [Enter DROMIO of Syracuse]

    How now sir! is your merry humour alter'd?
    As you love strokes, so jest with me again.
    You know no Centaur? you received no gold?
    Your mistress sent to have me home to dinner?
    My house was at the Phoenix? Wast thou mad,
    That thus so madly thou didst answer me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    What answer, sir? when spake I such a word?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Even now, even here, not half an hour since.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I did not see you since you sent me hence,
    Home to the Centaur, with the gold you gave me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Villain, thou didst deny the gold's receipt,
    And told'st me of a mistress and a dinner;
    For which, I hope, thou felt'st I was displeased.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I am glad to see you in this merry vein:
    What means this jest? I pray you, master, tell me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Yea, dost thou jeer and flout me in the teeth?
    Think'st thou I jest? Hold, take thou that, and that.

    [Beating him]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Hold, sir, for God's sake! now your jest is earnest:
    Upon what bargain do you give it me?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Because that I familiarly sometimes
    Do use you for my fool and chat with you,
    Your sauciness will jest upon my love
    And make a common of my serious hours.
    When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport,
    But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
    If you will jest with me, know my aspect,
    And fashion your demeanor to my looks,
    Or I will beat this method in your sconce.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Sconce call you it? so you would leave battering, I
    had rather have it a head: an you use these blows
    long, I must get a sconce for my head and ensconce
    it too; or else I shall seek my wit in my shoulders.
    But, I pray, sir why am I beaten?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Dost thou not know?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Nothing, sir, but that I am beaten.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Shall I tell you why?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Ay, sir, and wherefore; for they say every why hath
    a wherefore.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why, first,--for flouting me; and then, wherefore--
    For urging it the second time to me.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Was there ever any man thus beaten out of season,
    When in the why and the wherefore is neither rhyme
    nor reason?
    Well, sir, I thank you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thank me, sir, for what?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, sir, for this something that you gave me for nothing.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I'll make you amends next, to give you nothing for
    something. But say, sir, is it dinner-time?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No, sir; I think the meat wants that I have.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    In good time, sir; what's that?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Basting.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Well, sir, then 'twill be dry.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    If it be, sir, I pray you, eat none of it.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Your reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Lest it make you choleric and purchase me another
    dry basting.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Well, sir, learn to jest in good time: there's a
    time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I durst have denied that, before you were so choleric.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    By what rule, sir?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, sir, by a rule as plain as the plain bald
    pate of father Time himself.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Let's hear it.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    There's no time for a man to recover his hair that
    grows bald by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    May he not do it by fine and recovery?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Yes, to pay a fine for a periwig and recover the
    lost hair of another man.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why is Time such a niggard of hair, being, as it is,
    so plentiful an excrement?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Because it is a blessing that he bestows on beasts;
    and what he hath scanted men in hair he hath given them in wit.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why, but there's many a man hath more hair than wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Not a man of those but he hath the wit to lose his hair.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why, thou didst conclude hairy men plain dealers without wit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    The plainer dealer, the sooner lost: yet he loseth
    it in a kind of jollity.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    For what reason?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    For two; and sound ones too.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Nay, not sound, I pray you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Sure ones, then.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Nay, not sure, in a thing falsing.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Certain ones then.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Name them.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    The one, to save the money that he spends in
    trimming; the other, that at dinner they should not
    drop in his porridge.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    You would all this time have proved there is no
    time for all things.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, and did, sir; namely, no time to recover hair
    lost by nature.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    But your reason was not substantial, why there is no
    time to recover.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Thus I mend it: Time himself is bald and therefore
    to the world's end will have bald followers.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I knew 'twould be a bald conclusion:
    But, soft! who wafts us yonder?

    [Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA]

ADRIANA    Ay, ay, Antipholus, look strange and frown:
    Some other mistress hath thy sweet aspects;
    I am not Adriana nor thy wife.
    The time was once when thou unurged wouldst vow
    That never words were music to thine ear,
    That never object pleasing in thine eye,
    That never touch well welcome to thy hand,
    That never meat sweet-savor'd in thy taste,
    Unless I spake, or look'd, or touch'd, or carved to thee.
    How comes it now, my husband, O, how comes it,
    That thou art thus estranged from thyself?
    Thyself I call it, being strange to me,
    That, undividable, incorporate,
    Am better than thy dear self's better part.
    Ah, do not tear away thyself from me!
    For know, my love, as easy mayest thou fall
    A drop of water in the breaking gulf,
    And take unmingled that same drop again,
    Without addition or diminishing,
    As take from me thyself and not me too.
    How dearly would it touch me to the quick,
    Shouldst thou but hear I were licentious
    And that this body, consecrate to thee,
    By ruffian lust should be contaminate!
    Wouldst thou not spit at me and spurn at me
    And hurl the name of husband in my face
    And tear the stain'd skin off my harlot-brow
    And from my false hand cut the wedding-ring
    And break it with a deep-divorcing vow?
    I know thou canst; and therefore see thou do it.
    I am possess'd with an adulterate blot;
    My blood is mingled with the crime of lust:
    For if we too be one and thou play false,
    I do digest the poison of thy flesh,
    Being strumpeted by thy contagion.
    Keep then far league and truce with thy true bed;
    I live unstain'd, thou undishonoured.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Plead you to me, fair dame? I know you not:
    In Ephesus I am but two hours old,
    As strange unto your town as to your talk;
    Who, every word by all my wit being scann'd,
    Want wit in all one word to understand.

LUCIANA    Fie, brother! how the world is changed with you!
    When were you wont to use my sister thus?
    She sent for you by Dromio home to dinner.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    By Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    By me?

ADRIANA    By thee; and this thou didst return from him,
    That he did buffet thee, and, in his blows,
    Denied my house for his, me for his wife.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Did you converse, sir, with this gentlewoman?
    What is the course and drift of your compact?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I, sir? I never saw her till this time.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Villain, thou liest; for even her very words
    Didst thou deliver to me on the mart.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I never spake with her in all my life.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    How can she thus then call us by our names,
    Unless it be by inspiration.

ADRIANA    How ill agrees it with your gravity
    To counterfeit thus grossly with your slave,
    Abetting him to thwart me in my mood!
    Be it my wrong you are from me exempt,
    But wrong not that wrong with a more contempt.
    Come, I will fasten on this sleeve of thine:
    Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine,
    Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state,
    Makes me with thy strength to communicate:
    If aught possess thee from me, it is dross,
    Usurping ivy, brier, or idle moss;
    Who, all for want of pruning, with intrusion
    Infect thy sap and live on thy confusion.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    To me she speaks; she moves me for her theme:
    What, was I married to her in my dream?
    Or sleep I now and think I hear all this?
    What error drives our eyes and ears amiss?
    Until I know this sure uncertainty,
    I'll entertain the offer'd fallacy.

LUCIANA    Dromio, go bid the servants spread for dinner.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    O, for my beads! I cross me for a sinner.
    This is the fairy land: O spite of spites!
    We talk with goblins, owls and sprites:
    If we obey them not, this will ensue,
    They'll suck our breath, or pinch us black and blue.

LUCIANA    Why pratest thou to thyself and answer'st not?
    Dromio, thou drone, thou snail, thou slug, thou sot!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I am transformed, master, am I not?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I think thou art in mind, and so am I.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Nay, master, both in mind and in my shape.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thou hast thine own form.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No, I am an ape.

LUCIANA    If thou art changed to aught, 'tis to an ass.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    'Tis true; she rides me and I long for grass.
    'Tis so, I am an ass; else it could never be
    But I should know her as well as she knows me.

ADRIANA    Come, come, no longer will I be a fool,
    To put the finger in the eye and weep,
    Whilst man and master laugh my woes to scorn.
    Come, sir, to dinner. Dromio, keep the gate.
    Husband, I'll dine above with you to-day
    And shrive you of a thousand idle pranks.
    Sirrah, if any ask you for your master,
    Say he dines forth, and let no creature enter.
    Come, sister. Dromio, play the porter well.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Am I in earth, in heaven, or in hell?
    Sleeping or waking? mad or well-advised?
    Known unto these, and to myself disguised!
    I'll say as they say and persever so,
    And in this mist at all adventures go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, shall I be porter at the gate?

ADRIANA    Ay; and let none enter, lest I break your pate.

LUCIANA    Come, come, Antipholus, we dine too late.

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT III



SCENE I    Before the house of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.


    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus, DROMIO of Ephesus,
    ANGELO, and BALTHAZAR]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Good Signior Angelo, you must excuse us all;
    My wife is shrewish when I keep not hours:
    Say that I linger'd with you at your shop
    To see the making of her carcanet,
    And that to-morrow you will bring it home.
    But here's a villain that would face me down
    He met me on the mart, and that I beat him,
    And charged him with a thousand marks in gold,
    And that I did deny my wife and house.
    Thou drunkard, thou, what didst thou mean by this?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Say what you will, sir, but I know what I know;
    That you beat me at the mart, I have your hand to show:
    If the skin were parchment, and the blows you gave were ink,
    Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I think thou art an ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Marry, so it doth appear
    By the wrongs I suffer and the blows I bear.
    I should kick, being kick'd; and, being at that pass,
    You would keep from my heels and beware of an ass.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    You're sad, Signior Balthazar: pray God our cheer
    May answer my good will and your good welcome here.

BALTHAZAR    I hold your dainties cheap, sir, and your
    welcome dear.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    O, Signior Balthazar, either at flesh or fish,
    A table full of welcome make scarce one dainty dish.

BALTHAZAR    Good meat, sir, is common; that every churl affords.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    And welcome more common; for that's nothing but words.

BALTHAZAR    Small cheer and great welcome makes a merry feast.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Ay, to a niggardly host, and more sparing guest:
    But though my cates be mean, take them in good part;
    Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart.
    But, soft! my door is lock'd. Go bid them let us in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cicel, Gillian, Ginn!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Mome, malt-horse, capon, coxcomb,
    idiot, patch!
    Either get thee from the door, or sit down at the hatch.
    Dost thou conjure for wenches, that thou call'st
    for such store,
    When one is one too many? Go, get thee from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    What patch is made our porter? My master stays in
    the street.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Let him walk from whence he came, lest he
    catch cold on's feet.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Who talks within there? ho, open the door!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Right, sir; I'll tell you when, an you tell
    me wherefore.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Wherefore? for my dinner: I have not dined to-day.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Nor to-day here you must not; come again
    when you may.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    What art thou that keepest me out from the house I owe?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  The porter for this time, sir, and my name
    is Dromio.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    O villain! thou hast stolen both mine office and my name.
    The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.
    If thou hadst been Dromio to-day in my place,
    Thou wouldst have changed thy face for a name or thy
    name for an ass.

LUCE    [Within]  What a coil is there, Dromio? who are those
    at the gate?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Let my master in, Luce.

LUCE    [Within]  Faith, no; he comes too late;
    And so tell your master.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    O Lord, I must laugh!
    Have at you with a proverb--Shall I set in my staff?

LUCE    [Within]  Have at you with another; that's--When?
    can you tell?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  If thy name be call'd Luce--Luce, thou hast
    answered him well.

ANTIPHOLUS    Do you hear, you minion? you'll let us in, I hope?
OF EPHESUS

LUCE    [Within]  I thought to have asked you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  And you said no.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    So, come, help: well struck! there was blow for blow.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Thou baggage, let me in.

LUCE    [Within]  Can you tell for whose sake?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Master, knock the door hard.

LUCE    [Within]  Let him knock till it ache.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    You'll cry for this, minion, if I beat the door down.

LUCE    [Within]  What needs all that, and a pair of stocks in the town?

ADRIANA    [Within]  Who is that at the door that keeps all
    this noise?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  By my troth, your town is troubled with
    unruly boys.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Are you there, wife? you might have come before.

ADRIANA    [Within]  Your wife, sir knave! go get you from the door.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    If you went in pain, master, this 'knave' would go sore.

ANGELO    Here is neither cheer, sir, nor welcome: we would
    fain have either.

BALTHAZAR    In debating which was best, we shall part with neither.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    They stand at the door, master; bid them welcome hither.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    There is something in the wind, that we cannot get in.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    You would say so, master, if your garments were thin.
    Your cake there is warm within; you stand here in the cold:
    It would make a man mad as a buck, to be so bought and sold.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Go fetch me something: I'll break ope the gate.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Break any breaking here, and I'll break your
    knave's pate.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    A man may break a word with you, sir, and words are but wind,
    Ay, and break it in your face, so he break it not behind.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  It seems thou want'st breaking: out upon
    thee, hind!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Here's too much 'out upon thee!' I pray thee,
    let me in.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    [Within]  Ay, when fowls have no feathers and fish have no fin.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Well, I'll break in: go borrow me a crow.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    A crow without feather? Master, mean you so?
    For a fish without a fin, there's a fowl without a feather;
    If a crow help us in, sirrah, we'll pluck a crow together.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Go get thee gone; fetch me an iron crow.

BALTHAZAR    Have patience, sir; O, let it not be so!
    Herein you war against your reputation
    And draw within the compass of suspect
    The unviolated honour of your wife.
    Once this,--your long experience of her wisdom,
    Her sober virtue, years and modesty,
    Plead on her part some cause to you unknown:
    And doubt not, sir, but she will well excuse
    Why at this time the doors are made against you.
    Be ruled by me: depart in patience,
    And let us to the Tiger all to dinner,
    And about evening come yourself alone
    To know the reason of this strange restraint.
    If by strong hand you offer to break in
    Now in the stirring passage of the day,
    A vulgar comment will be made of it,
    And that supposed by the common rout
    Against your yet ungalled estimation
    That may with foul intrusion enter in
    And dwell upon your grave when you are dead;
    For slander lives upon succession,
    For ever housed where it gets possession.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    You have prevailed: I will depart in quiet,
    And, in despite of mirth, mean to be merry.
    I know a wench of excellent discourse,
    Pretty and witty; wild, and yet, too, gentle:
    There will we dine. This woman that I mean,
    My wife--but, I protest, without desert--
    Hath oftentimes upbraided me withal:
    To her will we to dinner.

    [To Angelo]

            Get you home
    And fetch the chain; by this I know 'tis made:
    Bring it, I pray you, to the Porpentine;
    For there's the house: that chain will I bestow--
    Be it for nothing but to spite my wife--
    Upon mine hostess there: good sir, make haste.
    Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me,
    I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me.

ANGELO    I'll meet you at that place some hour hence.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Do so. This jest shall cost me some expense.

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT III



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter LUCIANA and ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse]

LUCIANA    And may it be that you have quite forgot
    A husband's office? shall, Antipholus.
    Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
    Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
    If you did wed my sister for her wealth,
    Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:
    Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
    Muffle your false love with some show of blindness:
    Let not my sister read it in your eye;
    Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator;
    Look sweet, be fair, become disloyalty;
    Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
    Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
    Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
    Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted?
    What simple thief brags of his own attaint?
    'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed
    And let her read it in thy looks at board:
    Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
    Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
    Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
    Being compact of credit, that you love us;
    Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
    We in your motion turn and you may move us.
    Then, gentle brother, get you in again;
    Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:
    'Tis holy sport to be a little vain,
    When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Sweet mistress--what your name is else, I know not,
    Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,--
    Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
    Than our earth's wonder, more than earth divine.
    Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
    Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
    Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak,
    The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
    Against my soul's pure truth why labour you
    To make it wander in an unknown field?
    Are you a god? would you create me new?
    Transform me then, and to your power I'll yield.
    But if that I am I, then well I know
    Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
    Nor to her bed no homage do I owe
    Far more, far more to you do I decline.
    O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
    To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:
    Sing, siren, for thyself and I will dote:
    Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
    And as a bed I'll take them and there lie,
    And in that glorious supposition think
    He gains by death that hath such means to die:
    Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!

LUCIANA    What, are you mad, that you do reason so?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.

LUCIANA    It is a fault that springeth from your eye.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.

LUCIANA    Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.


LUCIANA    Why call you me love? call my sister so.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thy sister's sister.


LUCIANA    That's my sister.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    No;
    It is thyself, mine own self's better part,
    Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
    My food, my fortune and my sweet hope's aim,
    My sole earth's heaven and my heaven's claim.

LUCIANA    All this my sister is, or else should be.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee.
    Thee will I love and with thee lead my life:
    Thou hast no husband yet nor I no wife.
    Give me thy hand.

LUCIANA                      O, soft, air! hold you still:
    I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will.

    [Exit]

    [Enter DROMIO of Syracuse]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why, how now, Dromio! where runn'st thou so fast?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I your man?
    am I myself?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art thyself.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I am an ass, I am a woman's man and besides myself.

ANTIPHOLUS    What woman's man? and how besides thyself? besides thyself?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a woman; one
    that claims me, one that haunts me, one that will have me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What claim lays she to thee?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry sir, such claim as you would lay to your
    horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, I
    being a beast, she would have me; but that she,
    being a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What is she?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man may
    not speak of without he say 'Sir-reverence.' I have
    but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a
    wondrous fat marriage.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    How dost thou mean a fat marriage?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, sir, she's the kitchen wench and all grease;
    and I know not what use to put her to but to make a
    lamp of her and run from her by her own light. I
    warrant, her rags and the tallow in them will burn a
    Poland winter: if she lives till doomsday,
    she'll burn a week longer than the whole world.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What complexion is she of?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing half so
    clean kept: for why, she sweats; a man may go over
    shoes in the grime of it.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    That's a fault that water will mend.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not do it.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What's her name?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters, that's
    an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from
    hip to hip.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Then she bears some breadth?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No longer from head to foot than from hip to hip:
    she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out
    countries in her.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    In what part of her body stands Ireland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, in her buttocks: I found it out by the bogs.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where Scotland?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm of the hand.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where France?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    In her forehead; armed and reverted, making war
    against her heir.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where England?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find no
    whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin,
    by the salt rheum that ran between France and it.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where Spain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her breath.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where America, the Indies?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Oh, sir, upon her nose all o'er embellished with
    rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich
    aspect to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole
    armadoes of caracks to be ballast at her nose.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude, this
    drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me, call'd me
    Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what
    privy marks I had about me, as, the mark of my
    shoulder, the mole in my neck, the great wart on my
    left arm, that I amazed ran from her as a witch:
    And, I think, if my breast had not been made of
    faith and my heart of steel,
    She had transform'd me to a curtal dog and made
    me turn i' the wheel.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Go hie thee presently, post to the road:
    An if the wind blow any way from shore,
    I will not harbour in this town to-night:
    If any bark put forth, come to the mart,
    Where I will walk till thou return to me.
    If every one knows us and we know none,
    'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack and be gone.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    As from a bear a man would run for life,
    So fly I from her that would be my wife.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    There's none but witches do inhabit here;
    And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.
    She that doth call me husband, even my soul
    Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,
    Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,
    Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
    Hath almost made me traitor to myself:
    But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
    I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.

    [Enter ANGELO with the chain]

ANGELO    Master Antipholus,--

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Ay, that's my name.

ANGELO    I know it well, sir, lo, here is the chain.
    I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine:
    The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What is your will that I shall do with this?

ANGELO    What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.

ANGELO    Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have.
    Go home with it and please your wife withal;
    And soon at supper-time I'll visit you
    And then receive my money for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
    For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more.

ANGELO    You are a merry man, sir: fare you well.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What I should think of this, I cannot tell:
    But this I think, there's no man is so vain
    That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.
    I see a man here needs not live by shifts,
    When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
    I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay
    If any ship put out, then straight away.

    [Exit]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT IV



SCENE I    A public place.


    [Enter Second Merchant, ANGELO, and an Officer]

Second Merchant    You know since Pentecost the sum is due,
    And since I have not much importuned you;
    Nor now I had not, but that I am bound
    To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:
    Therefore make present satisfaction,
    Or I'll attach you by this officer.

ANGELO    Even just the sum that I do owe to you
    Is growing to me by Antipholus,
    And in the instant that I met with you
    He had of me a chain: at five o'clock
    I shall receive the money for the same.
    Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
    I will discharge my bond and thank you too.

    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus
    from the courtezan's]

Officer    That labour may you save: see where he comes.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou
    And buy a rope's end: that will I bestow
    Among my wife and her confederates,
    For locking me out of my doors by day.
    But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;
    Buy thou a rope and bring it home to me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.

    [Exit]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    A man is well holp up that trusts to you:
    I promised your presence and the chain;
    But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.
    Belike you thought our love would last too long,
    If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.

ANGELO    Saving your merry humour, here's the note
    How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,
    The fineness of the gold and chargeful fashion.
    Which doth amount to three odd ducats more
    Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
    I pray you, see him presently discharged,
    For he is bound to sea and stays but for it.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I am not furnish'd with the present money;
    Besides, I have some business in the town.
    Good signior, take the stranger to my house
    And with you take the chain and bid my wife
    Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:
    Perchance I will be there as soon as you.

ANGELO    Then you will bring the chain to her yourself?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.

ANGELO    Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
    Or else you may return without your money.

ANGELO    Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain:
    Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
    And I, to blame, have held him here too long.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
    Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.
    I should have chid you for not bringing it,
    But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.

Second Merchant    The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.

ANGELO    You hear how he importunes me;--the chain!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Why, give it to my wife and fetch your money.

ANGELO    Come, come, you know I gave it you even now.
    Either send the chain or send me by some token.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Fie, now you run this humour out of breath,
    where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.

Second Merchant    My business cannot brook this dalliance.
    Good sir, say whether you'll answer me or no:
    If not, I'll leave him to the officer.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I answer you! what should I answer you?

ANGELO    The money that you owe me for the chain.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I owe you none till I receive the chain.

ANGELO    You know I gave it you half an hour since.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.

ANGELO    You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
    Consider how it stands upon my credit.

Second Merchant    Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.

Officer    I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me.

ANGELO    This touches me in reputation.
    Either consent to pay this sum for me
    Or I attach you by this officer.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Consent to pay thee that I never had!
    Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest.

ANGELO    Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer,
    I would not spare my brother in this case,
    If he should scorn me so apparently.

Officer    I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I do obey thee till I give thee bail.
    But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
    As all the metal in your shop will answer.

ANGELO    Sir, sir, I will have law in Ephesus,
    To your notorious shame; I doubt it not.

    [Enter DROMIO of Syracuse, from the bay]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum
    That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
    And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
    I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
    The oil, the balsamum and aqua-vitae.
    The ship is in her trim; the merry wind
    Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all
    But for their owner, master, and yourself.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,
    What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope;
    And told thee to what purpose and what end.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    You sent me for a rope's end as soon:
    You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I will debate this matter at more leisure
    And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
    To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:
    Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
    That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry,
    There is a purse of ducats; let her send it:
    Tell her I am arrested in the street
    And that shall bail me; hie thee, slave, be gone!
    On, officer, to prison till it come.

    [Exeunt Second Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and
    Antipholus of Ephesus]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    To Adriana! that is where we dined,
    Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband:
    She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
    Thither I must, although against my will,
    For servants must their masters' minds fulfil.

    [Exit]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT IV



SCENE II    The house of ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus.


    [Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA]

ADRIANA    Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
    Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
    That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?
    Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?
    What observation madest thou in this case
    Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?

LUCIANA    First he denied you had in him no right.

ADRIANA    He meant he did me none; the more my spite.

LUCIANA    Then swore he that he was a stranger here.

ADRIANA    And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were.

LUCIANA    Then pleaded I for you.

ADRIANA    And what said he?

LUCIANA    That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.

ADRIANA    With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?

LUCIANA    With words that in an honest suit might move.
    First he did praise my beauty, then my speech.

ADRIANA    Didst speak him fair?

LUCIANA    Have patience, I beseech.

ADRIANA    I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;
    My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
    He is deformed, crooked, old and sere,
    Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere;
    Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
    Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.

LUCIANA    Who would be jealous then of such a one?
    No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.

ADRIANA    Ah, but I think him better than I say,
    And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
    Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:
    My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.

    [Enter DROMIO of Syracuse]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.

LUCIANA    How hast thou lost thy breath?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    By running fast.

ADRIANA    Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
    A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
    One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
    A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough;
    A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;
    A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that
    countermands
    The passages of alleys, creeks and narrow lands;
    A hound that runs counter and yet draws dryfoot well;
    One that before the judgement carries poor souls to hell.

ADRIANA    Why, man, what is the matter?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.

ADRIANA    What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;
    But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell.
    Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?

ADRIANA    Go fetch it, sister.

    [Exit Luciana]

        This I wonder at,
    That he, unknown to me, should be in debt.
    Tell me, was he arrested on a band?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Not on a band, but on a stronger thing;
    A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?

ADRIANA    What, the chain?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:
    It was two ere I left him, and now the clock
    strikes one.

ADRIANA    The hours come back! that did I never hear.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, a' turns back for
    very fear.

ADRIANA    As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's
    worth, to season.
    Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say
    That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
    If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
    Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?

    [Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse]

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

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT IV



SCENE III    A public place.


    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse]

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

    [Enter DROMIO OF SYRACUSE]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, here's the gold you sent me for. What, have
    you got the picture of old Adam new-apparelled?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What gold is this? what Adam dost thou mean?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Not that Adam that kept the Paradise but that Adam
    that keeps the prison: he that goes in the calf's
    skin that was killed for the Prodigal; he that came
    behind you, sir, like an evil angel, and bid you
    forsake your liberty.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I understand thee not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    No? why, 'tis a plain case: he that went, like a
    bass-viol, in a case of leather; the man, sir,
    that, when gentlemen are tired, gives them a sob
    and 'rests them; he, sir, that takes pity on decayed
    men and gives them suits of durance; he that sets up
    his rest to do more exploits with his mace than a
    morris-pike.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    What, thou meanest an officer?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Ay, sir, the sergeant of the band, he that brings
    any man to answer it that breaks his band; one that
    thinks a man always going to bed, and says, 'God
    give you good rest!'

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Well, sir, there rest in your foolery. Is there any

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Why, sir, I brought you word an hour since that the
    bark Expedition put forth to-night; and then were
    you hindered by the sergeant, to tarry for the hoy
    Delay. Here are the angels that you sent for to
    deliver you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    The fellow is distract, and so am I;
    And here we wander in illusions:
    Some blessed power deliver us from hence!

    [Enter a Courtezan]

Courtezan    Well met, well met, Master Antipholus.
    I see, sir, you have found the goldsmith now:
    Is that the chain you promised me to-day?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Satan, avoid! I charge thee, tempt me not.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, is this Mistress Satan?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    It is the devil.


DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Nay, she is worse, she is the devil's dam; and here
    she comes in the habit of a light wench: and thereof
    comes that the wenches say 'God damn me;' that's as
    much to say 'God make me a light wench.' It is
    written, they appear to men like angels of light:
    light is an effect of fire, and fire will burn;
    ergo, light wenches will burn. Come not near her.

Courtezan    Your man and you are marvellous merry, sir.
    Will you go with me? We'll mend our dinner here?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, if you do, expect spoon-meat; or bespeak a
    long spoon.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Why, Dromio?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Marry, he must have a long spoon that must eat with
    the devil.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Avoid then, fiend! what tell'st thou me of supping?
    Thou art, as you are all, a sorceress:
    I conjure thee to leave me and be gone.

Courtezan    Give me the ring of mine you had at dinner,
    Or, for my diamond, the chain you promised,
    And I'll be gone, sir, and not trouble you.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Some devils ask but the parings of one's nail,
    A rush, a hair, a drop of blood, a pin,
    A nut, a cherry-stone;
    But she, more covetous, would have a chain.
    Master, be wise: an if you give it her,
    The devil will shake her chain and fright us with it.

Courtezan    I pray you, sir, my ring, or else the chain:
    I hope you do not mean to cheat me so.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Avaunt, thou witch! Come, Dromio, let us go.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    'Fly pride,' says the peacock: mistress, that you know.

    [Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse]

Courtezan    Now, out of doubt Antipholus is mad,
    Else would he never so demean himself.
    A ring he hath of mine worth forty ducats,
    And for the same he promised me a chain:
    Both one and other he denies me now.
    The reason that I gather he is mad,
    Besides this present instance of his rage,
    Is a mad tale he told to-day at dinner,
    Of his own doors being shut against his entrance.
    Belike his wife, acquainted with his fits,
    On purpose shut the doors against his way.
    My way is now to hie home to his house,
    And tell his wife that, being lunatic,
    He rush'd into my house and took perforce
    My ring away. This course I fittest choose;
    For forty ducats is too much to lose.

    [Exit]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT IV



SCENE IV    A street.


    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and the Officer]

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

    [Enter DROMIO of Ephesus with a rope's-end]

    Here comes my man; I think he brings the money.
    How now, sir! have you that I sent you for?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Here's that, I warrant you, will pay them all.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    But where's the money?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Why, sir, I gave the money for the rope.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Five hundred ducats, villain, for a rope?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I'll serve you, sir, five hundred at the rate.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    To what end did I bid thee hie thee home?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    To a rope's-end, sir; and to that end am I returned.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    And to that end, sir, I will welcome you.

    [Beating him]

Officer    Good sir, be patient.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Nay, 'tis for me to be patient; I am in adversity.

Officer    Good, now, hold thy tongue.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Nay, rather persuade him to hold his hands.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Thou whoreson, senseless villain!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I would I were senseless, sir, that I might not feel
    your blows.

ANTIPHOLUS    Thou art sensible in nothing but blows, and so is an
    ass.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I am an ass, indeed; you may prove it by my long
    ears. I have served him from the hour of my
    nativity to this instant, and have nothing at his
    hands for my service but blows. When I am cold, he
    heats me with beating; when I am warm, he cools me
    with beating; I am waked with it when I sleep;
    raised with it when I sit; driven out of doors with
    it when I go from home; welcomed home with it when
    I return; nay, I bear it on my shoulders, as a
    beggar wont her brat; and, I think when he hath
    lamed me, I shall beg with it from door to door.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Come, go along; my wife is coming yonder.

    [Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the Courtezan, and PINCH]

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Mistress, 'respice finem,' respect your end; or
    rather, the prophecy like the parrot, 'beware the
    rope's-end.'

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Wilt thou still talk?

    [Beating him]

Courtezan    How say you now? is not your husband mad?

ADRIANA    His incivility confirms no less.
    Good Doctor Pinch, you are a conjurer;
    Establish him in his true sense again,
    And I will please you what you will demand.

LUCIANA    Alas, how fiery and how sharp he looks!

Courtezan    Mark how he trembles in his ecstasy!

PINCH    Give me your hand and let me feel your pulse.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    There is my hand, and let it feel your ear.

    [Striking him]

PINCH    I charge thee, Satan, housed within this man,
    To yield possession to my holy prayers
    And to thy state of darkness hie thee straight:
    I conjure thee by all the saints in heaven!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Peace, doting wizard, peace! I am not mad.

ADRIANA    O, that thou wert not, poor distressed soul!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    You minion, you, are these your customers?
    Did this companion with the saffron face
    Revel and feast it at my house to-day,
    Whilst upon me the guilty doors were shut
    And I denied to enter in my house?

ADRIANA    O husband, God doth know you dined at home;
    Where would you had remain'd until this time,
    Free from these slanders and this open shame!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Dined at home! Thou villain, what sayest thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Sir, sooth to say, you did not dine at home.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Were not my doors lock'd up and I shut out?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Perdie, your doors were lock'd and you shut out.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    And did not she herself revile me there?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Sans fable, she herself reviled you there.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Did not her kitchen-maid rail, taunt, and scorn me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Certes, she did; the kitchen-vestal scorn'd you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    And did not I in rage depart from thence?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    In verity you did; my bones bear witness,
    That since have felt the vigour of his rage.

ADRIANA    Is't good to soothe him in these contraries?

PINCH    It is no shame: the fellow finds his vein,
    And yielding to him humours well his frenzy.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Thou hast suborn'd the goldsmith to arrest me.

ADRIANA    Alas, I sent you money to redeem you,
    By Dromio here, who came in haste for it.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Money by me! heart and goodwill you might;
    But surely master, not a rag of money.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Went'st not thou to her for a purse of ducats?

ADRIANA    He came to me and I deliver'd it.

LUCIANA    And I am witness with her that she did.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    God and the rope-maker bear me witness
    That I was sent for nothing but a rope!

PINCH    Mistress, both man and master is possess'd;
    I know it by their pale and deadly looks:
    They must be bound and laid in some dark room.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Say, wherefore didst thou lock me forth to-day?
    And why dost thou deny the bag of gold?

ADRIANA    I did not, gentle husband, lock thee forth.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    And, gentle master, I received no gold;
    But I confess, sir, that we were lock'd out.

ADRIANA    Dissembling villain, thou speak'st false in both.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all;
    And art confederate with a damned pack
    To make a loathsome abject scorn of me:
    But with these nails I'll pluck out these false eyes
    That would behold in me this shameful sport.

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

ADRIANA    O, bind him, bind him! let him not come near me.

PINCH    More company! The fiend is strong within him.

LUCIANA    Ay me, poor man, how pale and wan he looks!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    What, will you murder me? Thou gaoler, thou,
    I am thy prisoner: wilt thou suffer them
    To make a rescue?

Officer                      Masters, let him go
    He is my prisoner, and you shall not have him.

PINCH    Go bind this man, for he is frantic too.

    [They offer to bind Dromio of Ephesus]

ADRIANA    What wilt thou do, thou peevish officer?
    Hast thou delight to see a wretched man
    Do outrage and displeasure to himself?

Officer    He is my prisoner: if I let him go,
    The debt he owes will be required of me.

ADRIANA    I will discharge thee ere I go from thee:
    Bear me forthwith unto his creditor,
    And, knowing how the debt grows, I will pay it.
    Good master doctor, see him safe convey'd
    Home to my house. O most unhappy day!

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    O most unhappy strumpet!

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Master, I am here entered in bond for you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Out on thee, villain! wherefore dost thou mad me?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Will you be bound for nothing? be mad, good master:
    cry 'The devil!'

LUCIANA    God help, poor souls, how idly do they talk!

ADRIANA    Go bear him hence. Sister, go you with me.

    [Exeunt all but Adriana, Luciana, Officer and
    Courtezan]

    Say now, whose suit is he arrested at?

Officer    One Angelo, a goldsmith: do you know him?

ADRIANA    I know the man. What is the sum he owes?

Officer    Two hundred ducats.

ADRIANA    Say, how grows it due?

Officer    Due for a chain your husband had of him.

ADRIANA    He did bespeak a chain for me, but had it not.

Courtezan    When as your husband all in rage to-day
    Came to my house and took away my ring--
    The ring I saw upon his finger now--
    Straight after did I meet him with a chain.

ADRIANA    It may be so, but I did never see it.
    Come, gaoler, bring me where the goldsmith is:
    I long to know the truth hereof at large.

    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse with his rapier drawn,
    and DROMIO of Syracuse]

LUCIANA    God, for thy mercy! they are loose again.

ADRIANA    And come with naked swords.
    Let's call more help to have them bound again.

Officer    Away! they'll kill us.

    [Exeunt all but Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio
    of Syracuse]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I see these witches are afraid of swords.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    She that would be your wife now ran from you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Come to the Centaur; fetch our stuff from thence:
    I long that we were safe and sound aboard.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us
    no harm: you saw they speak us fair, give us gold:
    methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for
    the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of
    me, I could find in my heart to stay here still and
    turn witch.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I will not stay to-night for all the town;
    Therefore away, to get our stuff aboard.

    [Exeunt]




    THE COMEDY OF ERRORS


ACT V



SCENE I    A street before a Priory.


    [Enter Second Merchant and ANGELO]

ANGELO    I am sorry, sir, that I have hinder'd you;
    But, I protest, he had the chain of me,
    Though most dishonestly he doth deny it.

Second Merchant    How is the man esteemed here in the city?

ANGELO    Of very reverend reputation, sir,
    Of credit infinite, highly beloved,
    Second to none that lives here in the city:
    His word might bear my wealth at any time.

Second Merchant    Speak softly; yonder, as I think, he walks.

    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and DROMIO of Syracuse]

ANGELO    'Tis so; and that self chain about his neck
    Which he forswore most monstrously to have.
    Good sir, draw near to me, I'll speak to him.
    Signior Antipholus, I wonder much
    That you would put me to this shame and trouble;
    And, not without some scandal to yourself,
    With circumstance and oaths so to deny
    This chain which now you wear so openly:
    Beside the charge, the shame, imprisonment,
    You have done wrong to this my honest friend,
    Who, but for staying on our controversy,
    Had hoisted sail and put to sea to-day:
    This chain you had of me; can you deny it?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I think I had; I never did deny it.

Second Merchant    Yes, that you did, sir, and forswore it too.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Who heard me to deny it or forswear it?

Second Merchant    These ears of mine, thou know'st did hear thee.
    Fie on thee, wretch! 'tis pity that thou livest
    To walk where any honest man resort.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    Thou art a villain to impeach me thus:
    I'll prove mine honour and mine honesty
    Against thee presently, if thou darest stand.

Second Merchant    I dare, and do defy thee for a villain.

    [They draw]

    [Enter ADRIANA, LUCIANA, the Courtezan, and others]

ADRIANA    Hold, hurt him not, for God's sake! he is mad.
    Some get within him, take his sword away:
    Bind Dromio too, and bear them to my house.

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Run, master, run; for God's sake, take a house!
    This is some priory. In, or we are spoil'd!

    [Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio of Syracuse
    to the Priory]

    [Enter the Lady Abbess, AEMILIA]

AEMELIA    Be quiet, people. Wherefore throng you hither?

ADRIANA    To fetch my poor distracted husband hence.
    Let us come in, that we may bind him fast
    And bear him home for his recovery.

ANGELO    I knew he was not in his perfect wits.

Second Merchant    I am sorry now that I did draw on him.

AEMELIA    How long hath this possession held the man?

ADRIANA    This week he hath been heavy, sour, sad,
    And much different from the man he was;
    But till this afternoon his passion
    Ne'er brake into extremity of rage.

AEMELIA    Hath he not lost much wealth by wreck of sea?
    Buried some dear friend? Hath not else his eye
    Stray'd his affection in unlawful love?
    A sin prevailing much in youthful men,
    Who give their eyes the liberty of gazing.
    Which of these sorrows is he subject to?

ADRIANA    To none of these, except it be the last;
    Namely, some love that drew him oft from home.

AEMELIA    You should for that have reprehended him.

ADRIANA    Why, so I did.

AEMELIA                      Ay, but not rough enough.

ADRIANA    As roughly as my modesty would let me.

AEMELIA    Haply, in private.

ADRIANA    And in assemblies too.

AEMELIA    Ay, but not enough.

ADRIANA    It was the copy of our conference:
    In bed he slept not for my urging it;
    At board he fed not for my urging it;
    Alone, it was the subject of my theme;
    In company I often glanced it;
    Still did I tell him it was vile and bad.

AEMELIA    And thereof came it that the man was mad.
    The venom clamours of a jealous woman
    Poisons more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.
    It seems his sleeps were hinder'd by thy railing,
    And therefore comes it that his head is light.
    Thou say'st his meat was sauced with thy upbraidings:
    Unquiet meals make ill digestions;
    Thereof the raging fire of fever bred;
    And what's a fever but a fit of madness?
    Thou say'st his sports were hinderd by thy brawls:
    Sweet recreation barr'd, what doth ensue
    But moody and dull melancholy,
    Kinsman to grim and comfortless despair,
    And at her heels a huge infectious troop
    Of pale distemperatures and foes to life?
    In food, in sport and life-preserving rest
    To be disturb'd, would mad or man or beast:
    The consequence is then thy jealous fits
    Have scared thy husband from the use of wits.

LUCIANA    She never reprehended him but mildly,
    When he demean'd himself rough, rude and wildly.
    Why bear you these rebukes and answer not?

ADRIANA    She did betray me to my own reproof.
    Good people enter and lay hold on him.

AEMELIA    No, not a creature enters in my house.

ADRIANA    Then let your servants bring my husband forth.

AEMELIA    Neither: he took this place for sanctuary,
    And it shall privilege him from your hands
    Till I have brought him to his wits again,
    Or lose my labour in assaying it.

ADRIANA    I will attend my husband, be his nurse,
    Diet his sickness, for it is my office,
    And will have no attorney but myself;
    And therefore let me have him home with me.

AEMELIA    Be patient; for I will not let him stir
    Till I have used the approved means I have,
    With wholesome syrups, drugs and holy prayers,
    To make of him a formal man again:
    It is a branch and parcel of mine oath,
    A charitable duty of my order.
    Therefore depart and leave him here with me.

ADRIANA    I will not hence and leave my husband here:
    And ill it doth beseem your holiness
    To separate the husband and the wife.

AEMELIA    Be quiet and depart: thou shalt not have him.

    [Exit]

LUCIANA    Complain unto the duke of this indignity.

ADRIANA    Come, go: I will fall prostrate at his feet
    And never rise until my tears and prayers
    Have won his grace to come in person hither
    And take perforce my husband from the abbess.

Second Merchant    By this, I think, the dial points at five:
    Anon, I'm sure, the duke himself in person
    Comes this way to the melancholy vale,
    The place of death and sorry execution,
    Behind the ditches of the abbey here.

ANGELO    Upon what cause?

Second Merchant    To see a reverend Syracusian merchant,
    Who put unluckily into this bay
    Against the laws and statutes of this town,
    Beheaded publicly for his offence.

ANGELO    See where they come: we will behold his death.

LUCIANA    Kneel to the duke before he pass the abbey.

    [Enter DUKE SOLINUS, attended; AEGEON bareheaded; with the
    Headsman and other Officers]

DUKE SOLINUS    Yet once again proclaim it publicly,
    If any friend will pay the sum for him,
    He shall not die; so much we tender him.

ADRIANA    Justice, most sacred duke, against the abbess!

DUKE SOLINUS    She is a virtuous and a reverend lady:
    It cannot be that she hath done thee wrong.

ADRIANA    May it please your grace, Antipholus, my husband,
    Whom I made lord of me and all I had,
    At your important letters,--this ill day
    A most outrageous fit of madness took him;
    That desperately he hurried through the street,
    With him his bondman, all as mad as he--
    Doing displeasure to the citizens
    By rushing in their houses, bearing thence
    Rings, jewels, any thing his rage did like.
    Once did I get him bound and sent him home,
    Whilst to take order for the wrongs I went,
    That here and there his fury had committed.
    Anon, I wot not by what strong escape,
    He broke from those that had the guard of him;
    And with his mad attendant and himself,
    Each one with ireful passion, with drawn swords,
    Met us again and madly bent on us,
    Chased us away; till, raising of more aid,
    We came again to bind them. Then they fled
    Into this abbey, whither we pursued them:
    And here the abbess shuts the gates on us
    And will not suffer us to fetch him out,
    Nor send him forth that we may bear him hence.
    Therefore, most gracious duke, with thy command
    Let him be brought forth and borne hence for help.

DUKE SOLINUS    Long since thy husband served me in my wars,
    And I to thee engaged a prince's word,
    When thou didst make him master of thy bed,
    To do him all the grace and good I could.
    Go, some of you, knock at the abbey-gate
    And bid the lady abbess come to me.
    I will determine this before I stir.

    [Enter a Servant]

Servant    O mistress, mistress, shift and save yourself!
    My master and his man are both broke loose,
    Beaten the maids a-row and bound the doctor
    Whose beard they have singed off with brands of fire;
    And ever, as it blazed, they threw on him
    Great pails of puddled mire to quench the hair:
    My master preaches patience to him and the while
    His man with scissors nicks him like a fool,
    And sure, unless you send some present help,
    Between them they will kill the conjurer.

ADRIANA    Peace, fool! thy master and his man are here,
    And that is false thou dost report to us.

Servant    Mistress, upon my life, I tell you true;
    I have not breathed almost since I did see it.
    He cries for you, and vows, if he can take you,
    To scorch your face and to disfigure you.

    [Cry within]

    Hark, hark! I hear him, mistress. fly, be gone!

DUKE SOLINUS    Come, stand by me; fear nothing. Guard with halberds!

ADRIANA    Ay me, it is my husband! Witness you,
    That he is borne about invisible:
    Even now we housed him in the abbey here;
    And now he's there, past thought of human reason.

    [Enter ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus and DROMIO of Ephesus]

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Justice, most gracious duke, O, grant me justice!
    Even for the service that long since I did thee,
    When I bestrid thee in the wars and took
    Deep scars to save thy life; even for the blood
    That then I lost for thee, now grant me justice.

AEGEON    Unless the fear of death doth make me dote,
    I see my son Antipholus and Dromio.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Justice, sweet prince, against that woman there!
    She whom thou gavest to me to be my wife,
    That hath abused and dishonour'd me
    Even in the strength and height of injury!
    Beyond imagination is the wrong
    That she this day hath shameless thrown on me.

DUKE SOLINUS    Discover how, and thou shalt find me just.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    This day, great duke, she shut the doors upon me,
    While she with harlots feasted in my house.

DUKE SOLINUS    A grievous fault! Say, woman, didst thou so?

ADRIANA    No, my good lord: myself, he and my sister
    To-day did dine together. So befall my soul
    As this is false he burdens me withal!

LUCIANA    Ne'er may I look on day, nor sleep on night,
    But she tells to your highness simple truth!

ANGELO    O perjured woman! They are both forsworn:
    In this the madman justly chargeth them.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    My liege, I am advised what I say,
    Neither disturbed with the effect of wine,
    Nor heady-rash, provoked with raging ire,
    Albeit my wrongs might make one wiser mad.
    This woman lock'd me out this day from dinner:
    That goldsmith there, were he not pack'd with her,
    Could witness it, for he was with me then;
    Who parted with me to go fetch a chain,
    Promising to bring it to the Porpentine,
    Where Balthazar and I did dine together.
    Our dinner done, and he not coming thither,
    I went to seek him: in the street I met him
    And in his company that gentleman.
    There did this perjured goldsmith swear me down
    That I this day of him received the chain,
    Which, God he knows, I saw not: for the which
    He did arrest me with an officer.
    I did obey, and sent my peasant home
    For certain ducats: he with none return'd
    Then fairly I bespoke the officer
    To go in person with me to my house.
    By the way we met
    My wife, her sister, and a rabble more
    Of vile confederates. Along with them
    They brought one Pinch, a hungry lean-faced villain,
    A mere anatomy, a mountebank,
    A threadbare juggler and a fortune-teller,
    A needy, hollow-eyed, sharp-looking wretch,
    A dead-looking man: this pernicious slave,
    Forsooth, took on him as a conjurer,
    And, gazing in mine eyes, feeling my pulse,
    And with no face, as 'twere, outfacing me,
    Cries out, I was possess'd. Then all together
    They fell upon me, bound me, bore me thence
    And in a dark and dankish vault at home
    There left me and my man, both bound together;
    Till, gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder,
    I gain'd my freedom, and immediately
    Ran hither to your grace; whom I beseech
    To give me ample satisfaction
    For these deep shames and great indignities.

ANGELO    My lord, in truth, thus far I witness with him,
    That he dined not at home, but was lock'd out.

DUKE SOLINUS    But had he such a chain of thee or no?

ANGELO    He had, my lord: and when he ran in here,
    These people saw the chain about his neck.

Second Merchant    Besides, I will be sworn these ears of mine
    Heard you confess you had the chain of him
    After you first forswore it on the mart:
    And thereupon I drew my sword on you;
    And then you fled into this abbey here,
    From whence, I think, you are come by miracle.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I never came within these abbey-walls,
    Nor ever didst thou draw thy sword on me:
    I never saw the chain, so help me Heaven!
    And this is false you burden me withal.

DUKE SOLINUS    Why, what an intricate impeach is this!
    I think you all have drunk of Circe's cup.
    If here you housed him, here he would have been;
    If he were mad, he would not plead so coldly:
    You say he dined at home; the goldsmith here
    Denies that saying. Sirrah, what say you?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Sir, he dined with her there, at the Porpentine.

Courtezan    He did, and from my finger snatch'd that ring.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    'Tis true, my liege; this ring I had of her.

DUKE SOLINUS    Saw'st thou him enter at the abbey here?

Courtezan    As sure, my liege, as I do see your grace.

DUKE SOLINUS    Why, this is strange. Go call the abbess hither.
    I think you are all mated or stark mad.

    [Exit one to Abbess]

AEGEON    Most mighty duke, vouchsafe me speak a word:
    Haply I see a friend will save my life
    And pay the sum that may deliver me.

DUKE SOLINUS    Speak freely, Syracusian, what thou wilt.

AEGEON    Is not your name, sir, call'd Antipholus?
    And is not that your bondman, Dromio?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Within this hour I was his bondman sir,
    But he, I thank him, gnaw'd in two my cords:
    Now am I Dromio and his man unbound.

AEGEON    I am sure you both of you remember me.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Ourselves we do remember, sir, by you;
    For lately we were bound, as you are now
    You are not Pinch's patient, are you, sir?

AEGEON    Why look you strange on me? you know me well.

ANTIPHOLUS    I never saw you in my life till now.

AEGEON    O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last,
    And careful hours with time's deformed hand
    Have written strange defeatures in my face:
    But tell me yet, dost thou not know my voice?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Neither.

AEGEON    Dromio, nor thou?

DROMIO OF EPHESUS                      No, trust me, sir, nor I.

AEGEON    I am sure thou dost.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Ay, sir, but I am sure I do not; and whatsoever a
    man denies, you are now bound to believe him.

AEGEON    Not know my voice! O time's extremity,
    Hast thou so crack'd and splitted my poor tongue
    In seven short years, that here my only son
    Knows not my feeble key of untuned cares?
    Though now this grained face of mine be hid
    In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,
    And all the conduits of my blood froze up,
    Yet hath my night of life some memory,
    My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,
    My dull deaf ears a little use to hear:
    All these old witnesses--I cannot err--
    Tell me thou art my son Antipholus.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I never saw my father in my life.

AEGEON    But seven years since, in Syracusa, boy,
    Thou know'st we parted: but perhaps, my son,
    Thou shamest to acknowledge me in misery.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    The duke and all that know me in the city
    Can witness with me that it is not so
    I ne'er saw Syracusa in my life.

DUKE SOLINUS    I tell thee, Syracusian, twenty years
    Have I been patron to Antipholus,
    During which time he ne'er saw Syracusa:
    I see thy age and dangers make thee dote.

    [Re-enter AEMILIA, with ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse and
    DROMIO of Syracuse]

AEMELIA    Most mighty duke, behold a man much wrong'd.

    [All gather to see them]

ADRIANA    I see two husbands, or mine eyes deceive me.

DUKE SOLINUS    One of these men is Genius to the other;
    And so of these. Which is the natural man,
    And which the spirit? who deciphers them?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    I, sir, am Dromio; command him away.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    I, sir, am Dromio; pray, let me stay.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    AEgeon art thou not? or else his ghost?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    O, my old master! who hath bound him here?

AEMELIA    Whoever bound him, I will loose his bonds
    And gain a husband by his liberty.
    Speak, old AEgeon, if thou be'st the man
    That hadst a wife once call'd AEmilia
    That bore thee at a burden two fair sons:
    O, if thou be'st the same AEgeon, speak,
    And speak unto the same AEmilia!

AEGEON    If I dream not, thou art AEmilia:
    If thou art she, tell me where is that son
    That floated with thee on the fatal raft?

AEMELIA    By men of Epidamnum he and I
    And the twin Dromio all were taken up;
    But by and by rude fishermen of Corinth
    By force took Dromio and my son from them
    And me they left with those of Epidamnum.
    What then became of them I cannot tell
    I to this fortune that you see me in.

DUKE SOLINUS    Why, here begins his morning story right;
    These two Antipholuses, these two so like,
    And these two Dromios, one in semblance,--
    Besides her urging of her wreck at sea,--
    These are the parents to these children,
    Which accidentally are met together.
    Antipholus, thou camest from Corinth first?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    No, sir, not I; I came from Syracuse.

DUKE SOLINUS    Stay, stand apart; I know not which is which.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    I came from Corinth, my most gracious lord,--

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    And I with him.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Brought to this town by that most famous warrior,
    Duke Menaphon, your most renowned uncle.

ADRIANA    Which of you two did dine with me to-day?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I, gentle mistress.

ADRIANA    And are not you my husband?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    No; I say nay to that.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    And so do I; yet did she call me so:
    And this fair gentlewoman, her sister here,
    Did call me brother.

    [To Luciana]

        What I told you then,
    I hope I shall have leisure to make good;
    If this be not a dream I see and hear.

ANGELO    That is the chain, sir, which you had of me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    I think it be, sir; I deny it not.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    And you, sir, for this chain arrested me.

ANGELO    I think I did, sir; I deny it not.

ADRIANA    I sent you money, sir, to be your bail,
    By Dromio; but I think he brought it not.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    No, none by me.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    This purse of ducats I received from you,
    And Dromio, my man, did bring them me.
    I see we still did meet each other's man,
    And I was ta'en for him, and he for me,
    And thereupon these errors are arose.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    These ducats pawn I for my father here.

DUKE SOLINUS    It shall not need; thy father hath his life.

Courtezan    Sir, I must have that diamond from you.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    There, take it; and much thanks for my good cheer.

AEMELIA    Renowned duke, vouchsafe to take the pains
    To go with us into the abbey here
    And hear at large discoursed all our fortunes:
    And all that are assembled in this place,
    That by this sympathized one day's error
    Have suffer'd wrong, go keep us company,
    And we shall make full satisfaction.
    Thirty-three years have I but gone in travail
    Of you, my sons; and till this present hour
    My heavy burden ne'er delivered.
    The duke, my husband and my children both,
    And you the calendars of their nativity,
    Go to a gossips' feast and go with me;
    After so long grief, such festivity!

DUKE SOLINUS    With all my heart, I'll gossip at this feast.

    [Exeunt all but Antipholus of Syracuse, Antipholus
    of Ephesus, Dromio of Syracuse and Dromio of Ephesus]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Master, shall I fetch your stuff from shipboard?

ANTIPHOLUS
OF EPHESUS    Dromio, what stuff of mine hast thou embark'd?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Your goods that lay at host, sir, in the Centaur.

ANTIPHOLUS
OF SYRACUSE    He speaks to me. I am your master, Dromio:
    Come, go with us; we'll look to that anon:
    Embrace thy brother there; rejoice with him.

    [Exeunt Antipholus of Syracuse and Antipholus of Ephesus]

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    There is a fat friend at your master's house,
    That kitchen'd me for you to-day at dinner:
    She now shall be my sister, not my wife.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother:
    I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
    Will you walk in to see their gossiping?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    Not I, sir; you are my elder.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    That's a question: how shall we try it?

DROMIO OF SYRACUSE    We'll draw cuts for the senior: till then lead thou first.

DROMIO OF EPHESUS    Nay, then, thus:
    We came into the world like brother and brother;
    And now let's go hand in hand, not one before another.

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE

FERDINAND    king of Navarre.


BIRON    |
    |
LONGAVILLE    |  lords attending on the King.
    |
DUMAIN    |


BOYET    |
    |  lords attending on the Princess of France.
MERCADE    |


DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    a fantastical Spaniard.

SIR NATHANIEL    a curate.

HOLOFERNES    a schoolmaster.

DULL    a constable.

COSTARD    a clown.

MOTH    page to Armado.

    A Forester.

    The PRINCESS of France: (PRINCESS:)


ROSALINE    |
    |
MARIA    |  ladies attending on the Princess.
    |
KATHARINE    |


JAQUENETTA    a country wench.

    Lords, Attendants, &c.
    (First Lord:)


SCENE    Navarre.




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT I



SCENE I    The king of Navarre's park.


    [Enter FERDINAND king of Navarre, BIRON, LONGAVILLE
    and DUMAIN]

FERDINAND    Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives,
    Live register'd upon our brazen tombs
    And then grace us in the disgrace of death;
    When, spite of cormorant devouring Time,
    The endeavor of this present breath may buy
    That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge
    And make us heirs of all eternity.
    Therefore, brave conquerors,--for so you are,
    That war against your own affections
    And the huge army of the world's desires,--
    Our late edict shall strongly stand in force:
    Navarre shall be the wonder of the world;
    Our court shall be a little Academe,
    Still and contemplative in living art.
    You three, Biron, Dumain, and Longaville,
    Have sworn for three years' term to live with me
    My fellow-scholars, and to keep those statutes
    That are recorded in this schedule here:
    Your oaths are pass'd; and now subscribe your names,
    That his own hand may strike his honour down
    That violates the smallest branch herein:
    If you are arm'd to do as sworn to do,
    Subscribe to your deep oaths, and keep it too.

LONGAVILLE    I am resolved; 'tis but a three years' fast:
    The mind shall banquet, though the body pine:
    Fat paunches have lean pates, and dainty bits
    Make rich the ribs, but bankrupt quite the wits.

DUMAIN    My loving lord, Dumain is mortified:
    The grosser manner of these world's delights
    He throws upon the gross world's baser slaves:
    To love, to wealth, to pomp, I pine and die;
    With all these living in philosophy.

BIRON    I can but say their protestation over;
    So much, dear liege, I have already sworn,
    That is, to live and study here three years.
    But there are other strict observances;
    As, not to see a woman in that term,
    Which I hope well is not enrolled there;
    And one day in a week to touch no food
    And but one meal on every day beside,
    The which I hope is not enrolled there;
    And then, to sleep but three hours in the night,
    And not be seen to wink of all the day--
    When I was wont to think no harm all night
    And make a dark night too of half the day--
    Which I hope well is not enrolled there:
    O, these are barren tasks, too hard to keep,
    Not to see ladies, study, fast, not sleep!

FERDINAND    Your oath is pass'd to pass away from these.

BIRON    Let me say no, my liege, an if you please:
    I only swore to study with your grace
    And stay here in your court for three years' space.

LONGAVILLE    You swore to that, Biron, and to the rest.

BIRON    By yea and nay, sir, then I swore in jest.
    What is the end of study? let me know.

FERDINAND    Why, that to know, which else we should not know.

BIRON    Things hid and barr'd, you mean, from common sense?

FERDINAND    Ay, that is study's godlike recompense.

BIRON    Come on, then; I will swear to study so,
    To know the thing I am forbid to know:
    As thus,--to study where I well may dine,
    When I to feast expressly am forbid;
    Or study where to meet some mistress fine,
    When mistresses from common sense are hid;
    Or, having sworn too hard a keeping oath,
    Study to break it and not break my troth.
    If study's gain be thus and this be so,
    Study knows that which yet it doth not know:
    Swear me to this, and I will ne'er say no.

FERDINAND    These be the stops that hinder study quite
    And train our intellects to vain delight.

BIRON    Why, all delights are vain; but that most vain,
    Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain:
    As, painfully to pore upon a book
    To seek the light of truth; while truth the while
    Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look:
    Light seeking light doth light of light beguile:
    So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,
    Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
    Study me how to please the eye indeed
    By fixing it upon a fairer eye,
    Who dazzling so, that eye shall be his heed
    And give him light that it was blinded by.
    Study is like the heaven's glorious sun
    That will not be deep-search'd with saucy looks:
    Small have continual plodders ever won
    Save base authority from others' books
    These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights
    That give a name to every fixed star
    Have no more profit of their shining nights
    Than those that walk and wot not what they are.
    Too much to know is to know nought but fame;
    And every godfather can give a name.

FERDINAND    How well he's read, to reason against reading!

DUMAIN    Proceeded well, to stop all good proceeding!

LONGAVILLE    He weeds the corn and still lets grow the weeding.

BIRON    The spring is near when green geese are a-breeding.

DUMAIN    How follows that?

BIRON                      Fit in his place and time.

DUMAIN    In reason nothing.

BIRON                      Something then in rhyme.

FERDINAND    Biron is like an envious sneaping frost,
    That bites the first-born infants of the spring.

BIRON    Well, say I am; why should proud summer boast
    Before the birds have any cause to sing?
    Why should I joy in any abortive birth?
    At Christmas I no more desire a rose
    Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth;
    But like of each thing that in season grows.
    So you, to study now it is too late,
    Climb o'er the house to unlock the little gate.

FERDINAND    Well, sit you out: go home, Biron: adieu.

BIRON    No, my good lord; I have sworn to stay with you:
    And though I have for barbarism spoke more
    Than for that angel knowledge you can say,
    Yet confident I'll keep what I have swore
    And bide the penance of each three years' day.
    Give me the paper; let me read the same;
    And to the strict'st decrees I'll write my name.

FERDINAND    How well this yielding rescues thee from shame!

BIRON    [Reads]  'Item, That no woman shall come within a
    mile of my court:' Hath this been proclaimed?

LONGAVILLE    Four days ago.

BIRON    Let's see the penalty.

    [Reads]

    'On pain of losing her tongue.' Who devised this penalty?

LONGAVILLE    Marry, that did I.

BIRON    Sweet lord, and why?

LONGAVILLE    To fright them hence with that dread penalty.

BIRON    A dangerous law against gentility!

    [Reads]

    'Item, If any man be seen to talk with a woman
    within the term of three years, he shall endure such
    public shame as the rest of the court can possibly devise.'
    This article, my liege, yourself must break;
    For well you know here comes in embassy
    The French king's daughter with yourself to speak--
    A maid of grace and complete majesty--
    About surrender up of Aquitaine
    To her decrepit, sick and bedrid father:
    Therefore this article is made in vain,
    Or vainly comes the admired princess hither.

FERDINAND    What say you, lords? Why, this was quite forgot.

BIRON    So study evermore is overshot:
    While it doth study to have what it would
    It doth forget to do the thing it should,
    And when it hath the thing it hunteth most,
    'Tis won as towns with fire, so won, so lost.

FERDINAND    We must of force dispense with this decree;
    She must lie here on mere necessity.

BIRON    Necessity will make us all forsworn
    Three thousand times within this three years' space;
    For every man with his affects is born,
    Not by might master'd but by special grace:
    If I break faith, this word shall speak for me;
    I am forsworn on 'mere necessity.'
    So to the laws at large I write my name:

    [Subscribes]

    And he that breaks them in the least degree
    Stands in attainder of eternal shame:
    Suggestions are to other as to me;
    But I believe, although I seem so loath,
    I am the last that will last keep his oath.
    But is there no quick recreation granted?

FERDINAND    Ay, that there is. Our court, you know, is haunted
    With a refined traveller of Spain;
    A man in all the world's new fashion planted,
    That hath a mint of phrases in his brain;
    One whom the music of his own vain tongue
    Doth ravish like enchanting harmony;
    A man of complements, whom right and wrong
    Have chose as umpire of their mutiny:
    This child of fancy, that Armado hight,
    For interim to our studies shall relate
    In high-born words the worth of many a knight
    From tawny Spain lost in the world's debate.
    How you delight, my lords, I know not, I;
    But, I protest, I love to hear him lie
    And I will use him for my minstrelsy.

BIRON    Armado is a most illustrious wight,
    A man of fire-new words, fashion's own knight.

LONGAVILLE    Costard the swain and he shall be our sport;
    And so to study, three years is but short.

    [Enter DULL with a letter, and COSTARD]

DULL    Which is the duke's own person?

BIRON    This, fellow: what wouldst?

DULL    I myself reprehend his own person, for I am his
    grace's tharborough: but I would see his own person
    in flesh and blood.

BIRON    This is he.

DULL    Signior Arme--Arme--commends you. There's villany
    abroad: this letter will tell you more.

COSTARD    Sir, the contempts thereof are as touching me.

FERDINAND    A letter from the magnificent Armado.

BIRON    How low soever the matter, I hope in God for high words.

LONGAVILLE    A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!

BIRON    To hear? or forbear laughing?

LONGAVILLE    To hear meekly, sir, and to laugh moderately; or to
    forbear both.

BIRON    Well, sir, be it as the style shall give us cause to
    climb in the merriness.

COSTARD    The matter is to me, sir, as concerning Jaquenetta.
    The manner of it is, I was taken with the manner.

BIRON    In what manner?

COSTARD    In manner and form following, sir; all those three:
    I was seen with her in the manor-house, sitting with
    her upon the form, and taken following her into the
    park; which, put together, is in manner and form
    following. Now, sir, for the manner,--it is the
    manner of a man to speak to a woman: for the form,--
    in some form.

BIRON    For the following, sir?

COSTARD    As it shall follow in my correction: and God defend
    the right!

FERDINAND    Will you hear this letter with attention?

BIRON    As we would hear an oracle.

COSTARD    Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'Great deputy, the welkin's vicegerent and
    sole dominator of Navarre, my soul's earth's god,
    and body's fostering patron.'

COSTARD    Not a word of Costard yet.

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'So it is,'--

COSTARD    It may be so: but if he say it is so, he is, in
    telling true, but so.

FERDINAND    Peace!

COSTARD    Be to me and every man that dares not fight!

FERDINAND    No words!

COSTARD    Of other men's secrets, I beseech you.

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'So it is, besieged with sable-coloured
    melancholy, I did commend the black-oppressing humour
    to the most wholesome physic of thy health-giving
    air; and, as I am a gentleman, betook myself to
    walk. The time when. About the sixth hour; when
    beasts most graze, birds best peck, and men sit down
    to that nourishment which is called supper: so much
    for the time when. Now for the ground which; which,
    I mean, I walked upon: it is y-cleped thy park. Then
    for the place where; where, I mean, I did encounter
    that obscene and preposterous event, that draweth
    from my snow-white pen the ebon-coloured ink, which
    here thou viewest, beholdest, surveyest, or seest;
    but to the place where; it standeth north-north-east
    and by east from the west corner of thy curious-
    knotted garden: there did I see that low-spirited
    swain, that base minnow of thy mirth,'--

COSTARD    Me?

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'that unlettered small-knowing soul,'--

COSTARD    Me?

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'that shallow vassal,'--

COSTARD    Still me?

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'which, as I remember, hight Costard,'--

COSTARD    O, me!

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'sorted and consorted, contrary to thy
    established proclaimed edict and continent canon,
    which with,--O, with--but with this I passion to say
    wherewith,--

COSTARD    With a wench.

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'with a child of our grandmother Eve, a
    female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a
    woman. Him I, as my ever-esteemed duty pricks me on,
    have sent to thee, to receive the meed of
    punishment, by thy sweet grace's officer, Anthony
    Dull; a man of good repute, carriage, bearing, and
    estimation.'

DULL    'Me, an't shall please you; I am Anthony Dull.

FERDINAND    [Reads]  'For Jaquenetta,--so is the weaker vessel
    called which I apprehended with the aforesaid
    swain,--I keep her as a vessel of the law's fury;
    and shall, at the least of thy sweet notice, bring
    her to trial. Thine, in all compliments of devoted
    and heart-burning heat of duty.
                DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.'

BIRON    This is not so well as I looked for, but the best
    that ever I heard.

FERDINAND    Ay, the best for the worst. But, sirrah, what say
    you to this?

COSTARD    Sir, I confess the wench.

FERDINAND    Did you hear the proclamation?

COSTARD    I do confess much of the hearing it but little of
    the marking of it.

FERDINAND    It was proclaimed a year's imprisonment, to be taken
    with a wench.

COSTARD    I was taken with none, sir: I was taken with a damsel.

FERDINAND    Well, it was proclaimed 'damsel.'

COSTARD    This was no damsel, neither, sir; she was a virgin.

FERDINAND    It is so varied, too; for it was proclaimed 'virgin.'

COSTARD    If it were, I deny her virginity: I was taken with a maid.

FERDINAND    This maid will not serve your turn, sir.

COSTARD    This maid will serve my turn, sir.

FERDINAND    Sir, I will pronounce your sentence: you shall fast
    a week with bran and water.

COSTARD    I had rather pray a month with mutton and porridge.

FERDINAND    And Don Armado shall be your keeper.
    My Lord Biron, see him deliver'd o'er:
    And go we, lords, to put in practise that
    Which each to other hath so strongly sworn.

    [Exeunt FERDINAND, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN]

BIRON    I'll lay my head to any good man's hat,
    These oaths and laws will prove an idle scorn.
    Sirrah, come on.

COSTARD    I suffer for the truth, sir; for true it is, I was
    taken with Jaquenetta, and Jaquenetta is a true
    girl; and therefore welcome the sour cup of
    prosperity! Affliction may one day smile again; and
    till then, sit thee down, sorrow!

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT I



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO and MOTH]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Boy, what sign is it when a man of great spirit
    grows melancholy?

MOTH    A great sign, sir, that he will look sad.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Why, sadness is one and the self-same thing, dear imp.

MOTH    No, no; O Lord, sir, no.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    How canst thou part sadness and melancholy, my
    tender juvenal?

MOTH    By a familiar demonstration of the working, my tough senior.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Why tough senior? why tough senior?

MOTH    Why tender juvenal? why tender juvenal?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I spoke it, tender juvenal, as a congruent epitheton
    appertaining to thy young days, which we may
    nominate tender.

MOTH    And I, tough senior, as an appertinent title to your
    old time, which we may name tough.

DON ADRIANO DE
ARMADO    Pretty and apt.

MOTH    How mean you, sir? I pretty, and my saying apt? or
    I apt, and my saying pretty?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Thou pretty, because little.

MOTH    Little pretty, because little. Wherefore apt?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    And therefore apt, because quick.

MOTH    Speak you this in my praise, master?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    In thy condign praise.

MOTH    I will praise an eel with the same praise.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    What, that an eel is ingenious?

MOTH    That an eel is quick.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I do say thou art quick in answers: thou heatest my blood.

MOTH    I am answered, sir.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I love not to be crossed.

MOTH    [Aside]  He speaks the mere contrary; crosses love not him.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I have promised to study three years with the duke.

MOTH    You may do it in an hour, sir.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Impossible.

MOTH    How many is one thrice told?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I am ill at reckoning; it fitteth the spirit of a tapster.

MOTH    You are a gentleman and a gamester, sir.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I confess both: they are both the varnish of a
    complete man.

MOTH    Then, I am sure, you know how much the gross sum of
    deuce-ace amounts to.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    It doth amount to one more than two.

MOTH    Which the base vulgar do call three.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    True.

MOTH    Why, sir, is this such a piece of study? Now here
    is three studied, ere ye'll thrice wink: and how
    easy it is to put 'years' to the word 'three,' and
    study three years in two words, the dancing horse
    will tell you.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    A most fine figure!

MOTH    To prove you a cipher.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I will hereupon confess I am in love: and as it is
    base for a soldier to love, so am I in love with a
    base wench. If drawing my sword against the humour
    of affection would deliver me from the reprobate
    thought of it, I would take Desire prisoner, and
    ransom him to any French courtier for a new-devised
    courtesy. I think scorn to sigh: methinks I should
    outswear Cupid. Comfort, me, boy: what great men
    have been in love?

MOTH    Hercules, master.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Most sweet Hercules! More authority, dear boy, name
    more; and, sweet my child, let them be men of good
    repute and carriage.

MOTH    Samson, master: he was a man of good carriage, great
    carriage, for he carried the town-gates on his back
    like a porter: and he was in love.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    O well-knit Samson! strong-jointed Samson! I do
    excel thee in my rapier as much as thou didst me in
    carrying gates. I am in love too. Who was Samson's
    love, my dear Moth?

MOTH    A woman, master.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Of what complexion?

MOTH    Of all the four, or the three, or the two, or one of the four.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Tell me precisely of what complexion.

MOTH    Of the sea-water green, sir.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Is that one of the four complexions?

MOTH    As I have read, sir; and the best of them too.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Green indeed is the colour of lovers; but to have a
    love of that colour, methinks Samson had small reason
    for it. He surely affected her for her wit.

MOTH    It was so, sir; for she had a green wit.
DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    My love is most immaculate white and red.

MOTH    Most maculate thoughts, master, are masked under
    such colours.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Define, define, well-educated infant.

MOTH    My father's wit and my mother's tongue, assist me!

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet invocation of a child; most pretty and
    pathetical!

MOTH         If she be made of white and red,
    Her faults will ne'er be known,
    For blushing cheeks by faults are bred
    And fears by pale white shown:
    Then if she fear, or be to blame,
    By this you shall not know,
    For still her cheeks possess the same
    Which native she doth owe.
    A dangerous rhyme, master, against the reason of
    white and red.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Is there not a ballad, boy, of the King and the Beggar?

MOTH    The world was very guilty of such a ballad some
    three ages since: but I think now 'tis not to be
    found; or, if it were, it would neither serve for
    the writing nor the tune.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I will have that subject newly writ o'er, that I may
    example my digression by some mighty precedent.
    Boy, I do love that country girl that I took in the
    park with the rational hind Costard: she deserves well.

MOTH    [Aside]  To be whipped; and yet a better love than
    my master.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sing, boy; my spirit grows heavy in love.

MOTH    And that's great marvel, loving a light wench.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I say, sing.

MOTH    Forbear till this company be past.

    [Enter DULL, COSTARD, and JAQUENETTA]

DULL    Sir, the duke's pleasure is, that you keep Costard
    safe: and you must suffer him to take no delight
    nor no penance; but a' must fast three days a week.
    For this damsel, I must keep her at the park: she
    is allowed for the day-woman. Fare you well.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I do betray myself with blushing. Maid!

JAQUENETTA    Man?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I will visit thee at the lodge.

JAQUENETTA    That's hereby.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I know where it is situate.

JAQUENETTA    Lord, how wise you are!

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I will tell thee wonders.

JAQUENETTA    With that face?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I love thee.

JAQUENETTA    So I heard you say.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    And so, farewell.

JAQUENETTA    Fair weather after you!

DULL    Come, Jaquenetta, away!

    [Exeunt DULL and JAQUENETTA]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Villain, thou shalt fast for thy offences ere thou
    be pardoned.

COSTARD    Well, sir, I hope, when I do it, I shall do it on a
    full stomach.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Thou shalt be heavily punished.

COSTARD    I am more bound to you than your fellows, for they
    are but lightly rewarded.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Take away this villain; shut him up.

MOTH    Come, you transgressing slave; away!

COSTARD    Let me not be pent up, sir: I will fast, being loose.

MOTH    No, sir; that were fast and loose: thou shalt to prison.

COSTARD    Well, if ever I do see the merry days of desolation
    that I have seen, some shall see.

MOTH    What shall some see?

COSTARD    Nay, nothing, Master Moth, but what they look upon.
    It is not for prisoners to be too silent in their
    words; and therefore I will say nothing: I thank
    God I have as little patience as another man; and
    therefore I can be quiet.

    [Exeunt MOTH and COSTARD]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I do affect the very ground, which is base, where
    her shoe, which is baser, guided by her foot, which
    is basest, doth tread. I shall be forsworn, which
    is a great argument of falsehood, if I love. And
    how can that be true love which is falsely
    attempted? Love is a familiar; Love is a devil:
    there is no evil angel but Love. Yet was Samson so
    tempted, and he had an excellent strength; yet was
    Solomon so seduced, and he had a very good wit.
    Cupid's butt-shaft is too hard for Hercules' club;
    and therefore too much odds for a Spaniard's rapier.
    The first and second cause will not serve my turn;
    the passado he respects not, the duello he regards
    not: his disgrace is to be called boy; but his
    glory is to subdue men. Adieu, valour! rust rapier!
    be still, drum! for your manager is in love; yea,
    he loveth. Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme,
    for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit;
    write, pen; for I am for whole volumes in folio.

    [Exit]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT II



SCENE I    The same.


    [Enter the PRINCESS of France, ROSALINE, MARIA,
    KATHARINE, BOYET, Lords, and other Attendants]

BOYET    Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:
    Consider who the king your father sends,
    To whom he sends, and what's his embassy:
    Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,
    To parley with the sole inheritor
    Of all perfections that a man may owe,
    Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
    Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.
    Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
    As Nature was in making graces dear
    When she did starve the general world beside
    And prodigally gave them all to you.

PRINCESS    Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,
    Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:
    Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye,
    Not utter'd by base sale of chapmen's tongues:
    I am less proud to hear you tell my worth
    Than you much willing to be counted wise
    In spending your wit in the praise of mine.
    But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,
    You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
    Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,
    Till painful study shall outwear three years,
    No woman may approach his silent court:
    Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course,
    Before we enter his forbidden gates,
    To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,
    Bold of your worthiness, we single you
    As our best-moving fair solicitor.
    Tell him, the daughter of the King of France,
    On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
    Importunes personal conference with his grace:
    Haste, signify so much; while we attend,
    Like humble-visaged suitors, his high will.

BOYET    Proud of employment, willingly I go.

PRINCESS    All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.

    [Exit BOYET]

    Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
    That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?

First Lord    Lord Longaville is one.

PRINCESS    Know you the man?

MARIA    I know him, madam: at a marriage-feast,
    Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
    Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
    In Normandy, saw I this Longaville:
    A man of sovereign parts he is esteem'd;
    Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms:
    Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
    The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,
    If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,
    Is a sharp wit matched with too blunt a will;
    Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
    It should none spare that come within his power.

PRINCESS    Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?

MARIA    They say so most that most his humours know.

PRINCESS    Such short-lived wits do wither as they grow.
    Who are the rest?

KATHARINE    The young Dumain, a well-accomplished youth,
    Of all that virtue love for virtue loved:
    Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill;
    For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,
    And shape to win grace though he had no wit.
    I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;
    And much too little of that good I saw
    Is my report to his great worthiness.

ROSALINE    Another of these students at that time
    Was there with him, if I have heard a truth.
    Biron they call him; but a merrier man,
    Within the limit of becoming mirth,
    I never spent an hour's talk withal:
    His eye begets occasion for his wit;
    For every object that the one doth catch
    The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,
    Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,
    Delivers in such apt and gracious words
    That aged ears play truant at his tales
    And younger hearings are quite ravished;
    So sweet and voluble is his discourse.

PRINCESS    God bless my ladies! are they all in love,
    That every one her own hath garnished
    With such bedecking ornaments of praise?

First Lord    Here comes Boyet.

    [Re-enter BOYET]

PRINCESS    Now, what admittance, lord?

BOYET    Navarre had notice of your fair approach;
    And he and his competitors in oath
    Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,
    Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt:
    He rather means to lodge you in the field,
    Like one that comes here to besiege his court,
    Than seek a dispensation for his oath,
    To let you enter his unpeopled house.
    Here comes Navarre.

    [Enter FERDINAND, LONGAVILLE, DUMAIN, BIRON, and
    Attendants]

FERDINAND    Fair princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.

PRINCESS    'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have
    not yet: the roof of this court is too high to be
    yours; and welcome to the wide fields too base to be mine.

FERDINAND    You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.

PRINCESS    I will be welcome, then: conduct me thither.

FERDINAND    Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.

PRINCESS    Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn.

FERDINAND    Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.

PRINCESS    Why, will shall break it; will and nothing else.

FERDINAND    Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.

PRINCESS    Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,
    Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
    I hear your grace hath sworn out house-keeping:
    Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,
    And sin to break it.
    But pardon me. I am too sudden-bold:
    To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.
    Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,
    And suddenly resolve me in my suit.

FERDINAND    Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.

PRINCESS    You will the sooner, that I were away;
    For you'll prove perjured if you make me stay.

BIRON    Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

ROSALINE    Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?

BIRON    I know you did.

ROSALINE    How needless was it then to ask the question!

BIRON    You must not be so quick.

ROSALINE    'Tis 'long of you that spur me with such questions.

BIRON    Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire.

ROSALINE    Not till it leave the rider in the mire.

BIRON    What time o' day?

ROSALINE    The hour that fools should ask.

BIRON    Now fair befall your mask!

ROSALINE    Fair fall the face it covers!

BIRON    And send you many lovers!

ROSALINE    Amen, so you be none.

BIRON    Nay, then will I be gone.

FERDINAND    Madam, your father here doth intimate
    The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
    Being but the one half of an entire sum
    Disbursed by my father in his wars.
    But say that he or we, as neither have,
    Received that sum, yet there remains unpaid
    A hundred thousand more; in surety of the which,
    One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,
    Although not valued to the money's worth.
    If then the king your father will restore
    But that one half which is unsatisfied,
    We will give up our right in Aquitaine,
    And hold fair friendship with his majesty.
    But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
    For here he doth demand to have repaid
    A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,
    On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,
    To have his title live in Aquitaine;
    Which we much rather had depart withal
    And have the money by our father lent
    Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is.
    Dear Princess, were not his requests so far
    From reason's yielding, your fair self should make
    A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast
    And go well satisfied to France again.

PRINCESS    You do the king my father too much wrong
    And wrong the reputation of your name,
    In so unseeming to confess receipt
    Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.

FERDINAND    I do protest I never heard of it;
    And if you prove it, I'll repay it back
    Or yield up Aquitaine.

PRINCESS    We arrest your word.
    Boyet, you can produce acquittances
    For such a sum from special officers
    Of Charles his father.

FERDINAND    Satisfy me so.

BOYET    So please your grace, the packet is not come
    Where that and other specialties are bound:
    To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.

FERDINAND    It shall suffice me: at which interview
    All liberal reason I will yield unto.
    Meantime receive such welcome at my hand
    As honour without breach of honour may
    Make tender of to thy true worthiness:
    You may not come, fair princess, in my gates;
    But here without you shall be so received
    As you shall deem yourself lodged in my heart,
    Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
    Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:
    To-morrow shall we visit you again.

PRINCESS    Sweet health and fair desires consort your grace!

FERDINAND    Thy own wish wish I thee in every place!

    [Exit]

BIRON    Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.

ROSALINE    Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it.

BIRON    I would you heard it groan.

ROSALINE    Is the fool sick?

BIRON    Sick at the heart.

ROSALINE    Alack, let it blood.

BIRON    Would that do it good?

ROSALINE    My physic says 'ay.'

BIRON    Will you prick't with your eye?

ROSALINE    No point, with my knife.

BIRON    Now, God save thy life!

ROSALINE    And yours from long living!

BIRON    I cannot stay thanksgiving.

    [Retiring]

DUMAIN    Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?

BOYET    The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.

DUMAIN    A gallant lady. Monsieur, fare you well.

    [Exit]

LONGAVILLE    I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?

BOYET    A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.

LONGAVILLE    Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.

BOYET    She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.

LONGAVILLE    Pray you, sir, whose daughter?

BOYET    Her mother's, I have heard.

LONGAVILLE    God's blessing on your beard!

BOYET    Good sir, be not offended.
    She is an heir of Falconbridge.

LONGAVILLE    Nay, my choler is ended.
    She is a most sweet lady.

BOYET    Not unlike, sir, that may be.

    [Exit LONGAVILLE]

BIRON    What's her name in the cap?

BOYET    Rosaline, by good hap.

BIRON    Is she wedded or no?

BOYET    To her will, sir, or so.

BIRON    You are welcome, sir: adieu.

BOYET    Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.

    [Exit BIRON]

MARIA    That last is Biron, the merry madcap lord:
    Not a word with him but a jest.

BOYET    And every jest but a word.

PRINCESS    It was well done of you to take him at his word.

BOYET    I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.

MARIA    Two hot sheeps, marry.

BOYET    And wherefore not ships?
    No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.

MARIA    You sheep, and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?

BOYET    So you grant pasture for me.

    [Offering to kiss her]

MARIA    Not so, gentle beast:
    My lips are no common, though several they be.

BOYET    Belonging to whom?

MARIA                      To my fortunes and me.

PRINCESS    Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree:
    This civil war of wits were much better used
    On Navarre and his book-men; for here 'tis abused.

BOYET    If my observation, which very seldom lies,
    By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,
    Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.

PRINCESS    With what?

BOYET    With that which we lovers entitle affected.

PRINCESS    Your reason?

BOYET    Why, all his behaviors did make their retire
    To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire:
    His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd,
    Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd:
    His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
    Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;
    All senses to that sense did make their repair,
    To feel only looking on fairest of fair:
    Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
    As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;
    Who, tendering their own worth from where they were glass'd,
    Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd:
    His face's own margent did quote such amazes
    That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.
    I'll give you Aquitaine and all that is his,
    An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.

PRINCESS    Come to our pavilion: Boyet is disposed.

BOYET    But to speak that in words which his eye hath
    disclosed.
    I only have made a mouth of his eye,
    By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.

ROSALINE    Thou art an old love-monger and speakest skilfully.

MARIA    He is Cupid's grandfather and learns news of him.

ROSALINE    Then was Venus like her mother, for her father is but grim.

BOYET    Do you hear, my mad wenches?

MARIA    No.

BOYET    What then, do you see?

ROSALINE    Ay, our way to be gone.

BOYET    You are too hard for me.

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT III



SCENE I    The same.


    [Enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO and MOTH]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Warble, child; make passionate my sense of hearing.

MOTH    Concolinel.

    [Singing]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet air! Go, tenderness of years; take this key,
    give enlargement to the swain, bring him festinately
    hither: I must employ him in a letter to my love.

MOTH    Master, will you win your love with a French brawl?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    How meanest thou? brawling in French?

MOTH    No, my complete master: but to jig off a tune at
    the tongue's end, canary to it with your feet, humour
    it with turning up your eyelids, sigh a note and
    sing a note, sometime through the throat, as if you
    swallowed love with singing love, sometime through
    the nose, as if you snuffed up love by smelling
    love; with your hat penthouse-like o'er the shop of
    your eyes; with your arms crossed on your thin-belly
    doublet like a rabbit on a spit; or your hands in
    your pocket like a man after the old painting; and
    keep not too long in one tune, but a snip and away.
    These are complements, these are humours; these
    betray nice wenches, that would be betrayed without
    these; and make them men of note--do you note
    me?--that most are affected to these.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    How hast thou purchased this experience?

MOTH    By my penny of observation.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    But O,--but O,--

MOTH    'The hobby-horse is forgot.'

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Callest thou my love 'hobby-horse'?

MOTH    No, master; the hobby-horse is but a colt, and your
    love perhaps a hackney. But have you forgot your love?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Almost I had.

MOTH    Negligent student! learn her by heart.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    By heart and in heart, boy.

MOTH    And out of heart, master: all those three I will prove.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    What wilt thou prove?

MOTH    A man, if I live; and this, by, in, and without, upon
    the instant: by heart you love her, because your
    heart cannot come by her; in heart you love her,
    because your heart is in love with her; and out of
    heart you love her, being out of heart that you
    cannot enjoy her.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I am all these three.

MOTH    And three times as much more, and yet nothing at
    all.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Fetch hither the swain: he must carry me a letter.

MOTH    A message well sympathized; a horse to be ambassador
    for an ass.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Ha, ha! what sayest thou?

MOTH    Marry, sir, you must send the ass upon the horse,
    for he is very slow-gaited. But I go.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The way is but short: away!

MOTH    As swift as lead, sir.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The meaning, pretty ingenious?
    Is not lead a metal heavy, dull, and slow?

MOTH    Minime, honest master; or rather, master, no.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I say lead is slow.

MOTH    You are too swift, sir, to say so:
    Is that lead slow which is fired from a gun?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet smoke of rhetoric!
    He reputes me a cannon; and the bullet, that's he:
    I shoot thee at the swain.

MOTH    Thump then and I flee.

    [Exit]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    A most acute juvenal; voluble and free of grace!
    By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face:
    Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place.
    My herald is return'd.

    [Re-enter MOTH with COSTARD]

MOTH    A wonder, master! here's a costard broken in a shin.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Some enigma, some riddle: come, thy l'envoy; begin.

COSTARD    No enigma, no riddle, no l'envoy; no salve in the
    mail, sir: O, sir, plantain, a plain plantain! no
    l'envoy, no l'envoy; no salve, sir, but a plantain!

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    By virtue, thou enforcest laughter; thy silly
    thought my spleen; the heaving of my lungs provokes
    me to ridiculous smiling. O, pardon me, my stars!
    Doth the inconsiderate take salve for l'envoy, and
    the word l'envoy for a salve?

MOTH    Do the wise think them other? is not l'envoy a salve?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    No, page: it is an epilogue or discourse, to make plain
    Some obscure precedence that hath tofore been sain.
    I will example it:
    The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
    Were still at odds, being but three.
    There's the moral. Now the l'envoy.

MOTH    I will add the l'envoy. Say the moral again.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO              The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
    Were still at odds, being but three.

MOTH              Until the goose came out of door,
    And stay'd the odds by adding four.
    Now will I begin your moral, and do you follow with
    my l'envoy.
    The fox, the ape, and the humble-bee,
    Were still at odds, being but three.
DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO              Until the goose came out of door,
    Staying the odds by adding four.

MOTH    A good l'envoy, ending in the goose: would you
    desire more?

COSTARD    The boy hath sold him a bargain, a goose, that's flat.
    Sir, your pennyworth is good, an your goose be fat.
    To sell a bargain well is as cunning as fast and loose:
    Let me see; a fat l'envoy; ay, that's a fat goose.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Come hither, come hither. How did this argument begin?

MOTH    By saying that a costard was broken in a shin.
    Then call'd you for the l'envoy.

COSTARD    True, and I for a plantain: thus came your
    argument in;
    Then the boy's fat l'envoy, the goose that you bought;
    And he ended the market.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    But tell me; how was there a costard broken in a shin?

MOTH    I will tell you sensibly.

COSTARD    Thou hast no feeling of it, Moth: I will speak that l'envoy:
    I Costard, running out, that was safely within,
    Fell over the threshold and broke my shin.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    We will talk no more of this matter.

COSTARD    Till there be more matter in the shin.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sirrah Costard, I will enfranchise thee.

COSTARD    O, marry me to one Frances: I smell some l'envoy,
    some goose, in this.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    By my sweet soul, I mean setting thee at liberty,
    enfreedoming thy person; thou wert immured,
    restrained, captivated, bound.

COSTARD    True, true; and now you will be my purgation and let me loose.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I give thee thy liberty, set thee from durance; and,
    in lieu thereof, impose on thee nothing but this:
    bear this significant

    [Giving a letter]

        to the country maid Jaquenetta:
    there is remuneration; for the best ward of mine
    honour is rewarding my dependents. Moth, follow.

    [Exit]

MOTH    Like the sequel, I. Signior Costard, adieu.

COSTARD    My sweet ounce of man's flesh! my incony Jew!

    [Exit MOTH]

    Now will I look to his remuneration. Remuneration!
    O, that's the Latin word for three farthings: three
    farthings--remuneration.--'What's the price of this
    inkle?'--'One penny.'--'No, I'll give you a
    remuneration:' why, it carries it. Remuneration!
    why, it is a fairer name than French crown. I will
    never buy and sell out of this word.

    [Enter BIRON]

BIRON    O, my good knave Costard! exceedingly well met.

COSTARD    Pray you, sir, how much carnation ribbon may a man
    buy for a remuneration?

BIRON    What is a remuneration?

COSTARD    Marry, sir, halfpenny farthing.

BIRON    Why, then, three-farthing worth of silk.

COSTARD    I thank your worship: God be wi' you!

BIRON    Stay, slave; I must employ thee:
    As thou wilt win my favour, good my knave,
    Do one thing for me that I shall entreat.

COSTARD    When would you have it done, sir?

BIRON    This afternoon.

COSTARD    Well, I will do it, sir: fare you well.

BIRON    Thou knowest not what it is.

COSTARD    I shall know, sir, when I have done it.

BIRON    Why, villain, thou must know first.

COSTARD    I will come to your worship to-morrow morning.

BIRON    It must be done this afternoon.
    Hark, slave, it is but this:
    The princess comes to hunt here in the park,
    And in her train there is a gentle lady;
    When tongues speak sweetly, then they name her name,
    And Rosaline they call her: ask for her;
    And to her white hand see thou do commend
    This seal'd-up counsel. There's thy guerdon; go.

    [Giving him a shilling]

COSTARD    Gardon, O sweet gardon! better than remuneration,
    a'leven-pence farthing better: most sweet gardon! I
    will do it sir, in print. Gardon! Remuneration!

    [Exit]

BIRON    And I, forsooth, in love! I, that have been love's whip;
    A very beadle to a humorous sigh;
    A critic, nay, a night-watch constable;
    A domineering pedant o'er the boy;
    Than whom no mortal so magnificent!
    This whimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy;
    This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid;
    Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms,
    The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans,
    Liege of all loiterers and malcontents,
    Dread prince of plackets, king of codpieces,
    Sole imperator and great general
    Of trotting 'paritors:--O my little heart:--
    And I to be a corporal of his field,
    And wear his colours like a tumbler's hoop!
    What, I! I love! I sue! I seek a wife!
    A woman, that is like a German clock,
    Still a-repairing, ever out of frame,
    And never going aright, being a watch,
    But being watch'd that it may still go right!
    Nay, to be perjured, which is worst of all;
    And, among three, to love the worst of all;
    A wightly wanton with a velvet brow,
    With two pitch-balls stuck in her face for eyes;
    Ay, and by heaven, one that will do the deed
    Though Argus were her eunuch and her guard:
    And I to sigh for her! to watch for her!
    To pray for her! Go to; it is a plague
    That Cupid will impose for my neglect
    Of his almighty dreadful little might.
    Well, I will love, write, sigh, pray, sue and groan:
    Some men must love my lady and some Joan.

    [Exit]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT IV



SCENE I    The same.


    [Enter the PRINCESS, and her train, a Forester,
    BOYET, ROSALINE, MARIA, and KATHARINE]

PRINCESS    Was that the king, that spurred his horse so hard
    Against the steep uprising of the hill?

BOYET    I know not; but I think it was not he.

PRINCESS    Whoe'er a' was, a' show'd a mounting mind.
    Well, lords, to-day we shall have our dispatch:
    On Saturday we will return to France.
    Then, forester, my friend, where is the bush
    That we must stand and play the murderer in?

Forester    Hereby, upon the edge of yonder coppice;
    A stand where you may make the fairest shoot.

PRINCESS    I thank my beauty, I am fair that shoot,
    And thereupon thou speak'st the fairest shoot.

Forester    Pardon me, madam, for I meant not so.

PRINCESS    What, what? first praise me and again say no?
    O short-lived pride! Not fair? alack for woe!

Forester    Yes, madam, fair.

PRINCESS                      Nay, never paint me now:
    Where fair is not, praise cannot mend the brow.
    Here, good my glass, take this for telling true:
    Fair payment for foul words is more than due.

Forester    Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.

PRINCESS    See see, my beauty will be saved by merit!
    O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
    A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
    But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,
    And shooting well is then accounted ill.
    Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
    Not wounding, pity would not let me do't;
    If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
    That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.
    And out of question so it is sometimes,
    Glory grows guilty of detested crimes,
    When, for fame's sake, for praise, an outward part,
    We bend to that the working of the heart;
    As I for praise alone now seek to spill
    The poor deer's blood, that my heart means no ill.

BOYET    Do not curst wives hold that self-sovereignty
    Only for praise sake, when they strive to be
    Lords o'er their lords?

PRINCESS    Only for praise: and praise we may afford
    To any lady that subdues a lord.

BOYET    Here comes a member of the commonwealth.

    [Enter COSTARD]

COSTARD    God dig-you-den all! Pray you, which is the head lady?

PRINCESS    Thou shalt know her, fellow, by the rest that have no heads.

COSTARD    Which is the greatest lady, the highest?

PRINCESS    The thickest and the tallest.

COSTARD    The thickest and the tallest! it is so; truth is truth.
    An your waist, mistress, were as slender as my wit,
    One o' these maids' girdles for your waist should be fit.
    Are not you the chief woman? you are the thickest here.

PRINCESS    What's your will, sir? what's your will?

COSTARD    I have a letter from Monsieur Biron to one Lady Rosaline.

PRINCESS    O, thy letter, thy letter! he's a good friend of mine:
    Stand aside, good bearer. Boyet, you can carve;
    Break up this capon.

BOYET    I am bound to serve.
    This letter is mistook, it importeth none here;
    It is writ to Jaquenetta.

PRINCESS    We will read it, I swear.
    Break the neck of the wax, and every one give ear.

    [Reads]

BOYET    'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible;
    true, that thou art beauteous; truth itself, that
    thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful
    than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have
    commiseration on thy heroical vassal! The
    magnanimous and most illustrate king Cophetua set
    eye upon the pernicious and indubitate beggar
    Zenelophon; and he it was that might rightly say,
    Veni, vidi, vici; which to annothanize in the
    vulgar,--O base and obscure vulgar!--videlicet, He
    came, saw, and overcame: he came, one; saw two;
    overcame, three. Who came? the king: why did he
    come? to see: why did he see? to overcome: to
    whom came he? to the beggar: what saw he? the
    beggar: who overcame he? the beggar. The
    conclusion is victory: on whose side? the king's.
    The captive is enriched: on whose side? the
    beggar's. The catastrophe is a nuptial: on whose
    side? the king's: no, on both in one, or one in
    both. I am the king; for so stands the comparison:
    thou the beggar; for so witnesseth thy lowliness.
    Shall I command thy love? I may: shall I enforce
    thy love? I could: shall I entreat thy love? I
    will. What shalt thou exchange for rags? robes;
    for tittles? titles; for thyself? me. Thus,
    expecting thy reply, I profane my lips on thy foot,
    my eyes on thy picture. and my heart on thy every
    part. Thine, in the dearest design of industry,
            DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO.'

    Thus dost thou hear the Nemean lion roar
    'Gainst thee, thou lamb, that standest as his prey.
    Submissive fall his princely feet before,
    And he from forage will incline to play:
    But if thou strive, poor soul, what art thou then?
    Food for his rage, repasture for his den.

PRINCESS    What plume of feathers is he that indited this letter?
    What vane? what weathercock? did you ever hear better?

BOYET    I am much deceived but I remember the style.

PRINCESS    Else your memory is bad, going o'er it erewhile.

BOYET    This Armado is a Spaniard, that keeps here in court;
    A phantasime, a Monarcho, and one that makes sport
    To the prince and his bookmates.

PRINCESS    Thou fellow, a word:
    Who gave thee this letter?

COSTARD    I told you; my lord.

PRINCESS    To whom shouldst thou give it?

COSTARD    From my lord to my lady.

PRINCESS    From which lord to which lady?

COSTARD    From my lord Biron, a good master of mine,
    To a lady of France that he call'd Rosaline.

PRINCESS    Thou hast mistaken his letter. Come, lords, away.

    [To ROSALINE]

    Here, sweet, put up this: 'twill be thine another day.

    [Exeunt PRINCESS and train]

BOYET    Who is the suitor? who is the suitor?

ROSALINE    Shall I teach you to know?

BOYET    Ay, my continent of beauty.

ROSALINE    Why, she that bears the bow.
    Finely put off!

BOYET    My lady goes to kill horns; but, if thou marry,
    Hang me by the neck, if horns that year miscarry.
    Finely put on!

ROSALINE    Well, then, I am the shooter.

BOYET    And who is your deer?

ROSALINE    If we choose by the horns, yourself come not near.
    Finely put on, indeed!

MARIA    You still wrangle with her, Boyet, and she strikes
    at the brow.

BOYET    But she herself is hit lower: have I hit her now?

ROSALINE    Shall I come upon thee with an old saying, that was
    a man when King Pepin of France was a little boy, as
    touching the hit it?

BOYET    So I may answer thee with one as old, that was a
    woman when Queen Guinover of Britain was a little
    wench, as touching the hit it.

ROSALINE              Thou canst not hit it, hit it, hit it,
    Thou canst not hit it, my good man.

BOYET              An I cannot, cannot, cannot,
    An I cannot, another can.

    [Exeunt ROSALINE and KATHARINE]

COSTARD    By my troth, most pleasant: how both did fit it!

MARIA    A mark marvellous well shot, for they both did hit it.

BOYET    A mark! O, mark but that mark! A mark, says my lady!
    Let the mark have a prick in't, to mete at, if it may be.

MARIA    Wide o' the bow hand! i' faith, your hand is out.

COSTARD    Indeed, a' must shoot nearer, or he'll ne'er hit the clout.

BOYET    An if my hand be out, then belike your hand is in.

COSTARD    Then will she get the upshoot by cleaving the pin.

MARIA    Come, come, you talk greasily; your lips grow foul.

COSTARD    She's too hard for you at pricks, sir: challenge her to bowl.

BOYET    I fear too much rubbing. Good night, my good owl.

    [Exeunt BOYET and MARIA]

COSTARD    By my soul, a swain! a most simple clown!
    Lord, Lord, how the ladies and I have put him down!
    O' my troth, most sweet jests! most incony
    vulgar wit!
    When it comes so smoothly off, so obscenely, as it
    were, so fit.
    Armado o' th' one side,--O, a most dainty man!
    To see him walk before a lady and to bear her fan!
    To see him kiss his hand! and how most sweetly a'
    will swear!
    And his page o' t' other side, that handful of wit!
    Ah, heavens, it is a most pathetical nit!
    Sola, sola!

    [Shout within]

    [Exit COSTARD, running]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT IV



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL]

SIR NATHANIEL    Very reverend sport, truly; and done in the testimony
    of a good conscience.

HOLOFERNES    The deer was, as you know, sanguis, in blood; ripe
    as the pomewater, who now hangeth like a jewel in
    the ear of caelo, the sky, the welkin, the heaven;
    and anon falleth like a crab on the face of terra,
    the soil, the land, the earth.

SIR NATHANIEL    Truly, Master Holofernes, the epithets are sweetly
    varied, like a scholar at the least: but, sir, I
    assure ye, it was a buck of the first head.

HOLOFERNES    Sir Nathaniel, haud credo.

DULL    'Twas not a haud credo; 'twas a pricket.

HOLOFERNES    Most barbarous intimation! yet a kind of
    insinuation, as it were, in via, in way, of
    explication; facere, as it were, replication, or
    rather, ostentare, to show, as it were, his
    inclination, after his undressed, unpolished,
    uneducated, unpruned, untrained, or rather,
    unlettered, or ratherest, unconfirmed fashion, to
    insert again my haud credo for a deer.

DULL    I said the deer was not a haud credo; twas a pricket.

HOLOFERNES    Twice-sod simplicity, his coctus!
    O thou monster Ignorance, how deformed dost thou look!

SIR NATHANIEL    Sir, he hath never fed of the dainties that are bred
    in a book; he hath not eat paper, as it were; he
    hath not drunk ink: his intellect is not
    replenished; he is only an animal, only sensible in
    the duller parts:
    And such barren plants are set before us, that we
    thankful should be,
    Which we of taste and feeling are, for those parts that
    do fructify in us more than he.
    For as it would ill become me to be vain, indiscreet, or a fool,
    So were there a patch set on learning, to see him in a school:
    But omne bene, say I; being of an old father's mind,
    Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.

DULL    You two are book-men: can you tell me by your wit
    What was a month old at Cain's birth, that's not five
    weeks old as yet?

HOLOFERNES    Dictynna, goodman Dull; Dictynna, goodman Dull.

DULL    What is Dictynna?

SIR NATHANIEL    A title to Phoebe, to Luna, to the moon.

HOLOFERNES    The moon was a month old when Adam was no more,
    And raught not to five weeks when he came to
    five-score.
    The allusion holds in the exchange.

DULL    'Tis true indeed; the collusion holds in the exchange.

HOLOFERNES    God comfort thy capacity! I say, the allusion holds
    in the exchange.

DULL    And I say, the pollusion holds in the exchange; for
    the moon is never but a month old: and I say beside
    that, 'twas a pricket that the princess killed.

HOLOFERNES    Sir Nathaniel, will you hear an extemporal epitaph
    on the death of the deer? And, to humour the
    ignorant, call I the deer the princess killed a pricket.

SIR NATHANIEL    Perge, good Master Holofernes, perge; so it shall
    please you to abrogate scurrility.

HOLOFERNES    I will something affect the letter, for it argues facility.
    The preyful princess pierced and prick'd a pretty
    pleasing pricket;
    Some say a sore; but not a sore, till now made
    sore with shooting.
    The dogs did yell: put L to sore, then sorel jumps
    from thicket;
    Or pricket sore, or else sorel; the people fall a-hooting.
    If sore be sore, then L to sore makes fifty sores
    one sorel.
    Of one sore I an hundred make by adding but one more L.

SIR NATHANIEL    A rare talent!

DULL    [Aside]  If a talent be a claw, look how he claws
    him with a talent.

HOLOFERNES    This is a gift that I have, simple, simple; a
    foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures,
    shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions,
    revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of
    memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and
    delivered upon the mellowing of occasion. But the
    gift is good in those in whom it is acute, and I am
    thankful for it.

SIR NATHANIEL    Sir, I praise the Lord for you; and so may my
    parishioners; for their sons are well tutored by
    you, and their daughters profit very greatly under
    you: you are a good member of the commonwealth.

HOLOFERNES    Mehercle, if their sons be ingenuous, they shall
    want no instruction; if their daughters be capable,
    I will put it to them: but vir sapit qui pauca
    loquitur; a soul feminine saluteth us.

    [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD]

JAQUENETTA    God give you good morrow, master Parson.

HOLOFERNES    Master Parson, quasi pers-on. An if one should be
    pierced, which is the one?

COSTARD    Marry, master schoolmaster, he that is likest to a hogshead.

HOLOFERNES    Piercing a hogshead! a good lustre of conceit in a
    tuft of earth; fire enough for a flint, pearl enough
    for a swine: 'tis pretty; it is well.

JAQUENETTA    Good master Parson, be so good as read me this
    letter: it was given me by Costard, and sent me
    from Don Armado: I beseech you, read it.

HOLOFERNES    Fauste, precor gelida quando pecus omne sub umbra
    Ruminat,--and so forth. Ah, good old Mantuan! I
    may speak of thee as the traveller doth of Venice;
    Venetia, Venetia,
    Chi non ti vede non ti pretia.
    Old Mantuan, old Mantuan! who understandeth thee
    not, loves thee not. Ut, re, sol, la, mi, fa.
    Under pardon, sir, what are the contents? or rather,
    as Horace says in his--What, my soul, verses?

SIR NATHANIEL    Ay, sir, and very learned.

HOLOFERNES    Let me hear a staff, a stanze, a verse; lege, domine.

SIR NATHANIEL    [Reads]

    If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love?
    Ah, never faith could hold, if not to beauty vow'd!
    Though to myself forsworn, to thee I'll faithful prove:
    Those thoughts to me were oaks, to thee like
    osiers bow'd.
    Study his bias leaves and makes his book thine eyes,
    Where all those pleasures live that art would
    comprehend:
    If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice;
    Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend,
    All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder;
    Which is to me some praise that I thy parts admire:
    Thy eye Jove's lightning bears, thy voice his dreadful thunder,
    Which not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire.
    Celestial as thou art, O, pardon, love, this wrong,
    That sings heaven's praise with such an earthly tongue.

HOLOFERNES    You find not the apostraphas, and so miss the
    accent: let me supervise the canzonet. Here are
    only numbers ratified; but, for the elegancy,
    facility, and golden cadence of poesy, caret.
    Ovidius Naso was the man: and why, indeed, Naso,
    but for smelling out the odouriferous flowers of
    fancy, the jerks of invention? Imitari is nothing:
    so doth the hound his master, the ape his keeper,
    the tired horse his rider. But, damosella virgin,
    was this directed to you?

JAQUENETTA    Ay, sir, from one Monsieur Biron, one of the strange
    queen's lords.

HOLOFERNES    I will overglance the superscript: 'To the
    snow-white hand of the most beauteous Lady
    Rosaline.' I will look again on the intellect of
    the letter, for the nomination of the party writing
    to the person written unto: 'Your ladyship's in all
    desired employment, BIRON.' Sir Nathaniel, this
    Biron is one of the votaries with the king; and here
    he hath framed a letter to a sequent of the stranger
    queen's, which accidentally, or by the way of
    progression, hath miscarried. Trip and go, my
    sweet; deliver this paper into the royal hand of the
    king: it may concern much. Stay not thy
    compliment; I forgive thy duty; adieu.

JAQUENETTA    Good Costard, go with me. Sir, God save your life!

COSTARD    Have with thee, my girl.

    [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA]

SIR NATHANIEL    Sir, you have done this in the fear of God, very
    religiously; and, as a certain father saith,--

HOLOFERNES    Sir tell me not of the father; I do fear colourable
    colours. But to return to the verses: did they
    please you, Sir Nathaniel?

SIR NATHANIEL    Marvellous well for the pen.

HOLOFERNES    I do dine to-day at the father's of a certain pupil
    of mine; where, if, before repast, it shall please
    you to gratify the table with a grace, I will, on my
    privilege I have with the parents of the foresaid
    child or pupil, undertake your ben venuto; where I
    will prove those verses to be very unlearned,
    neither savouring of poetry, wit, nor invention: I
    beseech your society.

SIR NATHANIEL    And thank you too; for society, saith the text, is
    the happiness of life.

HOLOFERNES    And, certes, the text most infallibly concludes it.

    [To DULL]

    Sir, I do invite you too; you shall not
    say me nay: pauca verba. Away! the gentles are at
    their game, and we will to our recreation.

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT IV



SCENE III    The same.


    [Enter BIRON, with a paper]

BIRON    The king he is hunting the deer; I am coursing
    myself: they have pitched a toil; I am toiling in
    a pitch,--pitch that defiles: defile! a foul
    word. Well, set thee down, sorrow! for so they say
    the fool said, and so say I, and I the fool: well
    proved, wit! By the Lord, this love is as mad as
    Ajax: it kills sheep; it kills me, I a sheep:
    well proved again o' my side! I will not love: if
    I do, hang me; i' faith, I will not. O, but her
    eye,--by this light, but for her eye, I would not
    love her; yes, for her two eyes. Well, I do nothing
    in the world but lie, and lie in my throat. By
    heaven, I do love: and it hath taught me to rhyme
    and to be melancholy; and here is part of my rhyme,
    and here my melancholy. Well, she hath one o' my
    sonnets already: the clown bore it, the fool sent
    it, and the lady hath it: sweet clown, sweeter
    fool, sweetest lady! By the world, I would not care
    a pin, if the other three were in. Here comes one
    with a paper: God give him grace to groan!

    [Stands aside]

    [Enter FERDINAND, with a paper]

FERDINAND    Ay me!

BIRON    [Aside]  Shot, by heaven! Proceed, sweet Cupid:
    thou hast thumped him with thy bird-bolt under the
    left pap. In faith, secrets!

FERDINAND    [Reads]

    So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
    To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
    As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote
    The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows:
    Nor shines the silver moon one half so bright
    Through the transparent bosom of the deep,
    As doth thy face through tears of mine give light;
    Thou shinest in every tear that I do weep:
    No drop but as a coach doth carry thee;
    So ridest thou triumphing in my woe.
    Do but behold the tears that swell in me,
    And they thy glory through my grief will show:
    But do not love thyself; then thou wilt keep
    My tears for glasses, and still make me weep.
    O queen of queens! how far dost thou excel,
    No thought can think, nor tongue of mortal tell.
    How shall she know my griefs? I'll drop the paper:
    Sweet leaves, shade folly. Who is he comes here?

    [Steps aside]

    What, Longaville! and reading! listen, ear.

BIRON    Now, in thy likeness, one more fool appear!

    [Enter LONGAVILLE, with a paper]

LONGAVILLE    Ay me, I am forsworn!

BIRON    Why, he comes in like a perjure, wearing papers.

FERDINAND    In love, I hope: sweet fellowship in shame!

BIRON    One drunkard loves another of the name.

LONGAVILLE    Am I the first that have been perjured so?

BIRON    I could put thee in comfort. Not by two that I know:
    Thou makest the triumviry, the corner-cap of society,
    The shape of Love's Tyburn that hangs up simplicity.

LONGAVILLE    I fear these stubborn lines lack power to move:
    O sweet Maria, empress of my love!
    These numbers will I tear, and write in prose.

BIRON    O, rhymes are guards on wanton Cupid's hose:
    Disfigure not his slop.

LONGAVILLE    This same shall go.

    [Reads]

    Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye,
    'Gainst whom the world cannot hold argument,
    Persuade my heart to this false perjury?
    Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment.
    A woman I forswore; but I will prove,
    Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee:
    My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love;
    Thy grace being gain'd cures all disgrace in me.
    Vows are but breath, and breath a vapour is:
    Then thou, fair sun, which on my earth dost shine,
    Exhalest this vapour-vow; in thee it is:
    If broken then, it is no fault of mine:
    If by me broke, what fool is not so wise
    To lose an oath to win a paradise?

BIRON    This is the liver-vein, which makes flesh a deity,
    A green goose a goddess: pure, pure idolatry.
    God amend us, God amend! we are much out o' the way.

LONGAVILLE    By whom shall I send this?--Company! stay.

    [Steps aside]

BIRON    All hid, all hid; an old infant play.
    Like a demigod here sit I in the sky.
    And wretched fools' secrets heedfully o'ereye.
    More sacks to the mill! O heavens, I have my wish!

    [Enter DUMAIN, with a paper]

    Dumain transform'd! four woodcocks in a dish!

DUMAIN    O most divine Kate!

BIRON    O most profane coxcomb!

DUMAIN    By heaven, the wonder in a mortal eye!

BIRON    By earth, she is not, corporal, there you lie.

DUMAIN    Her amber hair for foul hath amber quoted.

BIRON    An amber-colour'd raven was well noted.

DUMAIN    As upright as the cedar.

BIRON    Stoop, I say;
    Her shoulder is with child.

DUMAIN    As fair as day.

BIRON    Ay, as some days; but then no sun must shine.

DUMAIN    O that I had my wish!

LONGAVILLE    And I had mine!

FERDINAND    And I mine too, good Lord!

BIRON    Amen, so I had mine: is not that a good word?

DUMAIN    I would forget her; but a fever she
    Reigns in my blood and will remember'd be.

BIRON    A fever in your blood! why, then incision
    Would let her out in saucers: sweet misprision!

DUMAIN    Once more I'll read the ode that I have writ.

BIRON    Once more I'll mark how love can vary wit.

DUMAIN    [Reads]

    On a day--alack the day!--
    Love, whose month is ever May,
    Spied a blossom passing fair
    Playing in the wanton air:
    Through the velvet leaves the wind,
    All unseen, can passage find;
    That the lover, sick to death,
    Wish himself the heaven's breath.
    Air, quoth he, thy cheeks may blow;
    Air, would I might triumph so!
    But, alack, my hand is sworn
    Ne'er to pluck thee from thy thorn;
    Vow, alack, for youth unmeet,
    Youth so apt to pluck a sweet!
    Do not call it sin in me,
    That I am forsworn for thee;
    Thou for whom Jove would swear
    Juno but an Ethiope were;
    And deny himself for Jove,
    Turning mortal for thy love.
    This will I send, and something else more plain,
    That shall express my true love's fasting pain.
    O, would the king, Biron, and Longaville,
    Were lovers too! Ill, to example ill,
    Would from my forehead wipe a perjured note;
    For none offend where all alike do dote.

LONGAVILLE    [Advancing]  Dumain, thy love is far from charity.
    You may look pale, but I should blush, I know,
    To be o'erheard and taken napping so.

FERDINAND    [Advancing]  Come, sir, you blush; as his your case is such;
    You chide at him, offending twice as much;
    You do not love Maria; Longaville
    Did never sonnet for her sake compile,
    Nor never lay his wreathed arms athwart
    His loving bosom to keep down his heart.
    I have been closely shrouded in this bush
    And mark'd you both and for you both did blush:
    I heard your guilty rhymes, observed your fashion,
    Saw sighs reek from you, noted well your passion:
    Ay me! says one; O Jove! the other cries;
    One, her hairs were gold, crystal the other's eyes:

    [To LONGAVILLE]

    You would for paradise break faith, and troth;

    [To DUMAIN]

    And Jove, for your love, would infringe an oath.
    What will Biron say when that he shall hear
    Faith so infringed, which such zeal did swear?
    How will he scorn! how will he spend his wit!
    How will he triumph, leap and laugh at it!
    For all the wealth that ever I did see,
    I would not have him know so much by me.

BIRON    Now step I forth to whip hypocrisy.

    [Advancing]

    Ah, good my liege, I pray thee, pardon me!
    Good heart, what grace hast thou, thus to reprove
    These worms for loving, that art most in love?
    Your eyes do make no coaches; in your tears
    There is no certain princess that appears;
    You'll not be perjured, 'tis a hateful thing;
    Tush, none but minstrels like of sonneting!
    But are you not ashamed? nay, are you not,
    All three of you, to be thus much o'ershot?
    You found his mote; the king your mote did see;
    But I a beam do find in each of three.
    O, what a scene of foolery have I seen,
    Of sighs, of groans, of sorrow and of teen!
    O me, with what strict patience have I sat,
    To see a king transformed to a gnat!
    To see great Hercules whipping a gig,
    And profound Solomon to tune a jig,
    And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
    And critic Timon laugh at idle toys!
    Where lies thy grief, O, tell me, good Dumain?
    And gentle Longaville, where lies thy pain?
    And where my liege's? all about the breast:
    A caudle, ho!

FERDINAND                      Too bitter is thy jest.
    Are we betray'd thus to thy over-view?

BIRON    Not you to me, but I betray'd by you:
    I, that am honest; I, that hold it sin
    To break the vow I am engaged in;
    I am betray'd, by keeping company
    With men like men of inconstancy.
    When shall you see me write a thing in rhyme?
    Or groan for love? or spend a minute's time
    In pruning me? When shall you hear that I
    Will praise a hand, a foot, a face, an eye,
    A gait, a state, a brow, a breast, a waist,
    A leg, a limb?

FERDINAND                      Soft! whither away so fast?
    A true man or a thief that gallops so?

BIRON    I post from love: good lover, let me go.

    [Enter JAQUENETTA and COSTARD]

JAQUENETTA    God bless the king!

FERDINAND    What present hast thou there?

COSTARD    Some certain treason.

FERDINAND    What makes treason here?

COSTARD    Nay, it makes nothing, sir.

FERDINAND    If it mar nothing neither,
    The treason and you go in peace away together.

JAQUENETTA    I beseech your grace, let this letter be read:
    Our parson misdoubts it; 'twas treason, he said.

FERDINAND    Biron, read it over.

    [Giving him the paper]

    Where hadst thou it?

JAQUENETTA    Of Costard.

FERDINAND    Where hadst thou it?

COSTARD    Of Dun Adramadio, Dun Adramadio.

    [BIRON tears the letter]

FERDINAND    How now! what is in you? why dost thou tear it?

BIRON    A toy, my liege, a toy: your grace needs not fear it.

LONGAVILLE    It did move him to passion, and therefore let's hear it.

DUMAIN    It is Biron's writing, and here is his name.

    [Gathering up the pieces]

BIRON    [To COSTARD]  Ah, you whoreson loggerhead! you were
    born to do me shame.
    Guilty, my lord, guilty! I confess, I confess.

FERDINAND    What?

BIRON    That you three fools lack'd me fool to make up the mess:
    He, he, and you, and you, my liege, and I,
    Are pick-purses in love, and we deserve to die.
    O, dismiss this audience, and I shall tell you more.

DUMAIN    Now the number is even.

BIRON    True, true; we are four.
    Will these turtles be gone?

FERDINAND    Hence, sirs; away!

COSTARD    Walk aside the true folk, and let the traitors stay.

    [Exeunt COSTARD and JAQUENETTA]

BIRON    Sweet lords, sweet lovers, O, let us embrace!
    As true we are as flesh and blood can be:
    The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face;
    Young blood doth not obey an old decree:
    We cannot cross the cause why we were born;
    Therefore of all hands must we be forsworn.

FERDINAND    What, did these rent lines show some love of thine?

BIRON    Did they, quoth you? Who sees the heavenly Rosaline,
    That, like a rude and savage man of Inde,
    At the first opening of the gorgeous east,
    Bows not his vassal head and strucken blind
    Kisses the base ground with obedient breast?
    What peremptory eagle-sighted eye
    Dares look upon the heaven of her brow,
    That is not blinded by her majesty?

FERDINAND       What zeal, what fury hath inspired thee now?
    My love, her mistress, is a gracious moon;
    She an attending star, scarce seen a light.

BIRON    My eyes are then no eyes, nor I Biron:
    O, but for my love, day would turn to night!
    Of all complexions the cull'd sovereignty
    Do meet, as at a fair, in her fair cheek,
    Where several worthies make one dignity,
    Where nothing wants that want itself doth seek.
    Lend me the flourish of all gentle tongues,--
    Fie, painted rhetoric! O, she needs it not:
    To things of sale a seller's praise belongs,
    She passes praise; then praise too short doth blot.
    A wither'd hermit, five-score winters worn,
    Might shake off fifty, looking in her eye:
    Beauty doth varnish age, as if new-born,
    And gives the crutch the cradle's infancy:
    O, 'tis the sun that maketh all things shine.

FERDINAND       By heaven, thy love is black as ebony.

BIRON    Is ebony like her? O wood divine!
    A wife of such wood were felicity.
    O, who can give an oath? where is a book?
    That I may swear beauty doth beauty lack,
    If that she learn not of her eye to look:
    No face is fair that is not full so black.

FERDINAND    O paradox! Black is the badge of hell,
    The hue of dungeons and the suit of night;
    And beauty's crest becomes the heavens well.

BIRON       Devils soonest tempt, resembling spirits of light.
    O, if in black my lady's brows be deck'd,
    It mourns that painting and usurping hair
    Should ravish doters with a false aspect;
    And therefore is she born to make black fair.
    Her favour turns the fashion of the days,
    For native blood is counted painting now;
    And therefore red, that would avoid dispraise,
    Paints itself black, to imitate her brow.

DUMAIN    To look like her are chimney-sweepers black.

LONGAVILLE       And since her time are colliers counted bright.

FERDINAND    And Ethiopes of their sweet complexion crack.

DUMAIN       Dark needs no candles now, for dark is light.

BIRON    Your mistresses dare never come in rain,
    For fear their colours should be wash'd away.

FERDINAND    'Twere good, yours did; for, sir, to tell you plain,
    I'll find a fairer face not wash'd to-day.

BIRON    I'll prove her fair, or talk till doomsday here.

FERDINAND       No devil will fright thee then so much as she.

DUMAIN    I never knew man hold vile stuff so dear.

LONGAVILLE       Look, here's thy love: my foot and her face see.

BIRON    O, if the streets were paved with thine eyes,
    Her feet were much too dainty for such tread!

DUMAIN    O, vile! then, as she goes, what upward lies
    The street should see as she walk'd overhead.

FERDINAND    But what of this? are we not all in love?

BIRON       Nothing so sure; and thereby all forsworn.

FERDINAND    Then leave this chat; and, good Biron, now prove
    Our loving lawful, and our faith not torn.

DUMAIN    Ay, marry, there; some flattery for this evil.

LONGAVILLE       O, some authority how to proceed;
    Some tricks, some quillets, how to cheat the devil.

DUMAIN    Some salve for perjury.

BIRON    'Tis more than need.
    Have at you, then, affection's men at arms.
    Consider what you first did swear unto,
    To fast, to study, and to see no woman;
    Flat treason 'gainst the kingly state of youth.
    Say, can you fast? your stomachs are too young;
    And abstinence engenders maladies.
    And where that you have vow'd to study, lords,
    In that each of you have forsworn his book,
    Can you still dream and pore and thereon look?
    For when would you, my lord, or you, or you,
    Have found the ground of study's excellence
    Without the beauty of a woman's face?
    [From women's eyes this doctrine I derive;
    They are the ground, the books, the academes
    From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire]
    Why, universal plodding poisons up
    The nimble spirits in the arteries,
    As motion and long-during action tires
    The sinewy vigour of the traveller.
    Now, for not looking on a woman's face,
    You have in that forsworn the use of eyes
    And study too, the causer of your vow;
    For where is any author in the world
    Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?
    Learning is but an adjunct to ourself
    And where we are our learning likewise is:
    Then when ourselves we see in ladies' eyes,
    Do we not likewise see our learning there?
    O, we have made a vow to study, lords,
    And in that vow we have forsworn our books.
    For when would you, my liege, or you, or you,
    In leaden contemplation have found out
    Such fiery numbers as the prompting eyes
    Of beauty's tutors have enrich'd you with?
    Other slow arts entirely keep the brain;
    And therefore, finding barren practisers,
    Scarce show a harvest of their heavy toil:
    But love, first learned in a lady's eyes,
    Lives not alone immured in the brain;
    But, with the motion of all elements,
    Courses as swift as thought in every power,
    And gives to every power a double power,
    Above their functions and their offices.
    It adds a precious seeing to the eye;
    A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind;
    A lover's ear will hear the lowest sound,
    When the suspicious head of theft is stopp'd:
    Love's feeling is more soft and sensible
    Than are the tender horns of cockl'd snails;
    Love's tongue proves dainty Bacchus gross in taste:
    For valour, is not Love a Hercules,
    Still climbing trees in the Hesperides?
    Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical
    As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair:
    And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods
    Makes heaven drowsy with the harmony.
    Never durst poet touch a pen to write
    Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs;
    O, then his lines would ravish savage ears
    And plant in tyrants mild humility.
    From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:
    They sparkle still the right Promethean fire;
    They are the books, the arts, the academes,
    That show, contain and nourish all the world:
    Else none at all in ought proves excellent.
    Then fools you were these women to forswear,
    Or keeping what is sworn, you will prove fools.
    For wisdom's sake, a word that all men love,
    Or for love's sake, a word that loves all men,
    Or for men's sake, the authors of these women,
    Or women's sake, by whom we men are men,
    Let us once lose our oaths to find ourselves,
    Or else we lose ourselves to keep our oaths.
    It is religion to be thus forsworn,
    For charity itself fulfills the law,
    And who can sever love from charity?

FERDINAND    Saint Cupid, then! and, soldiers, to the field!

BIRON    Advance your standards, and upon them, lords;
    Pell-mell, down with them! but be first advised,
    In conflict that you get the sun of them.

LONGAVILLE    Now to plain-dealing; lay these glozes by:
    Shall we resolve to woo these girls of France?

FERDINAND    And win them too: therefore let us devise
    Some entertainment for them in their tents.

BIRON    First, from the park let us conduct them thither;
    Then homeward every man attach the hand
    Of his fair mistress: in the afternoon
    We will with some strange pastime solace them,
    Such as the shortness of the time can shape;
    For revels, dances, masks and merry hours
    Forerun fair Love, strewing her way with flowers.

FERDINAND    Away, away! no time shall be omitted
    That will betime, and may by us be fitted.

BIRON    Allons! allons! Sow'd cockle reap'd no corn;
    And justice always whirls in equal measure:
    Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;
    If so, our copper buys no better treasure.

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT V



SCENE I    The same.


    [Enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, and DULL]

HOLOFERNES    Satis quod sufficit.

SIR NATHANIEL    I praise God for you, sir: your reasons at dinner
    have been sharp and sententious; pleasant without
    scurrility, witty without affection, audacious without
    impudency, learned without opinion, and strange with-
    out heresy. I did converse this quondam day with
    a companion of the king's, who is intituled, nomi-
    nated, or called, Don Adriano de Armado.

HOLOFERNES    Novi hominem tanquam te: his humour is lofty, his
    discourse peremptory, his tongue filed, his eye
    ambitious, his gait majestical, and his general
    behavior vain, ridiculous, and thrasonical. He is
    too picked, too spruce, too affected, too odd, as it
    were, too peregrinate, as I may call it.

SIR NATHANIEL    A most singular and choice epithet.

    [Draws out his table-book]

HOLOFERNES    He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer
    than the staple of his argument. I abhor such
    fanatical phantasimes, such insociable and
    point-devise companions; such rackers of
    orthography, as to speak dout, fine, when he should
    say doubt; det, when he should pronounce debt,--d,
    e, b, t, not d, e, t: he clepeth a calf, cauf;
    half, hauf; neighbour vocatur nebor; neigh
    abbreviated ne. This is abhominable,--which he
    would call abbominable: it insinuateth me of
    insanie: anne intelligis, domine? to make frantic, lunatic.

SIR NATHANIEL    Laus Deo, bene intelligo.

HOLOFERNES    Bon, bon, fort bon, Priscian! a little scratch'd,
    'twill serve.

SIR NATHANIEL    Videsne quis venit?

HOLOFERNES    Video, et gaudeo.

    [Enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, MOTH, and COSTARD]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Chirrah!

    [To MOTH]

HOLOFERNES    Quare chirrah, not sirrah?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Men of peace, well encountered.

HOLOFERNES    Most military sir, salutation.

MOTH    [Aside to COSTARD]  They have been at a great feast
    of languages, and stolen the scraps.

COSTARD    O, they have lived long on the alms-basket of words.
    I marvel thy master hath not eaten thee for a word;
    for thou art not so long by the head as
    honorificabilitudinitatibus: thou art easier
    swallowed than a flap-dragon.

MOTH    Peace! the peal begins.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    [To HOLOFERNES]  Monsieur, are you not lettered?

MOTH    Yes, yes; he teaches boys the hornbook. What is a,
    b, spelt backward, with the horn on his head?

HOLOFERNES    Ba, pueritia, with a horn added.

MOTH    Ba, most silly sheep with a horn. You hear his learning.

HOLOFERNES    Quis, quis, thou consonant?

MOTH    The third of the five vowels, if you repeat them; or
    the fifth, if I.

HOLOFERNES    I will repeat them,--a, e, i,--

MOTH    The sheep: the other two concludes it,--o, u.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Now, by the salt wave of the Mediterraneum, a sweet
    touch, a quick venue of wit! snip, snap, quick and
    home! it rejoiceth my intellect: true wit!

MOTH    Offered by a child to an old man; which is wit-old.

HOLOFERNES    What is the figure? what is the figure?

MOTH    Horns.

HOLOFERNES    Thou disputest like an infant: go, whip thy gig.

MOTH    Lend me your horn to make one, and I will whip about
    your infamy circum circa,--a gig of a cuckold's horn.

COSTARD    An I had but one penny in the world, thou shouldst
    have it to buy gingerbread: hold, there is the very
    remuneration I had of thy master, thou halfpenny
    purse of wit, thou pigeon-egg of discretion. O, an
    the heavens were so pleased that thou wert but my
    bastard, what a joyful father wouldst thou make me!
    Go to; thou hast it ad dunghill, at the fingers'
    ends, as they say.

HOLOFERNES    O, I smell false Latin; dunghill for unguem.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Arts-man, preambulate, we will be singled from the
    barbarous. Do you not educate youth at the
    charge-house on the top of the mountain?

HOLOFERNES    Or mons, the hill.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    At your sweet pleasure, for the mountain.

HOLOFERNES    I do, sans question.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sir, it is the king's most sweet pleasure and
    affection to congratulate the princess at her
    pavilion in the posteriors of this day, which the
    rude multitude call the afternoon.

HOLOFERNES    The posterior of the day, most generous sir, is
    liable, congruent and measurable for the afternoon:
    the word is well culled, chose, sweet and apt, I do
    assure you, sir, I do assure.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sir, the king is a noble gentleman, and my familiar,
    I do assure ye, very good friend: for what is
    inward between us, let it pass. I do beseech thee,
    remember thy courtesy; I beseech thee, apparel thy
    head: and among other important and most serious
    designs, and of great import indeed, too, but let
    that pass: for I must tell thee, it will please his
    grace, by the world, sometime to lean upon my poor
    shoulder, and with his royal finger, thus, dally
    with my excrement, with my mustachio; but, sweet
    heart, let that pass. By the world, I recount no
    fable: some certain special honours it pleaseth his
    greatness to impart to Armado, a soldier, a man of
    travel, that hath seen the world; but let that pass.
    The very all of all is,--but, sweet heart, I do
    implore secrecy,--that the king would have me
    present the princess, sweet chuck, with some
    delightful ostentation, or show, or pageant, or
    antique, or firework. Now, understanding that the
    curate and your sweet self are good at such
    eruptions and sudden breaking out of mirth, as it
    were, I have acquainted you withal, to the end to
    crave your assistance.

HOLOFERNES    Sir, you shall present before her the Nine Worthies.
    Sir, as concerning some entertainment of time, some
    show in the posterior of this day, to be rendered by
    our assistants, at the king's command, and this most
    gallant, illustrate, and learned gentleman, before
    the princess; I say none so fit as to present the
    Nine Worthies.

SIR NATHANIEL    Where will you find men worthy enough to present them?

HOLOFERNES    Joshua, yourself; myself and this gallant gentleman,
    Judas Maccabaeus; this swain, because of his great
    limb or joint, shall pass Pompey the Great; the
    page, Hercules,--

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Pardon, sir; error: he is not quantity enough for
    that Worthy's thumb: he is not so big as the end of his club.

HOLOFERNES    Shall I have audience? he shall present Hercules in
    minority: his enter and exit shall be strangling a
    snake; and I will have an apology for that purpose.

MOTH    An excellent device! so, if any of the audience
    hiss, you may cry 'Well done, Hercules! now thou
    crushest the snake!' that is the way to make an
    offence gracious, though few have the grace to do it.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    For the rest of the Worthies?--

HOLOFERNES    I will play three myself.

MOTH    Thrice-worthy gentleman!

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Shall I tell you a thing?

HOLOFERNES    We attend.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    We will have, if this fadge not, an antique. I
    beseech you, follow.

HOLOFERNES    Via, goodman Dull! thou hast spoken no word all this while.

DULL    Nor understood none neither, sir.

HOLOFERNES    Allons! we will employ thee.

DULL    I'll make one in a dance, or so; or I will play
    On the tabour to the Worthies, and let them dance the hay.

HOLOFERNES    Most dull, honest Dull! To our sport, away!

    [Exeunt]




    LOVE'S LABOURS LOST


ACT V



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter the PRINCESS, KATHARINE, ROSALINE, and MARIA]

PRINCESS    Sweet hearts, we shall be rich ere we depart,
    If fairings come thus plentifully in:
    A lady wall'd about with diamonds!
    Look you what I have from the loving king.

ROSALINE    Madame, came nothing else along with that?

PRINCESS    Nothing but this! yes, as much love in rhyme
    As would be cramm'd up in a sheet of paper,
    Writ o' both sides the leaf, margent and all,
    That he was fain to seal on Cupid's name.

ROSALINE    That was the way to make his godhead wax,
    For he hath been five thousand years a boy.

KATHARINE    Ay, and a shrewd unhappy gallows too.

ROSALINE    You'll ne'er be friends with him; a' kill'd your sister.

KATHARINE    He made her melancholy, sad, and heavy;
    And so she died: had she been light, like you,
    Of such a merry, nimble, stirring spirit,
    She might ha' been a grandam ere she died:
    And so may you; for a light heart lives long.

ROSALINE    What's your dark meaning, mouse, of this light word?

KATHARINE    A light condition in a beauty dark.

ROSALINE    We need more light to find your meaning out.

KATHARINE    You'll mar the light by taking it in snuff;
    Therefore I'll darkly end the argument.

ROSALINE    Look what you do, you do it still i' the dark.

KATHARINE    So do not you, for you are a light wench.

ROSALINE    Indeed I weigh not you, and therefore light.

KATHARINE    You weigh me not? O, that's you care not for me.

ROSALINE    Great reason; for 'past cure is still past care.'

PRINCESS    Well bandied both; a set of wit well play'd.
    But Rosaline, you have a favour too:
    Who sent it? and what is it?

ROSALINE    I would you knew:
    An if my face were but as fair as yours,
    My favour were as great; be witness this.
    Nay, I have verses too, I thank Biron:
    The numbers true; and, were the numbering too,
    I were the fairest goddess on the ground:
    I am compared to twenty thousand fairs.
    O, he hath drawn my picture in his letter!

PRINCESS    Any thing like?

ROSALINE    Much in the letters; nothing in the praise.

PRINCESS    Beauteous as ink; a good conclusion.

KATHARINE    Fair as a text B in a copy-book.

ROSALINE    'Ware pencils, ho! let me not die your debtor,
    My red dominical, my golden letter:
    O, that your face were not so full of O's!

KATHARINE    A pox of that jest! and I beshrew all shrows.

PRINCESS    But, Katharine, what was sent to you from fair Dumain?

KATHARINE    Madam, this glove.

PRINCESS                      Did he not send you twain?

KATHARINE    Yes, madam, and moreover
    Some thousand verses of a faithful lover,
    A huge translation of hypocrisy,
    Vilely compiled, profound simplicity.

MARIA    This and these pearls to me sent Longaville:
    The letter is too long by half a mile.

PRINCESS    I think no less. Dost thou not wish in heart
    The chain were longer and the letter short?

MARIA    Ay, or I would these hands might never part.

PRINCESS    We are wise girls to mock our lovers so.

ROSALINE    They are worse fools to purchase mocking so.
    That same Biron I'll torture ere I go:
    O that I knew he were but in by the week!
    How I would make him fawn and beg and seek
    And wait the season and observe the times
    And spend his prodigal wits in bootless rhymes
    And shape his service wholly to my hests
    And make him proud to make me proud that jests!
    So perttaunt-like would I o'ersway his state
    That he should be my fool and I his fate.

PRINCESS    None are so surely caught, when they are catch'd,
    As wit turn'd fool: folly, in wisdom hatch'd,
    Hath wisdom's warrant and the help of school
    And wit's own grace to grace a learned fool.

ROSALINE    The blood of youth burns not with such excess
    As gravity's revolt to wantonness.

MARIA    Folly in fools bears not so strong a note
    As foolery in the wise, when wit doth dote;
    Since all the power thereof it doth apply
    To prove, by wit, worth in simplicity.

PRINCESS    Here comes Boyet, and mirth is in his face.

    [Enter BOYET]

BOYET    O, I am stabb'd with laughter! Where's her grace?

PRINCESS    Thy news Boyet?

BOYET                      Prepare, madam, prepare!
    Arm, wenches, arm! encounters mounted are
    Against your peace: Love doth approach disguised,
    Armed in arguments; you'll be surprised:
    Muster your wits; stand in your own defence;
    Or hide your heads like cowards, and fly hence.

PRINCESS    Saint Denis to Saint Cupid! What are they
    That charge their breath against us? say, scout, say.

BOYET    Under the cool shade of a sycamore
    I thought to close mine eyes some half an hour;
    When, lo! to interrupt my purposed rest,
    Toward that shade I might behold addrest
    The king and his companions: warily
    I stole into a neighbour thicket by,
    And overheard what you shall overhear,
    That, by and by, disguised they will be here.
    Their herald is a pretty knavish page,
    That well by heart hath conn'd his embassage:
    Action and accent did they teach him there;
    'Thus must thou speak,' and 'thus thy body bear:'
    And ever and anon they made a doubt
    Presence majestical would put him out,
    'For,' quoth the king, 'an angel shalt thou see;
    Yet fear not thou, but speak audaciously.'
    The boy replied, 'An angel is not evil;
    I should have fear'd her had she been a devil.'
    With that, all laugh'd and clapp'd him on the shoulder,
    Making the bold wag by their praises bolder:
    One rubb'd his elbow thus, and fleer'd and swore
    A better speech was never spoke before;
    Another, with his finger and his thumb,
    Cried, 'Via! we will do't, come what will come;'
    The third he caper'd, and cried, 'All goes well;'
    The fourth turn'd on the toe, and down he fell.
    With that, they all did tumble on the ground,
    With such a zealous laughter, so profound,
    That in this spleen ridiculous appears,
    To cheque their folly, passion's solemn tears.

PRINCESS    But what, but what, come they to visit us?

BOYET    They do, they do: and are apparell'd thus.
    Like Muscovites or Russians, as I guess.
    Their purpose is to parle, to court and dance;
    And every one his love-feat will advance
    Unto his several mistress, which they'll know
    By favours several which they did bestow.

PRINCESS    And will they so? the gallants shall be task'd;
    For, ladies, we shall every one be mask'd;
    And not a man of them shall have the grace,
    Despite of suit, to see a lady's face.
    Hold, Rosaline, this favour thou shalt wear,
    And then the king will court thee for his dear;
    Hold, take thou this, my sweet, and give me thine,
    So shall Biron take me for Rosaline.
    And change your favours too; so shall your loves
    Woo contrary, deceived by these removes.

ROSALINE    Come on, then; wear the favours most in sight.

KATHARINE    But in this changing what is your intent?

PRINCESS    The effect of my intent is to cross theirs:
    They do it but in mocking merriment;
    And mock for mock is only my intent.
    Their several counsels they unbosom shall
    To loves mistook, and so be mock'd withal
    Upon the next occasion that we meet,
    With visages displayed, to talk and greet.

ROSALINE    But shall we dance, if they desire to't?

PRINCESS    No, to the death, we will not move a foot;
    Nor to their penn'd speech render we no grace,
    But while 'tis spoke each turn away her face.

BOYET    Why, that contempt will kill the speaker's heart,
    And quite divorce his memory from his part.

PRINCESS    Therefore I do it; and I make no doubt
    The rest will ne'er come in, if he be out
    There's no such sport as sport by sport o'erthrown,
    To make theirs ours and ours none but our own:
    So shall we stay, mocking intended game,
    And they, well mock'd, depart away with shame.

    [Trumpets sound within]

BOYET    The trumpet sounds: be mask'd; the maskers come.

    [The Ladies mask]

    [Enter Blackamoors with music; MOTH; FERDINAND,
    BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN, in Russian habits,
    and masked]

MOTH    All hail, the richest beauties on the earth!--

BOYET    Beauties no richer than rich taffeta.

MOTH    A holy parcel of the fairest dames.

    [The Ladies turn their backs to him]

    That ever turn'd their--backs--to mortal views!

BIRON    [Aside to MOTH]  Their eyes, villain, their eyes!

MOTH    That ever turn'd their eyes to mortal views!--Out--

BOYET    True; out indeed.

MOTH    Out of your favours, heavenly spirits, vouchsafe
    Not to behold--

BIRON    [Aside to MOTH]  Once to behold, rogue.

MOTH    Once to behold with your sun-beamed eyes,
    --with your sun-beamed eyes--

BOYET    They will not answer to that epithet;
    You were best call it 'daughter-beamed eyes.'

MOTH    They do not mark me, and that brings me out.

BIRON    Is this your perfectness? be gone, you rogue!

    [Exit MOTH]

ROSALINE    What would these strangers? know their minds, Boyet:
    If they do speak our language, 'tis our will:
    That some plain man recount their purposes
    Know what they would.

BOYET    What would you with the princess?

BIRON    Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

ROSALINE    What would they, say they?

BOYET    Nothing but peace and gentle visitation.

ROSALINE    Why, that they have; and bid them so be gone.

BOYET    She says, you have it, and you may be gone.

FERDINAND    Say to her, we have measured many miles
    To tread a measure with her on this grass.

BOYET    They say, that they have measured many a mile
    To tread a measure with you on this grass.

ROSALINE    It is not so. Ask them how many inches
    Is in one mile: if they have measured many,
    The measure then of one is easily told.

BOYET    If to come hither you have measured miles,
    And many miles, the princess bids you tell
    How many inches doth fill up one mile.

BIRON    Tell her, we measure them by weary steps.

BOYET    She hears herself.

ROSALINE                      How many weary steps,
    Of many weary miles you have o'ergone,
    Are number'd in the travel of one mile?

BIRON    We number nothing that we spend for you:
    Our duty is so rich, so infinite,
    That we may do it still without accompt.
    Vouchsafe to show the sunshine of your face,
    That we, like savages, may worship it.

ROSALINE    My face is but a moon, and clouded too.

FERDINAND    Blessed are clouds, to do as such clouds do!
    Vouchsafe, bright moon, and these thy stars, to shine,
    Those clouds removed, upon our watery eyne.

ROSALINE    O vain petitioner! beg a greater matter;
    Thou now request'st but moonshine in the water.

FERDINAND    Then, in our measure do but vouchsafe one change.
    Thou bid'st me beg: this begging is not strange.

ROSALINE    Play, music, then! Nay, you must do it soon.

    [Music plays]

    Not yet! no dance! Thus change I like the moon.

FERDINAND    Will you not dance? How come you thus estranged?

ROSALINE    You took the moon at full, but now she's changed.

FERDINAND    Yet still she is the moon, and I the man.
    The music plays; vouchsafe some motion to it.

ROSALINE    Our ears vouchsafe it.

FERDINAND    But your legs should do it.

ROSALINE    Since you are strangers and come here by chance,
    We'll not be nice: take hands. We will not dance.

FERDINAND    Why take we hands, then?

ROSALINE    Only to part friends:
    Curtsy, sweet hearts; and so the measure ends.

FERDINAND    More measure of this measure; be not nice.

ROSALINE    We can afford no more at such a price.

FERDINAND    Prize you yourselves: what buys your company?

ROSALINE    Your absence only.

FERDINAND                      That can never be.

ROSALINE    Then cannot we be bought: and so, adieu;
    Twice to your visor, and half once to you.

FERDINAND    If you deny to dance, let's hold more chat.

ROSALINE    In private, then.

FERDINAND                      I am best pleased with that.

    [They converse apart]

BIRON    White-handed mistress, one sweet word with thee.

PRINCESS    Honey, and milk, and sugar; there is three.

BIRON    Nay then, two treys, and if you grow so nice,
    Metheglin, wort, and malmsey: well run, dice!
    There's half-a-dozen sweets.

PRINCESS    Seventh sweet, adieu:
    Since you can cog, I'll play no more with you.

BIRON    One word in secret.

PRINCESS    Let it not be sweet.

BIRON    Thou grievest my gall.

PRINCESS    Gall! bitter.

BIRON    Therefore meet.

    [They converse apart]

DUMAIN    Will you vouchsafe with me to change a word?

MARIA    Name it.

DUMAIN           Fair lady,--

MARIA    Say you so? Fair lord,--
    Take that for your fair lady.

DUMAIN    Please it you,
    As much in private, and I'll bid adieu.

    [They converse apart]

KATHARINE    What, was your vizard made without a tongue?

LONGAVILLE    I know the reason, lady, why you ask.

KATHARINE    O for your reason! quickly, sir; I long.

LONGAVILLE    You have a double tongue within your mask,
    And would afford my speechless vizard half.

KATHARINE    Veal, quoth the Dutchman. Is not 'veal' a calf?

LONGAVILLE    A calf, fair lady!

KATHARINE                      No, a fair lord calf.

LONGAVILLE    Let's part the word.

KATHARINE    No, I'll not be your half
    Take all, and wean it; it may prove an ox.

LONGAVILLE    Look, how you butt yourself in these sharp mocks!
    Will you give horns, chaste lady? do not so.

KATHARINE    Then die a calf, before your horns do grow.

LONGAVILLE    One word in private with you, ere I die.

KATHARINE    Bleat softly then; the butcher hears you cry.

    [They converse apart]

BOYET    The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen
    As is the razor's edge invisible,
    Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen,
    Above the sense of sense; so sensible
    Seemeth their conference; their conceits have wings
    Fleeter than arrows, bullets, wind, thought, swifter things.

ROSALINE    Not one word more, my maids; break off, break off.

BIRON    By heaven, all dry-beaten with pure scoff!

FERDINAND    Farewell, mad wenches; you have simple wits.

PRINCESS    Twenty adieus, my frozen Muscovits.

    [Exeunt FERDINAND, Lords, and Blackamoors]

    Are these the breed of wits so wonder'd at?

BOYET    Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puff'd out.

ROSALINE    Well-liking wits they have; gross, gross; fat, fat.

PRINCESS    O poverty in wit, kingly-poor flout!
    Will they not, think you, hang themselves tonight?
    Or ever, but in vizards, show their faces?
    This pert Biron was out of countenance quite.

ROSALINE    O, they were all in lamentable cases!
    The king was weeping-ripe for a good word.

PRINCESS    Biron did swear himself out of all suit.

MARIA    Dumain was at my service, and his sword:
    No point, quoth I; my servant straight was mute.

KATHARINE    Lord Longaville said, I came o'er his heart;
    And trow you what he called me?

PRINCESS    Qualm, perhaps.

KATHARINE    Yes, in good faith.

PRINCESS    Go, sickness as thou art!

ROSALINE    Well, better wits have worn plain statute-caps.
    But will you hear? the king is my love sworn.

PRINCESS    And quick Biron hath plighted faith to me.

KATHARINE    And Longaville was for my service born.

MARIA    Dumain is mine, as sure as bark on tree.

BOYET    Madam, and pretty mistresses, give ear:
    Immediately they will again be here
    In their own shapes; for it can never be
    They will digest this harsh indignity.

PRINCESS    Will they return?

BOYET                      They will, they will, God knows,
    And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows:
    Therefore change favours; and, when they repair,
    Blow like sweet roses in this summer air.

PRINCESS    How blow? how blow? speak to be understood.

BOYET    Fair ladies mask'd are roses in their bud;
    Dismask'd, their damask sweet commixture shown,
    Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.

PRINCESS    Avaunt, perplexity! What shall we do,
    If they return in their own shapes to woo?

ROSALINE    Good madam, if by me you'll be advised,
    Let's, mock them still, as well known as disguised:
    Let us complain to them what fools were here,
    Disguised like Muscovites, in shapeless gear;
    And wonder what they were and to what end
    Their shallow shows and prologue vilely penn'd
    And their rough carriage so ridiculous,
    Should be presented at our tent to us.

BOYET    Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand.

PRINCESS    Whip to our tents, as roes run o'er land.

    [Exeunt PRINCESS, ROSALINE, KATHARINE, and MARIA]

    [Re-enter FERDINAND, BIRON, LONGAVILLE, and DUMAIN,
    in their proper habits]

FERDINAND    Fair sir, God save you! Where's the princess?

BOYET    Gone to her tent. Please it your majesty
    Command me any service to her thither?

FERDINAND    That she vouchsafe me audience for one word.

BOYET    I will; and so will she, I know, my lord.

    [Exit]

BIRON    This fellow pecks up wit as pigeons pease,
    And utters it again when God doth please:
    He is wit's pedler, and retails his wares
    At wakes and wassails, meetings, markets, fairs;
    And we that sell by gross, the Lord doth know,
    Have not the grace to grace it with such show.
    This gallant pins the wenches on his sleeve;
    Had he been Adam, he had tempted Eve;
    A' can carve too, and lisp: why, this is he
    That kiss'd his hand away in courtesy;
    This is the ape of form, monsieur the nice,
    That, when he plays at tables, chides the dice
    In honourable terms: nay, he can sing
    A mean most meanly; and in ushering
    Mend him who can: the ladies call him sweet;
    The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet:
    This is the flower that smiles on every one,
    To show his teeth as white as whale's bone;
    And consciences, that will not die in debt,
    Pay him the due of honey-tongued Boyet.

FERDINAND    A blister on his sweet tongue, with my heart,
    That put Armado's page out of his part!

BIRON    See where it comes! Behavior, what wert thou
    Till this madman show'd thee? and what art thou now?

    [Re-enter the PRINCESS, ushered by BOYET, ROSALINE,
    MARIA, and KATHARINE]

FERDINAND    All hail, sweet madam, and fair time of day!

PRINCESS    'Fair' in 'all hail' is foul, as I conceive.

FERDINAND    Construe my speeches better, if you may.

PRINCESS    Then wish me better; I will give you leave.

FERDINAND    We came to visit you, and purpose now
    To lead you to our court; vouchsafe it then.

PRINCESS    This field shall hold me; and so hold your vow:
    Nor God, nor I, delights in perjured men.

FERDINAND    Rebuke me not for that which you provoke:
    The virtue of your eye must break my oath.

PRINCESS    You nickname virtue; vice you should have spoke;
    For virtue's office never breaks men's troth.
    Now by my maiden honour, yet as pure
    As the unsullied lily, I protest,
    A world of torments though I should endure,
    I would not yield to be your house's guest;
    So much I hate a breaking cause to be
    Of heavenly oaths, vow'd with integrity.

FERDINAND    O, you have lived in desolation here,
    Unseen, unvisited, much to our shame.

PRINCESS    Not so, my lord; it is not so, I swear;
    We have had pastimes here and pleasant game:
    A mess of Russians left us but of late.

FERDINAND    How, madam! Russians!

PRINCESS    Ay, in truth, my lord;
    Trim gallants, full of courtship and of state.

ROSALINE    Madam, speak true. It is not so, my lord:
    My lady, to the manner of the days,
    In courtesy gives undeserving praise.
    We four indeed confronted were with four
    In Russian habit: here they stay'd an hour,
    And talk'd apace; and in that hour, my lord,
    They did not bless us with one happy word.
    I dare not call them fools; but this I think,
    When they are thirsty, fools would fain have drink.

BIRON    This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,
    Your wit makes wise things foolish: when we greet,
    With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye,
    By light we lose light: your capacity
    Is of that nature that to your huge store
    Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.

ROSALINE    This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye,--

BIRON    I am a fool, and full of poverty.

ROSALINE    But that you take what doth to you belong,
    It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.

BIRON    O, I am yours, and all that I possess!

ROSALINE    All the fool mine?

BIRON                      I cannot give you less.

ROSALINE    Which of the vizards was it that you wore?

BIRON    Where? when? what vizard? why demand you this?

ROSALINE    There, then, that vizard; that superfluous case
    That hid the worse and show'd the better face.

FERDINAND    We are descried; they'll mock us now downright.

DUMAIN    Let us confess and turn it to a jest.

PRINCESS    Amazed, my lord? why looks your highness sad?

ROSALINE    Help, hold his brows! he'll swoon! Why look you pale?
    Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.

BIRON    Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.
    Can any face of brass hold longer out?
    Here stand I    lady, dart thy skill at me;
    Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;
    Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;
    Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;
    And I will wish thee never more to dance,
    Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
    O, never will I trust to speeches penn'd,
    Nor to the motion of a schoolboy's tongue,
    Nor never come in vizard to my friend,
    Nor woo in rhyme, like a blind harper's song!
    Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,
    Three-piled hyperboles, spruce affectation,
    Figures pedantical; these summer-flies
    Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:
    I do forswear them; and I here protest,
    By this white glove;--how white the hand, God knows!--
    Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd
    In russet yeas and honest kersey noes:
    And, to begin, wench,--so God help me, la!--
    My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.

ROSALINE    Sans sans, I pray you.

BIRON    Yet I have a trick
    Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;
    I'll leave it by degrees. Soft, let us see:
    Write, 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three;
    They are infected; in their hearts it lies;
    They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes;
    These lords are visited; you are not free,
    For the Lord's tokens on you do I see.

PRINCESS    No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.

BIRON    Our states are forfeit: seek not to undo us.

ROSALINE    It is not so; for how can this be true,
    That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?

BIRON    Peace! for I will not have to do with you.

ROSALINE    Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.

BIRON    Speak for yourselves; my wit is at an end.

FERDINAND    Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression
    Some fair excuse.

PRINCESS                      The fairest is confession.
    Were not you here but even now disguised?

FERDINAND    Madam, I was.

PRINCESS                      And were you well advised?

FERDINAND    I was, fair madam.

PRINCESS                      When you then were here,
    What did you whisper in your lady's ear?

FERDINAND    That more than all the world I did respect her.

PRINCESS    When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.

FERDINAND    Upon mine honour, no.

PRINCESS    Peace, peace! forbear:
    Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.

FERDINAND    Despise me, when I break this oath of mine.

PRINCESS    I will: and therefore keep it. Rosaline,
    What did the Russian whisper in your ear?

ROSALINE    Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear
    As precious eyesight, and did value me
    Above this world; adding thereto moreover
    That he would wed me, or else die my lover.

PRINCESS    God give thee joy of him! the noble lord
    Most honourably doth unhold his word.

FERDINAND    What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,
    I never swore this lady such an oath.

ROSALINE    By heaven, you did; and to confirm it plain,
    You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.

FERDINAND    My faith and this the princess I did give:
    I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.

PRINCESS    Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;
    And Lord Biron, I thank him, is my dear.
    What, will you have me, or your pearl again?

BIRON    Neither of either; I remit both twain.
    I see the trick on't: here was a consent,
    Knowing aforehand of our merriment,
    To dash it like a Christmas comedy:
    Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
    Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,
    That smiles his cheek in years and knows the trick
    To make my lady laugh when she's disposed,
    Told our intents before; which once disclosed,
    The ladies did change favours: and then we,
    Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.
    Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
    We are again forsworn, in will and error.
    Much upon this it is: and might not you

    [To BOYET]

    Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?
    Do not you know my lady's foot by the squier,
    And laugh upon the apple of her eye?
    And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,
    Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?
    You put our page out: go, you are allow'd;
    Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.
    You leer upon me, do you? there's an eye
    Wounds like a leaden sword.

BOYET    Full merrily
    Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.

BIRON    Lo, he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.

    [Enter COSTARD]

    Welcome, pure wit! thou partest a fair fray.

COSTARD    O Lord, sir, they would know
    Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no.

BIRON    What, are there but three?

COSTARD    No, sir; but it is vara fine,
    For every one pursents three.

BIRON    And three times thrice is nine.

COSTARD    Not so, sir; under correction, sir; I hope it is not so.
    You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir we know
    what we know:
    I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,--

BIRON    Is not nine.

COSTARD    Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.

BIRON    By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.

COSTARD    O Lord, sir, it were pity you should get your living
    by reckoning, sir.

BIRON    How much is it?

COSTARD    O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors,
    sir, will show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine
    own part, I am, as they say, but to parfect one man
    in one poor man, Pompion the Great, sir.

BIRON    Art thou one of the Worthies?

COSTARD    It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the
    Great: for mine own part, I know not the degree of
    the Worthy, but I am to stand for him.

BIRON    Go, bid them prepare.

COSTARD    We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take
    some care.

    [Exit]

FERDINAND    Biron, they will shame us: let them not approach.

BIRON    We are shame-proof, my lord: and tis some policy
    To have one show worse than the king's and his company.

FERDINAND    I say they shall not come.

PRINCESS    Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now:
    That sport best pleases that doth least know how:
    Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
    Dies in the zeal of that which it presents:
    Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,
    When great things labouring perish in their birth.

BIRON    A right description of our sport, my lord.

    [Enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal
    sweet breath as will utter a brace of words.

    [Converses apart with FERDINAND, and delivers him a paper]

PRINCESS    Doth this man serve God?

BIRON    Why ask you?

PRINCESS    He speaks not like a man of God's making.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for,
    I protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding
    fantastical; too, too vain, too too vain: but we
    will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la guerra.
    I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!

    [Exit]

FERDINAND    Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He
    presents Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the
    Great; the parish curate, Alexander; Armado's page,
    Hercules; the pedant, Judas Maccabaeus: And if
    these four Worthies in their first show thrive,
    These four will change habits, and present the other five.

BIRON    There is five in the first show.

FERDINAND    You are deceived; 'tis not so.

BIRON    The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool
    and the boy:--
    Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again
    Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.

FERDINAND    The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.

    [Enter COSTARD, for Pompey]

COSTARD    I Pompey am,--

BOYET                      You lie, you are not he.

COSTARD    I Pompey am,--

BOYET                      With libbard's head on knee.

BIRON    Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends
    with thee.

COSTARD    I Pompey am, Pompey surnamed the Big--

DUMAIN    The Great.

COSTARD    It is, 'Great,' sir:--
         Pompey surnamed the Great;
    That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make
    my foe to sweat:
    And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,
    And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France,
    If your ladyship would say, 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done.

PRINCESS    Great thanks, great Pompey.

COSTARD    'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect: I
    made a little fault in 'Great.'

BIRON    My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.

    [Enter SIR NATHANIEL, for Alexander]

SIR NATHANIEL    When in the world I lived, I was the world's
    commander;
    By east, west, north, and south, I spread my
    conquering might:
    My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander,--

BOYET    Your nose says, no, you are not for it stands too right.

BIRON    Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight.

PRINCESS    The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander.

SIR NATHANIEL    When in the world I lived, I was the world's
    commander,--

BOYET    Most true, 'tis right; you were so, Alisander.

BIRON    Pompey the Great,--

COSTARD    Your servant, and Costard.

BIRON    Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.

COSTARD    [To SIR NATHANIEL]  O, sir, you have overthrown
    Alisander the conqueror! You will be scraped out of
    the painted cloth for this: your lion, that holds
    his poll-axe sitting on a close-stool, will be given
    to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy. A conqueror,
    and afeard to speak! run away for shame, Alisander.

    [SIR NATHANIEL retires]

    There, an't shall please you; a foolish mild man; an
    honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He is a
    marvellous good neighbour, faith, and a very good
    bowler: but, for Alisander,--alas, you see how
    'tis,--a little o'erparted. But there are Worthies
    a-coming will speak their mind in some other sort.

    [Enter HOLOFERNES, for Judas; and MOTH, for Hercules]

HOLOFERNES       Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
    Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canis;
    And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
    Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.
    Quoniam he seemeth in minority,
    Ergo I come with this apology.
    Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.

    [MOTH retires]

    Judas I am,--

DUMAIN    A Judas!

HOLOFERNES    Not Iscariot, sir.
    Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus.

DUMAIN    Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.

BIRON    A kissing traitor. How art thou proved Judas?

HOLOFERNES    Judas I am,--

DUMAIN    The more shame for you, Judas.

HOLOFERNES    What mean you, sir?

BOYET    To make Judas hang himself.

HOLOFERNES    Begin, sir; you are my elder.

BIRON    Well followed: Judas was hanged on an elder.

HOLOFERNES    I will not be put out of countenance.

BIRON    Because thou hast no face.

HOLOFERNES    What is this?

BOYET    A cittern-head.

DUMAIN    The head of a bodkin.

BIRON    A Death's face in a ring.

LONGAVILLE    The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.

BOYET    The pommel of Caesar's falchion.

DUMAIN    The carved-bone face on a flask.

BIRON    Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch.

DUMAIN    Ay, and in a brooch of lead.

BIRON    Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.
    And now forward; for we have put thee in countenance.

HOLOFERNES    You have put me out of countenance.

BIRON    False; we have given thee faces.

HOLOFERNES    But you have out-faced them all.

BIRON    An thou wert a lion, we would do so.

BOYET    Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.
    And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?

DUMAIN    For the latter end of his name.

BIRON    For the ass to the Jude; give it him:--Jud-as, away!

HOLOFERNES    This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.

BOYET    A light for Monsieur Judas! it grows dark, he may stumble.

    [HOLOFERNES retires]

PRINCESS    Alas, poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited!

    [Enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO, for Hector]

BIRON    Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms.

DUMAIN    Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.

FERDINAND    Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.

BOYET    But is this Hector?

FERDINAND    I think Hector was not so clean-timbered.

LONGAVILLE    His leg is too big for Hector's.

DUMAIN    More calf, certain.

BOYET    No; he is best endued in the small.

BIRON    This cannot be Hector.

DUMAIN    He's a god or a painter; for he makes faces.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
    Gave Hector a gift,--

DUMAIN    A gilt nutmeg.

BIRON    A lemon.

LONGAVILLE    Stuck with cloves.

DUMAIN    No, cloven.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Peace!--
    The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty
    Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;
    A man so breathed, that certain he would fight; yea
    From morn till night, out of his pavilion.
    I am that flower,--

DUMAIN    That mint.

LONGAVILLE    That columbine.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.

LONGAVILLE    I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.

DUMAIN    Ay, and Hector's a greyhound.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks,
    beat not the bones of the buried: when he breathed,
    he was a man. But I will forward with my device.

    [To the PRINCESS]

    Sweet royalty, bestow on me the sense of hearing.

PRINCESS    Speak, brave Hector: we are much delighted.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I do adore thy sweet grace's slipper.

BOYET    [Aside to DUMAIN]  Loves her by the foot,--

DUMAIN    [Aside to BOYET]  He may not by the yard.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,--

COSTARD    The party is gone, fellow Hector, she is gone; she
    is two months on her way.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    What meanest thou?

COSTARD    Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor
    wench is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in
    her belly already: tis yours.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? thou shalt
    die.

COSTARD    Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is
    quick by him and hanged for Pompey that is dead by
    him.

DUMAIN    Most rare Pompey!

BOYET    Renowned Pompey!

BIRON    Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey!
    Pompey the Huge!

DUMAIN    Hector trembles.

BIRON    Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! stir them
    on! stir them on!

DUMAIN    Hector will challenge him.

BIRON    Ay, if a' have no man's blood in's belly than will
    sup a flea.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    By the north pole, I do challenge thee.

COSTARD    I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man:
    I'll slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you,
    let me borrow my arms again.

DUMAIN    Room for the incensed Worthies!

COSTARD    I'll do it in my shirt.

DUMAIN    Most resolute Pompey!

MOTH    Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you
    not see Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean
    you? You will lose your reputation.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat
    in my shirt.

DUMAIN    You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet bloods, I both may and will.

BIRON    What reason have you for't?

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The naked truth of it is, I have no shirt; I go
    woolward for penance.

BOYET    True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of
    linen: since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but
    a dishclout of Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next
    his heart for a favour.

    [Enter MERCADE]

MERCADE    God save you, madam!

PRINCESS    Welcome, Mercade;
    But that thou interrupt'st our merriment.

MERCADE    I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
    Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father--

PRINCESS    Dead, for my life!

MERCADE    Even so; my tale is told.

BIRON    Worthies, away! the scene begins to cloud.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have
    seen the day of wrong through the little hole of
    discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.

    [Exeunt Worthies]

FERDINAND    How fares your majesty?

PRINCESS    Boyet, prepare; I will away tonight.

FERDINAND    Madam, not so; I do beseech you, stay.

PRINCESS    Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,
    For all your fair endeavors; and entreat,
    Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe
    In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide
    The liberal opposition of our spirits,
    If over-boldly we have borne ourselves
    In the converse of breath: your gentleness
    Was guilty of it. Farewell worthy lord!
    A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue:
    Excuse me so, coming too short of thanks
    For my great suit so easily obtain'd.

FERDINAND    The extreme parts of time extremely forms
    All causes to the purpose of his speed,
    And often at his very loose decides
    That which long process could not arbitrate:
    And though the mourning brow of progeny
    Forbid the smiling courtesy of love
    The holy suit which fain it would convince,
    Yet, since love's argument was first on foot,
    Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
    From what it purposed; since, to wail friends lost
    Is not by much so wholesome-profitable
    As to rejoice at friends but newly found.

PRINCESS    I understand you not: my griefs are double.

BIRON    Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
    And by these badges understand the king.
    For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
    Play'd foul play with our oaths: your beauty, ladies,
    Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
    Even to the opposed end of our intents:
    And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,--
    As love is full of unbefitting strains,
    All wanton as a child, skipping and vain,
    Form'd by the eye and therefore, like the eye,
    Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,
    Varying in subjects as the eye doth roll
    To every varied object in his glance:
    Which parti-coated presence of loose love
    Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
    Have misbecomed our oaths and gravities,
    Those heavenly eyes, that look into these faults,
    Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
    Our love being yours, the error that love makes
    Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
    By being once false for ever to be true
    To those that make us both,--fair ladies, you:
    And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
    Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.

PRINCESS    We have received your letters full of love;
    Your favours, the ambassadors of love;
    And, in our maiden council, rated them
    At courtship, pleasant jest and courtesy,
    As bombast and as lining to the time:
    But more devout than this in our respects
    Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
    In their own fashion, like a merriment.

DUMAIN    Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest.

LONGAVILLE    So did our looks.

ROSALINE                      We did not quote them so.

FERDINAND    Now, at the latest minute of the hour,
    Grant us your loves.

PRINCESS    A time, methinks, too short
    To make a world-without-end bargain in.
    No, no, my lord, your grace is perjured much,
    Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:
    If for my love, as there is no such cause,
    You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
    Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
    To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
    Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
    There stay until the twelve celestial signs
    Have brought about the annual reckoning.
    If this austere insociable life
    Change not your offer made in heat of blood;
    If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds
    Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
    But that it bear this trial and last love;
    Then, at the expiration of the year,
    Come challenge me, challenge me by these deserts,
    And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine
    I will be thine; and till that instant shut
    My woeful self up in a mourning house,
    Raining the tears of lamentation
    For the remembrance of my father's death.
    If this thou do deny, let our hands part,
    Neither entitled in the other's heart.

FERDINAND    If this, or more than this, I would deny,
    To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,
    The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!
    Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.

BIRON    [And what to me, my love? and what to me?

ROSALINE    You must be purged too, your sins are rack'd,
    You are attaint with faults and perjury:
    Therefore if you my favour mean to get,
    A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,
    But seek the weary beds of people sick]

DUMAIN    But what to me, my love? but what to me? A wife?

KATHARINE    A beard, fair health, and honesty;
    With three-fold love I wish you all these three.

DUMAIN    O, shall I say, I thank you, gentle wife?

KATHARINE    Not so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day
    I'll mark no words that smooth-faced wooers say:
    Come when the king doth to my lady come;
    Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some.

DUMAIN    I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.

KATHARINE    Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.

LONGAVILLE    What says Maria?

MARIA                      At the twelvemonth's end
    I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.

LONGAVILLE    I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.

MARIA    The liker you; few taller are so young.

BIRON    Studies my lady? mistress, look on me;
    Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
    What humble suit attends thy answer there:
    Impose some service on me for thy love.

ROSALINE    Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Biron,
    Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue
    Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks,
    Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,
    Which you on all estates will execute
    That lie within the mercy of your wit.
    To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
    And therewithal to win me, if you please,
    Without the which I am not to be won,
    You shall this twelvemonth term from day to day
    Visit the speechless sick and still converse
    With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
    With all the fierce endeavor of your wit
    To enforce the pained impotent to smile.

BIRON    To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
    It cannot be; it is impossible:
    Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

ROSALINE    Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
    Whose influence is begot of that loose grace
    Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools:
    A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
    Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
    Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
    Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans,
    Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,
    And I will have you and that fault withal;
    But if they will not, throw away that spirit,
    And I shall find you empty of that fault,
    Right joyful of your reformation.

BIRON    A twelvemonth! well; befall what will befall,
    I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.

PRINCESS    [To FERDINAND]  Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave.

FERDINAND    No, madam; we will bring you on your way.

BIRON    Our wooing doth not end like an old play;
    Jack hath not Jill: these ladies' courtesy
    Might well have made our sport a comedy.

FERDINAND    Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
    And then 'twill end.

BIRON    That's too long for a play.

    [Re-enter DON ADRIANO DE ARMADO]

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Sweet majesty, vouchsafe me,--

PRINCESS    Was not that Hector?

DUMAIN    The worthy knight of Troy.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am
    a votary; I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the
    plough for her sweet love three years. But, most
    esteemed greatness, will you hear the dialogue that
    the two learned men have compiled in praise of the
    owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the
    end of our show.

FERDINAND    Call them forth quickly; we will do so.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    Holla! approach.

    [Re-enter HOLOFERNES, SIR NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD,
    and others]

    This side is Hiems, Winter, this Ver, the Spring;
    the one maintained by the owl, the other by the
    cuckoo. Ver, begin.

    [THE SONG]

    SPRING.
    When daisies pied and violets blue
    And lady-smocks all silver-white
    And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
    Do paint the meadows with delight,
    The cuckoo then, on every tree,
    Mocks married men; for thus sings he,     Cuckoo;
    Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
    Unpleasing to a married ear!

    When shepherds pipe on oaten straws
    And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
    When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,
    And maidens bleach their summer smocks
    The cuckoo then, on every tree,
    Mocks married men; for thus sings he,     Cuckoo;
    Cuckoo, cuckoo: O word of fear,
    Unpleasing to a married ear!

    WINTER.
    When icicles hang by the wall
    And Dick the shepherd blows his nail
    And Tom bears logs into the hall
    And milk comes frozen home in pail,
    When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
    Then nightly sings the staring owl,     Tu-whit;
    Tu-who, a merry note,
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

    When all aloud the wind doth blow
    And coughing drowns the parson's saw
    And birds sit brooding in the snow
    And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
    When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
    Then nightly sings the staring owl,     Tu-whit;
    Tu-who, a merry note,
    While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

DON
ADRIANO DE ARMADO    The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of
    Apollo. You that way: we this way.

    [Exeunt]





    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


THESEUS    Duke of Athens.

EGEUS    father to Hermia.


LYSANDER    |
    |  in love with Hermia.
DEMETRIUS    |


PHILOSTRATE    master of the revels to Theseus.

QUINCE    a carpenter.

SNUG    a joiner.

BOTTOM    a weaver.

FLUTE    a bellows-mender.

SNOUT    a tinker.

STARVELING    a tailor.

HIPPOLYTA    queen of the Amazons, betrothed to Theseus.

HERMIA    daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander.

HELENA    in love with Demetrius.

OBERON    king of the fairies.

TITANIA    queen of the fairies.

PUCK    or Robin Goodfellow.


PEASEBLOSSOM    |
    |
COBWEB    |
    |  fairies.
MOTH    |
    |
MUSTARDSEED    |


    Other fairies attending their King and Queen.

    Attendants on Theseus and Hippolyta.

SCENE    Athens, and a wood near it.




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT I



SCENE I    Athens. The palace of THESEUS.


    [Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, and
    Attendants]

THESEUS    Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour
    Draws on apace; four happy days bring in
    Another moon: but, O, methinks, how slow
    This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires,
    Like to a step-dame or a dowager
    Long withering out a young man revenue.

HIPPOLYTA    Four days will quickly steep themselves in night;
    Four nights will quickly dream away the time;
    And then the moon, like to a silver bow
    New-bent in heaven, shall behold the night
    Of our solemnities.

THESEUS    Go, Philostrate,
    Stir up the Athenian youth to merriments;
    Awake the pert and nimble spirit of mirth;
    Turn melancholy forth to funerals;
    The pale companion is not for our pomp.

    [Exit PHILOSTRATE]

    Hippolyta, I woo'd thee with my sword,
    And won thy love, doing thee injuries;
    But I will wed thee in another key,
    With pomp, with triumph and with revelling.

    [Enter EGEUS, HERMIA, LYSANDER, and DEMETRIUS]

EGEUS    Happy be Theseus, our renowned duke!

THESEUS    Thanks, good Egeus: what's the news with thee?

EGEUS    Full of vexation come I, with complaint
    Against my child, my daughter Hermia.
    Stand forth, Demetrius. My noble lord,
    This man hath my consent to marry her.
    Stand forth, Lysander: and my gracious duke,
    This man hath bewitch'd the bosom of my child;
    Thou, thou, Lysander, thou hast given her rhymes,
    And interchanged love-tokens with my child:
    Thou hast by moonlight at her window sung,
    With feigning voice verses of feigning love,
    And stolen the impression of her fantasy
    With bracelets of thy hair, rings, gawds, conceits,
    Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats, messengers
    Of strong prevailment in unharden'd youth:
    With cunning hast thou filch'd my daughter's heart,
    Turn'd her obedience, which is due to me,
    To stubborn harshness: and, my gracious duke,
    Be it so she; will not here before your grace
    Consent to marry with Demetrius,
    I beg the ancient privilege of Athens,
    As she is mine, I may dispose of her:
    Which shall be either to this gentleman
    Or to her death, according to our law
    Immediately provided in that case.

THESEUS    What say you, Hermia? be advised fair maid:
    To you your father should be as a god;
    One that composed your beauties, yea, and one
    To whom you are but as a form in wax
    By him imprinted and within his power
    To leave the figure or disfigure it.
    Demetrius is a worthy gentleman.

HERMIA    So is Lysander.

THESEUS                      In himself he is;
    But in this kind, wanting your father's voice,
    The other must be held the worthier.

HERMIA    I would my father look'd but with my eyes.

THESEUS    Rather your eyes must with his judgment look.

HERMIA    I do entreat your grace to pardon me.
    I know not by what power I am made bold,
    Nor how it may concern my modesty,
    In such a presence here to plead my thoughts;
    But I beseech your grace that I may know
    The worst that may befall me in this case,
    If I refuse to wed Demetrius.

THESEUS    Either to die the death or to abjure
    For ever the society of men.
    Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires;
    Know of your youth, examine well your blood,
    Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice,
    You can endure the livery of a nun,
    For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd,
    To live a barren sister all your life,
    Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon.
    Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood,
    To undergo such maiden pilgrimage;
    But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd,
    Than that which withering on the virgin thorn
    Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.

HERMIA    So will I grow, so live, so die, my lord,
    Ere I will my virgin patent up
    Unto his lordship, whose unwished yoke
    My soul consents not to give sovereignty.

THESEUS    Take time to pause; and, by the nest new moon--
    The sealing-day betwixt my love and me,
    For everlasting bond of fellowship--
    Upon that day either prepare to die
    For disobedience to your father's will,
    Or else to wed Demetrius, as he would;
    Or on Diana's altar to protest
    For aye austerity and single life.

DEMETRIUS    Relent, sweet Hermia: and, Lysander, yield
    Thy crazed title to my certain right.

LYSANDER    You have her father's love, Demetrius;
    Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him.

EGEUS    Scornful Lysander! true, he hath my love,
    And what is mine my love shall render him.
    And she is mine, and all my right of her
    I do estate unto Demetrius.

LYSANDER    I am, my lord, as well derived as he,
    As well possess'd; my love is more than his;
    My fortunes every way as fairly rank'd,
    If not with vantage, as Demetrius';
    And, which is more than all these boasts can be,
    I am beloved of beauteous Hermia:
    Why should not I then prosecute my right?
    Demetrius, I'll avouch it to his head,
    Made love to Nedar's daughter, Helena,
    And won her soul; and she, sweet lady, dotes,
    Devoutly dotes, dotes in idolatry,
    Upon this spotted and inconstant man.

THESEUS    I must confess that I have heard so much,
    And with Demetrius thought to have spoke thereof;
    But, being over-full of self-affairs,
    My mind did lose it. But, Demetrius, come;
    And come, Egeus; you shall go with me,
    I have some private schooling for you both.
    For you, fair Hermia, look you arm yourself
    To fit your fancies to your father's will;
    Or else the law of Athens yields you up--
    Which by no means we may extenuate--
    To death, or to a vow of single life.
    Come, my Hippolyta: what cheer, my love?
    Demetrius and Egeus, go along:
    I must employ you in some business
    Against our nuptial and confer with you
    Of something nearly that concerns yourselves.

EGEUS    With duty and desire we follow you.

    [Exeunt all but LYSANDER and HERMIA]

LYSANDER    How now, my love! why is your cheek so pale?
    How chance the roses there do fade so fast?

HERMIA    Belike for want of rain, which I could well
    Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes.

LYSANDER    Ay me! for aught that I could ever read,
    Could ever hear by tale or history,
    The course of true love never did run smooth;
    But, either it was different in blood,--

HERMIA    O cross! too high to be enthrall'd to low.

LYSANDER    Or else misgraffed in respect of years,--

HERMIA    O spite! too old to be engaged to young.

LYSANDER    Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,--

HERMIA    O hell! to choose love by another's eyes.

LYSANDER    Or, if there were a sympathy in choice,
    War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it,
    Making it momentany as a sound,
    Swift as a shadow, short as any dream;
    Brief as the lightning in the collied night,
    That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth,
    And ere a man hath power to say 'Behold!'
    The jaws of darkness do devour it up:
    So quick bright things come to confusion.

HERMIA    If then true lovers have been ever cross'd,
    It stands as an edict in destiny:
    Then let us teach our trial patience,
    Because it is a customary cross,
    As due to love as thoughts and dreams and sighs,
    Wishes and tears, poor fancy's followers.

LYSANDER    A good persuasion: therefore, hear me, Hermia.
    I have a widow aunt, a dowager
    Of great revenue, and she hath no child:
    From Athens is her house remote seven leagues;
    And she respects me as her only son.
    There, gentle Hermia, may I marry thee;
    And to that place the sharp Athenian law
    Cannot pursue us. If thou lovest me then,
    Steal forth thy father's house to-morrow night;
    And in the wood, a league without the town,
    Where I did meet thee once with Helena,
    To do observance to a morn of May,
    There will I stay for thee.

HERMIA    My good Lysander!
    I swear to thee, by Cupid's strongest bow,
    By his best arrow with the golden head,
    By the simplicity of Venus' doves,
    By that which knitteth souls and prospers loves,
    And by that fire which burn'd the Carthage queen,
    When the false Troyan under sail was seen,
    By all the vows that ever men have broke,
    In number more than ever women spoke,
    In that same place thou hast appointed me,
    To-morrow truly will I meet with thee.

LYSANDER    Keep promise, love. Look, here comes Helena.

    [Enter HELENA]

HERMIA    God speed fair Helena! whither away?

HELENA    Call you me fair? that fair again unsay.
    Demetrius loves your fair: O happy fair!
    Your eyes are lode-stars; and your tongue's sweet air
    More tuneable than lark to shepherd's ear,
    When wheat is green, when hawthorn buds appear.
    Sickness is catching: O, were favour so,
    Yours would I catch, fair Hermia, ere I go;
    My ear should catch your voice, my eye your eye,
    My tongue should catch your tongue's sweet melody.
    Were the world mine, Demetrius being bated,
    The rest I'd give to be to you translated.
    O, teach me how you look, and with what art
    You sway the motion of Demetrius' heart.

HERMIA    I frown upon him, yet he loves me still.

HELENA    O that your frowns would teach my smiles such skill!

HERMIA    I give him curses, yet he gives me love.

HELENA    O that my prayers could such affection move!

HERMIA    The more I hate, the more he follows me.

HELENA    The more I love, the more he hateth me.

HERMIA    His folly, Helena, is no fault of mine.

HELENA    None, but your beauty: would that fault were mine!

HERMIA    Take comfort: he no more shall see my face;
    Lysander and myself will fly this place.
    Before the time I did Lysander see,
    Seem'd Athens as a paradise to me:
    O, then, what graces in my love do dwell,
    That he hath turn'd a heaven unto a hell!

LYSANDER    Helen, to you our minds we will unfold:
    To-morrow night, when Phoebe doth behold
    Her silver visage in the watery glass,
    Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass,
    A time that lovers' flights doth still conceal,
    Through Athens' gates have we devised to steal.

HERMIA    And in the wood, where often you and I
    Upon faint primrose-beds were wont to lie,
    Emptying our bosoms of their counsel sweet,
    There my Lysander and myself shall meet;
    And thence from Athens turn away our eyes,
    To seek new friends and stranger companies.
    Farewell, sweet playfellow: pray thou for us;
    And good luck grant thee thy Demetrius!
    Keep word, Lysander: we must starve our sight
    From lovers' food till morrow deep midnight.

LYSANDER    I will, my Hermia.

    [Exit HERMIA]

    Helena, adieu:
    As you on him, Demetrius dote on you!

    [Exit]

HELENA    How happy some o'er other some can be!
    Through Athens I am thought as fair as she.
    But what of that? Demetrius thinks not so;
    He will not know what all but he do know:
    And as he errs, doting on Hermia's eyes,
    So I, admiring of his qualities:
    Things base and vile, folding no quantity,
    Love can transpose to form and dignity:
    Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
    And therefore is wing'd Cupid painted blind:
    Nor hath Love's mind of any judgement taste;
    Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste:
    And therefore is Love said to be a child,
    Because in choice he is so oft beguiled.
    As waggish boys in game themselves forswear,
    So the boy Love is perjured every where:
    For ere Demetrius look'd on Hermia's eyne,
    He hail'd down oaths that he was only mine;
    And when this hail some heat from Hermia felt,
    So he dissolved, and showers of oaths did melt.
    I will go tell him of fair Hermia's flight:
    Then to the wood will he to-morrow night
    Pursue her; and for this intelligence
    If I have thanks, it is a dear expense:
    But herein mean I to enrich my pain,
    To have his sight thither and back again.

    [Exit]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT I



SCENE II    Athens. QUINCE'S house.


    [Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and
    STARVELING]

QUINCE    Is all our company here?

BOTTOM    You were best to call them generally, man by man,
    according to the scrip.

QUINCE    Here is the scroll of every man's name, which is
    thought fit, through all Athens, to play in our
    interlude before the duke and the duchess, on his
    wedding-day at night.

BOTTOM    First, good Peter Quince, say what the play treats
    on, then read the names of the actors, and so grow
    to a point.

QUINCE    Marry, our play is, The most lamentable comedy, and
    most cruel death of Pyramus and Thisby.

BOTTOM    A very good piece of work, I assure you, and a
    merry. Now, good Peter Quince, call forth your
    actors by the scroll. Masters, spread yourselves.

QUINCE    Answer as I call you. Nick Bottom, the weaver.

BOTTOM    Ready. Name what part I am for, and proceed.

QUINCE    You, Nick Bottom, are set down for Pyramus.

BOTTOM    What is Pyramus? a lover, or a tyrant?

QUINCE    A lover, that kills himself most gallant for love.

BOTTOM    That will ask some tears in the true performing of
    it: if I do it, let the audience look to their
    eyes; I will move storms, I will condole in some
    measure. To the rest: yet my chief humour is for a
    tyrant: I could play Ercles rarely, or a part to
    tear a cat in, to make all split.
    The raging rocks
    And shivering shocks
    Shall break the locks
    Of prison gates;
    And Phibbus' car
    Shall shine from far
    And make and mar
    The foolish Fates.
    This was lofty! Now name the rest of the players.
    This is Ercles' vein, a tyrant's vein; a lover is
    more condoling.

QUINCE    Francis Flute, the bellows-mender.

FLUTE    Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE    Flute, you must take Thisby on you.

FLUTE    What is Thisby? a wandering knight?

QUINCE    It is the lady that Pyramus must love.

FLUTE    Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

QUINCE    That's all one: you shall play it in a mask, and
    you may speak as small as you will.

BOTTOM    An I may hide my face, let me play Thisby too, I'll
    speak in a monstrous little voice. 'Thisne,
    Thisne;' 'Ah, Pyramus, lover dear! thy Thisby dear,
    and lady dear!'

QUINCE    No, no; you must play Pyramus: and, Flute, you Thisby.

BOTTOM    Well, proceed.

QUINCE    Robin Starveling, the tailor.

STARVELING    Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE    Robin Starveling, you must play Thisby's mother.
    Tom Snout, the tinker.

SNOUT    Here, Peter Quince.

QUINCE    You, Pyramus' father: myself, Thisby's father:
    Snug, the joiner; you, the lion's part: and, I
    hope, here is a play fitted.

SNUG    Have you the lion's part written? pray you, if it
    be, give it me, for I am slow of study.

QUINCE    You may do it extempore, for it is nothing but roaring.

BOTTOM    Let me play the lion too: I will roar, that I will
    do any man's heart good to hear me; I will roar,
    that I will make the duke say 'Let him roar again,
    let him roar again.'

QUINCE    An you should do it too terribly, you would fright
    the duchess and the ladies, that they would shriek;
    and that were enough to hang us all.

ALL    That would hang us, every mother's son.

BOTTOM    I grant you, friends, if that you should fright the
    ladies out of their wits, they would have no more
    discretion but to hang us: but I will aggravate my
    voice so that I will roar you as gently as any
    sucking dove; I will roar you an 'twere any
    nightingale.

QUINCE    You can play no part but Pyramus; for Pyramus is a
    sweet-faced man; a proper man, as one shall see in a
    summer's day; a most lovely gentleman-like man:
    therefore you must needs play Pyramus.

BOTTOM    Well, I will undertake it. What beard were I best
    to play it in?

QUINCE    Why, what you will.

BOTTOM    I will discharge it in either your straw-colour
    beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain
    beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your
    perfect yellow.

QUINCE    Some of your French crowns have no hair at all, and
    then you will play bare-faced. But, masters, here
    are your parts: and I am to entreat you, request
    you and desire you, to con them by to-morrow night;
    and meet me in the palace wood, a mile without the
    town, by moonlight; there will we rehearse, for if
    we meet in the city, we shall be dogged with
    company, and our devices known. In the meantime I
    will draw a bill of properties, such as our play
    wants. I pray you, fail me not.

BOTTOM    We will meet; and there we may rehearse most
    obscenely and courageously. Take pains; be perfect: adieu.

QUINCE    At the duke's oak we meet.

BOTTOM    Enough; hold or cut bow-strings.

    [Exeunt]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT II



SCENE I    A wood near Athens.


    [Enter, from opposite sides, a Fairy, and PUCK]

PUCK    How now, spirit! whither wander you?

Fairy         Over hill, over dale,
    Thorough bush, thorough brier,
    Over park, over pale,
    Thorough flood, thorough fire,
    I do wander everywhere,
    Swifter than the moon's sphere;
    And I serve the fairy queen,
    To dew her orbs upon the green.
    The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
    In their gold coats spots you see;
    Those be rubies, fairy favours,
    In those freckles live their savours:
    I must go seek some dewdrops here
    And hang a pearl in every cowslip's ear.
    Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I'll be gone:
    Our queen and all our elves come here anon.

PUCK    The king doth keep his revels here to-night:
    Take heed the queen come not within his sight;
    For Oberon is passing fell and wrath,
    Because that she as her attendant hath
    A lovely boy, stolen from an Indian king;
    She never had so sweet a changeling;
    And jealous Oberon would have the child
    Knight of his train, to trace the forests wild;
    But she perforce withholds the loved boy,
    Crowns him with flowers and makes him all her joy:
    And now they never meet in grove or green,
    By fountain clear, or spangled starlight sheen,
    But, they do square, that all their elves for fear
    Creep into acorn-cups and hide them there.

Fairy    Either I mistake your shape and making quite,
    Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite
    Call'd Robin Goodfellow: are not you he
    That frights the maidens of the villagery;
    Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern
    And bootless make the breathless housewife churn;
    And sometime make the drink to bear no barm;
    Mislead night-wanderers, laughing at their harm?
    Those that Hobgoblin call you and sweet Puck,
    You do their work, and they shall have good luck:
    Are not you he?

PUCK                      Thou speak'st aright;
    I am that merry wanderer of the night.
    I jest to Oberon and make him smile
    When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,
    Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:
    And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl,
    In very likeness of a roasted crab,
    And when she drinks, against her lips I bob
    And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.
    The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,
    Sometime for three-foot stool mistaketh me;
    Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,
    And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;
    And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,
    And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear
    A merrier hour was never wasted there.
    But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon.

Fairy    And here my mistress. Would that he were gone!

    [Enter, from one side, OBERON, with his train;
    from the other, TITANIA, with hers]

OBERON    Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

TITANIA    What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence:
    I have forsworn his bed and company.

OBERON    Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?

TITANIA    Then I must be thy lady: but I know
    When thou hast stolen away from fairy land,
    And in the shape of Corin sat all day,
    Playing on pipes of corn and versing love
    To amorous Phillida. Why art thou here,
    Come from the farthest Steppe of India?
    But that, forsooth, the bouncing Amazon,
    Your buskin'd mistress and your warrior love,
    To Theseus must be wedded, and you come
    To give their bed joy and prosperity.

OBERON    How canst thou thus for shame, Titania,
    Glance at my credit with Hippolyta,
    Knowing I know thy love to Theseus?
    Didst thou not lead him through the glimmering night
    From Perigenia, whom he ravished?
    And make him with fair AEgle break his faith,
    With Ariadne and Antiopa?

TITANIA    These are the forgeries of jealousy:
    And never, since the middle summer's spring,
    Met we on hill, in dale, forest or mead,
    By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
    Or in the beached margent of the sea,
    To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
    But with thy brawls thou hast disturb'd our sport.
    Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
    As in revenge, have suck'd up from the sea
    Contagious fogs; which falling in the land
    Have every pelting river made so proud
    That they have overborne their continents:
    The ox hath therefore stretch'd his yoke in vain,
    The ploughman lost his sweat, and the green corn
    Hath rotted ere his youth attain'd a beard;
    The fold stands empty in the drowned field,
    And crows are fatted with the murrion flock;
    The nine men's morris is fill'd up with mud,
    And the quaint mazes in the wanton green
    For lack of tread are undistinguishable:
    The human mortals want their winter here;
    No night is now with hymn or carol blest:
    Therefore the moon, the governess of floods,
    Pale in her anger, washes all the air,
    That rheumatic diseases do abound:
    And thorough this distemperature we see
    The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts
    Far in the fresh lap of the crimson rose,
    And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown
    An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds
    Is, as in mockery, set: the spring, the summer,
    The childing autumn, angry winter, change
    Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world,
    By their increase, now knows not which is which:
    And this same progeny of evils comes
    From our debate, from our dissension;
    We are their parents and original.

OBERON    Do you amend it then; it lies in you:
    Why should Titania cross her Oberon?
    I do but beg a little changeling boy,
    To be my henchman.

TITANIA                      Set your heart at rest:
    The fairy land buys not the child of me.
    His mother was a votaress of my order:
    And, in the spiced Indian air, by night,
    Full often hath she gossip'd by my side,
    And sat with me on Neptune's yellow sands,
    Marking the embarked traders on the flood,
    When we have laugh'd to see the sails conceive
    And grow big-bellied with the wanton wind;
    Which she, with pretty and with swimming gait
    Following,--her womb then rich with my young squire,--
    Would imitate, and sail upon the land,
    To fetch me trifles, and return again,
    As from a voyage, rich with merchandise.
    But she, being mortal, of that boy did die;
    And for her sake do I rear up her boy,
    And for her sake I will not part with him.

OBERON    How long within this wood intend you stay?

TITANIA    Perchance till after Theseus' wedding-day.
    If you will patiently dance in our round
    And see our moonlight revels, go with us;
    If not, shun me, and I will spare your haunts.

OBERON    Give me that boy, and I will go with thee.

TITANIA    Not for thy fairy kingdom. Fairies, away!
    We shall chide downright, if I longer stay.

    [Exit TITANIA with her train]

OBERON    Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
    Till I torment thee for this injury.
    My gentle Puck, come hither. Thou rememberest
    Since once I sat upon a promontory,
    And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
    Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
    That the rude sea grew civil at her song
    And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
    To hear the sea-maid's music.

PUCK    I remember.

OBERON    That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
    Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
    Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
    At a fair vestal throned by the west,
    And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
    As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
    But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
    Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
    And the imperial votaress passed on,
    In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
    Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
    It fell upon a little western flower,
    Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
    And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
    Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
    The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
    Will make or man or woman madly dote
    Upon the next live creature that it sees.
    Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
    Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

PUCK    I'll put a girdle round about the earth
    In forty minutes.

    [Exit]

OBERON                      Having once this juice,
    I'll watch Titania when she is asleep,
    And drop the liquor of it in her eyes.
    The next thing then she waking looks upon,
    Be it on lion, bear, or wolf, or bull,
    On meddling monkey, or on busy ape,
    She shall pursue it with the soul of love:
    And ere I take this charm from off her sight,
    As I can take it with another herb,
    I'll make her render up her page to me.
    But who comes here? I am invisible;
    And I will overhear their conference.

    [Enter DEMETRIUS, HELENA, following him]

DEMETRIUS    I love thee not, therefore pursue me not.
    Where is Lysander and fair Hermia?
    The one I'll slay, the other slayeth me.
    Thou told'st me they were stolen unto this wood;
    And here am I, and wode within this wood,
    Because I cannot meet my Hermia.
    Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more.

HELENA    You draw me, you hard-hearted adamant;
    But yet you draw not iron, for my heart
    Is true as steel: leave you your power to draw,
    And I shall have no power to follow you.

DEMETRIUS    Do I entice you? do I speak you fair?
    Or, rather, do I not in plainest truth
    Tell you, I do not, nor I cannot love you?

HELENA    And even for that do I love you the more.
    I am your spaniel; and, Demetrius,
    The more you beat me, I will fawn on you:
    Use me but as your spaniel, spurn me, strike me,
    Neglect me, lose me; only give me leave,
    Unworthy as I am, to follow you.
    What worser place can I beg in your love,--
    And yet a place of high respect with me,--
    Than to be used as you use your dog?

DEMETRIUS    Tempt not too much the hatred of my spirit;
    For I am sick when I do look on thee.

HELENA    And I am sick when I look not on you.

DEMETRIUS    You do impeach your modesty too much,
    To leave the city and commit yourself
    Into the hands of one that loves you not;
    To trust the opportunity of night
    And the ill counsel of a desert place
    With the rich worth of your virginity.

HELENA    Your virtue is my privilege: for that
    It is not night when I do see your face,
    Therefore I think I am not in the night;
    Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company,
    For you in my respect are all the world:
    Then how can it be said I am alone,
    When all the world is here to look on me?

DEMETRIUS    I'll run from thee and hide me in the brakes,
    And leave thee to the mercy of wild beasts.

HELENA    The wildest hath not such a heart as you.
    Run when you will, the story shall be changed:
    Apollo flies, and Daphne holds the chase;
    The dove pursues the griffin; the mild hind
    Makes speed to catch the tiger; bootless speed,
    When cowardice pursues and valour flies.

DEMETRIUS    I will not stay thy questions; let me go:
    Or, if thou follow me, do not believe
    But I shall do thee mischief in the wood.

HELENA    Ay, in the temple, in the town, the field,
    You do me mischief. Fie, Demetrius!
    Your wrongs do set a scandal on my sex:
    We cannot fight for love, as men may do;
    We should be wood and were not made to woo.

    [Exit DEMETRIUS]

    I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell,
    To die upon the hand I love so well.

    [Exit]

OBERON    Fare thee well, nymph: ere he do leave this grove,
    Thou shalt fly him and he shall seek thy love.

    [Re-enter PUCK]

    Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer.

PUCK    Ay, there it is.

OBERON    I pray thee, give it me.
    I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,
    Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,
    Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,
    With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine:
    There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,
    Lull'd in these flowers with dances and delight;
    And there the snake throws her enamell'd skin,
    Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in:
    And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes,
    And make her full of hateful fantasies.
    Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove:
    A sweet Athenian lady is in love
    With a disdainful youth: anoint his eyes;
    But do it when the next thing he espies
    May be the lady: thou shalt know the man
    By the Athenian garments he hath on.
    Effect it with some care, that he may prove
    More fond on her than she upon her love:
    And look thou meet me ere the first cock crow.

PUCK    Fear not, my lord, your servant shall do so.

    [Exeunt]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT II



SCENE II    Another part of the wood.


    [Enter TITANIA, with her train]

TITANIA    Come, now a roundel and a fairy song;
    Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;
    Some to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds,
    Some war with rere-mice for their leathern wings,
    To make my small elves coats, and some keep back
    The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders
    At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep;
    Then to your offices and let me rest.

    [The Fairies sing]

    You spotted snakes with double tongue,
    Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;
    Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong,
    Come not near our fairy queen.
    Philomel, with melody
    Sing in our sweet lullaby;
    Lulla, lulla, lullaby, lulla, lulla, lullaby:
    Never harm,
    Nor spell nor charm,
    Come our lovely lady nigh;
    So, good night, with lullaby.
    Weaving spiders, come not here;
    Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence!
    Beetles black, approach not near;
    Worm nor snail, do no offence.
    Philomel, with melody, &c.

Fairy    Hence, away! now all is well:
    One aloof stand sentinel.

    [Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps]

    [Enter OBERON and squeezes the flower on TITANIA's eyelids]

OBERON    What thou seest when thou dost wake,
    Do it for thy true-love take,
    Love and languish for his sake:
    Be it ounce, or cat, or bear,
    Pard, or boar with bristled hair,
    In thy eye that shall appear
    When thou wakest, it is thy dear:
    Wake when some vile thing is near.

    [Exit]

    [Enter LYSANDER and HERMIA]

LYSANDER    Fair love, you faint with wandering in the wood;
    And to speak troth, I have forgot our way:
    We'll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good,
    And tarry for the comfort of the day.

HERMIA    Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed;
    For I upon this bank will rest my head.

LYSANDER    One turf shall serve as pillow for us both;
    One heart, one bed, two bosoms and one troth.

HERMIA    Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear,
    Lie further off yet, do not lie so near.

LYSANDER    O, take the sense, sweet, of my innocence!
    Love takes the meaning in love's conference.
    I mean, that my heart unto yours is knit
    So that but one heart we can make of it;
    Two bosoms interchained with an oath;
    So then two bosoms and a single troth.
    Then by your side no bed-room me deny;
    For lying so, Hermia, I do not lie.

HERMIA    Lysander riddles very prettily:
    Now much beshrew my manners and my pride,
    If Hermia meant to say Lysander lied.
    But, gentle friend, for love and courtesy
    Lie further off; in human modesty,
    Such separation as may well be said
    Becomes a virtuous bachelor and a maid,
    So far be distant; and, good night, sweet friend:
    Thy love ne'er alter till thy sweet life end!

LYSANDER    Amen, amen, to that fair prayer, say I;
    And then end life when I end loyalty!
    Here is my bed: sleep give thee all his rest!

HERMIA    With half that wish the wisher's eyes be press'd!

    [They sleep]

    [Enter PUCK]

PUCK    Through the forest have I gone.
    But Athenian found I none,
    On whose eyes I might approve
    This flower's force in stirring love.
    Night and silence.--Who is here?
    Weeds of Athens he doth wear:
    This is he, my master said,
    Despised the Athenian maid;
    And here the maiden, sleeping sound,
    On the dank and dirty ground.
    Pretty soul! she durst not lie
    Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.
    Churl, upon thy eyes I throw
    All the power this charm doth owe.
    When thou wakest, let love forbid
    Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:
    So awake when I am gone;
    For I must now to Oberon.

    [Exit]

    [Enter DEMETRIUS and HELENA, running]

HELENA    Stay, though thou kill me, sweet Demetrius.

DEMETRIUS    I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

HELENA    O, wilt thou darkling leave me? do not so.

DEMETRIUS    Stay, on thy peril: I alone will go.

    [Exit]

HELENA    O, I am out of breath in this fond chase!
    The more my prayer, the lesser is my grace.
    Happy is Hermia, wheresoe'er she lies;
    For she hath blessed and attractive eyes.
    How came her eyes so bright? Not with salt tears:
    If so, my eyes are oftener wash'd than hers.
    No, no, I am as ugly as a bear;
    For beasts that meet me run away for fear:
    Therefore no marvel though Demetrius
    Do, as a monster fly my presence thus.
    What wicked and dissembling glass of mine
    Made me compare with Hermia's sphery eyne?
    But who is here? Lysander! on the ground!
    Dead? or asleep? I see no blood, no wound.
    Lysander if you live, good sir, awake.

LYSANDER    [Awaking]  And run through fire I will for thy sweet sake.
    Transparent Helena! Nature shows art,
    That through thy bosom makes me see thy heart.
    Where is Demetrius? O, how fit a word
    Is that vile name to perish on my sword!

HELENA    Do not say so, Lysander; say not so
    What though he love your Hermia? Lord, what though?
    Yet Hermia still loves you: then be content.

LYSANDER    Content with Hermia! No; I do repent
    The tedious minutes I with her have spent.
    Not Hermia but Helena I love:
    Who will not change a raven for a dove?
    The will of man is by his reason sway'd;
    And reason says you are the worthier maid.
    Things growing are not ripe until their season
    So I, being young, till now ripe not to reason;
    And touching now the point of human skill,
    Reason becomes the marshal to my will
    And leads me to your eyes, where I o'erlook
    Love's stories written in love's richest book.

HELENA    Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?
    When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?
    Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,
    That I did never, no, nor never can,
    Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,
    But you must flout my insufficiency?
    Good troth, you do me wrong, good sooth, you do,
    In such disdainful manner me to woo.
    But fare you well: perforce I must confess
    I thought you lord of more true gentleness.
    O, that a lady, of one man refused.
    Should of another therefore be abused!

    [Exit]

LYSANDER    She sees not Hermia. Hermia, sleep thou there:
    And never mayst thou come Lysander near!
    For as a surfeit of the sweetest things
    The deepest loathing to the stomach brings,
    Or as tie heresies that men do leave
    Are hated most of those they did deceive,
    So thou, my surfeit and my heresy,
    Of all be hated, but the most of me!
    And, all my powers, address your love and might
    To honour Helen and to be her knight!

    [Exit]

HERMIA    [Awaking]  Help me, Lysander, help me! do thy best
    To pluck this crawling serpent from my breast!
    Ay me, for pity! what a dream was here!
    Lysander, look how I do quake with fear:
    Methought a serpent eat my heart away,
    And you sat smiling at his cruel pray.
    Lysander! what, removed? Lysander! lord!
    What, out of hearing? gone? no sound, no word?
    Alack, where are you speak, an if you hear;
    Speak, of all loves! I swoon almost with fear.
    No? then I well perceive you all not nigh
    Either death or you I'll find immediately.

    [Exit]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT III



SCENE I    The wood. TITANIA lying asleep.


    [Enter QUINCE, SNUG, BOTTOM, FLUTE, SNOUT, and
    STARVELING]

BOTTOM    Are we all met?

QUINCE    Pat, pat; and here's a marvellous convenient place
    for our rehearsal. This green plot shall be our
    stage, this hawthorn-brake our tiring-house; and we
    will do it in action as we will do it before the duke.

BOTTOM    Peter Quince,--

QUINCE    What sayest thou, bully Bottom?

BOTTOM    There are things in this comedy of Pyramus and
    Thisby that will never please. First, Pyramus must
    draw a sword to kill himself; which the ladies
    cannot abide. How answer you that?

SNOUT    By'r lakin, a parlous fear.

STARVELING    I believe we must leave the killing out, when all is done.

BOTTOM    Not a whit: I have a device to make all well.
    Write me a prologue; and let the prologue seem to
    say, we will do no harm with our swords, and that
    Pyramus is not killed indeed; and, for the more
    better assurance, tell them that I, Pyramus, am not
    Pyramus, but Bottom the weaver: this will put them
    out of fear.

QUINCE    Well, we will have such a prologue; and it shall be
    written in eight and six.

BOTTOM    No, make it two more; let it be written in eight and eight.

SNOUT    Will not the ladies be afeard of the lion?

STARVELING    I fear it, I promise you.

BOTTOM    Masters, you ought to consider with yourselves: to
    bring in--God shield us!--a lion among ladies, is a
    most dreadful thing; for there is not a more fearful
    wild-fowl than your lion living; and we ought to
    look to 't.

SNOUT    Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion.

BOTTOM    Nay, you must name his name, and half his face must
    be seen through the lion's neck: and he himself
    must speak through, saying thus, or to the same
    defect,--'Ladies,'--or 'Fair-ladies--I would wish
    You,'--or 'I would request you,'--or 'I would
    entreat you,--not to fear, not to tremble: my life
    for yours. If you think I come hither as a lion, it
    were pity of my life: no I am no such thing; I am a
    man as other men are;' and there indeed let him name
    his name, and tell them plainly he is Snug the joiner.

QUINCE    Well it shall be so. But there is two hard things;
    that is, to bring the moonlight into a chamber; for,
    you know, Pyramus and Thisby meet by moonlight.

SNOUT    Doth the moon shine that night we play our play?

BOTTOM    A calendar, a calendar! look in the almanac; find
    out moonshine, find out moonshine.

QUINCE    Yes, it doth shine that night.

BOTTOM    Why, then may you leave a casement of the great
    chamber window, where we play, open, and the moon
    may shine in at the casement.

QUINCE    Ay; or else one must come in with a bush of thorns
    and a lanthorn, and say he comes to disfigure, or to
    present, the person of Moonshine. Then, there is
    another thing: we must have a wall in the great
    chamber; for Pyramus and Thisby says the story, did
    talk through the chink of a wall.

SNOUT    You can never bring in a wall. What say you, Bottom?

BOTTOM    Some man or other must present Wall: and let him
    have some plaster, or some loam, or some rough-cast
    about him, to signify wall; and let him hold his
    fingers thus, and through that cranny shall Pyramus
    and Thisby whisper.

QUINCE    If that may be, then all is well. Come, sit down,
    every mother's son, and rehearse your parts.
    Pyramus, you begin: when you have spoken your
    speech, enter into that brake: and so every one
    according to his cue.

    [Enter PUCK behind]

PUCK    What hempen home-spuns have we swaggering here,
    So near the cradle of the fairy queen?
    What, a play toward! I'll be an auditor;
    An actor too, perhaps, if I see cause.

QUINCE    Speak, Pyramus. Thisby, stand forth.

BOTTOM    Thisby, the flowers of odious savours sweet,--

QUINCE    Odours, odours.

BOTTOM    --odours savours sweet:
    So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisby dear.
    But hark, a voice! stay thou but here awhile,
    And by and by I will to thee appear.

    [Exit]

PUCK    A stranger Pyramus than e'er played here.

    [Exit]

FLUTE    Must I speak now?

QUINCE    Ay, marry, must you; for you must understand he goes
    but to see a noise that he heard, and is to come again.

FLUTE    Most radiant Pyramus, most lily-white of hue,
    Of colour like the red rose on triumphant brier,
    Most brisky juvenal and eke most lovely Jew,
    As true as truest horse that yet would never tire,
    I'll meet thee, Pyramus, at Ninny's tomb.

QUINCE    'Ninus' tomb,' man: why, you must not speak that
    yet; that you answer to Pyramus: you speak all your
    part at once, cues and all Pyramus enter: your cue
    is past; it is, 'never tire.'

FLUTE    O,--As true as truest horse, that yet would
    never tire.

    [Re-enter PUCK, and BOTTOM with an ass's head]

BOTTOM    If I were fair, Thisby, I were only thine.

QUINCE    O monstrous! O strange! we are haunted. Pray,
    masters! fly, masters! Help!

    [Exeunt QUINCE, SNUG, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING]

PUCK    I'll follow you, I'll lead you about a round,
    Through bog, through bush, through brake, through brier:
    Sometime a horse I'll be, sometime a hound,
    A hog, a headless bear, sometime a fire;
    And neigh, and bark, and grunt, and roar, and burn,
    Like horse, hound, hog, bear, fire, at every turn.

    [Exit]

BOTTOM    Why do they run away? this is a knavery of them to
    make me afeard.

    [Re-enter SNOUT]

SNOUT    O Bottom, thou art changed! what do I see on thee?

BOTTOM    What do you see? you see an asshead of your own, do
    you?

    [Exit SNOUT]

    [Re-enter QUINCE]

QUINCE    Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art
    translated.

    [Exit]

BOTTOM    I see their knavery: this is to make an ass of me;
    to fright me, if they could. But I will not stir
    from this place, do what they can: I will walk up
    and down here, and I will sing, that they shall hear
    I am not afraid.

    [Sings]

    The ousel cock so black of hue,
    With orange-tawny bill,
    The throstle with his note so true,
    The wren with little quill,--

TITANIA    [Awaking]  What angel wakes me from my flowery bed?

BOTTOM    [Sings]

    The finch, the sparrow and the lark,
    The plain-song cuckoo gray,
    Whose note full many a man doth mark,
    And dares not answer nay;--
    for, indeed, who would set his wit to so foolish
    a bird? who would give a bird the lie, though he cry
    'cuckoo' never so?

TITANIA    I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again:
    Mine ear is much enamour'd of thy note;
    So is mine eye enthralled to thy shape;
    And thy fair virtue's force perforce doth move me
    On the first view to say, to swear, I love thee.

BOTTOM    Methinks, mistress, you should have little reason
    for that: and yet, to say the truth, reason and
    love keep little company together now-a-days; the
    more the pity that some honest neighbours will not
    make them friends. Nay, I can gleek upon occasion.

TITANIA    Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.

BOTTOM    Not so, neither: but if I had wit enough to get out
    of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own turn.

TITANIA    Out of this wood do not desire to go:
    Thou shalt remain here, whether thou wilt or no.
    I am a spirit of no common rate;
    The summer still doth tend upon my state;
    And I do love thee: therefore, go with me;
    I'll give thee fairies to attend on thee,
    And they shall fetch thee jewels from the deep,
    And sing while thou on pressed flowers dost sleep;
    And I will purge thy mortal grossness so
    That thou shalt like an airy spirit go.
    Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!

    [Enter PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH, and MUSTARDSEED]

PEASEBLOSSOM    Ready.

COBWEB         And I.

MOTH              And I.

MUSTARDSEED                      And I.

ALL    Where shall we go?

TITANIA    Be kind and courteous to this gentleman;
    Hop in his walks and gambol in his eyes;
    Feed him with apricocks and dewberries,
    With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries;
    The honey-bags steal from the humble-bees,
    And for night-tapers crop their waxen thighs
    And light them at the fiery glow-worm's eyes,
    To have my love to bed and to arise;
    And pluck the wings from Painted butterflies
    To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes:
    Nod to him, elves, and do him courtesies.

PEASEBLOSSOM    Hail, mortal!

COBWEB    Hail!

MOTH    Hail!

MUSTARDSEED    Hail!

BOTTOM    I cry your worship's mercy, heartily: I beseech your
    worship's name.

COBWEB    Cobweb.

BOTTOM    I shall desire you of more acquaintance, good Master
    Cobweb: if I cut my finger, I shall make bold with
    you. Your name, honest gentleman?

PEASEBLOSSOM    Peaseblossom.

BOTTOM    I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your
    mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good
    Master Peaseblossom, I shall desire you of more
    acquaintance too. Your name, I beseech you, sir?

MUSTARDSEED    Mustardseed.

BOTTOM    Good Master Mustardseed, I know your patience well:
    that same cowardly, giant-like ox-beef hath
    devoured many a gentleman of your house: I promise
    you your kindred had made my eyes water ere now. I
    desire your more acquaintance, good Master
    Mustardseed.

TITANIA    Come, wait upon him; lead him to my bower.
    The moon methinks looks with a watery eye;
    And when she weeps, weeps every little flower,
    Lamenting some enforced chastity.
    Tie up my love's tongue bring him silently.

    [Exeunt]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT III



SCENE II    Another part of the wood.


    [Enter OBERON]

OBERON    I wonder if Titania be awaked;
    Then, what it was that next came in her eye,
    Which she must dote on in extremity.

    [Enter PUCK]

    Here comes my messenger.
           How now, mad spirit!
    What night-rule now about this haunted grove?

PUCK    My mistress with a monster is in love.
    Near to her close and consecrated bower,
    While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,
    A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,
    That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,
    Were met together to rehearse a play
    Intended for great Theseus' nuptial-day.
    The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,
    Who Pyramus presented, in their sport
    Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake
    When I did him at this advantage take,
    An ass's nole I fixed on his head:
    Anon his Thisbe must be answered,
    And forth my mimic comes. When they him spy,
    As wild geese that the creeping fowler eye,
    Or russet-pated choughs, many in sort,
    Rising and cawing at the gun's report,
    Sever themselves and madly sweep the sky,
    So, at his sight, away his fellows fly;
    And, at our stamp, here o'er and o'er one falls;
    He murder cries and help from Athens calls.
    Their sense thus weak, lost with their fears
    thus strong,
    Made senseless things begin to do them wrong;
    For briers and thorns at their apparel snatch;
    Some sleeves, some hats, from yielders all
    things catch.
    I led them on in this distracted fear,
    And left sweet Pyramus translated there:
    When in that moment, so it came to pass,
    Titania waked and straightway loved an ass.

OBERON    This falls out better than I could devise.
    But hast thou yet latch'd the Athenian's eyes
    With the love-juice, as I did bid thee do?

PUCK    I took him sleeping,--that is finish'd too,--
    And the Athenian woman by his side:
    That, when he waked, of force she must be eyed.

    [Enter HERMIA and DEMETRIUS]

OBERON    Stand close: this is the same Athenian.

PUCK    This is the woman, but not this the man.

DEMETRIUS    O, why rebuke you him that loves you so?
    Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

HERMIA    Now I but chide; but I should use thee worse,
    For thou, I fear, hast given me cause to curse,
    If thou hast slain Lysander in his sleep,
    Being o'er shoes in blood, plunge in the deep,
    And kill me too.
    The sun was not so true unto the day
    As he to me: would he have stolen away
    From sleeping Hermia? I'll believe as soon
    This whole earth may be bored and that the moon
    May through the centre creep and so displease
    Her brother's noontide with Antipodes.
    It cannot be but thou hast murder'd him;
    So should a murderer look, so dead, so grim.

DEMETRIUS    So should the murder'd look, and so should I,
    Pierced through the heart with your stern cruelty:
    Yet you, the murderer, look as bright, as clear,
    As yonder Venus in her glimmering sphere.

HERMIA    What's this to my Lysander? where is he?
    Ah, good Demetrius, wilt thou give him me?

DEMETRIUS    I had rather give his carcass to my hounds.

HERMIA    Out, dog! out, cur! thou drivest me past the bounds
    Of maiden's patience. Hast thou slain him, then?
    Henceforth be never number'd among men!
    O, once tell true, tell true, even for my sake!
    Durst thou have look'd upon him being awake,
    And hast thou kill'd him sleeping? O brave touch!
    Could not a worm, an adder, do so much?
    An adder did it; for with doubler tongue
    Than thine, thou serpent, never adder stung.

DEMETRIUS    You spend your passion on a misprised mood:
    I am not guilty of Lysander's blood;
    Nor is he dead, for aught that I can tell.

HERMIA    I pray thee, tell me then that he is well.

DEMETRIUS    An if I could, what should I get therefore?

HERMIA    A privilege never to see me more.
    And from thy hated presence part I so:
    See me no more, whether he be dead or no.

    [Exit]

DEMETRIUS    There is no following her in this fierce vein:
    Here therefore for a while I will remain.
    So sorrow's heaviness doth heavier grow
    For debt that bankrupt sleep doth sorrow owe:
    Which now in some slight measure it will pay,
    If for his tender here I make some stay.

    [Lies down and sleeps]

OBERON    What hast thou done? thou hast mistaken quite
    And laid the love-juice on some true-love's sight:
    Of thy misprision must perforce ensue
    Some true love turn'd and not a false turn'd true.

PUCK    Then fate o'er-rules, that, one man holding troth,
    A million fail, confounding oath on oath.

OBERON    About the wood go swifter than the wind,
    And Helena of Athens look thou find:
    All fancy-sick she is and pale of cheer,
    With sighs of love, that costs the fresh blood dear:
    By some illusion see thou bring her here:
    I'll charm his eyes against she do appear.

PUCK    I go, I go; look how I go,
    Swifter than arrow from the Tartar's bow.

    [Exit]

OBERON       Flower of this purple dye,
    Hit with Cupid's archery,
    Sink in apple of his eye.
    When his love he doth espy,
    Let her shine as gloriously
    As the Venus of the sky.
    When thou wakest, if she be by,
    Beg of her for remedy.

    [Re-enter PUCK]

PUCK       Captain of our fairy band,
    Helena is here at hand;
    And the youth, mistook by me,
    Pleading for a lover's fee.
    Shall we their fond pageant see?
    Lord, what fools these mortals be!

OBERON    Stand aside: the noise they make
    Will cause Demetrius to awake.

PUCK    Then will two at once woo one;
    That must needs be sport alone;
    And those things do best please me
    That befal preposterously.

    [Enter LYSANDER and HELENA]

LYSANDER    Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?
    Scorn and derision never come in tears:
    Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born,
    In their nativity all truth appears.
    How can these things in me seem scorn to you,
    Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?

HELENA    You do advance your cunning more and more.
    When truth kills truth, O devilish-holy fray!
    These vows are Hermia's: will you give her o'er?
    Weigh oath with oath, and you will nothing weigh:
    Your vows to her and me, put in two scales,
    Will even weigh, and both as light as tales.

LYSANDER    I had no judgment when to her I swore.

HELENA    Nor none, in my mind, now you give her o'er.

LYSANDER    Demetrius loves her, and he loves not you.

DEMETRIUS    [Awaking]  O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine!
    To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
    Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show
    Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
    That pure congealed white, high Taurus snow,
    Fann'd with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
    When thou hold'st up thy hand: O, let me kiss
    This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

HELENA    O spite! O hell! I see you all are bent
    To set against me for your merriment:
    If you we re civil and knew courtesy,
    You would not do me thus much injury.
    Can you not hate me, as I know you do,
    But you must join in souls to mock me too?
    If you were men, as men you are in show,
    You would not use a gentle lady so;
    To vow, and swear, and superpraise my parts,
    When I am sure you hate me with your hearts.
    You both are rivals, and love Hermia;
    And now both rivals, to mock Helena:
    A trim exploit, a manly enterprise,
    To conjure tears up in a poor maid's eyes
    With your derision! none of noble sort
    Would so offend a virgin, and extort
    A poor soul's patience, all to make you sport.

LYSANDER    You are unkind, Demetrius; be not so;
    For you love Hermia; this you know I know:
    And here, with all good will, with all my heart,
    In Hermia's love I yield you up my part;
    And yours of Helena to me bequeath,
    Whom I do love and will do till my death.

HELENA    Never did mockers waste more idle breath.

DEMETRIUS    Lysander, keep thy Hermia; I will none:
    If e'er I loved her, all that love is gone.
    My heart to her but as guest-wise sojourn'd,
    And now to Helen is it home return'd,
    There to remain.

LYSANDER                      Helen, it is not so.

DEMETRIUS    Disparage not the faith thou dost not know,
    Lest, to thy peril, thou aby it dear.
    Look, where thy love comes; yonder is thy dear.

    [Re-enter HERMIA]

HERMIA    Dark night, that from the eye his function takes,
    The ear more quick of apprehension makes;
    Wherein it doth impair the seeing sense,
    It pays the hearing double recompense.
    Thou art not by mine eye, Lysander, found;
    Mine ear, I thank it, brought me to thy sound
    But why unkindly didst thou leave me so?

LYSANDER    Why should he stay, whom love doth press to go?

HERMIA    What love could press Lysander from my side?

LYSANDER    Lysander's love, that would not let him bide,
    Fair Helena, who more engilds the night
    Than all you fiery oes and eyes of light.
    Why seek'st thou me? could not this make thee know,
    The hate I bear thee made me leave thee so?

HERMIA    You speak not as you think: it cannot be.

HELENA    Lo, she is one of this confederacy!
    Now I perceive they have conjoin'd all three
    To fashion this false sport, in spite of me.
    Injurious Hermia! most ungrateful maid!
    Have you conspired, have you with these contrived
    To bait me with this foul derision?
    Is all the counsel that we two have shared,
    The sisters' vows, the hours that we have spent,
    When we have chid the hasty-footed time
    For parting us,--O, is it all forgot?
    All school-days' friendship, childhood innocence?
    We, Hermia, like two artificial gods,
    Have with our needles created both one flower,
    Both on one sampler, sitting on one cushion,
    Both warbling of one song, both in one key,
    As if our hands, our sides, voices and minds,
    Had been incorporate. So we grow together,
    Like to a double cherry, seeming parted,
    But yet an union in partition;
    Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
    So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart;
    Two of the first, like coats in heraldry,
    Due but to one and crowned with one crest.
    And will you rent our ancient love asunder,
    To join with men in scorning your poor friend?
    It is not friendly, 'tis not maidenly:
    Our sex, as well as I, may chide you for it,
    Though I alone do feel the injury.

HERMIA    I am amazed at your passionate words.
    I scorn you not: it seems that you scorn me.

HELENA    Have you not set Lysander, as in scorn,
    To follow me and praise my eyes and face?
    And made your other love, Demetrius,
    Who even but now did spurn me with his foot,
    To call me goddess, nymph, divine and rare,
    Precious, celestial? Wherefore speaks he this
    To her he hates? and wherefore doth Lysander
    Deny your love, so rich within his soul,
    And tender me, forsooth, affection,
    But by your setting on, by your consent?
    What thought I be not so in grace as you,
    So hung upon with love, so fortunate,
    But miserable most, to love unloved?
    This you should pity rather than despise.

HERNIA    I understand not what you mean by this.

HELENA    Ay, do, persever, counterfeit sad looks,
    Make mouths upon me when I turn my back;
    Wink each at other; hold the sweet jest up:
    This sport, well carried, shall be chronicled.
    If you have any pity, grace, or manners,
    You would not make me such an argument.
    But fare ye well: 'tis partly my own fault;
    Which death or absence soon shall remedy.

LYSANDER    Stay, gentle Helena; hear my excuse:
    My love, my life my soul, fair Helena!

HELENA    O excellent!

HERMIA                      Sweet, do not scorn her so.

DEMETRIUS    If she cannot entreat, I can compel.

LYSANDER    Thou canst compel no more than she entreat:
    Thy threats have no more strength than her weak prayers.
    Helen, I love thee; by my life, I do:
    I swear by that which I will lose for thee,
    To prove him false that says I love thee not.

DEMETRIUS    I say I love thee more than he can do.

LYSANDER    If thou say so, withdraw, and prove it too.

DEMETRIUS    Quick, come!

HERMIA    Lysander, whereto tends all this?

LYSANDER    Away, you Ethiope!

DEMETRIUS                      No, no; he'll [        ]
    Seem to break loose; take on as you would follow,
    But yet come not: you are a tame man, go!

LYSANDER    Hang off, thou cat, thou burr! vile thing, let loose,
    Or I will shake thee from me like a serpent!

HERMIA    Why are you grown so rude? what change is this?
    Sweet love,--

LYSANDER    Thy love! out, tawny Tartar, out!
    Out, loathed medicine! hated potion, hence!

HERMIA    Do you not jest?

HELENA    Yes, sooth; and so do you.

LYSANDER    Demetrius, I will keep my word with thee.

DEMETRIUS    I would I had your bond, for I perceive
    A weak bond holds you: I'll not trust your word.

LYSANDER    What, should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?
    Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so.

HERMIA    What, can you do me greater harm than hate?
    Hate me! wherefore? O me! what news, my love!
    Am not I Hermia? are not you Lysander?
    I am as fair now as I was erewhile.
    Since night you loved me; yet since night you left
    me:
    Why, then you left me--O, the gods forbid!--
    In earnest, shall I say?

LYSANDER    Ay, by my life;
    And never did desire to see thee more.
    Therefore be out of hope, of question, of doubt;
    Be certain, nothing truer; 'tis no jest
    That I do hate thee and love Helena.

HERMIA    O me! you juggler! you canker-blossom!
    You thief of love! what, have you come by night
    And stolen my love's heart from him?

HELENA    Fine, i'faith!
    Have you no modesty, no maiden shame,
    No touch of bashfulness? What, will you tear
    Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?
    Fie, fie! you counterfeit, you puppet, you!

HERMIA    Puppet? why so? ay, that way goes the game.
    Now I perceive that she hath made compare
    Between our statures; she hath urged her height;
    And with her personage, her tall personage,
    Her height, forsooth, she hath prevail'd with him.
    And are you grown so high in his esteem;
    Because I am so dwarfish and so low?
    How low am I, thou painted maypole? speak;
    How low am I? I am not yet so low
    But that my nails can reach unto thine eyes.

HELENA    I pray you, though you mock me, gentlemen,
    Let her not hurt me: I was never curst;
    I have no gift at all in shrewishness;
    I am a right maid for my cowardice:
    Let her not strike me. You perhaps may think,
    Because she is something lower than myself,
    That I can match her.

HERMIA    Lower! hark, again.

HELENA    Good Hermia, do not be so bitter with me.
    I evermore did love you, Hermia,
    Did ever keep your counsels, never wrong'd you;
    Save that, in love unto Demetrius,
    I told him of your stealth unto this wood.
    He follow'd you; for love I follow'd him;
    But he hath chid me hence and threaten'd me
    To strike me, spurn me, nay, to kill me too:
    And now, so you will let me quiet go,
    To Athens will I bear my folly back
    And follow you no further: let me go:
    You see how simple and how fond I am.

HERMIA    Why, get you gone: who is't that hinders you?

HELENA    A foolish heart, that I leave here behind.

HERMIA    What, with Lysander?

HELENA    With Demetrius.

LYSANDER    Be not afraid; she shall not harm thee, Helena.

DEMETRIUS    No, sir, she shall not, though you take her part.

HELENA    O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd!
    She was a vixen when she went to school;
    And though she be but little, she is fierce.

HERMIA    'Little' again! nothing but 'low' and 'little'!
    Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?
    Let me come to her.

LYSANDER    Get you gone, you dwarf;
    You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made;
    You bead, you acorn.

DEMETRIUS    You are too officious
    In her behalf that scorns your services.
    Let her alone: speak not of Helena;
    Take not her part; for, if thou dost intend
    Never so little show of love to her,
    Thou shalt aby it.

LYSANDER                      Now she holds me not;
    Now follow, if thou darest, to try whose right,
    Of thine or mine, is most in Helena.

DEMETRIUS    Follow! nay, I'll go with thee, cheek by jole.

    [Exeunt LYSANDER and DEMETRIUS]

HERMIA    You, mistress, all this coil is 'long of you:
    Nay, go not back.

HELENA                      I will not trust you, I,
    Nor longer stay in your curst company.
    Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray,
    My legs are longer though, to run away.

    [Exit]

HERMIA    I am amazed, and know not what to say.

    [Exit]

OBERON    This is thy negligence: still thou mistakest,
    Or else committ'st thy knaveries wilfully.

PUCK    Believe me, king of shadows, I mistook.
    Did not you tell me I should know the man
    By the Athenian garment be had on?
    And so far blameless proves my enterprise,
    That I have 'nointed an Athenian's eyes;
    And so far am I glad it so did sort
    As this their jangling I esteem a sport.

OBERON    Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight:
    Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night;
    The starry welkin cover thou anon
    With drooping fog as black as Acheron,
    And lead these testy rivals so astray
    As one come not within another's way.
    Like to Lysander sometime frame thy tongue,
    Then stir Demetrius up with bitter wrong;
    And sometime rail thou like Demetrius;
    And from each other look thou lead them thus,
    Till o'er their brows death-counterfeiting sleep
    With leaden legs and batty wings doth creep:
    Then crush this herb into Lysander's eye;
    Whose liquor hath this virtuous property,
    To take from thence all error with his might,
    And make his eyeballs roll with wonted sight.
    When they next wake, all this derision
    Shall seem a dream and fruitless vision,
    And back to Athens shall the lovers wend,
    With league whose date till death shall never end.
    Whiles I in this affair do thee employ,
    I'll to my queen and beg her Indian boy;
    And then I will her charmed eye release
    From monster's view, and all things shall be peace.

PUCK    My fairy lord, this must be done with haste,
    For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,
    And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger;
    At whose approach, ghosts, wandering here and there,
    Troop home to churchyards: damned spirits all,
    That in crossways and floods have burial,
    Already to their wormy beds are gone;
    For fear lest day should look their shames upon,
    They willfully themselves exile from light
    And must for aye consort with black-brow'd night.

OBERON    But we are spirits of another sort:
    I with the morning's love have oft made sport,
    And, like a forester, the groves may tread,
    Even till the eastern gate, all fiery-red,
    Opening on Neptune with fair blessed beams,
    Turns into yellow gold his salt green streams.
    But, notwithstanding, haste; make no delay:
    We may effect this business yet ere day.

    [Exit]

PUCK       Up and down, up and down,
    I will lead them up and down:
    I am fear'd in field and town:
    Goblin, lead them up and down.
    Here comes one.

    [Re-enter LYSANDER]

LYSANDER    Where art thou, proud Demetrius? speak thou now.

PUCK    Here, villain; drawn and ready. Where art thou?

LYSANDER    I will be with thee straight.

PUCK    Follow me, then,
    To plainer ground.

    [Exit LYSANDER, as following the voice]

    [Re-enter DEMETRIUS]

DEMETRIUS                      Lysander! speak again:
    Thou runaway, thou coward, art thou fled?
    Speak! In some bush? Where dost thou hide thy head?

PUCK    Thou coward, art thou bragging to the stars,
    Telling the bushes that thou look'st for wars,
    And wilt not come? Come, recreant; come, thou child;
    I'll whip thee with a rod: he is defiled
    That draws a sword on thee.

DEMETRIUS    Yea, art thou there?

PUCK    Follow my voice: we'll try no manhood here.

    [Exeunt]

    [Re-enter LYSANDER]

LYSANDER    He goes before me and still dares me on:
    When I come where he calls, then he is gone.
    The villain is much lighter-heel'd than I:
    I follow'd fast, but faster he did fly;
    That fallen am I in dark uneven way,
    And here will rest me.

    [Lies down]

    Come, thou gentle day!
    For if but once thou show me thy grey light,
    I'll find Demetrius and revenge this spite.

    [Sleeps]

    [Re-enter PUCK and DEMETRIUS]

PUCK    Ho, ho, ho! Coward, why comest thou not?

DEMETRIUS    Abide me, if thou darest; for well I wot
    Thou runn'st before me, shifting every place,
    And darest not stand, nor look me in the face.
    Where art thou now?

PUCK    Come hither: I am here.

DEMETRIUS    Nay, then, thou mock'st me. Thou shalt buy this dear,
    If ever I thy face by daylight see:
    Now, go thy way. Faintness constraineth me
    To measure out my length on this cold bed.
    By day's approach look to be visited.

    [Lies down and sleeps]

    [Re-enter HELENA]

HELENA    O weary night, O long and tedious night,
    Abate thy hour! Shine comforts from the east,
    That I may back to Athens by daylight,
    From these that my poor company detest:
    And sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye,
    Steal me awhile from mine own company.

    [Lies down and sleeps]

PUCK    Yet but three? Come one more;
    Two of both kinds make up four.
    Here she comes, curst and sad:
    Cupid is a knavish lad,
    Thus to make poor females mad.

    [Re-enter HERMIA]

HERMIA    Never so weary, never so in woe,
    Bedabbled with the dew and torn with briers,
    I can no further crawl, no further go;
    My legs can keep no pace with my desires.
    Here will I rest me till the break of day.
    Heavens shield Lysander, if they mean a fray!

    [Lies down and sleeps]

PUCK                      On the ground
    Sleep sound:
    I'll apply
    To your eye,
    Gentle lover, remedy.

    [Squeezing the juice on LYSANDER's eyes]

    When thou wakest,
    Thou takest
    True delight
    In the sight
    Of thy former lady's eye:
    And the country proverb known,
    That every man should take his own,
    In your waking shall be shown:
    Jack shall have Jill;
    Nought shall go ill;
    The man shall have his mare again, and all shall be well.

    [Exit]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT IV



SCENE I    The same. LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HELENA, and HERMIA
    lying asleep.


    [Enter TITANIA and BOTTOM; PEASEBLOSSOM, COBWEB, MOTH,
    MUSTARDSEED, and other Fairies attending; OBERON
    behind unseen]

TITANIA    Come, sit thee down upon this flowery bed,
    While I thy amiable cheeks do coy,
    And stick musk-roses in thy sleek smooth head,
    And kiss thy fair large ears, my gentle joy.

BOTTOM    Where's Peaseblossom?

PEASEBLOSSOM    Ready.

BOTTOM    Scratch my head Peaseblossom. Where's Mounsieur Cobweb?

COBWEB    Ready.

BOTTOM    Mounsieur Cobweb, good mounsieur, get you your
    weapons in your hand, and kill me a red-hipped
    humble-bee on the top of a thistle; and, good
    mounsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret
    yourself too much in the action, mounsieur; and,
    good mounsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not;
    I would be loath to have you overflown with a
    honey-bag, signior. Where's Mounsieur Mustardseed?

MUSTARDSEED    Ready.

BOTTOM    Give me your neaf, Mounsieur Mustardseed. Pray you,
    leave your courtesy, good mounsieur.

MUSTARDSEED    What's your Will?

BOTTOM    Nothing, good mounsieur, but to help Cavalery Cobweb
    to scratch. I must to the barber's, monsieur; for
    methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face; and I
    am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me,
    I must scratch.

TITANIA    What, wilt thou hear some music,
    my sweet love?

BOTTOM    I have a reasonable good ear in music. Let's have
    the tongs and the bones.

TITANIA    Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat.

BOTTOM    Truly, a peck of provender: I could munch your good
    dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle
    of hay: good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.

TITANIA    I have a venturous fairy that shall seek
    The squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.

BOTTOM    I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas.
    But, I pray you, let none of your people stir me: I
    have an exposition of sleep come upon me.

TITANIA    Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
    Fairies, begone, and be all ways away.

    [Exeunt fairies]

    So doth the woodbine the sweet honeysuckle
    Gently entwist; the female ivy so
    Enrings the barky fingers of the elm.
    O, how I love thee! how I dote on thee!

    [They sleep]

    [Enter PUCK]

OBERON    [Advancing]  Welcome, good Robin.
    See'st thou this sweet sight?
    Her dotage now I do begin to pity:
    For, meeting her of late behind the wood,
    Seeking sweet favours from this hateful fool,
    I did upbraid her and fall out with her;
    For she his hairy temples then had rounded
    With a coronet of fresh and fragrant flowers;
    And that same dew, which sometime on the buds
    Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls,
    Stood now within the pretty flowerets' eyes
    Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.
    When I had at my pleasure taunted her
    And she in mild terms begg'd my patience,
    I then did ask of her her changeling child;
    Which straight she gave me, and her fairy sent
    To bear him to my bower in fairy land.
    And now I have the boy, I will undo
    This hateful imperfection of her eyes:
    And, gentle Puck, take this transformed scalp
    From off the head of this Athenian swain;
    That, he awaking when the other do,
    May all to Athens back again repair
    And think no more of this night's accidents
    But as the fierce vexation of a dream.
    But first I will release the fairy queen.
    Be as thou wast wont to be;
    See as thou wast wont to see:
    Dian's bud o'er Cupid's flower
    Hath such force and blessed power.
    Now, my Titania; wake you, my sweet queen.

TITANIA    My Oberon! what visions have I seen!
    Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.

OBERON    There lies your love.

TITANIA    How came these things to pass?
    O, how mine eyes do loathe his visage now!

OBERON    Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head.
    Titania, music call; and strike more dead
    Than common sleep of all these five the sense.

TITANIA    Music, ho! music, such as charmeth sleep!

    [Music, still]

PUCK    Now, when thou wakest, with thine
    own fool's eyes peep.

OBERON    Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,
    And rock the ground whereon these sleepers be.
    Now thou and I are new in amity,
    And will to-morrow midnight solemnly
    Dance in Duke Theseus' house triumphantly,
    And bless it to all fair prosperity:
    There shall the pairs of faithful lovers be
    Wedded, with Theseus, all in jollity.

PUCK    Fairy king, attend, and mark:
    I do hear the morning lark.

OBERON    Then, my queen, in silence sad,
    Trip we after the night's shade:
    We the globe can compass soon,
    Swifter than the wandering moon.

TITANIA    Come, my lord, and in our flight
    Tell me how it came this night
    That I sleeping here was found
    With these mortals on the ground.

    [Exeunt]

    [Horns winded within]

    [Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and train]

THESEUS    Go, one of you, find out the forester;
    For now our observation is perform'd;
    And since we have the vaward of the day,
    My love shall hear the music of my hounds.
    Uncouple in the western valley; let them go:
    Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.

    [Exit an Attendant]

    We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top,
    And mark the musical confusion
    Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

HIPPOLYTA    I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,
    When in a wood of Crete they bay'd the bear
    With hounds of Sparta: never did I hear
    Such gallant chiding: for, besides the groves,
    The skies, the fountains, every region near
    Seem'd all one mutual cry: I never heard
    So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

THESEUS    My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
    So flew'd, so sanded, and their heads are hung
    With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
    Crook-knee'd, and dew-lapp'd like Thessalian bulls;
    Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells,
    Each under each. A cry more tuneable
    Was never holla'd to, nor cheer'd with horn,
    In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly:
    Judge when you hear. But, soft! what nymphs are these?

EGEUS    My lord, this is my daughter here asleep;
    And this, Lysander; this Demetrius is;
    This Helena, old Nedar's Helena:
    I wonder of their being here together.

THESEUS    No doubt they rose up early to observe
    The rite of May, and hearing our intent,
    Came here in grace our solemnity.
    But speak, Egeus; is not this the day
    That Hermia should give answer of her choice?

EGEUS    It is, my lord.

THESEUS    Go, bid the huntsmen wake them with their horns.

    [Horns and shout within. LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS,
    HELENA, and HERMIA wake and start up]

    Good morrow, friends. Saint Valentine is past:
    Begin these wood-birds but to couple now?

LYSANDER    Pardon, my lord.

THESEUS                      I pray you all, stand up.
    I know you two are rival enemies:
    How comes this gentle concord in the world,
    That hatred is so far from jealousy,
    To sleep by hate, and fear no enmity?

LYSANDER    My lord, I shall reply amazedly,
    Half sleep, half waking: but as yet, I swear,
    I cannot truly say how I came here;
    But, as I think,--for truly would I speak,
    And now do I bethink me, so it is,--
    I came with Hermia hither: our intent
    Was to be gone from Athens, where we might,
    Without the peril of the Athenian law.

EGEUS    Enough, enough, my lord; you have enough:
    I beg the law, the law, upon his head.
    They would have stolen away; they would, Demetrius,
    Thereby to have defeated you and me,
    You of your wife and me of my consent,
    Of my consent that she should be your wife.

DEMETRIUS    My lord, fair Helen told me of their stealth,
    Of this their purpose hither to this wood;
    And I in fury hither follow'd them,
    Fair Helena in fancy following me.
    But, my good lord, I wot not by what power,--
    But by some power it is,--my love to Hermia,
    Melted as the snow, seems to me now
    As the remembrance of an idle gaud
    Which in my childhood I did dote upon;
    And all the faith, the virtue of my heart,
    The object and the pleasure of mine eye,
    Is only Helena. To her, my lord,
    Was I betroth'd ere I saw Hermia:
    But, like in sickness, did I loathe this food;
    But, as in health, come to my natural taste,
    Now I do wish it, love it, long for it,
    And will for evermore be true to it.

THESEUS    Fair lovers, you are fortunately met:
    Of this discourse we more will hear anon.
    Egeus, I will overbear your will;
    For in the temple by and by with us
    These couples shall eternally be knit:
    And, for the morning now is something worn,
    Our purposed hunting shall be set aside.
    Away with us to Athens; three and three,
    We'll hold a feast in great solemnity.
    Come, Hippolyta.

    [Exeunt THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, EGEUS, and train]

DEMETRIUS    These things seem small and undistinguishable,
HERMIA    Methinks I see these things with parted eye,
    When every thing seems double.

HELENA    So methinks:
    And I have found Demetrius like a jewel,
    Mine own, and not mine own.

DEMETRIUS    Are you sure
    That we are awake? It seems to me
    That yet we sleep, we dream. Do not you think
    The duke was here, and bid us follow him?

HERMIA    Yea; and my father.

HELENA    And Hippolyta.

LYSANDER    And he did bid us follow to the temple.

DEMETRIUS    Why, then, we are awake: let's follow him
    And by the way let us recount our dreams.

    [Exeunt]

BOTTOM    [Awaking]  When my cue comes, call me, and I will
    answer: my next is, 'Most fair Pyramus.' Heigh-ho!
    Peter Quince! Flute, the bellows-mender! Snout,
    the tinker! Starveling! God's my life, stolen
    hence, and left me asleep! I have had a most rare
    vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to
    say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go
    about to expound this dream. Methought I was--there
    is no man can tell what. Methought I was,--and
    methought I had,--but man is but a patched fool, if
    he will offer to say what methought I had. The eye
    of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not
    seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue
    to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream
    was. I will get Peter Quince to write a ballad of
    this dream: it shall be called Bottom's Dream,
    because it hath no bottom; and I will sing it in the
    latter end of a play, before the duke:
    peradventure, to make it the more gracious, I shall
    sing it at her death.

    [Exit]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT IV



SCENE II    Athens. QUINCE'S house.


    [Enter QUINCE, FLUTE, SNOUT, and STARVELING]

QUINCE    Have you sent to Bottom's house? is he come home yet?

STARVELING    He cannot be heard of. Out of doubt he is
    transported.

FLUTE    If he come not, then the play is marred: it goes
    not forward, doth it?

QUINCE    It is not possible: you have not a man in all
    Athens able to discharge Pyramus but he.

FLUTE    No, he hath simply the best wit of any handicraft
    man in Athens.

QUINCE    Yea and the best person too; and he is a very
    paramour for a sweet voice.

FLUTE    You must say 'paragon:' a paramour is, God bless us,
    a thing of naught.

    [Enter SNUG]

SNUG    Masters, the duke is coming from the temple, and
    there is two or three lords and ladies more married:
    if our sport had gone forward, we had all been made
    men.

FLUTE    O sweet bully Bottom! Thus hath he lost sixpence a
    day during his life; he could not have 'scaped
    sixpence a day: an the duke had not given him
    sixpence a day for playing Pyramus, I'll be hanged;
    he would have deserved it: sixpence a day in
    Pyramus, or nothing.

    [Enter BOTTOM]

BOTTOM    Where are these lads? where are these hearts?

QUINCE    Bottom! O most courageous day! O most happy hour!

BOTTOM    Masters, I am to discourse wonders: but ask me not
    what; for if I tell you, I am no true Athenian. I
    will tell you every thing, right as it fell out.

QUINCE    Let us hear, sweet Bottom.

BOTTOM    Not a word of me. All that I will tell you is, that
    the duke hath dined. Get your apparel together,
    good strings to your beards, new ribbons to your
    pumps; meet presently at the palace; every man look
    o'er his part; for the short and the long is, our
    play is preferred. In any case, let Thisby have
    clean linen; and let not him that plays the lion
    pair his nails, for they shall hang out for the
    lion's claws. And, most dear actors, eat no onions
    nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath; and I
    do not doubt but to hear them say, it is a sweet
    comedy. No more words: away! go, away!

    [Exeunt]




    A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


ACT V



SCENE I    Athens. The palace of THESEUS.


    [Enter THESEUS, HIPPOLYTA, PHILOSTRATE, Lords and
    Attendants]

HIPPOLYTA    'Tis strange my Theseus, that these
    lovers speak of.

THESEUS    More strange than true: I never may believe
    These antique fables, nor these fairy toys.
    Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
    Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
    More than cool reason ever comprehends.
    The lunatic, the lover and the poet
    Are of imagination all compact:
    One sees more devils than vast hell can hold,
    That is, the madman: the lover, all as frantic,
    Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
    The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling,
    Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
    And as imagination bodies forth
    The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen
    Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
    A local habitation and a name.
    Such tricks hath strong imagination,
    That if it would but apprehend some joy,
    It comprehends some bringer of that joy;
    Or in the night, imagining some fear,
    How easy is a bush supposed a bear!

HIPPOLYTA    But all the story of the night told over,
    And all their minds transfigured so together,
    More witnesseth than fancy's images
    And grows to something of great constancy;
    But, howsoever, strange and admirable.

THESEUS    Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.

    [Enter LYSANDER, DEMETRIUS, HERMIA, and HELENA]

    Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love
    Accompany your hearts!

LYSANDER    More than to us
    Wait in your royal walks, your board, your bed!

THESEUS    Come now; what masques, what dances shall we have,
    To wear away this long age of three hours
    Between our after-supper and bed-time?
    Where is our usual manager of mirth?
    What revels are in hand? Is there no play,
    To ease the anguish of a torturing hour?
    Call Philostrate.

PHILOSTRATE                      Here, mighty Theseus.

THESEUS    Say, what abridgement have you for this evening?
    What masque? what music? How shall we beguile
    The lazy time, if not with some delight?

PHILOSTRATE    There is a brief how many sports are ripe:
    Make choice of which your highness will see first.

    [Giving a paper]

THESEUS    [Reads]  'The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung
    By an Athenian eunuch to the harp.'
    We'll none of that: that have I told my love,
    In glory of my kinsman Hercules.

    [Reads]

    'The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals,
    Tearing the Thracian singer in their rage.'
    That is an old device; and it was play'd
    When I from Thebes came last a conqueror.

    [Reads]

    'The thrice three Muses mourning for the death
    Of Learning, late deceased in beggary.'
    That is some satire, keen and critical,
    Not sorting with a nuptial ceremony.

    [Reads]

    'A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus
    And his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.'
    Merry and tragical! tedious and brief!
    That is, hot ice and wondrous strange snow.
    How shall we find the concord of this discord?

PHILOSTRATE    A play there is, my lord, some ten words long,
    Which is as brief as I have known a play;
    But by ten words, my lord, it is too long,
    Which makes it tedious; for in all the play
    There is not one word apt, one player fitted:
    And tragical, my noble lord, it is;
    For Pyramus therein doth kill himself.
    Which, when I saw rehearsed, I must confess,
    Made mine eyes water; but more merry tears
    The passion of loud laughter never shed.

THESEUS    What are they that do play it?

PHILOSTRATE    Hard-handed men that work in Athens here,
    Which never labour'd in their minds till now,
    And now have toil'd their unbreathed memories
    With this same play, against your nuptial.

THESEUS    And we will hear it.

PHILOSTRATE    No, my noble lord;
    It is not for you: I have heard it over,
    And it is nothing, nothing in the world;
    Unless you can find sport in their intents,
    Extremely stretch'd and conn'd with cruel pain,
    To do you service.

THESEUS                      I will hear that play;
    For never anything can be amiss,
    When simpleness and duty tender it.
    Go, bring them in: and take your places, ladies.

    [Exit PHILOSTRATE]

HIPPOLYTA    I love not to see wretchedness o'er charged
    And duty in his service perishing.

THESEUS    Why, gentle sweet, you shall see no such thing.

HIPPOLYTA    He says they can do nothing in this kind.

THESEUS    The kinder we, to give them thanks for nothing.
    Our sport shall be to take what they mistake:
    And what poor duty cannot do, noble respect
    Takes it in might, not merit.
    Where I have come, great clerks have purposed
    To greet me with premeditated welcomes;
    Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,
    Make periods in the midst of sentences,
    Throttle their practised accent in their fears
    And in conclusion dumbly have broke off,
    Not paying me a welcome. Trust me, sweet,
    Out of this silence yet I pick'd a welcome;
    And in the modesty of fearful duty
    I read as much as from the rattling tongue
    Of saucy and audacious eloquence.
    Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity
    In least speak most, to my capacity.

    [Re-enter PHILOSTRATE]

PHILOSTRATE    So please your grace, the Prologue is address'd.

THESEUS    Let him approach.

    [Flourish of trumpets]

    [Enter QUINCE for the Prologue]

Prologue    If we offend, it is with our good will.
    That you should think, we come not to offend,
    But with good will. To show our simple skill,
    That is the true beginning of our end.
    Consider then we come but in despite.
    We do not come as minding to contest you,
    Our true intent is. All for your delight
    We are not here. That you should here repent you,
    The actors are at hand and by their show
    You shall know all that you are like to know.

THESEUS    This fellow doth not stand upon points.

LYSANDER    He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows
    not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not
    enough to speak, but to speak true.

HIPPOLYTA    Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child
    on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

THESEUS    His speech, was like a tangled chain; nothing
    impaired, but all disordered. Who is next?

    [Enter Pyramus and Thisbe, Wall, Moonshine, and Lion]

Prologue    Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;
    But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
    This man is Pyramus, if you would know;
    This beauteous lady Thisby is certain.
    This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
    Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;
    And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are content
    To whisper. At the which let no man wonder.
    This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,
    Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,
    By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
    To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.
    This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,
    The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
    Did scare away, or rather did affright;
    And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,
    Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.
    Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,
    And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain:
    Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
    He bravely broach'd is boiling bloody breast;
    And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,
    His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,
    Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain
    At large discourse, while here they do remain.

    [Exeunt Prologue, Thisbe, Lion, and Moonshine]

THESEUS    I wonder if the lion be to speak.

DEMETRIUS    No wonder, my lord: one lion may, when many asses do.

Wall    In this same interlude it doth befall
    That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;
    And such a wall, as I would have you think,
    That had in it a crannied hole or chink,
    Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby,
    Did whisper often very secretly.
    This loam, this rough-cast and this stone doth show
    That I am that same wall; the truth is so:
    And this the cranny is, right and sinister,
    Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

THESEUS    Would you desire lime and hair to speak better?

DEMETRIUS    It is the wittiest partition that ever I heard
    discourse, my lord.

    [Enter Pyramus]

THESEUS    Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!

Pyramus    O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so black!
    O night, which ever art when day is not!
    O night, O night! alack, alack, alack,
    I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot!
    And thou, O wall, O sweet, O lovely wall,
    That stand'st between her father's ground and mine!
    Thou wall, O wall, O sweet and lovely wall,
    Show me thy chink, to blink through with mine eyne!

    [Wall holds up his fingers]

    Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!
    But what see I? No Thisby do I see.
    O wicked wall, through whom I see no bliss!
    Cursed be thy stones for thus deceiving me!

THESEUS    The wall, methinks, being sensible, should curse again.

Pyramus    No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me'
    is Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to
    spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will
    fall pat as I told you. Yonder she comes.

    [Enter Thisbe]

Thisbe    O wall, full often hast thou heard my moans,
    For parting my fair Pyramus and me!
    My cherry lips have often kiss'd thy stones,
    Thy stones with lime and hair knit up in thee.

Pyramus    I see a voice: now will I to the chink,
    To spy an I can hear my Thisby's face. Thisby!

Thisbe    My love thou art, my love I think.

Pyramus    Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace;
    And, like Limander, am I trusty still.

Thisbe    And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill.

Pyramus    Not Shafalus to Procrus was so true.

Thisbe    As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.

Pyramus    O kiss me through the hole of this vile wall!

Thisbe    I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.

Pyramus    Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straightway?

Thisbe    'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay.

    [Exeunt Pyramus and Thisbe]

Wall    Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so;
    And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.

    [Exit]

THESEUS    Now is the mural down between the two neighbours.

DEMETRIUS    No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear
    without warning.

HIPPOLYTA    This is the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

THESEUS    The best in this kind are but shadows; and the worst
    are no worse, if imagination amend them.

HIPPOLYTA    It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

THESEUS    If we imagine no worse of them than they of
    themselves, they may pass for excellent men. Here
    come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.

    [Enter Lion and Moonshine]

Lion    You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear
    The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor,
    May now perchance both quake and tremble here,
    When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar.
    Then know that I, one Snug the joiner, am
    A lion-fell, nor else no lion's dam;
    For, if I should as lion come in strife
    Into this place, 'twere pity on my life.

THESEUS    A very gentle beast, of a good conscience.

DEMETRIUS    The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw.

LYSANDER    This lion is a very fox for his valour.

THESEUS    True; and a goose for his discretion.

DEMETRIUS    Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his
    discretion; and the fox carries the goose.

THESEUS    His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour;
    for the goose carries not the fox. It is well:
    leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

Moonshine    This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;--

DEMETRIUS    He should have worn the horns on his head.

THESEUS    He is no crescent, and his horns are
    invisible within the circumference.

Moonshine    This lanthorn doth the horned moon present;
    Myself the man i' the moon do seem to be.

THESEUS    This is the greatest error of all the rest: the man
    should be put into the lanthorn. How is it else the
    man i' the moon?

DEMETRIUS    He dares not come there for the candle; for, you
    see, it is already in snuff.

HIPPOLYTA    I am aweary of this moon: would he would change!

THESEUS    It appears, by his small light of discretion, that
    he is in the wane; but yet, in courtesy, in all
    reason, we must stay the time.

LYSANDER    Proceed, Moon.

Moonshine    All that I have to say, is, to tell you that the
    lanthorn is the moon; I, the man in the moon; this
    thorn-bush, my thorn-bush; and this dog, my dog.

DEMETRIUS    Why, all these should be in the lanthorn; for all
    these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe.

    [Enter Thisbe]

Thisbe    This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love?

Lion    [Roaring]  Oh--

    [Thisbe runs off]

DEMETRIUS    Well roared, Lion.

THESEUS    Well run, Thisbe.

HIPPOLYTA    Well shone, Moon. Truly, the moon shines with a
    good grace.

    [The Lion shakes Thisbe's mantle, and exit]

THESEUS    Well moused, Lion.

LYSANDER    And so the lion vanished.

DEMETRIUS    And then came Pyramus.

    [Enter Pyramus]

Pyramus    Sweet Moon, I thank thee for thy sunny beams;
    I thank thee, Moon, for shining now so bright;
    For, by thy gracious, golden, glittering gleams,
    I trust to take of truest Thisby sight.
    But stay, O spite!
    But mark, poor knight,
    What dreadful dole is here!
    Eyes, do you see?
    How can it be?
    O dainty duck! O dear!
    Thy mantle good,
    What, stain'd with blood!
    Approach, ye Furies fell!
    O Fates, come, come,
    Cut thread and thrum;
    Quail, crush, conclude, and quell!

THESEUS    This passion, and the death of a dear friend, would
    go near to make a man look sad.

HIPPOLYTA    Beshrew my heart, but I pity the man.

Pyramus    O wherefore, Nature, didst thou lions frame?
    Since lion vile hath here deflower'd my dear:
    Which is--no, no--which was the fairest dame
    That lived, that loved, that liked, that look'd
    with cheer.
    Come, tears, confound;
    Out, sword, and wound
    The pap of Pyramus;
    Ay, that left pap,
    Where heart doth hop:

    [Stabs himself]

    Thus die I, thus, thus, thus.
    Now am I dead,
    Now am I fled;
    My soul is in the sky:
    Tongue, lose thy light;
    Moon take thy flight:

    [Exit Moonshine]

    Now die, die, die, die, die.

    [Dies]

DEMETRIUS    No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

LYSANDER    Less than an ace, man; for he is dead; he is nothing.

THESEUS    With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and
    prove an ass.

HIPPOLYTA    How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes
    back and finds her lover?

THESEUS    She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and
    her passion ends the play.

    [Re-enter Thisbe]

HIPPOLYTA    Methinks she should not use a long one for such a
    Pyramus: I hope she will be brief.

DEMETRIUS    A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which
    Thisbe, is the better; he for a man, God warrant us;
    she for a woman, God bless us.

LYSANDER    She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes.

DEMETRIUS    And thus she means, videlicet:--

Thisbe              Asleep, my love?
    What, dead, my dove?
    O Pyramus, arise!
    Speak, speak. Quite dumb?
    Dead, dead? A tomb
    Must cover thy sweet eyes.
    These My lips,
    This cherry nose,
    These yellow cowslip cheeks,
    Are gone, are gone:
    Lovers, make moan:
    His eyes were green as leeks.
    O Sisters Three,
    Come, come to me,
    With hands as pale as milk;
    Lay them in gore,
    Since you have shore
    With shears his thread of silk.
    Tongue, not a word:
    Come, trusty sword;
    Come, blade, my breast imbrue:

    [Stabs herself]

    And, farewell, friends;
    Thus Thisby ends:
    Adieu, adieu, adieu.

    [Dies]

THESEUS    Moonshine and Lion are left to bury the dead.

DEMETRIUS    Ay, and Wall too.

BOTTOM    [Starting up]  No assure you; the wall is down that
    parted their fathers. Will it please you to see the
    epilogue, or to hear a Bergomask dance between two
    of our company?

THESEUS    No epilogue, I pray you; for your play needs no
    excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all
    dead, there needs none to be blamed. Marry, if he
    that writ it had played Pyramus and hanged himself
    in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine
    tragedy: and so it is, truly; and very notably
    discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your
    epilogue alone.

    [A dance]

    The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve:
    Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time.
    I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn
    As much as we this night have overwatch'd.
    This palpable-gross play hath well beguiled
    The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.
    A fortnight hold we this solemnity,
    In nightly revels and new jollity.

    [Exeunt]

    [Enter PUCK]

PUCK         Now the hungry lion roars,
    And the wolf behowls the moon;
    Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
    All with weary task fordone.
    Now the wasted brands do glow,
    Whilst the screech-owl, screeching loud,
    Puts the wretch that lies in woe
    In remembrance of a shroud.
    Now it is the time of night
    That the graves all gaping wide,
    Every one lets forth his sprite,
    In the church-way paths to glide:
    And we fairies, that do run
    By the triple Hecate's team,
    From the presence of the sun,
    Following darkness like a dream,
    Now are frolic: not a mouse
    Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
    I am sent with broom before,
    To sweep the dust behind the door.

    [Enter OBERON and TITANIA with their train]

OBERON         Through the house give gathering light,
    By the dead and drowsy fire:
    Every elf and fairy sprite
    Hop as light as bird from brier;
    And this ditty, after me,
    Sing, and dance it trippingly.

TITANIA    First, rehearse your song by rote
    To each word a warbling note:
    Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
    Will we sing, and bless this place.

    [Song and dance]

OBERON    Now, until the break of day,
    Through this house each fairy stray.
    To the best bride-bed will we,
    Which by us shall blessed be;
    And the issue there create
    Ever shall be fortunate.
    So shall all the couples three
    Ever true in loving be;
    And the blots of Nature's hand
    Shall not in their issue stand;
    Never mole, hare lip, nor scar,
    Nor mark prodigious, such as are
    Despised in nativity,
    Shall upon their children be.
    With this field-dew consecrate,
    Every fairy take his gait;
    And each several chamber bless,
    Through this palace, with sweet peace;
    And the owner of it blest
    Ever shall in safety rest.
    Trip away; make no stay;
    Meet me all by break of day.

    [Exeunt OBERON, TITANIA, and train]

PUCK    If we shadows have offended,
    Think but this, and all is mended,
    That you have but slumber'd here
    While these visions did appear.
    And this weak and idle theme,
    No more yielding but a dream,
    Gentles, do not reprehend:
    if you pardon, we will mend:
    And, as I am an honest Puck,
    If we have unearned luck
    Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,
    We will make amends ere long;
    Else the Puck a liar call;
    So, good night unto you all.
    Give me your hands, if we be friends,
    And Robin shall restore amends.




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


The DUKE OF VENICE. (DUKE:)


The PRINCE OF        |
MOROCCO    (MOROCCO:)    |
        |  suitors to Portia.
The PRINCE OF        |
ARRAGON    (ARRAGON:)    |


ANTONIO    a merchant of Venice.

BASSANIO    his friend, suitor likewise to Portia.


SALANIO    |
    |
SALARINO    |
    |  friends to Antonio and Bassanio.
GRATIANO    |
    |
SALERIO    |


LORENZO    in love with Jessica.

SHYLOCK    a rich Jew.

TUBAL    a Jew, his friend.

LAUNCELOT GOBBO    the clown, servant to SHYLOCK. (LAUNCELOT:)

OLD GOBBO    father to Launcelot. (GOBBO:)

LEONARDO    servant to BASSANIO.


BALTHASAR    |
    |  servants to PORTIA.
STEPHANO    |


PORTIA    a rich heiress.

NERISSA    her waiting-maid.

JESSICA    daughter to SHYLOCK.

    Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice,
    Gaoler, Servants to Portia, and other Attendants.
    (Servant:)
    (Clerk:)

SCENE    Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont,
    the seat of PORTIA, on the Continent.




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT I



SCENE I    Venice. A street.


    [Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]

ANTONIO    In sooth, I know not why I am so sad:
    It wearies me; you say it wearies you;
    But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
    What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
    I am to learn;
    And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
    That I have much ado to know myself.

SALARINO    Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
    There, where your argosies with portly sail,
    Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood,
    Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
    Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
    That curtsy to them, do them reverence,
    As they fly by them with their woven wings.

SALANIO    Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
    The better part of my affections would
    Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
    Plucking the grass, to know where sits the wind,
    Peering in maps for ports and piers and roads;
    And every object that might make me fear
    Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
    Would make me sad.

SALARINO                      My wind cooling my broth
    Would blow me to an ague, when I thought
    What harm a wind too great at sea might do.
    I should not see the sandy hour-glass run,
    But I should think of shallows and of flats,
    And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand,
    Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs
    To kiss her burial. Should I go to church
    And see the holy edifice of stone,
    And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks,
    Which touching but my gentle vessel's side,
    Would scatter all her spices on the stream,
    Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,
    And, in a word, but even now worth this,
    And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought
    To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
    That such a thing bechanced would make me sad?
    But tell not me; I know, Antonio
    Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

ANTONIO    Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it,
    My ventures are not in one bottom trusted,
    Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate
    Upon the fortune of this present year:
    Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

SALARINO    Why, then you are in love.

ANTONIO    Fie, fie!

SALARINO    Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad,
    Because you are not merry: and 'twere as easy
    For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry,
    Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus,
    Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time:
    Some that will evermore peep through their eyes
    And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper,
    And other of such vinegar aspect
    That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile,
    Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

    [Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIANO]

SALANIO    Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman,
    Gratiano and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:
    We leave you now with better company.

SALARINO    I would have stay'd till I had made you merry,
    If worthier friends had not prevented me.

ANTONIO    Your worth is very dear in my regard.
    I take it, your own business calls on you
    And you embrace the occasion to depart.

SALARINO    Good morrow, my good lords.

BASSANIO    Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? say, when?
    You grow exceeding strange: must it be so?

SALARINO    We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.

    [Exeunt Salarino and Salanio]

LORENZO    My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio,
    We two will leave you: but at dinner-time,
    I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.

BASSANIO    I will not fail you.

GRATIANO    You look not well, Signior Antonio;
    You have too much respect upon the world:
    They lose it that do buy it with much care:
    Believe me, you are marvellously changed.

ANTONIO    I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
    A stage where every man must play a part,
    And mine a sad one.

GRATIANO    Let me play the fool:
    With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come,
    And let my liver rather heat with wine
    Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
    Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
    Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
    Sleep when he wakes and creep into the jaundice
    By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio--
    I love thee, and it is my love that speaks--
    There are a sort of men whose visages
    Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
    And do a wilful stillness entertain,
    With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
    Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit,
    As who should say 'I am Sir Oracle,
    And when I ope my lips let no dog bark!'
    O my Antonio, I do know of these
    That therefore only are reputed wise
    For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,
    If they should speak, would almost damn those ears,
    Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools.
    I'll tell thee more of this another time:
    But fish not, with this melancholy bait,
    For this fool gudgeon, this opinion.
    Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well awhile:
    I'll end my exhortation after dinner.

LORENZO    Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time:
    I must be one of these same dumb wise men,
    For Gratiano never lets me speak.

GRATIANO    Well, keep me company but two years moe,
    Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

ANTONIO    Farewell: I'll grow a talker for this gear.

GRATIANO    Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable
    In a neat's tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

    [Exeunt GRATIANO and LORENZO]

ANTONIO    Is that any thing now?

BASSANIO    Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more
    than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two
    grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you
    shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you
    have them, they are not worth the search.

ANTONIO    Well, tell me now what lady is the same
    To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage,
    That you to-day promised to tell me of?

BASSANIO    'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio,
    How much I have disabled mine estate,
    By something showing a more swelling port
    Than my faint means would grant continuance:
    Nor do I now make moan to be abridged
    From such a noble rate; but my chief care
    Is to come fairly off from the great debts
    Wherein my time something too prodigal
    Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,
    I owe the most, in money and in love,
    And from your love I have a warranty
    To unburden all my plots and purposes
    How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

ANTONIO    I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
    And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
    Within the eye of honour, be assured,
    My purse, my person, my extremest means,
    Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

BASSANIO    In my school-days, when I had lost one shaft,
    I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
    The self-same way with more advised watch,
    To find the other forth, and by adventuring both
    I oft found both: I urge this childhood proof,
    Because what follows is pure innocence.
    I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,
    That which I owe is lost; but if you please
    To shoot another arrow that self way
    Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt,
    As I will watch the aim, or to find both
    Or bring your latter hazard back again
    And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

ANTONIO    You know me well, and herein spend but time
    To wind about my love with circumstance;
    And out of doubt you do me now more wrong
    In making question of my uttermost
    Than if you had made waste of all I have:
    Then do but say to me what I should do
    That in your knowledge may by me be done,
    And I am prest unto it: therefore, speak.

BASSANIO    In Belmont is a lady richly left;
    And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
    Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes
    I did receive fair speechless messages:
    Her name is Portia, nothing undervalued
    To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:
    Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth,
    For the four winds blow in from every coast
    Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks
    Hang on her temples like a golden fleece;
    Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strand,
    And many Jasons come in quest of her.
    O my Antonio, had I but the means
    To hold a rival place with one of them,
    I have a mind presages me such thrift,
    That I should questionless be fortunate!

ANTONIO    Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea;
    Neither have I money nor commodity
    To raise a present sum: therefore go forth;
    Try what my credit can in Venice do:
    That shall be rack'd, even to the uttermost,
    To furnish thee to Belmont, to fair Portia.
    Go, presently inquire, and so will I,
    Where money is, and I no question make
    To have it of my trust or for my sake.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT I



SCENE II: Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA]

PORTIA    By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of
    this great world.

NERISSA    You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in
    the same abundance as your good fortunes are: and
    yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit
    with too much as they that starve with nothing. It
    is no mean happiness therefore, to be seated in the
    mean: superfluity comes sooner by white hairs, but
    competency lives longer.

PORTIA    Good sentences and well pronounced.

NERISSA    They would be better, if well followed.

PORTIA    If to do were as easy as to know what were good to
    do, chapels had been churches and poor men's
    cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that
    follows his own instructions: I can easier teach
    twenty what were good to be done, than be one of the
    twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may
    devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps
    o'er a cold decree: such a hare is madness the
    youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the
    cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to
    choose me a husband. O me, the word 'choose!' I may
    neither choose whom I would nor refuse whom I
    dislike; so is the will of a living daughter curbed
    by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard,
    Nerissa, that I cannot choose one nor refuse none?

NERISSA    Your father was ever virtuous; and holy men at their
    death have good inspirations: therefore the lottery,
    that he hath devised in these three chests of gold,
    silver and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning
    chooses you, will, no doubt, never be chosen by any
    rightly but one who shall rightly love. But what
    warmth is there in your affection towards any of
    these princely suitors that are already come?

PORTIA    I pray thee, over-name them; and as thou namest
    them, I will describe them; and, according to my
    description, level at my affection.

NERISSA    First, there is the Neapolitan prince.

PORTIA    Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but
    talk of his horse; and he makes it a great
    appropriation to his own good parts, that he can
    shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his
    mother played false with a smith.

NERISSA    Then there is the County Palatine.

PORTIA    He doth nothing but frown, as who should say 'If you
    will not have me, choose:' he hears merry tales and
    smiles not: I fear he will prove the weeping
    philosopher when he grows old, being so full of
    unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be
    married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth
    than to either of these. God defend me from these
    two!

NERISSA    How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?

PORTIA    God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.
    In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker: but,
    he! why, he hath a horse better than the
    Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than
    the Count Palatine; he is every man in no man; if a
    throstle sing, he falls straight a capering: he will
    fence with his own shadow: if I should marry him, I
    should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me
    I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I
    shall never requite him.

NERISSA    What say you, then, to Falconbridge, the young baron
    of England?

PORTIA    You know I say nothing to him, for he understands
    not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French,
    nor Italian, and you will come into the court and
    swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English.
    He is a proper man's picture, but, alas, who can
    converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited!
    I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round
    hose in France, his bonnet in Germany and his
    behavior every where.

NERISSA    What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?

PORTIA    That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he
    borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman and
    swore he would pay him again when he was able: I
    think the Frenchman became his surety and sealed
    under for another.

NERISSA    How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?

PORTIA    Very vilely in the morning, when he is sober, and
    most vilely in the afternoon, when he is drunk: when
    he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and
    when he is worst, he is little better than a beast:
    and the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall
    make shift to go without him.

NERISSA    If he should offer to choose, and choose the right
    casket, you should refuse to perform your father's
    will, if you should refuse to accept him.

PORTIA    Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee, set a
    deep glass of rhenish wine on the contrary casket,
    for if the devil be within and that temptation
    without, I know he will choose it. I will do any
    thing, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.

NERISSA    You need not fear, lady, the having any of these
    lords: they have acquainted me with their
    determinations; which is, indeed, to return to their
    home and to trouble you with no more suit, unless
    you may be won by some other sort than your father's
    imposition depending on the caskets.

PORTIA    If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as
    chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner
    of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers
    are so reasonable, for there is not one among them
    but I dote on his very absence, and I pray God grant
    them a fair departure.

NERISSA    Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a
    Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither
    in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?

PORTIA    Yes, yes, it was Bassanio; as I think, he was so called.

NERISSA    True, madam: he, of all the men that ever my foolish
    eyes looked upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.

PORTIA    I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of
    thy praise.

    [Enter a Serving-man]

    How now! what news?

Servant    The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take
    their leave: and there is a forerunner come from a
    fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the
    prince his master will be here to-night.

PORTIA    If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good a
    heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should
    be glad of his approach: if he have the condition
    of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had
    rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come,
    Nerissa. Sirrah, go before.
    Whiles we shut the gates
    upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT I



SCENE III    Venice. A public place.


    [Enter BASSANIO and SHYLOCK]

SHYLOCK    Three thousand ducats; well.

BASSANIO    Ay, sir, for three months.

SHYLOCK    For three months; well.

BASSANIO    For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.

SHYLOCK    Antonio shall become bound; well.

BASSANIO    May you stead me? will you pleasure me? shall I
    know your answer?

SHYLOCK    Three thousand ducats for three months and Antonio bound.

BASSANIO    Your answer to that.

SHYLOCK    Antonio is a good man.

BASSANIO    Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?

SHYLOCK    Oh, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a
    good man is to have you understand me that he is
    sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he
    hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the
    Indies; I understand moreover, upon the Rialto, he
    hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and
    other ventures he hath, squandered abroad. But ships
    are but boards, sailors but men: there be land-rats
    and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves, I
    mean pirates, and then there is the peril of waters,
    winds and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding,
    sufficient. Three thousand ducats; I think I may
    take his bond.

BASSANIO    Be assured you may.

SHYLOCK    I will be assured I may; and, that I may be assured,
    I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?

BASSANIO    If it please you to dine with us.

SHYLOCK    Yes, to smell pork; to eat of the habitation which
    your prophet the Nazarite conjured the devil into. I
    will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you,
    walk with you, and so following, but I will not eat
    with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What
    news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?

    [Enter ANTONIO]

BASSANIO    This is Signior Antonio.

SHYLOCK    [Aside]  How like a fawning publican he looks!
    I hate him for he is a Christian,
    But more for that in low simplicity
    He lends out money gratis and brings down
    The rate of usance here with us in Venice.
    If I can catch him once upon the hip,
    I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
    He hates our sacred nation, and he rails,
    Even there where merchants most do congregate,
    On me, my bargains and my well-won thrift,
    Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe,
    If I forgive him!

BASSANIO                      Shylock, do you hear?

SHYLOCK    I am debating of my present store,
    And, by the near guess of my memory,
    I cannot instantly raise up the gross
    Of full three thousand ducats. What of that?
    Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe,
    Will furnish me. But soft! how many months
    Do you desire?

    [To ANTONIO]

    Rest you fair, good signior;
    Your worship was the last man in our mouths.

ANTONIO    Shylock, although I neither lend nor borrow
    By taking nor by giving of excess,
    Yet, to supply the ripe wants of my friend,
    I'll break a custom. Is he yet possess'd
    How much ye would?

SHYLOCK                      Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.

ANTONIO    And for three months.

SHYLOCK    I had forgot; three months; you told me so.
    Well then, your bond; and let me see; but hear you;
    Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow
    Upon advantage.

ANTONIO                      I do never use it.

SHYLOCK    When Jacob grazed his uncle Laban's sheep--
    This Jacob from our holy Abram was,
    As his wise mother wrought in his behalf,
    The third possessor; ay, he was the third--

ANTONIO    And what of him? did he take interest?

SHYLOCK    No, not take interest, not, as you would say,
    Directly interest: mark what Jacob did.
    When Laban and himself were compromised
    That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied
    Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes, being rank,
    In the end of autumn turned to the rams,
    And, when the work of generation was
    Between these woolly breeders in the act,
    The skilful shepherd peel'd me certain wands,
    And, in the doing of the deed of kind,
    He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes,
    Who then conceiving did in eaning time
    Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's.
    This was a way to thrive, and he was blest:
    And thrift is blessing, if men steal it not.

ANTONIO    This was a venture, sir, that Jacob served for;
    A thing not in his power to bring to pass,
    But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven.
    Was this inserted to make interest good?
    Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?

SHYLOCK    I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast:
    But note me, signior.

ANTONIO    Mark you this, Bassanio,
    The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
    An evil soul producing holy witness
    Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
    A goodly apple rotten at the heart:
    O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!

SHYLOCK    Three thousand ducats; 'tis a good round sum.
    Three months from twelve; then, let me see; the rate--

ANTONIO    Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?

SHYLOCK    Signior Antonio, many a time and oft
    In the Rialto you have rated me
    About my moneys and my usances:
    Still have I borne it with a patient shrug,
    For sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
    You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog,
    And spit upon my Jewish gaberdine,
    And all for use of that which is mine own.
    Well then, it now appears you need my help:
    Go to, then; you come to me, and you say
    'Shylock, we would have moneys:' you say so;
    You, that did void your rheum upon my beard
    And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur
    Over your threshold: moneys is your suit
    What should I say to you? Should I not say
    'Hath a dog money? is it possible
    A cur can lend three thousand ducats?' Or
    Shall I bend low and in a bondman's key,
    With bated breath and whispering humbleness, Say this;
    'Fair sir, you spit on me on Wednesday last;
    You spurn'd me such a day; another time
    You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies
    I'll lend you thus much moneys'?

ANTONIO    I am as like to call thee so again,
    To spit on thee again, to spurn thee too.
    If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not
    As to thy friends; for when did friendship take
    A breed for barren metal of his friend?
    But lend it rather to thine enemy,
    Who, if he break, thou mayst with better face
    Exact the penalty.

SHYLOCK                      Why, look you, how you storm!
    I would be friends with you and have your love,
    Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with,
    Supply your present wants and take no doit
    Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me:
    This is kind I offer.


BASSANIO    This were kindness.

SHYLOCK    This kindness will I show.
    Go with me to a notary, seal me there
    Your single bond; and, in a merry sport,
    If you repay me not on such a day,
    In such a place, such sum or sums as are
    Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit
    Be nominated for an equal pound
    Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken
    In what part of your body pleaseth me.

ANTONIO    Content, i' faith: I'll seal to such a bond
    And say there is much kindness in the Jew.

BASSANIO    You shall not seal to such a bond for me:
    I'll rather dwell in my necessity.

ANTONIO    Why, fear not, man; I will not forfeit it:
    Within these two months, that's a month before
    This bond expires, I do expect return
    Of thrice three times the value of this bond.

SHYLOCK    O father Abram, what these Christians are,
    Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect
    The thoughts of others! Pray you, tell me this;
    If he should break his day, what should I gain
    By the exaction of the forfeiture?
    A pound of man's flesh taken from a man
    Is not so estimable, profitable neither,
    As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say,
    To buy his favour, I extend this friendship:
    If he will take it, so; if not, adieu;
    And, for my love, I pray you wrong me not.

ANTONIO    Yes Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.

SHYLOCK    Then meet me forthwith at the notary's;
    Give him direction for this merry bond,
    And I will go and purse the ducats straight,
    See to my house, left in the fearful guard
    Of an unthrifty knave, and presently
    I will be with you.

ANTONIO    Hie thee, gentle Jew.

    [Exit Shylock]

    The Hebrew will turn Christian: he grows kind.

BASSANIO    I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.

ANTONIO    Come on: in this there can be no dismay;
    My ships come home a month before the day.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE I    Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF MOROCCO
    and his train; PORTIA, NERISSA, and others
    attending]

MOROCCO    Mislike me not for my complexion,
    The shadow'd livery of the burnish'd sun,
    To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.
    Bring me the fairest creature northward born,
    Where Phoebus' fire scarce thaws the icicles,
    And let us make incision for your love,
    To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine.
    I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine
    Hath fear'd the valiant: by my love I swear
    The best-regarded virgins of our clime
    Have loved it too: I would not change this hue,
    Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.

PORTIA    In terms of choice I am not solely led
    By nice direction of a maiden's eyes;
    Besides, the lottery of my destiny
    Bars me the right of voluntary choosing:
    But if my father had not scanted me
    And hedged me by his wit, to yield myself
    His wife who wins me by that means I told you,
    Yourself, renowned prince, then stood as fair
    As any comer I have look'd on yet
    For my affection.

MOROCCO                      Even for that I thank you:
    Therefore, I pray you, lead me to the caskets
    To try my fortune. By this scimitar
    That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince
    That won three fields of Sultan Solyman,
    I would outstare the sternest eyes that look,
    Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth,
    Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear,
    Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey,
    To win thee, lady. But, alas the while!
    If Hercules and Lichas play at dice
    Which is the better man, the greater throw
    May turn by fortune from the weaker hand:
    So is Alcides beaten by his page;
    And so may I, blind fortune leading me,
    Miss that which one unworthier may attain,
    And die with grieving.

PORTIA    You must take your chance,
    And either not attempt to choose at all
    Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong
    Never to speak to lady afterward
    In way of marriage: therefore be advised.

MOROCCO    Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.

PORTIA    First, forward to the temple: after dinner
    Your hazard shall be made.

MOROCCO    Good fortune then!
    To make me blest or cursed'st among men.

    [Cornets, and exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE II    Venice. A street.


    [Enter LAUNCELOT]

LAUNCELOT    Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from
    this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and
    tempts me saying to me 'Gobbo, Launcelot Gobbo, good
    Launcelot,' or 'good Gobbo,' or good Launcelot
    Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away. My
    conscience says 'No; take heed,' honest Launcelot;
    take heed, honest Gobbo, or, as aforesaid, 'honest
    Launcelot Gobbo; do not run; scorn running with thy
    heels.' Well, the most courageous fiend bids me
    pack: 'Via!' says the fiend; 'away!' says the
    fiend; 'for the heavens, rouse up a brave mind,'
    says the fiend, 'and run.' Well, my conscience,
    hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely
    to me 'My honest friend Launcelot, being an honest
    man's son,' or rather an honest woman's son; for,
    indeed, my father did something smack, something
    grow to, he had a kind of taste; well, my conscience
    says 'Launcelot, budge not.' 'Budge,' says the
    fiend. 'Budge not,' says my conscience.
    'Conscience,' say I, 'you counsel well;' ' Fiend,'
    say I, 'you counsel well:' to be ruled by my
    conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master,
    who, God bless the mark, is a kind of devil; and, to
    run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the
    fiend, who, saving your reverence, is the devil
    himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil
    incarnal; and, in my conscience, my conscience is
    but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel
    me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more
    friendly counsel: I will run, fiend; my heels are
    at your command; I will run.

    [Enter Old GOBBO, with a basket]

GOBBO    Master young man, you, I pray you, which is the way
    to master Jew's?

LAUNCELOT    [Aside]  O heavens, this is my true-begotten father!
    who, being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind,
    knows me not: I will try confusions with him.

GOBBO    Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way
    to master Jew's?

LAUNCELOT    Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but,
    at the next turning of all, on your left; marry, at
    the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn
    down indirectly to the Jew's house.

GOBBO    By God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can
    you tell me whether one Launcelot,
    that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?

LAUNCELOT    Talk you of young Master Launcelot?

    [Aside]

    Mark me now; now will I raise the waters. Talk you
    of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO    No master, sir, but a poor man's son: his father,
    though I say it, is an honest exceeding poor man
    and, God be thanked, well to live.

LAUNCELOT    Well, let his father be what a' will, we talk of
    young Master Launcelot.

GOBBO    Your worship's friend and Launcelot, sir.

LAUNCELOT    But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you,
    talk you of young Master Launcelot?

GOBBO    Of Launcelot, an't please your mastership.

LAUNCELOT    Ergo, Master Launcelot. Talk not of Master
    Launcelot, father; for the young gentleman,
    according to Fates and Destinies and such odd
    sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of
    learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say
    in plain terms, gone to heaven.

GOBBO    Marry, God forbid! the boy was the very staff of my
    age, my very prop.

LAUNCELOT    Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or
    a prop? Do you know me, father?

GOBBO    Alack the day, I know you not, young gentleman:
    but, I pray you, tell me, is my boy, God rest his
    soul, alive or dead?

LAUNCELOT    Do you not know me, father?

GOBBO    Alack, sir, I am sand-blind; I know you not.

LAUNCELOT    Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of
    the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his
    own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
    your son: give me your blessing: truth will come
    to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son
    may, but at the length truth will out.

GOBBO    Pray you, sir, stand up: I am sure you are not
    Launcelot, my boy.

LAUNCELOT    Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but
    give me your blessing: I am Launcelot, your boy
    that was, your son that is, your child that shall
    be.

GOBBO    I cannot think you are my son.

LAUNCELOT    I know not what I shall think of that: but I am
    Launcelot, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your
    wife is my mother.

GOBBO    Her name is Margery, indeed: I'll be sworn, if thou
    be Launcelot, thou art mine own flesh and blood.
    Lord worshipped might he be! what a beard hast thou
    got! thou hast got more hair on thy chin than
    Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.

LAUNCELOT    It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows
    backward: I am sure he had more hair of his tail
    than I have of my face when I last saw him.

GOBBO    Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy
    master agree? I have brought him a present. How
    'gree you now?

LAUNCELOT    Well, well: but, for mine own part, as I have set
    up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I
    have run some ground. My master's a very Jew: give
    him a present! give him a halter: I am famished in
    his service; you may tell every finger I have with
    my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come: give me
    your present to one Master Bassanio, who, indeed,
    gives rare new liveries: if I serve not him, I
    will run as far as God has any ground. O rare
    fortune! here comes the man: to him, father; for I
    am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.

    [Enter BASSANIO, with LEONARDO and other followers]

BASSANIO    You may do so; but let it be so hasted that supper
    be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See
    these letters delivered; put the liveries to making,
    and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.

    [Exit a Servant]

LAUNCELOT    To him, father.

GOBBO    God bless your worship!

BASSANIO    Gramercy! wouldst thou aught with me?

GOBBO    Here's my son, sir, a poor boy,--

LAUNCELOT    Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man; that
    would, sir, as my father shall specify--

GOBBO    He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve--

LAUNCELOT    Indeed, the short and the long is, I serve the Jew,
    and have a desire, as my father shall specify--

GOBBO    His master and he, saving your worship's reverence,
    are scarce cater-cousins--

LAUNCELOT    To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having
    done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being, I
    hope, an old man, shall frutify unto you--

GOBBO    I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon
    your worship, and my suit is--

LAUNCELOT    In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as
    your worship shall know by this honest old man; and,
    though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.

BASSANIO    One speak for both. What would you?

LAUNCELOT    Serve you, sir.

GOBBO    That is the very defect of the matter, sir.

BASSANIO    I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit:
    Shylock thy master spoke with me this day,
    And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment
    To leave a rich Jew's service, to become
    The follower of so poor a gentleman.

LAUNCELOT    The old proverb is very well parted between my
    master Shylock and you, sir: you have the grace of
    God, sir, and he hath enough.

BASSANIO    Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son.
    Take leave of thy old master and inquire
    My lodging out. Give him a livery
    More guarded than his fellows': see it done.

LAUNCELOT    Father, in. I cannot get a service, no; I have
    ne'er a tongue in my head. Well, if any man in
    Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear
    upon a book, I shall have good fortune. Go to,
    here's a simple line of life: here's a small trifle
    of wives: alas, fifteen wives is nothing! eleven
    widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one
    man: and then to 'scape drowning thrice, and to be
    in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed;
    here are simple scapes. Well, if Fortune be a
    woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father,
    come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling of an eye.

    [Exeunt Launcelot and Old Gobbo]

BASSANIO    I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this:
    These things being bought and orderly bestow'd,
    Return in haste, for I do feast to-night
    My best-esteem'd acquaintance: hie thee, go.

LEONARDO    My best endeavours shall be done herein.

    [Enter GRATIANO]

GRATIANO    Where is your master?

LEONARDO    Yonder, sir, he walks.

    [Exit]

GRATIANO    Signior Bassanio!

BASSANIO    Gratiano!

GRATIANO    I have a suit to you.

BASSANIO    You have obtain'd it.

GRATIANO    You must not deny me: I must go with you to Belmont.

BASSANIO    Why then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano;
    Thou art too wild, too rude and bold of voice;
    Parts that become thee happily enough
    And in such eyes as ours appear not faults;
    But where thou art not known, why, there they show
    Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain
    To allay with some cold drops of modesty
    Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behavior
    I be misconstrued in the place I go to,
    And lose my hopes.

GRATIANO                      Signior Bassanio, hear me:
    If I do not put on a sober habit,
    Talk with respect and swear but now and then,
    Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely,
    Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes
    Thus with my hat, and sigh and say 'amen,'
    Use all the observance of civility,
    Like one well studied in a sad ostent
    To please his grandam, never trust me more.

BASSANIO    Well, we shall see your bearing.

GRATIANO    Nay, but I bar to-night: you shall not gauge me
    By what we do to-night.

BASSANIO    No, that were pity:
    I would entreat you rather to put on
    Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends
    That purpose merriment. But fare you well:
    I have some business.

GRATIANO    And I must to Lorenzo and the rest:
    But we will visit you at supper-time.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE III    The same. A room in SHYLOCK'S house.


    [Enter JESSICA and LAUNCELOT]

JESSICA    I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so:
    Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil,
    Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness.
    But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee:
    And, Launcelot, soon at supper shalt thou see
    Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest:
    Give him this letter; do it secretly;
    And so farewell: I would not have my father
    See me in talk with thee.

LAUNCELOT    Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue. Most beautiful
    pagan, most sweet Jew! if a Christian did not play
    the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But,
    adieu: these foolish drops do something drown my
    manly spirit: adieu.

JESSICA    Farewell, good Launcelot.

    [Exit Launcelot]

    Alack, what heinous sin is it in me
    To be ashamed to be my father's child!
    But though I am a daughter to his blood,
    I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo,
    If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife,
    Become a Christian and thy loving wife.

    [Exit]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE IV    The same. A street.


    [Enter GRATIANO, LORENZO, SALARINO, and SALANIO]

LORENZO    Nay, we will slink away in supper-time,
    Disguise us at my lodging and return,
    All in an hour.

GRATIANO    We have not made good preparation.

SALARINO    We have not spoke us yet of torchbearers.

SALANIO    'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd,
    And better in my mind not undertook.

LORENZO    'Tis now but four o'clock: we have two hours
    To furnish us.

    [Enter LAUNCELOT, with a letter]

    Friend Launcelot, what's the news?

LAUNCELOT    An it shall please you to break up
    this, it shall seem to signify.

LORENZO    I know the hand: in faith, 'tis a fair hand;
    And whiter than the paper it writ on
    Is the fair hand that writ.

GRATIANO    Love-news, in faith.

LAUNCELOT    By your leave, sir.

LORENZO    Whither goest thou?

LAUNCELOT    Marry, sir, to bid my old master the
    Jew to sup to-night with my new master the Christian.

LORENZO    Hold here, take this: tell gentle Jessica
    I will not fail her; speak it privately.
    Go, gentlemen,

    [Exit Launcelot]

    Will you prepare you for this masque tonight?
    I am provided of a torch-bearer.

SALANIO    Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.

SALANIO    And so will I.

LORENZO                      Meet me and Gratiano
    At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.

SALARINO    'Tis good we do so.

    [Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO]

GRATIANO    Was not that letter from fair Jessica?

LORENZO    I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed
    How I shall take her from her father's house,
    What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with,
    What page's suit she hath in readiness.
    If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven,
    It will be for his gentle daughter's sake:
    And never dare misfortune cross her foot,
    Unless she do it under this excuse,
    That she is issue to a faithless Jew.
    Come, go with me; peruse this as thou goest:
    Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE V    The same. Before SHYLOCK'S house.


    [Enter SHYLOCK and LAUNCELOT]

SHYLOCK    Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge,
    The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio:--
    What, Jessica!--thou shalt not gormandise,
    As thou hast done with me:--What, Jessica!--
    And sleep and snore, and rend apparel out;--
    Why, Jessica, I say!

LAUNCELOT    Why, Jessica!

SHYLOCK    Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.

LAUNCELOT    Your worship was wont to tell me that
    I could do nothing without bidding.

    [Enter Jessica]

JESSICA    Call you? what is your will?

SHYLOCK    I am bid forth to supper, Jessica:
    There are my keys. But wherefore should I go?
    I am not bid for love; they flatter me:
    But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon
    The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl,
    Look to my house. I am right loath to go:
    There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest,
    For I did dream of money-bags to-night.

LAUNCELOT    I beseech you, sir, go: my young master doth expect
    your reproach.

SHYLOCK    So do I his.

LAUNCELOT    An they have conspired together, I will not say you
    shall see a masque; but if you do, then it was not
    for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on
    Black-Monday last at six o'clock i' the morning,
    falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four
    year, in the afternoon.

SHYLOCK    What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica:
    Lock up my doors; and when you hear the drum
    And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife,
    Clamber not you up to the casements then,
    Nor thrust your head into the public street
    To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces,
    But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements:
    Let not the sound of shallow foppery enter
    My sober house. By Jacob's staff, I swear,
    I have no mind of feasting forth to-night:
    But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah;
    Say I will come.

LAUNCELOT    I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at
    window, for all this, There will come a Christian
    boy, will be worth a Jewess' eye.

    [Exit]

SHYLOCK    What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?


JESSICA    His words were 'Farewell mistress;' nothing else.

SHYLOCK    The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder;
    Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day
    More than the wild-cat: drones hive not with me;
    Therefore I part with him, and part with him
    To one that would have him help to waste
    His borrow'd purse. Well, Jessica, go in;
    Perhaps I will return immediately:
    Do as I bid you; shut doors after you:
    Fast bind, fast find;
    A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.

    [Exit]

JESSICA    Farewell; and if my fortune be not crost,
    I have a father, you a daughter, lost.

    [Exit]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE VI    The same.


    [Enter GRATIANO and SALARINO, masqued]

GRATIANO    This is the pent-house under which Lorenzo
    Desired us to make stand.

SALARINO    His hour is almost past.

GRATIANO    And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour,
    For lovers ever run before the clock.

SALARINO    O, ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly
    To seal love's bonds new-made, than they are wont
    To keep obliged faith unforfeited!

GRATIANO    That ever holds: who riseth from a feast
    With that keen appetite that he sits down?
    Where is the horse that doth untread again
    His tedious measures with the unbated fire
    That he did pace them first? All things that are,
    Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd.
    How like a younker or a prodigal
    The scarfed bark puts from her native bay,
    Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind!
    How like the prodigal doth she return,
    With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails,
    Lean, rent and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!

SALARINO    Here comes Lorenzo: more of this hereafter.

    [Enter LORENZO]

LORENZO    Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode;
    Not I, but my affairs, have made you wait:
    When you shall please to play the thieves for wives,
    I'll watch as long for you then. Approach;
    Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?

    [Enter JESSICA, above, in boy's clothes]

JESSICA    Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty,
    Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.

LORENZO    Lorenzo, and thy love.

JESSICA    Lorenzo, certain, and my love indeed,
    For who love I so much? And now who knows
    But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?

LORENZO    Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.

JESSICA    Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains.
    I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me,
    For I am much ashamed of my exchange:
    But love is blind and lovers cannot see
    The pretty follies that themselves commit;
    For if they could, Cupid himself would blush
    To see me thus transformed to a boy.

LORENZO    Descend, for you must be my torchbearer.

JESSICA    What, must I hold a candle to my shames?
    They in themselves, good-sooth, are too too light.
    Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love;
    And I should be obscured.

LORENZO    So are you, sweet,
    Even in the lovely garnish of a boy.
    But come at once;
    For the close night doth play the runaway,
    And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.

JESSICA    I will make fast the doors, and gild myself
    With some more ducats, and be with you straight.

    [Exit above]

GRATIANO    Now, by my hood, a Gentile and no Jew.

LORENZO    Beshrew me but I love her heartily;
    For she is wise, if I can judge of her,
    And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true,
    And true she is, as she hath proved herself,
    And therefore, like herself, wise, fair and true,
    Shall she be placed in my constant soul.

    [Enter JESSICA, below]

    What, art thou come? On, gentlemen; away!
    Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.

    [Exit with Jessica and Salarino]

    [Enter ANTONIO]

ANTONIO    Who's there?

GRATIANO    Signior Antonio!

ANTONIO    Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest?
    'Tis nine o'clock: our friends all stay for you.
    No masque to-night: the wind is come about;
    Bassanio presently will go aboard:
    I have sent twenty out to seek for you.

GRATIANO    I am glad on't: I desire no more delight
    Than to be under sail and gone to-night.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE VII    Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Flourish of cornets. Enter PORTIA, with the
    PRINCE OF MOROCCO, and their trains]

PORTIA    Go draw aside the curtains and discover
    The several caskets to this noble prince.
    Now make your choice.

MOROCCO    The first, of gold, who this inscription bears,
    'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;'
    The second, silver, which this promise carries,
    'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves;'
    This third, dull lead, with warning all as blunt,
    'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
    How shall I know if I do choose the right?

PORTIA    The one of them contains my picture, prince:
    If you choose that, then I am yours withal.

MOROCCO    Some god direct my judgment! Let me see;
    I will survey the inscriptions back again.
    What says this leaden casket?
    'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
    Must give: for what? for lead? hazard for lead?
    This casket threatens. Men that hazard all
    Do it in hope of fair advantages:
    A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross;
    I'll then nor give nor hazard aught for lead.
    What says the silver with her virgin hue?
    'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
    As much as he deserves! Pause there, Morocco,
    And weigh thy value with an even hand:
    If thou be'st rated by thy estimation,
    Thou dost deserve enough; and yet enough
    May not extend so far as to the lady:
    And yet to be afeard of my deserving
    Were but a weak disabling of myself.
    As much as I deserve! Why, that's the lady:
    I do in birth deserve her, and in fortunes,
    In graces and in qualities of breeding;
    But more than these, in love I do deserve.
    What if I stray'd no further, but chose here?
    Let's see once more this saying graved in gold
    'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
    Why, that's the lady; all the world desires her;
    From the four corners of the earth they come,
    To kiss this shrine, this mortal-breathing saint:
    The Hyrcanian deserts and the vasty wilds
    Of wide Arabia are as thoroughfares now
    For princes to come view fair Portia:
    The watery kingdom, whose ambitious head
    Spits in the face of heaven, is no bar
    To stop the foreign spirits, but they come,
    As o'er a brook, to see fair Portia.
    One of these three contains her heavenly picture.
    Is't like that lead contains her? 'Twere damnation
    To think so base a thought: it were too gross
    To rib her cerecloth in the obscure grave.
    Or shall I think in silver she's immured,
    Being ten times undervalued to tried gold?
    O sinful thought! Never so rich a gem
    Was set in worse than gold. They have in England
    A coin that bears the figure of an angel
    Stamped in gold, but that's insculp'd upon;
    But here an angel in a golden bed
    Lies all within. Deliver me the key:
    Here do I choose, and thrive I as I may!

PORTIA    There, take it, prince; and if my form lie there,
    Then I am yours.

    [He unlocks the golden casket]

MOROCCO                      O hell! what have we here?
    A carrion Death, within whose empty eye
    There is a written scroll! I'll read the writing.

    [Reads]

    All that glitters is not gold;
    Often have you heard that told:
    Many a man his life hath sold
    But my outside to behold:
    Gilded tombs do worms enfold.
    Had you been as wise as bold,
    Young in limbs, in judgment old,
    Your answer had not been inscroll'd:
    Fare you well; your suit is cold.
    Cold, indeed; and labour lost:
    Then, farewell, heat, and welcome, frost!
    Portia, adieu. I have too grieved a heart
    To take a tedious leave: thus losers part.

    [Exit with his train. Flourish of cornets]

PORTIA    A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains, go.
    Let all of his complexion choose me so.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE VIII    Venice. A street.


    [Enter SALARINO and SALANIO]

SALARINO    Why, man, I saw Bassanio under sail:
    With him is Gratiano gone along;
    And in their ship I am sure Lorenzo is not.

SALANIO    The villain Jew with outcries raised the duke,
    Who went with him to search Bassanio's ship.

SALARINO    He came too late, the ship was under sail:
    But there the duke was given to understand
    That in a gondola were seen together
    Lorenzo and his amorous Jessica:
    Besides, Antonio certified the duke
    They were not with Bassanio in his ship.

SALANIO    I never heard a passion so confused,
    So strange, outrageous, and so variable,
    As the dog Jew did utter in the streets:
    'My daughter! O my ducats! O my daughter!
    Fled with a Christian! O my Christian ducats!
    Justice! the law! my ducats, and my daughter!
    A sealed bag, two sealed bags of ducats,
    Of double ducats, stolen from me by my daughter!
    And jewels, two stones, two rich and precious stones,
    Stolen by my daughter! Justice! find the girl;
    She hath the stones upon her, and the ducats.'

SALARINO    Why, all the boys in Venice follow him,
    Crying, his stones, his daughter, and his ducats.

SALANIO    Let good Antonio look he keep his day,
    Or he shall pay for this.

SALARINO    Marry, well remember'd.
    I reason'd with a Frenchman yesterday,
    Who told me, in the narrow seas that part
    The French and English, there miscarried
    A vessel of our country richly fraught:
    I thought upon Antonio when he told me;
    And wish'd in silence that it were not his.

SALANIO    You were best to tell Antonio what you hear;
    Yet do not suddenly, for it may grieve him.

SALARINO    A kinder gentleman treads not the earth.
    I saw Bassanio and Antonio part:
    Bassanio told him he would make some speed
    Of his return: he answer'd, 'Do not so;
    Slubber not business for my sake, Bassanio
    But stay the very riping of the time;
    And for the Jew's bond which he hath of me,
    Let it not enter in your mind of love:
    Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts
    To courtship and such fair ostents of love
    As shall conveniently become you there:'
    And even there, his eye being big with tears,
    Turning his face, he put his hand behind him,
    And with affection wondrous sensible
    He wrung Bassanio's hand; and so they parted.

SALANIO    I think he only loves the world for him.
    I pray thee, let us go and find him out
    And quicken his embraced heaviness
    With some delight or other.

SALARINO    Do we so.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT II



SCENE IX    Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Enter NERISSA with a Servitor]

NERISSA    Quick, quick, I pray thee; draw the curtain straight:
    The Prince of Arragon hath ta'en his oath,
    And comes to his election presently.

    [Flourish of cornets. Enter the PRINCE OF ARRAGON,
    PORTIA, and their trains]

PORTIA    Behold, there stand the caskets, noble prince:
    If you choose that wherein I am contain'd,
    Straight shall our nuptial rites be solemnized:
    But if you fail, without more speech, my lord,
    You must be gone from hence immediately.

ARRAGON    I am enjoin'd by oath to observe three things:
    First, never to unfold to any one
    Which casket 'twas I chose; next, if I fail
    Of the right casket, never in my life
    To woo a maid in way of marriage: Lastly,
    If I do fail in fortune of my choice,
    Immediately to leave you and be gone.

PORTIA    To these injunctions every one doth swear
    That comes to hazard for my worthless self.

ARRAGON    And so have I address'd me. Fortune now
    To my heart's hope! Gold; silver; and base lead.
    'Who chooseth me must give and hazard all he hath.'
    You shall look fairer, ere I give or hazard.
    What says the golden chest? ha! let me see:
    'Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire.'
    What many men desire! that 'many' may be meant
    By the fool multitude, that choose by show,
    Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach;
    Which pries not to the interior, but, like the martlet,
    Builds in the weather on the outward wall,
    Even in the force and road of casualty.
    I will not choose what many men desire,
    Because I will not jump with common spirits
    And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.
    Why, then to thee, thou silver treasure-house;
    Tell me once more what title thou dost bear:
    'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves:'
    And well said too; for who shall go about
    To cozen fortune and be honourable
    Without the stamp of merit? Let none presume
    To wear an undeserved dignity.
    O, that estates, degrees and offices
    Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour
    Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
    How many then should cover that stand bare!
    How many be commanded that command!
    How much low peasantry would then be glean'd
    From the true seed of honour! and how much honour
    Pick'd from the chaff and ruin of the times
    To be new-varnish'd! Well, but to my choice:
    'Who chooseth me shall get as much as he deserves.'
    I will assume desert. Give me a key for this,
    And instantly unlock my fortunes here.

    [He opens the silver casket]

PORTIA    Too long a pause for that which you find there.

ARRAGON    What's here? the portrait of a blinking idiot,
    Presenting me a schedule! I will read it.
    How much unlike art thou to Portia!
    How much unlike my hopes and my deservings!
    'Who chooseth me shall have as much as he deserves.'
    Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?
    Is that my prize? are my deserts no better?

PORTIA    To offend, and judge, are distinct offices
    And of opposed natures.

ARRAGON    What is here?

    [Reads]

    The fire seven times tried this:
    Seven times tried that judgment is,
    That did never choose amiss.
    Some there be that shadows kiss;
    Such have but a shadow's bliss:
    There be fools alive, I wis,
    Silver'd o'er; and so was this.
    Take what wife you will to bed,
    I will ever be your head:
    So be gone: you are sped.
    Still more fool I shall appear
    By the time I linger here
    With one fool's head I came to woo,
    But I go away with two.
    Sweet, adieu. I'll keep my oath,
    Patiently to bear my wroth.

    [Exeunt Arragon and train]

PORTIA    Thus hath the candle singed the moth.
    O, these deliberate fools! when they do choose,
    They have the wisdom by their wit to lose.

NERISSA    The ancient saying is no heresy,
    Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.

PORTIA    Come, draw the curtain, Nerissa.

    [Enter a Servant]

Servant    Where is my lady?

PORTIA                      Here: what would my lord?

Servant    Madam, there is alighted at your gate
    A young Venetian, one that comes before
    To signify the approaching of his lord;
    From whom he bringeth sensible regreets,
    To wit, besides commends and courteous breath,
    Gifts of rich value. Yet I have not seen
    So likely an ambassador of love:
    A day in April never came so sweet,
    To show how costly summer was at hand,
    As this fore-spurrer comes before his lord.

PORTIA    No more, I pray thee: I am half afeard
    Thou wilt say anon he is some kin to thee,
    Thou spend'st such high-day wit in praising him.
    Come, come, Nerissa; for I long to see
    Quick Cupid's post that comes so mannerly.

NERISSA    Bassanio, lord Love, if thy will it be!

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT III



SCENE I    Venice. A street.


    [Enter SALANIO and SALARINO]

SALANIO    Now, what news on the Rialto?

SALARINO    Why, yet it lives there uncheck'd that Antonio hath
    a ship of rich lading wrecked on the narrow seas;
    the Goodwins, I think they call the place; a very
    dangerous flat and fatal, where the carcasses of many
    a tall ship lie buried, as they say, if my gossip
    Report be an honest woman of her word.

SALANIO    I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever
    knapped ginger or made her neighbours believe she
    wept for the death of a third husband. But it is
    true, without any slips of prolixity or crossing the
    plain highway of talk, that the good Antonio, the
    honest Antonio,--O that I had a title good enough
    to keep his name company!--

SALARINO    Come, the full stop.

SALANIO    Ha! what sayest thou? Why, the end is, he hath
    lost a ship.

SALARINO    I would it might prove the end of his losses.

SALANIO    Let me say 'amen' betimes, lest the devil cross my
    prayer, for here he comes in the likeness of a Jew.

    [Enter SHYLOCK]

    How now, Shylock! what news among the merchants?

SHYLOCK    You know, none so well, none so well as you, of my
    daughter's flight.

SALARINO    That's certain: I, for my part, knew the tailor
    that made the wings she flew withal.

SALANIO    And Shylock, for his own part, knew the bird was
    fledged; and then it is the complexion of them all
    to leave the dam.

SHYLOCK    She is damned for it.

SALANIO    That's certain, if the devil may be her judge.

SHYLOCK    My own flesh and blood to rebel!

SALANIO    Out upon it, old carrion! rebels it at these years?

SHYLOCK    I say, my daughter is my flesh and blood.

SALARINO    There is more difference between thy flesh and hers
    than between jet and ivory; more between your bloods
    than there is between red wine and rhenish. But
    tell us, do you hear whether Antonio have had any
    loss at sea or no?

SHYLOCK    There I have another bad match: a bankrupt, a
    prodigal, who dare scarce show his head on the
    Rialto; a beggar, that was used to come so smug upon
    the mart; let him look to his bond: he was wont to
    call me usurer; let him look to his bond: he was
    wont to lend money for a Christian courtesy; let him
    look to his bond.

SALARINO    Why, I am sure, if he forfeit, thou wilt not take
    his flesh: what's that good for?

SHYLOCK    To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,
    it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and
    hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,
    mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my
    bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine
    enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath
    not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,
    dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with
    the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject
    to the same diseases, healed by the same means,
    warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as
    a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?
    if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison
    us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not
    revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will
    resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,
    what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian
    wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by
    Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you
    teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I
    will better the instruction.

    [Enter a Servant]

Servant    Gentlemen, my master Antonio is at his house and
    desires to speak with you both.

SALARINO    We have been up and down to seek him.

    [Enter TUBAL]

SALANIO    Here comes another of the tribe: a third cannot be
    matched, unless the devil himself turn Jew.

    [Exeunt SALANIO, SALARINO, and Servant]

SHYLOCK    How now, Tubal! what news from Genoa? hast thou
    found my daughter?

TUBAL    I often came where I did hear of her, but cannot find her.

SHYLOCK    Why, there, there, there, there! a diamond gone,
    cost me two thousand ducats in Frankfort! The curse
    never fell upon our nation till now; I never felt it
    till now: two thousand ducats in that; and other
    precious, precious jewels. I would my daughter
    were dead at my foot, and the jewels in her ear!
    would she were hearsed at my foot, and the ducats in
    her coffin! No news of them? Why, so: and I know
    not what's spent in the search: why, thou loss upon
    loss! the thief gone with so much, and so much to
    find the thief; and no satisfaction, no revenge:
    nor no in luck stirring but what lights on my
    shoulders; no sighs but of my breathing; no tears
    but of my shedding.

TUBAL    Yes, other men have ill luck too: Antonio, as I
    heard in Genoa,--

SHYLOCK    What, what, what? ill luck, ill luck?

TUBAL    Hath an argosy cast away, coming from Tripolis.

SHYLOCK    I thank God, I thank God. Is't true, is't true?

TUBAL    I spoke with some of the sailors that escaped the wreck.

SHYLOCK    I thank thee, good Tubal: good news, good news!
    ha, ha! where? in Genoa?

TUBAL    Your daughter spent in Genoa, as I heard, in one
    night fourscore ducats.

SHYLOCK    Thou stickest a dagger in me: I shall never see my
    gold again: fourscore ducats at a sitting!
    fourscore ducats!

TUBAL    There came divers of Antonio's creditors in my
    company to Venice, that swear he cannot choose but break.

SHYLOCK    I am very glad of it: I'll plague him; I'll torture
    him: I am glad of it.

TUBAL    One of them showed me a ring that he had of your
    daughter for a monkey.

SHYLOCK    Out upon her! Thou torturest me, Tubal: it was my
    turquoise; I had it of Leah when I was a bachelor:
    I would not have given it for a wilderness of monkeys.

TUBAL    But Antonio is certainly undone.

SHYLOCK    Nay, that's true, that's very true. Go, Tubal, fee
    me an officer; bespeak him a fortnight before. I
    will have the heart of him, if he forfeit; for, were
    he out of Venice, I can make what merchandise I
    will. Go, go, Tubal, and meet me at our synagogue;
    go, good Tubal; at our synagogue, Tubal.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT III



SCENE II    Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Enter BASSANIO, PORTIA, GRATIANO, NERISSA, and
    Attendants]

PORTIA    I pray you, tarry: pause a day or two
    Before you hazard; for, in choosing wrong,
    I lose your company: therefore forbear awhile.
    There's something tells me, but it is not love,
    I would not lose you; and you know yourself,
    Hate counsels not in such a quality.
    But lest you should not understand me well,--
    And yet a maiden hath no tongue but thought,--
    I would detain you here some month or two
    Before you venture for me. I could teach you
    How to choose right, but I am then forsworn;
    So will I never be: so may you miss me;
    But if you do, you'll make me wish a sin,
    That I had been forsworn. Beshrew your eyes,
    They have o'erlook'd me and divided me;
    One half of me is yours, the other half yours,
    Mine own, I would say; but if mine, then yours,
    And so all yours. O, these naughty times
    Put bars between the owners and their rights!
    And so, though yours, not yours. Prove it so,
    Let fortune go to hell for it, not I.
    I speak too long; but 'tis to peize the time,
    To eke it and to draw it out in length,
    To stay you from election.

BASSANIO    Let me choose
    For as I am, I live upon the rack.

PORTIA    Upon the rack, Bassanio! then confess
    What treason there is mingled with your love.

BASSANIO    None but that ugly treason of mistrust,
    Which makes me fear the enjoying of my love:
    There may as well be amity and life
    'Tween snow and fire, as treason and my love.

PORTIA    Ay, but I fear you speak upon the rack,
    Where men enforced do speak anything.

BASSANIO    Promise me life, and I'll confess the truth.

PORTIA    Well then, confess and live.

BASSANIO    'Confess' and 'love'
    Had been the very sum of my confession:
    O happy torment, when my torturer
    Doth teach me answers for deliverance!
    But let me to my fortune and the caskets.

PORTIA    Away, then! I am lock'd in one of them:
    If you do love me, you will find me out.
    Nerissa and the rest, stand all aloof.
    Let music sound while he doth make his choice;
    Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end,
    Fading in music: that the comparison
    May stand more proper, my eye shall be the stream
    And watery death-bed for him. He may win;
    And what is music then? Then music is
    Even as the flourish when true subjects bow
    To a new-crowned monarch: such it is
    As are those dulcet sounds in break of day
    That creep into the dreaming bridegroom's ear,
    And summon him to marriage. Now he goes,
    With no less presence, but with much more love,
    Than young Alcides, when he did redeem
    The virgin tribute paid by howling Troy
    To the sea-monster: I stand for sacrifice
    The rest aloof are the Dardanian wives,
    With bleared visages, come forth to view
    The issue of the exploit. Go, Hercules!
    Live thou, I live: with much, much more dismay
    I view the fight than thou that makest the fray.

    [Music, whilst BASSANIO comments on the caskets to himself]

    SONG.
    Tell me where is fancy bred,
    Or in the heart, or in the head?
    How begot, how nourished?
    Reply, reply.
    It is engender'd in the eyes,
    With gazing fed; and fancy dies
    In the cradle where it lies.
    Let us all ring fancy's knell
    I'll begin it,--Ding, dong, bell.

ALL    Ding, dong, bell.

BASSANIO    So may the outward shows be least themselves:
    The world is still deceived with ornament.
    In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt,
    But, being seasoned with a gracious voice,
    Obscures the show of evil? In religion,
    What damned error, but some sober brow
    Will bless it and approve it with a text,
    Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
    There is no vice so simple but assumes
    Some mark of virtue on his outward parts:
    How many cowards, whose hearts are all as false
    As stairs of sand, wear yet upon their chins
    The beards of Hercules and frowning Mars;
    Who, inward search'd, have livers white as milk;
    And these assume but valour's excrement
    To render them redoubted! Look on beauty,
    And you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight;
    Which therein works a miracle in nature,
    Making them lightest that wear most of it:
    So are those crisped snaky golden locks
    Which make such wanton gambols with the wind,
    Upon supposed fairness, often known
    To be the dowry of a second head,
    The skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
    Thus ornament is but the guiled shore
    To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
    Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word,
    The seeming truth which cunning times put on
    To entrap the wisest. Therefore, thou gaudy gold,
    Hard food for Midas, I will none of thee;
    Nor none of thee, thou pale and common drudge
    'Tween man and man: but thou, thou meagre lead,
    Which rather threatenest than dost promise aught,
    Thy paleness moves me more than eloquence;
    And here choose I; joy be the consequence!

PORTIA    [Aside]  How all the other passions fleet to air,
    As doubtful thoughts, and rash-embraced despair,
    And shuddering fear, and green-eyed jealousy! O love,
    Be moderate; allay thy ecstasy,
    In measure rein thy joy; scant this excess.
    I feel too much thy blessing: make it less,
    For fear I surfeit.

BASSANIO    What find I here?

    [Opening the leaden casket]

    Fair Portia's counterfeit! What demi-god
    Hath come so near creation? Move these eyes?
    Or whether, riding on the balls of mine,
    Seem they in motion? Here are sever'd lips,
    Parted with sugar breath: so sweet a bar
    Should sunder such sweet friends. Here in her hairs
    The painter plays the spider and hath woven
    A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men,
    Faster than gnats in cobwebs; but her eyes,--
    How could he see to do them? having made one,
    Methinks it should have power to steal both his
    And leave itself unfurnish'd. Yet look, how far
    The substance of my praise doth wrong this shadow
    In underprizing it, so far this shadow
    Doth limp behind the substance. Here's the scroll,
    The continent and summary of my fortune.

    [Reads]

    You that choose not by the view,
    Chance as fair and choose as true!
    Since this fortune falls to you,
    Be content and seek no new,
    If you be well pleased with this
    And hold your fortune for your bliss,
    Turn you where your lady is
    And claim her with a loving kiss.
    A gentle scroll. Fair lady, by your leave;
    I come by note, to give and to receive.
    Like one of two contending in a prize,
    That thinks he hath done well in people's eyes,
    Hearing applause and universal shout,
    Giddy in spirit, still gazing in a doubt
    Whether these pearls of praise be his or no;
    So, thrice fair lady, stand I, even so;
    As doubtful whether what I see be true,
    Until confirm'd, sign'd, ratified by you.

PORTIA    You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,
    Such as I am: though for myself alone
    I would not be ambitious in my wish,
    To wish myself much better; yet, for you
    I would be trebled twenty times myself;
    A thousand times more fair, ten thousand times more rich;
    That only to stand high in your account,
    I might in virtue, beauties, livings, friends,
    Exceed account; but the full sum of me
    Is sum of something, which, to term in gross,
    Is an unlesson'd girl, unschool'd, unpractised;
    Happy in this, she is not yet so old
    But she may learn; happier than this,
    She is not bred so dull but she can learn;
    Happiest of all is that her gentle spirit
    Commits itself to yours to be directed,
    As from her lord, her governor, her king.
    Myself and what is mine to you and yours
    Is now converted: but now I was the lord
    Of this fair mansion, master of my servants,
    Queen o'er myself: and even now, but now,
    This house, these servants and this same myself
    Are yours, my lord: I give them with this ring;
    Which when you part from, lose, or give away,
    Let it presage the ruin of your love
    And be my vantage to exclaim on you.

BASSANIO    Madam, you have bereft me of all words,
    Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;
    And there is such confusion in my powers,
    As after some oration fairly spoke
    By a beloved prince, there doth appear
    Among the buzzing pleased multitude;
    Where every something, being blent together,
    Turns to a wild of nothing, save of joy,
    Express'd and not express'd. But when this ring
    Parts from this finger, then parts life from hence:
    O, then be bold to say Bassanio's dead!

NERISSA    My lord and lady, it is now our time,
    That have stood by and seen our wishes prosper,
    To cry, good joy: good joy, my lord and lady!

GRATIANO    My lord Bassanio and my gentle lady,
    I wish you all the joy that you can wish;
    For I am sure you can wish none from me:
    And when your honours mean to solemnize
    The bargain of your faith, I do beseech you,
    Even at that time I may be married too.

BASSANIO    With all my heart, so thou canst get a wife.

GRATIANO    I thank your lordship, you have got me one.
    My eyes, my lord, can look as swift as yours:
    You saw the mistress, I beheld the maid;
    You loved, I loved for intermission.
    No more pertains to me, my lord, than you.
    Your fortune stood upon the casket there,
    And so did mine too, as the matter falls;
    For wooing here until I sweat again,
    And sweating until my very roof was dry
    With oaths of love, at last, if promise last,
    I got a promise of this fair one here
    To have her love, provided that your fortune
    Achieved her mistress.

PORTIA    Is this true, Nerissa?

NERISSA    Madam, it is, so you stand pleased withal.

BASSANIO    And do you, Gratiano, mean good faith?

GRATIANO    Yes, faith, my lord.

BASSANIO    Our feast shall be much honour'd in your marriage.

GRATIANO    We'll play with them the first boy for a thousand ducats.

NERISSA    What, and stake down?

GRATIANO    No; we shall ne'er win at that sport, and stake down.
    But who comes here? Lorenzo and his infidel? What,
    and my old Venetian friend Salerio?

    [Enter LORENZO, JESSICA, and SALERIO, a Messenger
    from Venice]

BASSANIO    Lorenzo and Salerio, welcome hither;
    If that the youth of my new interest here
    Have power to bid you welcome. By your leave,
    I bid my very friends and countrymen,
    Sweet Portia, welcome.

PORTIA    So do I, my lord:
    They are entirely welcome.

LORENZO    I thank your honour. For my part, my lord,
    My purpose was not to have seen you here;
    But meeting with Salerio by the way,
    He did entreat me, past all saying nay,
    To come with him along.

SALERIO    I did, my lord;
    And I have reason for it. Signior Antonio
    Commends him to you.

    [Gives Bassanio a letter]

BASSANIO    Ere I ope his letter,
    I pray you, tell me how my good friend doth.

SALERIO    Not sick, my lord, unless it be in mind;
    Nor well, unless in mind: his letter there
    Will show you his estate.

GRATIANO    Nerissa, cheer yon stranger; bid her welcome.
    Your hand, Salerio: what's the news from Venice?
    How doth that royal merchant, good Antonio?
    I know he will be glad of our success;
    We are the Jasons, we have won the fleece.

SALERIO    I would you had won the fleece that he hath lost.

PORTIA    There are some shrewd contents in yon same paper,
    That steals the colour from Bassanio's cheek:
    Some dear friend dead; else nothing in the world
    Could turn so much the constitution
    Of any constant man. What, worse and worse!
    With leave, Bassanio: I am half yourself,
    And I must freely have the half of anything
    That this same paper brings you.

BASSANIO    O sweet Portia,
    Here are a few of the unpleasant'st words
    That ever blotted paper! Gentle lady,
    When I did first impart my love to you,
    I freely told you, all the wealth I had
    Ran in my veins, I was a gentleman;
    And then I told you true: and yet, dear lady,
    Rating myself at nothing, you shall see
    How much I was a braggart. When I told you
    My state was nothing, I should then have told you
    That I was worse than nothing; for, indeed,
    I have engaged myself to a dear friend,
    Engaged my friend to his mere enemy,
    To feed my means. Here is a letter, lady;
    The paper as the body of my friend,
    And every word in it a gaping wound,
    Issuing life-blood. But is it true, Salerio?
    Have all his ventures fail'd? What, not one hit?
    From Tripolis, from Mexico and England,
    From Lisbon, Barbary and India?
    And not one vessel 'scape the dreadful touch
    Of merchant-marring rocks?

SALERIO    Not one, my lord.
    Besides, it should appear, that if he had
    The present money to discharge the Jew,
    He would not take it. Never did I know
    A creature, that did bear the shape of man,
    So keen and greedy to confound a man:
    He plies the duke at morning and at night,
    And doth impeach the freedom of the state,
    If they deny him justice: twenty merchants,
    The duke himself, and the magnificoes
    Of greatest port, have all persuaded with him;
    But none can drive him from the envious plea
    Of forfeiture, of justice and his bond.

JESSICA    When I was with him I have heard him swear
    To Tubal and to Chus, his countrymen,
    That he would rather have Antonio's flesh
    Than twenty times the value of the sum
    That he did owe him: and I know, my lord,
    If law, authority and power deny not,
    It will go hard with poor Antonio.

PORTIA    Is it your dear friend that is thus in trouble?

BASSANIO    The dearest friend to me, the kindest man,
    The best-condition'd and unwearied spirit
    In doing courtesies, and one in whom
    The ancient Roman honour more appears
    Than any that draws breath in Italy.

PORTIA    What sum owes he the Jew?

BASSANIO    For me three thousand ducats.

PORTIA    What, no more?
    Pay him six thousand, and deface the bond;
    Double six thousand, and then treble that,
    Before a friend of this description
    Shall lose a hair through Bassanio's fault.
    First go with me to church and call me wife,
    And then away to Venice to your friend;
    For never shall you lie by Portia's side
    With an unquiet soul. You shall have gold
    To pay the petty debt twenty times over:
    When it is paid, bring your true friend along.
    My maid Nerissa and myself meantime
    Will live as maids and widows. Come, away!
    For you shall hence upon your wedding-day:
    Bid your friends welcome, show a merry cheer:
    Since you are dear bought, I will love you dear.
    But let me hear the letter of your friend.

BASSANIO    [Reads]  Sweet Bassanio, my ships have all
    miscarried, my creditors grow cruel, my estate is
    very low, my bond to the Jew is forfeit; and since
    in paying it, it is impossible I should live, all
    debts are cleared between you and I, if I might but
    see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your
    pleasure: if your love do not persuade you to come,
    let not my letter.

PORTIA    O love, dispatch all business, and be gone!

BASSANIO    Since I have your good leave to go away,
    I will make haste: but, till I come again,
    No bed shall e'er be guilty of my stay,
    No rest be interposer 'twixt us twain.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT III



SCENE III    Venice. A street.


    [Enter SHYLOCK, SALARINO, ANTONIO, and Gaoler]

SHYLOCK    Gaoler, look to him: tell not me of mercy;
    This is the fool that lent out money gratis:
    Gaoler, look to him.

ANTONIO    Hear me yet, good Shylock.

SHYLOCK    I'll have my bond; speak not against my bond:
    I have sworn an oath that I will have my bond.
    Thou call'dst me dog before thou hadst a cause;
    But, since I am a dog, beware my fangs:
    The duke shall grant me justice. I do wonder,
    Thou naughty gaoler, that thou art so fond
    To come abroad with him at his request.

ANTONIO    I pray thee, hear me speak.

SHYLOCK    I'll have my bond; I will not hear thee speak:
    I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.
    I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
    To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
    To Christian intercessors. Follow not;
    I'll have no speaking: I will have my bond.

    [Exit]

SALARINO    It is the most impenetrable cur
    That ever kept with men.

ANTONIO    Let him alone:
    I'll follow him no more with bootless prayers.
    He seeks my life; his reason well I know:
    I oft deliver'd from his forfeitures
    Many that have at times made moan to me;
    Therefore he hates me.

SALARINO    I am sure the duke
    Will never grant this forfeiture to hold.

ANTONIO    The duke cannot deny the course of law:
    For the commodity that strangers have
    With us in Venice, if it be denied,
    Will much impeach the justice of his state;
    Since that the trade and profit of the city
    Consisteth of all nations. Therefore, go:
    These griefs and losses have so bated me,
    That I shall hardly spare a pound of flesh
    To-morrow to my bloody creditor.
    Well, gaoler, on. Pray God, Bassanio come
    To see me pay his debt, and then I care not!

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT III



SCENE IV    Belmont. A room in PORTIA'S house.


    [Enter PORTIA, NERISSA, LORENZO, JESSICA, and
    BALTHASAR]

LORENZO    Madam, although I speak it in your presence,
    You have a noble and a true conceit
    Of godlike amity; which appears most strongly
    In bearing thus the absence of your lord.
    But if you knew to whom you show this honour,
    How true a gentleman you send relief,
    How dear a lover of my lord your husband,
    I know you would be prouder of the work
    Than customary bounty can enforce you.

PORTIA    I never did repent for doing good,
    Nor shall not now: for in companions
    That do converse and waste the time together,
    Whose souls do bear an equal yoke Of love,
    There must be needs a like proportion
    Of lineaments, of manners and of spirit;
    Which makes me think that this Antonio,
    Being the bosom lover of my lord,
    Must needs be like my lord. If it be so,
    How little is the cost I have bestow'd
    In purchasing the semblance of my soul
    From out the state of hellish misery!
    This comes too near the praising of myself;
    Therefore no more of it: hear other things.
    Lorenzo, I commit into your hands
    The husbandry and manage of my house
    Until my lord's return: for mine own part,
    I have toward heaven breathed a secret vow
    To live in prayer and contemplation,
    Only attended by Nerissa here,
    Until her husband and my lord's return:
    There is a monastery two miles off;
    And there will we abide. I do desire you
    Not to deny this imposition;
    The which my love and some necessity
    Now lays upon you.

LORENZO                      Madam, with all my heart;
    I shall obey you in all fair commands.

PORTIA    My people do already know my mind,
    And will acknowledge you and Jessica
    In place of Lord Bassanio and myself.
    And so farewell, till we shall meet again.

LORENZO    Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you!

JESSICA    I wish your ladyship all heart's content.

PORTIA    I thank you for your wish, and am well pleased
    To wish it back on you: fare you well Jessica.

    [Exeunt JESSICA and LORENZO]

    Now, Balthasar,
    As I have ever found thee honest-true,
    So let me find thee still. Take this same letter,
    And use thou all the endeavour of a man
    In speed to Padua: see thou render this
    Into my cousin's hand, Doctor Bellario;
    And, look, what notes and garments he doth give thee,
    Bring them, I pray thee, with imagined speed
    Unto the tranect, to the common ferry
    Which trades to Venice. Waste no time in words,
    But get thee gone: I shall be there before thee.

BALTHASAR    Madam, I go with all convenient speed.

    [Exit]

PORTIA    Come on, Nerissa; I have work in hand
    That you yet know not of: we'll see our husbands
    Before they think of us.

NERISSA    Shall they see us?

PORTIA    They shall, Nerissa; but in such a habit,
    That they shall think we are accomplished
    With that we lack. I'll hold thee any wager,
    When we are both accoutred like young men,
    I'll prove the prettier fellow of the two,
    And wear my dagger with the braver grace,
    And speak between the change of man and boy
    With a reed voice, and turn two mincing steps
    Into a manly stride, and speak of frays
    Like a fine bragging youth, and tell quaint lies,
    How honourable ladies sought my love,
    Which I denying, they fell sick and died;
    I could not do withal; then I'll repent,
    And wish for all that, that I had not killed them;
    And twenty of these puny lies I'll tell,
    That men shall swear I have discontinued school
    Above a twelvemonth. I have within my mind
    A thousand raw tricks of these bragging Jacks,
    Which I will practise.

NERISSA    Why, shall we turn to men?

PORTIA    Fie, what a question's that,
    If thou wert near a lewd interpreter!
    But come, I'll tell thee all my whole device
    When I am in my coach, which stays for us
    At the park gate; and therefore haste away,
    For we must measure twenty miles to-day.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT III



SCENE V    The same. A garden.


    [Enter LAUNCELOT and JESSICA]

LAUNCELOT    Yes, truly; for, look you, the sins of the father
    are to be laid upon the children: therefore, I
    promise ye, I fear you. I was always plain with
    you, and so now I speak my agitation of the matter:
    therefore be of good cheer, for truly I think you
    are damned. There is but one hope in it that can do
    you any good; and that is but a kind of bastard
    hope neither.

JESSICA    And what hope is that, I pray thee?

LAUNCELOT    Marry, you may partly hope that your father got you
    not, that you are not the Jew's daughter.

JESSICA    That were a kind of bastard hope, indeed: so the
    sins of my mother should be visited upon me.

LAUNCELOT    Truly then I fear you are damned both by father and
    mother: thus when I shun Scylla, your father, I
    fall into Charybdis, your mother: well, you are
    gone both ways.

JESSICA    I shall be saved by my husband; he hath made me a
    Christian.

LAUNCELOT    Truly, the more to blame he: we were Christians
    enow before; e'en as many as could well live, one by
    another. This making Christians will raise the
    price of hogs: if we grow all to be pork-eaters, we
    shall not shortly have a rasher on the coals for money.

    [Enter LORENZO]

JESSICA    I'll tell my husband, Launcelot, what you say: here he comes.

LORENZO    I shall grow jealous of you shortly, Launcelot, if
    you thus get my wife into corners.

JESSICA    Nay, you need not fear us, Lorenzo: Launcelot and I
    are out. He tells me flatly, there is no mercy for
    me in heaven, because I am a Jew's daughter: and he
    says, you are no good member of the commonwealth,
    for in converting Jews to Christians, you raise the
    price of pork.

LORENZO    I shall answer that better to the commonwealth than
    you can the getting up of the negro's belly: the
    Moor is with child by you, Launcelot.

LAUNCELOT    It is much that the Moor should be more than reason:
    but if she be less than an honest woman, she is
    indeed more than I took her for.

LORENZO    How every fool can play upon the word! I think the
    best grace of wit will shortly turn into silence,
    and discourse grow commendable in none only but
    parrots. Go in, sirrah; bid them prepare for dinner.

LAUNCELOT    That is done, sir; they have all stomachs.

LORENZO    Goodly Lord, what a wit-snapper are you! then bid
    them prepare dinner.

LAUNCELOT    That is done too, sir; only 'cover' is the word.

LORENZO    Will you cover then, sir?

LAUNCELOT    Not so, sir, neither; I know my duty.

LORENZO    Yet more quarrelling with occasion! Wilt thou show
    the whole wealth of thy wit in an instant? I pray
    tree, understand a plain man in his plain meaning:
    go to thy fellows; bid them cover the table, serve
    in the meat, and we will come in to dinner.

LAUNCELOT    For the table, sir, it shall be served in; for the
    meat, sir, it shall be covered; for your coming in
    to dinner, sir, why, let it be as humours and
    conceits shall govern.

    [Exit]

LORENZO    O dear discretion, how his words are suited!
    The fool hath planted in his memory
    An army of good words; and I do know
    A many fools, that stand in better place,
    Garnish'd like him, that for a tricksy word
    Defy the matter. How cheerest thou, Jessica?
    And now, good sweet, say thy opinion,
    How dost thou like the Lord Bassanio's wife?

JESSICA    Past all expressing. It is very meet
    The Lord Bassanio live an upright life;
    For, having such a blessing in his lady,
    He finds the joys of heaven here on earth;
    And if on earth he do not mean it, then
    In reason he should never come to heaven
    Why, if two gods should play some heavenly match
    And on the wager lay two earthly women,
    And Portia one, there must be something else
    Pawn'd with the other, for the poor rude world
    Hath not her fellow.

LORENZO    Even such a husband
    Hast thou of me as she is for a wife.

JESSICA    Nay, but ask my opinion too of that.

LORENZO    I will anon: first, let us go to dinner.

JESSICA    Nay, let me praise you while I have a stomach.

LORENZO    No, pray thee, let it serve for table-talk;
'    Then, howso'er thou speak'st, 'mong other things
    I shall digest it.

JESSICA                      Well, I'll set you forth.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT IV



SCENE I    Venice. A court of justice.


    [Enter the DUKE, the Magnificoes, ANTONIO, BASSANIO,
    GRATIANO, SALERIO, and others]

DUKE    What, is Antonio here?

ANTONIO    Ready, so please your grace.

DUKE    I am sorry for thee: thou art come to answer
    A stony adversary, an inhuman wretch
    uncapable of pity, void and empty
    From any dram of mercy.

ANTONIO    I have heard
    Your grace hath ta'en great pains to qualify
    His rigorous course; but since he stands obdurate
    And that no lawful means can carry me
    Out of his envy's reach, I do oppose
    My patience to his fury, and am arm'd
    To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,
    The very tyranny and rage of his.

DUKE    Go one, and call the Jew into the court.

SALERIO    He is ready at the door: he comes, my lord.

    [Enter SHYLOCK]

DUKE    Make room, and let him stand before our face.
    Shylock, the world thinks, and I think so too,
    That thou but lead'st this fashion of thy malice
    To the last hour of act; and then 'tis thought
    Thou'lt show thy mercy and remorse more strange
    Than is thy strange apparent cruelty;
    And where thou now exact'st the penalty,
    Which is a pound of this poor merchant's flesh,
    Thou wilt not only loose the forfeiture,
    But, touch'd with human gentleness and love,
    Forgive a moiety of the principal;
    Glancing an eye of pity on his losses,
    That have of late so huddled on his back,
    Enow to press a royal merchant down
    And pluck commiseration of his state
    From brassy bosoms and rough hearts of flint,
    From stubborn Turks and Tartars, never train'd
    To offices of tender courtesy.
    We all expect a gentle answer, Jew.

SHYLOCK    I have possess'd your grace of what I purpose;
    And by our holy Sabbath have I sworn
    To have the due and forfeit of my bond:
    If you deny it, let the danger light
    Upon your charter and your city's freedom.
    You'll ask me, why I rather choose to have
    A weight of carrion flesh than to receive
    Three thousand ducats: I'll not answer that:
    But, say, it is my humour: is it answer'd?
    What if my house be troubled with a rat
    And I be pleased to give ten thousand ducats
    To have it baned? What, are you answer'd yet?
    Some men there are love not a gaping pig;
    Some, that are mad if they behold a cat;
    And others, when the bagpipe sings i' the nose,
    Cannot contain their urine: for affection,
    Mistress of passion, sways it to the mood
    Of what it likes or loathes. Now, for your answer:
    As there is no firm reason to be render'd,
    Why he cannot abide a gaping pig;
    Why he, a harmless necessary cat;
    Why he, a woollen bagpipe; but of force
    Must yield to such inevitable shame
    As to offend, himself being offended;
    So can I give no reason, nor I will not,
    More than a lodged hate and a certain loathing
    I bear Antonio, that I follow thus
    A losing suit against him. Are you answer'd?

BASSANIO    This is no answer, thou unfeeling man,
    To excuse the current of thy cruelty.

SHYLOCK    I am not bound to please thee with my answers.

BASSANIO    Do all men kill the things they do not love?

SHYLOCK    Hates any man the thing he would not kill?

BASSANIO    Every offence is not a hate at first.

SHYLOCK    What, wouldst thou have a serpent sting thee twice?

ANTONIO    I pray you, think you question with the Jew:
    You may as well go stand upon the beach
    And bid the main flood bate his usual height;
    You may as well use question with the wolf
    Why he hath made the ewe bleat for the lamb;
    You may as well forbid the mountain pines
    To wag their high tops and to make no noise,
    When they are fretten with the gusts of heaven;
    You may as well do anything most hard,
    As seek to soften that--than which what's harder?--
    His Jewish heart: therefore, I do beseech you,
    Make no more offers, use no farther means,
    But with all brief and plain conveniency
    Let me have judgment and the Jew his will.

BASSANIO    For thy three thousand ducats here is six.

SHYLOCK    What judgment shall I dread, doing
    Were in six parts and every part a ducat,
    I would not draw them; I would have my bond.

DUKE    How shalt thou hope for mercy, rendering none?

SHYLOCK    What judgment shall I dread, doing no wrong?
    You have among you many a purchased slave,
    Which, like your asses and your dogs and mules,
    You use in abject and in slavish parts,
    Because you bought them: shall I say to you,
    Let them be free, marry them to your heirs?
    Why sweat they under burthens? let their beds
    Be made as soft as yours and let their palates
    Be season'd with such viands? You will answer
    'The slaves are ours:' so do I answer you:
    The pound of flesh, which I demand of him,
    Is dearly bought; 'tis mine and I will have it.
    If you deny me, fie upon your law!
    There is no force in the decrees of Venice.
    I stand for judgment: answer; shall I have it?

DUKE    Upon my power I may dismiss this court,
    Unless Bellario, a learned doctor,
    Whom I have sent for to determine this,
    Come here to-day.

SALERIO                      My lord, here stays without
    A messenger with letters from the doctor,
    New come from Padua.

DUKE    Bring us the letter; call the messenger.

BASSANIO    Good cheer, Antonio! What, man, courage yet!
    The Jew shall have my flesh, blood, bones and all,
    Ere thou shalt lose for me one drop of blood.

ANTONIO    I am a tainted wether of the flock,
    Meetest for death: the weakest kind of fruit
    Drops earliest to the ground; and so let me
    You cannot better be employ'd, Bassanio,
    Than to live still and write mine epitaph.

    [Enter NERISSA, dressed like a lawyer's clerk]

DUKE    Came you from Padua, from Bellario?

NERISSA    From both, my lord. Bellario greets your grace.

    [Presenting a letter]

BASSANIO    Why dost thou whet thy knife so earnestly?

SHYLOCK    To cut the forfeiture from that bankrupt there.

GRATIANO    Not on thy sole, but on thy soul, harsh Jew,
    Thou makest thy knife keen; but no metal can,
    No, not the hangman's axe, bear half the keenness
    Of thy sharp envy. Can no prayers pierce thee?

SHYLOCK    No, none that thou hast wit enough to make.

GRATIANO    O, be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!
    And for thy life let justice be accused.
    Thou almost makest me waver in my faith
    To hold opinion with Pythagoras,
    That souls of animals infuse themselves
    Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit
    Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,
    Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,
    And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,
    Infused itself in thee; for thy desires
    Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous.

SHYLOCK    Till thou canst rail the seal from off my bond,
    Thou but offend'st thy lungs to speak so loud:
    Repair thy wit, good youth, or it will fall
    To cureless ruin. I stand here for law.

DUKE    This letter from Bellario doth commend
    A young and learned doctor to our court.
    Where is he?

NERISSA                      He attendeth here hard by,
    To know your answer, whether you'll admit him.

DUKE    With all my heart. Some three or four of you
    Go give him courteous conduct to this place.
    Meantime the court shall hear Bellario's letter.

Clerk    [Reads]

    Your grace shall understand that at the receipt of
    your letter I am very sick: but in the instant that
    your messenger came, in loving visitation was with
    me a young doctor of Rome; his name is Balthasar. I
    acquainted him with the cause in controversy between
    the Jew and Antonio the merchant: we turned o'er
    many books together: he is furnished with my
    opinion; which, bettered with his own learning, the
    greatness whereof I cannot enough commend, comes
    with him, at my importunity, to fill up your grace's
    request in my stead. I beseech you, let his lack of
    years be no impediment to let him lack a reverend
    estimation; for I never knew so young a body with so
    old a head. I leave him to your gracious
    acceptance, whose trial shall better publish his
    commendation.

DUKE    You hear the learn'd Bellario, what he writes:
    And here, I take it, is the doctor come.

    [Enter PORTIA, dressed like a doctor of laws]

    Give me your hand. Come you from old Bellario?

PORTIA    I did, my lord.

DUKE                      You are welcome: take your place.
    Are you acquainted with the difference
    That holds this present question in the court?

PORTIA    I am informed thoroughly of the cause.
    Which is the merchant here, and which the Jew?

DUKE    Antonio and old Shylock, both stand forth.

PORTIA    Is your name Shylock?

SHYLOCK    Shylock is my name.

PORTIA    Of a strange nature is the suit you follow;
    Yet in such rule that the Venetian law
    Cannot impugn you as you do proceed.
    You stand within his danger, do you not?

ANTONIO    Ay, so he says.

PORTIA                      Do you confess the bond?

ANTONIO    I do.

PORTIA        Then must the Jew be merciful.

SHYLOCK    On what compulsion must I? tell me that.

PORTIA    The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
    It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
    Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
    It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
    'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
    The throned monarch better than his crown;
    His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
    The attribute to awe and majesty,
    Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
    But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
    It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
    It is an attribute to God himself;
    And earthly power doth then show likest God's
    When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
    Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
    That, in the course of justice, none of us
    Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
    And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
    The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
    To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
    Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
    Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

SHYLOCK    My deeds upon my head! I crave the law,
    The penalty and forfeit of my bond.

PORTIA    Is he not able to discharge the money?

BASSANIO    Yes, here I tender it for him in the court;
    Yea, twice the sum: if that will not suffice,
    I will be bound to pay it ten times o'er,
    On forfeit of my hands, my head, my heart:
    If this will not suffice, it must appear
    That malice bears down truth. And I beseech you,
    Wrest once the law to your authority:
    To do a great right, do a little wrong,
    And curb this cruel devil of his will.

PORTIA    It must not be; there is no power in Venice
    Can alter a decree established:
    'Twill be recorded for a precedent,
    And many an error by the same example
    Will rush into the state: it cannot be.

SHYLOCK    A Daniel come to judgment! yea, a Daniel!
    O wise young judge, how I do honour thee!

PORTIA    I pray you, let me look upon the bond.

SHYLOCK    Here 'tis, most reverend doctor, here it is.

PORTIA    Shylock, there's thrice thy money offer'd thee.

SHYLOCK    An oath, an oath, I have an oath in heaven:
    Shall I lay perjury upon my soul?
    No, not for Venice.

PORTIA    Why, this bond is forfeit;
    And lawfully by this the Jew may claim
    A pound of flesh, to be by him cut off
    Nearest the merchant's heart. Be merciful:
    Take thrice thy money; bid me tear the bond.

SHYLOCK    When it is paid according to the tenor.
    It doth appear you are a worthy judge;
    You know the law, your exposition
    Hath been most sound: I charge you by the law,
    Whereof you are a well-deserving pillar,
    Proceed to judgment: by my soul I swear
    There is no power in the tongue of man
    To alter me: I stay here on my bond.

ANTONIO    Most heartily I do beseech the court
    To give the judgment.

PORTIA    Why then, thus it is:
    You must prepare your bosom for his knife.

SHYLOCK    O noble judge! O excellent young man!

PORTIA    For the intent and purpose of the law
    Hath full relation to the penalty,
    Which here appeareth due upon the bond.

SHYLOCK    'Tis very true: O wise and upright judge!
    How much more elder art thou than thy looks!

PORTIA    Therefore lay bare your bosom.

SHYLOCK    Ay, his breast:
    So says the bond: doth it not, noble judge?
    'Nearest his heart:' those are the very words.

PORTIA    It is so. Are there balance here to weigh
    The flesh?

SHYLOCK             I have them ready.

PORTIA    Have by some surgeon, Shylock, on your charge,
    To stop his wounds, lest he do bleed to death.

SHYLOCK    Is it so nominated in the bond?

PORTIA    It is not so express'd: but what of that?
    'Twere good you do so much for charity.

SHYLOCK    I cannot find it; 'tis not in the bond.

PORTIA    You, merchant, have you any thing to say?

ANTONIO    But little: I am arm'd and well prepared.
    Give me your hand, Bassanio: fare you well!
    Grieve not that I am fallen to this for you;
    For herein Fortune shows herself more kind
    Than is her custom: it is still her use
    To let the wretched man outlive his wealth,
    To view with hollow eye and wrinkled brow
    An age of poverty; from which lingering penance
    Of such misery doth she cut me off.
    Commend me to your honourable wife:
    Tell her the process of Antonio's end;
    Say how I loved you, speak me fair in death;
    And, when the tale is told, bid her be judge
    Whether Bassanio had not once a love.
    Repent but you that you shall lose your friend,
    And he repents not that he pays your debt;
    For if the Jew do cut but deep enough,
    I'll pay it presently with all my heart.

BASSANIO    Antonio, I am married to a wife
    Which is as dear to me as life itself;
    But life itself, my wife, and all the world,
    Are not with me esteem'd above thy life:
    I would lose all, ay, sacrifice them all
    Here to this devil, to deliver you.

PORTIA    Your wife would give you little thanks for that,
    If she were by, to hear you make the offer.

GRATIANO    I have a wife, whom, I protest, I love:
    I would she were in heaven, so she could
    Entreat some power to change this currish Jew.

NERISSA    'Tis well you offer it behind her back;
    The wish would make else an unquiet house.

SHYLOCK    These be the Christian husbands. I have a daughter;
    Would any of the stock of Barrabas
    Had been her husband rather than a Christian!

    [Aside]

    We trifle time: I pray thee, pursue sentence.

PORTIA    A pound of that same merchant's flesh is thine:
    The court awards it, and the law doth give it.

SHYLOCK    Most rightful judge!

PORTIA    And you must cut this flesh from off his breast:
    The law allows it, and the court awards it.

SHYLOCK    Most learned judge! A sentence! Come, prepare!

PORTIA    Tarry a little; there is something else.
    This bond doth give thee here no jot of blood;
    The words expressly are 'a pound of flesh:'
    Take then thy bond, take thou thy pound of flesh;
    But, in the cutting it, if thou dost shed
    One drop of Christian blood, thy lands and goods
    Are, by the laws of Venice, confiscate
    Unto the state of Venice.

GRATIANO    O upright judge! Mark, Jew: O learned judge!

SHYLOCK    Is that the law?

PORTIA                      Thyself shalt see the act:
    For, as thou urgest justice, be assured
    Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desirest.

GRATIANO    O learned judge! Mark, Jew: a learned judge!

SHYLOCK    I take this offer, then; pay the bond thrice
    And let the Christian go.

BASSANIO    Here is the money.

PORTIA    Soft!
    The Jew shall have all justice; soft! no haste:
    He shall have nothing but the penalty.

GRATIANO    O Jew! an upright judge, a learned judge!

PORTIA    Therefore prepare thee to cut off the flesh.
    Shed thou no blood, nor cut thou less nor more
    But just a pound of flesh: if thou cut'st more
    Or less than a just pound, be it but so much
    As makes it light or heavy in the substance,
    Or the division of the twentieth part
    Of one poor scruple, nay, if the scale do turn
    But in the estimation of a hair,
    Thou diest and all thy goods are confiscate.

GRATIANO    A second Daniel, a Daniel, Jew!
    Now, infidel, I have you on the hip.

PORTIA    Why doth the Jew pause? take thy forfeiture.

SHYLOCK    Give me my principal, and let me go.

BASSANIO    I have it ready for thee; here it is.

PORTIA    He hath refused it in the open court:
    He shall have merely justice and his bond.

GRATIANO    A Daniel, still say I, a second Daniel!
    I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

SHYLOCK    Shall I not have barely my principal?

PORTIA    Thou shalt have nothing but the forfeiture,
    To be so taken at thy peril, Jew.

SHYLOCK    Why, then the devil give him good of it!
    I'll stay no longer question.

PORTIA    Tarry, Jew:
    The law hath yet another hold on you.
    It is enacted in the laws of Venice,
    If it be proved against an alien
    That by direct or indirect attempts
    He seek the life of any citizen,
    The party 'gainst the which he doth contrive
    Shall seize one half his goods; the other half
    Comes to the privy coffer of the state;
    And the offender's life lies in the mercy
    Of the duke only, 'gainst all other voice.
    In which predicament, I say, thou stand'st;
    For it appears, by manifest proceeding,
    That indirectly and directly too
    Thou hast contrived against the very life
    Of the defendant; and thou hast incurr'd
    The danger formerly by me rehearsed.
    Down therefore and beg mercy of the duke.

GRATIANO    Beg that thou mayst have leave to hang thyself:
    And yet, thy wealth being forfeit to the state,
    Thou hast not left the value of a cord;
    Therefore thou must be hang'd at the state's charge.

DUKE    That thou shalt see the difference of our spirits,
    I pardon thee thy life before thou ask it:
    For half thy wealth, it is Antonio's;
    The other half comes to the general state,
    Which humbleness may drive unto a fine.

PORTIA    Ay, for the state, not for Antonio.

SHYLOCK    Nay, take my life and all; pardon not that:
    You take my house when you do take the prop
    That doth sustain my house; you take my life
    When you do take the means whereby I live.

PORTIA    What mercy can you render him, Antonio?

GRATIANO    A halter gratis; nothing else, for God's sake.

ANTONIO    So please my lord the duke and all the court
    To quit the fine for one half of his goods,
    I am content; so he will let me have
    The other half in use, to render it,
    Upon his death, unto the gentleman
    That lately stole his daughter:
    Two things provided more, that, for this favour,
    He presently become a Christian;
    The other, that he do record a gift,
    Here in the court, of all he dies possess'd,
    Unto his son Lorenzo and his daughter.

DUKE    He shall do this, or else I do recant
    The pardon that I late pronounced here.

PORTIA    Art thou contented, Jew? what dost thou say?

SHYLOCK    I am content.

PORTIA                      Clerk, draw a deed of gift.

SHYLOCK    I pray you, give me leave to go from hence;
    I am not well: send the deed after me,
    And I will sign it.

DUKE    Get thee gone, but do it.

GRATIANO    In christening shalt thou have two god-fathers:
    Had I been judge, thou shouldst have had ten more,
    To bring thee to the gallows, not the font.

    [Exit SHYLOCK]

DUKE    Sir, I entreat you home with me to dinner.

PORTIA    I humbly do desire your grace of pardon:
    I must away this night toward Padua,
    And it is meet I presently set forth.

DUKE    I am sorry that your leisure serves you not.
    Antonio, gratify this gentleman,
    For, in my mind, you are much bound to him.

    [Exeunt Duke and his train]

BASSANIO    Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend
    Have by your wisdom been this day acquitted
    Of grievous penalties; in lieu whereof,
    Three thousand ducats, due unto the Jew,
    We freely cope your courteous pains withal.

ANTONIO    And stand indebted, over and above,
    In love and service to you evermore.

PORTIA    He is well paid that is well satisfied;
    And I, delivering you, am satisfied
    And therein do account myself well paid:
    My mind was never yet more mercenary.
    I pray you, know me when we meet again:
    I wish you well, and so I take my leave.

BASSANIO    Dear sir, of force I must attempt you further:
    Take some remembrance of us, as a tribute,
    Not as a fee: grant me two things, I pray you,
    Not to deny me, and to pardon me.

PORTIA    You press me far, and therefore I will yield.

    [To ANTONIO]

    Give me your gloves, I'll wear them for your sake;

    [To BASSANIO]

    And, for your love, I'll take this ring from you:
    Do not draw back your hand; I'll take no more;
    And you in love shall not deny me this.

BASSANIO    This ring, good sir, alas, it is a trifle!
    I will not shame myself to give you this.

PORTIA    I will have nothing else but only this;
    And now methinks I have a mind to it.

BASSANIO    There's more depends on this than on the value.
    The dearest ring in Venice will I give you,
    And find it out by proclamation:
    Only for this, I pray you, pardon me.

PORTIA    I see, sir, you are liberal in offers
    You taught me first to beg; and now methinks
    You teach me how a beggar should be answer'd.

BASSANIO    Good sir, this ring was given me by my wife;
    And when she put it on, she made me vow
    That I should neither sell nor give nor lose it.

PORTIA    That 'scuse serves many men to save their gifts.
    An if your wife be not a mad-woman,
    And know how well I have deserved the ring,
    She would not hold out enemy for ever,
    For giving it to me. Well, peace be with you!

    [Exeunt Portia and Nerissa]

ANTONIO    My Lord Bassanio, let him have the ring:
    Let his deservings and my love withal
    Be valued against your wife's commandment.

BASSANIO    Go, Gratiano, run and overtake him;
    Give him the ring, and bring him, if thou canst,
    Unto Antonio's house: away! make haste.

    [Exit Gratiano]

    Come, you and I will thither presently;
    And in the morning early will we both
    Fly toward Belmont: come, Antonio.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT IV



SCENE II    The same. A street.


    [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA]

PORTIA    Inquire the Jew's house out, give him this deed
    And let him sign it: we'll away to-night
    And be a day before our husbands home:
    This deed will be well welcome to Lorenzo.

    [Enter GRATIANO]

GRATIANO    Fair sir, you are well o'erta'en
    My Lord Bassanio upon more advice
    Hath sent you here this ring, and doth entreat
    Your company at dinner.

PORTIA    That cannot be:
    His ring I do accept most thankfully:
    And so, I pray you, tell him: furthermore,
    I pray you, show my youth old Shylock's house.

GRATIANO    That will I do.

NERISSA                      Sir, I would speak with you.

    [Aside to PORTIA]

    I'll see if I can get my husband's ring,
    Which I did make him swear to keep for ever.

PORTIA    [Aside to NERISSA]  Thou mayst, I warrant.
    We shall have old swearing
    That they did give the rings away to men;
    But we'll outface them, and outswear them too.

    [Aloud]

    Away! make haste: thou knowist where I will tarry.

NERISSA    Come, good sir, will you show me to this house?

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


ACT V



SCENE I    Belmont. Avenue to PORTIA'S house.


    [Enter LORENZO and JESSICA]

LORENZO    The moon shines bright: in such a night as this,
    When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
    And they did make no noise, in such a night
    Troilus methinks mounted the Troyan walls
    And sigh'd his soul toward the Grecian tents,
    Where Cressid lay that night.

JESSICA    In such a night
    Did Thisbe fearfully o'ertrip the dew
    And saw the lion's shadow ere himself
    And ran dismay'd away.

LORENZO    In such a night
    Stood Dido with a willow in her hand
    Upon the wild sea banks and waft her love
    To come again to Carthage.

JESSICA    In such a night
    Medea gather'd the enchanted herbs
    That did renew old AEson.

LORENZO    In such a night
    Did Jessica steal from the wealthy Jew
    And with an unthrift love did run from Venice
    As far as Belmont.

JESSICA                      In such a night
    Did young Lorenzo swear he loved her well,
    Stealing her soul with many vows of faith
    And ne'er a true one.

LORENZO    In such a night
    Did pretty Jessica, like a little shrew,
    Slander her love, and he forgave it her.

JESSICA    I would out-night you, did no body come;
    But, hark, I hear the footing of a man.

    [Enter STEPHANO]

LORENZO    Who comes so fast in silence of the night?

STEPHANO    A friend.

LORENZO    A friend! what friend? your name, I pray you, friend?

STEPHANO    Stephano is my name; and I bring word
    My mistress will before the break of day
    Be here at Belmont; she doth stray about
    By holy crosses, where she kneels and prays
    For happy wedlock hours.

LORENZO    Who comes with her?

STEPHANO    None but a holy hermit and her maid.
    I pray you, is my master yet return'd?

LORENZO    He is not, nor we have not heard from him.
    But go we in, I pray thee, Jessica,
    And ceremoniously let us prepare
    Some welcome for the mistress of the house.

    [Enter LAUNCELOT]

LAUNCELOT    Sola, sola! wo ha, ho! sola, sola!

LORENZO    Who calls?

LAUNCELOT    Sola! did you see Master Lorenzo?
    Master Lorenzo, sola, sola!

LORENZO    Leave hollaing, man: here.

LAUNCELOT    Sola! where? where?

LORENZO    Here.

LAUNCELOT    Tell him there's a post come from my master, with
    his horn full of good news: my master will be here
    ere morning.

    [Exit]

LORENZO    Sweet soul, let's in, and there expect their coming.
    And yet no matter: why should we go in?
    My friend Stephano, signify, I pray you,
    Within the house, your mistress is at hand;
    And bring your music forth into the air.

    [Exit Stephano]

    How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank!
    Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
    Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night
    Become the touches of sweet harmony.
    Sit, Jessica. Look how the floor of heaven
    Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold:
    There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st
    But in his motion like an angel sings,
    Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
    Such harmony is in immortal souls;
    But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
    Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.

    [Enter Musicians]

    Come, ho! and wake Diana with a hymn!
    With sweetest touches pierce your mistress' ear,
    And draw her home with music.

    [Music]

JESSICA    I am never merry when I hear sweet music.

LORENZO    The reason is, your spirits are attentive:
    For do but note a wild and wanton herd,
    Or race of youthful and unhandled colts,
    Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud,
    Which is the hot condition of their blood;
    If they but hear perchance a trumpet sound,
    Or any air of music touch their ears,
    You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
    Their savage eyes turn'd to a modest gaze
    By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet
    Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods;
    Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage,
    But music for the time doth change his nature.
    The man that hath no music in himself,
    Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds,
    Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils;
    The motions of his spirit are dull as night
    And his affections dark as Erebus:
    Let no such man be trusted. Mark the music.

    [Enter PORTIA and NERISSA]

PORTIA    That light we see is burning in my hall.
    How far that little candle throws his beams!
    So shines a good deed in a naughty world.

NERISSA    When the moon shone, we did not see the candle.

PORTIA    So doth the greater glory dim the less:
    A substitute shines brightly as a king
    Unto the king be by, and then his state
    Empties itself, as doth an inland brook
    Into the main of waters. Music! hark!

NERISSA    It is your music, madam, of the house.

PORTIA    Nothing is good, I see, without respect:
    Methinks it sounds much sweeter than by day.

NERISSA    Silence bestows that virtue on it, madam.

PORTIA    The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark,
    When neither is attended, and I think
    The nightingale, if she should sing by day,
    When every goose is cackling, would be thought
    No better a musician than the wren.
    How many things by season season'd are
    To their right praise and true perfection!
    Peace, ho! the moon sleeps with Endymion
    And would not be awaked.

    [Music ceases]

LORENZO    That is the voice,
    Or I am much deceived, of Portia.

PORTIA    He knows me as the blind man knows the cuckoo,
    By the bad voice.

LORENZO                      Dear lady, welcome home.

PORTIA    We have been praying for our husbands' healths,
    Which speed, we hope, the better for our words.
    Are they return'd?

LORENZO                      Madam, they are not yet;
    But there is come a messenger before,
    To signify their coming.

PORTIA    Go in, Nerissa;
    Give order to my servants that they take
    No note at all of our being absent hence;
    Nor you, Lorenzo; Jessica, nor you.

    [A tucket sounds]

LORENZO    Your husband is at hand; I hear his trumpet:
    We are no tell-tales, madam; fear you not.

PORTIA    This night methinks is but the daylight sick;
    It looks a little paler: 'tis a day,
    Such as the day is when the sun is hid.

    [Enter BASSANIO, ANTONIO, GRATIANO, and
    their followers]

BASSANIO    We should hold day with the Antipodes,
    If you would walk in absence of the sun.

PORTIA    Let me give light, but let me not be light;
    For a light wife doth make a heavy husband,
    And never be Bassanio so for me:
    But God sort all! You are welcome home, my lord.

BASSANIO    I thank you, madam. Give welcome to my friend.
    This is the man, this is Antonio,
    To whom I am so infinitely bound.

PORTIA    You should in all sense be much bound to him.
    For, as I hear, he was much bound for you.

ANTONIO    No more than I am well acquitted of.

PORTIA    Sir, you are very welcome to our house:
    It must appear in other ways than words,
    Therefore I scant this breathing courtesy.

GRATIANO    [To NERISSA]  By yonder moon I swear you do me wrong;
    In faith, I gave it to the judge's clerk:
    Would he were gelt that had it, for my part,
    Since you do take it, love, so much at heart.

PORTIA    A quarrel, ho, already! what's the matter?

GRATIANO    About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring
    That she did give me, whose posy was
    For all the world like cutler's poetry
    Upon a knife, 'Love me, and leave me not.'

NERISSA    What talk you of the posy or the value?
    You swore to me, when I did give it you,
    That you would wear it till your hour of death
    And that it should lie with you in your grave:
    Though not for me, yet for your vehement oaths,
    You should have been respective and have kept it.
    Gave it a judge's clerk! no, God's my judge,
    The clerk will ne'er wear hair on's face that had it.

GRATIANO    He will, an if he live to be a man.

NERISSA    Ay, if a woman live to be a man.

GRATIANO    Now, by this hand, I gave it to a youth,
    A kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy,
    No higher than thyself; the judge's clerk,
    A prating boy, that begg'd it as a fee:
    I could not for my heart deny it him.

PORTIA    You were to blame, I must be plain with you,
    To part so slightly with your wife's first gift:
    A thing stuck on with oaths upon your finger
    And so riveted with faith unto your flesh.
    I gave my love a ring and made him swear
    Never to part with it; and here he stands;
    I dare be sworn for him he would not leave it
    Nor pluck it from his finger, for the wealth
    That the world masters. Now, in faith, Gratiano,
    You give your wife too unkind a cause of grief:
    An 'twere to me, I should be mad at it.

BASSANIO    [Aside]  Why, I were best to cut my left hand off
    And swear I lost the ring defending it.

GRATIANO    My Lord Bassanio gave his ring away
    Unto the judge that begg'd it and indeed
    Deserved it too; and then the boy, his clerk,
    That took some pains in writing, he begg'd mine;
    And neither man nor master would take aught
    But the two rings.

PORTIA    What ring gave you my lord?
    Not that, I hope, which you received of me.

BASSANIO    If I could add a lie unto a fault,
    I would deny it; but you see my finger
    Hath not the ring upon it; it is gone.

PORTIA    Even so void is your false heart of truth.
    By heaven, I will ne'er come in your bed
    Until I see the ring.

NERISSA    Nor I in yours
    Till I again see mine.

BASSANIO    Sweet Portia,
    If you did know to whom I gave the ring,
    If you did know for whom I gave the ring
    And would conceive for what I gave the ring
    And how unwillingly I left the ring,
    When nought would be accepted but the ring,
    You would abate the strength of your displeasure.

PORTIA    If you had known the virtue of the ring,
    Or half her worthiness that gave the ring,
    Or your own honour to contain the ring,
    You would not then have parted with the ring.
    What man is there so much unreasonable,
    If you had pleased to have defended it
    With any terms of zeal, wanted the modesty
    To urge the thing held as a ceremony?
    Nerissa teaches me what to believe:
    I'll die for't but some woman had the ring.

BASSANIO    No, by my honour, madam, by my soul,
    No woman had it, but a civil doctor,
    Which did refuse three thousand ducats of me
    And begg'd the ring; the which I did deny him
    And suffer'd him to go displeased away;
    Even he that did uphold the very life
    Of my dear friend. What should I say, sweet lady?
    I was enforced to send it after him;
    I was beset with shame and courtesy;
    My honour would not let ingratitude
    So much besmear it. Pardon me, good lady;
    For, by these blessed candles of the night,
    Had you been there, I think you would have begg'd
    The ring of me to give the worthy doctor.

PORTIA    Let not that doctor e'er come near my house:
    Since he hath got the jewel that I loved,
    And that which you did swear to keep for me,
    I will become as liberal as you;
    I'll not deny him any thing I have,
    No, not my body nor my husband's bed:
    Know him I shall, I am well sure of it:
    Lie not a night from home; watch me like Argus:
    If you do not, if I be left alone,
    Now, by mine honour, which is yet mine own,
    I'll have that doctor for my bedfellow.

NERISSA    And I his clerk; therefore be well advised
    How you do leave me to mine own protection.

GRATIANO    Well, do you so; let not me take him, then;
    For if I do, I'll mar the young clerk's pen.

ANTONIO    I am the unhappy subject of these quarrels.

PORTIA    Sir, grieve not you; you are welcome notwithstanding.

BASSANIO    Portia, forgive me this enforced wrong;
    And, in the hearing of these many friends,
    I swear to thee, even by thine own fair eyes,
    Wherein I see myself--

PORTIA    Mark you but that!
    In both my eyes he doubly sees himself;
    In each eye, one: swear by your double self,
    And there's an oath of credit.

BASSANIO    Nay, but hear me:
    Pardon this fault, and by my soul I swear
    I never more will break an oath with thee.

ANTONIO    I once did lend my body for his wealth;
    Which, but for him that had your husband's ring,
    Had quite miscarried: I dare be bound again,
    My soul upon the forfeit, that your lord
    Will never more break faith advisedly.

PORTIA    Then you shall be his surety. Give him this
    And bid him keep it better than the other.

ANTONIO    Here, Lord Bassanio; swear to keep this ring.

BASSANIO    By heaven, it is the same I gave the doctor!

PORTIA    I had it of him: pardon me, Bassanio;
    For, by this ring, the doctor lay with me.

NERISSA    And pardon me, my gentle Gratiano;
    For that same scrubbed boy, the doctor's clerk,
    In lieu of this last night did lie with me.

GRATIANO    Why, this is like the mending of highways
    In summer, where the ways are fair enough:
    What, are we cuckolds ere we have deserved it?

PORTIA    Speak not so grossly. You are all amazed:
    Here is a letter; read it at your leisure;
    It comes from Padua, from Bellario:
    There you shall find that Portia was the doctor,
    Nerissa there her clerk: Lorenzo here
    Shall witness I set forth as soon as you
    And even but now return'd; I have not yet
    Enter'd my house. Antonio, you are welcome;
    And I have better news in store for you
    Than you expect: unseal this letter soon;
    There you shall find three of your argosies
    Are richly come to harbour suddenly:
    You shall not know by what strange accident
    I chanced on this letter.

ANTONIO    I am dumb.

BASSANIO    Were you the doctor and I knew you not?

GRATIANO    Were you the clerk that is to make me cuckold?

NERISSA    Ay, but the clerk that never means to do it,
    Unless he live until he be a man.

BASSANIO    Sweet doctor, you shall be my bed-fellow:
    When I am absent, then lie with my wife.

ANTONIO    Sweet lady, you have given me life and living;
    For here I read for certain that my ships
    Are safely come to road.

PORTIA    How now, Lorenzo!
    My clerk hath some good comforts too for you.

NERISSA    Ay, and I'll give them him without a fee.
    There do I give to you and Jessica,
    From the rich Jew, a special deed of gift,
    After his death, of all he dies possess'd of.

LORENZO    Fair ladies, you drop manna in the way
    Of starved people.

PORTIA                      It is almost morning,
    And yet I am sure you are not satisfied
    Of these events at full. Let us go in;
    And charge us there upon inter'gatories,
    And we will answer all things faithfully.

GRATIANO    Let it be so: the first inter'gatory
    That my Nerissa shall be sworn on is,
    Whether till the next night she had rather stay,
    Or go to bed now, being two hours to day:
    But were the day come, I should wish it dark,
    That I were couching with the doctor's clerk.
    Well, while I live I'll fear no other thing
    So sore as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.

    [Exeunt]






    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


SIR JOHN FALSTAFF    (FALSTAFF:)

FENTON    a gentleman.

SHALLOW    a country justice.

SLENDER    cousin to Shallow.


FORD    |
    |  two gentlemen dwelling at Windsor.
PAGE    |


WILLIAM PAGE    a boy, son to Page.

SIR HUGH EVANS    a Welsh parson.

DOCTOR CAIUS    a French physician.

    Host of the Garter Inn. (Host:)


BARDOLPH    |
    |
PISTOL    |  sharpers attending on Falstaff.
    |
NYM    |


ROBIN    page to Falstaff.

SIMPLE    servant to Slender.

RUGBY    servant to Doctor Caius.

MISTRESS FORD:

MISTRESS PAGE:

ANNE PAGE    her daughter.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    servant to Doctor Caius.

    Servants to Page, Ford, &c.
    (Servant:)
    (First Servant:)
    (Second Servant:)


SCENE    Windsor, and the neighbourhood.




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT I



SCENE I    Windsor. Before PAGE's house.


    [Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS]

SHALLOW    Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star-
    chamber matter of it: if he were twenty Sir John
    Falstaffs, he shall not abuse Robert Shallow, esquire.

SLENDER    In the county of Gloucester, justice of peace and
    'Coram.'

SHALLOW    Ay, cousin Slender, and 'Custalourum.

SLENDER    Ay, and 'Rato-lorum' too; and a gentleman born,
    master parson; who writes himself 'Armigero,' in any
    bill, warrant, quittance, or obligation, 'Armigero.'

SHALLOW    Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three
    hundred years.

SLENDER    All his successors gone before him hath done't; and
    all his ancestors that come after him may: they may
    give the dozen white luces in their coat.

SHALLOW    It is an old coat.

SIR HUGH EVANS    The dozen white louses do become an old coat well;
    it agrees well, passant; it is a familiar beast to
    man, and signifies love.

SHALLOW    The luce is the fresh fish; the salt fish is an old coat.

SLENDER    I may quarter, coz.

SHALLOW    You may, by marrying.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is marring indeed, if he quarter it.

SHALLOW    Not a whit.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Yes, py'r lady; if he has a quarter of your coat,
    there is but three skirts for yourself, in my
    simple conjectures: but that is all one. If Sir
    John Falstaff have committed disparagements unto
    you, I am of the church, and will be glad to do my
    benevolence to make atonements and compremises
    between you.

SHALLOW    The council shall bear it; it is a riot.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is not meet the council hear a riot; there is no
    fear of Got in a riot: the council, look you, shall
    desire to hear the fear of Got, and not to hear a
    riot; take your vizaments in that.

SHALLOW    Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword
    should end it.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is petter that friends is the sword, and end it:
    and there is also another device in my prain, which
    peradventure prings goot discretions with it: there
    is Anne Page, which is daughter to Master Thomas
    Page, which is pretty virginity.

SLENDER    Mistress Anne Page? She has brown hair, and speaks
    small like a woman.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is that fery person for all the orld, as just as
    you will desire; and seven hundred pounds of moneys,
    and gold and silver, is her grandsire upon his
    death's-bed--Got deliver to a joyful resurrections!
    --give, when she is able to overtake seventeen years
    old: it were a goot motion if we leave our pribbles
    and prabbles, and desire a marriage between Master
    Abraham and Mistress Anne Page.

SLENDER    Did her grandsire leave her seven hundred pound?

SIR HUGH EVANS    Ay, and her father is make her a petter penny.

SLENDER    I know the young gentlewoman; she has good gifts.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Seven hundred pounds and possibilities is goot gifts.

SHALLOW    Well, let us see honest Master Page. Is Falstaff there?

SIR HUGH EVANS    Shall I tell you a lie? I do despise a liar as I do
    despise one that is false, or as I despise one that
    is not true. The knight, Sir John, is there; and, I
    beseech you, be ruled by your well-willers. I will
    peat the door for Master Page.

    [Knocks]

    What, hoa! Got pless your house here!

PAGE    [Within]  Who's there?

    [Enter PAGE]

SIR HUGH EVANS    Here is Got's plessing, and your friend, and Justice
    Shallow; and here young Master Slender, that
    peradventures shall tell you another tale, if
    matters grow to your likings.

PAGE    I am glad to see your worships well.
    I thank you for my venison, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW    Master Page, I am glad to see you: much good do it
    your good heart! I wished your venison better; it
    was ill killed. How doth good Mistress Page?--and I
    thank you always with my heart, la! with my heart.

PAGE    Sir, I thank you.

SHALLOW    Sir, I thank you; by yea and no, I do.

PAGE    I am glad to see you, good Master Slender.

SLENDER    How does your fallow greyhound, sir? I heard say he
    was outrun on Cotsall.

PAGE    It could not be judged, sir.

SLENDER    You'll not confess, you'll not confess.

SHALLOW    That he will not. 'Tis your fault, 'tis your fault;
    'tis a good dog.

PAGE    A cur, sir.

SHALLOW    Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog: can there be
    more said? he is good and fair. Is Sir John
    Falstaff here?

PAGE    Sir, he is within; and I would I could do a good
    office between you.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is spoke as a Christians ought to speak.

SHALLOW    He hath wronged me, Master Page.

PAGE    Sir, he doth in some sort confess it.

SHALLOW    If it be confessed, it is not redress'd: is not that
    so, Master Page? He hath wronged me; indeed he
    hath, at a word, he hath, believe me: Robert
    Shallow, esquire, saith, he is wronged.

PAGE    Here comes Sir John.

    [Enter FALSTAFF, BARDOLPH, NYM, and PISTOL]

FALSTAFF    Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the king?

SHALLOW    Knight, you have beaten my men, killed my deer, and
    broke open my lodge.

FALSTAFF    But not kissed your keeper's daughter?

SHALLOW    Tut, a pin! this shall be answered.

FALSTAFF    I will answer it straight; I have done all this.
    That is now answered.

SHALLOW    The council shall know this.

FALSTAFF    'Twere better for you if it were known in counsel:
    you'll be laughed at.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Pauca verba, Sir John; goot worts.

FALSTAFF    Good worts! good cabbage. Slender, I broke your
    head: what matter have you against me?

SLENDER    Marry, sir, I have matter in my head against you;
    and against your cony-catching rascals, Bardolph,
    Nym, and Pistol.

BARDOLPH    You Banbury cheese!

SLENDER    Ay, it is no matter.

PISTOL    How now, Mephostophilus!

SLENDER    Ay, it is no matter.

NYM    Slice, I say! pauca, pauca: slice! that's my humour.

SLENDER    Where's Simple, my man? Can you tell, cousin?

SIR HUGH EVANS    Peace, I pray you. Now let us understand. There is
    three umpires in this matter, as I understand; that
    is, Master Page, fidelicet Master Page; and there is
    myself, fidelicet myself; and the three party is,
    lastly and finally, mine host of the Garter.

PAGE    We three, to hear it and end it between them.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Fery goot: I will make a prief of it in my note-
    book; and we will afterwards ork upon the cause with
    as great discreetly as we can.

FALSTAFF    Pistol!

PISTOL    He hears with ears.

SIR HUGH EVANS    The tevil and his tam! what phrase is this, 'He
    hears with ear'? why, it is affectations.

FALSTAFF    Pistol, did you pick Master Slender's purse?

SLENDER    Ay, by these gloves, did he, or I would I might
    never come in mine own great chamber again else, of
    seven groats in mill-sixpences, and two Edward
    shovel-boards, that cost me two shilling and two
    pence apiece of Yead Miller, by these gloves.

FALSTAFF    Is this true, Pistol?

SIR HUGH EVANS    No; it is false, if it is a pick-purse.

PISTOL    Ha, thou mountain-foreigner! Sir John and Master mine,
    I combat challenge of this latten bilbo.
    Word of denial in thy labras here!
    Word of denial: froth and scum, thou liest!

SLENDER    By these gloves, then, 'twas he.

NYM    Be avised, sir, and pass good humours: I will say
    'marry trap' with you, if you run the nuthook's
    humour on me; that is the very note of it.

SLENDER    By this hat, then, he in the red face had it; for
    though I cannot remember what I did when you made me
    drunk, yet I am not altogether an ass.

FALSTAFF    What say you, Scarlet and John?

BARDOLPH    Why, sir, for my part I say the gentleman had drunk
    himself out of his five sentences.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is his five senses: fie, what the ignorance is!

BARDOLPH    And being fap, sir, was, as they say, cashiered; and
    so conclusions passed the careires.

SLENDER    Ay, you spake in Latin then too; but 'tis no
    matter: I'll ne'er be drunk whilst I live again,
    but in honest, civil, godly company, for this trick:
    if I be drunk, I'll be drunk with those that have
    the fear of God, and not with drunken knaves.

SIR HUGH EVANS    So Got udge me, that is a virtuous mind.

FALSTAFF    You hear all these matters denied, gentlemen; you hear it.

    [Enter ANNE PAGE, with wine; MISTRESS FORD
    and MISTRESS PAGE, following]

PAGE    Nay, daughter, carry the wine in; we'll drink within.

    [Exit ANNE PAGE]

SLENDER    O heaven! this is Mistress Anne Page.

PAGE    How now, Mistress Ford!

FALSTAFF    Mistress Ford, by my troth, you are very well met:
    by your leave, good mistress.

    [Kisses her]

PAGE    Wife, bid these gentlemen welcome. Come, we have a
    hot venison pasty to dinner: come, gentlemen, I hope
    we shall drink down all unkindness.

    [Exeunt all except SHALLOW, SLENDER, and SIR HUGH EVANS]

SLENDER    I had rather than forty shillings I had my Book of
    Songs and Sonnets here.

    [Enter SIMPLE]

    How now, Simple! where have you been? I must wait
    on myself, must I? You have not the Book of Riddles
    about you, have you?

SIMPLE    Book of Riddles! why, did you not lend it to Alice
    Shortcake upon All-hallowmas last, a fortnight
    afore Michaelmas?

SHALLOW    Come, coz; come, coz; we stay for you. A word with
    you, coz; marry, this, coz: there is, as 'twere, a
    tender, a kind of tender, made afar off by Sir Hugh
    here. Do you understand me?

SLENDER    Ay, sir, you shall find me reasonable; if it be so,
    I shall do that that is reason.

SHALLOW    Nay, but understand me.

SLENDER    So I do, sir.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Give ear to his motions, Master Slender: I will
    description the matter to you, if you be capacity of it.

SLENDER    Nay, I will do as my cousin Shallow says: I pray
    you, pardon me; he's a justice of peace in his
    country, simple though I stand here.

SIR HUGH EVANS    But that is not the question: the question is
    concerning your marriage.

SHALLOW    Ay, there's the point, sir.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Marry, is it; the very point of it; to Mistress Anne Page.

SLENDER    Why, if it be so, I will marry her upon any
    reasonable demands.

SIR HUGH EVANS    But can you affection the 'oman? Let us command to
    know that of your mouth or of your lips; for divers
    philosophers hold that the lips is parcel of the
    mouth. Therefore, precisely, can you carry your
    good will to the maid?

SHALLOW    Cousin Abraham Slender, can you love her?

SLENDER    I hope, sir, I will do as it shall become one that
    would do reason.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Nay, Got's lords and his ladies! you must speak
    possitable, if you can carry her your desires
    towards her.

SHALLOW    That you must. Will you, upon good dowry, marry her?

SLENDER    I will do a greater thing than that, upon your
    request, cousin, in any reason.

SHALLOW    Nay, conceive me, conceive me, sweet coz: what I do
    is to pleasure you, coz. Can you love the maid?

SLENDER    I will marry her, sir, at your request: but if there
    be no great love in the beginning, yet heaven may
    decrease it upon better acquaintance, when we are
    married and have more occasion to know one another;
    I hope, upon familiarity will grow more contempt:
    but if you say, 'Marry her,' I will marry her; that
    I am freely dissolved, and dissolutely.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is a fery discretion answer; save the fall is in
    the ort 'dissolutely:' the ort is, according to our
    meaning, 'resolutely:' his meaning is good.

SHALLOW    Ay, I think my cousin meant well.

SLENDER    Ay, or else I would I might be hanged, la!

SHALLOW    Here comes fair Mistress Anne.

    [Re-enter ANNE PAGE]

    Would I were young for your sake, Mistress Anne!

ANNE PAGE    The dinner is on the table; my father desires your
    worships' company.

SHALLOW    I will wait on him, fair Mistress Anne.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Od's plessed will! I will not be absence at the grace.

    [Exeunt SHALLOW and SIR HUGH EVANS]

ANNE PAGE    Will't please your worship to come in, sir?

SLENDER    No, I thank you, forsooth, heartily; I am very well.

ANNE PAGE    The dinner attends you, sir.

SLENDER    I am not a-hungry, I thank you, forsooth. Go,
    sirrah, for all you are my man, go wait upon my
    cousin Shallow.

    [Exit SIMPLE]

    A justice of peace sometimes may be beholding to his
    friend for a man. I keep but three men and a boy
    yet, till my mother be dead: but what though? Yet I
    live like a poor gentleman born.

ANNE PAGE    I may not go in without your worship: they will not
    sit till you come.

SLENDER    I' faith, I'll eat nothing; I thank you as much as
    though I did.

ANNE PAGE    I pray you, sir, walk in.

SLENDER    I had rather walk here, I thank you. I bruised
    my shin th' other day with playing at sword and
    dagger with a master of fence; three veneys for a
    dish of stewed prunes; and, by my troth, I cannot
    abide the smell of hot meat since. Why do your
    dogs bark so? be there bears i' the town?

ANNE PAGE    I think there are, sir; I heard them talked of.

SLENDER    I love the sport well but I shall as soon quarrel at
    it as any man in England. You are afraid, if you see
    the bear loose, are you not?

ANNE PAGE    Ay, indeed, sir.

SLENDER    That's meat and drink to me, now. I have seen
    Sackerson loose twenty times, and have taken him by
    the chain; but, I warrant you, the women have so
    cried and shrieked at it, that it passed: but women,
    indeed, cannot abide 'em; they are very ill-favored
    rough things.

    [Re-enter PAGE]

PAGE    Come, gentle Master Slender, come; we stay for you.

SLENDER    I'll eat nothing, I thank you, sir.

PAGE    By cock and pie, you shall not choose, sir! come, come.

SLENDER    Nay, pray you, lead the way.

PAGE    Come on, sir.

SLENDER    Mistress Anne, yourself shall go first.

ANNE PAGE    Not I, sir; pray you, keep on.

SLENDER    I'll rather be unmannerly than troublesome.
    You do yourself wrong, indeed, la!

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT I



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE]

SIR HUGH EVANS    Go your ways, and ask of Doctor Caius' house which
    is the way: and there dwells one Mistress Quickly,
    which is in the manner of his nurse, or his dry
    nurse, or his cook, or his laundry, his washer, and
    his wringer.

SIMPLE    Well, sir.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Nay, it is petter yet. Give her this letter; for it
    is a 'oman that altogether's acquaintance with
    Mistress Anne Page: and the letter is, to desire
    and require her to solicit your master's desires to
    Mistress Anne Page. I pray you, be gone: I will
    make an end of my dinner; there's pippins and cheese to come.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT I



SCENE III    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter FALSTAFF, Host, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL,
    and ROBIN]

FALSTAFF    Mine host of the Garter!

Host    What says my bully-rook? speak scholarly and wisely.

FALSTAFF    Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my
    followers.

Host    Discard, bully Hercules; cashier: let them wag; trot, trot.

FALSTAFF    I sit at ten pounds a week.

Host    Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keisar, and Pheezar. I
    will entertain Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall
    tap: said I well, bully Hector?

FALSTAFF    Do so, good mine host.

Host    I have spoke; let him follow.

    [To BARDOLPH]

    Let me see thee froth and lime: I am at a word; follow.

    [Exit]

FALSTAFF    Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade:
    an old cloak makes a new jerkin; a withered
    serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.

BARDOLPH    It is a life that I have desired: I will thrive.

PISTOL    O base Hungarian wight! wilt thou the spigot wield?

    [Exit BARDOLPH]

NYM    He was gotten in drink: is not the humour conceited?

FALSTAFF    I am glad I am so acquit of this tinderbox: his
    thefts were too open; his filching was like an
    unskilful singer; he kept not time.

NYM    The good humour is to steal at a minute's rest.

PISTOL    'Convey,' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! a fico
    for the phrase!

FALSTAFF    Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.

PISTOL    Why, then, let kibes ensue.

FALSTAFF    There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.

PISTOL    Young ravens must have food.

FALSTAFF    Which of you know Ford of this town?

PISTOL    I ken the wight: he is of substance good.

FALSTAFF    My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.

PISTOL    Two yards, and more.

FALSTAFF    No quips now, Pistol! Indeed, I am in the waist two
    yards about; but I am now about no waste; I am about
    thrift. Briefly, I do mean to make love to Ford's
    wife: I spy entertainment in her; she discourses,
    she carves, she gives the leer of invitation: I
    can construe the action of her familiar style; and
    the hardest voice of her behavior, to be Englished
    rightly, is, 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'

PISTOL    He hath studied her will, and translated her will,
    out of honesty into English.

NYM    The anchor is deep: will that humour pass?

FALSTAFF    Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her
    husband's purse: he hath a legion of angels.

PISTOL    As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I.

NYM    The humour rises; it is good: humour me the angels.

FALSTAFF    I have writ me here a letter to her: and here
    another to Page's wife, who even now gave me good
    eyes too, examined my parts with most judicious
    oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my
    foot, sometimes my portly belly.

PISTOL    Then did the sun on dunghill shine.

NYM    I thank thee for that humour.

FALSTAFF    O, she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a
    greedy intention, that the appetite of her eye did
    seem to scorch me up like a burning-glass! Here's
    another letter to her: she bears the purse too; she
    is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will
    be cheater to them both, and they shall be
    exchequers to me; they shall be my East and West
    Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go bear thou
    this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to
    Mistress Ford: we will thrive, lads, we will thrive.

PISTOL    Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
    And by my side wear steel? then, Lucifer take all!

NYM    I will run no base humour: here, take the
    humour-letter: I will keep the havior of reputation.

FALSTAFF    [To ROBIN]  Hold, sirrah, bear you these letters tightly;
    Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.
    Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;
    Trudge, plod away o' the hoof; seek shelter, pack!
    Falstaff will learn the humour of the age,
    French thrift, you rogues; myself and skirted page.

    [Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN]

PISTOL    Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,
    And high and low beguiles the rich and poor:
    Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,
    Base Phrygian Turk!

NYM    I have operations which be humours of revenge.

PISTOL    Wilt thou revenge?

NYM    By welkin and her star!

PISTOL    With wit or steel?

NYM    With both the humours, I:
    I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.

PISTOL         And I to Ford shall eke unfold
    How Falstaff, varlet vile,
    His dove will prove, his gold will hold,
    And his soft couch defile.

NYM    My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to
    deal with poison; I will possess him with
    yellowness, for the revolt of mine is dangerous:
    that is my true humour.

PISTOL    Thou art the Mars of malecontents: I second thee; troop on.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT I



SCENE IV    A room in DOCTOR CAIUS' house.


    [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY, SIMPLE, and RUGBY]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    What, John Rugby! I pray thee, go to the casement,
    and see if you can see my master, Master Doctor
    Caius, coming. If he do, i' faith, and find any
    body in the house, here will be an old abusing of
    God's patience and the king's English.

RUGBY    I'll go watch.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Go; and we'll have a posset for't soon at night, in
    faith, at the latter end of a sea-coal fire.

    [Exit RUGBY]

    An honest, willing, kind fellow, as ever servant
    shall come in house withal, and, I warrant you, no
    tell-tale nor no breed-bate: his worst fault is,
    that he is given to prayer; he is something peevish
    that way: but nobody but has his fault; but let
    that pass. Peter Simple, you say your name is?

SIMPLE    Ay, for fault of a better.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    And Master Slender's your master?

SIMPLE    Ay, forsooth.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Does he not wear a great round beard, like a
    glover's paring-knife?

SIMPLE    No, forsooth: he hath but a little wee face, with a
    little yellow beard, a Cain-coloured beard.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    A softly-sprighted man, is he not?

SIMPLE    Ay, forsooth: but he is as tall a man of his hands
    as any is between this and his head; he hath fought
    with a warrener.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    How say you? O, I should remember him: does he not
    hold up his head, as it were, and strut in his gait?

SIMPLE    Yes, indeed, does he.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Well, heaven send Anne Page no worse fortune! Tell
    Master Parson Evans I will do what I can for your
    master: Anne is a good girl, and I wish--

    [Re-enter RUGBY]

RUGBY    Out, alas! here comes my master.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    We shall all be shent. Run in here, good young man;
    go into this closet: he will not stay long.

    [Shuts SIMPLE in the closet]

    What, John Rugby! John! what, John, I say!
    Go, John, go inquire for my master; I doubt
    he be not well, that he comes not home.

    [Singing]

    And down, down, adown-a, &c.

    [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vat is you sing? I do not like des toys. Pray you,
    go and vetch me in my closet un boitier vert, a box,
    a green-a box: do intend vat I speak? a green-a box.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Ay, forsooth; I'll fetch it you.

    [Aside]

    I am glad he went not in himself: if he had found
    the young man, he would have been horn-mad.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Fe, fe, fe, fe! ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je
    m'en vais a la cour--la grande affaire.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Is it this, sir?

DOCTOR CAIUS    Oui; mette le au mon pocket: depeche, quickly. Vere
    is dat knave Rugby?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    What, John Rugby! John!

RUGBY    Here, sir!

DOCTOR CAIUS    You are John Rugby, and you are Jack Rugby. Come,
    take-a your rapier, and come after my heel to the court.

RUGBY    'Tis ready, sir, here in the porch.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By my trot, I tarry too long. Od's me!
    Qu'ai-j'oublie! dere is some simples in my closet,
    dat I vill not for the varld I shall leave behind.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Ay me, he'll find the young man here, and be mad!

DOCTOR CAIUS    O diable, diable! vat is in my closet? Villain! larron!

    [Pulling SIMPLE out]

    Rugby, my rapier!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Good master, be content.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Wherefore shall I be content-a?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    The young man is an honest man.

DOCTOR CAIUS    What shall de honest man do in my closet? dere is
    no honest man dat shall come in my closet.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    I beseech you, be not so phlegmatic. Hear the truth
    of it: he came of an errand to me from Parson Hugh.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vell.

SIMPLE    Ay, forsooth; to desire her to--

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Peace, I pray you.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Peace-a your tongue. Speak-a your tale.

SIMPLE    To desire this honest gentlewoman, your maid, to
    speak a good word to Mistress Anne Page for my
    master in the way of marriage.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    This is all, indeed, la! but I'll ne'er put my
    finger in the fire, and need not.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Sir Hugh send-a you? Rugby, baille me some paper.
    Tarry you a little-a while.

    [Writes]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    [Aside to SIMPLE]  I am glad he is so quiet: if he
    had been thoroughly moved, you should have heard him
    so loud and so melancholy. But notwithstanding,
    man, I'll do you your master what good I can: and
    the very yea and the no is, the French doctor, my
    master,--I may call him my master, look you, for I
    keep his house; and I wash, wring, brew, bake,
    scour, dress meat and drink, make the beds and do
    all myself,--

SIMPLE    [Aside to MISTRESS QUICKLY]  'Tis a great charge to
    come under one body's hand.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    [Aside to SIMPLE]  Are you avised o' that? you
    shall find it a great charge: and to be up early
    and down late; but notwithstanding,--to tell you in
    your ear; I would have no words of it,--my master
    himself is in love with Mistress Anne Page: but
    notwithstanding that, I know Anne's mind,--that's
    neither here nor there.

DOCTOR CAIUS    You jack'nape, give-a this letter to Sir Hugh; by
    gar, it is a shallenge: I will cut his troat in dee
    park; and I will teach a scurvy jack-a-nape priest
    to meddle or make. You may be gone; it is not good
    you tarry here. By gar, I will cut all his two
    stones; by gar, he shall not have a stone to throw
    at his dog:

    [Exit SIMPLE]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Alas, he speaks but for his friend.

DOCTOR CAIUS    It is no matter-a ver dat: do not you tell-a me
    dat I shall have Anne Page for myself? By gar, I
    vill kill de Jack priest; and I have appointed mine
    host of de Jarteer to measure our weapon. By gar, I
    will myself have Anne Page.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Sir, the maid loves you, and all shall be well. We
    must give folks leave to prate: what, the good-jer!

DOCTOR CAIUS    Rugby, come to the court with me. By gar, if I have
    not Anne Page, I shall turn your head out of my
    door. Follow my heels, Rugby.

    [Exeunt DOCTOR CAIUS and RUGBY]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    You shall have An fool's-head of your own. No, I
    know Anne's mind for that: never a woman in Windsor
    knows more of Anne's mind than I do; nor can do more
    than I do with her, I thank heaven.

FENTON    [Within]  Who's within there? ho!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Who's there, I trow! Come near the house, I pray you.

    [Enter FENTON]

FENTON    How now, good woman? how dost thou?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    The better that it pleases your good worship to ask.

FENTON    What news? how does pretty Mistress Anne?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    In truth, sir, and she is pretty, and honest, and
    gentle; and one that is your friend, I can tell you
    that by the way; I praise heaven for it.

FENTON    Shall I do any good, thinkest thou? shall I not lose my suit?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Troth, sir, all is in his hands above: but
    notwithstanding, Master Fenton, I'll be sworn on a
    book, she loves you. Have not your worship a wart
    above your eye?

FENTON    Yes, marry, have I; what of that?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Well, thereby hangs a tale: good faith, it is such
    another Nan; but, I detest, an honest maid as ever
    broke bread: we had an hour's talk of that wart. I
    shall never laugh but in that maid's company! But
    indeed she is given too much to allicholy and
    musing: but for you--well, go to.

FENTON    Well, I shall see her to-day. Hold, there's money
    for thee; let me have thy voice in my behalf: if
    thou seest her before me, commend me.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Will I? i'faith, that we will; and I will tell your
    worship more of the wart the next time we have
    confidence; and of other wooers.

FENTON    Well, farewell; I am in great haste now.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Farewell to your worship.

    [Exit FENTON]

    Truly, an honest gentleman: but Anne loves him not;
    for I know Anne's mind as well as another does. Out
    upon't! what have I forgot?

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT II



SCENE I    Before PAGE'S house.


    [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, with a letter]

MISTRESS PAGE    What, have I scaped love-letters in the holiday-
    time of my beauty, and am I now a subject for them?
    Let me see.

    [Reads]

    'Ask me no reason why I love you; for though
    Love use Reason for his physician, he admits him
    not for his counsellor. You are not young, no more
    am I; go to then, there's sympathy: you are merry,
    so am I; ha, ha! then there's more sympathy: you
    love sack, and so do I; would you desire better
    sympathy? Let it suffice thee, Mistress Page,--at
    the least, if the love of soldier can suffice,--
    that I love thee. I will not say, pity me; 'tis
    not a soldier-like phrase: but I say, love me. By me,
    Thine own true knight,
    By day or night,
    Or any kind of light,
    With all his might
    For thee to fight,    JOHN FALSTAFF'
    What a Herod of Jewry is this! O wicked
    world! One that is well-nigh worn to pieces with
    age to show himself a young gallant! What an
    unweighed behavior hath this Flemish drunkard
    picked--with the devil's name!--out of my
    conversation, that he dares in this manner assay me?
    Why, he hath not been thrice in my company! What
    should I say to him? I was then frugal of my
    mirth: Heaven forgive me! Why, I'll exhibit a bill
    in the parliament for the putting down of men. How
    shall I be revenged on him? for revenged I will be,
    as sure as his guts are made of puddings.

    [Enter MISTRESS FORD]

MISTRESS FORD    Mistress Page! trust me, I was going to your house.

MISTRESS PAGE    And, trust me, I was coming to you. You look very
    ill.

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, I'll ne'er believe that; I have to show to the contrary.

MISTRESS PAGE    Faith, but you do, in my mind.

MISTRESS FORD    Well, I do then; yet I say I could show you to the
    contrary. O Mistress Page, give me some counsel!

MISTRESS PAGE    What's the matter, woman?

MISTRESS FORD    O woman, if it were not for one trifling respect, I
    could come to such honour!

MISTRESS PAGE    Hang the trifle, woman! take the honour. What is
    it? dispense with trifles; what is it?

MISTRESS FORD    If I would but go to hell for an eternal moment or so,
    I could be knighted.

MISTRESS PAGE    What? thou liest! Sir Alice Ford! These knights
    will hack; and so thou shouldst not alter the
    article of thy gentry.

MISTRESS FORD    We burn daylight: here, read, read; perceive how I
    might be knighted. I shall think the worse of fat
    men, as long as I have an eye to make difference of
    men's liking: and yet he would not swear; praised
    women's modesty; and gave such orderly and
    well-behaved reproof to all uncomeliness, that I
    would have sworn his disposition would have gone to
    the truth of his words; but they do no more adhere
    and keep place together than the Hundredth Psalm to
    the tune of 'Green Sleeves.' What tempest, I trow,
    threw this whale, with so many tuns of oil in his
    belly, ashore at Windsor? How shall I be revenged
    on him? I think the best way were to entertain him
    with hope, till the wicked fire of lust have melted
    him in his own grease. Did you ever hear the like?

MISTRESS PAGE    Letter for letter, but that the name of Page and
    Ford differs! To thy great comfort in this mystery
    of ill opinions, here's the twin-brother of thy
    letter: but let thine inherit first; for, I
    protest, mine never shall. I warrant he hath a
    thousand of these letters, writ with blank space for
    different names--sure, more,--and these are of the
    second edition: he will print them, out of doubt;
    for he cares not what he puts into the press, when
    he would put us two. I had rather be a giantess,
    and lie under Mount Pelion. Well, I will find you
    twenty lascivious turtles ere one chaste man.

MISTRESS FORD    Why, this is the very same; the very hand, the very
    words. What doth he think of us?

MISTRESS PAGE    Nay, I know not: it makes me almost ready to
    wrangle with mine own honesty. I'll entertain
    myself like one that I am not acquainted withal;
    for, sure, unless he know some strain in me, that I
    know not myself, he would never have boarded me in this fury.

MISTRESS FORD    'Boarding,' call you it? I'll be sure to keep him
    above deck.

MISTRESS PAGE    So will I    if he come under my hatches, I'll never
    to sea again. Let's be revenged on him: let's
    appoint him a meeting; give him a show of comfort in
    his suit and lead him on with a fine-baited delay,
    till he hath pawned his horses to mine host of the Garter.

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, I will consent to act any villany against him,
    that may not sully the chariness of our honesty. O,
    that my husband saw this letter! it would give
    eternal food to his jealousy.

MISTRESS PAGE    Why, look where he comes; and my good man too: he's
    as far from jealousy as I am from giving him cause;
    and that I hope is an unmeasurable distance.

MISTRESS FORD    You are the happier woman.

MISTRESS PAGE    Let's consult together against this greasy knight.
    Come hither.

    [They retire]

    [Enter FORD with PISTOL, and PAGE with NYM]

FORD    Well, I hope it be not so.

PISTOL    Hope is a curtal dog in some affairs:
    Sir John affects thy wife.

FORD    Why, sir, my wife is not young.

PISTOL    He wooes both high and low, both rich and poor,
    Both young and old, one with another, Ford;
    He loves the gallimaufry: Ford, perpend.

FORD    Love my wife!

PISTOL    With liver burning hot. Prevent, or go thou,
    Like Sir Actaeon he, with Ringwood at thy heels:
    O, odious is the name!

FORD    What name, sir?

PISTOL    The horn, I say. Farewell.
    Take heed, have open eye, for thieves do foot by night:
    Take heed, ere summer comes or cuckoo-birds do sing.
    Away, Sir Corporal Nym!
    Believe it, Page; he speaks sense.

    [Exit]

FORD    [Aside]  I will be patient; I will find out this.

NYM    [To PAGE]  And this is true; I like not the humour
    of lying. He hath wronged me in some humours: I
    should have borne the humoured letter to her; but I
    have a sword and it shall bite upon my necessity.
    He loves your wife; there's the short and the long.
    My name is Corporal Nym; I speak and I avouch; 'tis
    true: my name is Nym and Falstaff loves your wife.
    Adieu. I love not the humour of bread and cheese,
    and there's the humour of it. Adieu.

    [Exit]

PAGE    'The humour of it,' quoth a'! here's a fellow
    frights English out of his wits.

FORD    I will seek out Falstaff.

PAGE    I never heard such a drawling, affecting rogue.

FORD    If I do find it: well.

PAGE    I will not believe such a Cataian, though the priest
    o' the town commended him for a true man.

FORD    'Twas a good sensible fellow: well.

PAGE    How now, Meg!

    [MISTRESS PAGE and MISTRESS FORD come forward]

MISTRESS PAGE    Whither go you, George? Hark you.

MISTRESS FORD    How now, sweet Frank! why art thou melancholy?

FORD    I melancholy! I am not melancholy. Get you home, go.

MISTRESS FORD    Faith, thou hast some crotchets in thy head. Now,
    will you go, Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE    Have with you. You'll come to dinner, George.

    [Aside to MISTRESS FORD]

    Look who comes yonder: she shall be our messenger
    to this paltry knight.

MISTRESS FORD    [Aside to MISTRESS PAGE]  Trust me, I thought on her:
    she'll fit it.

    [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY]

MISTRESS PAGE    You are come to see my daughter Anne?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Ay, forsooth; and, I pray, how does good Mistress Anne?

MISTRESS PAGE    Go in with us and see: we have an hour's talk with
    you.

    [Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and MISTRESS QUICKLY]

PAGE    How now, Master Ford!

FORD    You heard what this knave told me, did you not?

PAGE    Yes: and you heard what the other told me?

FORD    Do you think there is truth in them?

PAGE    Hang 'em, slaves! I do not think the knight would
    offer it: but these that accuse him in his intent
    towards our wives are a yoke of his discarded men;
    very rogues, now they be out of service.

FORD    Were they his men?

PAGE    Marry, were they.

FORD    I like it never the better for that. Does he lie at
    the Garter?

PAGE    Ay, marry, does he. If he should intend this voyage
    towards my wife, I would turn her loose to him; and
    what he gets more of her than sharp words, let it
    lie on my head.

FORD    I do not misdoubt my wife; but I would be loath to
    turn them together. A man may be too confident: I
    would have nothing lie on my head: I cannot be thus satisfied.

PAGE    Look where my ranting host of the Garter comes:
    there is either liquor in his pate or money in his
    purse when he looks so merrily.

    [Enter Host]

    How now, mine host!

Host    How now, bully-rook! thou'rt a gentleman.
    Cavaleiro-justice, I say!

    [Enter SHALLOW]

SHALLOW    I follow, mine host, I follow. Good even and
    twenty, good Master Page! Master Page, will you go
    with us? we have sport in hand.

Host    Tell him, cavaleiro-justice; tell him, bully-rook.

SHALLOW    Sir, there is a fray to be fought between Sir Hugh
    the Welsh priest and Caius the French doctor.

FORD    Good mine host o' the Garter, a word with you.

    [Drawing him aside]

Host    What sayest thou, my bully-rook?

SHALLOW    [To PAGE]  Will you go with us to behold it? My
    merry host hath had the measuring of their weapons;
    and, I think, hath appointed them contrary places;
    for, believe me, I hear the parson is no jester.
    Hark, I will tell you what our sport shall be.

    [They converse apart]

Host    Hast thou no suit against my knight, my
    guest-cavaleire?

FORD    None, I protest: but I'll give you a pottle of
    burnt sack to give me recourse to him and tell him
    my name is Brook; only for a jest.

Host    My hand, bully; thou shalt have egress and regress;
    --said I well?--and thy name shall be Brook. It is
    a merry knight. Will you go, An-heires?

SHALLOW    Have with you, mine host.

PAGE    I have heard the Frenchman hath good skill in
    his rapier.

SHALLOW    Tut, sir, I could have told you more. In these times
    you stand on distance, your passes, stoccadoes, and
    I know not what: 'tis the heart, Master Page; 'tis
    here, 'tis here. I have seen the time, with my long
    sword I would have made you four tall fellows skip like rats.

Host    Here, boys, here, here! shall we wag?

PAGE    Have with you. I would rather hear them scold than fight.

    [Exeunt Host, SHALLOW, and PAGE]

FORD    Though Page be a secure fool, an stands so firmly
    on his wife's frailty, yet I cannot put off my
    opinion so easily: she was in his company at Page's
    house; and what they made there, I know not. Well,
    I will look further into't: and I have a disguise
    to sound Falstaff. If I find her honest, I lose not
    my labour; if she be otherwise, 'tis labour well bestowed.

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT II



SCENE II    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter FALSTAFF and PISTOL]


FALSTAFF    I will not lend thee a penny.

PISTOL    Why, then the world's mine oyster.
    Which I with sword will open.

FALSTAFF    Not a penny. I have been content, sir, you should
    lay my countenance to pawn; I have grated upon my
    good friends for three reprieves for you and your
    coach-fellow Nym; or else you had looked through
    the grate, like a geminy of baboons. I am damned in
    hell for swearing to gentlemen my friends, you were
    good soldiers and tall fellows; and when Mistress
    Bridget lost the handle of her fan, I took't upon
    mine honour thou hadst it not.

PISTOL    Didst not thou share? hadst thou not fifteen pence?

FALSTAFF    Reason, you rogue, reason: thinkest thou I'll
    endanger my soul gratis? At a word, hang no more
    about me, I am no gibbet for you. Go. A short knife
    and a throng! To your manor of Pickt-hatch! Go.
    You'll not bear a letter for me, you rogue! you
    stand upon your honour! Why, thou unconfinable
    baseness, it is as much as I can do to keep the
    terms of my honour precise: I, I, I myself
    sometimes, leaving the fear of God on the left hand
    and hiding mine honour in my necessity, am fain to
    shuffle, to hedge and to lurch; and yet you, rogue,
    will ensconce your rags, your cat-a-mountain
    looks, your red-lattice phrases, and your
    bold-beating oaths, under the shelter of your
    honour! You will not do it, you!

PISTOL    I do relent: what would thou more of man?

    [Enter ROBIN]

ROBIN    Sir, here's a woman would speak with you.

FALSTAFF    Let her approach.

    [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Give your worship good morrow.

FALSTAFF    Good morrow, good wife.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Not so, an't please your worship.

FALSTAFF    Good maid, then.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    I'll be sworn,
    As my mother was, the first hour I was born.

FALSTAFF    I do believe the swearer. What with me?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Shall I vouchsafe your worship a word or two?

FALSTAFF    Two thousand, fair woman: and I'll vouchsafe thee
    the hearing.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    There is one Mistress Ford, sir:--I pray, come a
    little nearer this ways:--I myself dwell with master
    Doctor Caius,--

FALSTAFF    Well, on: Mistress Ford, you say,--

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Your worship says very true: I pray your worship,
    come a little nearer this ways.

FALSTAFF    I warrant thee, nobody hears; mine own people, mine
    own people.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Are they so? God bless them and make them his servants!

FALSTAFF    Well, Mistress Ford; what of her?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Why, sir, she's a good creature. Lord Lord! your
    worship's a wanton! Well, heaven forgive you and all
    of us, I pray!

FALSTAFF    Mistress Ford; come, Mistress Ford,--

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Marry, this is the short and the long of it; you
    have brought her into such a canaries as 'tis
    wonderful. The best courtier of them all, when the
    court lay at Windsor, could never have brought her
    to such a canary. Yet there has been knights, and
    lords, and gentlemen, with their coaches, I warrant
    you, coach after coach, letter after letter, gift
    after gift; smelling so sweetly, all musk, and so
    rushling, I warrant you, in silk and gold; and in
    such alligant terms; and in such wine and sugar of
    the best and the fairest, that would have won any
    woman's heart; and, I warrant you, they could never
    get an eye-wink of her: I had myself twenty angels
    given me this morning; but I defy all angels, in
    any such sort, as they say, but in the way of
    honesty: and, I warrant you, they could never get
    her so much as sip on a cup with the proudest of
    them all: and yet there has been earls, nay, which
    is more, pensioners; but, I warrant you, all is one with her.

FALSTAFF    But what says she to me? be brief, my good
    she-Mercury.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Marry, she hath received your letter, for the which
    she thanks you a thousand times; and she gives you
    to notify that her husband will be absence from his
    house between ten and eleven.

FALSTAFF    Ten and eleven?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Ay, forsooth; and then you may come and see the
    picture, she says, that you wot of: Master Ford,
    her husband, will be from home. Alas! the sweet
    woman leads an ill life with him: he's a very
    jealousy man: she leads a very frampold life with
    him, good heart.

FALSTAFF    Ten and eleven. Woman, commend me to her; I will
    not fail her.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Why, you say well. But I have another messenger to
    your worship. Mistress Page hath her hearty
    commendations to you too: and let me tell you in
    your ear, she's as fartuous a civil modest wife, and
    one, I tell you, that will not miss you morning nor
    evening prayer, as any is in Windsor, whoe'er be the
    other: and she bade me tell your worship that her
    husband is seldom from home; but she hopes there
    will come a time. I never knew a woman so dote upon
    a man: surely I think you have charms, la; yes, in truth.

FALSTAFF    Not I, I assure thee: setting the attractions of my
    good parts aside I have no other charms.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Blessing on your heart for't!

FALSTAFF    But, I pray thee, tell me this: has Ford's wife and
    Page's wife acquainted each other how they love me?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    That were a jest indeed! they have not so little
    grace, I hope: that were a trick indeed! but
    Mistress Page would desire you to send her your
    little page, of all loves: her husband has a
    marvellous infection to the little page; and truly
    Master Page is an honest man. Never a wife in
    Windsor leads a better life than she does: do what
    she will, say what she will, take all, pay all, go
    to bed when she list, rise when she list, all is as
    she will: and truly she deserves it; for if there
    be a kind woman in Windsor, she is one. You must
    send her your page; no remedy.

FALSTAFF    Why, I will.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Nay, but do so, then: and, look you, he may come and
    go between you both; and in any case have a
    nay-word, that you may know one another's mind, and
    the boy never need to understand any thing; for
    'tis not good that children should know any
    wickedness: old folks, you know, have discretion,
    as they say, and know the world.

FALSTAFF    Fare thee well: commend me to them both: there's
    my purse; I am yet thy debtor. Boy, go along with
    this woman.

    [Exeunt MISTRESS QUICKLY and ROBIN]

    This news distracts me!

PISTOL    This punk is one of Cupid's carriers:
    Clap on more sails; pursue; up with your fights:
    Give fire: she is my prize, or ocean whelm them all!

    [Exit]

FALSTAFF    Sayest thou so, old Jack? go thy ways; I'll make
    more of thy old body than I have done. Will they
    yet look after thee? Wilt thou, after the expense
    of so much money, be now a gainer? Good body, I
    thank thee. Let them say 'tis grossly done; so it be
    fairly done, no matter.

    [Enter BARDOLPH]

BARDOLPH    Sir John, there's one Master Brook below would fain
    speak with you, and be acquainted with you; and hath
    sent your worship a morning's draught of sack.

FALSTAFF    Brook is his name?

BARDOLPH    Ay, sir.

FALSTAFF    Call him in.

    [Exit BARDOLPH]

    Such Brooks are welcome to me, that o'erflow such
    liquor. Ah, ha! Mistress Ford and Mistress Page
    have I encompassed you? go to; via!

    [Re-enter BARDOLPH, with FORD disguised]

FORD    Bless you, sir!

FALSTAFF    And you, sir! Would you speak with me?

FORD    I make bold to press with so little preparation upon
    you.

FALSTAFF    You're welcome. What's your will? Give us leave, drawer.

    [Exit BARDOLPH]

FORD    Sir, I am a gentleman that have spent much; my name is Brook.

FALSTAFF    Good Master Brook, I desire more acquaintance of you.

FORD    Good Sir John, I sue for yours: not to charge you;
    for I must let you understand I think myself in
    better plight for a lender than you are: the which
    hath something embolden'd me to this unseasoned
    intrusion; for they say, if money go before, all
    ways do lie open.

FALSTAFF    Money is a good soldier, sir, and will on.

FORD    Troth, and I have a bag of money here troubles me:
    if you will help to bear it, Sir John, take all, or
    half, for easing me of the carriage.

FALSTAFF    Sir, I know not how I may deserve to be your porter.

FORD    I will tell you, sir, if you will give me the hearing.

FALSTAFF    Speak, good Master Brook: I shall be glad to be
    your servant.

FORD    Sir, I hear you are a scholar,--I will be brief
    with you,--and you have been a man long known to me,
    though I had never so good means, as desire, to make
    myself acquainted with you. I shall discover a
    thing to you, wherein I must very much lay open mine
    own imperfection: but, good Sir John, as you have
    one eye upon my follies, as you hear them unfolded,
    turn another into the register of your own; that I
    may pass with a reproof the easier, sith you
    yourself know how easy it is to be such an offender.

FALSTAFF    Very well, sir; proceed.

FORD    There is a gentlewoman in this town; her husband's
    name is Ford.

FALSTAFF    Well, sir.

FORD    I have long loved her, and, I protest to you,
    bestowed much on her; followed her with a doting
    observance; engrossed opportunities to meet her;
    fee'd every slight occasion that could but niggardly
    give me sight of her; not only bought many presents
    to give her, but have given largely to many to know
    what she would have given; briefly, I have pursued
    her as love hath pursued me; which hath been on the
    wing of all occasions. But whatsoever I have
    merited, either in my mind or, in my means, meed,
    I am sure, I have received none; unless experience
    be a jewel that I have purchased at an infinite
    rate, and that hath taught me to say this:

    'Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues;
    Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.'

FALSTAFF    Have you received no promise of satisfaction at her hands?

FORD    Never.

FALSTAFF    Have you importuned her to such a purpose?

FORD    Never.

FALSTAFF    Of what quality was your love, then?

FORD    Like a fair house built on another man's ground; so
    that I have lost my edifice by mistaking the place
    where I erected it.

FALSTAFF    To what purpose have you unfolded this to me?

FORD    When I have told you that, I have told you all.
    Some say, that though she appear honest to me, yet in
    other places she enlargeth her mirth so far that
    there is shrewd construction made of her. Now, Sir
    John, here is the heart of my purpose: you are a
    gentleman of excellent breeding, admirable
    discourse, of great admittance, authentic in your
    place and person, generally allowed for your many
    war-like, court-like, and learned preparations.

FALSTAFF    O, sir!

FORD    Believe it, for you know it. There is money; spend
    it, spend it; spend more; spend all I have; only
    give me so much of your time in exchange of it, as
    to lay an amiable siege to the honesty of this
    Ford's wife: use your art of wooing; win her to
    consent to you: if any man may, you may as soon as
    any.

FALSTAFF    Would it apply well to the vehemency of your
    affection, that I should win what you would enjoy?
    Methinks you prescribe to yourself very preposterously.

FORD    O, understand my drift. She dwells so securely on
    the excellency of her honour, that the folly of my
    soul dares not present itself: she is too bright to
    be looked against. Now, could I could come to her
    with any detection in my hand, my desires had
    instance and argument to commend themselves: I
    could drive her then from the ward of her purity,
    her reputation, her marriage-vow, and a thousand
    other her defences, which now are too too strongly
    embattled against me. What say you to't, Sir John?

FALSTAFF    Master Brook, I will first make bold with your
    money; next, give me your hand; and last, as I am a
    gentleman, you shall, if you will, enjoy Ford's wife.

FORD    O good sir!

FALSTAFF    I say you shall.

FORD    Want no money, Sir John; you shall want none.

FALSTAFF    Want no Mistress Ford, Master Brook; you shall want
    none. I shall be with her, I may tell you, by her
    own appointment; even as you came in to me, her
    assistant or go-between parted from me: I say I
    shall be with her between ten and eleven; for at
    that time the jealous rascally knave her husband
    will be forth. Come you to me at night; you shall
    know how I speed.

FORD    I am blest in your acquaintance. Do you know Ford,
    sir?

FALSTAFF    Hang him, poor cuckoldly knave! I know him not:
    yet I wrong him to call him poor; they say the
    jealous wittolly knave hath masses of money; for the
    which his wife seems to me well-favored. I will
    use her as the key of the cuckoldly rogue's coffer;
    and there's my harvest-home.

FORD    I would you knew Ford, sir, that you might avoid him
    if you saw him.

FALSTAFF    Hang him, mechanical salt-butter rogue! I will
    stare him out of his wits; I will awe him with my
    cudgel: it shall hang like a meteor o'er the
    cuckold's horns. Master Brook, thou shalt know I
    will predominate over the peasant, and thou shalt
    lie with his wife. Come to me soon at night.
    Ford's a knave, and I will aggravate his style;
    thou, Master Brook, shalt know him for knave and
    cuckold. Come to me soon at night.

    [Exit]

FORD    What a damned Epicurean rascal is this! My heart is
    ready to crack with impatience. Who says this is
    improvident jealousy? my wife hath sent to him; the
    hour is fixed; the match is made. Would any man
    have thought this? See the hell of having a false
    woman! My bed shall be abused, my coffers
    ransacked, my reputation gnawn at; and I shall not
    only receive this villanous wrong, but stand under
    the adoption of abominable terms, and by him that
    does me this wrong. Terms! names! Amaimon sounds
    well; Lucifer, well; Barbason, well; yet they are
    devils' additions, the names of fiends: but
    Cuckold! Wittol!--Cuckold! the devil himself hath
    not such a name. Page is an ass, a secure ass: he
    will trust his wife; he will not be jealous. I will
    rather trust a Fleming with my butter, Parson Hugh
    the Welshman with my cheese, an Irishman with my
    aqua-vitae bottle, or a thief to walk my ambling
    gelding, than my wife with herself; then she plots,
    then she ruminates, then she devises; and what they
    think in their hearts they may effect, they will
    break their hearts but they will effect. God be
    praised for my jealousy! Eleven o'clock the hour.
    I will prevent this, detect my wife, be revenged on
    Falstaff, and laugh at Page. I will about it;
    better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
    Fie, fie, fie! cuckold! cuckold! cuckold!

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT II



SCENE III    A field near Windsor.


    [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS and RUGBY]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Jack Rugby!

RUGBY    Sir?

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vat is de clock, Jack?

RUGBY    'Tis past the hour, sir, that Sir Hugh promised to meet.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, he has save his soul, dat he is no come; he
    has pray his Pible well, dat he is no come: by gar,
    Jack Rugby, he is dead already, if he be come.

RUGBY    He is wise, sir; he knew your worship would kill
    him, if he came.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, de herring is no dead so as I vill kill him.
    Take your rapier, Jack; I vill tell you how I vill kill him.

RUGBY    Alas, sir, I cannot fence.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Villany, take your rapier.

RUGBY    Forbear; here's company.

    [Enter Host, SHALLOW, SLENDER, and PAGE]

Host    Bless thee, bully doctor!

SHALLOW    Save you, Master Doctor Caius!

PAGE    Now, good master doctor!

SLENDER    Give you good morrow, sir.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vat be all you, one, two, tree, four, come for?

Host    To see thee fight, to see thee foin, to see thee
    traverse; to see thee here, to see thee there; to
    see thee pass thy punto, thy stock, thy reverse, thy
    distance, thy montant. Is he dead, my Ethiopian? is
    he dead, my Francisco? ha, bully! What says my
    AEsculapius? my Galen? my heart of elder? ha! is
    he dead, bully stale? is he dead?

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, he is de coward Jack priest of de vorld; he
    is not show his face.

Host    Thou art a Castalion-King-Urinal. Hector of Greece, my boy!

DOCTOR CAIUS    I pray you, bear vitness that me have stay six or
    seven, two, tree hours for him, and he is no come.

SHALLOW    He is the wiser man, master doctor: he is a curer of
    souls, and you a curer of bodies; if you should
    fight, you go against the hair of your professions.
    Is it not true, Master Page?

PAGE    Master Shallow, you have yourself been a great
    fighter, though now a man of peace.

SHALLOW    Bodykins, Master Page, though I now be old and of
    the peace, if I see a sword out, my finger itches to
    make one. Though we are justices and doctors and
    churchmen, Master Page, we have some salt of our
    youth in us; we are the sons of women, Master Page.

PAGE    'Tis true, Master Shallow.

SHALLOW    It will be found so, Master Page. Master Doctor
    Caius, I am come to fetch you home. I am sworn of
    the peace: you have showed yourself a wise
    physician, and Sir Hugh hath shown himself a wise
    and patient churchman. You must go with me, master doctor.

Host    Pardon, guest-justice. A word, Mounseur Mockwater.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Mock-vater! vat is dat?

Host    Mock-water, in our English tongue, is valour, bully.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, den, I have as mush mock-vater as de
    Englishman. Scurvy jack-dog priest! by gar, me
    vill cut his ears.

Host    He will clapper-claw thee tightly, bully.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Clapper-de-claw! vat is dat?

Host    That is, he will make thee amends.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, me do look he shall clapper-de-claw me;
    for, by gar, me vill have it.

Host    And I will provoke him to't, or let him wag.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Me tank you for dat.

Host    And, moreover, bully,--but first, master guest, and
    Master Page, and eke Cavaleiro Slender, go you
    through the town to Frogmore.

    [Aside to them]

PAGE    Sir Hugh is there, is he?

Host    He is there: see what humour he is in; and I will
    bring the doctor about by the fields. Will it do well?

SHALLOW    We will do it.


PAGE    |
    |
SHALLOW    |  Adieu, good master doctor.
    |
SLENDER    |


    [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER]

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, me vill kill de priest; for he speak for a
    jack-an-ape to Anne Page.

Host    Let him die: sheathe thy impatience, throw cold
    water on thy choler: go about the fields with me
    through Frogmore: I will bring thee where Mistress
    Anne Page is, at a farm-house a-feasting; and thou
    shalt woo her. Cried I aim? said I well?

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, me dank you for dat: by gar, I love you;
    and I shall procure-a you de good guest, de earl,
    de knight, de lords, de gentlemen, my patients.

Host    For the which I will be thy adversary toward Anne
    Page. Said I well?

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, 'tis good; vell said.

Host    Let us wag, then.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Come at my heels, Jack Rugby.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT III



SCENE I    A field near Frogmore.


    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS and SIMPLE]

SIR HUGH EVANS    I pray you now, good master Slender's serving-man,
    and friend Simple by your name, which way have you
    looked for Master Caius, that calls himself doctor of physic?

SIMPLE    Marry, sir, the pittie-ward, the park-ward, every
    way; old Windsor way, and every way but the town
    way.

SIR HUGH EVANS    I most fehemently desire you you will also look that
    way.

SIMPLE    I will, sir.

    [Exit]

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Pless my soul, how full of chollors I am, and
    trempling of mind! I shall be glad if he have
    deceived me. How melancholies I am! I will knog
    his urinals about his knave's costard when I have
    good opportunities for the ork. 'Pless my soul!

    [Sings]

    To shallow rivers, to whose falls
    Melodious birds sings madrigals;
    There will we make our peds of roses,
    And a thousand fragrant posies.
    To shallow--

    Mercy on me! I have a great dispositions to cry.

    [Sings]

    Melodious birds sing madrigals--
    When as I sat in Pabylon--
    And a thousand vagram posies.
    To shallow &c.

    [Re-enter SIMPLE]

SIMPLE    Yonder he is coming, this way, Sir Hugh.

SIR HUGH EVANS    He's welcome.

    [Sings]

    To shallow rivers, to whose falls-
    Heaven prosper the right! What weapons is he?

SIMPLE    No weapons, sir. There comes my master, Master
    Shallow, and another gentleman, from Frogmore, over
    the stile, this way.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Pray you, give me my gown; or else keep it in your arms.

    [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER]

SHALLOW    How now, master Parson! Good morrow, good Sir Hugh.
    Keep a gamester from the dice, and a good student
    from his book, and it is wonderful.

SLENDER    [Aside]  Ah, sweet Anne Page!

PAGE    'Save you, good Sir Hugh!

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Pless you from his mercy sake, all of you!

SHALLOW    What, the sword and the word! do you study them
    both, master parson?

PAGE    And youthful still! in your doublet and hose this
    raw rheumatic day!

SIR HUGH EVANS    There is reasons and causes for it.

PAGE    We are come to you to do a good office, master parson.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Fery well: what is it?

PAGE    Yonder is a most reverend gentleman, who, belike
    having received wrong by some person, is at most
    odds with his own gravity and patience that ever you
    saw.

SHALLOW    I have lived fourscore years and upward; I never
    heard a man of his place, gravity and learning, so
    wide of his own respect.

SIR HUGH EVANS    What is he?

PAGE    I think you know him; Master Doctor Caius, the
    renowned French physician.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Got's will, and his passion of my heart! I had as
    lief you would tell me of a mess of porridge.

PAGE    Why?

SIR HUGH EVANS    He has no more knowledge in Hibocrates and Galen,
    --and he is a knave besides; a cowardly knave as you
    would desires to be acquainted withal.

PAGE    I warrant you, he's the man should fight with him.

SHALLOW    [Aside]  O sweet Anne Page!

SHALLOW    It appears so by his weapons. Keep them asunder:
    here comes Doctor Caius.

    [Enter Host, DOCTOR CAIUS, and RUGBY]

PAGE    Nay, good master parson, keep in your weapon.

SHALLOW    So do you, good master doctor.

Host    Disarm them, and let them question: let them keep
    their limbs whole and hack our English.

DOCTOR CAIUS    I pray you, let-a me speak a word with your ear.
    Vherefore vill you not meet-a me?

SIR HUGH EVANS    [Aside to DOCTOR CAIUS]  Pray you, use your patience:
    in good time.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, you are de coward, de Jack dog, John ape.

SIR HUGH EVANS    [Aside to DOCTOR CAIUS]  Pray you let us not be
    laughing-stocks to other men's humours; I desire you
    in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.

    [Aloud]

    I will knog your urinals about your knave's cockscomb
    for missing your meetings and appointments.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Diable! Jack Rugby,--mine host de Jarteer,--have I
    not stay for him to kill him? have I not, at de place
    I did appoint?

SIR HUGH EVANS    As I am a Christians soul now, look you, this is the
    place appointed: I'll be judgement by mine host of
    the Garter.

Host    Peace, I say, Gallia and Gaul, French and Welsh,
    soul-curer and body-curer!

DOCTOR CAIUS    Ay, dat is very good; excellent.

Host    Peace, I say! hear mine host of the Garter. Am I
    politic? am I subtle? am I a Machiavel? Shall I
    lose my doctor? no; he gives me the potions and the
    motions. Shall I lose my parson, my priest, my Sir
    Hugh? no; he gives me the proverbs and the
    no-verbs. Give me thy hand, terrestrial; so. Give me
    thy hand, celestial; so. Boys of art, I have
    deceived you both; I have directed you to wrong
    places: your hearts are mighty, your skins are
    whole, and let burnt sack be the issue. Come, lay
    their swords to pawn. Follow me, lads of peace;
    follow, follow, follow.

SHALLOW    Trust me, a mad host. Follow, gentlemen, follow.

SLENDER    [Aside]  O sweet Anne Page!

    [Exeunt SHALLOW, SLENDER, PAGE, and Host]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Ha, do I perceive dat? have you make-a de sot of
    us, ha, ha?

SIR HUGH EVANS    This is well; he has made us his vlouting-stog. I
    desire you that we may be friends; and let us knog
    our prains together to be revenge on this same
    scall, scurvy cogging companion, the host of the Garter.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, with all my heart. He promise to bring me
    where is Anne Page; by gar, he deceive me too.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Well, I will smite his noddles. Pray you, follow.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT III



SCENE II    A street.


    [Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN]

MISTRESS PAGE    Nay, keep your way, little gallant; you were wont to
    be a follower, but now you are a leader. Whether
    had you rather lead mine eyes, or eye your master's heels?

ROBIN    I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man
    than follow him like a dwarf.

MISTRESS PAGE    O, you are a flattering boy: now I see you'll be a courtier.

    [Enter FORD]

FORD    Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?

MISTRESS PAGE    Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home?

FORD    Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want
    of company. I think, if your husbands were dead,
    you two would marry.

MISTRESS PAGE    Be sure of that,--two other husbands.

FORD    Where had you this pretty weather-cock?

MISTRESS PAGE    I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my
    husband had him of. What do you call your knight's
    name, sirrah?

ROBIN    Sir John Falstaff.

FORD    Sir John Falstaff!

MISTRESS PAGE    He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a
    league between my good man and he! Is your wife at
    home indeed?

FORD    Indeed she is.

MISTRESS PAGE    By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.

    [Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN]

FORD    Has Page any brains? hath he any eyes? hath he any
    thinking? Sure, they sleep; he hath no use of them.
    Why, this boy will carry a letter twenty mile, as
    easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank twelve
    score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he
    gives her folly motion and advantage: and now she's
    going to my wife, and Falstaff's boy with her. A
    man may hear this shower sing in the wind. And
    Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots, they are laid;
    and our revolted wives share damnation together.
    Well; I will take him, then torture my wife, pluck
    the borrowed veil of modesty from the so seeming
    Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure and
    wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all
    my neighbours shall cry aim.

    [Clock heard]

    The clock gives me my cue, and my assurance bids me
    search: there I shall find Falstaff: I shall be
    rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as
    positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is
    there: I will go.

    [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, Host,
    SIR HUGH EVANS, DOCTOR CAIUS, and RUGBY]


SHALLOW    |
    |
PAGE    |  Well met, Master Ford.
    |
&C    |


FORD    Trust me, a good knot: I have good cheer at home;
    and I pray you all go with me.

SHALLOW    I must excuse myself, Master Ford.

SLENDER    And so must I, sir: we have appointed to dine with
    Mistress Anne, and I would not break with her for
    more money than I'll speak of.

SHALLOW    We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and
    my cousin Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.

SLENDER    I hope I have your good will, father Page.

PAGE    You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you:
    but my wife, master doctor, is for you altogether.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a
    Quickly tell me so mush.

Host    What say you to young Master Fenton? he capers, he
    dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he
    speaks holiday, he smells April and May: he will
    carry't, he will carry't; 'tis in his buttons; he
    will carry't.

PAGE    Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is
    of no having: he kept company with the wild prince
    and Poins; he is of too high a region; he knows too
    much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his fortunes
    with the finger of my substance: if he take her,
    let him take her simply; the wealth I have waits on
    my consent, and my consent goes not that way.

FORD    I beseech you heartily, some of you go home with me
    to dinner: besides your cheer, you shall have
    sport; I will show you a monster. Master doctor,
    you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you, Sir Hugh.

SHALLOW    Well, fare you well: we shall have the freer wooing
    at Master Page's.

    [Exeunt SHALLOW, and SLENDER]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.

    [Exit RUGBY]

Host    Farewell, my hearts: I will to my honest knight
    Falstaff, and drink canary with him.

    [Exit]

FORD    [Aside]  I think I shall drink in pipe wine first
    with him; I'll make him dance. Will you go, gentles?

All    Have with you to see this monster.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT III



SCENE III    A room in FORD'S house.


    [Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE]

MISTRESS FORD    What, John! What, Robert!

MISTRESS PAGE    Quickly, quickly! is the buck-basket--

MISTRESS FORD    I warrant. What, Robin, I say!

    [Enter Servants with a basket]

MISTRESS PAGE    Come, come, come.

MISTRESS FORD    Here, set it down.

MISTRESS PAGE    Give your men the charge; we must be brief.

MISTRESS FORD    Marry, as I told you before, John and Robert, be
    ready here hard by in the brew-house: and when I
    suddenly call you, come forth, and without any pause
    or staggering take this basket on your shoulders:
    that done, trudge with it in all haste, and carry
    it among the whitsters in Datchet-mead, and there
    empty it in the muddy ditch close by the Thames side.

MISTRESS PAGE    You will do it?

MISTRESS FORD    I ha' told them over and over; they lack no
    direction. Be gone, and come when you are called.

    [Exeunt Servants]

MISTRESS PAGE    Here comes little Robin.

    [Enter ROBIN]

MISTRESS FORD    How now, my eyas-musket! what news with you?

ROBIN    My master, Sir John, is come in at your back-door,
    Mistress Ford, and requests your company.

MISTRESS PAGE    You little Jack-a-Lent, have you been true to us?

ROBIN    Ay, I'll be sworn. My master knows not of your
    being here and hath threatened to put me into
    everlasting liberty if I tell you of it; for he
    swears he'll turn me away.

MISTRESS PAGE    Thou'rt a good boy: this secrecy of thine shall be
    a tailor to thee and shall make thee a new doublet
    and hose. I'll go hide me.

MISTRESS FORD    Do so. Go tell thy master I am alone.

    [Exit ROBIN]

    Mistress Page, remember you your cue.

MISTRESS PAGE    I warrant thee; if I do not act it, hiss me.

    [Exit]

MISTRESS FORD    Go to, then: we'll use this unwholesome humidity,
    this gross watery pumpion; we'll teach him to know
    turtles from jays.

    [Enter FALSTAFF]

FALSTAFF    Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let
    me die, for I have lived long enough: this is the
    period of my ambition: O this blessed hour!

MISTRESS FORD    O sweet Sir John!

FALSTAFF    Mistress Ford, I cannot cog, I cannot prate,
    Mistress Ford. Now shall I sin in my wish: I would
    thy husband were dead: I'll speak it before the
    best lord; I would make thee my lady.

MISTRESS FORD    I your lady, Sir John! alas, I should be a pitiful lady!

FALSTAFF    Let the court of France show me such another. I see
    how thine eye would emulate the diamond: thou hast
    the right arched beauty of the brow that becomes the
    ship-tire, the tire-valiant, or any tire of
    Venetian admittance.

MISTRESS FORD    A plain kerchief, Sir John: my brows become nothing
    else; nor that well neither.

FALSTAFF    By the Lord, thou art a traitor to say so: thou
    wouldst make an absolute courtier; and the firm
    fixture of thy foot would give an excellent motion
    to thy gait in a semi-circled farthingale. I see
    what thou wert, if Fortune thy foe were not, Nature
    thy friend. Come, thou canst not hide it.

MISTRESS FORD    Believe me, there is no such thing in me.

FALSTAFF    What made me love thee? let that persuade thee
    there's something extraordinary in thee. Come, I
    cannot cog and say thou art this and that, like a
    many of these lisping hawthorn-buds, that come like
    women in men's apparel, and smell like Bucklersbury
    in simple time; I cannot: but I love thee; none
    but thee; and thou deservest it.

MISTRESS FORD    Do not betray me, sir. I fear you love Mistress Page.

FALSTAFF    Thou mightst as well say I love to walk by the
    Counter-gate, which is as hateful to me as the reek
    of a lime-kiln.

MISTRESS FORD    Well, heaven knows how I love you; and you shall one
    day find it.

FALSTAFF    Keep in that mind; I'll deserve it.

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, I must tell you, so you do; or else I could not
    be in that mind.

ROBIN    [Within]  Mistress Ford, Mistress Ford! here's
    Mistress Page at the door, sweating and blowing and
    looking wildly, and would needs speak with you presently.

FALSTAFF    She shall not see me: I will ensconce me behind the arras.

MISTRESS FORD    Pray you, do so: she's a very tattling woman.

    [FALSTAFF hides himself]

    [Re-enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN]

    What's the matter? how now!

MISTRESS PAGE    O Mistress Ford, what have you done? You're shamed,
    you're overthrown, you're undone for ever!

MISTRESS FORD    What's the matter, good Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE    O well-a-day, Mistress Ford! having an honest man
    to your husband, to give him such cause of suspicion!

MISTRESS FORD    What cause of suspicion?

MISTRESS PAGE    What cause of suspicion! Out pon you! how am I
    mistook in you!

MISTRESS FORD    Why, alas, what's the matter?

MISTRESS PAGE    Your husband's coming hither, woman, with all the
    officers in Windsor, to search for a gentleman that
    he says is here now in the house by your consent, to
    take an ill advantage of his assence: you are undone.

MISTRESS FORD    'Tis not so, I hope.

MISTRESS PAGE    Pray heaven it be not so, that you have such a man
    here! but 'tis most certain your husband's coming,
    with half Windsor at his heels, to search for such a
    one. I come before to tell you. If you know
    yourself clear, why, I am glad of it; but if you
    have a friend here convey, convey him out. Be not
    amazed; call all your senses to you; defend your
    reputation, or bid farewell to your good life for ever.

MISTRESS FORD    What shall I do? There is a gentleman my dear
    friend; and I fear not mine own shame so much as his
    peril: I had rather than a thousand pound he were
    out of the house.

MISTRESS PAGE    For shame! never stand 'you had rather' and 'you
    had rather:' your husband's here at hand, bethink
    you of some conveyance: in the house you cannot
    hide him. O, how have you deceived me! Look, here
    is a basket: if he be of any reasonable stature, he
    may creep in here; and throw foul linen upon him, as
    if it were going to bucking: or--it is whiting-time
    --send him by your two men to Datchet-mead.

MISTRESS FORD    He's too big to go in there. What shall I do?

FALSTAFF    [Coming forward]  Let me see't, let me see't, O, let
    me see't! I'll in, I'll in. Follow your friend's
    counsel. I'll in.

MISTRESS PAGE    What, Sir John Falstaff! Are these your letters, knight?

FALSTAFF    I love thee. Help me away. Let me creep in here.
    I'll never--

    [Gets into the basket; they cover him with foul linen]

MISTRESS PAGE    Help to cover your master, boy. Call your men,
    Mistress Ford. You dissembling knight!

MISTRESS FORD    What, John! Robert! John!

    [Exit ROBIN]

    [Re-enter Servants]

    Go take up these clothes here quickly. Where's the
    cowl-staff? look, how you drumble! Carry them to
    the laundress in Datchet-meat; quickly, come.

    [Enter FORD, PAGE, DOCTOR CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS]

FORD    Pray you, come near: if I suspect without cause,
    why then make sport at me; then let me be your jest;
    I deserve it. How now! whither bear you this?

Servant    To the laundress, forsooth.

MISTRESS FORD    Why, what have you to do whither they bear it? You
    were best meddle with buck-washing.

FORD    Buck! I would I could wash myself of the buck!
    Buck, buck, buck! Ay, buck; I warrant you, buck;
    and of the season too, it shall appear.

    [Exeunt Servants with the basket]

    Gentlemen, I have dreamed to-night; I'll tell you my
    dream. Here, here, here be my keys: ascend my
    chambers; search, seek, find out: I'll warrant
    we'll unkennel the fox. Let me stop this way first.

    [Locking the door]

    So, now uncape.

PAGE    Good Master Ford, be contented: you wrong yourself too much.

FORD    True, Master Page. Up, gentlemen: you shall see
    sport anon: follow me, gentlemen.

    [Exit]

SIR HUGH EVANS    This is fery fantastical humours and jealousies.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, 'tis no the fashion of France; it is not
    jealous in France.

PAGE    Nay, follow him, gentlemen; see the issue of his search.

    [Exeunt PAGE, DOCTOR CAIUS, and SIR HUGH EVANS]

MISTRESS PAGE    Is there not a double excellency in this?

MISTRESS FORD    I know not which pleases me better, that my husband
    is deceived, or Sir John.

MISTRESS PAGE    What a taking was he in when your husband asked who
    was in the basket!

MISTRESS FORD    I am half afraid he will have need of washing; so
    throwing him into the water will do him a benefit.

MISTRESS PAGE    Hang him, dishonest rascal! I would all of the same
    strain were in the same distress.

MISTRESS FORD    I think my husband hath some special suspicion of
    Falstaff's being here; for I never saw him so gross
    in his jealousy till now.

MISTRESS PAGE    I will lay a plot to try that; and we will yet have
    more tricks with Falstaff: his dissolute disease will
    scarce obey this medicine.

MISTRESS FORD    Shall we send that foolish carrion, Mistress
    Quickly, to him, and excuse his throwing into the
    water; and give him another hope, to betray him to
    another punishment?

MISTRESS PAGE    We will do it: let him be sent for to-morrow,
    eight o'clock, to have amends.

    [Re-enter FORD, PAGE, DOCTOR CAIUS, and
    SIR HUGH EVANS]

FORD    I cannot find him: may be the knave bragged of that
    he could not compass.

MISTRESS PAGE    [Aside to MISTRESS FORD]  Heard you that?

MISTRESS FORD    You use me well, Master Ford, do you?

FORD    Ay, I do so.

MISTRESS FORD    Heaven make you better than your thoughts!

FORD    Amen!

MISTRESS PAGE    You do yourself mighty wrong, Master Ford.

FORD    Ay, ay; I must bear it.

SIR HUGH EVANS    If there be any pody in the house, and in the
    chambers, and in the coffers, and in the presses,
    heaven forgive my sins at the day of judgment!

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, nor I too: there is no bodies.

PAGE    Fie, fie, Master Ford! are you not ashamed? What
    spirit, what devil suggests this imagination? I
    would not ha' your distemper in this kind for the
    wealth of Windsor Castle.

FORD    'Tis my fault, Master Page: I suffer for it.

SIR HUGH EVANS    You suffer for a pad conscience: your wife is as
    honest a 'omans as I will desires among five
    thousand, and five hundred too.

DOCTOR CAIUS    By gar, I see 'tis an honest woman.

FORD    Well, I promised you a dinner. Come, come, walk in
    the Park: I pray you, pardon me; I will hereafter
    make known to you why I have done this. Come,
    wife; come, Mistress Page. I pray you, pardon me;
    pray heartily, pardon me.

PAGE    Let's go in, gentlemen; but, trust me, we'll mock
    him. I do invite you to-morrow morning to my house
    to breakfast: after, we'll a-birding together; I
    have a fine hawk for the bush. Shall it be so?

FORD    Any thing.

SIR HUGH EVANS    If there is one, I shall make two in the company.

DOCTOR CAIUS    If dere be one or two, I shall make-a the turd.

FORD    Pray you, go, Master Page.

SIR HUGH EVANS    I pray you now, remembrance tomorrow on the lousy
    knave, mine host.

DOCTOR CAIUS    Dat is good; by gar, with all my heart!

SIR HUGH EVANS    A lousy knave, to have his gibes and his mockeries!

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT III



SCENE IV    A room in PAGE'S house.


    [Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE]

FENTON    I see I cannot get thy father's love;
    Therefore no more turn me to him, sweet Nan.

ANNE PAGE    Alas, how then?

FENTON                      Why, thou must be thyself.
    He doth object I am too great of birth--,
    And that, my state being gall'd with my expense,
    I seek to heal it only by his wealth:
    Besides these, other bars he lays before me,
    My riots past, my wild societies;
    And tells me 'tis a thing impossible
    I should love thee but as a property.

ANNE PAGE    May be he tells you true.

FENTON    No, heaven so speed me in my time to come!
    Albeit I will confess thy father's wealth
    Was the first motive that I woo'd thee, Anne:
    Yet, wooing thee, I found thee of more value
    Than stamps in gold or sums in sealed bags;
    And 'tis the very riches of thyself
    That now I aim at.

ANNE PAGE                      Gentle Master Fenton,
    Yet seek my father's love; still seek it, sir:
    If opportunity and humblest suit
    Cannot attain it, why, then,--hark you hither!

    [They converse apart]

    [Enter SHALLOW, SLENDER, and MISTRESS QUICKLY]

SHALLOW    Break their talk, Mistress Quickly: my kinsman shall
    speak for himself.

SLENDER    I'll make a shaft or a bolt on't: 'slid, 'tis but
    venturing.

SHALLOW    Be not dismayed.

SLENDER    No, she shall not dismay me: I care not for that,
    but that I am afeard.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Hark ye; Master Slender would speak a word with you.

ANNE PAGE    I come to him.

    [Aside]

    This is my father's choice.
    O, what a world of vile ill-favor'd faults
    Looks handsome in three hundred pounds a-year!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    And how does good Master Fenton? Pray you, a word with you.

SHALLOW    She's coming; to her, coz. O boy, thou hadst a father!

SLENDER    I had a father, Mistress Anne; my uncle can tell you
    good jests of him. Pray you, uncle, tell Mistress
    Anne the jest, how my father stole two geese out of
    a pen, good uncle.

SHALLOW    Mistress Anne, my cousin loves you.

SLENDER    Ay, that I do; as well as I love any woman in
    Gloucestershire.

SHALLOW    He will maintain you like a gentlewoman.

SLENDER    Ay, that I will, come cut and long-tail, under the
    degree of a squire.

SHALLOW    He will make you a hundred and fifty pounds jointure.

ANNE PAGE    Good Master Shallow, let him woo for himself.

SHALLOW    Marry, I thank you for it; I thank you for that good
    comfort. She calls you, coz: I'll leave you.

ANNE PAGE    Now, Master Slender,--

SLENDER    Now, good Mistress Anne,--

ANNE PAGE    What is your will?

SLENDER    My will! 'od's heartlings, that's a pretty jest
    indeed! I ne'er made my will yet, I thank heaven; I
    am not such a sickly creature, I give heaven praise.

ANNE PAGE    I mean, Master Slender, what would you with me?

SLENDER    Truly, for mine own part, I would little or nothing
    with you. Your father and my uncle hath made
    motions: if it be my luck, so; if not, happy man be
    his dole! They can tell you how things go better
    than I can: you may ask your father; here he comes.

    [Enter PAGE and MISTRESS PAGE]

PAGE    Now, Master Slender: love him, daughter Anne.
    Why, how now! what does Master Fenton here?
    You wrong me, sir, thus still to haunt my house:
    I told you, sir, my daughter is disposed of.

FENTON    Nay, Master Page, be not impatient.

MISTRESS PAGE    Good Master Fenton, come not to my child.

PAGE    She is no match for you.

FENTON    Sir, will you hear me?

PAGE    No, good Master Fenton.
    Come, Master Shallow; come, son Slender, in.
    Knowing my mind, you wrong me, Master Fenton.

    [Exeunt PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Speak to Mistress Page.

FENTON    Good Mistress Page, for that I love your daughter
    In such a righteous fashion as I do,
    Perforce, against all cheques, rebukes and manners,
    I must advance the colours of my love
    And not retire: let me have your good will.

ANNE PAGE    Good mother, do not marry me to yond fool.

MISTRESS PAGE    I mean it not; I seek you a better husband.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    That's my master, master doctor.

ANNE PAGE    Alas, I had rather be set quick i' the earth
    And bowl'd to death with turnips!

MISTRESS PAGE    Come, trouble not yourself. Good Master Fenton,
    I will not be your friend nor enemy:
    My daughter will I question how she loves you,
    And as I find her, so am I affected.
    Till then farewell, sir: she must needs go in;
    Her father will be angry.

FENTON    Farewell, gentle mistress: farewell, Nan.

    [Exeunt MISTRESS PAGE and ANNE PAGE]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    This is my doing, now: 'Nay,' said I, 'will you cast
    away your child on a fool, and a physician? Look on
    Master Fenton:' this is my doing.

FENTON    I thank thee; and I pray thee, once to-night
    Give my sweet Nan this ring: there's for thy pains.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Now heaven send thee good fortune!

    [Exit FENTON]

    A kind heart he hath: a woman would run through
    fire and water for such a kind heart. But yet I
    would my master had Mistress Anne; or I would
    Master Slender had her; or, in sooth, I would Master
    Fenton had her; I will do what I can for them all
    three; for so I have promised, and I'll be as good
    as my word; but speciously for Master Fenton. Well,
    I must of another errand to Sir John Falstaff from
    my two mistresses: what a beast am I to slack it!

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT III



SCENE V    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter FALSTAFF and BARDOLPH]

FALSTAFF    Bardolph, I say,--

BARDOLPH    Here, sir.

FALSTAFF    Go fetch me a quart of sack; put a toast in't.

    [Exit BARDOLPH]

    Have I lived to be carried in a basket, like a
    barrow of butcher's offal, and to be thrown in the
    Thames? Well, if I be served such another trick,
    I'll have my brains ta'en out and buttered, and give
    them to a dog for a new-year's gift. The rogues
    slighted me into the river with as little remorse as
    they would have drowned a blind bitch's puppies,
    fifteen i' the litter: and you may know by my size
    that I have a kind of alacrity in sinking; if the
    bottom were as deep as hell, I should down. I had
    been drowned, but that the shore was shelvy and
    shallow,--a death that I abhor; for the water swells
    a man; and what a thing should I have been when I
    had been swelled! I should have been a mountain of mummy.

    [Re-enter BARDOLPH with sack]

BARDOLPH    Here's Mistress Quickly, sir, to speak with you.

FALSTAFF    Let me pour in some sack to the Thames water; for my
    belly's as cold as if I had swallowed snowballs for
    pills to cool the reins. Call her in.

BARDOLPH    Come in, woman!

    [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    By your leave; I cry you mercy: give your worship
    good morrow.

FALSTAFF    Take away these chalices. Go brew me a pottle of
    sack finely.

BARDOLPH    With eggs, sir?

FALSTAFF    Simple of itself; I'll no pullet-sperm in my brewage.

    [Exit BARDOLPH]
    How now!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Marry, sir, I come to your worship from Mistress Ford.

FALSTAFF    Mistress Ford! I have had ford enough; I was thrown
    into the ford; I have my belly full of ford.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Alas the day! good heart, that was not her fault:
    she does so take on with her men; they mistook their erection.

FALSTAFF    So did I mine, to build upon a foolish woman's promise.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Well, she laments, sir, for it, that it would yearn
    your heart to see it. Her husband goes this morning
    a-birding; she desires you once more to come to her
    between eight and nine: I must carry her word
    quickly: she'll make you amends, I warrant you.

FALSTAFF    Well, I will visit her: tell her so; and bid her
    think what a man is: let her consider his frailty,
    and then judge of my merit.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    I will tell her.

FALSTAFF    Do so. Between nine and ten, sayest thou?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Eight and nine, sir.

FALSTAFF    Well, be gone: I will not miss her.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Peace be with you, sir.

    [Exit]

FALSTAFF    I marvel I hear not of Master Brook; he sent me word
    to stay within: I like his money well. O, here he comes.

    [Enter FORD]

FORD    Bless you, sir!

FALSTAFF    Now, master Brook, you come to know what hath passed
    between me and Ford's wife?

FORD    That, indeed, Sir John, is my business.

FALSTAFF    Master Brook, I will not lie to you: I was at her
    house the hour she appointed me.

FORD    And sped you, sir?

FALSTAFF    Very ill-favoredly, Master Brook.

FORD    How so, sir? Did she change her determination?

FALSTAFF    No, Master Brook; but the peaking Cornuto her
    husband, Master Brook, dwelling in a continual
    'larum of jealousy, comes me in the instant of our
    encounter, after we had embraced, kissed, protested,
    and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy;
    and at his heels a rabble of his companions, thither
    provoked and instigated by his distemper, and,
    forsooth, to search his house for his wife's love.

FORD    What, while you were there?

FALSTAFF    While I was there.

FORD    And did he search for you, and could not find you?

FALSTAFF    You shall hear. As good luck would have it, comes
    in one Mistress Page; gives intelligence of Ford's
    approach; and, in her invention and Ford's wife's
    distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

FORD    A buck-basket!

FALSTAFF    By the Lord, a buck-basket! rammed me in with foul
    shirts and smocks, socks, foul stockings, greasy
    napkins; that, Master Brook, there was the rankest
    compound of villanous smell that ever offended nostril.

FORD    And how long lay you there?

FALSTAFF    Nay, you shall hear, Master Brook, what I have
    suffered to bring this woman to evil for your good.
    Being thus crammed in the basket, a couple of Ford's
    knaves, his hinds, were called forth by their
    mistress to carry me in the name of foul clothes to
    Datchet-lane: they took me on their shoulders; met
    the jealous knave their master in the door, who
    asked them once or twice what they had in their
    basket: I quaked for fear, lest the lunatic knave
    would have searched it; but fate, ordaining he
    should be a cuckold, held his hand. Well: on went he
    for a search, and away went I for foul clothes. But
    mark the sequel, Master Brook: I suffered the pangs
    of three several deaths; first, an intolerable
    fright, to be detected with a jealous rotten
    bell-wether; next, to be compassed, like a good
    bilbo, in the circumference of a peck, hilt to
    point, heel to head; and then, to be stopped in,
    like a strong distillation, with stinking clothes
    that fretted in their own grease: think of that,--a
    man of my kidney,--think of that,--that am as subject
    to heat as butter; a man of continual dissolution
    and thaw: it was a miracle to scape suffocation.
    And in the height of this bath, when I was more than
    half stewed in grease, like a Dutch dish, to be
    thrown into the Thames, and cooled, glowing hot,
    in that surge, like a horse-shoe; think of
    that,--hissing hot,--think of that, Master Brook.

FORD    In good sadness, I am sorry that for my sake you
    have sufferd all this. My suit then is desperate;
    you'll undertake her no more?

FALSTAFF    Master Brook, I will be thrown into Etna, as I have
    been into Thames, ere I will leave her thus. Her
    husband is this morning gone a-birding: I have
    received from her another embassy of meeting; 'twixt
    eight and nine is the hour, Master Brook.

FORD    'Tis past eight already, sir.

FALSTAFF    Is it? I will then address me to my appointment.
    Come to me at your convenient leisure, and you shall
    know how I speed; and the conclusion shall be
    crowned with your enjoying her. Adieu. You shall
    have her, Master Brook; Master Brook, you shall
    cuckold Ford.

    [Exit]

FORD    Hum! ha! is this a vision? is this a dream? do I
    sleep? Master Ford awake! awake, Master Ford!
    there's a hole made in your best coat, Master Ford.
    This 'tis to be married! this 'tis to have linen
    and buck-baskets! Well, I will proclaim myself
    what I am: I will now take the lecher; he is at my
    house; he cannot 'scape me; 'tis impossible he
    should; he cannot creep into a halfpenny purse,
    nor into a pepper-box: but, lest the devil that
    guides him should aid him, I will search
    impossible places. Though what I am I cannot avoid,
    yet to be what I would not shall not make me tame:
    if I have horns to make one mad, let the proverb go
    with me: I'll be horn-mad.

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE I    A street.


    [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS QUICKLY, and
    WILLIAM PAGE]

MISTRESS PAGE    Is he at Master Ford's already, think'st thou?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Sure he is by this, or will be presently: but,
    truly, he is very courageous mad about his throwing
    into the water. Mistress Ford desires you to come suddenly.

MISTRESS PAGE    I'll be with her by and by; I'll but bring my young
    man here to school. Look, where his master comes;
    'tis a playing-day, I see.

    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS]

    How now, Sir Hugh! no school to-day?

SIR HUGH EVANS    No; Master Slender is let the boys leave to play.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Blessing of his heart!

MISTRESS PAGE    Sir Hugh, my husband says my son profits nothing in
    the world at his book. I pray you, ask him some
    questions in his accidence.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Come hither, William; hold up your head; come.

MISTRESS PAGE    Come on, sirrah; hold up your head; answer your
    master, be not afraid.

SIR HUGH EVANS    William, how many numbers is in nouns?

WILLIAM PAGE    Two.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Truly, I thought there had been one number more,
    because they say, ''Od's nouns.'

SIR HUGH EVANS    Peace your tattlings! What is 'fair,' William?

WILLIAM PAGE    Pulcher.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Polecats! there are fairer things than polecats, sure.

SIR HUGH EVANS    You are a very simplicity 'oman: I pray you peace.
    What is 'lapis,' William?

WILLIAM PAGE    A stone.

SIR HUGH EVANS    And what is 'a stone,' William?

WILLIAM PAGE    A pebble.

SIR HUGH EVANS    No, it is 'lapis:' I pray you, remember in your prain.

WILLIAM PAGE    Lapis.

SIR HUGH EVANS    That is a good William. What is he, William, that
    does lend articles?

WILLIAM PAGE    Articles are borrowed of the pronoun, and be thus
    declined, Singulariter, nominativo, hic, haec, hoc.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Nominativo, hig, hag, hog; pray you, mark:
    genitivo, hujus. Well, what is your accusative case?

WILLIAM PAGE    Accusativo, hinc.

SIR HUGH EVANS    I pray you, have your remembrance, child,
    accusative, hung, hang, hog.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    'Hang-hog' is Latin for bacon, I warrant you.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Leave your prabbles, 'oman. What is the focative
    case, William?

WILLIAM PAGE    O,--vocativo, O.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Remember, William; focative is caret.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    And that's a good root.

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Oman, forbear.

MISTRESS PAGE    Peace!

SIR HUGH EVANS    What is your genitive case plural, William?

WILLIAM PAGE    Genitive case!

SIR HUGH EVANS    Ay.

WILLIAM PAGE    Genitive,--horum, harum, horum.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Vengeance of Jenny's case! fie on her! never name
    her, child, if she be a whore.

SIR HUGH EVANS    For shame, 'oman.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    You do ill to teach the child such words: he
    teaches him to hick and to hack, which they'll do
    fast enough of themselves, and to call 'horum:' fie upon you!

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Oman, art thou lunatics? hast thou no
    understandings for thy cases and the numbers of the
    genders? Thou art as foolish Christian creatures as
    I would desires.

MISTRESS PAGE    Prithee, hold thy peace.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Show me now, William, some declensions of your pronouns.

WILLIAM PAGE    Forsooth, I have forgot.

SIR HUGH EVANS    It is qui, quae, quod: if you forget your 'quies,'
    your 'quaes,' and your 'quods,' you must be
    preeches. Go your ways, and play; go.

MISTRESS PAGE    He is a better scholar than I thought he was.

SIR HUGH EVANS    He is a good sprag memory. Farewell, Mistress Page.

MISTRESS PAGE    Adieu, good Sir Hugh.

    [Exit SIR HUGH EVANS]

    Get you home, boy. Come, we stay too long.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE II    A room in FORD'S house.


    [Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS FORD]

FALSTAFF    Mistress Ford, your sorrow hath eaten up my
    sufferance. I see you are obsequious in your love,
    and I profess requital to a hair's breadth; not
    only, Mistress Ford, in the simple
    office of love, but in all the accoutrement,
    complement and ceremony of it. But are you
    sure of your husband now?

MISTRESS FORD    He's a-birding, sweet Sir John.

MISTRESS PAGE    [Within]  What, ho, gossip Ford! what, ho!

MISTRESS FORD    Step into the chamber, Sir John.

    [Exit FALSTAFF]

    [Enter MISTRESS PAGE]

MISTRESS PAGE    How now, sweetheart! who's at home besides yourself?

MISTRESS FORD    Why, none but mine own people.

MISTRESS PAGE    Indeed!

MISTRESS FORD    No, certainly.

    [Aside to her]

    Speak louder.

MISTRESS PAGE    Truly, I am so glad you have nobody here.

MISTRESS FORD    Why?

MISTRESS PAGE    Why, woman, your husband is in his old lunes again:
    he so takes on yonder with my husband; so rails
    against all married mankind; so curses all Eve's
    daughters, of what complexion soever; and so buffets
    himself on the forehead, crying, 'Peer out, peer
    out!' that any madness I ever yet beheld seemed but
    tameness, civility and patience, to this his
    distemper he is in now: I am glad the fat knight is not here.

MISTRESS FORD    Why, does he talk of him?

MISTRESS PAGE    Of none but him; and swears he was carried out, the
    last time he searched for him, in a basket; protests
    to my husband he is now here, and hath drawn him and
    the rest of their company from their sport, to make
    another experiment of his suspicion: but I am glad
    the knight is not here; now he shall see his own foolery.

MISTRESS FORD    How near is he, Mistress Page?

MISTRESS PAGE    Hard by; at street end; he will be here anon.

MISTRESS FORD    I am undone! The knight is here.

MISTRESS PAGE    Why then you are utterly shamed, and he's but a dead
    man. What a woman are you!--Away with him, away
    with him! better shame than murder.

FORD    Which way should be go? how should I bestow him?
    Shall I put him into the basket again?

    [Re-enter FALSTAFF]

FALSTAFF    No, I'll come no more i' the basket. May I not go
    out ere he come?

MISTRESS PAGE    Alas, three of Master Ford's brothers watch the door
    with pistols, that none shall issue out; otherwise
    you might slip away ere he came. But what make you here?

FALSTAFF    What shall I do? I'll creep up into the chimney.

MISTRESS FORD    There they always use to discharge their
    birding-pieces. Creep into the kiln-hole.

FALSTAFF    Where is it?

MISTRESS FORD    He will seek there, on my word. Neither press,
    coffer, chest, trunk, well, vault, but he hath an
    abstract for the remembrance of such places, and
    goes to them by his note: there is no hiding you in the house.

FALSTAFF    I'll go out then.

MISTRESS PAGE    If you go out in your own semblance, you die, Sir
    John. Unless you go out disguised--

MISTRESS FORD    How might we disguise him?

MISTRESS PAGE    Alas the day, I know not! There is no woman's gown
    big enough for him otherwise he might put on a hat,
    a muffler and a kerchief, and so escape.

FALSTAFF    Good hearts, devise something: any extremity rather
    than a mischief.

MISTRESS FORD    My maid's aunt, the fat woman of Brentford, has a
    gown above.

MISTRESS PAGE    On my word, it will serve him; she's as big as he
    is: and there's her thrummed hat and her muffler
    too. Run up, Sir John.

MISTRESS FORD    Go, go, sweet Sir John: Mistress Page and I will
    look some linen for your head.

MISTRESS PAGE    Quick, quick! we'll come dress you straight: put
    on the gown the while.

    [Exit FALSTAFF]

MISTRESS FORD    I would my husband would meet him in this shape: he
    cannot abide the old woman of Brentford; he swears
    she's a witch; forbade her my house and hath
    threatened to beat her.

MISTRESS PAGE    Heaven guide him to thy husband's cudgel, and the
    devil guide his cudgel afterwards!

MISTRESS FORD    But is my husband coming?

MISTRESS PAGE    Ah, in good sadness, is he; and talks of the basket
    too, howsoever he hath had intelligence.

MISTRESS FORD    We'll try that; for I'll appoint my men to carry the
    basket again, to meet him at the door with it, as
    they did last time.

MISTRESS PAGE    Nay, but he'll be here presently: let's go dress him
    like the witch of Brentford.

MISTRESS FORD    I'll first direct my men what they shall do with the
    basket. Go up; I'll bring linen for him straight.

    [Exit]

MISTRESS PAGE    Hang him, dishonest varlet! we cannot misuse him enough.
    We'll leave a proof, by that which we will do,
    Wives may be merry, and yet honest too:
    We do not act that often jest and laugh;
    'Tis old, but true, Still swine eat all the draff.

    [Exit]

    [Re-enter MISTRESS FORD with two Servants]

MISTRESS FORD    Go, sirs, take the basket again on your shoulders:
    your master is hard at door; if he bid you set it
    down, obey him: quickly, dispatch.

    [Exit]

First Servant    Come, come, take it up.

Second Servant    Pray heaven it be not full of knight again.

First Servant    I hope not; I had as lief bear so much lead.

    [Enter FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, DOCTOR CAIUS, and
    SIR HUGH EVANS]

FORD    Ay, but if it prove true, Master Page, have you any
    way then to unfool me again? Set down the basket,
    villain! Somebody call my wife. Youth in a basket!
    O you panderly rascals! there's a knot, a ging, a
    pack, a conspiracy against me: now shall the devil
    be shamed. What, wife, I say! Come, come forth!
    Behold what honest clothes you send forth to bleaching!

PAGE    Why, this passes, Master Ford; you are not to go
    loose any longer; you must be pinioned.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Why, this is lunatics! this is mad as a mad dog!

SHALLOW    Indeed, Master Ford, this is not well, indeed.

FORD    So say I too, sir.

    [Re-enter MISTRESS FORD]

    Come hither, Mistress Ford; Mistress Ford the honest
    woman, the modest wife, the virtuous creature, that
    hath the jealous fool to her husband! I suspect
    without cause, mistress, do I?

MISTRESS FORD    Heaven be my witness you do, if you suspect me in
    any dishonesty.

FORD    Well said, brazen-face! hold it out. Come forth, sirrah!

    [Pulling clothes out of the basket]

PAGE    This passes!

MISTRESS FORD    Are you not ashamed? let the clothes alone.

FORD    I shall find you anon.

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Tis unreasonable! Will you take up your wife's
    clothes? Come away.

FORD    Empty the basket, I say!

MISTRESS FORD    Why, man, why?

FORD    Master Page, as I am a man, there was one conveyed
    out of my house yesterday in this basket: why may
    not he be there again? In my house I am sure he is:
    my intelligence is true; my jealousy is reasonable.
    Pluck me out all the linen.

MISTRESS FORD    If you find a man there, he shall die a flea's death.

PAGE    Here's no man.

SHALLOW    By my fidelity, this is not well, Master Ford; this
    wrongs you.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Master Ford, you must pray, and not follow the
    imaginations of your own heart: this is jealousies.

FORD    Well, he's not here I seek for.

PAGE    No, nor nowhere else but in your brain.

FORD    Help to search my house this one time. If I find
    not what I seek, show no colour for my extremity; let
    me for ever be your table-sport; let them say of
    me, 'As jealous as Ford, Chat searched a hollow
    walnut for his wife's leman.' Satisfy me once more;
    once more search with me.

MISTRESS FORD    What, ho, Mistress Page! come you and the old woman
    down; my husband will come into the chamber.

FORD    Old woman! what old woman's that?

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, it is my maid's aunt of Brentford.

FORD    A witch, a quean, an old cozening quean! Have I not
    forbid her my house? She comes of errands, does
    she? We are simple men; we do not know what's
    brought to pass under the profession of
    fortune-telling. She works by charms, by spells,
    by the figure, and such daubery as this is, beyond
    our element we know nothing. Come down, you witch,
    you hag, you; come down, I say!

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, good, sweet husband! Good gentlemen, let him
    not strike the old woman.

    [Re-enter FALSTAFF in woman's clothes, and
    MISTRESS PAGE]

MISTRESS PAGE    Come, Mother Prat; come, give me your hand.

FORD    I'll prat her.

    [Beating him]

    Out of my door, you witch, you hag, you baggage, you
    polecat, you runyon! out, out! I'll conjure you,
    I'll fortune-tell you.

    [Exit FALSTAFF]

MISTRESS PAGE    Are you not ashamed? I think you have killed the
    poor woman.

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, he will do it. 'Tis a goodly credit for you.

FORD    Hang her, witch!

SIR HUGH EVANS    By the yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch
    indeed: I like not when a 'oman has a great peard;
    I spy a great peard under his muffler.

FORD    Will you follow, gentlemen? I beseech you, follow;
    see but the issue of my jealousy: if I cry out thus
    upon no trail, never trust me when I open again.

PAGE    Let's obey his humour a little further: come,
    gentlemen.

    [Exeunt FORD, PAGE, SHALLOW, DOCTOR CAIUS, and
    SIR HUGH EVANS]

MISTRESS PAGE    Trust me, he beat him most pitifully.

MISTRESS FORD    Nay, by the mass, that he did not; he beat him most
    unpitifully, methought.

MISTRESS PAGE    I'll have the cudgel hallowed and hung o'er the
    altar; it hath done meritorious service.

MISTRESS FORD    What think you? may we, with the warrant of
    womanhood and the witness of a good conscience,
    pursue him with any further revenge?

MISTRESS PAGE    The spirit of wantonness is, sure, scared out of
    him: if the devil have him not in fee-simple, with
    fine and recovery, he will never, I think, in the
    way of waste, attempt us again.

MISTRESS FORD    Shall we tell our husbands how we have served him?

MISTRESS PAGE    Yes, by all means; if it be but to scrape the
    figures out of your husband's brains. If they can
    find in their hearts the poor unvirtuous fat knight
    shall be any further afflicted, we two will still be
    the ministers.

MISTRESS FORD    I'll warrant they'll have him publicly shamed: and
    methinks there would be no period to the jest,
    should he not be publicly shamed.

MISTRESS PAGE    Come, to the forge with it then; shape it: I would
    not have things cool.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE III    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter Host and BARDOLPH]

BARDOLPH    Sir, the Germans desire to have three of your
    horses: the duke himself will be to-morrow at
    court, and they are going to meet him.

Host    What duke should that be comes so secretly? I hear
    not of him in the court. Let me speak with the
    gentlemen: they speak English?

BARDOLPH    Ay, sir; I'll call them to you.

Host    They shall have my horses; but I'll make them pay;
    I'll sauce them: they have had my house a week at
    command; I have turned away my other guests: they
    must come off; I'll sauce them. Come.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE IV    A room in FORD'S house.


    [Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD,
    and SIR HUGH EVANS]

SIR HUGH EVANS    'Tis one of the best discretions of a 'oman as ever
    I did look upon.

PAGE    And did he send you both these letters at an instant?

MISTRESS PAGE    Within a quarter of an hour.

FORD    Pardon me, wife. Henceforth do what thou wilt;
    I rather will suspect the sun with cold
    Than thee with wantonness: now doth thy honour stand
    In him that was of late an heretic,
    As firm as faith.

PAGE    'Tis well, 'tis well; no more:
    Be not as extreme in submission
    As in offence.
    But let our plot go forward: let our wives
    Yet once again, to make us public sport,
    Appoint a meeting with this old fat fellow,
    Where we may take him and disgrace him for it.

FORD    There is no better way than that they spoke of.

PAGE    How? to send him word they'll meet him in the park
    at midnight? Fie, fie! he'll never come.

SIR HUGH EVANS    You say he has been thrown in the rivers and has
    been grievously peaten as an old 'oman: methinks
    there should be terrors in him that he should not
    come; methinks his flesh is punished, he shall have
    no desires.

PAGE    So think I too.

MISTRESS FORD    Devise but how you'll use him when he comes,
    And let us two devise to bring him thither.

MISTRESS PAGE    There is an old tale goes that Herne the hunter,
    Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,
    Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight,
    Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
    And there he blasts the tree and takes the cattle
    And makes milch-kine yield blood and shakes a chain
    In a most hideous and dreadful manner:
    You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
    The superstitious idle-headed eld
    Received and did deliver to our age
    This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth.

PAGE    Why, yet there want not many that do fear
    In deep of night to walk by this Herne's oak:
    But what of this?

MISTRESS FORD                      Marry, this is our device;
    That Falstaff at that oak shall meet with us.

PAGE    Well, let it not be doubted but he'll come:
    And in this shape when you have brought him thither,
    What shall be done with him? what is your plot?

MISTRESS PAGE    That likewise have we thought upon, and thus:
    Nan Page my daughter and my little son
    And three or four more of their growth we'll dress
    Like urchins, ouphes and fairies, green and white,
    With rounds of waxen tapers on their heads,
    And rattles in their hands: upon a sudden,
    As Falstaff, she and I, are newly met,
    Let them from forth a sawpit rush at once
    With some diffused song: upon their sight,
    We two in great amazedness will fly:
    Then let them all encircle him about
    And, fairy-like, to-pinch the unclean knight,
    And ask him why, that hour of fairy revel,
    In their so sacred paths he dares to tread
    In shape profane.

MISTRESS FORD                      And till he tell the truth,
    Let the supposed fairies pinch him sound
    And burn him with their tapers.

MISTRESS PAGE    The truth being known,
    We'll all present ourselves, dis-horn the spirit,
    And mock him home to Windsor.

FORD    The children must
    Be practised well to this, or they'll ne'er do't.

SIR HUGH EVANS    I will teach the children their behaviors; and I
    will be like a jack-an-apes also, to burn the
    knight with my taber.

FORD    That will be excellent. I'll go and buy them vizards.

MISTRESS PAGE    My Nan shall be the queen of all the fairies,
    Finely attired in a robe of white.

PAGE    That silk will I go buy.

    [Aside]

           And in that time
    Shall Master Slender steal my Nan away
    And marry her at Eton. Go send to Falstaff straight.

FORD    Nay I'll to him again in name of Brook
    He'll tell me all his purpose: sure, he'll come.

MISTRESS PAGE    Fear not you that. Go get us properties
    And tricking for our fairies.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Let us about it: it is admirable pleasures and fery
    honest knaveries.

    [Exeunt PAGE, FORD, and SIR HUGH EVANS]

MISTRESS PAGE    Go, Mistress Ford,
    Send quickly to Sir John, to know his mind.

    [Exit MISTRESS FORD]

    I'll to the doctor: he hath my good will,
    And none but he, to marry with Nan Page.
    That Slender, though well landed, is an idiot;
    And he my husband best of all affects.
    The doctor is well money'd, and his friends
    Potent at court: he, none but he, shall have her,
    Though twenty thousand worthier come to crave her.

    [Exit]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE V    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter Host and SIMPLE]

Host    What wouldst thou have, boor? what: thick-skin?
    speak, breathe, discuss; brief, short, quick, snap.

SIMPLE    Marry, sir, I come to speak with Sir John Falstaff
    from Master Slender.

Host    There's his chamber, his house, his castle, his
    standing-bed and truckle-bed; 'tis painted about
    with the story of the Prodigal, fresh and new. Go
    knock and call; hell speak like an Anthropophaginian
    unto thee: knock, I say.

SIMPLE    There's an old woman, a fat woman, gone up into his
    chamber: I'll be so bold as stay, sir, till she come
    down; I come to speak with her, indeed.

Host    Ha! a fat woman! the knight may be robbed: I'll
    call. Bully knight! bully Sir John! speak from
    thy lungs military: art thou there? it is thine
    host, thine Ephesian, calls.

FALSTAFF    [Above]  How now, mine host!

Host    Here's a Bohemian-Tartar tarries the coming down of
    thy fat woman. Let her descend, bully, let her
    descend; my chambers are honourable: fie! privacy?
    fie!

    [Enter FALSTAFF]

FALSTAFF    There was, mine host, an old fat woman even now with
    me; but she's gone.

SIMPLE    Pray you, sir, was't not the wise woman of
    Brentford?

FALSTAFF    Ay, marry, was it, mussel-shell: what would you with her?

SIMPLE    My master, sir, Master Slender, sent to her, seeing
    her go through the streets, to know, sir, whether
    one Nym, sir, that beguiled him of a chain, had the
    chain or no.

FALSTAFF    I spake with the old woman about it.

SIMPLE    And what says she, I pray, sir?

FALSTAFF    Marry, she says that the very same man that
    beguiled Master Slender of his chain cozened him of
    it.

SIMPLE    I would I could have spoken with the woman herself;
    I had other things to have spoken with her too from
    him.

FALSTAFF    What are they? let us know.

Host    Ay, come; quick.

SIMPLE    I may not conceal them, sir.

Host    Conceal them, or thou diest.

SIMPLE    Why, sir, they were nothing but about Mistress Anne
    Page; to know if it were my master's fortune to
    have her or no.

FALSTAFF    'Tis, 'tis his fortune.

SIMPLE    What, sir?

FALSTAFF    To have her, or no. Go; say the woman told me so.

SIMPLE    May I be bold to say so, sir?

FALSTAFF    Ay, sir; like who more bold.

SIMPLE    I thank your worship: I shall make my master glad
    with these tidings.

    [Exit]

Host    Thou art clerkly, thou art clerkly, Sir John. Was
    there a wise woman with thee?

FALSTAFF    Ay, that there was, mine host; one that hath taught
    me more wit than ever I learned before in my life;
    and I paid nothing for it neither, but was paid for
    my learning.

    [Enter BARDOLPH]

BARDOLPH    Out, alas, sir! cozenage, mere cozenage!

Host    Where be my horses? speak well of them, varletto.

BARDOLPH    Run away with the cozeners; for so soon as I came
    beyond Eton, they threw me off from behind one of
    them, in a slough of mire; and set spurs and away,
    like three German devils, three Doctor Faustuses.

Host    They are gone but to meet the duke, villain: do not
    say they be fled; Germans are honest men.

    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS]

SIR HUGH EVANS    Where is mine host?

Host    What is the matter, sir?

SIR HUGH EVANS    Have a care of your entertainments: there is a
    friend of mine come to town tells me there is three
    cozen-germans that has cozened all the hosts of
    Readins, of Maidenhead, of Colebrook, of horses and
    money. I tell you for good will, look you: you
    are wise and full of gibes and vlouting-stocks, and
    'tis not convenient you should be cozened. Fare you well.

    [Exit]

    [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vere is mine host de Jarteer?

Host    Here, master doctor, in perplexity and doubtful dilemma.

DOCTOR CAIUS    I cannot tell vat is dat: but it is tell-a me dat
    you make grand preparation for a duke de Jamany: by
    my trot, dere is no duke dat the court is know to
    come. I tell you for good vill: adieu.

    [Exit]

Host    Hue and cry, villain, go! Assist me, knight. I am
    undone! Fly, run, hue and cry, villain! I am undone!

    [Exeunt Host and BARDOLPH]

FALSTAFF    I would all the world might be cozened; for I have
    been cozened and beaten too. If it should come to
    the ear of the court, how I have been transformed
    and how my transformation hath been washed and
    cudgelled, they would melt me out of my fat drop by
    drop and liquor fishermen's boots with me; I warrant
    they would whip me with their fine wits till I were
    as crest-fallen as a dried pear. I never prospered
    since I forswore myself at primero. Well, if my
    wind were but long enough to say my prayers, I would repent.

    [Enter MISTRESS QUICKLY]

    Now, whence come you?

MISTRESS QUICKLY    From the two parties, forsooth.

FALSTAFF    The devil take one party and his dam the other! and
    so they shall be both bestowed. I have suffered more
    for their sakes, more than the villanous inconstancy
    of man's disposition is able to bear.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    And have not they suffered? Yes, I warrant;
    speciously one of them; Mistress Ford, good heart,
    is beaten black and blue, that you cannot see a
    white spot about her.

FALSTAFF    What tellest thou me of black and blue? I was
    beaten myself into all the colours of the rainbow;
    and I was like to be apprehended for the witch of
    Brentford: but that my admirable dexterity of wit,
    my counterfeiting the action of an old woman,
    delivered me, the knave constable had set me i' the
    stocks, i' the common stocks, for a witch.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Sir, let me speak with you in your chamber: you
    shall hear how things go; and, I warrant, to your
    content. Here is a letter will say somewhat. Good
    hearts, what ado here is to bring you together!
    Sure, one of you does not serve heaven well, that
    you are so crossed.

FALSTAFF    Come up into my chamber.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT IV



SCENE VI    Another room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter FENTON and Host]

Host    Master Fenton, talk not to me; my mind is heavy: I
    will give over all.

FENTON    Yet hear me speak. Assist me in my purpose,
    And, as I am a gentleman, I'll give thee
    A hundred pound in gold more than your loss.

Host    I will hear you, Master Fenton; and I will at the
    least keep your counsel.

FENTON    From time to time I have acquainted you
    With the dear love I bear to fair Anne Page;
    Who mutually hath answer'd my affection,
    So far forth as herself might be her chooser,
    Even to my wish: I have a letter from her
    Of such contents as you will wonder at;
    The mirth whereof so larded with my matter,
    That neither singly can be manifested,
    Without the show of both; fat Falstaff
    Hath a great scene: the image of the jest
    I'll show you here at large. Hark, good mine host.
    To-night at Herne's oak, just 'twixt twelve and one,
    Must my sweet Nan present the Fairy Queen;
    The purpose why, is here: in which disguise,
    While other jests are something rank on foot,
    Her father hath commanded her to slip
    Away with Slender and with him at Eton
    Immediately to marry: she hath consented: Now, sir,
    Her mother, ever strong against that match
    And firm for Doctor Caius, hath appointed
    That he shall likewise shuffle her away,
    While other sports are tasking of their minds,
    And at the deanery, where a priest attends,
    Straight marry her: to this her mother's plot
    She seemingly obedient likewise hath
    Made promise to the doctor. Now, thus it rests:
    Her father means she shall be all in white,
    And in that habit, when Slender sees his time
    To take her by the hand and bid her go,
    She shall go with him: her mother hath intended,
    The better to denote her to the doctor,
    For they must all be mask'd and vizarded,
    That quaint in green she shall be loose enrobed,
    With ribands pendent, flaring 'bout her head;
    And when the doctor spies his vantage ripe,
    To pinch her by the hand, and, on that token,
    The maid hath given consent to go with him.

Host    Which means she to deceive, father or mother?

FENTON    Both, my good host, to go along with me:
    And here it rests, that you'll procure the vicar
    To stay for me at church 'twixt twelve and one,
    And, in the lawful name of marrying,
    To give our hearts united ceremony.

Host    Well, husband your device; I'll to the vicar:
    Bring you the maid, you shall not lack a priest.

FENTON    So shall I evermore be bound to thee;
    Besides, I'll make a present recompense.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT V



SCENE I    A room in the Garter Inn.


    [Enter FALSTAFF and MISTRESS QUICKLY]

FALSTAFF    Prithee, no more prattling; go. I'll hold. This is
    the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd
    numbers. Away I go. They say there is divinity in
    odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death. Away!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    I'll provide you a chain; and I'll do what I can to
    get you a pair of horns.

FALSTAFF    Away, I say; time wears: hold up your head, and mince.

    [Exit MISTRESS QUICKLY]

    [Enter FORD]

    How now, Master Brook! Master Brook, the matter
    will be known to-night, or never. Be you in the
    Park about midnight, at Herne's oak, and you shall
    see wonders.

FORD    Went you not to her yesterday, sir, as you told me
    you had appointed?

FALSTAFF    I went to her, Master Brook, as you see, like a poor
    old man: but I came from her, Master Brook, like a
    poor old woman. That same knave Ford, her husband,
    hath the finest mad devil of jealousy in him,
    Master Brook, that ever governed frenzy. I will tell
    you: he beat me grievously, in the shape of a
    woman; for in the shape of man, Master Brook, I fear
    not Goliath with a weaver's beam; because I know
    also life is a shuttle. I am in haste; go along
    with me: I'll tell you all, Master Brook. Since I
    plucked geese, played truant and whipped top, I knew
    not what 'twas to be beaten till lately. Follow
    me: I'll tell you strange things of this knave
    Ford, on whom to-night I will be revenged, and I
    will deliver his wife into your hand. Follow.
    Strange things in hand, Master Brook! Follow.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT V



SCENE II    Windsor Park.


    [Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, and SLENDER]

PAGE    Come, come; we'll couch i' the castle-ditch till we
    see the light of our fairies. Remember, son Slender,
    my daughter.

SLENDER    Ay, forsooth; I have spoke with her and we have a
    nay-word how to know one another: I come to her in
    white, and cry 'mum;' she cries 'budget;' and by
    that we know one another.

SHALLOW    That's good too: but what needs either your 'mum'
    or her 'budget?' the white will decipher her well
    enough. It hath struck ten o'clock.

PAGE    The night is dark; light and spirits will become it
    well. Heaven prosper our sport! No man means evil
    but the devil, and we shall know him by his horns.
    Let's away; follow me.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT V



SCENE III    A street leading to the Park.


    [Enter MISTRESS PAGE, MISTRESS FORD, and
    DOCTOR CAIUS]

MISTRESS PAGE    Master doctor, my daughter is in green: when you
    see your time, take her by the band, away with her
    to the deanery, and dispatch it quickly. Go before
    into the Park: we two must go together.

DOCTOR CAIUS    I know vat I have to do. Adieu.

MISTRESS PAGE    Fare you well, sir.

    [Exit DOCTOR CAIUS]

    My husband will not rejoice so much at the abuse of
    Falstaff as he will chafe at the doctor's marrying
    my daughter: but 'tis no matter; better a little
    chiding than a great deal of heart-break.

MISTRESS FORD    Where is Nan now and her troop of fairies, and the
    Welsh devil Hugh?

MISTRESS PAGE    They are all couched in a pit hard by Herne's oak,
    with obscured lights; which, at the very instant of
    Falstaff's and our meeting, they will at once
    display to the night.

MISTRESS FORD    That cannot choose but amaze him.

MISTRESS PAGE    If he be not amazed, he will be mocked; if he be
    amazed, he will every way be mocked.

MISTRESS FORD    We'll betray him finely.

MISTRESS PAGE    Against such lewdsters and their lechery
    Those that betray them do no treachery.

MISTRESS FORD    The hour draws on. To the oak, to the oak!

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT V



SCENE IV    Windsor Park.


    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS, disguised, with others as Fairies]

SIR HUGH EVANS    Trib, trib, fairies; come; and remember your parts:
    be pold, I pray you; follow me into the pit; and
    when I give the watch-'ords, do as I pid you:
    come, come; trib, trib.

    [Exeunt]




    THE MERRY WIVES OF WINDSOR


ACT V



SCENE V    Another part of the Park.


    [Enter FALSTAFF disguised as Herne]

FALSTAFF    The Windsor bell hath struck twelve; the minute
    draws on. Now, the hot-blooded gods assist me!
    Remember, Jove, thou wast a bull for thy Europa; love
    set on thy horns. O powerful love! that, in some
    respects, makes a beast a man, in some other, a man
    a beast. You were also, Jupiter, a swan for the love
    of Leda. O omnipotent Love! how near the god drew
    to the complexion of a goose! A fault done first in
    the form of a beast. O Jove, a beastly fault! And
    then another fault in the semblance of a fowl; think
    on 't, Jove; a foul fault! When gods have hot
    backs, what shall poor men do? For me, I am here a
    Windsor stag; and the fattest, I think, i' the
    forest. Send me a cool rut-time, Jove, or who can
    blame me to piss my tallow? Who comes here? my
    doe?

    [Enter MISTRESS FORD and MISTRESS PAGE]

MISTRESS FORD    Sir John! art thou there, my deer? my male deer?

FALSTAFF    My doe with the black scut! Let the sky rain
    potatoes; let it thunder to the tune of Green
    Sleeves, hail kissing-comfits and snow eringoes; let
    there come a tempest of provocation, I will shelter me here.

MISTRESS FORD    Mistress Page is come with me, sweetheart.

FALSTAFF    Divide me like a bribe buck, each a haunch: I will
    keep my sides to myself, my shoulders for the fellow
    of this walk, and my horns I bequeath your husbands.
    Am I a woodman, ha? Speak I like Herne the hunter?
    Why, now is Cupid a child of conscience; he makes
    restitution. As I am a true spirit, welcome!

    [Noise within]

MISTRESS PAGE    Alas, what noise?

MISTRESS FORD    Heaven forgive our sins

FALSTAFF    What should this be?


MISTRESS FORD    |
    |  Away, away!
MISTRESS PAGE    |


    [They run off]

FALSTAFF    I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the
    oil that's in me should set hell on fire; he would
    never else cross me thus.

    [Enter SIR HUGH EVANS, disguised as before; PISTOL,
    as Hobgoblin; MISTRESS QUICKLY, ANNE PAGE, and
    others, as Fairies, with tapers]

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,
    You moonshine revellers and shades of night,
    You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,
    Attend your office and your quality.
    Crier Hobgoblin, make the fairy oyes.

PISTOL    Elves, list your names; silence, you airy toys.
    Cricket, to Windsor chimneys shalt thou leap:
    Where fires thou find'st unraked and hearths unswept,
    There pinch the maids as blue as bilberry:
    Our radiant queen hates sluts and sluttery.

FALSTAFF    They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die:
    I'll wink and couch: no man their works must eye.

    [Lies down upon his face]

SIR HUGH EVANS    Where's Bede? Go you, and where you find a maid
    That, ere she sleep, has thrice her prayers said,
    Raise up the organs of her fantasy;
    Sleep she as sound as careless infancy:
    But those as sleep and think not on their sins,
    Pinch them, arms, legs, backs, shoulders, sides and shins.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    About, about;
    Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:
    Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room:
    That it may stand till the perpetual doom,
    In state as wholesome as in state 'tis fit,
    Worthy the owner, and the owner it.
    The several chairs of order look you scour
    With juice of balm and every precious flower:
    Each fair instalment, coat, and several crest,
    With loyal blazon, evermore be blest!
    And nightly, meadow-fairies, look you sing,
    Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring:
    The expressure that it bears, green let it be,
    More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;
    And 'Honi soit qui mal y pense' write
    In emerald tufts, flowers purple, blue and white;
    Let sapphire, pearl and rich embroidery,
    Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee:
    Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
    Away; disperse: but till 'tis one o'clock,
    Our dance of custom round about the oak
    Of Herne the hunter, let us not forget.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Pray you, lock hand in hand; yourselves in order set
    And twenty glow-worms shall our lanterns be,
    To guide our measure round about the tree.
    But, stay; I smell a man of middle-earth.

FALSTAFF    Heavens defend me from that Welsh fairy, lest he
    transform me to a piece of cheese!

PISTOL    Vile worm, thou wast o'erlook'd even in thy birth.

MISTRESS QUICKLY    With trial-fire touch me his finger-end:
    If he be chaste, the flame will back descend
    And turn him to no pain; but if he start,
    It is the flesh of a corrupted heart.

PISTOL    A trial, come.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Come, will this wood take fire?

    [They burn him with their tapers]

FALSTAFF    Oh, Oh, Oh!

MISTRESS QUICKLY    Corrupt, corrupt, and tainted in desire!
    About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;
    And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time.

    SONG.
    Fie on sinful fantasy!
    Fie on lust and luxury!
    Lust is but a bloody fire,
    Kindled with unchaste desire,
    Fed in heart, whose flames aspire
    As thoughts do blow them, higher and higher.
    Pinch him, fairies, mutually;
    Pinch him for his villany;
    Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,
    Till candles and starlight and moonshine be out.

    [During this song they pinch FALSTAFF. DOCTOR CAIUS
    comes one way, and steals away a boy in green;
    SLENDER another way, and takes off a boy in white;
    and FENTON comes and steals away ANN PAGE.
    A noise of hunting is heard within. All the
    Fairies run away. FALSTAFF pulls off his buck's
    head, and rises]

    [Enter PAGE, FORD, MISTRESS PAGE, and MISTRESS FORD]

PAGE    Nay, do not fly; I think we have watch'd you now
    Will none but Herne the hunter serve your turn?

MISTRESS PAGE    I pray you, come, hold up the jest no higher
    Now, good Sir John, how like you Windsor wives?
    See you these, husband? do not these fair yokes
    Become the forest better than the town?

FORD    Now, sir, who's a cuckold now? Master Brook,
    Falstaff's a knave, a cuckoldly knave; here are his
    horns, Master Brook: and, Master Brook, he hath
    enjoyed nothing of Ford's but his buck-basket, his
    cudgel, and twenty pounds of money, which must be
    paid to Master Brook; his horses are arrested for
    it, Master Brook.

MISTRESS FORD    Sir John, we have had ill luck; we could never meet.
    I will never take you for my love again; but I will
    always count you my deer.

FALSTAFF    I do begin to perceive that I am made an ass.

FORD    Ay, and an ox too: both the proofs are extant.

FALSTAFF    And these are not fairies? I was three or four
    times in the thought they were not fairies: and yet
    the guiltiness of my mind, the sudden surprise of my
    powers, drove the grossness of the foppery into a
    received belief, in despite of the teeth of all
    rhyme and reason, that they were fairies. See now
    how wit may be made a Jack-a-Lent, when 'tis upon
    ill employment!

SIR HUGH EVANS    Sir John Falstaff, serve Got, and leave your
    desires, and fairies will not pinse you.

FORD    Well said, fairy Hugh.

SIR HUGH EVANS    And leave your jealousies too, I pray you.

FORD    I will never mistrust my wife again till thou art
    able to woo her in good English.

FALSTAFF    Have I laid my brain in the sun and dried it, that
    it wants matter to prevent so gross o'erreaching as
    this? Am I ridden with a Welsh goat too? shall I
    have a coxcomb of frize? 'Tis time I were choked
    with a piece of toasted cheese.

SIR HUGH EVANS    Seese is not good to give putter; your belly is all putter.

FALSTAFF    'Seese' and 'putter'! have I lived to stand at the
    taunt of one that makes fritters of English? This
    is enough to be the decay of lust and late-walking
    through the realm.

MISTRESS PAGE    Why Sir John, do you think, though we would have the
    virtue out of our hearts by the head and shoulders
    and have given ourselves without scruple to hell,
    that ever the devil could have made you our delight?

FORD    What, a hodge-pudding? a bag of flax?

MISTRESS PAGE    A puffed man?

PAGE    Old, cold, withered and of intolerable entrails?

FORD    And one that is as slanderous as Satan?

PAGE    And as poor as Job?

FORD    And as wicked as his wife?

SIR HUGH EVANS    And given to fornications, and to taverns and sack
    and wine and metheglins, and to drinkings and
    swearings and starings, pribbles and prabbles?

FALSTAFF    Well, I am your theme: you have the start of me; I
    am dejected; I am not able to answer the Welsh
    flannel; ignorance itself is a plummet o'er me: use
    me as you will.

FORD    Marry, sir, we'll bring you to Windsor, to one
    Master Brook, that you have cozened of money, to
    whom you should have been a pander: over and above
    that you have suffered, I think to repay that money
    will be a biting affliction.

PAGE    Yet be cheerful, knight: thou shalt eat a posset
    to-night at my house; where I will desire thee to
    laugh at my wife, that now laughs at thee: tell her
    Master Slender hath married her daughter.

MISTRESS PAGE    [Aside]  Doctors doubt that: if Anne Page be my
    daughter, she is, by this, Doctor Caius' wife.

    [Enter SLENDER]

SLENDER    Whoa ho! ho, father Page!

PAGE    Son, how now! how now, son! have you dispatched?

SLENDER    Dispatched! I'll make the best in Gloucestershire
    know on't; would I were hanged, la, else.

PAGE    Of what, son?

SLENDER    I came yonder at Eton to marry Mistress Anne Page,
    and she's a great lubberly boy. If it had not been
    i' the church, I would have swinged him, or he
    should have swinged me. If I did not think it had
    been Anne Page, would I might never stir!--and 'tis
    a postmaster's boy.

PAGE    Upon my life, then, you took the wrong.

SLENDER    What need you tell me that? I think so, when I took
    a boy for a girl. If I had been married to him, for
    all he was in woman's apparel, I would not have had
    him.

PAGE    Why, this is your own folly. Did not I tell you how
    you should know my daughter by her garments?

SLENDER    I went to her in white, and cried 'mum,' and she
    cried 'budget,' as Anne and I had appointed; and yet
    it was not Anne, but a postmaster's boy.

MISTRESS PAGE    Good George, be not angry: I knew of your purpose;
    turned my daughter into green; and, indeed, she is
    now with the doctor at the deanery, and there married.

    [Enter DOCTOR CAIUS]

DOCTOR CAIUS    Vere is Mistress Page? By gar, I am cozened: I ha'
    married un garcon, a boy; un paysan, by gar, a boy;
    it is not Anne Page: by gar, I am cozened.

MISTRESS PAGE    Why, did you take her in green?

DOCTOR CAIUS    Ay, by gar, and 'tis a boy: by gar, I'll raise all Windsor.

    [Exit]

FORD    This is strange. Who hath got the right Anne?

PAGE    My heart misgives me: here comes Master Fenton.

    [Enter FENTON and ANNE PAGE]

    How now, Master Fenton!

ANNE PAGE    Pardon, good father! good my mother, pardon!

PAGE    Now, mistress, how chance you went not with Master Slender?

MISTRESS PAGE    Why went you not with master doctor, maid?

FENTON    You do amaze her: hear the truth of it.
    You would have married her most shamefully,
    Where there was no proportion held in love.
    The truth is, she and I, long since contracted,
    Are now so sure that nothing can dissolve us.
    The offence is holy that she hath committed;
    And this deceit loses the name of craft,
    Of disobedience, or unduteous title,
    Since therein she doth evitate and shun
    A thousand irreligious cursed hours,
    Which forced marriage would have brought upon her.

FORD    Stand not amazed; here is no remedy:
    In love the heavens themselves do guide the state;
    Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

FALSTAFF    I am glad, though you have ta'en a special stand to
    strike at me, that your arrow hath glanced.

PAGE    Well, what remedy? Fenton, heaven give thee joy!
    What cannot be eschew'd must be embraced.

FALSTAFF    When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased.

MISTRESS PAGE    Well, I will muse no further. Master Fenton,
    Heaven give you many, many merry days!
    Good husband, let us every one go home,
    And laugh this sport o'er by a country fire;
    Sir John and all.

FORD                      Let it be so. Sir John,
    To Master Brook you yet shall hold your word
    For he tonight shall lie with Mistress Ford.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


    DRAMATIS PERSONAE


DON PEDRO    prince of Arragon.

DON JOHN    his bastard brother.

CLAUDIO    a young lord of Florence.

BENEDICK    a young lord of Padua.

LEONATO    governor of Messina.

ANTONIO    his brother.

BALTHASAR    attendant on Don Pedro.


CONRADE    |
    |  followers of Don John.
BORACHIO    |


FRIAR FRANCIS:

DOGBERRY    a constable.

VERGES    a headborough.
    A Sexton.
    A Boy.

HERO    daughter to Leonato.

BEATRICE    niece to Leonato.


MARGARET    |
    |  gentlewomen attending on Hero.
URSULA    |


    Messengers, Watch, Attendants, &c. (Lord:)
    (Messenger:)
    (Watchman:)
    (First Watchman:)
    (Second Watchman:)


SCENE    Messina.




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT I



SCENE I    Before LEONATO'S house.


    [Enter LEONATO, HERO, and BEATRICE, with a
    Messenger]

LEONATO    I learn in this letter that Don Peter of Arragon
    comes this night to Messina.

Messenger    He is very near by this: he was not three leagues off
    when I left him.

LEONATO    How many gentlemen have you lost in this action?

Messenger    But few of any sort, and none of name.

LEONATO    A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings
    home full numbers. I find here that Don Peter hath
    bestowed much honour on a young Florentine called Claudio.

Messenger    Much deserved on his part and equally remembered by
    Don Pedro: he hath borne himself beyond the
    promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb,
    the feats of a lion: he hath indeed better
    bettered expectation than you must expect of me to
    tell you how.

LEONATO    He hath an uncle here in Messina will be very much
    glad of it.

Messenger    I have already delivered him letters, and there
    appears much joy in him; even so much that joy could
    not show itself modest enough without a badge of
    bitterness.

LEONATO    Did he break out into tears?

Messenger    In great measure.

LEONATO    A kind overflow of kindness: there are no faces
    truer than those that are so washed. How much
    better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping!

BEATRICE    I pray you, is Signior Mountanto returned from the
    wars or no?

Messenger    I know none of that name, lady: there was none such
    in the army of any sort.

LEONATO    What is he that you ask for, niece?

HERO    My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.

Messenger    O, he's returned; and as pleasant as ever he was.

BEATRICE    He set up his bills here in Messina and challenged
    Cupid at the flight; and my uncle's fool, reading
    the challenge, subscribed for Cupid, and challenged
    him at the bird-bolt. I pray you, how many hath he
    killed and eaten in these wars? But how many hath
    he killed? for indeed I promised to eat all of his killing.

LEONATO    Faith, niece, you tax Signior Benedick too much;
    but he'll be meet with you, I doubt it not.

Messenger    He hath done good service, lady, in these wars.

BEATRICE    You had musty victual, and he hath holp to eat it:
    he is a very valiant trencherman; he hath an
    excellent stomach.

Messenger    And a good soldier too, lady.

BEATRICE    And a good soldier to a lady: but what is he to a lord?

Messenger    A lord to a lord, a man to a man; stuffed with all
    honourable virtues.

BEATRICE    It is so, indeed; he is no less than a stuffed man:
    but for the stuffing,--well, we are all mortal.

LEONATO    You must not, sir, mistake my niece. There is a
    kind of merry war betwixt Signior Benedick and her:
    they never meet but there's a skirmish of wit
    between them.

BEATRICE    Alas! he gets nothing by that. In our last
    conflict four of his five wits went halting off, and
    now is the whole man governed with one: so that if
    he have wit enough to keep himself warm, let him
    bear it for a difference between himself and his
    horse; for it is all the wealth that he hath left,
    to be known a reasonable creature. Who is his
    companion now? He hath every month a new sworn brother.

Messenger    Is't possible?

BEATRICE    Very easily possible: he wears his faith but as
    the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the
    next block.

Messenger    I see, lady, the gentleman is not in your books.

BEATRICE    No; an he were, I would burn my study. But, I pray
    you, who is his companion? Is there no young
    squarer now that will make a voyage with him to the devil?

Messenger    He is most in the company of the right noble Claudio.

BEATRICE    O Lord, he will hang upon him like a disease: he
    is sooner caught than the pestilence, and the taker
    runs presently mad. God help the noble Claudio! if
    he have caught the Benedick, it will cost him a
    thousand pound ere a' be cured.

Messenger    I will hold friends with you, lady.

BEATRICE    Do, good friend.

LEONATO    You will never run mad, niece.

BEATRICE    No, not till a hot January.

Messenger    Don Pedro is approached.

    [Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK,
    and BALTHASAR]

DON PEDRO    Good Signior Leonato, you are come to meet your
    trouble: the fashion of the world is to avoid
    cost, and you encounter it.

LEONATO    Never came trouble to my house in the likeness of
    your grace: for trouble being gone, comfort should
    remain; but when you depart from me, sorrow abides
    and happiness takes his leave.

DON PEDRO    You embrace your charge too willingly. I think this
    is your daughter.

LEONATO    Her mother hath many times told me so.

BENEDICK    Were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?

LEONATO    Signior Benedick, no; for then were you a child.

DON PEDRO    You have it full, Benedick: we may guess by this
    what you are, being a man. Truly, the lady fathers
    herself. Be happy, lady; for you are like an
    honourable father.

BENEDICK    If Signior Leonato be her father, she would not
    have his head on her shoulders for all Messina, as
    like him as she is.

BEATRICE    I wonder that you will still be talking, Signior
    Benedick: nobody marks you.

BENEDICK    What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?

BEATRICE    Is it possible disdain should die while she hath
    such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
    Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come
    in her presence.

BENEDICK    Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I
    am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I
    would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard
    heart; for, truly, I love none.

BEATRICE    A dear happiness to women: they would else have
    been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God
    and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I
    had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man
    swear he loves me.

BENEDICK    God keep your ladyship still in that mind! so some
    gentleman or other shall 'scape a predestinate
    scratched face.

BEATRICE    Scratching could not make it worse, an 'twere such
    a face as yours were.

BENEDICK    Well, you are a rare parrot-teacher.

BEATRICE    A bird of my tongue is better than a beast of yours.

BENEDICK    I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and
    so good a continuer. But keep your way, i' God's
    name; I have done.

BEATRICE    You always end with a jade's trick: I know you of old.

DON PEDRO    That is the sum of all, Leonato. Signior Claudio
    and Signior Benedick, my dear friend Leonato hath
    invited you all. I tell him we shall stay here at
    the least a month; and he heartily prays some
    occasion may detain us longer. I dare swear he is no
    hypocrite, but prays from his heart.

LEONATO    If you swear, my lord, you shall not be forsworn.

    [To DON JOHN]

    Let me bid you welcome, my lord: being reconciled to
    the prince your brother, I owe you all duty.

DON JOHN    I thank you: I am not of many words, but I thank
    you.

LEONATO    Please it your grace lead on?

DON PEDRO    Your hand, Leonato; we will go together.

    [Exeunt all except BENEDICK and CLAUDIO]

CLAUDIO    Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signior Leonato?

BENEDICK    I noted her not; but I looked on her.

CLAUDIO    Is she not a modest young lady?

BENEDICK    Do you question me, as an honest man should do, for
    my simple true judgment; or would you have me speak
    after my custom, as being a professed tyrant to their sex?

CLAUDIO    No; I pray thee speak in sober judgment.

BENEDICK    Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high
    praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little
    for a great praise: only this commendation I can
    afford her, that were she other than she is, she
    were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I
    do not like her.

CLAUDIO    Thou thinkest I am in sport: I pray thee tell me
    truly how thou likest her.

BENEDICK    Would you buy her, that you inquire after her?

CLAUDIO    Can the world buy such a jewel?

BENEDICK    Yea, and a case to put it into. But speak you this
    with a sad brow? or do you play the flouting Jack,
    to tell us Cupid is a good hare-finder and Vulcan a
    rare carpenter? Come, in what key shall a man take
    you, to go in the song?

CLAUDIO    In mine eye she is the sweetest lady that ever I
    looked on.

BENEDICK    I can see yet without spectacles and I see no such
    matter: there's her cousin, an she were not
    possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty
    as the first of May doth the last of December. But I
    hope you have no intent to turn husband, have you?

CLAUDIO    I would scarce trust myself, though I had sworn the
    contrary, if Hero would be my wife.

BENEDICK    Is't come to this? In faith, hath not the world
    one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion?
    Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?
    Go to, i' faith; an thou wilt needs thrust thy neck
    into a yoke, wear the print of it and sigh away
    Sundays. Look Don Pedro is returned to seek you.

    [Re-enter DON PEDRO]

DON PEDRO    What secret hath held you here, that you followed
    not to Leonato's?

BENEDICK    I would your grace would constrain me to tell.

DON PEDRO    I charge thee on thy allegiance.

BENEDICK    You hear, Count Claudio: I can be secret as a dumb
    man; I would have you think so; but, on my
    allegiance, mark you this, on my allegiance. He is
    in love. With who? now that is your grace's part.
    Mark how short his answer is;--With Hero, Leonato's
    short daughter.

CLAUDIO    If this were so, so were it uttered.

BENEDICK    Like the old tale, my lord: 'it is not so, nor
    'twas not so, but, indeed, God forbid it should be
    so.'

CLAUDIO    If my passion change not shortly, God forbid it
    should be otherwise.

DON PEDRO    Amen, if you love her; for the lady is very well worthy.

CLAUDIO    You speak this to fetch me in, my lord.

DON PEDRO    By my troth, I speak my thought.

CLAUDIO    And, in faith, my lord, I spoke mine.

BENEDICK    And, by my two faiths and troths, my lord, I spoke mine.

CLAUDIO    That I love her, I feel.

DON PEDRO    That she is worthy, I know.

BENEDICK    That I neither feel how she should be loved nor
    know how she should be worthy, is the opinion that
    fire cannot melt out of me: I will die in it at the stake.

DON PEDRO    Thou wast ever an obstinate heretic in the despite
    of beauty.

CLAUDIO    And never could maintain his part but in the force
    of his will.

BENEDICK    That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she
    brought me up, I likewise give her most humble
    thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my
    forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick,
    all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do
    them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the
    right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which
    I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.

DON PEDRO    I shall see thee, ere I die, look pale with love.

BENEDICK    With anger, with sickness, or with hunger, my lord,
    not with love: prove that ever I lose more blood
    with love than I will get again with drinking, pick
    out mine eyes with a ballad-maker's pen and hang me
    up at the door of a brothel-house for the sign of
    blind Cupid.

DON PEDRO    Well, if ever thou dost fall from this faith, thou
    wilt prove a notable argument.

BENEDICK    If I do, hang me in a bottle like a cat and shoot
    at me; and he that hits me, let him be clapped on
    the shoulder, and called Adam.

DON PEDRO    Well, as time shall try: 'In time the savage bull
    doth bear the yoke.'

BENEDICK    The savage bull may; but if ever the sensible
    Benedick bear it, pluck off the bull's horns and set
    them in my forehead: and let me be vilely painted,
    and in such great letters as they write 'Here is
    good horse to hire,' let them signify under my sign
    'Here you may see Benedick the married man.'

CLAUDIO    If this should ever happen, thou wouldst be horn-mad.

DON PEDRO    Nay, if Cupid have not spent all his quiver in
    Venice, thou wilt quake for this shortly.

BENEDICK    I look for an earthquake too, then.

DON PEDRO    Well, you temporize with the hours. In the
    meantime, good Signior Benedick, repair to
    Leonato's: commend me to him and tell him I will
    not fail him at supper; for indeed he hath made
    great preparation.

BENEDICK    I have almost matter enough in me for such an
    embassage; and so I commit you--

CLAUDIO    To the tuition of God: From my house, if I had it,--

DON PEDRO    The sixth of July: Your loving friend, Benedick.

BENEDICK    Nay, mock not, mock not. The body of your
    discourse is sometime guarded with fragments, and
    the guards are but slightly basted on neither: ere
    you flout old ends any further, examine your
    conscience: and so I leave you.

    [Exit]

CLAUDIO    My liege, your highness now may do me good.

DON PEDRO    My love is thine to teach: teach it but how,
    And thou shalt see how apt it is to learn
    Any hard lesson that may do thee good.

CLAUDIO    Hath Leonato any son, my lord?

DON PEDRO    No child but Hero; she's his only heir.
    Dost thou affect her, Claudio?

CLAUDIO    O, my lord,
    When you went onward on this ended action,
    I look'd upon her with a soldier's eye,
    That liked, but had a rougher task in hand
    Than to drive liking to the name of love:
    But now I am return'd and that war-thoughts
    Have left their places vacant, in their rooms
    Come thronging soft and delicate desires,
    All prompting me how fair young Hero is,
    Saying, I liked her ere I went to wars.

DON PEDRO    Thou wilt be like a lover presently
    And tire the hearer with a book of words.
    If thou dost love fair Hero, cherish it,
    And I will break with her and with her father,
    And thou shalt have her. Was't not to this end
    That thou began'st to twist so fine a story?

CLAUDIO    How sweetly you do minister to love,
    That know love's grief by his complexion!
    But lest my liking might too sudden seem,
    I would have salved it with a longer treatise.

DON PEDRO    What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
    The fairest grant is the necessity.
    Look, what will serve is fit: 'tis once, thou lovest,
    And I will fit thee with the remedy.
    I know we shall have revelling to-night:
    I will assume thy part in some disguise
    And tell fair Hero I am Claudio,
    And in her bosom I'll unclasp my heart
    And take her hearing prisoner with the force
    And strong encounter of my amorous tale:
    Then after to her father will I break;
    And the conclusion is, she shall be thine.
    In practise let us put it presently.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT I



SCENE II    A room in LEONATO's house.


    [Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, meeting]

LEONATO    How now, brother! Where is my cousin, your son?
    hath he provided this music?

ANTONIO    He is very busy about it. But, brother, I can tell
    you strange news that you yet dreamt not of.

LEONATO    Are they good?

ANTONIO    As the event stamps them: but they have a good
    cover; they show well outward. The prince and Count
    Claudio, walking in a thick-pleached alley in mine
    orchard, were thus much overheard by a man of mine:
    the prince discovered to Claudio that he loved my
    niece your daughter and meant to acknowledge it
    this night in a dance: and if he found her
    accordant, he meant to take the present time by the
    top and instantly break with you of it.

LEONATO    Hath the fellow any wit that told you this?

ANTONIO    A good sharp fellow: I will send for him; and
    question him yourself.

LEONATO    No, no; we will hold it as a dream till it appear
    itself: but I will acquaint my daughter withal,
    that she may be the better prepared for an answer,
    if peradventure this be true. Go you and tell her of it.

    [Enter Attendants]

    Cousins, you know what you have to do. O, I cry you
    mercy, friend; go you with me, and I will use your
    skill. Good cousin, have a care this busy time.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT I



SCENE III    The same.


    [Enter DON JOHN and CONRADE]

CONRADE    What the good-year, my lord! why are you thus out
    of measure sad?

DON JOHN    There is no measure in the occasion that breeds;
    therefore the sadness is without limit.

CONRADE    You should hear reason.

DON JOHN    And when I have heard it, what blessing brings it?

CONRADE    If not a present remedy, at least a patient
    sufferance.

DON JOHN    I wonder that thou, being, as thou sayest thou art,
    born under Saturn, goest about to apply a moral
    medicine to a mortifying mischief. I cannot hide
    what I am: I must be sad when I have cause and smile
    at no man's jests, eat when I have stomach and wait
    for no man's leisure, sleep when I am drowsy and
    tend on no man's business, laugh when I am merry and
    claw no man in his humour.

CONRADE    Yea, but you must not make the full show of this
    till you may do it without controlment. You have of
    late stood out against your brother, and he hath
    ta'en you newly into his grace; where it is
    impossible you should take true root but by the
    fair weather that you make yourself: it is needful
    that you frame the season for your own harvest.

DON JOHN    I had rather be a canker in a hedge than a rose in
    his grace, and it better fits my blood to be
    disdained of all than to fashion a carriage to rob
    love from any: in this, though I cannot be said to
    be a flattering honest man, it must not be denied
    but I am a plain-dealing villain. I am trusted with
    a muzzle and enfranchised with a clog; therefore I
    have decreed not to sing in my cage. If I had my
    mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do
    my liking: in the meantime let me be that I am and
    seek not to alter me.

CONRADE    Can you make no use of your discontent?

DON JOHN    I make all use of it, for I use it only.
    Who comes here?

    [Enter BORACHIO]

    What news, Borachio?

BORACHIO    I came yonder from a great supper: the prince your
    brother is royally entertained by Leonato: and I
    can give you intelligence of an intended marriage.

DON JOHN    Will it serve for any model to build mischief on?
    What is he for a fool that betroths himself to
    unquietness?

BORACHIO    Marry, it is your brother's right hand.

DON JOHN    Who? the most exquisite Claudio?

BORACHIO    Even he.

DON JOHN    A proper squire! And who, and who? which way looks
    he?

BORACHIO    Marry, on Hero, the daughter and heir of Leonato.

DON JOHN    A very forward March-chick! How came you to this?

BORACHIO    Being entertained for a perfumer, as I was smoking a
    musty room, comes me the prince and Claudio, hand
    in hand in sad conference: I whipt me behind the
    arras; and there heard it agreed upon that the
    prince should woo Hero for himself, and having
    obtained her, give her to Count Claudio.

DON JOHN    Come, come, let us thither: this may prove food to
    my displeasure. That young start-up hath all the
    glory of my overthrow: if I can cross him any way, I
    bless myself every way. You are both sure, and will assist me?

CONRADE    To the death, my lord.

DON JOHN    Let us to the great supper: their cheer is the
    greater that I am subdued. Would the cook were of
    my mind! Shall we go prove what's to be done?

BORACHIO    We'll wait upon your lordship.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT II



SCENE I    A hall in LEONATO'S house.


    [Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, HERO, BEATRICE, and others]


LEONATO    Was not Count John here at supper?

ANTONIO    I saw him not.

BEATRICE    How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see
    him but I am heart-burned an hour after.

HERO    He is of a very melancholy disposition.

BEATRICE    He were an excellent man that were made just in the
    midway between him and Benedick: the one is too
    like an image and says nothing, and the other too
    like my lady's eldest son, evermore tattling.

LEONATO    Then half Signior Benedick's tongue in Count John's
    mouth, and half Count John's melancholy in Signior
    Benedick's face,--

BEATRICE    With a good leg and a good foot, uncle, and money
    enough in his purse, such a man would win any woman
    in the world, if a' could get her good-will.

LEONATO    By my troth, niece, thou wilt never get thee a
    husband, if thou be so shrewd of thy tongue.

ANTONIO    In faith, she's too curst.

BEATRICE    Too curst is more than curst: I shall lessen God's
    sending that way; for it is said, 'God sends a curst
    cow short horns;' but to a cow too curst he sends none.

LEONATO    So, by being too curst, God will send you no horns.

BEATRICE    Just, if he send me no husband; for the which
    blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and
    evening. Lord, I could not endure a husband with a
    beard on his face: I had rather lie in the woollen.

LEONATO    You may light on a husband that hath no beard.

BEATRICE    What should I do with him? dress him in my apparel
    and make him my waiting-gentlewoman? He that hath a
    beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no
    beard is less than a man: and he that is more than
    a youth is not for me, and he that is less than a
    man, I am not for him: therefore, I will even take
    sixpence in earnest of the bear-ward, and lead his
    apes into hell.

LEONATO    Well, then, go you into hell?

BEATRICE    No, but to the gate; and there will the devil meet
    me, like an old cuckold, with horns on his head, and
    say 'Get you to heaven, Beatrice, get you to
    heaven; here's no place for you maids:' so deliver
    I up my apes, and away to Saint Peter for the
    heavens; he shows me where the bachelors sit, and
    there live we as merry as the day is long.

ANTONIO    [To HERO]  Well, niece, I trust you will be ruled
    by your father.

BEATRICE    Yes, faith; it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy
    and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all
    that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else
    make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please
    me.'

LEONATO    Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband.

BEATRICE    Not till God make men of some other metal than
    earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be
    overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make
    an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl?
    No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren;
    and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

LEONATO    Daughter, remember what I told you: if the prince
    do solicit you in that kind, you know your answer.

BEATRICE    The fault will be in the music, cousin, if you be
    not wooed in good time: if the prince be too
    important, tell him there is measure in every thing
    and so dance out the answer. For, hear me, Hero:
    wooing, wedding, and repenting, is as a Scotch jig,
    a measure, and a cinque pace: the first suit is hot
    and hasty, like a Scotch jig, and full as
    fantastical; the wedding, mannerly-modest, as a
    measure, full of state and ancientry; and then comes
    repentance and, with his bad legs, falls into the
    cinque pace faster and faster, till he sink into his grave.

LEONATO    Cousin, you apprehend passing shrewdly.

BEATRICE    I have a good eye, uncle; I can see a church by daylight.

LEONATO    The revellers are entering, brother: make good room.

    [All put on their masks]

    [Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, BALTHASAR,
    DON JOHN, BORACHIO, MARGARET, URSULA and others, masked]

DON PEDRO    Lady, will you walk about with your friend?

HERO    So you walk softly and look sweetly and say nothing,
    I am yours for the walk; and especially when I walk away.

DON PEDRO    With me in your company?

HERO    I may say so, when I please.

DON PEDRO    And when please you to say so?

HERO    When I like your favour; for God defend the lute
    should be like the case!

DON PEDRO    My visor is Philemon's roof; within the house is Jove.

HERO    Why, then, your visor should be thatched.

DON PEDRO    Speak low, if you speak love.

    [Drawing her aside]

BALTHASAR    Well, I would you did like me.

MARGARET    So would not I, for your own sake; for I have many
    ill-qualities.

BALTHASAR    Which is one?

MARGARET    I say my prayers aloud.

BALTHASAR    I love you the better: the hearers may cry, Amen.

MARGARET    God match me with a good dancer!

BALTHASAR    Amen.

MARGARET    And God keep him out of my sight when the dance is
    done! Answer, clerk.

BALTHASAR    No more words: the clerk is answered.

URSULA    I know you well enough; you are Signior Antonio.

ANTONIO    At a word, I am not.

URSULA    I know you by the waggling of your head.

ANTONIO    To tell you true, I counterfeit him.

URSULA    You could never do him so ill-well, unless you were
    the very man. Here's his dry hand up and down: you
    are he, you are he.

ANTONIO    At a word, I am not.

URSULA    Come, come, do you think I do not know you by your
    excellent wit? can virtue hide itself? Go to,
    mum, you are he: graces will appear, and there's an
    end.

BEATRICE    Will you not tell me who told you so?

BENEDICK    No, you shall pardon me.

BEATRICE    Nor will you not tell me who you are?

BENEDICK    Not now.

BEATRICE    That I was disdainful, and that I had my good wit
    out of the 'Hundred Merry Tales:'--well this was
    Signior Benedick that said so.

BENEDICK    What's he?

BEATRICE    I am sure you know him well enough.

BENEDICK    Not I, believe me.

BEATRICE    Did he never make you laugh?

BENEDICK    I pray you, what is he?

BEATRICE    Why, he is the prince's jester: a very dull fool;
    only his gift is in devising impossible slanders:
    none but libertines delight in him; and the
    commendation is not in his wit, but in his villany;
    for he both pleases men and angers them, and then
    they laugh at him and beat him. I am sure he is in
    the fleet: I would he had boarded me.

BENEDICK    When I know the gentleman, I'll tell him what you say.

BEATRICE    Do, do: he'll but break a comparison or two on me;
    which, peradventure not marked or not laughed at,
    strikes him into melancholy; and then there's a
    partridge wing saved, for the fool will eat no
    supper that night.

    [Music]

    We must follow the leaders.

BENEDICK    In every good thing.

BEATRICE    Nay, if they lead to any ill, I will leave them at
    the next turning.

    [Dance. Then exeunt all except DON JOHN, BORACHIO,
    and CLAUDIO]

DON JOHN    Sure my brother is amorous on Hero and hath
    withdrawn her father to break with him about it.
    The ladies follow her and but one visor remains.

BORACHIO    And that is Claudio: I know him by his bearing.

DON JOHN    Are not you Signior Benedick?

CLAUDIO    You know me well; I am he.

DON JOHN    Signior, you are very near my brother in his love:
    he is enamoured on Hero; I pray you, dissuade him
    from her: she is no equal for his birth: you may
    do the part of an honest man in it.

CLAUDIO    How know you he loves her?

DON JOHN    I heard him swear his affection.

BORACHIO    So did I too; and he swore he would marry her to-night.

DON JOHN    Come, let us to the banquet.

    [Exeunt DON JOHN and BORACHIO]

CLAUDIO    Thus answer I in the name of Benedick,
    But hear these ill news with the ears of Claudio.
    'Tis certain so; the prince wooes for himself.
    Friendship is constant in all other things
    Save in the office and affairs of love:
    Therefore, all hearts in love use their own tongues;
    Let every eye negotiate for itself
    And trust no agent; for beauty is a witch
    Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
    This is an accident of hourly proof,
    Which I mistrusted not. Farewell, therefore, Hero!

    [Re-enter BENEDICK]

BENEDICK    Count Claudio?

CLAUDIO    Yea, the same.

BENEDICK    Come, will you go with me?

CLAUDIO    Whither?

BENEDICK    Even to the next willow, about your own business,
    county. What fashion will you wear the garland of?
    about your neck, like an usurer's chain? or under
    your arm, like a lieutenant's scarf? You must wear
    it one way, for the prince hath got your Hero.

CLAUDIO    I wish him joy of her.

BENEDICK    Why, that's spoken like an honest drovier: so they
    sell bullocks. But did you think the prince would
    have served you thus?

CLAUDIO    I pray you, leave me.

BENEDICK    Ho! now you strike like the blind man: 'twas the
    boy that stole your meat, and you'll beat the post.

CLAUDIO    If it will not be, I'll leave you.

    [Exit]

BENEDICK    Alas, poor hurt fowl! now will he creep into sedges.
    But that my Lady Beatrice should know me, and not
    know me! The prince's fool! Ha? It may be I go
    under that title because I am merry. Yea, but so I
    am apt to do myself wrong; I am not so reputed: it
    is the base, though bitter, disposition of Beatrice
    that puts the world into her person and so gives me
    out. Well, I'll be revenged as I may.

    [Re-enter DON PEDRO]

DON PEDRO    Now, signior, where's the count? did you see him?

BENEDICK    Troth, my lord, I have played the part of Lady Fame.
    I found him here as melancholy as a lodge in a
    warren: I told him, and I think I told him true,
    that your grace had got the good will of this young
    lady; and I offered him my company to a willow-tree,
    either to make him a garland, as being forsaken, or
    to bind him up a rod, as being worthy to be whipped.

DON PEDRO    To be whipped! What's his fault?

BENEDICK    The flat transgression of a schoolboy, who, being
    overjoyed with finding a birds' nest, shows it his
    companion, and he steals it.

DON PEDRO    Wilt thou make a trust a transgression? The
    transgression is in the stealer.

BENEDICK    Yet it had not been amiss the rod had been made,
    and the garland too; for the garland he might have
    worn himself, and the rod he might have bestowed on
    you, who, as I take it, have stolen his birds' nest.

DON PEDRO    I will but teach them to sing, and restore them to
    the owner.

BENEDICK    If their singing answer your saying, by my faith,
    you say honestly.

DON PEDRO    The Lady Beatrice hath a quarrel to you: the
    gentleman that danced with her told her she is much
    wronged by you.

BENEDICK    O, she misused me past the endurance of a block!
    an oak but with one green leaf on it would have
    answered her; my very visor began to assume life and
    scold with her. She told me, not thinking I had been
    myself, that I was the prince's jester, that I was
    duller than a great thaw; huddling jest upon jest
    with such impossible conveyance upon me that I stood
    like a man at a mark, with a whole army shooting at
    me. She speaks poniards, and every word stabs:
    if her breath were as terrible as her terminations,
    there were no living near her; she would infect to
    the north star. I would not marry her, though she
    were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before
    he transgressed: she would have made Hercules have
    turned spit, yea, and have cleft his club to make
    the fire too. Come, talk not of her: you shall find
    her the infernal Ate in good apparel. I would to God
    some scholar would conjure her; for certainly, while
    she is here, a man may live as quiet in hell as in a
    sanctuary; and people sin upon purpose, because they
    would go thither; so, indeed, all disquiet, horror
    and perturbation follows her.

DON PEDRO    Look, here she comes.

    [Enter CLAUDIO, BEATRICE, HERO, and LEONATO]

BENEDICK    Will your grace command me any service to the
    world's end? I will go on the slightest errand now
    to the Antipodes that you can devise to send me on;
    I will fetch you a tooth-picker now from the
    furthest inch of Asia, bring you the length of
    Prester John's foot, fetch you a hair off the great
    Cham's beard, do you any embassage to the Pigmies,
    rather than hold three words' conference with this
    harpy. You have no employment for me?

DON PEDRO    None, but to desire your good company.

BENEDICK    O God, sir, here's a dish I love not: I cannot
    endure my Lady Tongue.

    [Exit]

DON PEDRO    Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of
    Signior Benedick.

BEATRICE    Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave
    him use for it, a double heart for his single one:
    marry, once before he won it of me with false dice,
    therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.

DON PEDRO    You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.

BEATRICE    So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I
    should prove the mother of fools. I have brought
    Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek.

DON PEDRO    Why, how now, count! wherefore are you sad?

CLAUDIO    Not sad, my lord.

DON PEDRO    How then? sick?

CLAUDIO    Neither, my lord.

BEATRICE    The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor
    well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and
    something of that jealous complexion.

DON PEDRO    I' faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true;
    though, I'll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is
    false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and
    fair Hero is won: I have broke with her father,
    and his good will obtained: name the day of
    marriage, and God give thee joy!

LEONATO    Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my
    fortunes: his grace hath made the match, and an
    grace say Amen to it.

BEATRICE    Speak, count, 'tis your cue.

CLAUDIO    Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were
    but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as
    you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for
    you and dote upon the exchange.

BEATRICE    Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth
    with a kiss, and let not him speak neither.

DON PEDRO    In faith, lady, you have a merry heart.

BEATRICE    Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on
    the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his
    ear that he is in her heart.

CLAUDIO    And so she doth, cousin.

BEATRICE    Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the
    world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a
    corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

DON PEDRO    Lady Beatrice, I will get you one.

BEATRICE    I would rather have one of your father's getting.
    Hath your grace ne'er a brother like you? Your
    father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them.

DON PEDRO    Will you have me, lady?

BEATRICE    No, my lord, unless I might have another for
    working-days: your grace is too costly to wear
    every day. But, I beseech your grace, pardon me: I
    was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

DON PEDRO    Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best
    becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in
    a merry hour.

BEATRICE    No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there
    was a star danced, and under that was I born.
    Cousins, God give you joy!

LEONATO    Niece, will you look to those things I told you of?

BEATRICE    I cry you mercy, uncle. By your grace's pardon.

    [Exit]

DON PEDRO    By my troth, a pleasant-spirited lady.

LEONATO    There's little of the melancholy element in her, my
    lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps, and
    not ever sad then; for I have heard my daughter say,
    she hath often dreamed of unhappiness and waked
    herself with laughing.

DON PEDRO    She cannot endure to hear tell of a husband.

LEONATO    O, by no means: she mocks all her wooers out of suit.

DON PEDRO    She were an excellent wife for Benedict.

LEONATO    O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married,
    they would talk themselves mad.

DON PEDRO    County Claudio, when mean you to go to church?

CLAUDIO    To-morrow, my lord: time goes on crutches till love
    have all his rites.

LEONATO    Not till Monday, my dear son, which is hence a just
    seven-night; and a time too brief, too, to have all
    things answer my mind.

DON PEDRO    Come, you shake the head at so long a breathing:
    but, I warrant thee, Claudio, the time shall not go
    dully by us. I will in the interim undertake one of
    Hercules' labours; which is, to bring Signior
    Benedick and the Lady Beatrice into a mountain of
    affection the one with the other. I would fain have
    it a match, and I doubt not but to fashion it, if
    you three will but minister such assistance as I
    shall give you direction.

LEONATO    My lord, I am for you, though it cost me ten
    nights' watchings.

CLAUDIO    And I, my lord.

DON PEDRO    And you too, gentle Hero?

HERO    I will do any modest office, my lord, to help my
    cousin to a good husband.

DON PEDRO    And Benedick is not the unhopefullest husband that
    I know. Thus far can I praise him; he is of a noble
    strain, of approved valour and confirmed honesty. I
    will teach you how to humour your cousin, that she
    shall fall in love with Benedick; and I, with your
    two helps, will so practise on Benedick that, in
    despite of his quick wit and his queasy stomach, he
    shall fall in love with Beatrice. If we can do this,
    Cupid is no longer an archer: his glory shall be
    ours, for we are the only love-gods. Go in with me,
    and I will tell you my drift.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT II



SCENE II    The same.


    [Enter DON JOHN and BORACHIO]

DON JOHN    It is so; the Count Claudio shall marry the
    daughter of Leonato.

BORACHIO    Yea, my lord; but I can cross it.

DON JOHN    Any bar, any cross, any impediment will be
    medicinable to me: I am sick in displeasure to him,
    and whatsoever comes athwart his affection ranges
    evenly with mine. How canst thou cross this marriage?

BORACHIO    Not honestly, my lord; but so covertly that no
    dishonesty shall appear in me.

DON JOHN    Show me briefly how.

BORACHIO    I think I told your lordship a year since, how much
    I am in the favour of Margaret, the waiting
    gentlewoman to Hero.

DON JOHN    I remember.

BORACHIO    I can, at any unseasonable instant of the night,
    appoint her to look out at her lady's chamber window.

DON JOHN    What life is in that, to be the death of this marriage?

BORACHIO    The poison of that lies in you to temper. Go you to
    the prince your brother; spare not to tell him that
    he hath wronged his honour in marrying the renowned
    Claudio--whose estimation do you mightily hold
    up--to a contaminated stale, such a one as Hero.

DON JOHN    What proof shall I make of that?

BORACHIO    Proof enough to misuse the prince, to vex Claudio,
    to undo Hero and kill Leonato. Look you for any
    other issue?

DON JOHN    Only to despite them, I will endeavour any thing.

BORACHIO    Go, then; find me a meet hour to draw Don Pedro and
    the Count Claudio alone: tell them that you know
    that Hero loves me; intend a kind of zeal both to the
    prince and Claudio, as,--in love of your brother's
    honour, who hath made this match, and his friend's
    reputation, who is thus like to be cozened with the
    semblance of a maid,--that you have discovered
    thus. They will scarcely believe this without trial:
    offer them instances; which shall bear no less
    likelihood than to see me at her chamber-window,
    hear me call Margaret Hero, hear Margaret term me
    Claudio; and bring them to see this the very night
    before the intended wedding,--for in the meantime I
    will so fashion the matter that Hero shall be
    absent,--and there shall appear such seeming truth
    of Hero's disloyalty that jealousy shall be called
    assurance and all the preparation overthrown.

DON JOHN    Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I will put
    it in practise. Be cunning in the working this, and
    thy fee is a thousand ducats.

BORACHIO    Be you constant in the accusation, and my cunning
    shall not shame me.

DON JOHN    I will presently go learn their day of marriage.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT II



SCENE III    LEONATO'S orchard.


    [Enter BENEDICK]

BENEDICK    Boy!

    [Enter Boy]

Boy    Signior?

BENEDICK    In my chamber-window lies a book: bring it hither
    to me in the orchard.

Boy    I am here already, sir.

BENEDICK    I know that; but I would have thee hence, and here again.

    [Exit Boy]

    I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
    another man is a fool when he dedicates his
    behaviors to love, will, after he hath laughed at
    such shallow follies in others, become the argument
    of his own scorn by failing in love: and such a man
    is Claudio. I have known when there was no music
    with him but the drum and the fife; and now had he
    rather hear the tabour and the pipe: I have known
    when he would have walked ten mile a-foot to see a
    good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake,
    carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to
    speak plain and to the purpose, like an honest man
    and a soldier; and now is he turned orthography; his
    words are a very fantastical banquet, just so many
    strange dishes. May I be so converted and see with
    these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not: I will not
    be sworn, but love may transform me to an oyster; but
    I'll take my oath on it, till he have made an oyster
    of me, he shall never make me such a fool. One woman
    is fair, yet I am well; another is wise, yet I am
    well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till all
    graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in
    my grace. Rich she shall be, that's certain; wise,
    or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll never cheapen her;
    fair, or I'll   never look on her; mild, or come not
    near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good
    discourse, an excellent musician, and her hair shall
    be of what colour it please God. Ha! the prince and
    Monsieur Love! I will hide me in the arbour.

    [Withdraws]

    [Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO]

DON PEDRO    Come, shall we hear this music?

CLAUDIO    Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
    As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!

DON PEDRO    See you where Benedick hath hid himself?

CLAUDIO    O, very well, my lord: the music ended,
    We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.

    [Enter BALTHASAR with Music]

DON PEDRO    Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.

BALTHASAR    O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
    To slander music any more than once.

DON PEDRO    It is the witness still of excellency
    To put a strange face on his own perfection.
    I pray thee, sing, and let me woo no more.

BALTHASAR    Because you talk of wooing, I will sing;
    Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
    To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,
    Yet will he swear he loves.

DON PEDRO    Now, pray thee, come;
    Or, if thou wilt hold longer argument,
    Do it in notes.

BALTHASAR                      Note this before my notes;
    There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.

DON PEDRO    Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks;
    Note, notes, forsooth, and nothing.
    [Air]

BENEDICK    Now, divine air! now is his soul ravished! Is it
    not strange that sheeps' guts should hale souls out
    of men's bodies? Well, a horn for my money, when
    all's done.

    [The Song]

BALTHASAR         Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
    Men were deceivers ever,
    One foot in sea and one on shore,
    To one thing constant never:
    Then sigh not so, but let them go,
    And be you blithe and bonny,
    Converting all your sounds of woe
    Into Hey nonny, nonny.

    Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,
    Of dumps so dull and heavy;
    The fraud of men was ever so,
    Since summer first was leafy:
    Then sigh not so, &c.

DON PEDRO    By my troth, a good song.

BALTHASAR    And an ill singer, my lord.

DON PEDRO    Ha, no, no, faith; thou singest well enough for a shift.

BENEDICK    An he had been a dog that should have howled thus,
    they would have hanged him: and I pray God his bad
    voice bode no mischief. I had as lief have heard the
    night-raven, come what plague could have come after
    it.

DON PEDRO    Yea, marry, dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee,
    get us some excellent music; for to-morrow night we
    would have it at the Lady Hero's chamber-window.

BALTHASAR    The best I can, my lord.

DON PEDRO    Do so: farewell.

    [Exit BALTHASAR]

    Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of
    to-day, that your niece Beatrice was in love with
    Signior Benedick?

CLAUDIO    O, ay: stalk on. stalk on; the fowl sits. I did
    never think that lady would have loved any man.

LEONATO    No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she
    should so dote on Signior Benedick, whom she hath in
    all outward behaviors seemed ever to abhor.

BENEDICK    Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?

LEONATO    By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think
    of it but that she loves him with an enraged
    affection: it is past the infinite of thought.

DON PEDRO    May be she doth but counterfeit.

CLAUDIO    Faith, like enough.

LEONATO    O God, counterfeit! There was never counterfeit of
    passion came so near the life of passion as she
    discovers it.

DON PEDRO    Why, what effects of passion shows she?

CLAUDIO    Bait the hook well; this fish will bite.

LEONATO    What effects, my lord? She will sit you, you heard
    my daughter tell you how.

CLAUDIO    She did, indeed.

DON PEDRO    How, how, pray you? You amaze me: I would have I
    thought her spirit had been invincible against all
    assaults of affection.

LEONATO    I would have sworn it had, my lord; especially
    against Benedick.

BENEDICK    I should think this a gull, but that the
    white-bearded fellow speaks it: knavery cannot,
    sure, hide himself in such reverence.

CLAUDIO    He hath ta'en the infection: hold it up.

DON PEDRO    Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?

LEONATO    No; and swears she never will: that's her torment.

CLAUDIO    'Tis true, indeed; so your daughter says: 'Shall
    I,' says she, 'that have so oft encountered him
    with scorn, write to him that I love him?'

LEONATO    This says she now when she is beginning to write to
    him; for she'll be up twenty times a night, and
    there will she sit in her smock till she have writ a
    sheet of paper: my daughter tells us all.

CLAUDIO    Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a
    pretty jest your daughter told us of.

LEONATO    O, when she had writ it and was reading it over, she
    found Benedick and Beatrice between the sheet?

CLAUDIO    That.

LEONATO    O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence;
    railed at herself, that she should be so immodest
    to write to one that she knew would flout her; 'I
    measure him,' says she, 'by my own spirit; for I
    should flout him, if he writ to me; yea, though I
    love him, I should.'

CLAUDIO    Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs,
    beats her heart, tears her hair, prays, curses; 'O
    sweet Benedick! God give me patience!'

LEONATO    She doth indeed; my daughter says so: and the
    ecstasy hath so much overborne her that my daughter
    is sometime afeared she will do a desperate outrage
    to herself: it is very true.

DON PEDRO    It were good that Benedick knew of it by some
    other, if she will not discover it.

CLAUDIO    To what end? He would make but a sport of it and
    torment the poor lady worse.

DON PEDRO    An he should, it were an alms to hang him. She's an
    excellent sweet lady; and, out of all suspicion,
    she is virtuous.

CLAUDIO    And she is exceeding wise.

DON PEDRO    In every thing but in loving Benedick.

LEONATO    O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender
    a body, we have ten proofs to one that blood hath
    the victory. I am sorry for her, as I have just
    cause, being her uncle and her guardian.

DON PEDRO    I would she had bestowed this dotage on me: I would
    have daffed all other respects and made her half
    myself. I pray you, tell Benedick of it, and hear
    what a' will say.

LEONATO    Were it good, think you?

CLAUDIO    Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she
    will die, if he love her not, and she will die, ere
    she make her love known, and she will die, if he woo
    her, rather than she will bate one breath of her
    accustomed crossness.

DON PEDRO    She doth well: if she should make tender of her
    love, 'tis very possible he'll scorn it; for the
    man, as you know all, hath a contemptible spirit.

CLAUDIO    He is a very proper man.

DON PEDRO    He hath indeed a good outward happiness.

CLAUDIO    Before God! and, in my mind, very wise.

DON PEDRO    He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.

CLAUDIO    And I take him to be valiant.

DON PEDRO    As Hector, I assure you: and in the managing of
    quarrels you may say he is wise; for either he
    avoids them with great discretion, or undertakes
    them with a most Christian-like fear.

LEONATO    If he do fear God, a' must necessarily keep peace:
    if he break the peace, he ought to enter into a
    quarrel with fear and trembling.

DON PEDRO    And so will he do; for the man doth fear God,
    howsoever it seems not in him by some large jests
    he will make. Well I am sorry for your niece. Shall
    we go seek Benedick, and tell him of her love?

CLAUDIO    Never tell him, my lord: let her wear it out with
    good counsel.

LEONATO    Nay, that's impossible: she may wear her heart out first.

DON PEDRO    Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter:
    let it cool the while. I love Benedick well; and I
    could wish he would modestly examine himself, to see
    how much he is unworthy so good a lady.

LEONATO    My lord, will you walk? dinner is ready.

CLAUDIO    If he do not dote on her upon this, I will never
    trust my expectation.

DON PEDRO    Let there be the same net spread for her; and that
    must your daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The
    sport will be, when they hold one an opinion of
    another's dotage, and no such matter: that's the
    scene that I would see, which will be merely a
    dumb-show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.

    [Exeunt DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and LEONATO]

BENEDICK    [Coming forward]  This can be no trick: the
    conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of
    this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady: it
    seems her affections have their full bent. Love me!
    why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured:
    they say I will bear myself proudly, if I perceive
    the love come from her; they say too that she will
    rather die than give any sign of affection. I did
    never think to marry: I must not seem proud: happy
    are they that hear their detractions and can put
    them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a
    truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis
    so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving
    me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor
    no great argument of her folly, for I will be
    horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
    odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,
    because I have railed so long against marriage: but
    doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat
    in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
    Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of
    the brain awe a man from the career of his humour?
    No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would
    die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I
    were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day!
    she's a fair lady: I do spy some marks of love in
    her.

    [Enter BEATRICE]

BEATRICE    Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.

BENEDICK    Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.

BEATRICE    I took no more pains for those thanks than you take
    pains to thank me: if it had been painful, I would
    not have come.

BENEDICK    You take pleasure then in the message?

BEATRICE    Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knife's
    point and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach,
    signior: fare you well.

    [Exit]

BENEDICK    Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in
    to dinner;' there's a double meaning in that 'I took
    no more pains for those thanks than you took pains
    to thank me.' that's as much as to say, Any pains
    that I take for you is as easy as thanks. If I do
    not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not
    love her, I am a Jew. I will go get her picture.

    [Exit]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT III



SCENE I    LEONATO'S garden.


    [Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA]

HERO    Good Margaret, run thee to the parlor;
    There shalt thou find my cousin Beatrice
    Proposing with the prince and Claudio:
    Whisper her ear and tell her, I and Ursula
    Walk in the orchard and our whole discourse
    Is all of her; say that thou overheard'st us;
    And bid her steal into the pleached bower,
    Where honeysuckles, ripen'd by the sun,
    Forbid the sun to enter, like favourites,
    Made proud by princes, that advance their pride
    Against that power that bred it: there will she hide her,
    To listen our purpose.  This is thy office;
    Bear thee well in it and leave us alone.

MARGARET    I'll make her come, I warrant you, presently.

    [Exit]

HERO    Now, Ursula, when Beatrice doth come,
    As we do trace this alley up and down,
    Our talk must only be of Benedick.
    When I do name him, let it be thy part
    To praise him more than ever man did merit:
    My talk to thee must be how Benedick
    Is sick in love with Beatrice. Of this matter
    Is little Cupid's crafty arrow made,
    That only wounds by hearsay.

    [Enter BEATRICE, behind]

               Now begin;
    For look where Beatrice, like a lapwing, runs
    Close by the ground, to hear our conference.

URSULA    The pleasant'st angling is to see the fish
    Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,
    And greedily devour the treacherous bait:
    So angle we for Beatrice; who even now
    Is couched in the woodbine coverture.
    Fear you not my part of the dialogue.

HERO    Then go we near her, that her ear lose nothing
    Of the false sweet bait that we lay for it.

    [Approaching the bower]

    No, truly, Ursula, she is too disdainful;
    I know her spirits are as coy and wild
    As haggerds of the rock.

URSULA    But are you sure
    That Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?

HERO    So says the prince and my new-trothed lord.

URSULA    And did they bid you tell her of it, madam?

HERO    They did entreat me to acquaint her of it;
    But I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick,
    To wish him wrestle with affection,
    And never to let Beatrice know of it.

URSULA    Why did you so? Doth not the gentleman
    Deserve as full as fortunate a bed
    As ever Beatrice shall couch upon?

HERO    O god of love! I know he doth deserve
    As much as may be yielded to a man:
    But Nature never framed a woman's heart
    Of prouder stuff than that of Beatrice;
    Disdain and scorn ride sparkling in her eyes,
    Misprising what they look on, and her wit
    Values itself so highly that to her
    All matter else seems weak: she cannot love,
    Nor take no shape nor project of affection,
    She is so self-endeared.

URSULA    Sure, I think so;
    And therefore certainly it were not good
    She knew his love, lest she make sport at it.

HERO    Why, you speak truth. I never yet saw man,
    How wise, how noble, young, how rarely featured,
    But she would spell him backward: if fair-faced,
    She would swear the gentleman should be her sister;
    If black, why, Nature, drawing of an antique,
    Made a foul blot; if tall, a lance ill-headed;
    If low, an agate very vilely cut;
    If speaking, why, a vane blown with all winds;
    If silent, why, a block moved with none.
    So turns she every man the wrong side out
    And never gives to truth and virtue that
    Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.

URSULA    Sure, sure, such carping is not commendable.

HERO    No, not to be so odd and from all fashions
    As Beatrice is, cannot be commendable:
    But who dare tell her so? If I should speak,
    She would mock me into air; O, she would laugh me
    Out of myself, press me to death with wit.
    Therefore let Benedick, like cover'd fire,
    Consume away in sighs, waste inwardly:
    It were a better death than die with mocks,
    Which is as bad as die with tickling.

URSULA    Yet tell her of it: hear what she will say.

HERO    No; rather I will go to Benedick
    And counsel him to fight against his passion.
    And, truly, I'll devise some honest slanders
    To stain my cousin with: one doth not know
    How much an ill word may empoison liking.

URSULA    O, do not do your cousin such a wrong.
    She cannot be so much without true judgment--
    Having so swift and excellent a wit
    As she is prized to have--as to refuse
    So rare a gentleman as Signior Benedick.

HERO    He is the only man of Italy.
    Always excepted my dear Claudio.

URSULA    I pray you, be not angry with me, madam,
    Speaking my fancy: Signior Benedick,
    For shape, for bearing, argument and valour,
    Goes foremost in report through Italy.

HERO    Indeed, he hath an excellent good name.

URSULA    His excellence did earn it, ere he had it.
    When are you married, madam?

HERO    Why, every day, to-morrow. Come, go in:
    I'll show thee some attires, and have thy counsel
    Which is the best to furnish me to-morrow.

URSULA    She's limed, I warrant you: we have caught her, madam.

HERO    If it proves so, then loving goes by haps:
    Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

    [Exeunt HERO and URSULA]

BEATRICE    [Coming forward]
    What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
    Stand I condemn'd for pride and scorn so much?
    Contempt, farewell! and maiden pride, adieu!
    No glory lives behind the back of such.
    And, Benedick, love on; I will requite thee,
    Taming my wild heart to thy loving hand:
    If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee
    To bind our loves up in a holy band;
    For others say thou dost deserve, and I
    Believe it better than reportingly.

    [Exit]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT III



SCENE II    A room in LEONATO'S house


    [Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, and LEONATO]

DON PEDRO    I do but stay till your marriage be consummate, and
    then go I toward Arragon.

CLAUDIO    I'll bring you thither, my lord, if you'll
    vouchsafe me.

DON PEDRO    Nay, that would be as great a soil in the new gloss
    of your marriage as to show a child his new coat
    and forbid him to wear it. I will only be bold
    with Benedick for his company; for, from the crown
    of his head to the sole of his foot, he is all
    mirth: he hath twice or thrice cut Cupid's
    bow-string and the little hangman dare not shoot at
    him; he hath a heart as sound as a bell and his
    tongue is the clapper, for what his heart thinks his
    tongue speaks.

BENEDICK    Gallants, I am not as I have been.

LEONATO    So say I    methinks you are sadder.

CLAUDIO    I hope he be in love.

DON PEDRO    Hang him, truant! there's no true drop of blood in
    him, to be truly touched with love: if he be sad,
    he wants money.

BENEDICK    I have the toothache.

DON PEDRO    Draw it.

BENEDICK    Hang it!

CLAUDIO    You must hang it first, and draw it afterwards.

DON PEDRO    What! sigh for the toothache?

LEONATO    Where is but a humour or a worm.

BENEDICK    Well, every one can master a grief but he that has
    it.

CLAUDIO    Yet say I, he is in love.

DON PEDRO    There is no appearance of fancy in him, unless it be
    a fancy that he hath to strange disguises; as, to be
    a Dutchman today, a Frenchman to-morrow, or in the
    shape of two countries at once, as, a German from
    the waist downward, all slops, and a Spaniard from
    the hip upward, no doublet. Unless he have a fancy
    to this foolery, as it appears he hath, he is no
    fool for fancy, as you would have it appear he is.

CLAUDIO    If he be not in love with some woman, there is no
    believing old signs: a' brushes his hat o'
    mornings; what should that bode?

DON PEDRO    Hath any man seen him at the barber's?

CLAUDIO    No, but the barber's man hath been seen with him,
    and the old ornament of his cheek hath already
    stuffed tennis-balls.

LEONATO    Indeed, he looks younger than he did, by the loss of a beard.

DON PEDRO    Nay, a' rubs himself with civet: can you smell him
    out by that?

CLAUDIO    That's as much as to say, the sweet youth's in love.

DON PEDRO    The greatest note of it is his melancholy.

CLAUDIO    And when was he wont to wash his face?

DON PEDRO    Yea, or to paint himself? for the which, I hear
    what they say of him.

CLAUDIO    Nay, but his jesting spirit; which is now crept into
    a lute-string and now governed by stops.

DON PEDRO    Indeed, that tells a heavy tale for him: conclude,
    conclude he is in love.

CLAUDIO    Nay, but I know who loves him.

DON PEDRO    That would I know too: I warrant, one that knows him not.

CLAUDIO    Yes, and his ill conditions; and, in despite of
    all, dies for him.

DON PEDRO    She shall be buried with her face upwards.

BENEDICK    Yet is this no charm for the toothache. Old
    signior, walk aside with me: I have studied eight
    or nine wise words to speak to you, which these
    hobby-horses must not hear.

    [Exeunt BENEDICK and LEONATO]

DON PEDRO    For my life, to break with him about Beatrice.

CLAUDIO    'Tis even so. Hero and Margaret have by this
    played their parts with Beatrice; and then the two
    bears will not bite one another when they meet.

    [Enter DON JOHN]

DON JOHN    My lord and brother, God save you!

DON PEDRO    Good den, brother.

DON JOHN    If your leisure served, I would speak with you.

DON PEDRO    In private?

DON JOHN    If it please you: yet Count Claudio may hear; for
    what I would speak of concerns him.

DON PEDRO    What's the matter?

DON JOHN    [To CLAUDIO]  Means your lordship to be married
    to-morrow?

DON PEDRO    You know he does.

DON JOHN    I know not that, when he knows what I know.

CLAUDIO    If there be any impediment, I pray you discover it.

DON JOHN    You may think I love you not: let that appear
    hereafter, and aim better at me by that I now will
    manifest. For my brother, I think he holds you
    well, and in dearness of heart hath holp to effect
    your ensuing marriage;--surely suit ill spent and
    labour ill bestowed.

DON PEDRO    Why, what's the matter?

DON JOHN    I came hither to tell you; and, circumstances
    shortened, for she has been too long a talking of,
    the lady is disloyal.

CLAUDIO    Who, Hero?

DON PEDRO    Even she; Leonato's Hero, your Hero, every man's Hero:

CLAUDIO    Disloyal?

DON JOHN    The word is too good to paint out her wickedness; I
    could say she were worse: think you of a worse
    title, and I will fit her to it. Wonder not till
    further warrant: go but with me to-night, you shall
    see her chamber-window entered, even the night
    before her wedding-day: if you love her then,
    to-morrow wed her; but it would better fit your honour
    to change your mind.

CLAUDIO    May this be so?

DON PEDRO    I will not think it.

DON JOHN    If you dare not trust that you see, confess not
    that you know: if you will follow me, I will show
    you enough; and when you have seen more and heard
    more, proceed accordingly.

CLAUDIO    If I see any thing to-night why I should not marry
    her to-morrow in the congregation, where I should
    wed, there will I shame her.

DON PEDRO    And, as I wooed for thee to obtain her, I will join
    with thee to disgrace her.

DON JOHN    I will disparage her no farther till you are my
    witnesses: bear it coldly but till midnight, and
    let the issue show itself.

DON PEDRO    O day untowardly turned!

CLAUDIO    O mischief strangely thwarting!

DON JOHN    O plague right well prevented! so will you say when
    you have seen the sequel.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT III



SCENE III    A street.


    [Enter DOGBERRY and VERGES with the Watch]

DOGBERRY    Are you good men and true?

VERGES    Yea, or else it were pity but they should suffer
    salvation, body and soul.

DOGBERRY    Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if
    they should have any allegiance in them, being
    chosen for the prince's watch.

VERGES    Well, give them their charge, neighbour Dogberry.

DOGBERRY    First, who think you the most desertless man to be
    constable?

First Watchman    Hugh Otecake, sir, or George Seacole; for they can
    write and read.

DOGBERRY    Come hither, neighbour Seacole. God hath blessed
    you with a good name: to be a well-favoured man is
    the gift of fortune; but to write and read comes by nature.

Second Watchman    Both which, master constable,--

DOGBERRY    You have: I knew it would be your answer. Well,
    for your favour, sir, why, give God thanks, and make
    no boast of it; and for your writing and reading,
    let that appear when there is no need of such
    vanity. You are thought here to be the most
    senseless and fit man for the constable of the
    watch; therefore bear you the lantern. This is your
    charge: you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are
    to bid any man stand, in the prince's name.

Second Watchman    How if a' will not stand?

DOGBERRY    Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and
    presently call the rest of the watch together and
    thank God you are rid of a knave.

VERGES    If he will not stand when he is bidden, he is none
    of the prince's subjects.

DOGBERRY    True, and they are to meddle with none but the
    prince's subjects. You shall also make no noise in
    the streets; for, for the watch to babble and to
    talk is most tolerable and not to be endured.

Watchman    We will rather sleep than talk: we know what
    belongs to a watch.

DOGBERRY    Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet
    watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should
    offend: only, have a care that your bills be not
    stolen. Well, you are to call at all the
    ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed.

Watchman    How if they will not?

DOGBERRY    Why, then, let them alone till they are sober: if
    they make you not then the better answer, you may
    say they are not the men you took them for.

Watchman    Well, sir.

DOGBERRY    If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue
    of your office, to be no true man; and, for such
    kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them,
    why the more is for your honesty.

Watchman    If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay
    hands on him?

DOGBERRY    Truly, by your office, you may; but I think they
    that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable
    way for you, if you do take a thief, is to let him
    show himself what he is and steal out of your company.

VERGES    You have been always called a merciful man, partner.

DOGBERRY    Truly, I would not hang a dog by my will, much more
    a man who hath any honesty in him.

VERGES    If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call
    to the nurse and bid her still it.

Watchman    How if the nurse be asleep and will not hear us?

DOGBERRY    Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake
    her with crying; for the ewe that will not hear her
    lamb when it baes will never answer a calf when he bleats.

VERGES    'Tis very true.

DOGBERRY    This is the end of the charge:--you, constable, are
    to present the prince's own person: if you meet the
    prince in the night, you may stay him.

VERGES    Nay, by'r our lady, that I think a' cannot.

DOGBERRY    Five shillings to one on't, with any man that knows
    the statutes, he may stay him: marry, not without
    the prince be willing; for, indeed, the watch ought
    to offend no man; and it is an offence to stay a
    man against his will.

VERGES    By'r lady, I think it be so.

DOGBERRY    Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be
    any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your
    fellows' counsels and your own; and good night.
    Come, neighbour.

Watchman    Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here
    upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed.

DOGBERRY    One word more, honest neighbours. I pray you watch
    about Signior Leonato's door; for the wedding being
    there to-morrow, there is a great coil to-night.
    Adieu: be vigitant, I beseech you.

    [Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES]

    [Enter BORACHIO and CONRADE]

BORACHIO    What Conrade!

Watchman    [Aside]  Peace! stir not.

BORACHIO    Conrade, I say!

CONRADE    Here, man; I am at thy elbow.

BORACHIO    Mass, and my elbow itched; I thought there would a
    scab follow.

CONRADE    I will owe thee an answer for that: and now forward
    with thy tale.

BORACHIO    Stand thee close, then, under this pent-house, for
    it drizzles rain; and I will, like a true drunkard,
    utter all to thee.

Watchman    [Aside]  Some treason, masters: yet stand close.

BORACHIO    Therefore know I have earned of Don John a thousand ducats.

CONRADE    Is it possible that any villany should be so dear?

BORACHIO    Thou shouldst rather ask if it were possible any
    villany should be so rich; for when rich villains
    have need of poor ones, poor ones may make what
    price they will.

CONRADE    I wonder at it.

BORACHIO    That shows thou art unconfirmed. Thou knowest that
    the fashion of a doublet, or a hat, or a cloak, is
    nothing to a man.

CONRADE    Yes, it is apparel.

BORACHIO    I mean, the fashion.

CONRADE    Yes, the fashion is the fashion.

BORACHIO    Tush! I may as well say the fool's the fool. But
    seest thou not what a deformed thief this fashion
    is?

Watchman    [Aside]  I know that Deformed; a' has been a vile
    thief this seven year; a' goes up and down like a
    gentleman: I remember his name.

BORACHIO    Didst thou not hear somebody?

CONRADE    No; 'twas the vane on the house.

BORACHIO    Seest thou not, I say, what a deformed thief this
    fashion is? how giddily a' turns about all the hot
    bloods between fourteen and five-and-thirty?
    sometimes fashioning them like Pharaoh's soldiers
    in the reeky painting, sometime like god Bel's
    priests in the old church-window, sometime like the
    shaven Hercules in the smirched worm-eaten tapestry,
    where his codpiece seems as massy as his club?

CONRADE    All this I see; and I see that the fashion wears
    out more apparel than the man. But art not thou
    thyself giddy with the fashion too, that thou hast
    shifted out of thy tale into telling me of the fashion?

BORACHIO    Not so, neither: but know that I have to-night
    wooed Margaret, the Lady Hero's gentlewoman, by the
    name of Hero: she leans me out at her mistress'
    chamber-window, bids me a thousand times good
    night,--I tell this tale vilely:--I should first
    tell thee how the prince, Claudio and my master,
    planted and placed and possessed by my master Don
    John, saw afar off in the orchard this amiable encounter.

CONRADE    And thought they Margaret was Hero?

BORACHIO    Two of them did, the prince and Claudio; but the
    devil my master knew she was Margaret; and partly
    by his oaths, which first possessed them, partly by
    the dark night, which did deceive them, but chiefly
    by my villany, which did confirm any slander that
    Don John had made, away went Claudio enraged; swore
    he would meet her, as he was appointed, next morning
    at the temple, and there, before the whole
    congregation, shame her with what he saw o'er night
    and send her home again without a husband.

First Watchman    We charge you, in the prince's name, stand!

Second Watchman    Call up the right master constable. We have here
    recovered the most dangerous piece of lechery that
    ever was known in the commonwealth.

First Watchman    And one Deformed is one of them: I know him; a'
    wears a lock.

CONRADE    Masters, masters,--

Second Watchman    You'll be made bring Deformed forth, I warrant you.

CONRADE    Masters,--

First Watchman    Never speak: we charge you let us obey you to go with us.

BORACHIO    We are like to prove a goodly commodity, being taken
    up of these men's bills.

CONRADE    A commodity in question, I warrant you. Come, we'll obey you.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT III



SCENE IV    HERO's apartment.


    [Enter HERO, MARGARET, and URSULA]

HERO    Good Ursula, wake my cousin Beatrice, and desire
    her to rise.

URSULA    I will, lady.

HERO    And bid her come hither.

URSULA    Well.

    [Exit]

MARGARET    Troth, I think your other rabato were better.

HERO    No, pray thee, good Meg, I'll wear this.

MARGARET    By my troth, 's not so good; and I warrant your
    cousin will say so.

HERO    My cousin's a fool, and thou art another: I'll wear
    none but this.

MARGARET    I like the new tire within excellently, if the hair
    were a thought browner; and your gown's a most rare
    fashion, i' faith. I saw the Duchess of Milan's
    gown that they praise so.

HERO    O, that exceeds, they say.

MARGARET    By my troth, 's but a night-gown in respect of
    yours: cloth o' gold, and cuts, and laced with
    silver, set with pearls, down sleeves, side sleeves,
    and skirts, round underborne with a bluish tinsel:
    but for a fine, quaint, graceful and excellent
    fashion, yours is worth ten on 't.

HERO    God give me joy to wear it! for my heart is
    exceeding heavy.

MARGARET    'Twill be heavier soon by the weight of a man.

HERO    Fie upon thee! art not ashamed?

MARGARET    Of what, lady? of speaking honourably? Is not
    marriage honourable in a beggar? Is not your lord
    honourable without marriage? I think you would have
    me say, 'saving your reverence, a husband:' and bad
    thinking do not wrest true speaking, I'll offend
    nobody: is there any harm in 'the heavier for a
    husband'? None, I think, and it be the right husband
    and the right wife; otherwise 'tis light, and not
    heavy: ask my Lady Beatrice else; here she comes.

    [Enter BEATRICE]

HERO    Good morrow, coz.

BEATRICE    Good morrow, sweet Hero.

HERO    Why how now? do you speak in the sick tune?

BEATRICE    I am out of all other tune, methinks.

MARGARET    Clap's into 'Light o' love;' that goes without a
    burden: do you sing it, and I'll dance it.

BEATRICE    Ye light o' love, with your heels! then, if your
    husband have stables enough, you'll see he shall
    lack no barns.

MARGARET    O illegitimate construction! I scorn that with my heels.

BEATRICE    'Tis almost five o'clock, cousin; tis time you were
    ready. By my troth, I am exceeding ill: heigh-ho!

MARGARET    For a hawk, a horse, or a husband?

BEATRICE    For the letter that begins them all, H.

MARGARET    Well, and you be not turned Turk, there's no more
    sailing by the star.

BEATRICE    What means the fool, trow?

MARGARET    Nothing I; but God send every one their heart's desire!

HERO    These gloves the count sent me; they are an
    excellent perfume.

BEATRICE    I am stuffed, cousin; I cannot smell.

MARGARET    A maid, and stuffed! there's goodly catching of cold.

BEATRICE    O, God help me! God help me! how long have you
    professed apprehension?

MARGARET    Even since you left it. Doth not my wit become me rarely?

BEATRICE    It is not seen enough, you should wear it in your
    cap. By my troth, I am sick.

MARGARET    Get you some of this distilled Carduus Benedictus,
    and lay it to your heart: it is the only thing for a qualm.

HERO    There thou prickest her with a thistle.

BEATRICE    Benedictus! why Benedictus? you have some moral in
    this Benedictus.

MARGARET    Moral! no, by my troth, I have no moral meaning; I
    meant, plain holy-thistle. You may think perchance
    that I think you are in love: nay, by'r lady, I am
    not such a fool to think what I list, nor I list
    not to think what I can, nor indeed I cannot think,
    if I would think my heart out of thinking, that you
    are in love or that you will be in love or that you
    can be in love. Yet Benedick was such another, and
    now is he become a man: he swore he would never
    marry, and yet now, in despite of his heart, he eats
    his meat without grudging: and how you may be
    converted I know not, but methinks you look with
    your eyes as other women do.

BEATRICE    What pace is this that thy tongue keeps?

MARGARET    Not a false gallop.

    [Re-enter URSULA]

URSULA    Madam, withdraw: the prince, the count, Signior
    Benedick, Don John, and all the gallants of the
    town, are come to fetch you to church.

HERO    Help to dress me, good coz, good Meg, good Ursula.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT III



SCENE V    Another room in LEONATO'S house.


    [Enter LEONATO, with DOGBERRY and VERGES]

LEONATO    What would you with me, honest neighbour?

DOGBERRY    Marry, sir, I would have some confidence with you
    that decerns you nearly.

LEONATO    Brief, I pray you; for you see it is a busy time with me.

DOGBERRY    Marry, this it is, sir.

VERGES    Yes, in truth it is, sir.

LEONATO    What is it, my good friends?

DOGBERRY    Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the
    matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so
    blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but,
    in faith, honest as the skin between his brows.

VERGES    Yes, I thank God I am as honest as any man living
    that is an old man and no honester than I.

DOGBERRY    Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges.

LEONATO    Neighbours, you are tedious.

DOGBERRY    It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the
    poor duke's officers; but truly, for mine own part,
    if I were as tedious as a king, I could find it in
    my heart to bestow it all of your worship.

LEONATO    All thy tediousness on me, ah?

DOGBERRY    Yea, an 'twere a thousand pound more than 'tis; for
    I hear as good exclamation on your worship as of any
    man in the city; and though I be but a poor man, I
    am glad to hear it.

VERGES    And so am I.

LEONATO    I would fain know what you have to say.

VERGES    Marry, sir, our watch to-night, excepting your
    worship's presence, ha' ta'en a couple of as arrant
    knaves as any in Messina.

DOGBERRY    A good old man, sir; he will be talking: as they
    say, when the age is in, the wit is out: God help
    us! it is a world to see. Well said, i' faith,
    neighbour Verges: well, God's a good man; an two men
    ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest
    soul, i' faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever
    broke bread; but God is to be worshipped; all men
    are not alike; alas, good neighbour!

LEONATO    Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you.

DOGBERRY    Gifts that God gives.

LEONATO    I must leave you.

DOGBERRY    One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed
    comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would
    have them this morning examined before your worship.

LEONATO    Take their examination yourself and bring it me: I
    am now in great haste, as it may appear unto you.

DOGBERRY    It shall be suffigance.

LEONATO    Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well.

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to
    her husband.

LEONATO    I'll wait upon them: I am ready.

    [Exeunt LEONATO and Messenger]

DOGBERRY    Go, good partner, go, get you to Francis Seacole;
    bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we
    are now to examination these men.

VERGES    And we must do it wisely.

DOGBERRY    We will spare for no wit, I warrant you; here's
    that shall drive some of them to a non-come: only
    get the learned writer to set down our
    excommunication and meet me at the gaol.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT IV



SCENE I    A church.


    [Enter DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, LEONATO, FRIAR FRANCIS,
    CLAUDIO, BENEDICK, HERO, BEATRICE, and Attendants]

LEONATO    Come, Friar Francis, be brief; only to the plain
    form of marriage, and you shall recount their
    particular duties afterwards.

FRIAR FRANCIS    You come hither, my lord, to marry this lady.

CLAUDIO    No.

LEONATO    To be married to her: friar, you come to marry her.

FRIAR FRANCIS    Lady, you come hither to be married to this count.

HERO    I do.

FRIAR FRANCIS    If either of you know any inward impediment why you
    should not be conjoined, charge you, on your souls,
    to utter it.

CLAUDIO    Know you any, Hero?

HERO    None, my lord.

FRIAR FRANCIS    Know you any, count?

LEONATO    I dare make his answer, none.

CLAUDIO    O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily
    do, not knowing what they do!

BENEDICK    How now! interjections? Why, then, some be of
    laughing, as, ah, ha, he!

CLAUDIO    Stand thee by, friar. Father, by your leave:
    Will you with free and unconstrained soul
    Give me this maid, your daughter?

LEONATO    As freely, son, as God did give her me.

CLAUDIO    And what have I to give you back, whose worth
    May counterpoise this rich and precious gift?

DON PEDRO    Nothing, unless you render her again.

CLAUDIO    Sweet prince, you learn me noble thankfulness.
    There, Leonato, take her back again:
    Give not this rotten orange to your friend;
    She's but the sign and semblance of her honour.
    Behold how like a maid she blushes here!
    O, what authority and show of truth
    Can cunning sin cover itself withal!
    Comes not that blood as modest evidence
    To witness simple virtue? Would you not swear,
    All you that see her, that she were a maid,
    By these exterior shows? But she is none:
    She knows the heat of a luxurious bed;
    Her blush is guiltiness, not modesty.

LEONATO    What do you mean, my lord?

CLAUDIO    Not to be married,
    Not to knit my soul to an approved wanton.

LEONATO    Dear my lord, if you, in your own proof,
    Have vanquish'd the resistance of her youth,
    And made defeat of her virginity,--

CLAUDIO    I know what you would say: if I have known her,
    You will say she did embrace me as a husband,
    And so extenuate the 'forehand sin:
    No, Leonato,
    I never tempted her with word too large;
    But, as a brother to his sister, show'd
    Bashful sincerity and comely love.

HERO    And seem'd I ever otherwise to you?

CLAUDIO    Out on thee! Seeming! I will write against it:
    You seem to me as Dian in her orb,
    As chaste as is the bud ere it be blown;
    But you are more intemperate in your blood
    Than Venus, or those pamper'd animals
    That rage in savage sensuality.

HERO    Is my lord well, that he doth speak so wide?

LEONATO    Sweet prince, why speak not you?

DON PEDRO    What should I speak?
    I stand dishonour'd, that have gone about
    To link my dear friend to a common stale.

LEONATO    Are these things spoken, or do I but dream?

DON JOHN    Sir, they are spoken, and these things are true.

BENEDICK    This looks not like a nuptial.

HERO    True! O God!

CLAUDIO    Leonato, stand I here?
    Is this the prince? is this the prince's brother?
    Is this face Hero's? are our eyes our own?

LEONATO    All this is so: but what of this, my lord?

CLAUDIO    Let me but move one question to your daughter;
    And, by that fatherly and kindly power
    That you have in her, bid her answer truly.

LEONATO    I charge thee do so, as thou art my child.

HERO    O, God defend me! how am I beset!
    What kind of catechising call you this?

CLAUDIO    To make you answer truly to your name.

HERO    Is it not Hero? Who can blot that name
    With any just reproach?

CLAUDIO    Marry, that can Hero;
    Hero itself can blot out Hero's virtue.
    What man was he talk'd with you yesternight
    Out at your window betwixt twelve and one?
    Now, if you are a maid, answer to this.

HERO    I talk'd with no man at that hour, my lord.

DON PEDRO    Why, then are you no maiden. Leonato,
    I am sorry you must hear: upon mine honour,
    Myself, my brother and this grieved count
    Did see her, hear her, at that hour last night
    Talk with a ruffian at her chamber-window
    Who hath indeed, most like a liberal villain,
    Confess'd the vile encounters they have had
    A thousand times in secret.

DON JOHN    Fie, fie! they are not to be named, my lord,
    Not to be spoke of;
    There is not chastity enough in language
    Without offence to utter them. Thus, pretty lady,
    I am sorry for thy much misgovernment.

CLAUDIO    O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been,
    If half thy outward graces had been placed
    About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
    But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! farewell,
    Thou pure impiety and impious purity!
    For thee I'll lock up all the gates of love,
    And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
    To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
    And never shall it more be gracious.

LEONATO    Hath no man's dagger here a point for me?

    [HERO swoons]

BEATRICE    Why, how now, cousin! wherefore sink you down?

DON JOHN    Come, let us go. These things, come thus to light,
    Smother her spirits up.

    [Exeunt DON PEDRO, DON JOHN, and CLAUDIO]

BENEDICK    How doth the lady?

BEATRICE                      Dead, I think. Help, uncle!
    Hero! why, Hero! Uncle! Signior Benedick! Friar!

LEONATO    O Fate! take not away thy heavy hand.
    Death is the fairest cover for her shame
    That may be wish'd for.

BEATRICE    How now, cousin Hero!

FRIAR FRANCIS    Have comfort, lady.

LEONATO    Dost thou look up?

FRIAR FRANCIS    Yea, wherefore should she not?

LEONATO    Wherefore! Why, doth not every earthly thing
    Cry shame upon her? Could she here deny
    The story that is printed in her blood?
    Do not live, Hero; do not ope thine eyes:
    For, did I think thou wouldst not quickly die,
    Thought I thy spirits were stronger than thy shames,
    Myself would, on the rearward of reproaches,
    Strike at thy life. Grieved I, I had but one?
    Chid I for that at frugal nature's frame?
    O, one too much by thee! Why had I one?
    Why ever wast thou lovely in my eyes?
    Why had I not with charitable hand
    Took up a beggar's issue at my gates,
    Who smirch'd thus and mired with infamy,
    I might have said 'No part of it is mine;
    This shame derives itself from unknown loins'?
    But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised
    And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
    That I myself was to myself not mine,
    Valuing of her,--why, she, O, she is fallen
    Into a pit of ink, that the wide sea
    Hath drops too few to wash her clean again
    And salt too little which may season give
    To her foul-tainted flesh!

BENEDICK    Sir, sir, be patient.
    For my part, I am so attired in wonder,
    I know not what to say.

BEATRICE    O, on my soul, my cousin is belied!

BENEDICK    Lady, were you her bedfellow last night?

BEATRICE    No, truly not; although, until last night,
    I have this twelvemonth been her bedfellow.

LEONATO    Confirm'd, confirm'd! O, that is stronger made
    Which was before barr'd up with ribs of iron!
    Would the two princes lie, and Claudio lie,
    Who loved her so, that, speaking of her foulness,
    Wash'd it with tears? Hence from her! let her die.

FRIAR FRANCIS    Hear me a little; for I have only been
    Silent so long and given way unto
    This course of fortune [           ]
    By noting of the lady I have mark'd
    A thousand blushing apparitions
    To start into her face, a thousand innocent shames
    In angel whiteness beat away those blushes;
    And in her eye there hath appear'd a fire,
    To burn the errors that these princes hold
    Against her maiden truth. Call me a fool;
    Trust not my reading nor my observations,
    Which with experimental seal doth warrant
    The tenor of my book; trust not my age,
    My reverence, calling, nor divinity,
    If this sweet lady lie not guiltless here
    Under some biting error.

LEONATO    Friar, it cannot be.
    Thou seest that all the grace that she hath left
    Is that she will not add to her damnation
    A sin of perjury; she not denies it:
    Why seek'st thou then to cover with excuse
    That which appears in proper nakedness?

FRIAR FRANCIS    Lady, what man is he you are accused of?

HERO    They know that do accuse me; I know none:
    If I know more of any man alive
    Than that which maiden modesty doth warrant,
    Let all my sins lack mercy! O my father,
    Prove you that any man with me conversed
    At hours unmeet, or that I yesternight
    Maintain'd the change of words with any creature,
    Refuse me, hate me, torture me to death!

FRIAR FRANCIS    There is some strange misprision in the princes.

BENEDICK    Two of them have the very bent of honour;
    And if their wisdoms be misled in this,
    The practise of it lives in John the bastard,
    Whose spirits toil in frame of villanies.

LEONATO    I know not. If they speak but truth of her,
    These hands shall tear her; if they wrong her honour,
    The proudest of them shall well hear of it.
    Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine,
    Nor age so eat up my invention,
    Nor fortune made such havoc of my means,
    Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends,
    But they shall find, awaked in such a kind,
    Both strength of limb and policy of mind,
    Ability in means and choice of friends,
    To quit me of them throughly.

FRIAR FRANCIS    Pause awhile,
    And let my counsel sway you in this case.
    Your daughter here the princes left for dead:
    Let her awhile be secretly kept in,
    And publish it that she is dead indeed;
    Maintain a mourning ostentation
    And on your family's old monument
    Hang mournful epitaphs and do all rites
    That appertain unto a burial.

LEONATO    What shall become of this? what will this do?

FRIAR FRANCIS    Marry, this well carried shall on her behalf
    Change slander to remorse; that is some good:
    But not for that dream I on this strange course,
    But on this travail look for greater birth.
    She dying, as it must so be maintain'd,
    Upon the instant that she was accused,
    Shall be lamented, pitied and excused
    Of every hearer: for it so falls out
    That what we have we prize not to the worth
    Whiles we enjoy it, but being lack'd and lost,
    Why, then we rack the value, then we find
    The virtue that possession would not show us
    Whiles it was ours. So will it fare with Claudio:
    When he shall hear she died upon his words,
    The idea of her life shall sweetly creep
    Into his study of imagination,
    And every lovely organ of her life
    Shall come apparell'd in more precious habit,
    More moving-delicate and full of life,
    Into the eye and prospect of his soul,
    Than when she lived indeed; then shall he mourn,
    If ever love had interest in his liver,
    And wish he had not so accused her,
    No, though he thought his accusation true.
    Let this be so, and doubt not but success
    Will fashion the event in better shape
    Than I can lay it down in likelihood.
    But if all aim but this be levell'd false,
    The supposition of the lady's death
    Will quench the wonder of her infamy:
    And if it sort not well, you may conceal her,
    As best befits her wounded reputation,
    In some reclusive and religious life,
    Out of all eyes, tongues, minds and injuries.

BENEDICK    Signior Leonato, let the friar advise you:
    And though you know my inwardness and love
    Is very much unto the prince and Claudio,
    Yet, by mine honour, I will deal in this
    As secretly and justly as your soul
    Should with your body.

LEONATO    Being that I flow in grief,
    The smallest twine may lead me.

FRIAR FRANCIS    'Tis well consented: presently away;
    For to strange sores strangely they strain the cure.
    Come, lady, die to live: this wedding-day
    Perhaps is but prolong'd: have patience and endure.

    [Exeunt all but BENEDICK and BEATRICE]

BENEDICK    Lady Beatrice, have you wept all this while?

BEATRICE    Yea, and I will weep a while longer.

BENEDICK    I will not desire that.

BEATRICE    You have no reason; I do it freely.

BENEDICK    Surely I do believe your fair cousin is wronged.

BEATRICE    Ah, how much might the man deserve of me that would right her!

BENEDICK    Is there any way to show such friendship?

BEATRICE    A very even way, but no such friend.

BENEDICK    May a man do it?

BEATRICE    It is a man's office, but not yours.

BENEDICK    I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is
    not that strange?

BEATRICE    As strange as the thing I know not. It were as
    possible for me to say I loved nothing so well as
    you: but believe me not; and yet I lie not; I
    confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my cousin.

BENEDICK    By my sword, Beatrice, thou lovest me.

BEATRICE    Do not swear, and eat it.

BENEDICK    I will swear by it that you love me; and I will make
    him eat it that says I love not you.

BEATRICE    Will you not eat your word?

BENEDICK    With no sauce that can be devised to it. I protest
    I love thee.

BEATRICE    Why, then, God forgive me!

BENEDICK    What offence, sweet Beatrice?

BEATRICE    You have stayed me in a happy hour: I was about to
    protest I loved you.

BENEDICK    And do it with all thy heart.

BEATRICE    I love you with so much of my heart that none is
    left to protest.

BENEDICK    Come, bid me do any thing for thee.

BEATRICE    Kill Claudio.

BENEDICK    Ha! not for the wide world.

BEATRICE    You kill me to deny it. Farewell.

BENEDICK    Tarry, sweet Beatrice.

BEATRICE    I am gone, though I am here: there is no love in
    you: nay, I pray you, let me go.

BENEDICK    Beatrice,--

BEATRICE    In faith, I will go.

BENEDICK    We'll be friends first.

BEATRICE    You dare easier be friends with me than fight with mine enemy.

BENEDICK    Is Claudio thine enemy?

BEATRICE    Is he not approved in the height a villain, that
    hath slandered, scorned, dishonoured my kinswoman? O
    that I were a man! What, bear her in hand until they
    come to take hands; and then, with public
    accusation, uncovered slander, unmitigated rancour,
    --O God, that I were a man! I would eat his heart
    in the market-place.

BENEDICK    Hear me, Beatrice,--

BEATRICE    Talk with a man out at a window! A proper saying!

BENEDICK    Nay, but, Beatrice,--

BEATRICE    Sweet Hero! She is wronged, she is slandered, she is undone.

BENEDICK    Beat--

BEATRICE    Princes and counties! Surely, a princely testimony,
    a goodly count, Count Comfect; a sweet gallant,
    surely! O that I were a man for his sake! or that I
    had any friend would be a man for my sake! But
    manhood is melted into courtesies, valour into
    compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and
    trim ones too: he is now as valiant as Hercules
    that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a
    man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.

BENEDICK    Tarry, good Beatrice. By this hand, I love thee.

BEATRICE    Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it.

BENEDICK    Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wronged Hero?

BEATRICE    Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.

BENEDICK    Enough, I am engaged; I will challenge him. I will
    kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand,
    Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you
    hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your
    cousin: I must say she is dead: and so, farewell.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT IV



SCENE II    A prison.


    [Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and Sexton, in gowns; and
    the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO]

DOGBERRY    Is our whole dissembly appeared?

VERGES    O, a stool and a cushion for the sexton.

Sexton    Which be the malefactors?

DOGBERRY    Marry, that am I and my partner.

VERGES    Nay, that's certain; we have the exhibition to examine.

Sexton    But which are the offenders that are to be
    examined? let them come before master constable.

DOGBERRY    Yea, marry, let them come before me. What is your
    name, friend?

BORACHIO    Borachio.

DOGBERRY    Pray, write down, Borachio. Yours, sirrah?

CONRADE    I am a gentleman, sir, and my name is Conrade.

DOGBERRY    Write down, master gentleman Conrade. Masters, do
    you serve God?


CONRADE    |
    |  Yea, sir, we hope.
BORACHIO    |


DOGBERRY    Write down, that they hope they serve God: and
    write God first; for God defend but God should go
    before such villains! Masters, it is proved already
    that you are little better than false knaves; and it
    will go near to be thought so shortly. How answer
    you for yourselves?

CONRADE    Marry, sir, we say we are none.

DOGBERRY    A marvellous witty fellow, I assure you: but I
    will go about with him. Come you hither, sirrah; a
    word in your ear: sir, I say to you, it is thought
    you are false knaves.

BORACHIO    Sir, I say to you we are none.

DOGBERRY    Well, stand aside. 'Fore God, they are both in a
    tale. Have you writ down, that they are none?

Sexton    Master constable, you go not the way to examine:
    you must call forth the watch that are their accusers.

DOGBERRY    Yea, marry, that's the eftest way. Let the watch
    come forth. Masters, I charge you, in the prince's
    name, accuse these men.

First Watchman    This man said, sir, that Don John, the prince's
    brother, was a villain.

DOGBERRY    Write down Prince John a villain. Why, this is flat
    perjury, to call a prince's brother villain.

BORACHIO    Master constable,--

DOGBERRY    Pray thee, fellow, peace: I do not like thy look,
    I promise thee.

Sexton    What heard you him say else?

Second Watchman    Marry, that he had received a thousand ducats of
    Don John for accusing the Lady Hero wrongfully.

DOGBERRY    Flat burglary as ever was committed.

VERGES    Yea, by mass, that it is.

Sexton    What else, fellow?

First Watchman    And that Count Claudio did mean, upon his words, to
    disgrace Hero before the whole assembly. and not marry her.

DOGBERRY    O villain! thou wilt be condemned into everlasting
    redemption for this.

Sexton    What else?

Watchman    This is all.

Sexton    And this is more, masters, than you can deny.
    Prince John is this morning secretly stolen away;
    Hero was in this manner accused, in this very manner
    refused, and upon the grief of this suddenly died.
    Master constable, let these men be bound, and
    brought to Leonato's: I will go before and show
    him their examination.

    [Exit]

DOGBERRY    Come, let them be opinioned.

VERGES    Let them be in the hands--

CONRADE    Off, coxcomb!

DOGBERRY    God's my life, where's the sexton? let him write
    down the prince's officer coxcomb. Come, bind them.
    Thou naughty varlet!

CONRADE    Away! you are an ass, you are an ass.

DOGBERRY    Dost thou not suspect my place? dost thou not
    suspect my years? O that he were here to write me
    down an ass! But, masters, remember that I am an
    ass; though it be not written down, yet forget not
    that I am an ass. No, thou villain, thou art full of
    piety, as shall be proved upon thee by good witness.
    I am a wise fellow, and, which is more, an officer,
    and, which is more, a householder, and, which is
    more, as pretty a piece of flesh as any is in
    Messina, and one that knows the law, go to; and a
    rich fellow enough, go to; and a fellow that hath
    had losses, and one that hath two gowns and every
    thing handsome about him. Bring him away. O that
    I had been writ down an ass!

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT V



SCENE I    Before LEONATO'S house.


    [Enter LEONATO and ANTONIO]

ANTONIO    If you go on thus, you will kill yourself:
    And 'tis not wisdom thus to second grief
    Against yourself.

LEONATO                      I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
    Which falls into mine ears as profitless
    As water in a sieve: give not me counsel;
    Nor let no comforter delight mine ear
    But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.
    Bring me a father that so loved his child,
    Whose joy of her is overwhelm'd like mine,
    And bid him speak of patience;
    Measure his woe the length and breadth of mine
    And let it answer every strain for strain,
    As thus for thus and such a grief for such,
    In every lineament, branch, shape, and form:
    If such a one will smile and stroke his beard,
    Bid sorrow wag, cry 'hem!' when he should groan,
    Patch grief with proverbs, make misfortune drunk
    With candle-wasters; bring him yet to me,
    And I of him will gather patience.
    But there is no such man: for, brother, men
    Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
    Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
    Their counsel turns to passion, which before
    Would give preceptial medicine to rage,
    Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,
    Charm ache with air and agony with words:
    No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
    To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
    But no man's virtue nor sufficiency
    To be so moral when he shall endure
    The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:
    My griefs cry louder than advertisement.

ANTONIO    Therein do men from children nothing differ.

LEONATO    I pray thee, peace. I will be flesh and blood;
    For there was never yet philosopher
    That could endure the toothache patiently,
    However they have writ the style of gods
    And made a push at chance and sufferance.

ANTONIO    Yet bend not all the harm upon yourself;
    Make those that do offend you suffer too.

LEONATO    There thou speak'st reason: nay, I will do so.
    My soul doth tell me Hero is belied;
    And that shall Claudio know; so shall the prince
    And all of them that thus dishonour her.

ANTONIO    Here comes the prince and Claudio hastily.

    [Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO]

DON PEDRO    Good den, good den.

CLAUDIO    Good day to both of you.

LEONATO    Hear you. my lords,--

DON PEDRO    We have some haste, Leonato.

LEONATO    Some haste, my lord! well, fare you well, my lord:
    Are you so hasty now? well, all is one.

DON PEDRO    Nay, do not quarrel with us, good old man.

ANTONIO    If he could right himself with quarreling,
    Some of us would lie low.

CLAUDIO    Who wrongs him?

LEONATO    Marry, thou dost wrong me; thou dissembler, thou:--
    Nay, never lay thy hand upon thy sword;
    I fear thee not.

CLAUDIO                      Marry, beshrew my hand,
    If it should give your age such cause of fear:
    In faith, my hand meant nothing to my sword.

LEONATO    Tush, tush, man; never fleer and jest at me:
    I speak not like a dotard nor a fool,
    As under privilege of age to brag
    What I have done being young, or what would do
    Were I not old. Know, Claudio, to thy head,
    Thou hast so wrong'd mine innocent child and me
    That I am forced to lay my reverence by
    And, with grey hairs and bruise of many days,
    Do challenge thee to trial of a man.
    I say thou hast belied mine innocent child;
    Thy slander hath gone through and through her heart,
    And she lies buried with her ancestors;
    O, in a tomb where never scandal slept,
    Save this of hers, framed by thy villany!

CLAUDIO    My villany?

LEONATO              Thine, Claudio; thine, I say.

DON PEDRO    You say not right, old man.

LEONATO    My lord, my lord,
    I'll prove it on his body, if he dare,
    Despite his nice fence and his active practise,
    His May of youth and bloom of lustihood.

CLAUDIO    Away! I will not have to do with you.

LEONATO    Canst thou so daff me? Thou hast kill'd my child:
    If thou kill'st me, boy, thou shalt kill a man.

ANTONIO    He shall kill two of us, and men indeed:
    But that's no matter; let him kill one first;
    Win me and wear me; let him answer me.
    Come, follow me, boy; come, sir boy, come, follow me:
    Sir boy, I'll whip you from your foining fence;
    Nay, as I am a gentleman, I will.

LEONATO    Brother,--

ANTONIO    Content yourself. God knows I loved my niece;
    And she is dead, slander'd to death by villains,
    That dare as well answer a man indeed
    As I dare take a serpent by the tongue:
    Boys, apes, braggarts, Jacks, milksops!

LEONATO    Brother Antony,--

ANTONIO    Hold you content. What, man! I know them, yea,
    And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple,--
    Scrambling, out-facing, fashion-monging boys,
    That lie and cog and flout, deprave and slander,
    Go anticly, show outward hideousness,
    And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
    How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
    And this is all.

LEONATO    But, brother Antony,--

ANTONIO    Come, 'tis no matter:
    Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.

DON PEDRO    Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.
    My heart is sorry for your daughter's death:
    But, on my honour, she was charged with nothing
    But what was true and very full of proof.

LEONATO    My lord, my lord,--

DON PEDRO    I will not hear you.

LEONATO    No? Come, brother; away! I will be heard.

ANTONIO    And shall, or some of us will smart for it.

    [Exeunt LEONATO and ANTONIO]

DON PEDRO    See, see; here comes the man we went to seek.

    [Enter BENEDICK]

CLAUDIO    Now, signior, what news?

BENEDICK    Good day, my lord.

DON PEDRO    Welcome, signior: you are almost come to part
    almost a fray.

CLAUDIO    We had like to have had our two noses snapped off
    with two old men without teeth.

DON PEDRO    Leonato and his brother. What thinkest thou? Had
    we fought, I doubt we should have been too young for them.

BENEDICK    In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came
    to seek you both.

CLAUDIO    We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are
    high-proof melancholy and would fain have it beaten
    away. Wilt thou use thy wit?

BENEDICK    It is in my scabbard: shall I draw it?

DON PEDRO    Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side?

CLAUDIO    Never any did so, though very many have been beside
    their wit. I will bid thee draw, as we do the
    minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

DON PEDRO    As I am an honest man, he looks pale. Art thou
    sick, or angry?

CLAUDIO    What, courage, man! What though care killed a cat,
    thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

BENEDICK    Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, and you
    charge it against me. I pray you choose another subject.

CLAUDIO    Nay, then, give him another staff: this last was
    broke cross.

DON PEDRO    By this light, he changes more and more: I think
    he be angry indeed.

CLAUDIO    If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.

BENEDICK    Shall I speak a word in your ear?

CLAUDIO    God bless me from a challenge!

BENEDICK    [Aside to CLAUDIO]  You are a villain; I jest not:
    I will make it good how you dare, with what you
    dare, and when you dare. Do me right, or I will
    protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet
    lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you. Let me
    hear from you.

CLAUDIO    Well, I will meet you, so I may have good cheer.

DON PEDRO    What, a feast, a feast?

CLAUDIO    I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's
    head and a capon; the which if I do not carve most
    curiously, say my knife's naught. Shall I not find
    a woodcock too?

BENEDICK    Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily.

DON PEDRO    I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the
    other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: 'True,'
    said she, 'a fine little one.' 'No,' said I, 'a
    great wit:' 'Right,' says she, 'a great gross one.'
    'Nay,' said I, 'a good wit:' 'Just,' said she, 'it
    hurts nobody.' 'Nay,' said I, 'the gentleman
    is wise:' 'Certain,' said she, 'a wise gentleman.'
    'Nay,' said I, 'he hath the tongues:' 'That I
    believe,' said she, 'for he swore a thing to me on
    Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning;
    there's a double tongue; there's two tongues.' Thus
    did she, an hour together, transshape thy particular
    virtues: yet at last she concluded with a sigh, thou
    wast the properest man in Italy.

CLAUDIO    For the which she wept heartily and said she cared
    not.

DON PEDRO    Yea, that she did: but yet, for all that, an if she
    did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly:
    the old man's daughter told us all.

CLAUDIO    All, all; and, moreover, God saw him when he was
    hid in the garden.

DON PEDRO    But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on
    the sensible Benedick's head?

CLAUDIO    Yea, and text underneath, 'Here dwells Benedick the
    married man'?

BENEDICK    Fare you well, boy: you know my mind. I will leave
    you now to your gossip-like humour: you break jests
    as braggarts do their blades, which God be thanked,
    hurt not. My lord, for your many courtesies I thank
    you: I must discontinue your company: your brother
    the bastard is fled from Messina: you have among
    you killed a sweet and innocent lady. For my Lord
    Lackbeard there, he and I shall meet: and, till
    then, peace be with him.

    [Exit]

DON PEDRO    He is in earnest.

CLAUDIO    In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for
    the love of Beatrice.

DON PEDRO    And hath challenged thee.

CLAUDIO    Most sincerely.

DON PEDRO    What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his
    doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

CLAUDIO    He is then a giant to an ape; but then is an ape a
    doctor to such a man.

DON PEDRO    But, soft you, let me be: pluck up, my heart, and
    be sad. Did he not say, my brother was fled?

    [Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with CONRADE
    and BORACHIO]

DOGBERRY    Come you, sir: if justice cannot tame you, she
    shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance: nay,
    an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

DON PEDRO    How now? two of my brother's men bound! Borachio
    one!

CLAUDIO    Hearken after their offence, my lord.

DON PEDRO    Officers, what offence have these men done?

DOGBERRY    Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
    moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily,
    they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have
    belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust
    things; and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

DON PEDRO    First, I ask thee what they have done; thirdly, I
    ask thee what's their offence; sixth and lastly, why
    they are committed; and, to conclude, what you lay
    to their charge.

CLAUDIO    Rightly reasoned, and in his own division: and, by
    my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

DON PEDRO    Who have you offended, masters, that you are thus
    bound to your answer? this learned constable is
    too cunning to be understood: what's your offence?

BORACHIO    Sweet prince, let me go no farther to mine answer:
    do you hear me, and let this count kill me. I have
    deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms
    could not discover, these shallow fools have brought
    to light: who in the night overheard me confessing
    to this man how Don John your brother incensed me
    to slander the Lady Hero, how you were brought into
    the orchard and saw me court Margaret in Hero's
    garments, how you disgraced her, when you should
    marry her: my villany they have upon record; which
    I had rather seal with my death than repeat over
    to my shame. The lady is dead upon mine and my
    master's false accusation; and, briefly, I desire
    nothing but the reward of a villain.

DON PEDRO    Runs not this speech like iron through your blood?

CLAUDIO    I have drunk poison whiles he utter'd it.

DON PEDRO    But did my brother set thee on to this?

BORACHIO    Yea, and paid me richly for the practise of it.

DON PEDRO    He is composed and framed of treachery:
    And fled he is upon this villany.

CLAUDIO    Sweet Hero! now thy image doth appear
    In the rare semblance that I loved it first.

DOGBERRY    Come, bring away the plaintiffs: by this time our
    sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter:
    and, masters, do not forget to specify, when time
    and place shall serve, that I am an ass.

VERGES    Here, here comes master Signior Leonato, and the
    Sexton too.

    [Re-enter LEONATO and ANTONIO, with the Sexton]

LEONATO    Which is the villain? let me see his eyes,
    That, when I note another man like him,
    I may avoid him: which of these is he?

BORACHIO    If you would know your wronger, look on me.

LEONATO    Art thou the slave that with thy breath hast kill'd
    Mine innocent child?

BORACHIO    Yea, even I alone.

LEONATO    No, not so, villain; thou beliest thyself:
    Here stand a pair of honourable men;
    A third is fled, that had a hand in it.
    I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death:
    Record it with your high and worthy deeds:
    'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it.

CLAUDIO    I know not how to pray your patience;
    Yet I must speak. Choose your revenge yourself;
    Impose me to what penance your invention
    Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not
    But in mistaking.

DON PEDRO                      By my soul, nor I:
    And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
    I would bend under any heavy weight
    That he'll enjoin me to.

LEONATO    I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;
    That were impossible: but, I pray you both,
    Possess the people in Messina here
    How innocent she died; and if your love
    Can labour ought in sad invention,
    Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb
    And sing it to her bones, sing it to-night:
    To-morrow morning come you to my house,
    And since you could not be my son-in-law,
    Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter,
    Almost the copy of my child that's dead,
    And she alone is heir to both of us:
    Give her the right you should have given her cousin,
    And so dies my revenge.

CLAUDIO    O noble sir,
    Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me!
    I do embrace your offer; and dispose
    For henceforth of poor Claudio.

LEONATO    To-morrow then I will expect your coming;
    To-night I take my leave. This naughty man
    Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
    Who I believe was pack'd in all this wrong,
    Hired to it by your brother.

BORACHIO    No, by my soul, she was not,
    Nor knew not what she did when she spoke to me,
    But always hath been just and virtuous
    In any thing that I do know by her.

DOGBERRY    Moreover, sir, which indeed is not under white and
    black, this plaintiff here, the offender, did call
    me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his
    punishment. And also, the watch heard them talk of
    one Deformed: they say be wears a key in his ear and
    a lock hanging by it, and borrows money in God's
    name, the which he hath used so long and never paid
    that now men grow hard-hearted and will lend nothing
    for God's sake: pray you, examine him upon that point.

LEONATO    I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

DOGBERRY    Your worship speaks like a most thankful and
    reverend youth; and I praise God for you.

LEONATO    There's for thy pains.

DOGBERRY    God save the foundation!

LEONATO    Go, I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

DOGBERRY    I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which I
    beseech your worship to correct yourself, for the
    example of others. God keep your worship! I wish
    your worship well; God restore you to health! I
    humbly give you leave to depart; and if a merry
    meeting may be wished, God prohibit it! Come, neighbour.

    [Exeunt DOGBERRY and VERGES]

LEONATO    Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell.

ANTONIO    Farewell, my lords: we look for you to-morrow.

DON PEDRO    We will not fail.

CLAUDIO                      To-night I'll mourn with Hero.

LEONATO    [To the Watch]  Bring you these fellows on. We'll
    talk with Margaret,
    How her acquaintance grew with this lewd fellow.

    [Exeunt, severally]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT V



SCENE II    LEONATO'S garden.


    [Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting]

BENEDICK    Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at
    my hands by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

MARGARET    Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

BENEDICK    In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living
    shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou
    deservest it.

MARGARET    To have no man come over me! why, shall I always
    keep below stairs?

BENEDICK    Thy wit is as quick as the greyhound's mouth; it catches.

MARGARET    And yours as blunt as the fencer's foils, which hit,
    but hurt not.

BENEDICK    A most manly wit, Margaret; it will not hurt a
    woman: and so, I pray thee, call Beatrice: I give
    thee the bucklers.

MARGARET    Give us the swords; we have bucklers of our own.

BENEDICK    If you use them, Margaret, you must put in the
    pikes with a vice; and they are dangerous weapons for maids.

MARGARET    Well, I will call Beatrice to you, who I think hath legs.

BENEDICK    And therefore will come.

    [Exit MARGARET]

    [Sings]

    The god of love,
    That sits above,
    And knows me, and knows me,
    How pitiful I deserve,--

    I mean in singing; but in loving, Leander the good
    swimmer, Troilus the first employer of panders, and
    a whole bookful of these quondam carpet-mangers,
    whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a
    blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned
    over and over as my poor self in love. Marry, I
    cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried: I can find
    out no rhyme to 'lady' but 'baby,' an innocent
    rhyme; for 'scorn,' 'horn,' a hard rhyme; for,
    'school,' 'fool,' a babbling rhyme; very ominous
    endings: no, I was not born under a rhyming planet,
    nor I cannot woo in festival terms.

    [Enter BEATRICE]

    Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee?

BEATRICE    Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me.

BENEDICK    O, stay but till then!

BEATRICE    'Then' is spoken; fare you well now: and yet, ere
    I go, let me go with that I came; which is, with
    knowing what hath passed between you and Claudio.

BENEDICK    Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

BEATRICE    Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but
    foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I
    will depart unkissed.

BENEDICK    Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense,
    so forcible is thy wit. But I must tell thee
    plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either
    I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe
    him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me for
    which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

BEATRICE    For them all together; which maintained so politic
    a state of evil that they will not admit any good
    part to intermingle with them. But for which of my
    good parts did you first suffer love for me?

BENEDICK    Suffer love! a good epithet! I do suffer love
    indeed, for I love thee against my will.

BEATRICE    In spite of your heart, I think; alas, poor heart!
    If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for
    yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

BENEDICK    Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.

BEATRICE    It appears not in this confession: there's not one
    wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

BENEDICK    An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in
    the lime of good neighbours. If a man do not erect
    in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live
    no longer in monument than the bell rings and the
    widow weeps.

BEATRICE    And how long is that, think you?

BENEDICK    Question: why, an hour in clamour and a quarter in
    rheum: therefore is it most expedient for the
    wise, if Don Worm, his conscience, find no
    impediment to the contrary, to be the trumpet of his
    own virtues, as I am to myself. So much for
    praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is
    praiseworthy: and now tell me, how doth your cousin?

BEATRICE    Very ill.

BENEDICK    And how do you?

BEATRICE    Very ill too.

BENEDICK    Serve God, love me and mend. There will I leave
    you too, for here comes one in haste.

    [Enter URSULA]

URSULA    Madam, you must come to your uncle. Yonder's old
    coil at home: it is proved my Lady Hero hath been
    falsely accused, the prince and Claudio mightily
    abused; and Don John is the author of all, who is
    fed and gone. Will you come presently?

BEATRICE    Will you go hear this news, signior?

BENEDICK    I will live in thy heart, die in thy lap, and be
    buried in thy eyes; and moreover I will go with
    thee to thy uncle's.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT V



SCENE III    A church.


    [Enter DON PEDRO, CLAUDIO, and three or four
    with tapers]

CLAUDIO    Is this the monument of Leonato?

Lord    It is, my lord.

CLAUDIO    [Reading out of a scroll]
    Done to death by slanderous tongues
    Was the Hero that here lies:
    Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
    Gives her fame which never dies.
    So the life that died with shame
    Lives in death with glorious fame.
    Hang thou there upon the tomb,
    Praising her when I am dumb.

    Now, music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.
    SONG.

    Pardon, goddess of the night,
    Those that slew thy virgin knight;
    For the which, with songs of woe,
    Round about her tomb they go.
    Midnight, assist our moan;
    Help us to sigh and groan,
    Heavily, heavily:
    Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
    Till death be uttered,
    Heavily, heavily.

CLAUDIO         Now, unto thy bones good night!
    Yearly will I do this rite.

DON PEDRO    Good morrow, masters; put your torches out:
    The wolves have prey'd; and look, the gentle day,
    Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
    Dapples the drowsy east with spots of grey.
    Thanks to you all, and leave us: fare you well.

CLAUDIO         Good morrow, masters: each his several way.

DON PEDRO    Come, let us hence, and put on other weeds;
    And then to Leonato's we will go.

CLAUDIO    And Hymen now with luckier issue speed's
    Than this for whom we render'd up this woe.

    [Exeunt]




    MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


ACT V



SCENE IV    A room in LEONATO'S house.


    [Enter LEONATO, ANTONIO, BENEDICK, BEATRICE,
    MARGARET, URSULA, FRIAR FRANCIS, and HERO]

FRIAR FRANCIS    Did I not tell you she was innocent?

LEONATO    So are the prince and Claudio, who accused her
    Upon the error that you heard debated:
    But Margaret was in some fault for this,
    Although against her will, as it appears
    In the true course of all the question.

ANTONIO    Well, I am glad that all things sort so well.

BENEDICK    And so am I, being else by faith enforced
    To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it.

LEONATO    Well, daughter, and you gentle-women all,
    Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves,
    And when I send for you, come hither mask'd.

    [Exeunt Ladies]

    The prince and Claudio promised by this hour
    To visit me. You know your office, brother:
    You must be father to your brother's daughter
    And give her to young Claudio.

ANTONIO    Which I will do with confirm'd countenance.

BENEDICK    Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think.

FRIAR FRANCIS    To do what, signior?

BENEDICK    To bind me, or undo me; one of them.
    Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior,
    Your niece regards me with an eye of favour.

LEONATO    That eye my daughter lent her: 'tis most true.

BENEDICK    And I do with an eye of love requite her.

LEONATO    The sight whereof I think you had from me,
    From Claudio and the prince: but what's your will?

BENEDICK    Your answer, sir, is enigmatical:
    But, for my will, my will is your good will
    May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd
    In the state of honourable marriage:
    In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

LEONATO    My heart is with your liking.

FRIAR FRANCIS    And my help.
    Here comes the prince and Claudio.

    [Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO, and two or
    three others]

DON PEDRO    Good morrow to this fair assembly.

LEONATO    Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio:
    We here attend you. Are you yet determined
    To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?

CLAUDIO    I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiope.

LEONATO    Call her forth, brother; here's the friar ready.

    [Exit ANTONIO]

DON PEDRO    Good morrow, Benedick. Why, what's the matter,
    That you have such a February face,
    So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?

CLAUDIO    I think he thinks upon the savage bull.
    Tush, fear not, man; we'll tip thy horns with gold
    And all Europa shall rejoice at thee,
    As once Europa did at lusty Jove,
    When he would play the noble beast in love.

BENEDICK    Bull Jove, sir, had an amiable low;
    And some such strange bull leap'd your father's cow,
    And got a calf in that same noble feat
    Much like to you, for you have just his bleat.

CLAUDIO    For this I owe you: here comes other reckonings.

    [Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked]

    Which is the lady I must seize upon?

ANTONIO    This same is she, and I do give you her.

CLAUDIO    Why, then she's mine. Sweet, let me see your face.

LEONATO    No, that you shall not, till you take her hand
    Before this friar and swear to marry her.

CLAUDIO    Give me your hand: before this holy friar,
    I am your husband, if you like of me.

HERO    And when I lived, I was your other wife:

    [Unmasking]

    And when you loved, you were my other husband.

CLAUDIO    Another Hero!

HERO                      Nothing certainer:
    One Hero died defiled, but I do live,
    And surely as I live, I am a maid.

DON PEDRO    The former Hero! Hero that is dead!

LEONATO    She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

FRIAR FRANCIS    All this amazement can I qualify:
    When after that the holy rites are ended,
    I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death:
    Meantime let wonder seem familiar,
    And to the chapel let us presently.

BENEDICK    Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?

BEATRICE    [Unmasking]  I answer to that name. What is your will?

BENEDICK    Do not you love me?

BEATRICE    Why, no; no more than reason.

BENEDICK    Why, then your uncle and the prince and Claudio
    Have been deceived; they swore you did.

BEATRICE    Do not you love me?

BENEDICK    Troth, no; no more than reason.

BEATRICE    Why, then my cousin Margaret and Ursula
    Are much deceived; for they did swear you did.

BENEDICK    They swore that you were almost sick for me.

BEATRICE    They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

BENEDICK    'Tis no such matter. Then you do not love me?

BEATRICE    No, truly, but in friendly recompense.

LEONATO    Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

CLAUDIO    And I'll be sworn upon't that he loves her;
    For here's a paper written in his hand,
    A halting sonnet of his own pure brain,
    Fashion'd to Beatrice.

HERO    And here's another
    Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket,
    Containing her affection unto Benedick.

BENEDICK    A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts.
    Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take
    thee for pity.

BEATRICE    I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield
    upon great persuasion; and partly to save your life,
    for I was told you were in a consumption.

BENEDICK    Peace! I will stop your mouth.

    [Kissing her]

DON PEDRO    How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

BENEDICK    I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of
    wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour. Dost
    thou think I  care for a satire or an epigram? No:
    if a man will be beaten with brains, a' shall wear
    nothing handsome about him. In brief, since I do
    purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any
    purpose that the world can say against it; and
    therefore never flout at me for what I have said
    against it; for man is a giddy thing, and this is my
    conclusion. For thy part, Claudio, I did think to
    have beaten thee, but in that thou art like to be my
    kinsman, live unbruised and love my cousin.

CLAUDIO    I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice,
    that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single
    life, to make thee a double-dealer; which, out of
    question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look
    exceedingly narrowly to thee.

BENEDICK    Come, come, we are friends: let's have a dance ere
    we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts
    and our wives' heels.

LEONATO    We'll have dancing afterward.

BENEDICK    First, of my word; therefore play, music. Prince,
    thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife:
    there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn.

    [Enter a Messenger]

Messenger    My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight,
    And brought with armed men back to Messina.

BENEDICK    Think not on him till to-morrow:
    I'll devise thee brave punishments for him.
    Strike up, pipers.

    [Dance]

    [Exeunt]